Husband in Training Read online

  Polly huffed in exasperation. "Mother, we just got started here and we have a lot of work to do."

  "Yes, honey. But you also have to eat."

  Nick had already jumped to his feet. He began gathering up the books and magazines the two of them had spread out on the table. "Come on, Pol. I'll help you." He shot Jenny a hopeful glance. "Sure smells good."

  She knew what he was after. Somehow, the past three nights, he always managed to arrive just in time for dinner. "All right. You may stay."

  He beamed. "Great."

  He and Polly set the table. Then the three of them sat down and ate the meal Jenny had prepared. Then Nick cleared the table and he and Polly cleaned up the dishes. Jenny headed for the spare room and her desk there. She had a few papers to correct.

  The phone rang at seven-thirty. It was Amelia Gordon. Jenny called for her daughter and Polly yelled back, "I'll get it in my room!"

  Polly's footsteps pounded down the hall. Then her bedroom door slammed. Jenny winced and sighed and wondered why Polly never did anything in moderation lately. The girl either ran and slammed doors—or she dragged around moaning that her life was just too boring for words.

  "That would be Amelia, right?" Nick was standing in the doorway to the hall.

  "Yep." Jenny tossed her red marker aside and turned her swivel chair around to face him. "My guess is that the training session's over for tonight."

  "Yeah. You're probably right." He leaned on the door frame and ran both hands back over his hair, in that characteristic gesture that somehow always made her feel fond of him. "I was getting pretty sick of that Barrett woman anyway."

  She couldn't resist teasing, "Probably because you're not in touch with your feminine self. Yet."

  "Right. That must be it." He looked at her sideways, and then he pulled himself away from the door frame and came fully into the room with her.

  She watched him, thinking that she had work to do, that he ought to be making see-you-later noises and going on his way.

  He dropped to the futon, which was folded into the couch position, against the wall to her left. She swiveled his way and watched him draw in a long breath through his nose.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Nothing." He draped both powerful arms along the top of the backrest. "Your house always smells good, that's all."

  She crossed one leg over the other, clasped her hands around her raised knee and made a show of sniffing the air. "Smells like the dinner we ate a while ago and that's about all."

  "Exactly. Oven-browned potatoes. Cube steak. White gravy. My house never smells like that."

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice a notch, though Polly was in the other room with her door shut, sharing secrets with Amelia, and doubtless couldn't hear a thing Jenny said. "Nick. Is this about Sasha? Do you want to talk about her?"

  He shrugged. "No, not particularly. What's to say?" For a moment, he looked sad. But then his expression brightened. "I just like it here. I wanted you to know."

  She felt pleased—and somehow wary at the same time. "Well. I'm glad. Thank you."

  He lowered one arm and patted the mattress. "The first time I slept on this thing, that was … what, ten years ago now?"

  "Closer to twelve years, I think." The first time Nick had slept on the futon had been in the apartment over on Howe Avenue, where Jenny and Andrew had lived until they'd finally scraped enough together to put a down payment on the house. In the apartment, the futon had served as both living room sofa and guest bed.

  Nick chuckled low, remembering. "I was just starting out, just got my general contractor's license. I'd bid lower than low on some job—and still lost out. I was steamed."

  "So you got drunk."

  "Drunk as a skunk."

  "And then you showed up at our place."

  "You were mad."

  "Well…"

  "You were. You didn't like me much then."

  "You didn't like me much, either."

  "Yeah, well. The minute Andy met you—in that English class, wasn't it?"

  She nodded. "Honors English. Junior year of high school."

  "Right. The minute he met you it was 'Jenny this' and 'Jenny that.' I was jealous as hell. Even if you both did have a lot in common—both being A students, both wanting to be teachers—I still couldn't see any reason why my best bud in the damn world should be spending so much time with one female. Then he proved my point—or so I thought at the time."

  "How?"

  "He went and married you straight out of high school. And then, boom, not even a year later, there was Polly. I thought he'd messed up his life but good."

  "It never occurred to you that we both just knew what we wanted?"

  "Are you kidding? Nobody knows what they want straight out of high school."

  "Translation: You didn't know what you wanted straight out of high school."

  He picked up a little pillow with a crocheted cover on it and held it to his chest, casting his dark gaze toward the textured ceiling overhead. "The woman knows me too well." He looked at her again. "But really. Look at my folks. They were both eighteen when they got married. And they hit the divorce courts when I was ten." Nick's mother had finished raising him on her own, scraping and struggling to get by. She had died seven years ago, "Of a bad attitude and plain overwork," Nick always claimed. His father had moved away from Sacramento. He lived in Oregon somewhere. He and Nick didn't keep in touch.

  "Anyway," Nick said. "You didn't like me any better than I liked you. You couldn't understand why Andy would want to hang around with a drunken macho moron like me."

  Jenny hid a smile and tried to look innocent. "Did I call you that?"

  "You did. Those exact words. That night I showed up drunk at your apartment. You dragged poor Andy aside and you said, 'I mean it, Andrew, get that drunken macho moron out of here before he wakes up Polly.'"

  Jenny looked down at her clasped hands. "I didn't mean for you to hear."

  Nick chuckled some more. "I know. But I did. I really felt like I got one up on you when Andy didn't have the heart to throw me out. He just told me to keep it down. And then he let me sleep on the futon."

  Nick set the pillow against the backrest and patted it once, shooting Jenny a sideways glance. "I didn't turn out to be so bad, after all—did I?"

  "No," she told him honestly, still wondering what he really had on his mind. "You turned out to be just terrific."

  "—And I guess you're wondering what the hell I'm after now."

  At last, she thought. "I guess I am."

  "Well, what are you doing Saturday night?"

  She sat a little straighter, feeling more wary by the second. "Why, what's going on Saturday night?"

  "A fund-raiser for disadvantaged kids. Over at the Hyatt Regency. Drinks, dinner, dancing. A few speeches. Sasha was going to go with me, but now…" He let a shrug finish the thought. "And I can't just send a check to this one. The wife of one of the major investors on my latest project put the whole thing together. I told her I'd be there."

  "Are you sure you can't just go to this event alone?"

  He gave her an extremely patient look. "Come on, Jen. A guy doesn't show up stag to something like this. And if I can't take Sasha…" He shuffled his boots, sat forward and then sat back again. "I got out my address book, you hear what I'm saying? I started thumbing through it. And there wasn't a phone number in there I wanted to call." He punched at the little crocheted pillow again.

  Watching him, Jenny wondered if she'd taken this whole Sasha thing too lightly, if she'd been so wrapped up in the grim job of getting past another anniversary of Andrew's death that she hadn't really given Nick the support and understanding he'd needed the other night.

  She asked gently, "Nick, are you going to be all right?"

  He made a low noise in his throat, then gave her his cockiest grin. "Hell, yes. I'll be fine. I'm just … going through a few changes, I guess. And I'm not in the mood to take some woman I couldn't care less about to
a fancy gig at the Hyatt Regency. I'd rather take you. If I took you, I might even have a little damn fun."

  His words warmed her. And why was she hesitating anyway? She might have a little fun, too. She'd put on her slinkiest dress and be treated to a meal that she didn't have to cook herself.

  But then again, how many slinky dresses did she own? It had been years, literally, since she'd attended the kind of function Nick was describing. The closest thing to it was probably the New Year's Eve bash she and Andrew had gone to shortly before he died. To that, she'd worn a basic black number, which had been hanging in the deepest recesses of her closet ever since. It probably had moth holes in it by now.

  "Why the big frown?" Nick demanded. "It can't be that depressing to think of spending Saturday night with me—can it?"

  She couldn't resist teasing, "Well, it does sound like quite a chore."

  He sat forward and peered at her closely. Then he straightened his broad shoulders and announced, "That's a yes. I know it. You'll do it, won't you?"

  "Oh, all right. I suppose I will."

  He leapt up, grabbed her hands and yanked her out of her swivel chair. His big arms went around her and he pulled her up close. "Aw, Jen. You're a pal."

  Jenny smiled against his chest. She felt safe and protected, the way she had the other night, when he'd embraced her to comfort her about Andrew. She slid her arms around him and hugged him back.

  Cradled close against him, she found herself remembering the day the verdict came in on the man who'd murdered Andrew in the doughnut shop holdup.

  They'd given her a seat in the front row of the spectator's section. Her mother sat on her right, and Nick on her left. Andrew's father and mother were a little farther down the row.

  The judge asked, "Foreperson White, have you reached a verdict?"

  The jury foreman said, "Yes."

  Jenny had held her breath in fierce desire for the sound of one word: guilty.

  But it didn't come. Instead they started passing forms around—from the foreman to the bailiff and then to the judge. The judge had studied the forms, taking a minute or two that to Jenny had seemed like forever and a day.

  During that endless, agonizing wait, Nick reached out. His big hand covered hers, enfolding it in warmth and strength and total understanding.

  The judge passed the forms to the court clerk.

  The clerk began to read. "In the Superior Court of the State of California, in and for the County of Sacramento, case number…"

  To Jenny, the words had all blurred together into one continuous hum. Hot tears stung her eyes. Her body was rigid, so stiff it ached, while her heart rose up high in her chest, cutting off her air. She twined her fingers with Nick's and held on tight.

  The clerk reached the first charge, that of murder in the second degree, with special circumstances. Jenny heard some numbers from the penal code. And then that single, blessed word she understood.

  "Guilty."

  Down the row, Andrew's mother cried out. Jenny's own mother gasped. Jenny's heart dropped back to its proper place and started beating once again. A single tear escaped her control and trailed down her cheek just as Nick's big, warm hand gave hers a triumphant squeeze…

  Jenny knew she was letting the hug go on too long. Gently she pushed at Nick's broad chest.

  He immediately released her and stepped back. "Okay. I know you've got work to do. And I'm getting out of your hair right now." He started for the door to the hall.

  Just before he went through it, she remembered to ask, "What time?"

  He glanced back at her. "Huh?"

  "What time will you pick me up?"

  "Seven-thirty?"

  "Sounds good."

  "Thanks, Jen." He saluted her with a hand to his forehead, and then he went out through the hall. She stared after him for a moment, thinking about that black dress in the back of her closet, telling herself she'd have to dig it out and look it over later tonight or tomorrow. The front door opened and closed. She turned with a sigh to the papers waiting on her desk.

  A while later, just as Jenny was marking a grade on the final paper in the stack, Polly spoke from behind her. "Where'd Nick go?"

  Jenny capped her red marker and turned enough to look over her shoulder at her daughter. "Home, I'd imagine."

  Polly brushed a hank of hair back from her face and let out a groan. "But I told him I'd be back."

  Jenny glanced at the little travel clock, which sat on a shelf in the top part of the high-backed desk. It had been almost an hour since Polly had disappeared into her room.

  Polly saw the direction of her mother's gaze and immediately jumped into defensive mode. "Mother. Amelia is my best friend. And she needed me tonight. So when she called, we had to talk a little longer than I expected."

  "Oh? What did you have to talk about?"

  Polly stubbed the toe of her shoe against the carpet. "I can't tell you everything, not anymore. Mellie had a personal problem."

  "Well, fine. You dealt with Amelia's problem. And Nick went home." Jenny picked up the stack of papers and tapped them on the desk, to straighten them. Then she bent to scoop up her briefcase. A moment later, she'd popped the latches and was sliding the corrected papers into one of the pouches that lined the lid. That accomplished, she snapped the briefcase shut again and set it back against the side of the desk. "How's your homework situation?"

  "Handled."

  Jenny didn't doubt her daughter's word on that subject. Polly might run down the hall, slam doors and forget all about poor Nick and his training session the minute the phone rang, but she took her schoolwork seriously. She always brought home report cards loaded with A's.

  Jenny switched off the green-shaded desk lamp and stood, pressing at the small of her back, stretching, working out the kinks from sitting for an hour and a half.

  Polly still lingered in the doorway. Now she looked contrite. "Did Nick seem mad, when he left?"

  Jenny felt a little tug in the vicinity of her heart. She'd been thirteen herself once, and prone to thoughtlessness—which she'd always regretted later. She told her daughter softly, "He didn't seem mad at all to me."

  Polly smiled, broadly for once, showing her relief—as well as the braces she hated so much. She confessed, "But I guess it was kind of rude, huh, to just go off and leave him like that?"

  "I'd say it was something I wouldn't do again, if I were you."

  "I won't."

  "Good." Jenny crossed the small room and turned off the overhead light at the switch right beside the door.

  Polly trailed along after her as she headed for her bedroom. "Oh, Mother. Do you think I'm making progress with him?"

  In her own room, Jenny turned on the big floor lamp by her dresser. "You mean Nick?"

  Polly dropped onto Jenny's bed, then flopped onto her back with a drawn-out sigh. "Who else?"

  Jenny turned for her closet, pausing once she got there to remark, "Well, he's reading those love sonnets, isn't he? That's something. I never believed for a minute you'd get him to do that."

  Polly folded her hands over her middle and stared up at the ceiling. "That's true. Too bad all he ever does is complain when we talk about them."

  Jenny pushed back the mirrored closet door. "If he's reading them, that's something. And yesterday you had that nice discussion about that Cosmopolitan article."

  "Right. 'What To Do When Good Love Goes Bad.' I guess he could relate to that, with the Sasha situation and everything. I mean, I think I'm making progress. I'm doing my best. But with Nick, it's hard to tell."

  "Be patient, honey. It's only been a few days."

  "I know, but … you know how he always jokes about things? I tell him to watch a romantic movie and he says, 'How 'bout Rebound Masters of the NBA?'" She imitated Nick's deep voice. "'That romantic enough for ya?'"

  Jenny heard her daughter from a distance now. She'd stuck her head in the closet and begun shoving at hangers, looking for the black dress. Finally she spotted it, all the wa
y in the back. "Ah-ha!" She reached for it and dragged it out.

  Polly rolled her head to look when Jenny emerged from the closet. "What's that?"

  Jenny gathered up the plastic and eased it off the hanger. "Your basic little black dress—evening version." Holding the dress against herself with the hanger under her chin, she turned so she could see herself in the mirrored closet door. "What do you think?"

  Polly sat up. "Mother. What is going on?"

  "Oh, Nick has some charity dinner and dance he can't get out of this Saturday." Jenny tossed the wadded-up plastic cover onto the little chair in the corner and then moved to the bed to lay the dress down where she could examine it more closely. "He asked me if I'd go with him."

  Polly hitched in a small gasp, then demanded in utter disbelief, "You mean like a date?"

  Jenny picked up the hem of the dress and brushed away a bit of lint that clung there. "Well, let's put it this way. He was going to take Sasha, but you know about Sasha."

  "Right. So?"

  "So he decided he wanted to go with a friend." Jenny put her hand against her throat and smiled with appropriate modesty. "That would be me."

  Polly was looking at her as if she had mustard on her nose—too closely, but hesitating to mention it. "So it's just a 'friend' thing."

  "Right." Jenny picked up the dress and turned it over, smoothing it out, checking for moth holes or pulled threads.

  Polly said nothing for a moment, then asked, "Mom?"

  "Mmm?"

  "This could be useful."

  Jenny glanced up. "Useful?"

  "Yes. Don't you see? You'll have to report back to me. Tell me everything."

  "About what?"

  "About Nick, silly. About how he behaves on a date. Then, later, I can give him a few pointers on—"

  Jenny put up a hand, palm out. "Whoa."

  Polly widened those pretty green eyes. "What?"

  "I am not going to spend my evening checking on Nick to make sure he knows which fork to use. He has done quite well for himself, in case you weren't aware. The man knows how to behave at a social event."

  The corners of Polly's mouth pulled down in her best I-am-gravely-offended expression. "Mother, that is not what I meant."