A Family Kind of Wedding by Lisa Jackson
“You’re right,” she admitted, standing and wanting so badly to fold him into her arms. Here in his room where model airplanes, books, CDs and magazines had begun to be packed into boxes for the move. Boxes of memorabilia that his father had never seen. A soccer trophy winked in the harsh light from the overhead fixture—a trophy Josh had never shared with his father. How had she been so selfish? She’d denied her son his right to know his own dad. Just as she’d been denied the knowledge of her biological father. “You’re right, Josh. I made a mistake,” she admitted, “but I can’t change anything now. I can only let you meet your other grandparents—your father’s parents. They want to see you.”
“Just leave me alone.” His chin inched up in rebellious defiance, and his cheeks were wet from his silent tears.
“Listen, Josh—”
“I said, leave me alone.” He snagged up the yearbook, and Katie told herself she had no choice but to let him sort through his feelings, whatever pain she’d inadvertently hurled at him. She swallowed hard. “Think about it.”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll let you be,” she said, knowing he needed time to adjust to the bomb she’d just set off in his life. “But Grandma’s coming over and—”
“I don’t want to see her,” Josh insisted, reaching for the remote control and clicking on the small television set to a decibel level guaranteed to shatter glass. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“You might. Later.”
He glared at her with red-rimmed eyes that were filled with silent, deadly accusations. His chin wobbled, and his back stiffened in some vain attempt at manhood.
“I’ll be in the living room. When Grandma gets here, I’ll send her in.”
“No.”
“Josh—”
His lips compressed, and she held both hands up as if to fend off an attack. “Okay, okay, bud, I’ll give you some time alone, but I think we should talk this out.”
“I don’t want to talk to you or Grandma or anyone.”
“We’ll see.” She walked out of the room and jumped as the door slammed behind her. Clearing her throat she headed for her desk and told herself it would all work out. Of course Josh was hurt, disappointed and angry. Of course he wanted to scream and cry and mourn for a father he’d never known.
She sank into her desk chair and sighed, stirring her bangs.
And of course he was right. She should have told him the truth. Years ago. But she hadn’t. Now, it seemed, they would all have to pay the price.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Of course Josh is upset,” Brynnie said, rummaging in her purse for a pack of gum that, it was advertised, would cut down her need for a cigarette. She tossed her keys, eyeglass case, coin purse and wallet on to Katie’s table before she found the gum. “Who wouldn’t be?” She opened the pack and shook out a stick. With a longing sigh for a smoke she’d sworn to give up, she plopped the gum into her mouth.
Katie swiped at the counter haphazardly with her sponge. “I should have told him about Dave. No. Reverse that.” She rinsed the sponge at the sink. “I should have told Dave about Josh.” Wiping her hands on a towel hanging over the handle of the oven, she glanced down the hallway. “He’s been in there over an hour.”
“Give him time,” her mother advised.
Katie bit her lip. She felt worse than awful. Sometimes she thought that as a mother she’d failed miserably. This was one of those times.
Brynnie eyed the few boxes that were stacked in the corner. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll help you load these into the Jeep, and you can take them over to the new place.”
“Even though Tiffany and J.D. moved out the other day, I think they still have some things they want to do to the place before I call it home,” Katie said, though her half sister had told her that the house was just about ready and had encouraged her to start moving. “Besides, I can’t leave Josh now.”
“Of course you can.” Her mother wasn’t swayed. “Do you really think it makes any difference to him if you’re here or a few blocks across town?”
“But if he wants to talk—”
“He can wait. Besides, I’m here. I know the scoop.”
“It’s my job.”
“I’m his grandmother, and I’ve dealt with this kind of thing a lot.” Brynnie managed a smile as she popped her gum. “Besides, I kind of owe you one, don’t I?”
“Why?”
“For letting you think that Hal Kinkaid was your father.” Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “I, uh, should apologize to you for that little fib.”
“I think it was more than a ‘little fib,’ but it doesn’t matter right now. It’s water under the bridge,” Katie said, waving off her mother’s concerns.
“You didn’t think so at the time.”
Katie managed a half smile. “Well, come on, Mom, you have to admit that of all your husbands, Hal was the least… ‘memorable,’ for lack of a better word.”
“You mean boring.”
“That, too.” Katie rubbed her arms at the thought of her surly, overbearing namesake. He was a steady worker but found absolutely no joy in life. “I never knew what you saw in him.”
“Neither do I. Not now.” Brynnie motioned to the boxes. “Go on, Katie, take these over to the house. Give me a couple of hours alone with my grandson.”
Katie hesitated. “If you think it’ll work.”
With a wink, Brynnie slowly nodded her head. “Guaranteed.”
“Okay, okay.” Katie walked down the hall to Josh’s room and rapped on the door with her knuckles. Her mother was just a step behind. “Bud?” Katie called through the panels.
“Go ‘way!”
So Josh was still in his foul mood. Despite his order, Katie opened the door a crack. “No reason to be rude.”
He didn’t look her way, but she could read the I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-you expression on his face.
“I’m gonna run some boxes over to the new place, but Grandma’s here, okay?”
“I can stay by myself.”
“Not while I’m anywhere in the vicinity,” Brynnie said. “I never give up a chance to play darts or Hearts or Scrabble with my favorite grandson.”
“I’m your only grandson,” he grumbled, but a dimple creased one cheek—a dimple Katie hadn’t seen since she’d told him about his father.
“Then that makes you extra special, doesn’t it?” Brynnie edged into the room and looked over her shoulder. “Go on,” she mouthed to Katie as she took a seat on the foot of the bed. “Now, kiddo, what’ll the bet be?”
“I dunno.”
“I know. If I win, you’ll come over and mow my lawn, but if you win, I’ll take you and a friend over to the water park next weekend.”
“Really?” Josh sent his mother a glance that said he knew he was being conned.
“Of course.” Brynnie looked up, caught Katie standing at the crack in the doorway and gave her a curt little wave.
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” Katie said, relieved that her son seemed to be jollying out of his bad mood. “I’ll see you both later.”
She packed the Jeep with boxes, coats from the front closet and a few sacks from the kitchen, then drove to the old Victorian house she would soon call home. It felt odd, somehow; she and Josh had lived in the cottage for all of his life. But it was time for a change.
She parked in an open spot by the garage, noticed that Luke’s pickup was missing and kicked herself when she felt a pang of disappointment. “Forget him,” she whispered under her breath as she started unloading boxes and carrying them into the old house. It seemed empty and cold. Fresh paint, a soft gold color that Tiffany had let Katie pick out, covered the walls, and the wood floors gleamed, but the furniture was missing, the hanging pots, the dried herbs and the children’s artwork stripped from what had been Tiffany’s once-cozy kitchen. No black cat slunk through the shadows, and without the wail of Stephen’s guitar, the patter of Christina’s bus
“Cut it out,” she reprimanded and busied herself by carrying box after box into the house and leaving it in the appropriate room. She’d finished her last trip and was actually hanging coats in the front hall when she heard the back door open.
Her heart nearly stopped.
“Hello?” Luke’s voice filled the empty space.
“In here.” Her pulse jumped a bit as he came into view—tall and rangy, in jeans and a faded denim shirt with its sleeves shoved to the elbows, his hair windblown. He brought with him the scents of rainwater and horses.
“Movin’ in?” he asked, his blue eyes intense.
“The first load.” She shut the closet door and suddenly felt tongue-tied. “I, uh, I’ll move the big stuff in a couple of days. My brothers have offered to help with the furniture and appliances.”
He glanced around the empty rooms. “Your boy here?”
“At home with Grandma.” A pang of regret sliced through her heart at the thought of Josh and his reaction to the news that the father he’d never known was dead.
As if he read the pain in her expression, Luke said, “Wait here, I’ve got an idea.”
“For what—?” she asked, but he’d already turned on his heel and was striding toward the kitchen. A second later the screen door banged shut behind him. Curious, she couldn’t help but follow the sound and walk into the kitchen where she looked through the window and watched as he dashed through the raindrops to the carriage house, then took the stairs to the upper floor two at a time. A few seconds later he reappeared carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. She watched as he jogged across the yard and entered the house with the smell of fresh rain clinging to him.
“I think we should christen the place,” he said, removing a corkscrew from his pocket and piercing the foil over the cork with the tool’s sharp tip. “Come on,” he encouraged, as if witnessing skepticism on her face. “Let’s do it right. In here.” As he started uncorking the bottle he led her into the parlor where bay windows, draped in gauzy curtains, overlooked the front yard, and a marble fireplace loomed against the opposite wall. The cork popped. “Here, you pour. I’ll be right back.”
“What now?” she asked, but watched him leave again and didn’t argue. There was something enchanting about spending some time alone with him here.
Careful, you’ll only get yourself into trouble, her mind warned as she tipped the bottle, and the rich, dark Merlot streamed into the two stemmed glasses.
“I wouldn’t have thought of you as having anything like these,” she observed, holding up one of the goblets and twisting its stem between her fingers as he returned carrying chunks of firewood and kindling. He leaned over the grate and cast a glance in her direction. Over his shoulder he muttered, “Castoffs from the divorce.”
“Oh.” She didn’t want to be reminded that he’d been married once. Not tonight. “I just meant that you seem more like a guy who drinks beer.”
“Sometimes. Whatever suits the mood.” He looked over his shoulder again, his eyes a deep, glittering blue. “I think it’s good to mix things up, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He turned his attention back to the fire, and she noticed the darker streaks of blond where rainwater had run from the top of his head and the way his neck, at its base, spread into strong shoulder muscles that disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
She remembered seeing his bare chest and muscular back, and at the thought her pulse elevated, and she fought the urge to run. This was too close, too intimate. He was squatting, the worn heels of his boots above the carpet as he leaned forward. His jeans were low on his hips, his waistband gaping at his spine, but, unfortunately, the tail of his shirt never moved, remained tucked while he struck a match against the sole of one boot and lit the fire. She realized that being alone with him was darned close to emotional suicide, that her fascination for him was running far too deep, and yet she couldn’t resist staying with him.
With a spark and a crackle, flames began to devour the dry kindling and wood. Smoke billowed into the room. “Dammit,” he said, reaching quickly above the hungry, snapping flames to open the flue. “I forget some people close these things.” The chimney began to draw. “You didn’t know that my plan was to asphyxiate you, did you?”
She laughed as he straightened, dusted his hands together, then cracked one of the windows. “Better?”
“Much.”
“So much for being suave and debonair.” He sat on the floor next to her and accepted a glass.
“That’s okay. I’m not into the sleek-and-sophisticated type.”
“Lucky for me.” He offered her a crooked smile that drilled right to the core of her. “How about a toast?”
“A toast? I can’t wait to hear this.”
“Here’s to you, Katie Kinkaid.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers and looked deep into her eyes. “May you find your happiness here, and may you always be safe.”
Her heart nearly crumpled, and her throat grew thick, but she managed a frail smile. “And here’s to you, Luke Gates,” she said, again nudging his glass with hers. “Man of mystery, cowboy and Bittersweet’s newest entrepreneur. May the ranch be a raving success.”
“It will be.” He grinned crookedly, his gaze still holding hers as he took the first sip. Katie’s heart thrummed, her throat was as dry as a desert, and she sipped from her glass, feeling the red wine slide down her throat more easily than she’d expected. She shouldn’t be doing this; the room was much too intimate, the atmosphere seductive.
Firelight played in Luke’s hair, reflecting in his eyes and gilding his skin. He stretched out, boots nearly touching the marble hearth, one elbow propping his shoulders upright.
“Tell me about yourself,” he suggested.
“Not much more to tell.” She took another swallow. “I think you know most of the high points.”
“Do I?” One of his eyebrows arched, and her stomach rolled over. He was so damned sexy, so raw and male. As he drank from his glass she watched his Adam’s apple move, and she found the involuntary motion decidedly seductive. What was wrong with her? Why did she always see Luke Gates as a raw, sexual man, not just someone she wanted as a friend. “How about the men in your life?”
“‘The men’?” she repeated and smiled. “The dozens of men?” When his smile faded she shook her head. “The truth of the matter is, there just haven’t been many.”
“There was Josh’s father.”
Dave. Her heart twisted a bit. “He was a long time ago. I was in high school.”
“And since?”
“I’ve dated a little. Nothing serious. I had Josh to think about, to protect, and of course, my job. I…I told myself I couldn’t get involved with anyone, I had too many responsibilities, and maybe it was just a defense mechanism, but the truth of the matter is that no one interested me.” Until you.
“Most women want a man to be a father to their kids.”
“I’m not most women,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly.
“I noticed.” His eyes locked with hers, and in that instant she knew she would make love to him. It was inevitable, like the ebb and flow of the tide. The wine was beginning to warm her blood, and the intimacy of the room enfolded her in a soft, seductive cocoon. Raindrops sparkling with firelight trailed down the windowpanes, and she felt as if she and Luke were the only two people on earth. She licked a drop of Merlot from her lips, and his gaze followed her movement.
Slowly he took her glass from her hand, set it along with his in a corner near the fireplace, then stretched out beside her on the carpet and wrapped his arms around her. She turned her head up expectantly but wasn’t prepared for the onslaught on her senses as his lips met hers, his tongue delved between her teeth, and a rush of desire as hot as lava sped through her blood.
This time there were no excuses, no interruptions. His tongue and hands were everywh
His body was lean and sinewy, sleek muscles visible through skin that was tanned except for a strip of white over his buttocks. Golden hair covered his chest and his manhood, which was strong, erect and ready.
His fingers caressed her, his lips and tongue exploring each intimate crevice and curve. She tingled inside as she, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence, touched him and heard him moan with deep, hungry pleasure.
She didn’t think about the consequences as he rolled atop her, didn’t consider recriminations. She arched as he placed his big, callused hands on either side of her rib cage, his fingers splaying around her ribs, his thumbs rubbing her nipples seductively. His hair fell forward, streaked gold and red by the firelight as he bent forward and kissed the tip of each breast. The world began to tilt. He pushed his tongue through the valley of her sternum; then, with his lips, climbed each mound and lingered, laving and sucking at her nipples. Desire, dark and insistent, curled deep inside her and brought with it a moistness, a wild yearning she hadn’t felt in years.
“Katie,” he rasped, lifting his head as her fingers dug into the hard, sinewy muscles of his buttocks. “Sweet, sweet Katie.”
She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t form a word.
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate. It had been so long. Too long. Winding an arm around his neck, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him, her mouth open and waiting, her body quivering with a passion she’d feared she’d lost.