“I’m with you,” Fynn admitted.
“But still, that’s one helluva a gift,” William Hemmings whistled. “Maybe that guy should adopt you. Hell, maybe he’d adopt me,” he joked. “You couldn’t pay me to buy them, but I wouldn’t turn them away. At least so long as they aren’t telling the government what I like to eat. That’s no one’s business.”
“Not everything is a government conspiracy, William,” Elizabeth chided.
“It’s happened before. You think it’s harmless information gathering and then—”
“Mr. Trager?” The head delivery man prodded.
“Oh… yes… well, I guess it’s into the kitchen with them,” Fynn said.
“We’re keeping them?” Catherine hissed.
“They were a gift,” he shrugged.
“What if this Walter guy is buttering us up and then going to show up and demand our firstborn to sell into the illegal sex trade in some third world country?”
“That’s where you go with this?”
“These appliances are expensive, Fynn, you never know what someone might expect. I mean, he might want to sleep with your wife. How do you like them apples?”
“I figured you must have already slept with him,” he joked. “And for free appliances… I think I’m all right with that.”
“Nice,” she said tightly.
“Seriously, if they’re bought and paid for—what is it?” he asked of the sudden shock on her face.
“The guy. That guy. The one I used to nod at on the way to work, remember?”
Fynn looked lost.
“I dropped the invitations all over the sidewalk and he picked one up and thought he was invited and just kind of showed up.” She used a yada-yada tone to make it seem less insane than it was.
“Oh, right!”
“This must be him. Walter Cutter!” She never had gotten his name.
“See, being polite paid off,” Fynn said. “Turns out he was just a nice lonely eccentric who really appreciated having something to do last March. Maybe he has no family to speak of and we made him feel welcome—”
She gasped. “Oh my God, what if he wants to come to Christmas too? What if that’s what this bribe is about!”
Fynn chuckled like she was the loon when obviously Walter Cutter held that crown.
“Make sure you thank him,” her mother added her two cents. “His timing might be atrocious and the gift might be grossly overdone, but he still deserves a proper thank you.”
Undoubtedly a jab at her improper thank yous to all the intended guests at the wedding. The cards went out late. She’d written too little. Was too impersonal. And the grammar? … She could imagine all of the infractions her mother had counted up.
Thursday, December 7th
-25-
“Where is everybody?” Fynn asked, confused by the silence that greeted him as he came downstairs into the kitchen.
“My parents walked Cara to the bus and Magnus went with them. So the cheese stands alone,” she said pitifully, pressing her finger into the crumbs of toast that were left on her plate and slipping them into her mouth. Her mother had made omelets on the brand new six-burner gas range that made Catherine feel even less qualified to be in the kitchen. Elizabeth Hemmings herself had looked a bit daunted at first. More than anyone really needs, she’d said, pointing out that she had cooked countless meals for her family and hosted an entire houseful of guests enough times, all on a regular old stovetop with no problems whatsoever. Yet, by the end of the meal she seemed almost giddy with her newfound power.
“Well, I happen to like the cheese. It’s pretty and it smells good,” Fynn said, dipping in to sniff her neck and plant a kiss that tingled against her skin. “So what are your plans for the day?” He righted himself and headed toward the coffee pot.
“I guess I have to deal with the Tara situation,” she sighed.
“The Tara situation?”
“There’s always a situation when it comes to her.” She rolled her eyes. “I got a text in the middle of the night to meet her at someplace called Grossman’s at one.”
“So she’s still in town?”
“I guess.”
“You haven’t talked to her?”
“No.”
“Mad at her too now?” he asked, a pointed barb over the whole Georgia thing.
“Shouldn’t I be? Showing up here like that? What did she think I was going to do? God, she makes me crazy.” Her voice rising righteously in pitch.
Fynn shook his head, busy filling his travel coffee mug, the one he used whether traveling or not because the garage workshop was only halfway to tolerable at this time of year and a cup of coffee would be iced in moments if not insulated.
“What’s that for?”
He turned, the question on his face.
“Like I didn’t just see you shaking your head about me.”
“About women in general,” he corrected.
“You think that’s better? You’re obviously lumping me in with them.”
“You are one, aren’t you?”
Catherine stared him down.
“I just don’t get why women are so mean to each other.” He took a sip of his coffee, casually, as if that wasn’t an incendiary statement.
“I haven’t said a word to Tara!”
“The cold shoulder is the female version of a fist fight. Only less humane.”
“I can’t believe you just said that,” she humphed. “I just asked you the other day if you’ve spoken to Jason at all and you said no. I mean, when’s the last time you did? At the wedding? How is that not the cold shoulder?”
“We’re guys; we never talk that much,” he shrugged.
“But he’s a friend. Your best man.”
“And I know he’ll be there if I need him.”
It was her turn to shake her head at the absurdity. “Why don’t I handle my friends my way and you can handle yours your way.”
“Fair enough. Just don’t give me the cold shoulder.”
“Don’t deserve it and I won’t,” she warned.
Her phone went off with another text. Tara again. “What’s at 1367 Market Street?” she asked Fynn.
He started to shake his head—“Wait, that’s where I know the name Grossman’s from,” he said, snapping his fingers.
“What?”
“He’s a lawyer in town.”
“Is she suing me?” Catherine joked tightly.
“Maybe she wants us to adopt her.”
She rolled her eyes. Last time a lawyer had been brought into the mix it was Tara pretending to be one, trying to help Catherine break through Joel “Fynn” Trager’s crusty exterior back when they first met. Yup, Tara was just crazy enough to do most anything.
“So… are you going to take your parents with you?” He sounded hopeful.
“Don’t want to parent-sit?” she jabbed. “You who thinks my parents are no trouble at all?”
“That’s not what I mean. I just—”
“I haven’t talked to them yet, but I think they need to do some shopping. My mom didn’t want to travel with a bunch of gifts, so she mentioned going out with my dad to take care of some things.” Catherine waited a few moments before adding, “And you don’t have to look quite so relieved.”
“I’m not.”
“Your whole body went rigid when you thought you’d be stuck with them.”
“I’ll give you something rigid, milady,” he said wickedly, heading straight for her. “I’m completely serious, you know.” He glanced at the clock. “We have a few minutes before the bus even comes and then they have to trek all the way back.”
“You think I only need a few minutes?” she joked playfully.
“If I’m doing it right,” he said, oozing melted butter with each word.
Her whole body flushed at the thought.
“You pushed me off last night because they were downstairs. Now they’re out of the house.”
Actually, she’d pushed him of
f last night because she was annoyed with Georgia and with his reaction to her being mad at Georgia. Her parents were just a good excuse. But now—
“We have to take what we can get.”
“Race you,” she blurted.
“Oh no you don’t.” He grasped hold of her as she popped up from her chair.
“What? You said we only have a few minutes.”
“You aren’t going to go running through the house in your condition.”
“You mean here? In the kitchen?”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t know that I can look my mother in the eye for the next two weeks knowing I did it right here where she ate her breakfast. And what if they come back early? Or—But Fynn was making short work of her robe and her resistance, lifting up her nightshirt, kissing that spot on the side of her neck. He sought between her legs with his hand, probing, finding what he liked. “Are you going to tell me you weren’t thinking about me?” he whispered. Her body’s response to his touch and his breath against her skin was so quick and all-encompassing he assumed she was always thinking about him—about sex—when in reality he was simply perfectly skilled at flipping a switch inside her that got her hot and bothered in a matter of moments.
Fynn wasted no time in pulling his jeans and boxers down, leaving them trapped around his calves by his boots. He had limited mobility, and with her massive belly she was limited as well, so he turned her around where she could lean over the kitchen table and entered her with a sigh of satisfaction that she mirrored, reaching his hands down around her to cradle her breasts. Holy fuck that feels good, she thought, still amazed at how easy it was. Their sex life. How different it was from single sex when there were so many questions and unknowns. So many innuendos and uncertainties. She had never felt as free to feel what and how and when she wanted to feel as she did as a married woman. With Fynn she didn’t have to think about or worry about what she said or did or what he was thinking about the experience. There was an odd juxtaposition of autonomy and ownership in regards to their bodies that made the dance of physical intimacy effortless.
She had always practiced monogamy—not that she could say that for every boyfriend she’d had—but married monogamy was something else entirely. That “union in the eyes of God” thing was powerful. It had changed sex for her. Satisfaction was elemental. It was at the base of everything because it was good and true to her and her marriage. No shame. No capitulation. Just—
“Oh my God.” She could feel the edge of her climax as he brushed against it and withdrew, then slipped closer again, only to pull away, then coming closer still. Her breath caught as she felt him tense, as rigid outside as he was within her. His hands slipped from her breasts to grasp her hips for better purchase, his fingers digging into her skin with his final thrusts that hammered deep into her center.
“Oh, sweet day,” he breathed, driving one final thrust and then circling his hips to attend to that perfect spot that turned her to a gooey mess inside.
“Oh yes,” she shuddered, collapsing against the table for the slimmest margin of a moment, only to perk quickly to the sound of galumphing paws on the front porch.
“Shit!” she screeched. “They’re back. Now. Here. Already.”
Fynn withdrew, reaching for a napkin from the holder with one hand and pulling his boxers and jeans up with the other. He pressed the napkin into her hand and she held it between her legs—certainly not an approved use of a napkin; Elizabeth Hemmings would be appalled. Catherine pulled up her granny panties and let her nightshirt drop down over her before tying the robe around her waist. Her ass hit the kitchen chair at the same moment the front door opened.
She watched in disbelief as her husband, who had put her in this compromising position, grabbed his coffee and made a run for the door to the garage, slipping out as if he’d never been inside her or the kitchen, leaving her flushed and obviously fucked—or at least she feared as much.
“That little girl is a livewire,” William Hemmings said, coming into the kitchen, rubbing his hands to warm them up.
“Such a joy to have little ones around. They make the season that much more special,” Elizabeth Hemmings practically sang, trailing behind him.
“Cara get off okay?” Catherine asked, hoping her voice sounded normal. Even if there was no shame in married sex, it still felt icky to think her parents might figure out what had just happened in the sanctity of the kitchen where hygiene was holy.
“And then some,” her father said, as if that meant anything at all. But Catherine understood completely.
“She just loves going to school, doesn’t she?” her mother added.
“Yes, thankfully. I think that the school routine has put her more at ease than anything. There is so much going on that I think it helps keep her mind occupied and helps her heart too.”
Elizabeth nodded in sympathetic understanding.
“I don’t know how she does it, honestly,” Catherine said. “People talk about all these horror stories when blending families, what with divorces and all…. I guess I just figured that this guardianship situation would be even harder. But that little girl….” She shook her head in awe, tears coming to her eyes.
“Resilience. We need more of it,” her father said firmly.
“She was raised well, obviously,” her mother asserted. “Regardless of what her mother was going through with her illness, she did whatever she needed to make sure her daughter would be cared for.”
“Renée was so strong,” Catherine said tightly. She’d only known Cara’s mother for a short time, but she owed her so much. For her encouragement. For her trust. For her efforts to ease all of them into the future of which Renée couldn’t be a part. And all of that while she was going through hell herself.
“So where is that husband of yours?” her father bellowed suddenly.
“He’s working out in the shop.”
“Great. I’ll just take a little jaunt in and see what he’s up to.” He headed for the door and Catherine felt justified that her husband was about to get ambushed. It was only fair.
“Remember, William, we have some shopping to do. The two of us. So don’t get caught up too long,” his wife warned.
“Aw, do we have to?” he mewled like a little kid, shutting the door behind him.
Her mother turned to her. “You and Fynn are doing a wonderful job.”
Catherine stared at her as if she’d just said she was going to run off with the circus.
“It’s obvious,” she said plainly. “That little girl is thriving in spite of… everything.”
“We’re trying,” Catherine said softly. “I just worry that with the baby and everything about to change again it might be too much too soon. We didn’t plan it this way.”
“Planning can be overrated.”
Excuse me? Let me clean out my ears.
“We didn’t plan any of you kids. We just kind of let you happen.”
“But Cara is still dealing with everything and now there will be this all-encompassing, demanding person thrown into the middle of that.”
“If you tried to plan around that—around loss—you’d be waiting forever. Loss doesn’t go away; it just gets a little less sharp. You know that,” her mother said. “And even though it gets smaller with time, that also means that when it does sneak up on you, it can be all the more devastating.”
Catherine gazed at her in wonder. In all of the preparation for her parents’ visit she was so caught up in making sure she was beyond reproach that she didn’t even bother to consider that her mother was a real person. A survivor of the worst pain a mother could experience. Her mother knew what helplessness felt like better than anyone.
“And whatever you do, don’t ever lose the two of you in all of this,” she warned. “That is what will make the difference. For Cara. For all of your children. That is key,” she said knowingly. “Always find the time.”
Catherine was quiet, not knowing where to go now, or what to say, wonde
ring if she was talking about sex, like she sensed it in the atmosphere around them. An awkward silence, and then, “So you and Dad are going out?”
Elizabeth straightened, snapping out of heartfelt human and back into automaton. “Yes. We will be gone most of the day. Grab some lunch. Enjoy the stores. Maybe go to the mall.”
“You going to be okay getting around?”
“Of course. I think you deserve a break from us.”
“I don’t need a break, Mom.”
“You should be relaxing. Yesterday we had you on your feet the whole time.”
“Well, actually, I do need to see Tara.”
“It’s settled. We go our separate ways.”
-26-
“Doing some dome-age?”
Catherine dropped her fork, loaded with candy apple pie, and practically fell off her stool as she whirled to find Tara there before her.
“That was so funny I forgot to laugh,” she grumbled, digging deep to the schoolyard, circa 1982. Before Tara’s time, as she was in diapers back then.
She never should have shared her little problem with diner food, but you were supposed to be able to unload the worst of yourself onto your friends without it coming back to bite you in the ass. Until it did.
“How was Reuben today?” Tara prodded.
Reuben had come and gone, scarfed down within seconds of hitting the counter in front of her. Catherine rubbed her stomach, feeling an insistent kick in return, reminding her who was in charge.
Tara motioned and Mel came over to the counter with her usual carafe of coffee. “Could I get some decaf?”
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 15