Double Trouble

by Deborah Cooke

  Insert diabolical laughter here. He he he.

  I did have to retreat once in a while to the loft in the first couple of months, just to catch my breath. All that intimacy and inter-dependency was a bit overwhelming for the uninitiated. Some days I watched the boys head out into the big, bad world, and my fear of what could happen to them out there nearly took me to my knees.

  The encouraging thing was that they all knew that I would come back - they trusted me, all three of them, go figure - and that was the most heartening gift of all. I knew they wouldn’t starve to death or pine away to nothing in my absence. On the other hand, I knew that I had something to contribute.

  After all, there has to be one lone female voice howling in the testosterone-infested wilderness of that household. I howl but good, in selfless service to all of my gender.

  You all owe me, btw. Payment and/or offerings at the altar of Maralys can be rendered in shoes. 9B, please, and no cheap espadrilles.

  Jimmy gradually lost his attitude, just in time to head into those dreaded teenage years and get a new one. He’s discovered girls. Be still, my heart. I teach him some code stuff and let him help with the beta testing - he has a taste for fancy technology now and needs the bucks to pay for it. He’s planning to get a doctorate in physics to better get into space.

  Johnny started showing an interest in animation. Krystal hooked him on Japanese Anime flicks and Antonia takes him to shows sometimes. He’s also a hardware junkie. Those nimble little fingers are almost unbelievable. I let him change my drives and upgrade my memory when it has to be done.

  James took to the other side of the courtroom like a fish to water, yet he doesn’t work nutty hours. Sure, there are times when he has to work late, but I have those times too. The trick is to not have them at the same time. And to work remotely when you can. All this technology has to be good for something in the lifestyle department.

  I’ve got James hooked on an organizer that even a Luddite can move from desktop to palm. I use the same system and wrote a jazzy little routine that update each other’s calendars automatically whenever we log online. It keeps us in sync. Let the computers do the grunt work is what I say.

  My father rages anew at injustices, real and perceived, large and small. His hip has healed so I send him out at regular intervals to terrorize the neighbors. Mrs. Carducci next door evidently does not know how to properly grow dahlias, and yet remarkably has survived to the age of eighty-three, growing spectacular dahlias, both she and they unaware of her lack of knowledge. I didn’t think my father knew anything about dahlias either, but he sees fit to enlighten her from time to time. I think she agrees with me.

  Our own garden, btw, looks like junk. Maybe next year.

  Beverly comes by for dinner once in a while, her battle against the booze getting easier as it goes on. She’s warming up a bit, though is still tart enough to make you pucker. I like her. And I like James’ sister Philippa and her husband Nick. Philippa makes me laugh with her jokes about being pregs.

  My sister sent enough postcards from weird and wonderful places to cover the fridge, then settled down in New Mexico just before the holidays. She’s working as a fashion consultant in some big store in Scottsdale and having too much fun telling people what goes with what. And she’s taken up skydiving, which the boys at least think is way cool.

  James has put a ban on them visiting her for the short term. He jokes it’s until her sanity returns, but those parachutes definitely make him nervous. Just the ones that don’t open, of course.

  My rhythms have adjusted slightly - though I’ll never be a morning person, I do go running with James every day. It’s a precious time out of time for us, the only time each day that we’re alone together and conscious. Sometimes we don’t talk about anything. Sometimes we give the magpies a run for their money.

  See, I have to do something resembling a nine-to-five business day, or at least be available during one, since my business started perking along so well. That client from last year was so pleased that they gave me some great references, and you know how it goes.

  My father makes breakfast while we run and I hang out with him for part of the morning after the “men” head out to school and work. Then I go to work and stay at the loft into the evening, doing the java jam.

  And yes, the clan can feed themselves, if need be. Miracles abound if you know where to look for them. They don’t even live on pizza. Praise be and hallelujah for barbeques. All four of them can cook some slab of meat dead, nuke potatoes and steam some veg.

  The wondrous thing is that no one expects me to be the domestic drudge who holds it all together. I have a business to run, an increasingly successful one, even though I do have a rep for nasty contracts. As James often reminds the boys, you don’t have to be of any particular gender to pick up after yourself or turn on the washing machine.

  How could I not love this man?

  Sometimes James comes by and we go for dinner together; most often, he picks me up around 9 with the K (which is still going strong - another miracle. Who says the big guy doesn’t have us on his short list?) the boys in the back and all fired up from whatever their sport of the night had been.

  Such is the routine of our lives. It’s good, damn good. I never thought humans got to be this happy.

  * * *

  And so it was that in the grey of February, we escaped the bounds of Boston and headed south to warmer climes. Specifically, we went to an all-inclusive in the Caribbean to tie the big knot, one that was (what a coincidence!) near some extremely good scuba diving. I intended to learn how to dive and so did both of the boys.

  The Ariadne’s were there, of course, some with partners and some without, all grinning like fools. I made them promise not to sing. Beverly was there, as were Nick and Philippa and their lovely new baby girl. My father came, of course, and the boys, who I suspect were as excited about going diving as the wedding. Marcia flew in with her current love, an ex-Mountie whom Antonia had instantly christened Studly Doo-Right.

  Of course, most of us flew down together. I tell you, we had more luggage that you could shake a stick at. The resort had to send another minivan to pick it all up. Who could believe that people could pack so much junk for two week’s on the beach?

  It didn’t bother me at all, though. My baggage has not only been checked and claimed, but unpacked, laundered and put away.

  It did bug me that Leslie and Matt and their daughter hadn’t come - things had been strained between us over this pending court case, but I thought blood was blood. James said he wasn’t surprised when Leslie had primly declined our invitation.

  Robert Coxwell, of course, hadn’t even replied, which was a good thing as James didn’t know that I’d asked the old bugger. I had this weird idea that maybe they could all patch it up and put it behind them, but I figured I just didn’t understand how deeply it all cut. I wanted the boys to have some knowledge of their other grandfather, but couldn’t force that contact upon the great man.

  I thought things got strange in my family, but the Coxwell’s left us all in the shade. I’m never going to understand it. It was amazing how many of them were becoming reasonably normal after what they’d been through.

  So, James and I got married, on the beach, as the sun rose behind us, surrounding by the posse of our nearest and dearest. New beginnings and all that.

  I wore, in case you’re interested, an electric blue strappy little lace dress that was cut dead straight and came just halfway down my thighs. Meg lined the lace with hot pink satin and it was one eyeball-melting little number. I had to get married in the islands as it was illegal to wear something so flash for nuptials in the 48 contiguous states.

  And you couldn’t even see that I was starting to show.

  Oh, yes, there will be an addition to the household this year. I’m terrified, but James knows the baby routine and I’ve got the Ariadne’s nagging me about my vitamins and my ultrasounds. Philippa seems to be handling the new arrival thing wit
h aplomb. I’ve got plenty of sources of help and advice, as well as a newfound certainty that I don’t have to know everything before I take on a new responsibility. We’ll manage it together.

  In a way, I can’t wait.

  I wasn’t nervous at all when the time came for those vows. Krystal tucked a pink hibiscus behind my ear and gave me the fashion thumbs-up before I headed barefoot across the sand to James. He wore his tux, traditionalist that he is, but he was barefoot too, with his pants rolled up so they didn’t drag in the surf. The breeze ruffled his hair and he offered his hand as I walked toward him. I smiled, remembering his own shortlist of life goals.

  He wanted a partner.

  A lover.

  A friend and a spouse.

  Talk about hitting the jackpot. The man had a way of cutting to the chase. I slipped my hand into the warmth of his and looked around at all the people who had taken the time, the trouble and the expense to share this moment with us.

  I looked around at all of them and felt those first trimester hormones ganging up on me. I was going to cry. You see, I knew that I had followed my mother’s ball of string into a complicated net. Or maybe I had woven it into one. Either way, I was cossetted by a network of friends and family and love, one that gave me a boost to higher heights and scooped me up when I dipped low.

  I felt blessed, if you must know, and I still do. I gripped James’ hands and felt my heart swell as I met the conviction in his gaze.

  “Ready?” he asked softly.

  “Absolutely.” I smiled up at him. “I’ll have the whole enchilada, please.”

  “Good idea.” He squeezed my hands. “I’ll have exactly what you’re having, from now through forever.”

  We grinned at each other like idiots, then the priest did his thing. Johnny had been granted custody of the Byzantine queen special and provided it solemnly at the right moment. Jimmy and I were cahoots on James’ ring - which he didn’t know I’d gotten. A jeweler pal of Antonia’s had made it. It was gold and wider than was usual for a man’s ring, subtly etched with the same lions that appeared on the ring I’d wear. It was arty, and would be a bit of a surprise on the hand of such an apparently conservative guy.

  But then, it suited. James had a few surprises himself. He was certainly surprised by this, though I immediately saw in his expression that he really liked it.

  As if I needed an excuse to ogle his hands.

  Here’s the hideous part - we got married, and pledged our love eternal, on Valentine’s Day.

  Ack! I can’t believe I let this happen. Can you? It was the hormones, I tell you, the hormones ganging up on me in my weakened state.

  But OTOH, it was really romantic.

  * * *

  Ready for more of the Coxwells?

  Keep reading for an excerpt of

  ONE MORE TIME

  Now available in a new edition.

  * * *

  Excerpt of ONE MORE TIME ©2006, 2012 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

  Leslie tripped when the heel of her mule snagged in the carpet on the stairs. She saved herself from a nasty fall by grabbing the bannister, then kicked the shoes off with rare temper. She stumbled over one of them at the bottom of the stairs, winced, but kept on going.

  The kitchen was as pristine as she’d left it the night before. Not an encouraging sign. The dining room might have been in a furniture catalog, it was so perfectly organized and clean.

  Leslie’s heart started to pound. No. He couldn’t have just left. Not without saying a single word to her. Things hadn’t been fabulous lately, but he wouldn’t just walk away without a word after eighteen years.

  Would he?

  She looked out at the back deck, which was perfectly dusted with undisturbed fresh snow, and told herself she shouldn’t have been surprised that Matt wasn’t on the deck in January.

  The spare room! Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? She pivoted and raced back toward the stairs, seizing the newel post to hurl herself up the stairs precisely as she had forbidden Annette to do.

  That was when she saw their old reliable navy Samsonite suitcase, standing by the front door. Packed. Her gut went cold, because Matt’s briefcase—considerably thinner than it had been lately—leaned against it. For some strange reason, she glanced into the living room that they never used. It too was neat, the curtains still pulled against the night, but a cut crystal glass winked in the shadows.

  Leslie froze, one foot up and one foot down, and fought to steady her breathing as Matt’s silhouette became clear.

  He was sitting in the chair they had inherited from some auntie of his, a woman Leslie had never met. It was the only antique they owned and had a position of honor in the living room, although no one had ever sat on it.

  Matt lounged on it now, bracing his weight on the back two legs of the chair as he rocked slightly. The Matt she knew would never have done that to an old, potentially fragile, chair. He was still wearing the dark Italian suit he’d worn in court the day before, the one that made him look like a model, though he’d shed the jacket. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of the shirt. He was unshaven, rumpled and looked sexy enough to eat.

  Matt’s smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his was a decidedly roguish and alien smile. He sat wreathed in shadows, looking mysterious and unpredictable, two traits Leslie knew her husband did not possess. Her spouse had been reinterpreted as a swashbuckler; even the stubble on his chin looked newly dangerous.

  There was a stranger in their living room, a doppelganger in her husband’s suit, a lost secret twin who might toss away the keys to the kingdom just for the heck of it.

  And she didn’t know what to do or say. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue seemed to have sealed itself to the roof of her mouth.

  One thing was for certain: this twin of Matt’s could conjure the same old black magic as the husband she knew. He glanced over her, his gaze heating. His smile became a little more wicked, and Leslie felt her knees melt. He could dissolve her reservations with a glance, could Matt Coxwell.

  He was still drinking, something he never did to excess, or never had in the past. The amber of the Scotch gleamed in his glass as he took another sip.

  Would the real Matt Coxwell please stand up?

  “Looking for someone?” he asked, his voice rough and only slightly slurred.

  “You. Of course.”

  He smiled, though it wasn’t a merry smile. “I guess the staff slipped up and didn’t make your coffee this morning. Oh well.”

  “I thought you liked making coffee in the morning.” Leslie hated how breathless she sounded. “Or I would have learned to do it.”

  “Just like you learned to do everything else. Competent, efficient, organized Leslie Coxwell.” He saluted her again.

  “Somehow that doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

  He raised his brows in mock surprise and sipped of his Scotch. “Independent,” he added with emphasis. “Driven. Ambitious.” Funny but the list of her attributes didn’t sound that positive this morning.

  He paused, as if waiting and though she knew it was an old trick, Leslie couldn’t help but fill the silence he left between them.

  “You haven’t been drinking all night, have you?”

  He shrugged. “What if I have?”

  “I thought you might have come to bed last night.”

  “Why? So you’d have the chance to toss me out?”

  “Do I look as if I would have turned you away?”

  He considered her, letting that simmering glance slide over her curves. Leslie felt her flesh heat, felt his gaze as surely as a touch, and was achingly aware of just how long it had been since they’d made the mattress squeak. He met her gaze finally, smiled slightly, then unfolded himself from the chair. He moved with athletic grace, as he always did, a grace that made Leslie want him all the more.

  She gripped the newel post so she wouldn’t swoon at his feet and tried to remember why wrapping
her tongue around his tonsils had seemed like a bad idea. He reached for his jacket, which was draped across the couch. Light glinted on gold and Leslie’s heart skipped that he was still wearing his wedding ring.

  That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

  Or was he just so used to it that he’d forgotten it?

  He crossed the floor to her and once she caught a whiff of his cologne, she couldn’t take a breath. He stopped right in front of her, his eyes glittering, then leaned closer. “I haven’t been drinking all night, not quite,” he whispered and she surveyed him, fearful of what he might say. “By the way, have you seen the paper this morning?”

  Leslie frowned at the change of subject. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Everything.” He lifted it from the hall table and put it into her hands.

  Matt was cocksure, though Leslie couldn’t imagine why. His manner would have been puckish if she hadn’t sensed a tremendous anger in him. Was it directed at her? What had she failed to do? She thought again of the triumphant smile that had lit his face when the verdict had been announced the day before and watched him for a long moment, unable to understand this man she had thought she knew so well.

  “Chicken?” he asked, eyes bright with challenge, and she flicked the paper open without further delay.

  She took a deep breath, knowing there would be a picture of a triumphant James Coxwell crossing the courtroom to shake his opponent’s hand, victor in a landmark court case that had, in an ironic twist of fate, pitted him against his younger brother, Matt. The press had gone wild when James had made that move and the flash from their cameras had been almost blinding.

  But that picture wasn’t on the front page. Instead there was a file shot of Leslie’s father-in-law, Robert Coxwell—the potent patriarch: handsome, confident, successful and rich—with the headline “Prominent Former Judge Dead”.