by Jenny Jacobs
“Meaning she is intelligent, organized, successful in business, and generous to the people she loves. So I would think she would be a willing helpmate to her husband, a fine and loving mother, and a contributor to the family’s financial well-being. Which is what an ideal modern wife is, isn’t it?”
Ian smiled at the faintly judgmental overtones of the word “modern” as a modifier of “wife.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “She is all of those things.”
“Then why do you say she would be easy for a mother-in-law to get along with but not for a man?”
He looked down at the top of Mrs. M’s carefully coiffed gray hair. Why was she giving him the third degree over Greta? A cold feeling gripped his belly. Had she guessed? Had anyone else?
“You could kiss her,” he said. “And really enjoy it. And then there would be consequences.”
“Such as?”
“She is the very definition of ‘can’t live with her, can’t live without her,’” Ian said. “Best just to avoid the agony.” That was the conclusion he had reached on realizing his desire to be the blonde man on the dance floor with Greta was going to keep him up late with insomnia. It was irrational. His conviction that he’d grow tired of her once he got her attention was merely juvenile posturing. If he didn’t want her, why bother to pursue her? Better to just put her entirely out of his mind.
“I never thought of you as a coward,” Mrs. M said.
Nothing like Mrs. M to needle a man to act the way she thought he should. He drew himself up. “Then you tell me how I can kiss her and not have her drive me mad afterwards.”
“You seem to be holding your own.”
“But I’m not kissing her.” He couldn’t believe he said the words though he heard them with his own ears. What was he doing, baring his soul? And to Mrs. M of all people?
“That’s the essential point, is it?” Mrs. M asked. She gave him a considering look. “How long have I known you?”
“Since I was a young idiot.” He was still an idiot. Just not quite so young.
“And in all that time, I have never known you to not take the kiss because you were afraid of the consequences.”
He looked down at the perfectly dressed and coiffed woman in his arms, setting him straight on matters of the heart just like she always had.
“When this goes badly wrong, I’m blaming it on you,” he warned.
Chapter Seven
“Good morning, Ian,” Greta said when he edged open the front door, peering at her through the crack. He wore a ratty robe, exactly the kind of thing he would treasure and she would burn. No doubt they would argue over it if they were — but of course they weren’t and Greta had no intention of ever sharing her closet again.
“Hello, Greta.” He didn’t seem inclined to let her in. Instead, he stared at her through eyes still heavy with sleep, looking slightly bewildered, as if he couldn’t figure out what she was doing on his front step. She gave him a minute to reach the appropriate conclusion. When patience did not produce the intended result — he continued to stare at her — she said, “They’re installing your home theater today. Along with some of your bedroom furniture.”
He brightened at that. “My television is coming?” Still, he didn’t move away from the door. She did not like to be aggressive, but short of main force, how did one go about shifting him out of the way?
She cleared her throat. Obviously someone had not had his first cup of coffee yet. “I’m here to supervise the installation.”
“Okay.”
She couldn’t very well do it from the front step. “Let me in,” she snapped, abandoning any attempt at subtlety.
Light dawned, chasing some of the sleep from his eyes. He belatedly stepped back and opened the door wide enough to let her into the front hall. “I’ll just get dressed,” he said, making a vague gesture at the robe, which she was doing her very professional best not to look at. She winced at his bleary eyes and removed her gaze from his person entirely.
“I mentioned this,” she reminded him, although he hadn’t complained. Yet. She suspected he would the moment his brain became fully operational. She might as well head him off before he got started. “I told you we’d be here Monday at 7:30 A.M.”
He was already halfway up the stairs, on his way to change. Without turning to her, he gave an abrupt wave, as if he were shooing a buzzing fly away.
Greta smiled.
“You’re not a morning person, are you, Ian?” she called after him.
The bedroom door slammed.
Smiling, she walked into the kitchen, her heels making a pleasing sound against the tiles, feminine in this bastion of masculinity. Not that you could tell who lived here by the furnishings, of which there were few. She would argue that the very lack indicated male ownership because even if she were waiting for a designer to assist her, a woman would at least have borrowed a couple of chairs from someone and added a vase of flowers.
She glanced around the mostly empty kitchen. It was clear and uncluttered. Knowing the habits of most men, she assumed this had more to do with the fact that there was very little in the kitchen to get dirty or to clutter the counter with, rather than any innate habit of cleanliness and orderliness.
She spotted the coffeemaker on the counter near the sink. Ah, at least he had brewed a pot of coffee. He just hadn’t had a chance to drink any of it. She took a mug from the pile on the counter — did he not understand the concept of kitchen cabinets? — and filled it to the brim. Taking a liberty she wouldn’t ordinarily take with a client, she went back outside and fetched the newspaper, then returned to the kitchen where she unfolded it and began reading, leaning her hip against the counter, mug in hand.
“Help yourself,” he said sourly. She started, glancing over her shoulder to see him coming into the room. He had his shoes in his hands, which he explained his silent approach. He tossed them on the floor near the refrigerator, the kind of habit that would annoy her beyond reason if they were — but they weren’t, thank goodness.
He had traded the robe for business casual, which suited him better. His dress shirt hung open over a tanned and muscular chest, his belly flat and solid although many men started to go a little soft at his age. Fortunately he was too stunned with fatigue to notice her staring at him or no doubt he would have said something obnoxious. Quickly she dragged her attention back to the newspaper. At least, she dragged her gaze back to the newspaper. Her attention was another matter. It remained behind, fully aware of the crisp dark hair curling on his chest, inviting a caress —
She gulped scalding coffee in a futile attempt to distract herself. Fine. He was the embodiment of physical perfection. She could notice that. She didn’t have to do anything about it.
“I thought Army men were accustomed to early rising,” she said unsympathetically, her tone a little sharp as he buttoned his shirt and tucked it in his pants, a little too casually and companionably for her taste. Did she parade around half-naked in front of her clients? She did not. She didn’t allow other people to see her without every hair perfectly in place. She wasn’t sure what it meant that he hadn’t even bothered to button his shirt before descending the stairs. Maybe he thought of her as just one of the guys. Maybe —
Maybe she didn’t want to know.
He didn’t respond to her remark — not that she expected him to — and she took another sip of the bitter brew and turned to the Living section.
The doorbell rang. Ian made no effort to answer it but headed for the coffee pot, fumbling for a mug. She danced out of his way, then went to let the installers in because he seemed unable to cope on his own. She showed the two workers with their equipment upstairs to the home theater room, then handed over the plan she’d sketched, showing them what went where, everything neatly labeled in her clearest hand. They nodded, claimed to
understand her directions, and started opening boxes. She would return in a little while to make them fix their mistakes.
When she got back downstairs, Ian was tying his shoes. They’d been polished until she could practically see her reflection in them. The mug of coffee he’d snagged was already empty. He gave her a look as he straightened up. “For your information, not all Army men, as you call us, are alike.”
She raised a brow. He’d taken all this time to come up with that comment? Obviously her remark had rankled but the Ian she knew would have found a better come-back. If she wanted a worthy sparring partner, obviously she was going to have to wait until afternoon.
The doorbell rang again. Ian reached for the coffee pot and Greta headed to the front hall. This time it was a furniture delivery. Beckoning the movers to follow her, she glided up the stairs to show them where the bedroom was.
“Greta!” Ian called up the stairs after her. “I forgot my briefcase. Can you grab it while you’re up there?”
So that was the way he planned to counter-attack. She supposed she could point out that she was his interior designer, not his wife. But men were so easily confused about such distinctions.
She explained to the movers how the furniture should be placed, then walked across the hall, glanced in on the home theater installation, and corrected a few errors. Remembering Ian’s bellowed command, she went back to the bedroom. She looked around and spotted his briefcase on the floor near the closet. She picked it up and walked back downstairs.
“Here you go, dear,” she said in a smarmy voice with an overbright smile, coming into the kitchen and presenting him with the briefcase. “Did we forget that we’d need it?” She gave him a pleasant pat on his cheek.
A second cup of coffee had apparently not improved his disposition, because he snatched the briefcase from her and snapped, “Why, thank you, honey.”
It was so easy to get under his skin. He was hardly putting up a fight. She didn’t know why she enjoyed it so much. It probably had to do with how he got under her skin so successfully. They could declare a truce — no burrowing under each other’s skin — but that wouldn’t be much fun.
An impish impulse struck her and she reached up to fix his collar, patting his shoulder as she did. “Can’t let you go into the office like that, sweetie,” she said in that same saccharine voice. Then she stood on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek. “Have a good day.”
• • •
That evening, as Ian pulled into his driveway, he saw that Greta’s car was parked at the curb. She was back — or maybe she’d never left. He grinned as he cut the ignition and climbed out of the car, pocketing his keys. She’d caught him by surprise this morning, but now he was ready for her. She wouldn’t find him such easy pickings this evening. He squared his shoulders, ready to engage in battle.
“There you are,” she said, opening the front door like she was the one who belonged there and he was the guest. He frowned as she held the door open for him, not because he didn’t like it but because he did.
“Come and see,” she said, stepping back to let him in. As he passed her, setting his briefcase down in a corner of the hall, he smelled her perfume, a light floral scent that he would always associate with her. He hoped he wouldn’t start associating it with coming home.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Lead on,” he said. She’d ambushed him again. She was still winning. It didn’t seem fair. But as long as he didn’t let her know she was winning, that was the main thing, right?
She brought him up the stairs. He noticed how nicely the tailored pantsuit looked from behind but he was smart enough not to say so. She threw open the door to his bedroom, an expectant look on her face. “Tess will finish and hang the curtains later,” she said. “And the wallpaper still needs to be done — I couldn’t get the paperhanger in on time. But we’ve got it mostly finished for you.”
He nodded. Dresser, window seat, bookshelves exactly as ordered. The fabric on the bed and the window seat looked a touch exotic. It was comfortable, attractive, masculine, and him. He was sort of surprised because Greta had seemed determined not to get to know him at all.
Apparently he didn’t respond with praise quickly enough because she said in freezing tones, “If you dislike it, I would be happy to make changes. However, we did agree — ”
“It looks fine,” he said hastily. “It looks wonderful. I was just thinking about how it would look if I had done it myself.”
“It would have curios,” she said, and now it was her turn to shudder.
“You were right,” he said, offering the admission as an olive branch. What woman could resist a man who admitted when he was wrong? “It’s perfect.”
She gave him a suspicious glance but seemed mollified. “All right. Let me know if you do want anything changed.”
“No. Don’t change a thing.”
She nodded, then turned and left the room. Apparently he had not completely blown it.
“Come look at the pièce de résistance,” she said, gesturing toward the room across the hall, a smile playing about her lips. A smile that he didn’t trust. What had she done to his spare bedroom? He hoped it wouldn’t give him a heart attack because he wasn’t sure she’d dial 9-1-1 if it did.
He followed her across the hall to the spare bedroom, which she kept referring to as the home theater room. He pushed open the door to look into the room, standing to the side in some trepidation, as if a tiger might leap out at him. You never knew what Greta might find amusing.
Nothing happened. It was quiet. Too quiet. He tensed as he stepped into the room. He spotted the recliner first. “A Barcalounger!” he exclaimed, all of his concerns vanishing in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He strode over and plopped himself down. The chair cushioned and surrounded him, perfect for viewing televised sporting events and the Antiques Roadshow. “Where did you find this?” he asked. He had traveled all over the world and had never found a chair as perfect as this one. He operated the lever, giving a contented sigh as the footrest popped up and the back reclined.
“The Barcalounger is a joke,” Greta said with asperity, her hands fisted on her hips, but he could forgive her that. She might have thought she was being ironic — apparently she didn’t think he’d get the insult — but he didn’t care. A Barcalounger. She really was perfect for him. It was worth any price to keep her. As his interior decorator, of course. He didn’t mean she was perfect in any personal sense. Not at all. Personally, she was a pain in the posterior.
“Michael’s dad had one exactly like this,” he said. “In fact, he might have owned this very chair. Where’s the remote?”
She made a sound like a growl and he glanced over at her. He must have heard wrong because her face was perfectly calm as she indicated the side table next to his elbow.
“This is just so cool,” he said, picking up the remote in one hand, running his other hand along the fabric of the chair. “Where did you find it?”
“eBay,” Greta snapped. “It’s a joke, Ian.”
“A joke?” he said, shaking his head. “No, no, no. It’s perfect.”
“I’m not allowing you to keep that thing — ”
“You bought it for me!” he crowed. “You can’t take it back. It’s perfect.”
Greta eyed him as if he might be playing with her. In other circumstances he might have been, but in this case he was dead serious. “All right,” she said grudgingly. “You can keep it, but you must never admit you got it from me.”
“I’m telling you, all the men I know are gonna die of envy,” he said. “If you let me tell them — ”
“No.”
“You can never have too many clients.”
“Yes, you can,” Greta said. Although she didn’t say it, he could practically hear her think: You are a perfect example of one too many
clients. “Tess and Michael will be back from their honeymoon next week and they’ll finish the job for you.”
Then she was gone. He heard her shoes on the steps, then the front door closing quietly behind her. He sat in the recliner. He aimed the remote at the television. He had a remark or two he would have liked to share with her but they occurred to him too late: she was gone. He clicked over to ESPN and settled back.
It was a great Barcalounger.
Chapter Eight
The flowers were beautiful — miniature roses and carnations, freesias, and even a tiger lily nestled in the vase — but she fully intended to throw them away. Every time she saw them, the sight would make her clench her teeth, and that was no way to go through the day.
She thanked the florist’s delivery driver and set the vase on the hall table. She didn’t even have to open the card to know who had sent them. She recognized the thick black scrawl on the envelope from the checks he’d written her.
She opened the card anyway. Love the recliner, he’d written, followed by his initials. She crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash. He had to rub it in, didn’t he? At least he knew how to pick a good florist. Plenty of practice in apologizing to women he’d offended, probably.
Good riddance, she thought, throwing down her bag and kicking her shoes off. Tess could deal with him from here on out, just as she’d promised to in the beginning. Greta padded barefoot into the kitchen to fix a cup of tea. That would help soothe her ruffled nerves.
It had been one of those days. The morning had started off with a phone call from an irate client who despised her proposed design ideas and instead of either finding a new designer or describing where the design had gone wrong, she’d attacked Greta personally, reviling her taste and antecedents. Though Greta knew the tirade said more about the client than it did Greta, it had still upset her, especially when she found herself wondering if the client might, after all, be right.
Which was exactly what she’d wondered when Paul had abused her, and at that thought, she’d crisply fired the client and hung up the phone. Though ending the relationship was supposed to be an empowering act, the whole experience made Greta feel hollow inside. And she hadn’t even had a cup of coffee to fortify herself because Tess wasn’t working today.