Chapter 7.
We’ve always done seating à l’anglaise, meaning that the host and hostess—in this case Catherine and Jonathan—sit at the two ends of the table facing one another. Jonathan had mother, as the most honored female guest, on his right, while Catherine had the most honored male guest, her escort, on her left. That left mother and Rafe side by side on one side of the table, while Dix and I ended up on the other. And because proper seating is always staggered male-female, I sat between Dix and Jonathan, directly opposite from mother, instead of across from Rafe, where I wanted to be.
“Holy Father,” Jonathan intoned from the head of the table, “bless this food...”
“Amen,” we all said, and the meal started.
I won’t bore you with a blow by blow. Everyone was on their best behavior, even mother. Rafe was perfect. He spoke only when spoken to, used all the right utensils, didn’t once clink his silverware against his flatware by accident, and neither slurped nor smacked his lips. Not that I’d expected him to. I’ve eaten with him enough to know that he has passable table manners. But there’s a big difference between passable and acceptable in the book of Margaret Anne Martin, so I was pleased to note he gave her no cause for complaint.
Every once in a while he’d catch my eye across the table, and then his lips would curve and he’d wink. I’d smile and duck my head, and mother would press her lips together until they disappeared.
The traditional Christmas dessert in the Martin household is Bûche de Noël, a Christmas log dense with chocolate and chocolate cream, a kind of flourless cake that sits like a brick in your stomach after you’ve eaten it. It has roughly two thousand calories per slice, and I eat it only once a year, because I can almost feel the calories adhering themselves directly to my posterior as I swallow. As Catherine put it in the middle of the table, my mouth watered.
Mother got served first, of course, as guest of honor: a tiny sliver of cake so thin it was almost transparent. Not that Bûche de Noël could ever be transparent, but you know what I mean. The slice was so thin I could practically see daylight through it.
Rafe was next, and accepted a manly piece, an inch or so thick. Then it was my turn. Catherine made to cut me a piece—Jonathan carves the ham, but Catherine’s in charge of dessert—and mother cleared her throat delicately.
Catherine froze.
“It’s Christmas,” I said. “If I want a piece of cake, mother, I can have one.”
“A lady can never be too rich or too thin, darling,” my mother informed me.
Quoting Wallis Simpson, no less.
I was about to tell her I disagreed—it is so possible to be too thin, although I’m in absolutely no danger of it—when Rafe reached across the table and put his dessert plate in front of me. “I’m the one oughta worry about my figure,” he told me. “Now that I’m retired, I’ll be fat and lazy in no time.”
I snorted, since he’s built like an underwear model, all smooth skin and hard muscles, and it would take rather a lot more than a career change—at thirty—to make him either fat or lazy. But before I could say anything, mother had spoken up. “Retired?”
The single word sounded like she’d squeezed it out between two rocks.
Uh-oh.
“He stopped working undercover for the TBI,” I explained.
Mother ignored me. “You mean you’re unemployed?”
She was talking directly to him, which seemed like a good thing, or at least preferable to talking to me about him while he was sitting right there. I might have wished she didn’t look like she’d bitten into a lemon wedge, though.
Rafe glanced at me, his mouth curving. “I guess so.”
“Temporarily,” I added. “Only until he finds another job.”
Mother’s lips compressed. “And when do you suppose that’ll be?”
Rafe looked pensive. “Could be a while,” he offered after a moment. “Most folks ain’t too happy to have a retired ex-con and informer join the company, you know what I mean?”
Zing.
My sister choked and my brother looked bland to the point of expressionlessness, although I thought I could see a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Mother looked like she was chewing on her tongue instead of the cake, but she didn’t say anything else. Wise choice, in my opinion.
The party broke up shortly after that. Jonathan squired mother to the living room, to be entertained by the grandchildren for a while. Catherine and I began clearing the table, while Dix spirited Rafe off somewhere.
“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” I asked my sister on a trip into the kitchen with a bowl of—I think—green beans. (I was honestly too concerned about what was going on in the other room to pay much attention to what I was doing.)
“I’m sure Dix is quizzing your boyfriend about his intentions,” Catherine said, scraping leftovers into the garbage can.
I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
She glanced up. “What? With daddy gone, he’s the man of the family, isn’t he?”
“It isn’t his job to ask Rafe about his intentions!” Especially now, when my boyfriend’s intentions undoubtedly were to get as far away from the Martins as he possibly could.
“Relax,” Catherine said. “I’d back your boyfriend against our brother any day. The way he took mother down was a thing of beauty.”
True. He can take care of himself, and I wasn’t worried that he and Dix would come to fisticuffs in the office. Contrary to what Rafe thought, Dix did like him. Yes, my brother was Todd Satterfield’s best friend, and I’m sure he would have been happy to see me decently married to Todd, but I was his sister before Todd was his friend, and blood really is thicker than water. Besides, he wants what’s best for both of us, and he’s not stupid, so he realizes that for me to marry Todd when I’m in love with Rafe wouldn’t make anyone happy in the long run.
They came out a few minutes later, looking none the worse for wear, and Catherine told me, “Why don’t the two of you run along? I’m sure neither of you wants to go in the living room and make small-talk with mother.”
She was right about that. I was so angry with my mother right then I could spit—a very common thing to do—and putting her and Rafe in the same room at the moment didn’t seem wise. So I glanced at Rafe. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “I’ll sit with your mother if you want.”
No. God, no. “That’s not necessary. She’s been rude enough to you already.”
“I was ruder to her, don’t you think?”
“No,” I said. Nobody is ruder than my mother, in her quiet, ladylike way. “You stood up to her. And you weren’t rude.” Precisely.
“I can be not rude again.”
“There’s no need. We’ll just go home.”
He shrugged and turned to my sister. “Thank you for having me in your home.”
“You’re Savannah’s boyfriend,” Catherine said. “Was I going to refuse?”
She shook her head at his outstretched hand, and stepped closer to give him a hug instead. “Mother will come around,” she said over his shoulder, patting him. “And even if she doesn’t, we’re happy for you both.”
“Thank you.” He stepped back, and my sister, who had taken the opportunity to check out his muscles under the white shirt, gave me a wink and thumb’s up.
“Hands off,” I told her when I moved in for my own hug. “Mine.”
She smiled. “No worries. I have my own hunk of burning love.”
Not exactly how I’d describe my brother-in-law, but to each their own, I guess. I turned to Dix, to give him a hug too. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Dix asked and gave me a squeeze. “I just want you to be happy, sis.”
Right. “You should come up to Nashville sometime, and we could do a double date.”
Dix opened his mouth to tell me it was too soon for him to start dating, and I added, “To have dinner with your sister and her boyfriend. We’ll invite our friend Tamara to come along,
so you won’t feel like a fifth wheel. Maybe we can play a game of bridge.”
Dix closed his mouth again. Catherine looked curious, but she didn’t ask what we were talking about, so maybe she knew. “Enjoy your Christmas gift,” she told me instead.
I blushed, of course. “Thank you. I will.” Although to be honest, I’d rather do without it. I’d told Rafe I’d like another shot at a baby, and several months had passed since the miscarriage. so it might be time to try again. Catherine’s Christmas gift wouldn’t be a help there, even if it did play Santa, Baby.
Then again, with our relationship—the committed part of it—as new as it was, maybe it’d be better to wait a while. Rafe hadn’t ever actually told me how he felt about the fact that I’d been pregnant. He hadn’t known about it until it was over, and I’d never thought to ask whether it had made him happy or not, once he got over the anger because I hadn’t told him, and the grief or disappointment—or maybe relief—that it hadn’t worked out.
“You’ll have to say goodbye to mother,” Dix said.
Of course. Sneaking out without facing her again would be cowardly, and I had done nothing to be ashamed of. Nor had Rafe. So I took his hand, and we walked into the living room together. “We’re leaving,” I informed my mother, who was sitting on the sofa watching the kids crawl all over the floor with a train-set and some other things.
She looked up, from me to him and back, and a tiny wrinkle appeared between her perfect brows. “Already?”
What, had she expected us to stick around for a while so she could jab at my boyfriend some more?
“It’s getting dark,” I said with a glance out the window. It wasn’t really, although in mid-winter, even in Nashville, dusk starts to settle around three or four in the afternoon. “And we have a bit of a drive before we get home.”
Mother nodded and turned to Rafe. “It was nice to see you.”
She made it sound almost believable, when we both knew she thought no such thing.
Rafe, of course, rose to the challenge. He smiled. “The pleasure was all mine.”
It sounded like he meant it. Which he may have, considering that he’d gotten the last word in both their exchanges.
We got our coats from the hall closet—Rafe helped me into mine before donning his own leather jacket. “Don’t forget this,” Catherine told him, handing over the ugly Christmas sweater mother had bought.
He grinned. “You’re right. Wouldn’t wanna forget that.”
“You can wear it again next year.”
If he was still around next year. Rafe didn’t answer, so maybe he was thinking the same thing. We walked out the door and down the steps to the car.
Chapter 8.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Rafe had gotten behind the wheel after opening the door for me and handing me into the passenger seat. He had started the car and driven it out of the subdivision without saying a word. At the moment, we were on our way back to the mansion at a pretty good clip, and the silence had become deafening.
He glanced at me. “Why?”
“My mother was rude to you.”
“Not like I didn’t expect it, darlin’.”
Maybe so. But— “That doesn’t make it OK.”
He shrugged. “I told her.”
“Yes,” I said, “you did.”
He shot me another glance. It really was getting darker outside, and sort of gray and gloomy, with the overcast sky and the empty road—nobody was out and about in the afternoon on Christmas Day—and with the bare branches of the trees stretching toward the car like dark skeletal fingers. “You upset about that?”
“With you? Of course not!”
The tension around his eyes and mouth lessened a little, and I realized that he’d been afraid he’d been out of line.
“I love you,” I said.
“I know.”
“My mother was horrible.”
He shook his head. “Nah. She’s just looking out for you.”
“I can look out for myself.”
“Sure. But if things had been the other way around—if you were still married to Bradley and your sister brought her new boyfriend to Christmas dinner...”
My eyes narrowed. “You and Catherine seemed to get along quite well. Is there something I should know about that?”
He stared at me. For long enough that I had to remind him that he was driving and the road was narrow. Finally he turned his attention back to the windshield. “No, darlin’. I went to school with your sister for a couple years. Same as I did with you and your brother. I knew who she was, and she knew who I was. Beyond that, not a blessed thing.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
“Didn’t I tell you I noticed you in high school?”
“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t have noticed Catherine too.”
“No offense,” Rafe said, “I like your sister, but she ain’t my type.”
“But I am?”
He slanted a look my way, not at my face this time, but lower. His lips curved. “Definitely.”
“You like chubby blondes?”
“I like you,” Rafe said and turned back to the road. “And you’re not chubby.”
“I had cake for dessert.” A big piece. Looking down at my lap, I could almost see how my stomach bulged.
“You deserve cake,” Rafe said. “And lots and lots of brown sugar.”
He waited for my reaction, and when it didn’t come—because I didn’t pick up on the innuendo—he turned to me, his mouth quirking.
“Oh,” I said, blushing. “Right.” Brown sugar. Him.
He smiled, but he didn’t say anything else. After another few minutes, we pulled into the driveway outside the mansion, and he stopped the car and got out. “I’ll see you in Nashville.”
“Wait a second.” I opened my door too.
“I have to drive the bike back,” Rafe said. “Don’t think it’ll fit in the trunk.”
It wouldn’t. Even without our assorted Christmas gifts inside: handcuffs and lingerie and condoms, oh my.
“I know. I just...” I was worried. He seemed all right, like mother hadn’t upset him, and like he wasn’t having second thoughts about me—or about us. But I was still loath to let him out of my sight. Every time he drove away, I was afraid that he wouldn’t come back.
He knew, of course. “I ain’t running away from you, darlin’.”
I nodded.
“I’ll be behind you the whole way there.”
That was quite a declaration of love, considering. He usually drives a lot less defensively than me, let’s just say. Promising to stay behind me for more than an hour, at a sedate seventy miles an hour, was an enormous sacrifice. “The whole way where?”
“That depends on where you wanna go,” Rafe said.
“To see your grandmother?”
He arched a brow. “You sure you wouldn’t rather go home and put those handcuffs to good use?”
Of course I’d rather go home and put the handcuffs to use. However— “I think we should go see your grandmother first.”
“I saw my grandma yesterday,” Rafe said, and I squinted at him.
“Really? You didn’t mention that earlier.”
“I was busy,” Rafe said.
“You’re not just saying it now so you can get me home and to bed?”
He grinned. “No, darlin’. I really saw her yesterday. Dropped off a gift and stayed with her awhile before I came down here.”
“Did she know who you were?”
A shadow crossed his face and he shook his head.
“Did she think you were Tyrell? I imagine you let her think so, didn’t you?”
“Seemed the least I could do,” Rafe said, “it being Christmas and all.”
A gift to his grandmother in his own way: letting her believe she had her son back for a while. With no benefit to him, since she didn’t recognize or appreciate him for himself. “Home and to bed, then.”
That made him smile, an
d the fact that he smiled made me happy. “Your bed or mine?” I added.
“Yours.”
“You sure you wouldn’t prefer yours? We’ve had some good times in your bed.” And a few not so good ones in mine. Nothing to do with the sex, which has always been great, but with the other things that happened there.
“No power at the house,” Rafe said. “No sense in paying for lights and water when nobody’s living there.”
Ah. Well, that made a difference. I’m all for snuggling up and staying warm, but at the end of December, it takes a little more than a warm body under the blankets. You still have to get up and take a shower the next morning, after all, and warm water helps.
“That’s fine. I can give you your Christmas present.”
He nodded. “I’ve got something for you too. We’ll have to talk about it, though.”
That didn’t sound good. But since I didn’t want to have the conversation standing in the cold outside the mansion, I didn’t ask him to elaborate, just took his place in the driver’s seat of the Volvo and watched him walk to the Harley-Davidson parked beside the stairs and get on. When I headed down the driveway to the road, he was right behind me.
He stayed there the whole way to Nashville, as promised. Traffic was slight, and we made good time. I may have gone just a bit above the speed limit too, since I was motivated to get home as soon as possible. But he stayed behind me the whole way, and whenever I glanced in the mirror, there was the single light of the Harley following right behind.
I live in a rented apartment just across the river from downtown, in what’s known as East Nashville. It’s a historic area, gentrified to more or less of a degree depending on which neighborhood you happen to live in. The apartment and condo complex I call home is just on the edge of one of the more expensive areas, but edgy enough that Todd gets nervous every time he drops me off. I’m not nervous; it’s perfectly safe, and I haven’t ever had any problems not of my own making.
Rafe found a spot for the Harley at the curb, while I took the Volvo into the parking garage under the building. When I came upstairs, he was waiting outside the apartment door.
“You could have let yourself in,” I told him, juggling Christmas bags while fishing in my purse.
5.5 Contingent on Approval Page 5