Blueprints

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Why not?”

  “Uhhh, take the little thing about marriage being forever, with both of us having failed once, and what about love?”

  “I’ve loved you forever. And you love me.”

  She might have argued that there was love and there was LOVE, though in truth, since they’d had sex, since he had been so caring of her in bed, since physical intimacy had deepened the emotional intimacy that had always hovered, the lines had blurred. “But why get married?”

  “I want to know you’re mine.”

  “I am yours.”

  “I want the world to know it.” He scratched the back of his head, dropped his hand, and scowled. “Call me a throwback, even a Neanderthal, but it’s how I am.”

  Caroline actually understood. She had grown up with a similar mindset, assuming that marriage was what women wanted in part to let the world know they were loved and taken care of.

  But times had changed. Marriage didn’t have to protect women. In this new world, Caroline could protect herself. She was single and proud.

  At least, she had been proud until the hosting issue cropped up. She thought about the age issue through breakfast. Later, buttoning a blouse over her bra while Dean showered, she went into the bathroom and, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the water, tried to explain. “Here’s where I’m hung up. We don’t need marriage. We’re not having kids, and we’re both financially independent. We don’t need a piece of paper tying us together. And a wedding—flowers and fanfare? I can’t picture it.”

  When he turned off the shower and drew back the curtain, she passed a towel through the steam. The towel was pink, like her sheets, but it was plush.

  He began drying himself. “It doesn’t have to be fancy. We can go off, just the two of us, and get married at a little inn. Lots of them have elopement packages.”

  She drew back in alarm. “How do you know?”

  “I looked.”

  She didn’t want to hear more. The fact that he was bending and stretching to dry himself, casual with nudity in ways she was not, only added to her dismay. “There’s something evasive about eloping. It’s for people who either need speed or have secrets.”

  “You’re afraid people will start counting months?”

  “Cute. But what about Renny? If you want a closer relationship with him, how can you do something as momentous as get married and shut him out of the ceremony? Don’t you think he’d be hurt? Jamie would be.”

  He wrapped the towel around his waist, his body all the more masculine against pink terrycloth. “So we’ll invite them.”

  “But then it becomes something bigger, so what’s the point? I don’t want to elope. I don’t want to get married.”

  He was quiet as he went into the bedroom to take clean clothes from a gym bag. Then he turned. “Are you afraid to commit?”

  Brad had accused Jamie of the same thing. Caroline wanted to think her daughter had sensed the relationship would sour before they made it to the altar. That wasn’t the case with Dean and her. If Caroline was involved with anyone, Dean would be it.

  But she was used to being on her own, cooking without a shadow against her back, coming and going as she pleased without reporting to anyone. I’d give my right arm to be as free as you are, Annie had said. Caroline liked that freedom.

  She also liked knowing that no one could put her down for her age as Roy had done Fine, Dean said he didn’t mind that she would be sixty well before he was—but once the novelty of their relationship wore off, would he feel the same? Roy had divorced her for being too old. Claire was firing her for being too old. She would be crushed if Dean changed his mind after a few years and was turned off by liver spots or varicose veins. At least if they weren’t married the breakup wouldn’t be quite so hard.

  Here he was right now, though, waiting for her answer with his shorts in his hand, naked and exposed with his scars and his crooked finger and shots of gray through the hair on his chest, and well and heavily hung. Oh my. But she couldn’t dwell on that, or even on her own fears, when his eyes held such vulnerability. That vulnerability touched her deeply. It made her want to protect him, which in turn made her realize just how much he did mean to her—and in ways that had less to do with sex than with the person. He might be a throwback, but he was honest and steady. He had been in her corner for years without wavering. She knew the truth about his marriage and divorce, knew how he agonized over his son. She didn’t doubt that he loved her. And yes, she loved him.

  “I’m not afraid to commit,” she said. “I am totally committed to you.”

  “You are?”

  “Would I have slept with you if I wasn’t?” She tucked the tails of her shirt into her jeans. “And, for the record, sex is not overrated.” She owed him that. “But at our age we don’t need a piece of paper. No one will approve or disapprove if we sleep together.”

  “Not old-world Theo?”

  “Theo doesn’t matter. I’m a carpenter, and if my morals prevent him from naming me as his successor, I’m good with that.”

  “What about the show? Will Claire be happy if her host is sleeping with the GC?”

  “I’m not her host, remember? She booted me out. So she may be jealous that an old lady like me can attract—”

  “Old lady—”

  “—a hunk like you, but the fact is, a romance on the set would boost ratings.”

  “You are no old lady. Would you wear my ring, at least?”

  “A wedding ring without the wedding?”

  “An engagement ring.”

  “To mark me yours.”

  With a growl of apparent frustration, he tugged on his shorts and jeans. By then, Caroline was feeling awful. Closing the distance between them, she ran an open hand down his chest. As gestures went, it spoke of intimacy in ways words could not. “It isn’t you, Dean. I do love you. It’s the institution I don’t love.”

  “If I gave you a diamond, would you wear it?”

  “Too soon,” she begged. “Can’t we take it slowly?”

  “Does that mean you won’t rule it out?”

  “Yes. It means I won’t rule it out. Ask me again in ten years.” When his eyes went wide, she pinched his middle. “Just kidding. Ten years is as ridiculous as two days. But haven’t I been good about your country place?” She tried lightening things up. “I agreed to spend tomorrow helping you build a deck, though I still think that house is more trouble than it’s worth.”

  His hazel eyes were chiding. “You agreed because you like the place. Admit it. It has sentimental value for you now.”

  She heard a distant ding. “Is that my phone?” As she headed for the stairs, she heard a soft “Coward” behind her, but she kept going, following the sound of the phone into the kitchen. She didn’t want to miss the call if it was Jamie.

  It wasn’t. Nor did she recognize the number. Since her own was unlisted, though, it had to be someone with a personal connection. A new client, referred by a friend?

  “Hello?”

  “Caroline MacAfee, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Zoe Michaels, from the Globe.” The words came in a rush. The woman sounded young and nervous. “Since Gut It! is homegrown, I’m doing a piece on Roy MacAfee’s death and its impact on MacAfee Homes and the show. I was hoping we could talk.”

  Caroline had done many interviews. They didn’t intimidate her, especially when the interviewer was as young as this one sounded. But the last thing she wanted was to talk about Roy. “I think you ought to call Theodore MacAfee. He’s the head of the company.” On one hand, she hated burdening Theo. Outweighing that, though, he could be a charmer when he wanted, and it would give him an outlet, even be a distraction. He was certainly an expert on Roy.

  “He was the one who gave me your number,” replied the reporter. “He said you were his spokesperson. My mother is a total fan of the show, so I know exactly who you are. You’ll be perfect for me to talk with, seeing as you’re the host.”
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  Then word hadn’t spread. That was something. It struck Caroline, though, that Jamie would be a better spokesperson. If she was taking over as host, she had to learn to handle the media, and as for handling Roy’s death, as his daughter, she was in a better position to speak of it than his ex-wife.

  Here was a perfect reason to call Jamie. But Caroline wasn’t sharing her number with a reporter without checking first. “Can I call you back, Ms. Michaels?”

  “I need to do this as soon as possible. My editor wants to run the story on Monday.”

  “Give me your number,” Caroline said with authority, “and I’ll get back to you.” A minute later, she called Jamie, who picked up sounding breathless.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Breathless could mean busy or excited or just late. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great. I’m just trying to get out of here.”

  Late, then. Perhaps the others, too, but if her tone said she didn’t have time to talk now, Caroline couldn’t very well ask. Quickly, she told Jamie about about Zoe Michaels. “You’d be perfect for this interview, Jamie. Should I give her your number?”

  “God, no. Thanks, Mom, but you can do the interview.”

  “If you’re the next host—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Has Claire changed her mind?”

  “I haven’t talked with her. But there’s no way I can take it on right now.”

  “Well, the reporter needs one of us ASAP. They’re running the article on Monday. If I do the interview, Claire may be annoyed.”

  “Good. Do the interview, Mom, please?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Thank you. You’re the best. We’ll talk another time, okay?”

  Caroline knew when she was being rushed off the phone. Fearing Jamie might have even less time if she was with Chip and his son over the weekend, she asked a quick “Is Tad okay?”

  “He’s great.”

  “Have you seen Chip?”

  “He’s great, too.” The voice was higher and more breathy. “But I have to run, Mom. I’ll give you a call, okay?”

  Seconds later, Caroline held a silent phone, the sense that what she had heard was extreme excitement, and no clue whether to be pleased or worried.

  twenty-one

  Extreme excitement didn’t quite cover it. Jamie was so totally in love—so impossibly in love—that she didn’t dare tell Caroline lest her mother have her committed. What she was doing with Chip was crazy. Crazy. She kept coming back to that word.

  But it didn’t feel crazy when Tad began to cry at three in the morning and Chip bolted out of bed and carried him to her. Or when she woke up in the morning to hot coffee served in bed by a guy who already had the boys eating breakfast downstairs and was looking at her now as if she were priceless. Or when they met at First Unity later that afternoon and drove in a caravan to the pediatrician’s office to discuss what Tad would be feeling about his parents’ death and how best to ease both boys into a new relationship. Chip had arranged the meeting. He seemed determined to make their family work. She kept looking for signs of crazy in him but only saw commitment.

  Stopping back at his house, they put Tad’s seat in the Pilot and drove to Jamie’s condo, and there, for the first time, a problem arose. As if Tad had actually heard their discussion with the doctor—which he could not have, since he and Buddy had been in the playroom down the hall—he was suddenly and fiercely possessive. Buddy picked up a toy; Tad grabbed it out of his hands. Buddy went for another toy; Tad started to cry.

  “He’s feeling loss without understanding it,” the doctor had said. “He’s at the age when sharing is difficult anyway. Let him cling to things that mean most to him—a stuffed animal or a blankie or a favorite toy—but teach him to share others. Be consistent. Be patient.”

  Wrapping her arms around him now, Jamie held him until he finished kicking and grew quiet, then softly explained that Buddy wasn’t taking anything away, and he wasn’t touching Moose. Didn’t it feel good to share other toys, she asked, especially since Buddy would always give them back? “See, Taddy, he’s already done with the farm.”

  Chip snickered from the sidelines. “Not a great attention span on my boy.”

  Jamie disagreed. “There’s just a lot to see here. This is like a toy store to him, and he’s been so good about sharing with Tad. Which of these should we take to your house?”

  They picked a few. Chip played with the boys while she packed what she wanted for herself; then he joined her in the office to gather Tad’s things. He ran a hand over her sleek white desk, admired her huge computer screen, studied drawings tacked to a corkboard, and flipped through design books—all the while asking questions about her work. He described the small office he had in a spare bedroom and vowed that any new house they built would have a large one, which got her thinking. She rather liked the connection he had with his childhood home and was inclined to stay there for now. Adapting it would be easy, starting with a simple addition. Her artist’s eye saw modifications that would give the place a vintage-modern look inside and out.

  Moreover, staying at Chip’s would minimize change for the boys, and that was the responsible thing to do. His house wasn’t pristine. But nor, any longer, was hers, and she was surviving just fine.

  She was deciding that pristine had a sterile side when Tad wandered in, slid his little arms around her leg, and held tightly.

  “Hi, monkey,” she said. Kneeling, she cupped his face. “All done playing?”

  He didn’t answer, just looked up at her with such mournful eyes that she knew what he was thinking. They were the same eyes she saw when he woke at night needing to be held. He was a smart boy. Having gone through one life shift, he sensed another coming. One too many?

  His lower lip trembled. “Where Mommy?”

  Be honest, the pediatrician had said. “Mommy’s in heaven.”

  “Wanna see her.”

  “I know, monkey, I know.”

  “Where my daddy?”

  Jamie teared up. “He’s in heaven, too.”

  “Taddy wanna go there.”

  “Someday.”

  “Now,” he demanded, but he didn’t resist when she hugged him close.

  “I miss him, too,” she whispered against his warm curls, rocking him as much for her own comfort as his. Despite their differences in those last days, Roy had been her father. So much had happened in the two weeks since his death, so much filling her mind, that she hadn’t really had time to mourn, but right here, right now, emptiness hit her hard.

  She might have wept if Chip hadn’t suddenly hunkered down close, making her feel less alone. Cupping her head with one hand and Tad’s with the other, he said in an exquisitely gentle voice, “Since we can’t visit heaven right now, we ought to do something else. It’s pretty warm outside. I have a sprinkler with Mickey Mouse on it. How about we play in the water before dinner?”

  Jamie came forward just enough to press her face to his neck and breathe in his scent. That quickly bolstered, she faced Tad, who likely had no clue what a sprinkler was but would take his cue from her, and said an awe-filled “Mickey Mouse? Oh, Taddy, you love Mickey Mouse. Let’s do it!”

  * * *

  Not only was the sprinkler a hit, but when Chip unscrewed the hose to spray the boys directly, he had them shrieking and running and tumbling over each other and over Jamie when she tripped, which she did repeatedly trying to escape the spray. Chip kept at it long after she laughingly retreated—kept the boys racing back and forth and around for such a long time that they could barely hold their heads up at dinner and were asleep soon after.

  He checked on them while she showered. She checked on them while he dressed. When they were sure neither boy would wake, they headed out. Not only had Chip hired the trusted babysitter he used for school events, but he had made reservations at a restaurant on Beacon Hill, had brought along a bottle of champagne from his first pro signing, and seemed determined t
o learn every last thing about Jamie.

  It started in the car—Jamie’s convertible, so cool with Chip at the wheel—when the origin of the champagne got them talking about sports. What had Jamie felt when she won a tournament? When she lost? Where were her trophies, why were they packed away? Where were his? Had Chip regretted dropping out of college to go pro? Did he want Buddy playing hockey? Did she want Tad playing tennis? How to minimize the pressure of competitive sports? In what ways did sports ethics affect their current work?

  Many answers were of the yes or no variety, because there were so many questions, so much to learn. By the time they pulled up at the restaurant, they were on to their jobs. What was Chip’s favorite age group at school, favorite season, favorite sport? Were school parents a problem for him? How did Jamie choose between projects? Did she prefer commercial to residential? How did she keep up with the latest in technology?

  Jamie learned that Chip blamed his early stardom for the arrogance that had led to women and booze, and that he dreamed of coaching hockey at the high school level to help ground budding stars. He talked about the growth of his summer camp, how it emphasized skills and teamwork over competition and partnered with a reading program at the local library. But he was as eager to know Jamie’s dreams as share his own. So she talked of the drawings she had made for the Weymouth estate and her fear that the Barths would steal it away.

  She had never been as thoroughly comfortable with anyone in her life. For all Chip’s warnings about her being a MacAfee to his Kobik, the way he described his childhood made it sound identical to hers in terms of values. His family was firmly grounded—sisters functional professionals, one married, one not, parents still together after forty-some years. Could he be crazy, coming from that?

  As they talked, they sipped champagne, split an appetizer salad, and munched on warm zucchini bread. Did Jamie see the restaurant’s decor? Barely. She couldn’t look at anything but Chip, which was why she was taken by surprise when a couple stopped at their table on their way to the door.