Grady's Wedding

by Patricia McLinn

  Leslie leaned back in the corner of the couch, looking at the girl’s profile. She had the long Craig nose. Grandma Beatrice called it aristocratic. Leslie remembered at April’s age lamenting her own Craig nose as plain big. Eventually, as her grandmother had promised, she grew into her face; her other features strengthened, balancing the Craig nose and creating an attractive whole. But she could remember the agony of waiting.

  “I guess this means the ball game’s off tomorrow.” Beneath April’s insultingly hopeful tone, Leslie caught discomfort, and knew April had been aware of her scrutiny.

  “No. Why on earth would it?”

  “Because you’ll be doing something with this guy.” Her tone said she was addressing someone who’d flunked remedial logic.

  “No, I most definitely will not. I am taking you to a baseball game, that’s what I am doing tomorrow. You’re my guest, and you’re the one I’m spending time with.”

  April flopped back; just looking at her slouch made Leslie’s back ache. Had Leslie detected a flash of surprise before the sullenness slipped into place? “Well, you can force me to go to this stupid baseball game tomorrow because I’m still a kid. But how about this guy, huh? He’s not some poor kid you can boss around. What’re you going to do about him? Huh?”

  * * * *

  Good question.

  And one she sidestepped. Sunday she’d been too tired from the weekend with April. Monday she’d convinced herself the flowers and gourmet basket were gestures, no more.

  But today, when she got home from work, she discovered a package outside her apartment door with the logo of a local department store. She tucked her attaché more firmly under her left elbow, shifted the mail she’d just collected into the same hand and warily picked up the package the size of a truncated shoe box.

  Nothing on the label except her name and address, and the store’s return address. She’d have to open the thing to solve the mystery of its origin.

  Juggling her burdens, she fished out her keys and let herself in, tumbling her attaché, purse and mail on top of the wide bookcase near the hallway to her bedroom. The package she handled more gingerly.

  She looked at it a full minute, then tore off the wrappings. Plunging through padding, she fished out a container of her favorite scent. Not cologne or the thumbnail-size bottle of perfume she indulged in only when she felt particularly rich or so blue even chocolate licorice couldn’t perform a cure. What she held now was a bottle big enough for a case of the blues to drown in.

  The phone rang once but she ignored it, placing the bottle carefully on the bookcase and staring at it until the phone rang again. She snagged the plain envelope that had nestled amid the padding, had the envelope open and was reading the single word on it when she snatched the receiver up as the third ring faded away.

  “Hello.”

  Grady, she read.

  “Hi, Leslie. It’s Grady,” she heard.

  Damn. Her heart sank. She could have used another moment to consider this. Which might explain why her heart picked up speed at the same time it sank.

  But Craigs didn’t waffle when it came time to charge ahead.

  Chapter Three

  "Hello, Grady. I’ve just opened the most extraordinary package from you.

  “Extraordinary?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know perfume could be purchased by the half gallon.”

  He chuckled, a very masculine, very satisfied sound.

  “Really, Grady,” she went on in a tone she kept light and friendly, “it’s most generous of you to keep thanking me for helping you decide on the gift for Paul and Bette, but totally unnecessary. I enjoyed it. So, please, no more.”

  In his momentary silence she read indecision over whether to deny the flowers, food and perfume had been expressions of thanks, and perhaps a bit of confusion.

  “All right,” he said slowly. “But then let me take you to dinner tonight.”

  Her eyebrows rose. What was the man up to? She’d told Tris he wasn’t trying to charm her, but she was beginning to wonder. “You’re in Washington again?”

  “Yes, the client I told you about wanted to introduce me to some of his connections. There’s really a need for my sort of business here in Washington. I’ll have to learn more about the links between the private sector and government around here, but other than that, I think a branch could practically open itself . . .”

  She listened to his discussion of the prospects of a branch of his business brokerage in the Washington area, enjoying his enthusiasm, while another level of her mind focused on a more personal issue.

  If he was trying to charm her, why?

  Surely he must see she wasn’t a candidate for his usual romantic interlude. At the very least he’d recognize that the web of their mutual friendships would make the post-interlude period awkward for all concerned. And with Grady, post-interlude followed interlude as surely as day followed night—and nearly as quickly.

  So, since he couldn’t be after a fling, what was he after?

  That’s when it hit her.

  He was after friendship. He just didn’t know how to go about it.

  Sure, he was friends with Tris and Bette, but he’d known Tris more than a dozen years and viewed her as a sort of kid sister, and Bette he’d known always as the woman who made Paul Monroe’s eyes glow.

  But other than those two, she would wager the family heirlooms that the only way Grady Roberts knew to interact with unattached females was romantically.

  In its own way, Grady’s situation was truly sad. What he needed was someone to teach him how to be friends with a woman. Someone who wouldn’t be taken in by his romantic ploys. Someone who wouldn’t fall for the glint in his blue, blue eyes.

  Someone who over the past ten years had succeeded in helping several men see how they could make their lives happier, without making the mistake of getting dangerously involved herself.

  “So what about dinner tonight?”

  “Dinner? Okay—”

  “Great. I know a wonderful French place—”

  French? Probably tiny tables, candlelight and wine? Naturally he’d think of that first. But she’d show him another way.

  “I’m in the mood for a burger. Give me twenty minutes to change into jeans and I’ll meet you at this place I know on Connecticut Avenue.”

  “Oh.” She could practically hear his plans shatter, and she grinned. But he rallied quickly. “Okay.”

  Two minutes later she hung up with a sense of accomplishment and great optimism that handling Grady Roberts wouldn’t be so tough, after all.

  * * * *

  “You look a little tired, Leslie. Are you okay?”

  Tris studied her with narrowed eyes; Leslie wished the blinds let less revealing sunlight in her office. Tired? Try exhausted. But Tris was the last person she’d admit it to.

  On rare occasions when her subtlety slipped she had been accused of interfering in friends’ lives, though she preferred to think of it as redirecting their thoughts. For their own good, of course. Tris—dam her perception—was the most frequent accuser. Leslie counted herself fortunate Tris had been too preoccupied with the joys of newly married life these past few weeks to be her usual observant self.

  Leslie had said no to nearly half of Grady’s invitations, but since he wanted to get together every day, she wondered if cutting their outings in half was enough to let a friendship grow slowly, naturally. Though she persisted in making their encounters unrelentingly casual, paying her own way as often as she could beat him to it, talking about strictly impersonal matters and avoiding situations he could turn toward a more romantic bent.

  That took a lot of energy. Grady did not give up, and he was adept at turning a look into a potential bone-melter, a touch into a possible skin-burner. He’d had a lot of practice at this romance stuff. Remembering that kept her knees locked the couple times she’d been on the verge of slipping under his spell.

  Some people cracked their knuckles or twirled their hair
; Grady flirted. Things like that made no difference in your feeling about the person, if you liked them.

  Ah, that was the question. Did she like Grady?

  If Grady were merely handsome—could anybody that good-looking be considered “merely” anything? she wondered with a wry face—he’d be easy to dismiss. If he were merely successful he’d be easy to forget. If he were merely charming he’d be easy to write off. But there was the evidence of his friendship with Tris and the others, and Leslie’s own observations of him . . .

  “Are you all right, Leslie?”

  Tris’s question jerked her back to the present.

  “Of course. Why ever wouldn’t I be all right?” She smiled brightly.

  “Well, I don’t know why, but you just made this strange face, and I’ve had the feeling you aren’t really listening to me. Is something wrong?”

  “Noth—”

  “Are you still worrying about April?”

  “April? Yes, I suppose I am.” It wasn’t a lie. Since her young relative’s visit nearly two weeks ago, her concerns had remained, just below the surface of her mind.

  Tris frowned. “Leslie, you can’t solve everybody’s problems. As much as you’d like to mother two-thirds of the world—”

  “I wouldn’t have enough place settings for dinner,” she demurred, “and Grandma Beatrice would never approve of paper plates.”

  The frown tightened as Tris fought a grin, and Leslie was satisfied.

  “All right. I won’t lecture—”

  Leslie thanked her with a heartfelt, “Bless your heart,” and the grin defeated the frown.

  “But I’m going to agree with Michael and insist you come with us this weekend to the beach. Until last night I thought, well . . . But now I see how much you need the rest. And we’ll make sure you don’t think of anything more demanding than whether to sit in the sun or the shade.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she said. A lazy weekend by the ocean could cure many ills. “But I am not about to intrude on you and Michael. You’ll want to be alone and—”

  “You will definitely not be intruding, so it’s settled— you’re coming. If you can get Friday afternoon off, we’ll leave around lunchtime. And see if you can get Monday off, too.”

  Leslie decided she must be more tired than she knew, because she found herself nodding in acquiescence. The foundation director had been fretting about the vacation time she’d built up, though whether out of concern for her well-being or his record keeping she didn’t know. Either way, she wouldn’t have trouble getting the time off.

  “Besides,” Tris went on, “it would be impossible to be alone, since Paul rented the beach house. He’s not allergic to making plans the way he was before Bette, but he still has his impulsive moments. He decided a weekend at the beach was a perfect way to celebrate wrapping up the installation of the exhibit—you are coming to the opening, aren’t you?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  She’d returned her RSVP for the Thursday evening reception, and she’d turned down Grady’s suggestion they go together. She didn’t want him or anyone else to see them as a couple; that would defeat her whole purpose. But what about at the beach? Where Paul, Bette, Tris and Michael went, would Grady be far behind? But could she back out now without being terribly obvious?

  “Good. And don’t worry about a thing this weekend. I know you’re not the type to get all bent out of shape about being a single woman along with just two married couples for company.” Tris looked at her intently, and Leslie thought she understood; Grady wouldn’t be there. That’s what Tris had found out last night. “But just so there’s no mistake, we really want to have you along.”

  Tris stood and gathered the coffee mug she’d brought with her. “So that’s settled. You’ll drive out with Michael and me on Friday. But first we’ll all be together Thursday night at Paul’s reception.”

  * * * *

  Grady listened to the man next to him, but his eyes followed Leslie as she accepted a glass of wine from a thin man with even thinner sandy hair. The exhibit light, meant to bathe details of handcarved toys and the patina of two-hundred-year-old wooden games, also caught Leslie’s high, wide cheekbones, leaving shadowed hollows before picking out the sharply etched line of her jaw.

  A movement subtly shifted the sheen of her royal-blue silk dress, and halfway across the exhibit area Grady swallowed at the intimation of the curves below.

  She moved closer to the sandy-haired man and Grady’s muscles tightened fractionally; it wouldn’t take but a minute for him to reach them, less than that to send this guy on his way. Then a turn of Leslie’s head showed him her smile. He thought he read tolerance in it and relaxed.

  Even though he kept his conversation with the brother of a Chicago client short, he’d lost sight of Leslie by the time he shook hands and started off.

  Paul was by the exhibit entrance, surrounded by officials, complimenters and questioners. He handled them with almost careless ease. Grady had caught Paul’s interview on local TV as he’d changed for this reception, and marveled at his friend’s naturalness.

  Opposite Grady, Michael stood back from the crowd, watching the comings and goings with his usual quiet intensity. But Grady noticed Michael seldom stood in his out-of-the-way spot alone. Sometimes in pairs, often singly, others made their way to Michael, and when he spoke they listened.

  A shift in the crowd opened a new line of sight and he saw Leslie, alone for a moment, like him. Without moving her head, her gaze came around to meet his. He lifted his glass, and her eyebrows rose as a smile pulled at her lips.

  He took a step toward her, then stopped as she turned away, and he saw Tris had placed a hand on her arm.

  Meeting Bette Wharton Monroe’s eyes then, Grady altered his course to where she stood, cornered against a display case by a bushy-haired man, short and rotund in a tweed jacket whose weave had caught crumbs from his repast. Grady traced crackers, cheddar cheese, flaky pastry, a dollop of creamy dip and smear of strawberry juice.

  Bette had to interrupt to introduce the man as Professor Whicken. Assessing Bette’s pale face and the professor’s renewed conversational flood, Grady took action.

  “I think it’s time for all pregnant ladies to be sitting down,” he announced, grasping Bette’s elbow and drawing her away.

  “I’m just telling Mrs. Monroe—” The professor, who showed an inclination to follow, halted when a hand met his chest.

  “We appreciate your concern, Professor,” said Grady to the man who’d expressed no concern. “But I’ll be happy to take care of Mrs. Monroe from here. Thank you.”

  Out of earshot, Bette added, “Thank you. That deserves at least a knighthood.”

  Halfway to the chair Grady had spotted, Michael joined them. “You beat me to it, Grady. How’re you doing, Bette?”

  “I’m fine. And I don’t need to sit down.” She hung back a little. “Really.”

  “Sure you do,” Grady disagreed amiably, still homing in on the chair. It happened to be occupied by a white-haired lady, but that didn’t matter.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul arrived a little out of breath, a wake of surprised looks behind him.

  “Nothing is wrong. Go back to your conversation, Paul,” Bette ordered as Grady ceded his hold on her arm to her husband.

  Paul ignored her. “Michael? What’s up?”

  Not even particularly surprised it was Michael that Paul presumed would know, Grady simply continued to the chair, stopping in front of the white-haired lady.

  “Excuse me, could we possibly have the use of that chair? As you can see, our friend is pregnant, and with all the excitement and everything . . .” He let it trail off and smiled, a man smiling at a woman, sharing an understanding of the world and humanity.

  “Of course, of course.” The white-haired lady fluttered up, joining her insistence to the three men’s until Bette sat.

  “Thank you,” Grady told the woman, and smiled again.

  She smiled back, then
headed off, but not before she tossed a distinctly saucy look back over her shoulder.

  Bette covered her mouth with her hand, but the amusement colored her voice. “Grady, you are incorrigible.”

  “What?” he asked innocently. “I just asked if we could have the chair.”

  “Hey, I don’t care if he tangoed with Grandma Moses in front of the Supreme Court,” said Paul. “He got you a chair.”

  “Yes, he did,” she agreed. “Thank you, Grady. It was very nice of you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I think we should leave,” Paul said abruptly.

  “Leave? But the reception’s only half-over. We can’t leave,” Bette objected.

  “Sure we can."

  “Well, I don’t want to. I came here to bask in the glory of your accomplishment, and I’m not done basking.” Husband and wife exchanged a look. “I’m all right, Paul. Honestly.”

  Paul seemed to relax, moving his hand from Bette’s shoulder to stroke her cheek.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Are you okay, Bette?”

  The questions from Tris and Leslie tripped over each other as they joined the group.

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired. Grady rescued me.”

  Grady felt the look Leslie flicked at him, but was too late to meet it. By the time he turned to her she was assessing the situation. She looked at Bette closely, then to Paul’s still-stubborn expression, then over her shoulder at the important people Paul had deserted.

  “Well, she looks fine to me,” Leslie declared, then dipped deeper into her drawl. “And if there’s one thing a Southern woman knows, it’s the vapors.”

  Bette gave her a grateful look, turning to her husband she said, “See? The words of an expert. Now will you please go back to the others?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Bless her heart,” Leslie interrupted blithely, “Bette simply had the common reaction to being near talked to death by Will-He-Ever-Be-Quiet Whicken.”

  Everyone chuckled except Paul, but even his face eased.

  “Whicken is a notorious windbag,” added Tris. “Everybody who knows him stays away, so he picks on newcomers like Bette.”