by Nora Roberts
“I guess it’s the sort of thing that keeps passing through my mind. Maybe it’s a biological clock thing.”
“Maybe it’s a being in love thing.”
“Maybe. But two people have to be in love and thinking about someday. I saw this couple today who’d gotten married here last spring.” She glanced out the window as she worked, toward the green and the blue of summer. “They were in Del’s office to do some sort of legal stuff for their first house. Dara was handling it, and the baby came up. The bride-well, wife-got sort of dreamy-eyed over the thought of a baby, and he said: House first, baby later ... or something like that. Which is absolutely sensible.”
“Babies don’t always come when it’s sensible.”
“Yeah, tomorrow’s bride found that one out. But I just mean it makes sense to plan the steps, to take them in logical order. To be patient.”
“Running low on it.” Mrs. Grady gave Laurel’s back a quick rub.
“Sometimes, a little anyway. I don’t need all the fuss, all the details, all the trimmings. All, essentially, that we do here. Emma does, and Parker will, and God knows Mac’s gotten into it.”
“She has, and I think it’s been a surprise to her.”
“But I don’t. I don’t need a ring or a license, or a spectacular white dress. It’s not marriage so much, or at all really, that matters. It’s the promise. It’s the knowing someone wants me to be part of his life. Someone loves me, that I’m the one for him. That’s not just enough, it’s everything.”
“Who do you think Del would want to be with tonight other than you?”
Laurel shrugged. “I don’t know. I do know he’ll be happy to be with me. That may not be everything, but it’s enough.” The timer she’d set went off. “Crap. I’ve got to get back to my kitchen. Don’t cook anything.”
“I’ll act as sous chef and no more. I’ll just finish washing these, and get them dried and put away for you. That wouldn’t be cheating.”
“You’re right. Thanks.”
As Laurel raced away to the next task, Mrs. Grady wondered why the girl didn’t consider maybe Del wanted some of that everything, too.
“Love,” she murmured as she washed. “Nobody inside it knows how the hell to handle it.”
NATURALLY, THE ONE TIME, THE ONE TIME, LAUREL NEEDED A REHEARSAL to run smoothly, move quickly, it turned into a circus show-casing a weepy bride—hormones, probably—a MOG woozy in the heat, and a groomsman woozy from a little too much prerehearsal celebration. Added to it were the flower girl and ring bearer—brother and sister—who picked the event to display their sibling loathing.
With two kids running and screaming, the bride indulging in a crying jag in her mother’s arms, and the MOG fanning herself in the shade, Laurel couldn’t duck out as she’d planned.
Parker handled it—they all handled it, but Parker seemed to be everywhere at once. Urging water on the MOG, iced coffee on the groomsman, herding the kids, and distracting the worried groom.
The MOH—and the mother of the battling siblings—did her best to restore order. But, Laurel thought as she passed out iced tea, the woman was outnumbered.
“Where’s the father?” she muttered to Emma.
“Business trip. Plane was delayed. He’s on his way. I’m going to take the girl, see if I can interest her in making up a quick little nosegay. Maybe you could take the boy—”
“Carter’s the teacher. Carter should do it.”
“He’s got his hands full with the not-quite-drunk groomsman. I think the MOH could use a little break, and maybe she can help the MOB pull the bride together. Mac and Parker can handle the rest.”
“Okay, fine.” Leaving Emma to smooth it over with the mother, Laurel set the iced tea and glasses on the table, then approached the boy. “Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
It seemed to be an answer he understood, though his brow knit in mutinous lines. He trudged with her, shooting looks that promised revenge at his little sister.
“I don’t wanna wear a tuxshedo.”
“Me, either.”
He snorted, derisively. “Girls don’t wear tuxshedos.”
“They can if they want.” Laurel glanced down at him. About five, she figured, and pretty cute. Or he would be if he wasn’t over-tired, wound up, and sulking. “But tomorrow all the men in the wedding party get to wear them. Wait. Maybe you’re not old enough to wear one.”
“I am, too!” Insult radiated. “I’m five.”
“Whew. That’s a relief,” she said as she walked him down toward the pond. “Because it would really mess everything up if we had to find another ring bearer by tomorrow. They can’t get married without the rings.”
“Why?”
“They just can’t. So if we had to find somebody else, it would really be hard.You’ve got a really important job.”
“More than Tissy?”
Tissy, Laurel interpreted, was the little sister. “Her job’s really important, too. She has a girl job, but you have a guy job. She doesn’t get to wear a tuxedo.”
“Not even if she wants to?”
“Nope, not even. Check it out,” she told him, and pointed at the lily pads. Near the edge one of them served as a float for a fat green frog.
When Del arrived he spotted her down at the pond, near the sweeping fronds of the willow, with her hand in the hand of a little boy with hair as bright and sunny as her own.
It gave him a quick start, a little jump in the belly. He’d seen her with kids before, he reminded himself. Weddings usually included a few. But ... There was something odd, maybe a little dreamy, about the picture they made, beside the pond, too far away for him to clearly see their faces. Just that sun-washed hair, and the joined hands.
As he watched they started back, the boy looking up at her, Laurel looking down at him.
“Hey, Del.”
He pulled himself out of that odd, dreamy picture and turned to Carter. “Hi. How’s it going?”
“Okay now, I’d say.Ten minutes ago, it was touch and go. We’re about to get started. Again.”
“One of those.”
“Oh yeah. I think Laurel ...There she is.”
Laurel stopped by a woman with a little girl on her hip, shared a quick word, an easy laugh with her. Then bent to the boy and murmured in his ear. He grinned as if she’d promised him a lifetime supply of cookies.
Del walked over to meet her halfway. “Make a new friend?” “Looks like. We’re running behind.”
“So I hear.”
“Parker’ll get it back on track,” she said even as Parker called for everyone to take their places.
Del stepped out of the way with Carter as Parker called out instructions, and the other three women guided and aligned.
It looked smooth as silk to him, with everyone smiling. He saw the boy and Laurel exchange a quick grin as he walked toward the pergola.
Moments later, she signaled to Del and slipped into the house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HE FOUND HER IN THE MAIN KITCHEN, MOVING FAST.
“I’m a little behind,” she began. “It’s not like a Parker schedule, but—”
He stopped her by getting in her way, moving in, drawing her into a long, warm, indulgent kiss. And when he felt her go under, just a little, just enough, he eased back.
“Hi.”
“Well, hi. Was I saying something before all my brain cells went gooey?”
“Something about schedules.”
“Oh, yeah. That. Okay. I have a nice sauvignon blanc chilling. Why don’t you open it so we can try it out while I get things going.”
“I like when my main chore is opening the wine. What was the problem with the rehearsal?” he asked as he moved to oblige.
“What wasn’t, is more like it.” She shot him a look over her shoulder with those bluebell eyes. “The bride learned just this week she’s pregnant.”
“Uh-oh.”
“They’re good with
it. In fact, they’ve turned the unexpected expecting into a surprise instead of a problem.”
“That’s good for everybody”
“Yeah, but it’s added some stress—and she’s more emotional and a whole lot tired. She’s crying, then the two kids are trying to murder each other, the MOG worked herself up, plus the heat got to her. Probably because she was worked up. Add in a groomsman who started celebrating a bit early. Just another day on the job.”
Laurel put water on for the pasta, added olive oil to a skillet, then moved past Del to retrieve the salad makings she’d prepared with Mrs. Grady’s help. “It’s a good thing I did most of this ahead, because I’d hoped to duck out of the rehearsal, but no dice.Thanks,” she added when he handed her a glass.
After sipping it, she began to peel and dice garlic.
“I should feel guilty about you cooking after you’ve put in a full day. Want me to chop something? I’m a reasonably experienced chopper.”
“No, we’re under control.”
Content to do nothing, he watched her add the garlic and some red pepper flakes to the oil. “This is new.”
“Hmm?”
“Seeing you cook. This kind of cooking, that is.”
“Oh, I dip my hand in every once in a while. I picked up some of it from Mrs. G, and some from working in restaurants. It’s an interesting change of pace. When it works.”
“You always look in charge in the kitchen. That was supposed to be a compliment,” he said when she frowned at him.
“I guess it is, as long as it doesn’t put me in the same camp as Julio.”
“Completely different camp. A different camp in a different country.”
She added some butter to the oil, got out the shrimp. “Good. Because I don’t often have—or want—company when I’m in the kitchen, but I rarely throw knives.” She added the shrimp to the oil, then pasta to the boiling water.
“Do you just keep everything that goes in, when and how, in your head?”
“Sometimes. Do you want a lesson?”
“I absolutely don’t. Real men grill.”
She laughed, and with spoon in one hand, pasta fork in the other, stirred skillet and pot at the same time. “Hand me the wine, will you?”
“Lush.” But he held it out.
She set down the pasta fork, then dumped a good cup of wine on the shrimp. Del visibly winced.
“It’s really good wine.”
“So it’s really good wine for cooking, too.”
“No question.” Her hands, he thought, were so quick, so competent. Had he ever noticed that before? “What are we having?”
“For the main? Seafood linguini.” She paused, took a sip from her glass. “Field green salad, some herb bread I baked for dipping. Vanilla bean crème brûlée for dessert.”
He lowered his glass to stare at her—his Laurel, with her hair clipped up as always when she worked, her quick, competent hands busy. “You’re kidding.”
“I know you’re partial to crème brûlée.” She lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug as the kitchen filled with scent. “If I’m going to cook, I might as well cook what you like.”
It occurred to him he should have brought her flowers or wine or ... something. And realized it hadn’t occurred to him because he was so used to coming here, coming home, to seeing her in his home.
Next time he wouldn’t forget.
When the wine came to a boil, she lowered the heat, covered it. Then tested the pasta, deemed it done, drained it.
She got a dish of olives out of the fridge. “To hold you off,” she said, then turned her attention to the salad.
“You know what I said about being in charge when you’re in the kitchen?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something about being in charge makes you just stunning.” She looked up, blinked in such obvious surprise he regretted not thinking of flowers even more.
“You’re already getting crème brûlée,” she managed.
“You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.” Had he never told her that before, in just that way? “Cooking just spotlights it, the way dancing spotlights a dancer, or a sport spotlights an athlete. It just never struck me until now, I think because I’ve gotten used to seeing you at some stage or other of baking. It’s a kind of taking for granted. I need to be careful not to do that with you.”
“We don’t have to be careful with each other.”
“I think we do. Even more because we’re so used to each other.”
Maybe taking care was more accurate, he thought. Wasn’t she doing just that now? Taking care by making him a meal she knew he’d like particularly, and doing it because she knew he’d had a difficult day? This newness between them wasn’t just about dating or sex. Or it shouldn’t be.
He didn’t know, couldn’t know, where they were going, but he could start paying more attention to how they got there.
“Do you want me to set the table?” he asked her.
“It’s done.” The fact that she was a little flustered, and it showed, delighted him. “In the dining room. I thought, since—”
“That’s nice. Parker?”
“Is doing what any good friend does and making herself scarce tonight.”
“Very nice.”
She walked over, checked her skillet, then added more butter, some scallops before briskly zesting a lemon into the mix.
“That smells amazing.”
“Not bad.” She added some fresh herbs, salt, pepper, stirred. “Couple minutes to cook through, then we’ll let it sit for a few more. Fairly easy-peasy.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“I probably couldn’t write a brief—especially since I’m not sure exactly what one is. I guess we both picked careers with job security.” Her eyes met his as she tossed the salad. “People are always going to need to eat, and they’re always going to need lawyers.”
“Whether they want to or not on the lawyer front.”
She laughed. “I didn’t say that.” She took a lighter out of a drawer. “For the candles,” she told him. “You can take the salad in, and take care of that.”
She’d fussed, he noted, when he carried the bowl into the dining room. She probably didn’t think of it that way, he mused as he studied the pretty plates, the candles in slim holders, the bright-faced sunflowers in a blue glass vase. The women in his life had a talent and a vocation, he supposed, for making things pretty and comfortable, for seeing to tiny details that always melded together into a perfect picture.
That made him a lucky man.
Very lucky, he thought moments later when they sat with the salad, the warmed bread, the wine.
“When we get to the beach—” He broke off when she groaned. “What?”
“Sorry, I always have a little orgasm when I think of vacation.”
“Really?” Amused he watched her eyes sparkle as she took a bite of salad. “I’ll mention it more often. Anyway, when we’re there, I’m going to grill you such a steak. In fact, my pact now is for the men to put on a serious meal—just the guys. All you have to do is eat.”
“I’m in. I actually have a calendar going in my office where I mark off the days until. Like I did when I was a kid for the end of the school year. I feel like that. Like a kid coming up on summer.”
“Most kids don’t get orgasms when they think of summer vacation. Not in my experience anyway.”
“You liked school more than I did.” When he laughed, she sipped her wine. “I like my work a lot more than I did school, and still, I’m really ready to step away from it for a couple weeks. I want to sleep until the sun’s actually up, and stretch out and read a book without thinking I really should be doing something else. No suit, no heels, no meetings. How about you?”
“The last part’s a match—except for the heels. Not having to make a decision about more than whether to have a beer or a nap. That’ll be good.”
“Naps.” She sighed and closed her eyes.
; “Another orgasm?”
“No, just a quiet little tingle. I can’t wait. The rest of us were so surprised—and happy—when Parker told us the two of you bought the place. Is it wonderful?”
“I like it. She’s taken it on faith, as she’s never seen it except in pictures. It’s a good investment, especially considering the economy right now. We got a good deal.”
“That’s the lawyer speaking. Is it wonderful?”
“You can hear the ocean from the bedrooms, see it from every window that faces oceanside. There’s a pond and a wonderful sense of seclusion.”
“Okay, no more. I can’t take it.” She shivered, then rose to remove the salad plates. “Be right back.”
“I can—”
“No, I’ll take care of it. In charge, remember?”
He topped off her wine, and had sat back with his own when she came in with the main. She’d garnished the pasta with sprigs of rosemary and basil.
“Laurel, that looks seriously amazing.”
“Never underestimate the power of presentation.” She served him, then herself.
“Wow,” he said after the first bite. “It’s great. And impossible to feel guilty now. Maybe a little since Parker’s missing out.”
“I left her a serving in the kitchen. She’s sneaking down for it.”
“Guilt assuaged.” He took another bite. “Of course, now you’ve done it, and I’m going to want to do this more often.”
“We might be able to work a deal, if you fire up the grill now and then.”
“Works for me.”
“You know, I nearly called you last night. I was in the mood for a cookout, then I had the run-in with Linda and—”
“What run-in?”
“Oh, Parker had just left for a meeting, and I was done for the day and walking down to Emma’s to see if she wanted a swim. And there’s Linda at Mac’s door. Going in, too, even though they weren’t home. Pissed me off.”
His eyes narrowed, heated. “Parker told her not to come here again.”
“Yeah, and Linda listens so well. Anyway, after an ugly scene I ran her off.”
“What kind of a scene?” He saw her start to speak, then catch herself and shrug.
“A Linda sort of scene. I won, which is the important thing.”