Michael’s hand stilled, squeezing around Tris’s. Squeezing so hard that as soon as another click sounded, she said his name with a question in it, wondering what was wrong.
He half turned, but she had the impression he meant to move away from her hand rather than to face her, though that was the result. He almost seemed angry, and she didn’t understand why.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes held a sharpness she didn’t remember ever seeing there before. For the first time, she had an understanding of the determination and relentlessness that drove him. She’d known on some level that it had to be there because of what he’d accomplished, but to her he’d always before shown only the gentleness.
“Nothing.”
He moved farther away with a half smile. A smile that made him look close enough to the old Michael that as they continued their tour of the campus, she could almost believe she’d imagined the other look. But not quite.
* * * *
Why the hell did I agree to this week ? Michael wondered disgustedly as he watched Tris, walking ahead of him, turn toward Grady.
He shouldn’t have come. He should have made some excuse to Paul and Bette. He should have just come in for the wedding weekend, left early. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could manufacture an emergency with the campaign, disappear for a few days, then return Saturday morning and…
Tris tipped her head to follow Grady’s finger pointing out across the huge boulders forming a bulwark against Lake Michigan. Her hair swung to the side, exposing more of the soft, vulnerable skin at the nape of her neck. His heart slammed against his chest with the strain of controlling the urge to put his lips there.
No, dammit. He wouldn’t flinch from this. If he left now he might never rid himself of this stupid, nonsensical desire for the unattainable. He sure as hell couldn’t let it survive this week. Come hell or high water, it was time to face the reality.
Tris Donlin apparently had been a ghost in his heart a lot longer than he'd thought. Too damn long.
A piece clicked into place in his mind, and for the first time he saw how that wraith of a memory might have been part of what had stood between him and Laura. Maybe he’d known that on some level at the time, but never clearly enough to admit it, even to himself and certainly not to Laura. As much as he believed in the concept, he hadn’t been able to make any promises of forever to her. In the end he’d backed away, and she’d gone to another job, another state, another life. He’d missed her these past months, but he couldn’t blame her for leaving. In a way, he’d even been a little relieved.
Automatically he stopped when the others did, aware of their talk as a distant muttering.
It was time to face down this ghost. Time to turn the light of day on it. To see it for the insubstantial, impossible thing it was. Tris might have become a woman, but her heart wouldn’t change. She still wanted Grady.
Laura hadn’t been the right woman for him, but others had shown an interest in trying out for the role. When this reunion and wedding were over he’d make time to see where some of those implicit invitations might lead.
What he could do this week was enjoy the friendships he valued—Paul’s, Bette’s, Grady’s. And Tris's.
What he had to do was exorcise a ghost.
* * * *
“White shirts, Bette?”
Grady held up the garment he’d been handed by the proprietor of the formal-wear shop with an air of dissatisfaction.
Tris turned from examining the sleek royal-blue dress she would wear as bridesmaid. They’d trooped into the shop en masse first thing Monday morning for final fittings—the only one for her. She’d sent her measurements several months ago. The remainder of the wedding party— Bette’s brother, Ron, and her longtime friend Melody— were to be fitted when they arrived in town Friday morning.
Right now Michael was in one cubicle and Paul’s younger sister, Judi, in the other. All the men had decided to buy tuxedos rather than rent them—Michael saying he needed one for political functions, Paul grumbling that Bette would probably drag him to formal functions now and Grady saying he could use a spare.
“Did you have something else in mind, Grady?”
Bette’s calm voice held just a trace of something other than inquiry in it. Tris became aware of Paul listening intently and realized that Bette seemed to be making a point of not looking at her fiancé.
“White seems rather bland, maybe a little stark,” said Grady, his hand hovering over a rack of sample shirts.
“What do you think would be less stark, Grady?” Bette was quietly, unobtrusively leading him on, Tris decided.
Grady’s hand settled on a robin’s-egg-blue model, pulling it out. “Something like this would be nice, something—”
“Hah! I told you, Bette! Do I know Grady Roberts, or do I know Grady Roberts!” Paul’s crowing drew a reluctant smile from Bette and a confused stare from Grady.
“What are you talking about?”
Paul ignored Grady. “I told you, didn’t I, Bette? I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, yes, you were right,” she acknowledged with a half laugh. “You even picked the shirt.”
“What are you two talking about?” Grady demanded again.
“About your vanity, good buddy. I told Bette that you'd want the blue shirt instead of the white. No, I guaranteed you’d want the blue shirt.”
Grady studied the shirt in his hand. “I think it would look nicer, less—”
“Stark. We know,” interrupted Paul. “The fact that it matches your eyes has absolutely nothing to do with it, right?”
“My eyes?” Grady seemed genuinely puzzled how it came to be that the shirt matched his eyes perfectly and set his golden hair off to perfection. Then a small smile tugged at his well-shaped mouth. “It does match them, doesn’t it?”
“Beautifully,” Bette said. “But it would steal some of the spotlight from the dresses for Judi and Tris. That’s why I chose the white. You’ll still look wonderful, Grady.”
“Miss Donlin?” The seamstress held the royal-blue dress and indicated Tris should follow her into the back.
Judi passed her with a definite glint in her eyes. “Wait’ll you try it on, Tris. It’s great. It’s so-o-o sexy. It’s almost slinky.” That clearly constituted high praise in Judi’s twenty-year-old mind.
The seamstress led the way down the narrow corridor. As she pushed aside the curtain on the right side for Tris to enter, the dress she held caught the material of the opposite curtain and pulled it aside as well.
The opening framed Michael, half-turned toward the doorway, finishing the motion of shrugging off his tuxedo shirt. His skin looked bronzed against the white fabric. She’d been right during that picture-taking session on the library steps—his shoulders were broader, his chest was harder than before. She could see that in the defined muscles across his shoulders and at either side of the hair-dusted valley that arrowed down his chest, disappeared into the waistband of the tuxedo pants, where it probably continued beyond, over the flat stomach and—
Tris snapped up her head at the direction of her thoughts and slammed right into Michael’s stare.
She couldn’t read the look in his hazel eyes, though she recognized its intensity, brighter and sharper than the warmth she associated with Michael. It seemed almost . . . what? A challenge?
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” The seamstress bustled around Tris to remedy her mistake. Just before the curtain closed, Tris thought she saw Michael’s lips form a smile. At least she thought it was a smile.
She puzzled over that expression for the long minutes of standing still while the seamstress adjusted the dress’s soft lines that crossed the bodice to leave a deep V neck that flowed into the clinging skirt.
By the time the seamstress stepped back, declaring the dress would need only the slightest work to fit to perfection, she’d decided she’d read much too much into a simple look of surprise. He’d been startled; anybody would have been.
“M
ay I come see how it looks?” Bette asked from beyond the curtain.
“Of course. Come in.” Tris executed a model’s turn in the cramped cubicle as Bette entered and the seamstress exited. “You have great taste, Bette. It’s wonderful.”
“It looks terrific on you, Tris. I knew it would. I didn’t want bridesmaidy dresses for you. But maybe I made a mistake, having you and Judi wear such knockout dresses,” she said with a mock frown.
“Afraid you’ll be eclipsed, huh?” Tris teased as she started to ease out of the dress. A little reluctantly. It did make her feel marvelous.
“Well, I am supposed to be the star.” An impish grin pushed aside Bette’s frown. “That’s why I won’t let Grady wear a blue shirt. I don’t want to be outshone by one of the groomsmen!”
Tris smiled back, but not with full attention. In fact she hardly noticed the seamstress’s return with her arms filled with the white satin of a wedding dress. Bette’s comment reminded her of the question that had been pushed out of her mind by that sudden revealing view of Michael.
“Bette, do you really think Grady’s vain?”
Bette spared her a glance over her shoulder, then finished removing her slacks and shirt in preparation for trying on the gown. Despite being muffled by the dress easing over her head with the seamstress’s help, Bette’s voice sounded light, almost casual.
“Of course Grady’s vain.”
“But . . .” But what? But vanity’s a flaw? Wouldn’t she sound like a ninny if she said that! As if she expected Grady Roberts—or anyone else—to be without flaws.
“It’s part of him, just as teasing’s a part of Paul and reserve’s a part of Michael. Sometimes the individual part can be irritating as heck, but on the whole they’re great guys. ‘Her voice mellowed and her eyes softened, and Tris knew she was thinking of one great guy in particular. “Wonderful guys.”
“Reserve? You think Michael’s reserved?” Now why had that characterization caught her so unaware?
Bette turned at the seamstress’s request and met Tris's eyes in the mirror. “Mmm-hmm. All that calm good sense on the outside, and inside . . .”
Inside, what? Wasn’t there more calm good sense? That was what she’d always expected of Michael.
“Sometimes Michael makes me think of a pot simmering on the stove,” said Bette. “Nothing much showing on the outside, but under the cover all sorts of potent things churning around.”
“Michael?” Tris gave a half laugh. “I think your prewedding imagination is getting the better of you, Bette.”
“Maybe,” Bette conceded mildly. “Maybe.”
The word seemed to echo in Tris’s head long after they’d left the tiny fitting room.
* * * *
“Everybody ready?”
“No, wait. Where’s Michael?”
Tris's question stopped Grady with his hand on the doorknob. They were all set to head out for the rest of the day in downtown Chicago, with stops planned at his office, Paul’s office, Bette’s office, a couple museums and as many favorite shops as they could pack in. But one member of their party was missing from the Monroes’ front foyer.
“Did he go to his room after we got back from the fittings?” Paul’s insistence that they all stay at the Monroes’ house had filled every bedroom, with one person left over. Aunt Nancy had resorted to assigning the room—not fancy, but boasting its own bathroom—over the detached garage that had been Paul’s teenage lair. Paul had volunteered to take that room for the week, but Aunt Nancy had said she wanted somebody out there whom she could trust to be on time for the wedding, and that meant Michael.
“He’s in the den, on the phone,” supplied Judi. “Somebody called about ten minutes ago.”
“I’ll go get him,” volunteered Tris. The den’s door was open. Michael, his hips propped against the edge of the desk, stared out the French doors toward the lake.
“No. No, you were right to call, Sharon.” He shifted the receiver to his left hand, freeing his right hand to drive through his thick hair. Tris felt a tightening of her throat in a sudden rush of affection, as if the once familiar gesture were a friend rediscovered.
“I just wish to hell she had an ounce of ruthlessness in her,” he said into the phone. Then he gave a low chuckle. “Yeah, I know, that’s why she keeps me around.”
Tris blinked at the idea of Michael as ruthless, even as part of her recognized that element in him. Before she could consider the contradiction, his next words caught her attention, bringing with them a swell of disappointment.
“Maybe I’ll come back for a few days.” After listening a moment, he spoke into the phone again, apparently intent on soothing his listener. “No, the situation’s not worse than you thought, Sharon, and you were right to think I can probably handle it from here. It’s just that coming back for a few days has its attractions.”
The grimness in his voice seemed directed more at himself than at the bad news he’d received or its bearer.
Just then, he turned his head and met Tris’s eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was listening to a voice at the other end of the line or if his caller was letting him consider his own words in silence. Tris had the sudden certainty that holding his look was very important, though she didn’t know why.
“No.” He spoke into the phone, but Tris thought he hadn’t aimed the curt word at the caller, or even at her. Maybe only at himself. “I should stay.”
He broke the look, and she let out a breath.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll give it a shot at handling it from here. Yeah, I think so, too. No, I wouldn’t want to miss all the fun here. And there are some things I need to accomplish.” The flatness of his voice seemed to give the words an edge Tris didn’t understand. “Thanks, Sharon. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more.”
He hung up the phone and looked at Tris, his legs stretched out, his palms resting on the edge of the desk to either side of him, only his head turned toward her.
“Work.”
“So I heard. Problems?”
“Yeah.” His short, sharp sigh had .a caustic tinge. “Problems.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
His eyebrows rose slightly, as if she would be the last person who could help, then he seemed to realize his surprise might not be too flattering and his face became more neutral. “No, but thanks.”
“You were thinking about leaving? But you think you can take care of it from here?” She wanted to come out and ask why he’d considered leaving if he didn’t have to, but something in his stillness dissuaded her.
“Probably. Won’t know until I try.” He half smiled. “Think the Monroes would mind me tying up the phone?”
“Oh, I think they’d survive. Nobody’s going to be home anyway. Uncle James is at work, Aunt Nancy’s going to a charity luncheon, and the rest of us are headed downtown.”
He sighed again, this time with regret, she thought. “I can’t go.”
“I know. Maybe you could meet us for dinner?” She named a favorite Near North pizza restaurant.
“I’ll try. But…”
“I know,” she repeated. She knew all too well how problems at work could consume a day’s hours or a night’s sleep. She smiled and started to the door, then stopped and turned back. “Don’t work too hard. And, Michael?” She waited until he looked at her. “If you can’t handle it from here, promise not to leave without saying goodbye, okay?”
She didn’t know why it seemed so important to wait for his soft “okay,” but she didn’t move until she had it.
Chapter Three
“I thought we were going to leave all the packages in the car.” Grady grimaced as the sharp edge of a smallish box banged into his leg for the third time.
“Sorry.” Tris shifted the bag to her other hand. They’d parked several blocks from the restaurant and the narrow sidewalks provided little room. “It’s for Michael.”
“All the more reason to leave it in the car.” And away from my poor leg, h
is tone seemed to add. “He probably won’t come up for air from that political stuff for days, so you could have waited to give it to him back at the Monroes. Unless he’s already left.”
Annoyance seeped into Tris. Michael wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye -- he’d promised. And he’d be at the restaurant if he could. And if he were there, she wanted him to have a piece of the day all the rest of them had spent together, to feel included, to know he’d been missed. But she wasn’t about to say any of that to Grady, because he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t. . . .
She stopped in midthought. She had just found Grady lacking. Grady Roberts. Gorgeous Grady.
She would have found that unthinkable twelve years ago. Now she had an irrational urge to giggle.
“There’s Michael,” Paul announced from just ahead of them.
Tris transferred the urge to giggle into a welcome as Michael met them at the short flight of steps that led to the half-basement restaurant. Exchanging greetings and questions, they effectively clogged the entrance. Noticing a couple trying to pass, Tris hooked her hand through Grady’s arm and tugged, trying to clear the sidewalk at the same time she asked Michael if he’d solved the problems.
His grin evaporated. “This one. But there’ll be others.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, a little startled by his grimness.
“Joan’s got one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever encountered, but sometimes she leads with her heart instead of her hard political head. That’s where the problems come in.”
Remembering he’d used that same phrase – “leading with her heart” -- about her, she bridled at his tone. “That’s also where compassion and caring come in.”
“Compassion and caring don’t do a whole lot of good if you don’t have the wherewithal to implement them,” he shot back.
“So it’s better to forget your heart and just lead with your head? Until perpetuating your power becomes more important than using that power to accomplish something? Isn’t that exactly the sort of end-justifies-the-means thinking that has earned politicians the rotten reputation they have now?”
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