“I’ve got good accounting software.” Evan shrugs. Sometimes I forget about his computer geek background. It’s hard to remember when he’s stomping off to work in the mornings in steel-toed work boots.
Now, if it were me so brazenly flippant about money, the lecture would kick in, oh, in about two seconds flat. Maybe four if they needed to swallow their wine first.
But it seems Evan is right. He is the golden man, evident clearly by Dad’s sage nod, and pat on the back. “I bet you tweaked it to make it exactly right.”
“Bruce and I were just saying this afternoon, Evan, that there’s nothing you can’t do. I was telling him about mine and Jillian’s conversation this morning.” She looks directly at me. “I’m guessing you did tell Evan all about our chat, yes?” God. Stop trying to figure me out! But it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she’s waiting for my acknowledgement or anything. “Anyway, we were talking about how if you were interested in the law, you’re quite young still and you would have no trouble getting into Dalhousie.”
“My old alma mater,” Dad says, and I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are they seriously trying to talk Evan into becoming a lawyer? “Of course, it would be hard for Jillian to pack up and move to Halifax with you. You could always wait a few years and see if the law school Memorial is proposing gets off the ground. But the sooner you start, the better it would be for your career.”
I look at Evan, waiting for him to laugh or, more likely, politely steer the conversation into another direction. But he’s quiet too long.
“You’d present quite the different application,” Dad says, leaning in closer to Evan. “With your knowledge of the environment and your software engineering background, there are countless corporate avenues that you could pursue. And you could clerk at the firm, of course. Practice there too, if you were so inclined.”
Jesus Christ. This is an ambush. I know it. I’ve lived it. Replace law with med and this is the same damn conversation I’ve had with them for about ten years. And counting.
But after the conversation with Mom this morning, I’m going to try a more diplomatic, good-daughter route.
“Are you trying to send my fiancé to another province for three years?” I laugh. But really, I want to scream.
“I didn’t know MUN was considering a law school,” Evan says.
If he doesn’t shut down this conversation soon I’m going to stomp on his foot. I don’t think he’s wearing steel-toed boots.
“Yes, and it’s looking promising. You wouldn’t have to move away if you wanted to wait a while.” Dad reaches across the table and pats my hand, which is clutching the fish knife. “But if you did want to apply to Dal, I’m sure Jillian could find work in Nova Scotia. Plenty of universities in the Maritimes.”
“Jillian might even be on maternity leave before long,” Mom says, in a sweet tone that is about as subtle as a neon sign.
Five. Come on, Evan. Four. Time’s running out. Three. If you don’t stop them they’ll take your silence as acquiescence. Two.
“On that note, I’d like to propose a toast,” Evan says, smiling at me, for all the world as if he knows I’m a second from melt down. He refills my glass with the deep red Malbec, right to the brim. Good man. Way to send a “We’re not pregnant” sign to them.
“To family,” Evan continues. “A man can never have too many people wishing the best for him.”
Friday, four days later.
Evan is leaving for Juniper Cove for the weekend. His brothers are throwing him what they’ve decided is a proper stag party tomorrow night. I joke they’re worried that Evan’s townie friends, his geek friends, won’t do right by family tradition and get the bachelor properly drunk and disorderly. I have yet to see Evan be either of those things. Sure, he likes a beer or a drink from time to time, but he’s not a big drinker. Comes from some teenage escapade when he stole a bottle of dark rum from his father and proceeded to drink the whole thing. It wasn’t the going down that was his problem. It was the return trip that made him wary of over-indulging.
I’m trying to do something nice. Something a wife would do. But packing his bag is a bit of a challenge. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m a master packer. But there’s only so many ways you can fold huge wool sweaters to get them to fit.
“I can do that,” Evan says, looking up from his computer.
“You have to get those invoices finished. I can manage to pack a week’s worth of clothes in my carry-on. I’m sure I can manage a weekend of your stuff in this duffel bag.”
That’s what I’d like him to believe. I’m trying not to show my frustration with the sweater that just won’t cooperate. Failure is not an option. I am sending Evan to his mother’s house with a bag full of freshly laundered, properly folded clothes. None of this loading the bag up with dirty laundry for her to clean on my watch. I have my pride. And while Suzy-homemaker I may not be, I won’t let her think her son is marrying a total domestic failure.
“There’s no point trying to fold that. Just shove it in. It’ll be more compact if you stuff it. That’s my method.”
See. There’s my point. Nope. Not happening.
“The easy thing to do would be to pack one sweater. You’ve got at least two in the truck. And I’m sure there are more left out there.”
There was a time I found Evan’s love of wool sweaters and his almost constant wearing of them sexy. Now I’m just excited when we have a dress up occasion so I can see him in something other than wool and jeans. Come on, summer. Summer Evan is a far better feast for the eyes. In some parts of Canada it might even feel like summer already. Not here in good old St. John’s.
“Are you sure you won’t come out for the weekend? Tuck me in after I’ve had too much to drink and feed me a big greasy breakfast in the morning to help me feel better?”
“No way. I’m not getting between you and your brothers. I was given strict orders to stay away. Are you sure there’s not a local exotic dancer that caters to the Juniper Cove stag party crowd?”
“Nah. Phonse Whelan gave that up ages ago when his wife caught him with a toonie stuck in his bum.”
I have two choices right now. Believe him and be called gullible. Or laugh at him and have him prove that this is a true story. I never can tell when he’s making something up when it comes to Juniper Cove antics. I’ve met Phonse Whelan. He’s seventy if he’s a day. And as odd as they come. It’s possibly true.
“Better bring a roll of dimes in case someone else decides to give it a go.”
The third option, play along, seems to work. He’s laughing now and pulling me down onto the bed.
“I don’t want anyone parading around naked in front of me other than you. How about a private show before I go?”
“What, and ruin all Phonse’s practice?”
“You’re a bad girl, Professor Carew.”
“That makes you a lucky man, Mr. Sharp.”
“Don’t I know it.”
There are times when his kisses are soft and full of love. And other times, they are pure sex on the mouth. Like now. Rough, probing and with an intensity that leaves me breathless and demanding more. I have friends who complain about husbands and boyfriends who don’t kiss them enough. What an awful way to live. Don’t get me wrong. I want sex too. But kissing Evan is one of my greatest joys. Sometimes it leads to more. Okay. Eighty percent of the time it gets out of hand and leads to much, much more. But these kisses, the ones that have fingers tangled in hair, bodies pressed to the point of fusion, lips in total synthesis, these are the kisses that bring a fulfillment all of their own.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I push Evan off of me and make a poor effort to straighten my shirt.
It’s not entirely surprising to hear people rummaging around our place. While we own our house, we rent out the rooms on the first floor to some of Evan’s friends. Total nerds, but fun to have around. However, this isn’t Cory or James.
“Mom?” What the hell is she doing here? In our
house? Precariously close to our bedroom door, which is wide open.
“Your mother has a key.” Evan groans.
“No, she doesn’t. I didn’t give her one.”
“I did. Gave it to your father, actually. So he could keep an eye on the house while we’re on our honeymoon.”
“Evan? Are you still here?” That’s not a townie accent. That’s pure Juniper Cove patois.
“That’s not my mother. That’s your mother!”
I can hear both of them talking. My mother and Mary.
“Go to the bathroom before you come out of here,” I tell Evan, eying his pants. And then, just because I can’t resist, I touch the rigid rise in his jeans.
Sure enough, our two mothers are there, mine looking out the bay window that overlooks downtown St. John’s and Mary pouring fresh water into the kettle.
“Ah, you are home. Were you napping? In the afternoon?”
“No, I was helping Evan pack.” I must be more disheveled than I thought.
A blush creeps across Mom’s face. “Oh, we thought Evan would be gone already.”
“Going now,” he says, strolling out of the bathroom looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. Or in this case, my lips. “How was your drive in, Mom?”
He knew she was coming? This is news to me.
“Rodney drove too fast, as normal. I swear, how he hasn’t lost his license in tickets yet is beyond me. His poor mother must say a million prayers every time he gets behind the wheel.” She reaches up and smoothes Evan’s cheek.
If actions could speak, this one says, “Praise the Lord I have such a good son.”
“No worries about me driving too fast,” Evan says and plants a kiss on her cheek. Liar, liar. Evan might not be a speed demon, but he’s a firm believer in the ten over the speed limit is legal train of thought.
Enough of this. I want to know why I’ve been invaded by mothers for some unknown reason. And I know he knows that I’m wondering what’s happening.
“You ladies have a fun weekend and don’t do anything to get Jillian in too much trouble.”
There’s a smile in his eyes that speaks volumes. It’s saying, “I’m complicit in something and you’re going to hate me for it.”
I get a quick kiss and a whispered, “Sorry, but I promised,” and he’s gone. Leaving me facing a mother and soon-to-be mother-in-law.
Ever the take charge woman, Mom claps her hands together the second the door closes. “We’re a little behind schedule, but that’s nothing. Ladies, let’s go.”
“Go where, Mom?”
“Don’t you worry about a thing. All you need to know is that we have a special weekend planned for us. Call it a pre-wedding de-stress weekend.”
A stress-free weekend that involves untold proximity to my mother? I’m not sure how accurate an assessment this is going to be. But I’ll give it a go.
The next morning.
You have to give credit where it’s due. So far, this weekend is nothing but relaxing and completely, unexpectedly, restfully indulgent. Last night we went to a luxury spa hotel complete with gourmet room service, a before bed massage and a suite of rooms that has me trying to ignore how much my parents shelled out for it. Mom and Mary are hitting it off famously, which I already knew they would based on their prior meetings. And best of all, for me at least, is that they invited Ingrid along. What’s ensued is a genuinely fun time.
Right now Ingrid and I are cocooned in thick terry-cloth robes awaiting our treatments. It’s a full day of pampering for the four of us, including hot stones, facials, body wraps, water treatments, mani-pedis, mimosas and glorious nibblets of food.
“Here’s to champagne for breakfast,” Ingrid says, raising her glass. “And to your mother for one of her best plans yet.”
“I can’t argue with you there. This is just what I needed, even if I didn’t realize it. When I decided to take the summer off, I didn’t imagine I’d get so bogged down in wedding-related stuff. But planning a wedding really does take the good out of you.”
“Your wedding is going to be spectacular. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your maid-of-honour. I love the way you and Evan have created something that’s so uniquely you.”
“It took a bit of convincing to get Evan to agree to a wedding at the Basilica, but once Monsignor Shea agreed to the swords, he was alright.”
“Forget Evan agreeing to a Catholic wedding,” Ingrid says, laughing. “I thought you were never going to have a church wedding?”
“It wasn’t worth the fight. Two devout Catholic families? I have to know which battles to choose. Besides, we’re not doing the full Mass or anything. And Ryan is a decent guy. As far as Shea cousins go, I like him. He gets me. And he understands our reservations.”
“He’s pretty good-looking, I’ll give him that.”
“Well, he learned the hard way at our engagement party that even at family events he should wear his collar.”
Ingrid throws her hands in the air in defence. “I didn’t do anything to him other than politely suggest that we could go out for drinks after the party.”
“Politely with your hand on his leg, as I recall. Or was that your tongue in his ear?”
Surprisingly, grapes hurt when they bounce off your head.
“Whatever. I have no problem looking him in the eye. And I bet he secretly enjoyed it.”
“Speaking of secretly enjoying things. Have you decided if you’re bringing anyone to the reception yet?”
“What? And ruin my chances of being the most sought-after single woman in the bridal party?”
“You’re the only single woman in the bridal party.”
“Exactly.” Her smile makes me laugh. I love Ingrid. I don’t know of many people who are still best friends with their childhood friend but I can’t imagine anyone else filling her role in my life. We’re as different as chalk and cheese in so many ways, from the way we look—Ingrid is all tall, blonde Nordic beauty while I’m more of the traditional English-Irish type of brunette so common around here—to the way we act (although she’s taken over the flirty role I once occupied).
When Evan insisted on having all six of his brothers in the wedding party, I nearly died. I don’t have that many close female friends. Hence, my side of the bridal party is made up of Ingrid, my friend Melanie, Dungeon Master extraordinaire, a couple of other friends who are married, and two of Evan’s sister-in-laws who I get along with really well.
I wish I could say I like all the Sharp women, but that’s sadly not true. Then again, it’s not likely they’ll be creating the Jillian Carew fan club anytime soon either. But Shona and Liz are super sweet. To the point that while I know they are not fans of the bridesmaid dresses, they’re grinning and bearing it. Ingrid and Mel might have had something to do with that. Regardless, if anyone in the bridal party has a problem participating in our Roman-themed wedding, they’re doing a great job of keeping it to themselves.
Oh. Haven’t I mentioned that yet? In all the wedding talk have I failed to share that we’re going all out with an ancient Rome-inspired wedding? Yup. And once I convinced Mom that it would be tasteful and lavish and the envy of all her friends, she was all for it. That was the surprise of the century, honestly.
Really it was Evan’s idea. He’d confessed that he’d always wanted a different kind of wedding. Something fantasy themed. There were a few arguments about that, and I was nearly ready to concede to a medieval theme when he started showing me pictures online of Roman-inspired weddings. The wedding gown potential sold me on it. I have two dresses in Ingrid’s closet because I can’t make up my mind.
Now let me set you straight on a few things before you start shaking your head and giving me up for one of those Live Action Role Playing people. The key word to keep in mind is inspired. It’s not a true-to-life reenactment. Although I do have worries about seven brothers equipped with swords. I might have Ingrid discreetly steal them while the guys sit down for supper and hide them until the nigh
t’s revelries are done.
I’d love to tell you all about it right now but I’m being called in to begin my day of pampering.
The text transcript from the night of Evan’s shed stag.
There’s no way I can even begin to explain to you everything that happened last night. We’d be here forever. Instead, here’s the text thread that Ingrid, Evan and I have poured over ever since he got home this evening. We’re all a bit more than hung-over. I suppose it’s a good thing we have text messages to help keep track of the night. It’s just a pity I can’t share the images that go along with this transcript with you. Nevertheless, here in its entirety is Saturday night, as experienced through texts. For your ease of reading, E stands for Evan, J for Jillian, and I for Ingrid (I used her phone a bit). As if you wouldn’t figure that out. My apologies for suggesting it.
7:53 pm
E: Heading to the shed now. Enjoy the rest of your supper. Dad says to keep Mom away from rum.
J: Have fun. Love you. And there’s no rum in sight. Just lots of wine and food.
J: And tell Phonse Whelan to keep his clothes on tonight.
E: Love you. xx
8:01
E: Last text, I swear. Just wanted you to see that there are two kegs here. One for the Labatt crowd and one for the Molson bunch.
J: Beer before liquor, never been sicker. Keep that in mind.
E: Okay.
8:12
J: evan this is mom tell dad to only let you and your brothers use the bathroom in the house and tell Shona the paper plates are in the downstairs pantry next to the Lysol
E: Wow Mom. Nothing like contaminating the plates with harsh cleaners. Thanks!
J: I am not sharing that message with your mother. Be nice.
E: Now that I know you let mothers near your phone I can’t send you the texts I had in mind for later.
J: I’m changing my password now. ;)
J: Oh. She also wants to tell you that there are boozy chocolates in her closet. Your father knows where they are. I think they’ve been there since the millennium. I’d stay away from them.
Geek Groom (Forever Geek Trilogy #2) Page 3