by Patricia Kay
"I'm looking forward to meeting them," Sam lied. He wasn't looking forward to meeting them at all because he was sure the Carpenters would not be happy about his association with Amy— another complication if he wanted to make their relationship more permanent.
As if she'd read his mind, Amy said softly, "My parents will be crazy about you." Under the table, her hand crept over to squeeze his leg.
He smiled down at her. Amy. She was a complete romantic. She saw things as she wanted them to be. It was one of the things he liked most about her—that trust and unbridled optimism. Sometimes, when he was with her, he even began to believe in the basic goodness of people. Unfortunately, the very qualities that made her so refreshingly appealing were also the ones that made it difficult to get her to face reality . . . or to prepare for trouble.
For a while, the talk turned to more impersonal topics, and Sam was grateful for the reprieve. He leaned back against the leather booth and listened to the two women, interjecting a comment now and then. They discussed the current heat wave, agreeing that they were already sick of summer and it was only the third week of July, Lark's job and how much she hated it and the career change she was considering, a mutual friend and her marriage woes, and two current movies—agreeing about one of them and having a good-natured argument over the merits of the other.
Their waitress came and they ordered another round of margaritas. Their food was served, and they ate and continued to talk casually.
Amy asked about Lark's mother.
"The bloom has worn off the rose," Lark said.
"So soon?" Amy said.
"Yeah, well, you know my mother." Lark looked at Sam. "Mother's working on her third marriage, and I don't think this one is going to take any better than the first two." Her smile was wry. "Trouble is, she has lousy judgment. She goes for the type with killer charm and movie star good looks instead of the type with staying power." Her gray eyes met Sam's coolly.
Despite the fact he'd decided he was amused by her self-appointed role as Amy's protectress, Sam was beginning to get a little pissed off by Lark's relentless jabs. He stared back, and was gratified when she was the first one to look away.
After they'd finished their dinner, Amy said, "I'm going to the Ladies'." She looked at Lark.
"I don't need to," Lark said. When Amy was out of earshot, she said, "She's terrific, isn't she?"
"I think so."
Her gaze pinned him. "Tell me something, Sam, are you serious about her or are you just screwing around?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. When he did, his voice was even, his temper under tight control. "I don't think my relationship with Amy is any of your business."
"Well, I'm making it my business. See, the thing is, I love Amy. She's special. Really special. And she's also the best friend I have in the world. I don't want to see her get hurt."
The control slipped a notch. "And you think I do?"
"I don't have any idea whether you do or you don't. I do know, though, what kind of life you lead, and I don't think it's conducive to happily ever after."
"You don't know anything about me," he said stiffly.
"That's why I asked if you were serious about her."
Their gazes locked. "I care about Amy," he hedged.
"Good. Glad to hear it."
She didn't look glad. Her expression said she that she didn't trust him one bit. That she classified him in the same category as the men her mother had married.
Hell, maybe Lark was right. He wasn't sure he had staying power, either. Right now, he wasn't sure of anything.
"I just want to say one last thing, Sam," Lark said. "And it's this. If you do hurt Amy, you'll be sorry."
* * *
Amy wondered what Lark and Sam were talking about while she was in the Ladies' Room, but later, when they were alone, he didn't say anything, and she didn't ask. All he said was, "Has Lark always been like that?"
"Like what?"
"You know. Tough. Cynical."
"She's always been tough. When we were little, she used to get in fights with the boys all the time." Amy smiled, remembering. "But the cynical part, that's been a slow, steady kind of thing that started when her parents were divorced."
"Hit her hard, huh?"
"I didn't think so at the time. She acted as if she didn't care, but looking back, I can see that she did."
"How old was she?"
"We were fourteen."
"Parents can really screw up their kids," Sam said.
"Yes. The older I get, the more I realize what wonderful parents I have." She snuggled closer to him.
In answer, he just put his arms around her and kissed her lightly. "And they produced a wonderful daughter."
* * *
The day before Amy's parents were scheduled to arrive, Amy went through their house making sure the maid had given it a thorough cleaning and that everything smelled fresh and welcoming. Once she was satisfied that it looked the way it should, she turned her attention to her own apartment.
She decided it might be a good idea to put away anything that screamed out Sam's presence. After all, her parents would find out soon enough that he spent most nights with her, but there was no sense rubbing their noses in it. They might be sophisticated and modern in many ways, but where she was concerned they were still very old-fashioned and traditional.
She felt ridiculously nervous. She couldn't imagine why. Her parents would adore Sam, she was sure of it.
But what if they don't?
She paused in the act of dusting her entertainment center. "Well, they'll just have to accept him," she said aloud, "because he's the one I want, and he's here to stay."
Chapter Eight
"I'll be glad to get home, won't you?"
Faith Cameron Carpenter smiled at her husband, who sat next to her in the aisle seat of the first-class section. "You know I will. Three weeks is too long."
Alan had presented a paper in Brussels at the European Cardiac Surgeons' Conference during the first week they were away, and because their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary fell the following week, they had decided to expand their trip to include Ireland and a visit to Faith's sister in Dublin and then France, where they'd spent their honeymoon. They'd had a wonderful time, but home was home. Faith was tired of living out of suitcases and eating rich food and sleeping in unfamiliar beds. Besides, she missed Amy.
That was the trouble with only having one chick. A mother tended to obsess.
As if he'd read her mind, Alan said, "This new fella Amy's dating sounds serious."
"Yes, he does." Each time Faith had talked to Amy in the past two weeks, her daughter had seemed more and more in love.
"What's bothering you, darling? I thought you were eager for Amy to meet someone."
Faith gave her husband a sidelong look. He knew her so well. Even the slightest change in her tone of voice or the subtlest nuance alerted him to her feelings. It had always been this way. She sighed. "I know, but I'm not sure this young man is the right someone. However, I'm reserving my judgment until I meet him."
"What is it about him that concerns you?"
"I don't know . . . a number of things, I guess."
"Like what?" Alan pressed.
"Well, he's apparently rootless with no family to speak of. And God knows what kind of background." She met her husband's eyes. "I know this will make me sound like a snob, but I was hoping Amy would marry someone more like her. More like us."
Alan frowned. "Marry? Is she talking about marrying him?"
"Not in so many words, but I know Amy. That's what she's thinking."
"But she hardly knows him."
"I know."
Alan lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Then he reached over and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry, darling. Amy's not stupid. If she's fallen in love with this young man, he must have the right stuff. And if, for some reason, he doesn't, we'll talk to her. She's very sensible, you know."
Faith nodded and gave h
im a reassuring smile, but she knew how fast common sense could fly out the window when the heart was involved. Not to mention hormones. No, she was terribly afraid that if Amy was set on marrying Sam Robbins, nothing Faith or Alan could say would make any difference. The best Faith could hope for now was that Sam was worthy of Amy's love . . . and that he returned it.
* * *
Amy waited impatiently just beyond the customs checkpoint in the International Terminal at Intercontinental Airport. According to the arrival monitor, her parents' Air France flight should have landed by now. She kept her gaze trained on the double doors where the arriving passengers would emerge. There had been a steady trickle of incoming travelers, but she knew these were stragglers from a flight that had landed about fifteen minutes earlier.
She couldn't wait to see her parents, not only because she'd missed them but because she was so excited about them meeting Sam. Not that the meeting would happen immediately. No, she and Sam had talked over breakfast this morning and decided that he would make himself scarce this afternoon. But tonight he would come over, and they would all have dinner together at her parents' house.
Amy had already made all the preparations—putting together a chicken casserole and fixing a salad and buying fresh French bread from the French Bakery. She'd also baked a banana creme pie—her father's favorite.
She'd laughed at herself when she realized what she was doing. She told herself her parents didn't need bribing. They would love Sam. But she'd made the pie, anyway.
"Come on, come on," she murmured. She hated waiting. It was such a monumental waste of time.
A few seconds later, the double doors burst open and dozens of people poured through. Amy stood on tiptoe and searched the faces. There they were! She waved, but they weren't looking in her direction. And then her father turned his head. Amy knew the moment he spied her, because his face lit up with a big smile and he said something to her mother. Then they were both waving at her.
Faith was the first one through customs, and she and Amy hugged hard. As always, her mother smelled of Joy and the expensive English soap she favored. Amy smiled. Anyone else who'd just spent long hours traveling would smell tired and stale, but not Faith. She looked as lovely as always, too—her dark blond hair smooth and perfectly styled in the short, breezy cut she'd worn the past few years, her makeup muted and impeccable, her clothing neat and attractive. No one looking at her would guess she was sixty-two years old. She could have passed for at least fifteen years younger.
"What're you laughing about?" Her mother's green eyes, the exact shade of Amy's, shone with gentle humor.
"You," Amy said happily. "You never change."
"Well, I'm certainly not going to change in just three weeks abroad."
"Where's a broad?" Amy's father said, giving them both a mock leer.
Faith laughed. "Alan!"
Amy grinned as her father bent down to envelope her in a bear hug.
"Hi, sunshine," he said, using his childhood pet name for her.
Amy knew it was silly to get emotional, but she couldn't help it. There was a lump in her throat as she returned his hug. She loved both her parents, but her brilliant father, as tall and handsome at sixty-five as he'd been as a young man, was her hero. She adored him.
When, as a teenager, her girlfriends had complained about or made fun of their fathers, Amy had always remained silent. She had known her friends would not understand the way she felt, they would think she was a geek. Of all her friends, only Lark knew the depth of Amy's feelings for her father. Lark had once confessed that of all the differences between them, Amy's relationship with her father was the one thing Lark envied.
"We missed you," he said.
"I missed you, too," Amy said.
Faith watched as Alan and Amy embraced. She had always known her daughter harbored special feelings for her father, but that knowledge had never bothered Faith. On the contrary, Faith had always felt a deep satisfaction and contentment over Alan's and Amy's close relationship. It was comforting to know that if something should happen to her, Alan would have Amy.
Today, though, a shadow of concern clouded the pleasure she normally felt when she saw the love between her husband and daughter. She knew the concern would not be erased until she had met Sam Robbins and assured herself that his advent into their family would not cause problems or upset their close knit harmony.
Her worries niggled at the back of her mind all through the forty-minute drive from the airport to their home. She was careful not to let Amy know she was worried, though, even as Amy bubbled over about Sam.
"He's coming over tonight," she said, her eyes shining. "We're all having dinner together."
Faith gave an inward moan. As eager as she was to meet this young man, she wasn't sure she was up to it today.
"That's okay, isn't it?" Amy said, an anxious note in her voice.
"Of course," Alan said. He slanted a look at Faith. Back me up, it said.
"Well, I am a little tired from traveling, but yes, darling, of course it's okay," Faith said. "We're just as anxious to meet him as you are to have us, and I'll just squeeze in a nap before he comes."
In the flurry of unloading their luggage and getting it into the house, the subject of Sam was temporarily dropped. But once all the suitcases were carried upstairs, and the three of them were in the kitchen—Alan leafing through the pile of waiting mail and Faith drinking a glass of cold water—Amy said, "Now, dad, about tonight . . . I don't want you giving Sam the third degree, okay?"
Alan looked up and chuckled. "And why not? That's a father's job."
"Because I don't want Sam to feel uncomfortable. If there's something you want to know about him, ask me now."
Faith's concern deepened as she carefully studied Amy—the first chance she'd really had to do so. There was a radiance about her that practically shouted out how far Amy's relationship with Sam had progressed. If her daughter wasn't a woman who was deeply in love as well as completely and thoroughly fulfilled sexually, then Faith's name wasn't Faith Cameron Carpenter.
"Okay," Alan said with typical good nature. "Where's he from, who are his parents, how much money does he make, and are his intentions honorable?" He winked at Faith.
Amy grinned. "He's from San Diego originally, but he's lived in Houston for eight years, his parents are dead—well, his mother is dead—Sam's not sure about his father, he makes a lot of money, and as far as his intentions go—we haven't discussed that subject yet." Her eyes softened. "But I'm not worried, and I don't want you two to worry, either."
Faith fought to keep her face free of her thoughts. "But you're serious about him, aren't you?"
"Yes." Amy met Faith's eyes, then turned to her father. "Please don't worry, Dad. I know Sam loves me. He's just cautious, that's all. He doesn't have the example of happily married parents, like I do, so he's a little leery of that kind of commitment. But he'll eventually want to get married. I know he will."
Faith told herself to quit borrowing trouble. Perhaps everything Amy believed was true. So she returned her daughter's smile and prayed that Amy was right and that Sam Robbins would not let her down.
* * *
Sam wished he didn't feel as if he were a side of meat soon to be inspected by a government agent. He hoped Amy appreciated the lengths he'd gone to in getting ready for the meeting with her parents.
The first thing he'd done was go shopping for some new clothes. Normally he just went to Banana Republic or Oshman's or The Gap. Today he'd gone to Dillard's and bought a pair of ridiculously expensive DKNY slacks in a soft shade of honey and a collarless dark brown Ralph Lauren shirt. He'd even sprung for a new pair of shoes—supple brown leather Gucci loafers that he sure hoped he'd have a reason to wear again.
Next he went to a salon in the Galleria and had his hair cut and then—thinking, what the hell, might as well go the whole hog—he had a manicure, too. The entire time he was sitting at the manicurist's table, he hoped he wouldn't see anyone who kne
w him.
He was half-amused, half-disgusted with himself. Why he was going to so much trouble to make a good impression on Amy's parents, he didn't know. After all, if they couldn't accept him as he was, then they weren't the kind of people he wanted to be around, anyway.
So, showered, spit-shined, cologned, and dressed in his new threads, Sam drove to Amy's, arriving at exactly seven-thirty.
The security gates were open, and he drove to the back, automatically parking behind the door where he knew Amy kept her Miata. It felt odd to walk around to the front of the big house instead of climbing the steps to Amy's apartment. And for the first time since he'd met Amy, he did not whistle "Always," the song he'd come to think of as theirs.
Standing in front of the heavy double walnut doors that marked the entrance to the Carpenter home, Sam took a deep breath, told himself he had nothing to be nervous about, and rang the doorbell.
Amy opened the doors instantly, and he knew she'd been watching for him. As always, he experienced a little kick of pleasure as he smiled down at her. She looked beautiful in a softly flowered pink dress with a low scooped neck and full skirt. She smiled back and raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him. He held her close for a brief moment, inhaling the subtle mixture of fragrances that clung to her: wildflowers and jasmine and sunshine. He released her reluctantly.
"You look great," she said.
"So do you."
She took his hand. "Come on. My parents are in the living room."
As Sam entered the elegantly furnished room, the first person he saw was Amy's mother. Seated in a yellow silk wing chair near the marble fireplace, Faith Carpenter was the epitome of grace and beauty in her simple black dress and double rope of pearls. She had a smooth, barely-lined face with classic bone structure. Her eyes were striking—large and luminous, and filled with intelligence. Her gaze stayed steadily on Sam's, and he had the unnerving feeling she was probing deep, unearthing all of his secrets in the process.
Amy introduced them, smiling proudly. Faith smiled and held out her hand but did not rise.
"Hello, Sam," she said. "I'm so happy to meet you." Her voice was cultured, soft, carefully modulated. The thought flashed through Sam's mind that if he were to look the world over, he would never find a woman more unlike his own mother than Amy's mother.