by Nora Roberts
"Where are my girls?" Daniel asked at the top of his lungs as he came into the room bearing a tray with three brimming flutes of champagne. "There they are, and more beautiful than they've a right to be. We're drinking to them." He set the tray down, and then his wide smile faded when he saw Julia's tear-streaked face. "What's wrong, little girl? What's the matter here?"
"Nothing. I was feeling a little blue." Julia carefully dried her face. "Men. Why can't they all be you, Grandpa?"
"What's the boy done?" he demanded. "Why, if he's done something to make you cry, he'll answer to me." Julia started to chuckle, but then a wayward thought, a wild and wayward thought, circled in her head and took root. "What boy?"
"That Murdoch boy, of course." Female tears always terrified him. Daniel paced the room, arms waving. "He's a fine boy, make no mistake, but I won't have him causing you a moment's unhappiness. What's he done, and I'll fix it." Slowly, Julia turned from the mirror. "How much have you fixed already?"
"Making my little girl cry when she should be on top of the world, kicking up her heels. I'll have a word with Cullum Murdoch, see if I don't. And when I finish…" He trailed off, finally catching the gleam in Julia's eye. "What did you say?"
"How did you know I was crying over Cullum?"
"Well, you said so." Hadn't she? A little desperate, Daniel looked to his wife for support, but met a stony stare. "We'll think no more of it," he said quickly. "Let's have that toast."
"How could you be at the bottom of this?" Julia wondered. "You weren't here—you didn't arrange for me to buy the house, or for him to work on it."
"No indeed." Grasping the straw, Daniel picked up a glass and handed it to her. His eyes were a bright and innocent blue. "Let's have a drink to your fine new house. The boy's work does him credit."
"But Mr. Murdoch was supposed to be contractor," Julia murmured. "You're awfully tight with Michael Murdoch, aren't you, Grandpa?"
"Known him for years. Fine family, strong stock."
Julia sucked in her breath, ready to rage. Still spry in his nineties, Daniel skipped back as the knocker beat against the front door.
"Guests arriving. Don't you worry, I'll greet them. Anna, help the girl put her face back together. I'll take care of everything." He deserted the field while he still had his head.
"I don't know how he did it," Julia began, "but he did."
"I agree with you." Anna defeated the indulgent smile that wanted to curve on her lips. "But there's just no stopping him." It didn't matter, Julia told herself. Whatever her grandfather had tried to arrange hadn't worked. She and Cullum had taken care of that. The house was finished, and so were they.
Music swept through the rooms, along with laughter and voices. Family and friends were scattered through the house, exactly as she'd planned, exactly as she'd wanted them. Fires crackled, lights sparkled.
"You've made a beautiful home here." Shelby slipped an arm around Julia's shoulder. "It's perfect for you."
"Yes, it is. I'm putting it on the market next week."
"What?"
"It's not a place I want to live alone." Her gaze swept the spacious living area, the fine details, the gleam of wood. "There's too much Cullum in here."
"Honey, don't do anything rash."
"It's not rash. It's necessary. I'll be all right." She leaned her head against her mother's. "I always am. I think I might come down to D.C. for a while. I might relocate."
"You know your father and I would love having you close by, but—"
"Don't worry about me. I'm going to figure it all out before I do anything. Now, who's the woman who's clinging to D.C.?"
"Your brother met her in Maine. She's a poet. She quotes Elizabeth Barrett Browning incessantly. I'd always been fond of Browning before."
With a laugh, Julia sipped her champagne. "She's that irritating?"
"Oh, far more," Shelby said with feeling. "Believe me. If I thought for a minute he was serious about her, I'd…" Shelby trailed off, and her heart lightened considerably. "You have another guest, Julia."
"Oh? Who?" She turned and saw Cullum step into the room.
He'd worn a suit, and the damn tie was strangling him. But it had seemed only right that he dress the part. You couldn't very well come to a fancy New Year's Eve party in flannel and denim.
And fancy it was—silks and velvets, glittering jewelry, glossy finger food and wine in heavy crystal. She'd put it together, he decided, exactly as it should be. He'd have done the same.
Then he saw her and his heart twisted and he knew she could have just as easily made do with pizza and beer. She pinned a smile on her face and, assuming the mask of hostess, walked over to greet him. "I'm so glad you made it. What can I get you?"
Listen to her, talking to him as if he were a mild acquaintance instead of her lover. "Got a beer?"
"Sure." She signaled to a waiter. "Mr. Murdoch would like a beer. You probably know almost everyone, but I'd be happy to introduce you around."
"I can take care of myself."
"Undoubtedly. And how was your Christmas?"
"It was fine. Yours?"
"Wonderful. We had a nice light snowfall on Christmas Eve."
"We had sleet."
"Ah."
He took the beer the waiter brought him, muttered his thanks and sipped. And noted that Julia was wearing the necklace he'd given her against the creamy flesh exposed by the low-cut dress. "Looks good on you."
"What? Oh." She could have cursed herself for giving in to the sentimental urge to wear his gift. "Yes, it's made for this dress. It's lovely, Cullum. Thank you so much for thinking of it. I hope you liked your watch."
It was weighing down his pocket even then. "It keeps good time. Thanks."
"You're very welcome. Well, be sure to try to buffet, as well as the canapés that are circling around. If you'll excuse me." His hand clamped hard on her wrist. "Where the hell do you get off, talking to me like this?"
"I have no idea what you mean."
"Don't take that snooty tone with me, MacGregor, it doesn't suit you."
"You'd better let go of me, Murdoch."
"The hell I will. I want some answers. I've been waiting for you to come up with them, and since you didn't bother, I'm here to see that I get them."
"You want answers." The heat of temper was beginning to blur her vision. "You've been waiting for answers. Okay, try this one." Her hand shot out and tipped his glass of beer onto his suit.
She regretted it instantly. It had been petty and foolish. It had been public. She knew several conversations that had been going on around her came to a dead stop. She also knew, by the way Cullum's eyes kindled, that she couldn't back down.
"Now that you have your answer, you can leave."
She intended to turn, walk away with dignity, to laugh off the incident. Later, she could crawl into a hole, but for now she had to maintain her poise.
She shrieked when Cullum boosted her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She cursed him without restraint as he carted her upstairs. Below, Daniel hooked an arm sentimentally around Michael Murdoch's shoulders. He sighed, blinked a tear from his eyes. "Aye, they'll give us fine babies, Michael."
"Let's drink to it."
With a hoot of laughter, Daniel watched his granddaughter disappear up the stairs. "I'll buy the first round." Cullum marched straight to Julia's bedroom, ignoring the punches and kicks, ignoring the wet jacket and the yeasty smell of spilled beer. Inside, he kicked the door shut, turned the lock, then tossed her unceremoniously onto the bed. She continued to spit at him as he dragged off his soiled suit coat. In all the years he'd known her and fought with her, he hadn't known her to be quite that inventive with the language. When she started to scramble off the bed, he merely put a hand on her head and shoved her back.
"Stay put, and be quiet."
"You think you can order me around, after that hideous and revolting scene?"
"You started it." And at least it gave him an excuse to pull off his tie.
"I don't know what's gotten into you. One day you're up, the next you're down. One minute you can't do enough for me, the next you talk like you barely know me. You haven't even bothered to get in touch with me in a week."
"I haven't bothered? I haven't? Is your finger broken, that you can't dial a damn phone." Then, to his horror and her humiliation, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
"Don't do that. I mean it, cut it out right now." At his wit's end, he dragged both hands through his hair. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
"For what?" she asked, still weeping.
"For anything you want that'll make you stop crying."
"You don't even know." Wanting it over, she swiped at tears even as they fell. "You don't even know. Oh, go away. I don't want you here when I'm making a fool of myself."
"I've seen you make a fool of yourself before. I don't mind, usually. Come on, Jules." He leaned down, intending to pat her head or her shoulder. And found his mouth homing in on hers. Before he knew what he was doing, he was sitting and pulling her onto his knees and holding her close. "God, I missed you. I missed you."
Her hands were in his hair. "Did you?"
"Yeah, I did." He rested his brow on hers. "Are you done?"
"Mostly. I guess I'm sorry I spilled your beer."
He wondered what there was about the pair of them that she could make him smile at such a moment. "You guess?"
"Well, you made me mad. So it was as much your fault as mine." She answered his smile with a watery one of her own. "But I'll have your suit cleaned for you."
"Want me to take the pants off now?" He saw, with fresh surprise, her lip quiver and her eyes fill. "I was only joking."
"I know. It's all right. I don't know what's wrong with me." She brushed her fingers under her eyes again and climbed off the bed to go to the mirror. "Public scenes and tears weren't part of the deal," she said briskly, and began, once again, to repair her makeup. "We have a mutually agreeable physical relationship, and a friendship of sorts. No point in spoiling it by getting sloppy." He tucked his hands into his pockets, watching her swipe color onto her cheeks. "What do you mean by sloppy?"
"Overemotional, I guess. Must be the holidays. I've been a little unsettled recently."
"Tell me about it," he muttered, and her eyes narrowed.
"Which means?"
"Look, it's New Year's Eve. I don't want to end the year fighting with you."
"Why not? We do it so well."
"Then why'd you stop for so long? The last few weeks—except for the day you left for Hyannis—I couldn't get a rise out of you with a forklift. All of a sudden you're agreeing with everything I say, cooking me dinner, practically bringing me my pipe and slippers."
"And you object to that?" Insulted, she whirled around. "I went to a lot of trouble to be nice to you, and now you throw it back in my face. Well, you don't have to worry, because I won't bother to be nice to you anymore."
"Thank God."
"And I won't be around, anyway," she finished in a rush, "because I'm selling the house and moving to D.C."
"The hell you are."
"You can't stop me. I don't want to live here. I don't know why I let you talk me into doing so many of the changes you suggested. I don't know why I let you do things your way."
"Because it was the right way, and that's the way you wanted it, and I'll be damned if you're selling this house."
"You can buy it yourself if it means so much to you."
"Fine, name your price. But if you think for one minute you're moving out—"
"I'm not staying. I can't."
"You're not going."
They were all but nose-to-nose now, panicked and furious. Their voices rose to shouts, but it still took several minutes before either of them heard the other say three particular words, since they said them simultaneously—
"I love you, and I'm not staying here and being unhappy."
"I love you, and you're not going anywhere without me."
She blinked. Cullum stepped back.
"What did you say?" he demanded.
"I didn't say anything. What did you say?"
"You said you loved me."
She tried to swallow, but her heart was stuck hard in her throat. "That's what I thought you said. Did you mean it?"
"What if I did?" He spun away to pace. "Damn woman's always talking so much you don't know what you're saying back when you say it. What if I do love you?" he shot out in exasperation. "What are you going to do about it?" Why, he was perfect, Julia thought. Absolutely perfect for her. "Ask you to marry me." He stopped pacing to stare at her. At first glance, she looked remarkably cool and unruffled. But he knew her, knew where to look, and her eyes were dark and wet. "What?"
"You heard me, Murdoch. Do you want to or not?"
He walked to her again, and in a moment, in the silence, they both began to grin. "I've got a ring in my pocket."
"You do not."
"Bet?"
She angled her head. "Let me see it."
"It was my mother's." He took out the box, flipped open the lid. "It's not a diamond, but you like colored stones better anyway."
"Oh, Cullum." She lifted her gaze to his. "You really do love me."
"I said I did. If you'd said it first, weeks ago like I wanted you to, we'd have saved a lot of time."
"You were supposed to say it first. Why the hell do you think I cooked dinner for you so many times?"
"Jules, believe me, nobody who wasn't crazy in love with you could have eaten any of those meals." She tried to be insulted but ended up laughing. "If you ask me to marry you, I'll never make another pot roast."
"You already asked me, but under the circumstances, that's a deal." But when he reached in his pocket and took out his watch, she shifted impatiently.
"What are you doing? Can't you do this right?"
"I am doing it right. It's eleven-forty-five. Fifteen minutes till midnight. I'll just fix that." He turned the stem until the second hand hovered at twelve, then took her hand.
"That's cheating." She beamed at him. "I do love you, Cullum."
"You're what I've wanted without even knowing it." He touched one of her stray curls. "We made this house together."
"No." She closed her hand over his. "We made this home together. I couldn't live here without you."
"I want to end the year and begin it, right here with you." He brought their linked fingers to his lips. "We'll make a hell of a team."
"I'm counting on it"
"Marry me, Julia."
"I thought you'd never ask," she said, and kissed him.
From the Private Memoirs
of
Daniel Duncan MacGregor
I've a head for business, a skill for the art of the deal. My life has been a rich one. I've worked hard, and I've gambled. I've won and I've lost. Business—the making of money—is a pleasure to me.
But family is God's reward.
Strip every penny from my pocket, and leave me my family and I will die a wealthy man.
When I started these memoirs I had hopes and plans, schemes some might say—and what the devil do I care what people say?—for my family.
Well, I've done what I set out to do. Laura is a happily married woman, a beautiful mother. She and Royce are making a good life for themselves, and for my precious young namesake, Daniel MacGregor Cameron. Oh, there's a lad, a bright, sturdy lad. Good blood. Strong stock.
Nothing pleases me more than seeing how Royce dotes on the boy—or how Caine delights in being a grandfather. And he and Royce are as thick as thieves. It's a fine friendship they've made out of their love for Laura. Of course, I had no doubt of it.
Gwen and her Branson are expecting a child any day now. She frets a bit, I know, about taking time off from her duties at the hospital. But Anna is the first to tell her that she can have both her career and a family, and do a magnificent job with both. Branson fusses over her—wouldn't leave her side to tour for his book. I'd have been t
empted to take a strap to him if he had. And did it make any difference? Hah! It was a bestseller the minute it came out of the pipe. He's a good storyteller that lad. Kept me up half the night reading about his murdering woman doctor and his cagey detective playing cat and mouse, falling in love. Who'd have thought she'd end up killing herself at the end rather than taking the life of the one man who'd touched her dark and troubled heart?
Ah, well, love matters most after all.
Now my Julia and her Cullum are making their life in the home they built together on Beacon Hill. They still scrap like terriers—and I'd worry if they didn't. There's such passion between these two—a perfect match and I don't mind saying so. I expect to hear there's a baby on the way soon.
And if I don't, I'll want to know the reason why.
She made a magnificent bride, tall, stately, elegant—and there was a moment, when she stepped beside Cullum, took his hand and their eyes met. They grinned at each other, wide and happy, with laughter all but bubbling out. A moment, I could feel my heart swell with joy—and with pride for having brought it about.
Now the MacGregor veil is packed away and waiting. But I've no intention of letting it lie in its box for long. It's time my grandsons started doing their duty. I've given them time to ripen a bit. A man needs some years and some experience under his belt before he takes a wife and starts a family.
But let's face it, I'm not going to live forever. So far I've been subtle with Mac—him being the oldest of my boys. But does he take the hint? Hah. Well, we'll just have to give him a few heftier nudges.
I've done well by my first three girls, but I'm not one to sit on my laurels for long. I'll see the rest of them wedded, and the circle completed before my time is up.
That's a promise, on the word of Daniel MacGregor.