Husband in Training Page 10

  Jenny reached out and brushed a swatch of brown hair out of Polly's eyes. "All right. We'll let it go."

  "Thanks, Mom."

  "You're welcome."

  Polly turned in her chair. "Where's Daisy?" She began calling. "Daisy. Here, Daisy…"

  "She's gone, honey."

  Polly swung back to her mother. "Huh?"

  "Nick took her home with him."

  "But why? He wasn't going to take her until tomorrow."

  "He's not coming tomorrow."

  Polly's face fell. "Why?"

  "I was angry. I told him he'd had enough training for one week."

  "But—"

  "Honey, he'll be back on Monday. And anyway, your grandmother's coming tomorrow night."

  "So?"

  "So, I won't be here. You two can play that MindTrap game, or Scrabble. Spend a little time together."

  "Wait a minute. Where are you going?"

  Somewhat reluctantly, Jenny admitted, "I have a date."

  Polly forgot all about Nick as she absorbed that bit of information. "You? A date?"

  "Yes."

  "With who?"

  "A nice man who works at my school. His name's Roger. He teaches fifth grade."

  "Wow. A date. My mom on a date. Weird." Polly leaned forward. "Hey. If you need a few pointers, you know, on the whole dating thing, I'm always here. And don't look at me like that. I told you. I've got a talent for—"

  The phone rang.

  Polly leapt from the chair. "I'll get it. I'm sure it's Mellie." She pounded off down the hall.

  "Your mother seems nice," Roger said. They were sitting in the dim theater, waiting for the movie to start. "And your daughter, too."

  "Thank you. I think they're both pretty terrific."

  "I hated my wife's mother," Roger said. "Classic evil mother-in-law syndrome. She was a lot of our problem—mine and my ex-wife's."

  Jenny sipped from the Coke she'd picked up at the snack bar on their way in. So far, the date was going well. Jenny didn't feel nervous at all. "Come on, Roger. You don't really mean that your ex-mother-in-law was evil, do you?"

  He laughed and tossed a few chocolate covered raisins into his mouth. "She was. She is. Definitely. The devil incarnate."

  "I don't believe that."

  He shrugged. "I'm not going to go into detail. It would ruin the evening. Did you like your mother-in-law?"

  "Yes, we always got along quite well, as a matter of fact."

  "What about your father-in-law?"

  "Adored him."

  "Next you're going to say that your husband and your mother never shared a harsh word."

  "I wouldn't go that far. People in families do have their differences. But they really did like each other a lot."

  "I can't stand this. Perfect in-laws. It's not normal and you know it." Roger laughed again, and she laughed, too. The lights dimmed. Popcorn boxes and beverage containers began to dance across the screen.

  Jenny settled back in her seat, a little relieved that the show had started. She'd been just about to mention Nick, her husband's best friend, whom she'd barely tolerated for over a decade—and who had ended up becoming her own dearest friend.

  Her dearest friend—and now something scarily more.

  Not that she would have mentioned that part to Roger.

  But still, it was better not to go into the subject of Nick at all.

  With a muttered curse, Nick tossed the magazine across the room. It landed in front of the black slate fireplace where a gas fire pretended to burn a pair of big fake logs.

  Daisy, batting at a catnip-stuffed mouse a few feet from where the magazine landed, jumped straight up in the air and then darted off across the beige marble floor, slipping and sliding all the way, to hide behind a chair.

  Nick cursed again, more softly. He glanced at the stack of magazines on the side table at his elbow. Women's magazines. Much like the one he'd just thrown at the fireplace.

  Magazines chock-full of helpful hints on how to get love and make it work and never let it fade.

  Why was he reading these things anyway?

  And on Friday-damn-night, no less.

  Because Polly Brown, his own personal expert on love, had told him to.

  He rested an elbow on the stack of magazines and then leaned on it. The one-handed clock built into the slab of slate that extended to the vaulted ceiling above the fireplace said it was eight-fifteen. Or thereabouts. Who could ever be one hundred percent sure of the time, with a one-handed clock? He'd thought the clock was interesting, when he'd first seen it. Now he just thought it was stupid; a clock with one hand missing.

  With golden eyes round as two pennies, Daisy peeked out at him from behind the chrome-and-black-leather chair where she'd scooted when the magazine hit.

  "Sorry 'bout that," he said. "Didn't mean to scare you."

  "Rreow?"

  He put up both hands. "Look. I'm a little edgy here, you know what I mean?"

  The kitten stepped out from behind the chair, plunked herself down and started giving herself a bath.

  Nick let out a gusty sigh, picked up another magazine—and then dropped it back on the stack.

  Maybe he should try one of those videos Polly had recommended. Pretty Woman or Pride and Prejudice.

  He let out a low groan. He'd rather stare at a one-handed clock than watch some love story right now.

  The TV remote sat on the couch beside him. He grabbed it up and pointed it at the giant screen across the room. There had to be a basketball game on one of the sixty-odd channels his satellite dish pulled in.

  After five minutes of surfing, he found one. Pistons versus the Denver Nuggets. He watched for a while. But it was a rout. He switched the set off, tossed the remote down and glanced at the clock again. Eight forty-five, approximately.

  He wondered what Jen and Polly were doing. If Jen hadn't kicked him out and told him not to come back till Monday, he'd know what they were doing. Because he'd be over at their house. Where the floors had carpets on them, for pity's sake. Where the clocks were normal clocks, either digital or with two hands. Where things smelled like people lived there.

  Maybe he just ought to get good and drunk.

  Rising, he crossed the acres of gleaming bare floor, went down a hall and into the kitchen. He flicked on the lights. The steel stove and refrigerator, the yards and yards of Corian counters, gleamed at him. A guy could do surgery in here, it was so clean and bare.

  Yeah, he really did need to think about selling this place. About finding himself something more homey, some place where the kitchen didn't remind him of an operating room. If it wasn't eight forty-something on Friday night, he'd call up a Realtor right now.

  He stalked over to the fridge, pulled it open and stared at the cans of Millers lined up on the bottom shelf. He bent to reach for one—and then straightened without picking it up.

  "Friday-damn-night," he growled. "All by my lonesome on Friday-damn-night and nothing but the Pistons versus the Nuggets on my sixty-odd channel giant-screen TV." All because of Jen. Because Jen had decided to remind him why he used to hate her so much.

  Nick shoved the refrigerator door shut.

  Nobody had to be alone on Friday night. Not as long as there were places like the Nine-Seventeen Club around.

  After the movie, Roger asked if Jenny would like to stop somewhere for coffee.

  They found a nice little coffee bar with round tables and bentwood chairs and ferns hanging everywhere. Jenny had a cappuccino. Roger chose something called 49er Blend. They sat at one of the round tables and sipped and talked—about the movie, about how Roger was adjusting to being single again, about the kids in their classes and the new principal, who'd taken over just that year and who showed a disturbing reluctance to back the teachers when problem students required disciplinary action.

  "I'm glad we did this, Jenny," Roger told her.

  She smiled across the table at him and made a noise of agreement.

  She was thi
nking that she liked him. And that the evening had turned out just fine, easy and comfortable. Fun—in a safe, rather bland sort of way.

  "We'll have to do it again."

  She nodded, thinking, why not? Why shouldn't they do it again?

  And that made her think of Nick. Of the way her heart raced whenever she saw him now.

  It somehow made her feel guilty.

  As if this date was a betrayal of what she felt for Nick.

  Which was ridiculous, since what she felt for Nick was something she did not want to feel and intended to get over, very soon now.

  "More cappuccino?" Roger asked.

  Jenny said she would love one more cup.

  The Nine-Seventeen Club was named after its address: 917 Exposition Boulevard. It had a pretty good-size parking lot—which was packed on Friday night.

  Nick had to drive around for fifteen minutes, just to get himself a space.

  Inside, the huge bar took up all of one long wall. The floor was dotted with small tables, every one of them taken. High counters and stools, all of them occupied, lined the other three walls. Tucked into a corner, not far from one end of the bar, a DJ sat on a dais and played country and soft rock just a little too loud.

  Nick worked his way through the crush of people to the bar. He ordered a Scotch and soda. The bartender had just set the drink in front of him when the woman on the stool right next to him leaned over and shouted in his ear.

  "Hi."

  He turned her way, raised his drink to her and then sipped. She had soft brown hair and full lips and a very friendly look in her eye.

  "I'm Louise," she said. "You come here often?"

  He wondered, Why did they always ask that? Like it mattered.

  But he knew his line. "Every once in a while."

  "It's a little loud."

  "Sure is."

  She leaned her head on her hand and looked at him dreamily.

  He knew what was coming next. Knew the whole conversation, just as it would go: What do you do? Oh, really? How interesting…

  He smiled at Louise, who seemed nice and looked good and in whom he had absolutely no interest at all.

  What in hell had possessed him to come here?

  Beyond Louise's pretty brown head, way down at the other end of the bar, he saw Sasha.

  He blinked, looked again.

  Yeah. Wild red hair and that quick, nervous way of tipping her head to the side.

  She hadn't seen him. A big guy leaned close to her. A rough trade sort of guy, with long black hair clubbed into a ponytail between his huge shoulders and arms like concrete pilings.

  Nick stared as Sasha threw back her wild red head and laughed. The big guy leaned closer to her. She put her hand on his arm, and gave it a squeeze.

  The truth dawned for Nick, standing there in the Nine-Seventeen Club, with his Scotch and soda in his hand and a pretty brunette named Louise watching him breathlessly, waiting for her opening to ask, What's your sign?

  Sasha never really loved him, no matter what she had told him. Sasha was not looking for a husband at all. Nick was not the first lunkhead she'd met in a bar.

  And he sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

  He was probably damn lucky he'd always had sense enough to practice safe sex with her.

  Louise shouted, "What's your name?"

  "Nick."

  The big guy put that huge arm around Sasha. She turned fully toward him, away from Nick, without ever once glancing over and catching sight of him there.

  "Well, Nick. Can I buy you another drink?"

  He set his glass down on the bar, gave Louise a final smile. "Thanks, but I just realized I gotta go."

  "But—"

  "Have a great time, Louise. Seriously." He turned and elbowed his way to the door. Outside, the night air felt good. Fresh, cold and clean. He gulped in a lungful of it and stared up at the three-quarter moon and he thought, Sasha Overfield is not the woman for me. What a relief.

  To finally let himself admit the damn truth.

  Yeah, that was what he felt. Relief. That he could stop telling himself this lie about a woman he didn't even really know.

  Why he'd thought he had to tell himself such a lie in the first place was another question—one he didn't really have an answer to. But that was okay. A guy didn't have to have the answer to every damn question that popped into his head.

  He wanted to get into his car and drive straight to Jen's house. He wanted to tell her all about this … revelation he'd just had. Tell her how Sasha didn't love him, after all—and he didn't love her. How he felt so good and light and free, to admit the truth at last.

  But Jen was mad at him.

  That good feeling of lightness blew away on the night wind.

  Left him lonely and down and thinking of his big, ugly house with its beige marble floors and black slate fireplace. Of that stupid clock with one hand.

  The only thing alive in there was the fuzz ball. Who was probably wandering around from room to room, looking for her catnip mouse and meowing in self-pity, wondering why she'd had to get stuck with a lousy owner like him.

  He should go home to her.

  And he would. Soon.

  But first, maybe he'd drive by Jen's house, see if he could drum up the nerve to knock on the door…

  Nick pulled his car to a stop a few houses down from Jen's place, in the shadow of a big live oak. He turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, wondering what he was doing. Sitting in the shadows down the street from Jen's house at ten-thirty at night.

  Words like sneaking and lurking came immediately to mind. Words like skulking and spying.

  But he wasn't spying, not really. He just hadn't made up his mind yet if he was actually going to go up and knock on her door. And until he did make up his mind, he didn't want Jen to glance out a window and see him there.

  As Nick sat in the shadows, trying to drum up the nerve to go up Jen's front walk and knock on her door, a light-colored late-model sedan came around the corner and parked in her driveway. A man got out, went around to the passenger side and pulled open the door. The woman inside the car swung her legs to the driveway and stood.

  It was Jen.

  Jen. With some guy Nick didn't think he'd ever seen before.

  The guy closed the door and he and Jen walked around the front of the car. A moment later, they moved out of Nick's line of sight as they went up the front walk.

  Nick sat very still. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to get out of the car and creep through the shadows to the top of Jen's driveway, where he could see if Jen and the strange man were still standing on the porch, or if they had gone inside.

  The man appeared again, around the corner of the garage. He got into the car, started it up and backed into the street and drove away.

  Nick just sat there, in his black Cadillac in the dark, wondering what the hell was going on.

  A date? It sure looked like a date.

  Jen on a date?

  No. Jen didn't date. Jen had never gotten over Andy. Hadn't Nick seen her himself, just two weeks ago, with misty eyes and a glass of Chenin Blanc, poring over those old pictures of Andy, trying to get past one more anniversary of his death?

  And besides, Jen and Nick were friends.

  She would have told him if she'd started going out again.

  Wouldn't she?

  He felt kind of hurt, now that he thought about it. First, she'd played the damn snow queen again, kicked him out and told him not to come back until Monday. And now, here she was giving him reason to suspect she'd been out on a date with some guy he didn't even know.

  He needed to talk to her about it. He needed to talk to her about lots of things. About Sasha, and how he'd figured out he didn't love her, after all. About last night and how damn unreasonable she'd been. And about this guy who'd just brought her home.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  Nick leaned on the car door, started to get out.

  But then he c
hanged his mind. He shut the door, still inside.

  She'd told him Monday. He could come back on Monday.

  Fine. Okay. He'd talk to her Monday. Nick turned the key. The car hummed to life. He had one more friend to visit tonight. The best kind of friend: one who would never send him away.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  "Well? How did it go? Was it fun? He seemed okay. Do you like him? You're kind of early, aren't you?" Polly stood in the hallway, dressed in her plaid pajamas and smelling of toothpaste and Ivory soap.

  Jenny pointed at the closed door to the spare room and whispered, "Granny in bed?"

  "Yep. Crashed out. You know how she is. Talk to me, Mom. I want to hear it all."

  Jenny went into her own room, where she flicked on the floor lamp and tossed her purse on the bed. She shrugged out of her jacket, thinking of last Saturday, of how that night she'd expected the third degree from Polly, and instead had found her zoned out in front of the tube. Now, tonight, for some reason, Polly just had to know everything. Kids were way too much like the rest of life: hard to predict.

  Polly had followed her into the room, shut the door, shoved Jenny's purse aside and flopped down on the bed. "Mo-ther. Talk. Tell me. How was it?"

  "There really isn't that much to tell. We both liked the movie. We stopped for coffee afterward."

  Polly stretched out on her side, braced her head on her hand and let out a loud fake snore. "Wake me up when you get to the good part."

  Jenny went to the closet and hung up her coat. "It was … very nice."

  "Ugh," Polly said. "Nice. You worry me, Mom."

  "Roger is a friend. A good friend. It's nothing … romantic."

  "Just like Nick, right?"

  No, Jenny thought guiltily. Not like Nick. Not like Nick at all…

  "Mom. It's good that you're dating."

  "Well, I'm so relieved to have your approval."

  "But you're going to have to get past this friend thing, you really are."

  "Who says I have to get past it?"

  Polly rolled to her back and groaned long and loud. "Oh, Mom. You are hopeless. You honestly are."