Third Time's the Bride!

by Merline Lovelace

  Although one McGill looked to be enough. More than enough.

  Brian trailed along as Tommy performed tour guide duty again. Eagerly, he showed her through the main house. The two front rooms that had been knocked into one to create a large, airy family room with sunshine pouring through the windows. The spacious, eat-in kitchen. The trellised patio and landscaped backyard with its fanciful gazebo.

  The laundry beyond the kitchen contained what Tommy insisted looked like spaceship appliances. The washer and dryer were gray steel, with lighted touch panels and front-loading glass portholes. A side door in the laundry room opened to the three-car garage, which housed Brian’s SUV and the small, neat compact Mrs. Wells preferred.

  “It’s leased,” Brian told Dawn. “I can trade it out if you’d like something bigger.”

  And flashier, he thought, to go with her red hair and multicolored toes.

  “It’s fine,” she assured him.

  Nodding, he tapped in a digital code on a flat-paneled cabinet in the laundry room. “You’ll need the car keys, as well as keys to both the gatehouse and main house.”

  While he retrieved the appropriate keys from the neatly labeled pegs, Tommy darted to the other door. It opened onto a covered walkway paved with flat flagstones.

  “This goes to the gatehouse,” he explained unnecessarily, since the two-story bungalow sat all of twenty yards away.

  It was made of the same mellow brick as the main house and had been converted into a comfortable retreat for Mrs. Wells. Once inside, they confirmed the cleaning service had indeed prepared the gatehouse’s second bedroom and restocked its kitchen.

  “This is perfect,” Dawn exclaimed.

  Delighted, she peered through the kitchen’s bay windows at the brick-walled backyard. Its lush lawn was bordered by early fall flowers lifting their showy faces to the sky, and the white-painted gazebo was perfect for sipping morning coffee while the sun burned the dew off the grass.

  “I can take my laptop outside to work,” Dawn told Tommy. “Although I doubt I’ll get much done with all those dahlias to distract me. And that green, green grass just begs for a cartwheel or two.”

  Tommy looked thrilled at the prospect of lawn gymnastics. Brian, on the other hand, had to forcibly slam a mental door on a vision of this woman with her fiery hair flying and her legs whirling through the air.

  “And speaking of distractions,” Dawn commented, turning to prop a hip against the red tiled counter. “You start school next week, right?”

  Tommy looked to his dad for confirmation, then mirrored his nod. “Right.”

  “That gives us the rest of this week to have fun. I haven’t seen the pandas at the zoo. We need to do that, and check out the new exhibits at the Smithsonian, and...”

  “And get in some shopping,” Brian interjected.

  “Now you’re speaking my language! I’m not bragging when I say I’m intimately acquainted with every mall and shopping center within a fifty-mile radius.” She turned an inquiring look Tommy. “What about you? Do you like to cruise the malls?”

  “No!”

  She hid a smile at his undisguised horror and turned to Brian. “So why suggest shopping?”

  “The school sent a checklist of supplies and uniform items we need to get.”

  “He has to wear a uniform?”

  “I don’t mind,” Tommy volunteered. “Dad explained that all the kids wear the same thing so no one makes fun of anyone else’s stuff.”

  “Well, that’s sensible.”

  Sensible, but kind of sad when Dawn remembered all the items of clothing she and Callie and Kate had shared over the years. So many, in so many different colors and styles, that they usually forgot who’d originally owned what. ’Course that was the difference between growing up in a small Massachusetts town versus a major metropolitan area with a socially and economically diverse population.

  “Okay, we’ll add a shopping expedition to our agenda. You’ll need to get me a copy of that checklist, Brian.”

  “I’ll print it out and give it to you at breakfast tomorrow. If you care to join us,” he added after a slight pause. “Mrs. Wells usually did.”

  “She ate dinner with us, too,” Tommy added, “’cept when she was tired ’n wanted to put her feet up. She had to do that a lot. But you don’t put your feet up, do you?”

  Dawn hated to burst his bubble. Especially after he’d proudly informed EAS’s chief pilot that she was, like, a hundred years younger than Mrs. Wells.

  “Sometimes,” she admitted.

  His brow furrowed, and while he struggled to reconcile Fun Dawn with Old Lady Dawn, his father stepped in. “Tommy and I will certainly understand if you’d prefer to take your meals here.”

  “I may do that when work piles up. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to join you guys.”

  “Okay. Well...” He palmed his chin, scraping the bristles that had sprouted during the long flight. “Since we ate on board, I figured we’d just do sandwiches tonight.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “About an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Dawn used the time to empty her roll-on suitcase. There wasn’t much to unpack: black slacks and a cream-colored tunic that could be dressed up or down with various tops and scarves; a gauzy sundress; her most comfortable jeans; three stretchy, scoop neck T-shirts; a loose-knit, lightweight sweater; underwear; sandals; flip-flops; a bathing suit; and a zipper bag of costume jewelry. That should be enough to get through another week in DC. If not, or if she stayed longer than anticipated, she’d have to make another excursion to the mall.

  With Kate and Callie, if she could catch Callie before she flew home to Boston. Buoyed by the prospect, Dawn stripped off the filmy blouse, zebra-striped belt and wide-legged palazzo pants she’d purchased at a Rome boutique for the surprise ceremony at the Trevi Fountain. The pants had made the flight home without a wrinkle, but the blouse needed some serious steaming.

  Dawn hung it on the outside of the walk-in shower stall before adjusting the spray on a showerhead the size of a dinner plate. The hard, pulsing streams revived her jet-lagged muscles and did a lively tap dance on her skin. She felt refreshed and squeaky clean and, once dressed in her favorite jeans and a scoop neck tee, ready to face the world again.

  The world maybe, but not her mother.

  When she remembered to turn her phone back on, she skimmed the text messages. Two were from members of her team at work, one from the director of a charity she was doing some free design work for and three from her mother.

  Dawn had emailed both parents copies of her itinerary in Italy, with the addresses and phone number of the hotels in case of an emergency. She’d also zinged off a quick text when the itinerary had changed to include an unplanned stay in Tuscany, with a side excursion to Venice.

  Her mother had texted her twice during that time. Once to ask the reason for the change, and once to insist she contact her father and pound some sense into his head about arrangements for Thanksgiving. These new texts, however, were short and urgent.

  I need to speak to you. Call me.

  Where are you? I tried your hotel. They said you’d checked out. Call me.

  Dawn! Call me!

  Swamped by the sudden fear someone in the family was sick or hurt, she pressed the FaceTime button for her mom. When her mother’s face filled the screen, she could see herself in the clear green eyes and dark auburn brows. Maureen McGill’s once-bright hair had faded, though, and unhappiness had carved deep lines in her face.

  “Finally!” she exclaimed peevishly. “I’ve texted a half dozen times. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “We were in the air and only landed a little while ago. I just now turned my phone back on. What’s wrong?”

  Her mother ignored the question and focused instea
d on the first part of her daughter’s response.

  “Why were you in the air? You and Kate and Callie aren’t supposed to fly home until tomorrow.”

  “My plans changed, Mom. What’s going on?”

  “It’s your father.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “No. The man’s as far from okay as he always is. He’s adamant that you and your brothers and their families have Thanksgiving with him and that trashy blonde he’s taken up with.”

  Arrrrgh! Dawn vowed an instant and painful death for whichever of her brothers or sisters-in-law had told Maureen about Doreen.

  “I know you’re all coming here for Christmas,” her mother continued, “but I would think that at least one of you wouldn’t want me to be alone over Thanksgiving.”

  “Mom...”

  “It’s not like he’ll put a decent meal on the table. The man burns water, for pity’s sake.”

  “Mom...”

  “And I’ll be very surprised if that woman can cook. I hear she—”

  “Mo-ther!”

  That was met with a thunderous silence. Dawn used the few seconds of dead air to do the mental ten count she resorted to so often when dealing with either of her parents. Modulating her voice, she repeated her previous refusal to enter into another holiday war.

  “I told you, I’m not getting in the middle of this battle.”

  Then an escape loomed, and she grabbed it with both hands.

  “As a matter of fact, I may not be able to spend Thanksgiving with either Dad or you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve just started a new project.”

  “So? Boston’s less than ninety miles from home. Even if you have to work the day before and after the holiday, you could zip over and right back.”

  “Actually, I won’t be doing this project in Boston. That’s why I flew home from Italy a day early. To, ah, consult with the people I’ll be working with and get everything set up. I’m in DC now.”

  Which wasn’t a lie. It just didn’t offer up specific details about the “project.” Her mother would be as skeptical as Kate and Callie about this nanny gig. Even the sparse details Dawn now provided left her peevish.

  “You might have told me about this special project,” she sniffed, “instead of just letting all this drop after the fact.”

  “I didn’t decide to do it until just a few days ago.”

  “Have you told your father?”

  “Not yet.”

  As expected, the fact that Maureen was privy to information that her ex-husband wasn’t soothed at least some of her ruffled feathers. Dawn moved quickly to exploit the momentary lull.

  “I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you when I know where I’ll be on this project come Thanksgiving.”

  Or not!

  Shoving the phone in the back pocket of her jeans, she went out the back door of the gatehouse. Shadows dimmed the vibrant scarlet and gold of the dahlias in the walled-in backyard, and early fall leaves skittered across the flagstones of the covered walkway connecting the gatehouse to the main house.

  It was still early. Only a little past 6:00 p.m. Yet the patch of sky visible above the brick-walled garden was already shading to a deep, federal blue. Appropriate, Dawn thought as her sense of humor seeped back, for a suburb jammed with Washington bureaucrats.

  The main house looked big and solid and welcoming. Light streamed through the windows of its country-style kitchen. She could see Brian at the counter with his back to the window. She stopped for a moment, surprised and annoyed by the little flutter just under her ribs.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she muttered to her elongated shadow on the walkway. “The man made his feelings clear enough on the plane. Just go in, make nice and keep all lascivious thoughts to yourself.”

  Determined to obey that stern admonition, she rapped on the kitchen door.

  “It’s open!”

  She walked in and was greeted by music piping through the house speakers. Something low and jazzy, with lots of sax and horn. A pretty wild sax, as it turned out.

  Dawn cocked her head as the notes suddenly soared to a crashing crescendo, dropped into a reedy trough and took flight again, all within the few seconds it took for Brian to reach for his phone and reduce the volume.

  “Sorry. I have my phone synced to the kitchen unit and tend to let the music rip. Help yourself to wine if you want it. That’s a pretty decent Malbec.” He jerked his chin toward the bottle left open to breathe. “Or there’s white in the fridge.”

  “Malbec’s good.”

  She poured a glass and studied him while she took an appreciative sip. Judging by the damp gleam in his chestnut hair, he’d showered, too. He’d also changed out of his suit into jeans and a baggy red T-shirt sporting the logo of the Washington Nationals baseball team.

  He hadn’t shaved, though. She normally didn’t go for the bristly, male model look, but on Ellis it looked good. So good, it was a few seconds before she thought to look around for his son.

  “Where’s Tommy?”

  “Dead to the world.”

  He sliced tomatoes with the precision of an engineer. Which he was, she remembered, and wondered why she’d never considered engineers particularly sexy before.

  “He barely made it upstairs before he conked out. I got him out of his clothes and into bed, but I expect his internal clock will have him up and watching cartoons at 3:00 a.m.” He shot her a glance that was half apology, half warning. “He may be a little hard to handle until he’s back on schedule.”

  “I’ll make sure he burns off his excess energy at the zoo tomorrow. And if he gets on my nerves too badly, I’ll just hang him by the heels over the polar bear pool.” She held up a palm, grinning at his look of alarm. “I’m kidding!”

  “Yeah, well...” He added the tomato slices to a platter of lettuce, sweet-smelling onions and cheese. “I’ve considered something along those lines a time or two myself.”

  “Then he looks up at you with those wide, innocent eyes,” she said, laughing, “and you can’t remember what the heck got you all wrapped around the axle.”

  “That pretty well sums it up. BLTs okay? Or there’s sliced chicken breast in the fridge.”

  “A BLT sounds great.”

  “White, whole wheat or pumpernickel?”

  “Pumpernickel. Definitely pumpernickel. I’ll do that,” she offered when he extracted an uncut loaf from a bread bin and exchanged the tomato knife for one with a serrated edge. “You do the bacon.”

  She joined him at the counter and went to work. She’d cut two thick slices before she realized he’d paused in the act of arranging the bacon on a microwavable tray. She turned, found him bent toward her, frowning, and almost collided with his nose.

  Startled, she drew back a few inches. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” He straightened, and a hint of red crept into his whiskered cheeks. “It’s your shampoo. I can smell the lemon but there’s something else, something I can’t identify. It’s been driving me crazy.”

  Dawn tried to decide whether she should feel stoked by that bit about driving him crazy, or chagrined that it was her shampoo doing the driving. What she shouldn’t be feeling, though, was all goose-bumpy.

  “That’s probably lotus blossom,” she got out a little breathlessly. “The company I work for manufactures this shampoo. Lemon and lotus blossom, with a touch of coconut oil for sheen. All natural ingredients.”

  Oh, for pity’s sake! This was ridiculous. Men had leaned over her before. A good number of them, if she did say so herself. Some were even sexier than Brian Ellis. But not many, she couldn’t help thinking as he bent down again.

  “I don’t think I’ve sniffed a lotus before.” He raised a hand, twirled a still-damp tendril around a finger. “Or felt an
ything so soft and silky. The coconut’s doing a good job.”

  Well, damn! Who would’ve thunk it? This unexpected proximity seemed to have knocked Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected a few degrees off balance. The realization should have given Dawn a dart of feminine satisfaction. Instead, she had to struggle to remember where she was.

  She barely registered the brick-walled kitchen or the copper pots hanging over the cook island. Brian blocked almost everything else from view. All she could see was the prickle of beard on his cheeks and chin. The slight dent in his nose. The narrowed blue eyes. She was still trying to decipher their message when he released her hair and brushed a knuckle down her cheek.

  “About our discussion on the plane...”

  Which discussion? She was damned if she could sort out her jumbled thoughts with his knuckle making another pass.

  “I don’t dislike you.”

  “Good to know, Ellis.”

  “Just the opposite, McGill.” Another stroke, followed by a look of pure regret. “Which is why we can’t do what I’m aching to do right now.”

  “You’re right,” she got out unsteadily as he cupped her cheek. “We can’t. Because...?”

  As Brian dropped his hand, guilt hit him like a hammer.

  Because, he thought with a searing stab of regret, we’re standing in the kitchen Caroline redesigned brick-by-aged-brick. Under the rack holding the dented copper pots she’d discovered in a shopping expedition to the Plaka in Athens. With a loaf of the pumpernickel she’d taught him to tolerate, if not particularly like, sitting right there on the counter.

  Christ! He knew he shouldn’t keep hauling around this load of guilt. Everyone said so. The grief counselor recommended by Caroline’s oncologist. The various “experts” he’d consulted on issues dealing with single parenting. The well-meaning friends and associates who’d fixed him up with their friends and associates.

  He’d dated off and on in the five years since his wife’s death. No one seriously. No one he’d brought here, to the home Caroline had taken such delight in. And he sure as hell had never ached to kiss one of those casual dates six ways to Sunday. Then hike her onto the counter, unsnap her jeans and yank them...