by Lisa Kleypas
“Not yet,” Gage said ruefully. “I guess I’m going to have to tell him . . . but he won’t like it.”
“He approves of Hardy, doesn’t he?” I asked with a touch of concern.
“Yeah, he’s given his blessing to the match,” Gage said. “But Dad never misses the opportunity to turn a family event into a three-ring circus. He wanted to be in charge of it.”
I nodded, understanding immediately why Haven and Hardy hadn’t wanted their wedding to be a big production. For all that they were a friendly and gregarious couple, they were both protective of their private life. The feelings cut too deep for them to be put on display.
We all drank to the newlyweds and talked for a few minutes about Playa del Carmen, which apparently was known for its beaches and fine fishing, and was far less touristy than Cancún.
“Have you been to Mexico, Ella?” Liberty asked.
“Not yet. I’ve wanted to go for a while.”
“We should go one of these weekends, all four of us, and take the kids,” Liberty told Gage. “It’s supposed to be a good place for families.”
“Sure, we’ll take one of the planes,” Gage said easily. “Do you have a passport, Ella?”
“No, not yet.” My eyes had widened. “The Travises have a plane?”
“Two jets,” Jack said. A smile touched his lips as he saw my expression. He picked up my free hand and played with it lightly. I supposed that by then I should have been used to the little shock that occurred whenever I was reminded of the financial stratosphere the Travises occupied. “Gage,” Jack said to his brother, still staring at me, “I think the mention of the planes is scaring Ella. Tell her I’m a regular guy, will you?”
“He’s the most regular guy in the Travis family,” Liberty told me, her green eyes twinkling.
I couldn’t help laughing at the qualifier.
Liberty smiled. And I realized she understood how I felt. It’s okay, her gaze seemed to say. You’ll be fine. She lifted her glass again. “I’ve got some news to share, too . . . although it’s not a surprise to Gage.” She glanced at Jack and me expectantly. “Guess.”
“You’re pregnant?” Jack asked.
Liberty shook her head, her smile widening. “I’m going to start my own salon. I’ve been thinking about it for a while . . . and I thought before we had another child, I’d like to do this. I’m going to keep it small and exclusive, just hire a couple of people.”
“That’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, clinking my glass with hers.
“Congratulations, Lib.” Jack extended his own wineglass and followed suit. “What are you going to call the place?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Carrington wants to call it Clippety-Do-Da or Hairway to Heaven . . . but I told her we have to be a little bit classier.”
“Julius Scissors,” I suggested.
“Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow,” Jack joined in.
Liberty covered her ears. “I’ll go out of business in the first week.”
Jack raised his brows into mocking crescents. “The big question is, how is Dad going to get more grandchildren? That’s a Travis wife’s job, isn’t it? You’re wasting prime childbearing years, Lib.”
“Stow it,” Gage told him. “We’re just now starting to catch up on our sleep, with Matthew getting a little older. I’m not ready to go through it again just yet.”
“No sympathy from this side of the table,” Jack said. “Ella’s been going through all of it—the sleepless nights, the diapers—for a kid who’s not even hers.”
“He feels like mine,” I said without thinking, and Jack’s fingers tightened protectively on my hand.
There was silence except for the quiet spray of the misters, and the splashing waterfall.
“How long do you have left with the baby, Ella?” Liberty asked.
“About a month.” With my free hand, I reached for my wineglass and drained it. Ordinarily I would have put up a bright false smile and diverted the subject. But in the company of sympathetic listeners, with Jack beside me, I found myself saying what I really thought. “I’m going to miss him. It’s going to be hard. And lately it’s started to bother me that Luke won’t remember the time he spent with me. The first three months of his life. He won’t know any of the stuff I did for him—I won’t be any different to him than a stranger off the street.”
“You won’t be seeing him, after Tara takes him?” Gage asked.
“I don’t know. Probably not often.”
“He’ll remember deep down,” Jack said gently.
And as I looked into his steady dark eyes, I found solace.
NINETEEN
LUKE LAY ON THE FLOOR OF MY APARTMENT IN A baby gym, a floor quilt with two crossed arches featuring rattling beads, spinning birds and butterflies, crinkly leaves, and cheerful electronic music. He loved it nearly as much as I loved watching him. At two months, he laughed, smiled, made noises, and was able to raise his head and chest.
Jack lay on the floor beside him, lazily reaching up to flick the toys or to push a button for new music. “I wish I had one of these,” he said. “Strung with beer cans, Cohíbas, and those little black panties you wore Saturday night.”
I paused in the midst of putting away dishes in the kitchen. “I didn’t think you noticed them, you took them off me so fast.”
“I’d just spent a two-hour dinner looking at you in that low-cut dress. You’re lucky I didn’t jump you in the parking garage again.”
I bit back a smile and stood on tiptoe to slide a glass pitcher on a tall shelf. “Yes, well, I usually like a little more foreplay than the jingle of car keys and two-and-a-half kisses, and—” I jumped as I felt him behind me, having moved so swiftly and silently that I hadn’t even noticed him entering the kitchen. The pitcher wobbled in my grasp, and Jack reached up to push it firmly onto the shelf.
I felt his mouth at my ear. “I took care of you, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” I gave a throaty laugh as his arms closed around my front. “I’m not saying I was shortchanged. I’m just saying, you didn’t waste any time getting down to business . . .” The words dissolved into a sigh as I felt him bite and lick my neck gently, his tongue playing in a gentle swirl that evoked scalding memories. My glasses slipped down my nose, and I pushed the frames back into place. One of Jack’s arms crossed beneath my breasts, while his free hand slipped beneath the waistband of my shorts.
“You want foreplay, Ella?” His hips pressed against me from behind, and I felt the hard shape of him through the layers of our clothing.
My lashes lowered, and I gripped the edge of the countertop as his hands played over my body. “The baby,” I said breathlessly.
“He won’t mind. He’s doing his workout in the baby gym.”
Laughing, I pushed his hands away. “Let me finish the dishes.”
Jack pulled my hips back against his, wanting to play.
But we were interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone. I reached for it and hissed, “Be still,” to Jack before answering. “Hello?”
“Ella, it’s me.” The voice was my cousin Liza’s, flat and sheepish. “I’m calling to give you a heads-up. I’m so sorry.”
I stiffened, and Jack’s hands went still. “What kind of heads-up?” I asked.
“Your mom is coming to see you. She’ll be there in fifteen minutes to a half hour. Sooner, if traffic’s good.”
“No, she’s not,” I said, blanching. “I didn’t invite her. She doesn’t know where I live.”
“I told her,” Liza said guiltily.
“Why? What possible reason could you have for doing that to me?”
“I couldn’t help it. She called me all fired-up because she just talked to Tara on the phone, and Tara told her she thought something might be going on between you and Jack Travis. And now they both want to know what’s going on.”
“I don’t owe either of them explanations,” I burst out, going crimson. “I’ve had it, Liza. I’m tired of Tara’s messes, and I wish Mom was
even half as concerned about her grandson as she is about my sex life!” Too late, I realized the slip, and I covered my mouth with my hand.
“You’re having sex with Jack Travis?”
“Of course not.” I felt Jack’s mouth brush gently over the nape of my neck, and I shivered. Holding the phone against my chest, I twisted to face him. “You have to go,” I told him urgently.
I brought the phone back up to my ear. “. . . he there with you?” Liza was asking.
“No, it’s the UPS guy. He wants me to sign something.”
“Down here,” Jack murmured, pulling my free hand along his body.
“Go,” I muttered, pushing hard at his chest. He didn’t budge, only eased my glasses off and cleaned the smudged lenses with the hem of his T-shirt.
“Is it a serious thing?” Liza asked.
“No. It’s a shallow, meaningless, purely physical relationship that’s heading absolutely nowhere.” I flinched as Jack leaned over to nip my earlobe in retaliation.
“Cool! Ella, do you think you could get him to fix me up with one of his friends? I’ve been having kind of a dry spell lately—”
“I’ve got to go, Liza. I’ve got to clean up and figure out what to . . . oh, hell, I’ll talk to you later.” I hung up the phone and grabbed my glasses from Jack.
He followed as I ran to the bedroom. “What are you doing?”
I yanked the sheets and covers over the unmade bed. “My mother’s going to get here any minute, and it looks like we had an orgy in here.” I paused long enough to glare at him. “You have to go. I mean it. There is no way you’re meeting my mother.” I tossed the pillows onto the bed. Hurrying back to the main room, I whisked clutter into a giant wicker basket and shoved it into the coat closet.
The intercom by the door beeped. It was the concierge, David. “Miss Varner . . . you have a visitor. It’s—”
“I know,” I said, slumping in defeat. “Send her up.” Turning to Jack, I saw that he had picked up Luke and was cuddling him against his chest. “What can I do to get rid of you?”
He smiled. “Not a damn thing.”
In about two minutes, I heard a determined knock at the door.
I opened it. There was my mother, in full-face makeup and high heels, and a snug red dress that displayed the figure of a woman half her age. She sailed in on a cloud of department-store perfume, hugged and air-kissed me, and stood back to give me an assessing glance.
“I finally got tired of waiting to be invited,” she told me, “so I decided to take the bull by the horns. I’m not letting you keep my grandson away from me any longer.”
“You’re a grandmother now?” I asked.
She continued to look me over. “You’ve put on weight, Ella.”
“I’ve lost a few pounds, actually.”
“Good for you. A few more, and you’ll be back to a healthy size.”
“A size eight is healthy, Mom.”
She gave me a fond, chiding glance. “If you’re that sensitive about it, I won’t mention it anymore.” Her eyes widened theatrically as Jack approached us. “Well, who is this? Why don’t you introduce me to your friend, Ella?”
“Jack Travis,” I muttered, “this is my mother—”
“Candy Varner,” she interrupted, going in for a hug, crowding the baby between them. “We don’t need to bother with handshakes, Jack . . . I’ve always been crazy about Ella’s friends.” She winked at him. “And they’ve always been crazy about me.” She pried the baby from his arms. “And here is my precious grandson . . . oh, I don’t know why I let Ella keep you away from me this long, you little sugar lump.”
“I said you were welcome to babysit any time,” I muttered.
She ignored that, venturing into the apartment. “How cozy this is. I think it’s so sweet, the two of you taking care of Luke while Tara is on her spa vacation.”
I followed her. “She’s at a clinic for psychologically and emotionally disturbed people.”
My mother went to the windows to check out the view. “It doesn’t matter what you call it. Places like that are so in, nowadays. The Hollywood stars do it all the time—they need a little escape from the pressure, so they come up with some made-up problem, and they get to relax and get pampered for a few weeks.”
“It’s not a made-up problem,” I said. “Tara—”
“Your sister has stress, that’s all. I was watching a program the other day about cortisol, which is a stress hormone, and they said coffee drinkers have a lot more cortisol than the average person. And I’ve always said you and Tara drink too much coffee, both of you.”
“I don’t think Tara’s problems—or mine—occurred because of one too many lattes,” I said darkly.
“My point is, you bring on your own stress. You’ve got to rise above it. Like I do. Just because your father’s side was weak-minded, doesn’t mean you have to give in to it.” As my mother chattered, she wandered around the apartment, looking at everything with the attentiveness of an insurance assessor. I watched her uneasily, longing to take the baby back. “Ella, you should have told me you were living here.” She cast a grateful glance at Jack. “I want to thank you for helping my daughter, Jack. She has a vivid imagination, by the way. I hope you don’t believe everything she says. When she was a child, she’d make up such stories . . . if you want to get to know the real Ella, you need to talk to me. Why don’t you take us all out to dinner, and we’ll get better acquainted? Tonight would be fine.”
“Great idea,” Jack said easily. “Let’s do that sometime. Unfortunately, tonight Ella and I have plans.”
My mother handed the baby to me. “Take him, sweetheart, this is a new dress. He might spit up.” She sat gracefully on the sofa and crossed her long, toned legs. “Well, Jack, I’m the last one to interfere in someone else’s plans. But if you are getting involved with my daughter, I’d feel more comfortable about it if I knew you and your family a little bit better. I’d like to meet your father, to start with.”
“You’re too late,” I said. “His father’s already got a girlfriend.”
“Why Ella, I didn’t mean . . .” She laughed lightly and shot Jack a commiserating, conspiratorial glance—look at what we have to deal with—and her tone became maddeningly sweet. “My daughter has always resented that men like me so much. I don’t think she brought a single boyfriend home who didn’t make a pass at me.”
“I only brought one home,” I said. “That was enough.”
She gave me a chilling glance and laughed, her mouth a wide, taut pouch. “No matter what Ella says,” she told Jack, “don’t take her word for it. You ask me.”
Whenever my mother was around, reality took on the dimensions of a fun-house mirror. Insanity was simply a result of being a frequent Starbucks customer, size eight was a stage of obesity that required medical intervention, and any man I dated was clearly having to make do with a second-rate substitute for Candy Varner. And anything I had ever done or said could be conveniently rewritten to suit whatever spin she had chosen.
For the next forty-five minutes, it was the Candy Varner Show with no commercial interruptions. She told Jack that she would have offered to take care of Luke, but she was just too busy, and she’d already done her duty, working and sacrificing all those years for her daughters, neither of whom were appropriately grateful and were both more than a little jealous. And imagine Ella giving advice to people for a living, when Ella hardly knew what she was talking about—you had to do a lot more living than Ella had before you knew who was who and what was what. Whatever Ella knew about life, it had come from her mother’s imparted wisdom.
Mom proceeded to present herself as the desirable original, the brand name, with me as a failed copy. She tried to do some heavy-handed flirting with Jack. He was polite and respectful, occasionally glancing at my stony expression. When Mom started to name-drop, pretending she knew some of the same rich people Jack did, it was so mortifying that I felt myself shutting down. I stopped protesting or correct
ing, just occupied myself with Luke, checking his diaper, putting him back into the baby gym, and playing with him. My ears felt hot, the rest of me ice-cold.
And then I registered that, like clockwork, she had shifted the conversation to the inappropriately personal, revealing that she’d recently signed on for laser hair-removal treatments from an exclusive Houston spa. “I’ve been told,” she was telling Jack with a girlish giggle, “that I have the cutest coochie in Texas—”
“Mom,” I said sharply.
She glanced at me, her eyes sly and laughing. “Well, it’s true! I’m just saying what other people—”
“Candy,” Jack interrupted briskly, “this has been fun, but it’s time for Ella and me to get ready for our evening out. Great to meet you. Why don’t I take you down to the concierge, and he’ll show you out?”
“I’ll stay here and watch over Luke while you’re gone,” my mother insisted.
“Thanks,” Jack replied, “but we’re taking him with us.”
“I haven’t had any time with my grandson,” she protested, frowning at me.
“I’ll call you, Mom,” I brought myself to say.
Jack went to the door and opened it. Keeping it open, he stepped out into the hallway. His tone was friendly and inexorable. “I’ll wait here while you get your purse, Candy.”
I stood while my mother came to embrace me. The perfumed smell of her, the warm proximity of her, made me want to cry like a child. I wondered why I would always long for her to love me in a way she wasn’t capable of, why Tara and I were nothing more to her than collateral damage from a marriage that had gone bad.
I had learned that there were substitutes for a mother who couldn’t be a mother. You could find love with other people. You could find it in places you weren’t even looking. But the original wound would never heal. I would carry it with me forever, and so would Tara. That was the trick . . . accepting it, going on with your life, knowing it was part of you.