Husband in Training Read online

  Polly held out the kitten. "Come on. Take her. You're even the one who found her. It makes me kind of sad, because I'd like to have her. But I think she's really meant to be yours."

  "Meant to be mine? What? Now we're talking about fate here? Making something mystical out of some stray ball of fuzz? I don't think so. Uh-uh. No. Nix. Forget it."

  Polly pushed the kitten at him again. "You haven't even held her, Nick."

  "I don't need to hold her. And she doesn't need to be held by me."

  "She does, too. Look at her. She's got no one, and you found her. Come on, now. Take your cat."

  Nick had backed himself all the way to the door. Polly pushed little Daisy right up against his broad chest—and then let go.

  He had to catch her or let her fall to the floor.

  With a muttered curse, he made a cradle of his big arms.

  The cat settled right in—and started to purr.

  "Aww," said Polly, suddenly teary-eyed. "Aww, look at that. She knows, Nick. She senses it. You're the human for her."

  Nick stared down at the cat, which gazed trustingly up at him. "Hell," he said wearily, "you women are ganging up on me."

  "You'll take her, then?"

  He didn't answer for a long moment, a moment in which the only sound was Daisy's contented purr. Then, at last, he surrendered—marginally. "You'd better keep her here till the weekend, in case one of your neighbors shows up for her."

  "And if no one does?"

  Nick admitted defeat. "All right. If no one comes to get her, then I've got myself a damn cat."

  No neighbors appeared the next day to claim the little cat.

  That night, Daisy sat on Nick's lap as he and Polly argued over several poems by Erica Jong. Jenny surreptitiously observed him, thinking that the cat really did seem to like him. And come Friday night, whatever excuses he came up with, he would be taking Daisy home. The litter box would be gone from the corner of her kitchen and spaying and distemper shots would be his to worry about.

  Maybe she felt just a little bit guilty, to be forcing an innocent animal on Nick, who, in all the years she'd known him, had never shown any more desire for a pet than he had for a wife.

  But he had changed his mind lately about wanting a wife. Maybe he'd learn to love a pet as well.

  And Jenny did feel that the cat would be good for Nick—something warm and alive that needed his care. He could read all the books ever written about love; he could study them, and argue with Polly about them. But at some point, he had to start practicing loving, start getting used to providing the day-to-day care and attention a live creature demanded.

  "You take care of my cat, now," he teasingly told Jenny when he left that night.

  Jenny's pulse started racing, as it too often did now when Nick spoke to her. She ignored the rapid beating of her foolish heart, promised she would take good care of Daisy—and told herself Nick's words were more proof that making him take the cat had been a good move.

  Thursday night, after dinner, Jenny left Nick and Polly to their studies and drove over to her mother's condo to pick up the teaching aids that Kirsten had said she could borrow. Once they'd carried the two felt boards down to Jenny's car, Kirsten invited her in for a cup of decaf.

  Jenny hesitated, feeling as if she ought to hurry home. But why rush? Nick would be there for at least another hour. He'd look after Polly. And if there was a problem they would call her on the cell phone she always carried in her purse. Back home, she'd only end up in the spare room, sitting at her desk, listening for the sound of his voice and calling herself a hundred kinds of fool.

  Jenny followed her mother back up the stairs.

  "Nick, I really think it's about time that you at least tried to contact her again."

  Nick petted Daisy, who sat purring on his lap. The ball of fuzz arched her back. Her motor was going good. She really was a cute little thing. For a cat. And either Polly had given her a bath, or she'd started washing herself with that rough tongue of hers. Her striped orange coat had a nice clean look to it now.

  "Nick. Did you hear what I said?"

  He glanced up. "I told you. She said she didn't want to see me anymore."

  "So?"

  "So, I'm respecting her wishes. For a while."

  Polly gave a little grunt of impatience. "Nick. You have to do something to get back with her. If you don't, I mean, what's the point of all this work that we're doing?"

  Nick shifted in his chair a little. He didn't like the look in Polly's eyes at all. He wasn't ready to approach Sasha yet. It hadn't even been two weeks since she'd left him that note. A woman like Sasha needed her space. "I'll get a hold of her. When the time is right."

  "And just when is that going to be?"

  Nick petted the cat some more. He wished Jen hadn't taken off and left him alone here with just the kitten and a bossy thirteen-year-old.

  "Nick. When?"

  He glanced toward the kitchen, and up, at that skylight he'd put in a few years back. The only place he tried not to look was at Polly.

  "Wait!" Polly said, with sudden and unnerving glee, "I have an idea."

  Nick started shaking his head before she even finished the sentence. "I don't know, Pol…"

  She gave him a look of pure disgust. "How can you shake your head like that? You haven't even heard it yet."

  "Well, if it's got something to do with me calling Sasha—"

  "You don't have to call her." Polly's cheeks were pink. Flushed. With excitement over this "idea" she'd just had.

  Nick didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. He put on his most hangdog expression. "Look. She really crushed me, you know, when she dumped me? A guy has his pride. I don't want to try to talk to her. Not for a while. You can call me a coward and maybe I am, but—"

  "Wait. That's just it. You don't have to talk to her. You don't have to say a word."

  He held back a groan. "Flowers, right? You want me to send her a dozen red roses."

  Polly was smiling so wide, all the metal in there gleamed. "No. Roses. Boring. And way too easy. Anyone can send roses."

  He felt slightly offended. "Hey. Roses ain't cheap."

  "Money. All you adults ever think about is how much something costs."

  "It's easy to say that when you're thirteen and you have a mom like Jen, who keeps you warm and safe in a nice house and cooks you one hell of a hot meal every damn night."

  "Can we not talk about dinner. Please? This is about Sasha. About the woman you love." Somehow, when Polly called Sasha the woman he loved, it sounded laughable. He petted the cat some more and tried not to wonder why that might be. "Nick. You'd better be listening to me."

  "Okay, okay." Browbeaten, he was thinking. That's what I am. Browbeaten. By a thirteen-year-old.

  Polly sat back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. "A letter."

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Huh?"

  "A love letter." She jumped from her chair and pounded down the hall.

  Nick sat there, petting the cat, kind of hoping she wouldn't come back.

  No such luck. Here she came. Clomp-clomp-clomp. Skinny as a fence post, but still, the kid sounded like she weighed two hundred pounds when she ran. She skidded to a stop at his elbow and slid a few sheets of expensive-looking writing paper in front of him. Then she plunked a pen on top of the paper. "Give me Daisy and start writing."

  He looked up at her. "You know, you're badgering me. That's what you're doing. I don't like it much."

  "I want the cat."

  He tried a little change of subject. "Nice paper." It was probably Jen's. She might not like Polly taking it without her permission. "Where'd you get it?"

  "Grandma Brown sent it to me. For writing letters to her and Grandpa."

  Andy's parents had retired to Tucson six or seven years before. "Well. I'm glad to hear you keep in touch with them."

  "Don't try to distract me. Give me that cat." She reached down and took Daisy away from him. Then, holding the cat in one h
and, she picked up the pen with the other and jabbed it at him. He took it, just to keep from getting poked with it.

  "Now," she said. "Just start writing. Write what you feel. Write what's in your heart."

  Under his breath, he muttered a word he shouldn't have said.

  "Don't swear. Write."

  He looked down at those blank sheets of paper—and didn't have a clue where to start. "Polly, I really can't. Love letters just aren't my style."

  She let out a sigh big enough to blow a strip mall sideways. "Oh, all right. I guess I'll have to help. I'll have to be your Cyrano."

  "My what?"

  "Your Cyrano. You know, Cyrano de Bergerac? That play by Rostand?"

  Cyrano de Bergerac. It sounded vaguely familiar. Nick thought they'd made him read it in high school. "The guy with the big nose, right?"

  Polly looked hopeful. "Then you've read it?"

  "It was a while ago."

  Another giant sigh. "Well, maybe we should have you read it again. Even if it is by a man. See, Cyrano loves his cousin, Roxanne. And he's an incredible man. He's this musician-poet-swordsman-philosopher."

  "Quadruple threat, right? Everything a woman wants."

  "You got it. But unfortunately—"

  Nick nodded. "The giant schnoz. A real turnoff."

  "He's afraid she could never love him. So he helps his friend, Christian, to woo her. By writing these fabulous letters, by telling Christian beautiful things to say to her. It works. But then Christian dies. And Cyrano swears never to reveal that he was the soul of the man Roxanne loved. Roxanne becomes a nun and—" She cut herself off in midsentence.

  He tried to keep her going. "Go ahead. Tell me the rest."

  She shook her head. "Never mind. Forget Cyrano for now. The point is, I'm going to help you with this letter you need to write."

  Just the kind of help he didn't need. "Aw, Pol…"

  "I mean it. This will work out just great." Her braces gleamed at him. "I'll write it for you. Then you can copy what I write, so it really will be from you."

  He sincerely and truly did not like this idea. "I don't know, Pol…"

  "Nick, it'll be what's in your heart. It'll only be my words—wait a minute." She whirled and ran off down the hall again, returning in thirty seconds with more blank paper.

  He looked at her with extreme wariness. "What's that?"

  "Scratch paper. For the rough draft. I'll write it on this paper. And then you can copy what I wrote onto the good stuff."

  "It just doesn't sound … straight, you know? If I don't even write it, then—"

  "Don't worry. You'll copy it, so it'll be in your handwriting. And I'll make it good. I promise, Nick. It might take a while, but I'll get it just right. Trust me. Please. You're gonna be proud of it." She was shoving the cat at him again. "Here. Take Daisy. And give me that pen."

  "Jennifer, is there something bothering you lately?"

  Surprised at the question and suddenly very uncomfortable, Jenny stared across the table at the face that was a lot like her own: the same strong chin and blue eyes, the same light blond hair—hair so pale, it hardly showed the gray.

  Her mother continued, "You've seemed so … subdued the past couple of times we've talked. Subdued and a little preoccupied." Kirsten picked up her mug and drank, her eyes concerned and watchful over the rim of the cup. "Are you troubled about this new man you're going out with tomorrow night?"

  Jenny looked down into her own cup. A single word floated into her mind. Nick. She ordered it to float right back out. "Mom, honestly. Roger's a nice man. But I'm not troubled about him, not at all."

  "It does seem that something is bothering you."

  Jenny wrapped her fingers around the cup handle, but then didn't pick it up. She confessed, softly, "Maybe I am a little down." Then she forced a small laugh. "That's pretty vague, huh?"

  Kirsten nodded. "Yes. But it's okay to be vague. And if you're feeling down, well, everyone has times like that. I just want you to know, if you need someone to talk to, I'm here."

  For some reason, Jenny found herself thinking of her father. Tom Lundquist had been a decade older than his wife. He'd died of a first heart attack nine years ago. The death, like Andrew's death, had taken them completely by surprise. Jenny's father had never smoked. He rarely drank and had stayed lean and fit. "Mom?"

  "Mmm?"

  "You seem happy, living alone. But are you, really?"

  Kirsten thought for a moment, then she replied, "The first year after your father died, that was the worst. I must confess, if I'd met someone then, some nice, friendly fellow with whom I could carry on an interesting conversation…" Kirsten shrugged and sipped more decaf.

  "What? Tell me."

  "Well, if I'd met such a man—and if that man had asked me—I would have said yes in a heartbeat."

  Jenny sat back a little. "You're kidding." She didn't really intend to sound disapproving, but somehow it came out that way.

  Her mother only smiled. "No. I'm quite serious. I was terribly lonely. I wanted a husband, to try to fill the huge gap your father had left. But no man appeared. No one asked. And as the years have gone by, I've come to enjoy my independence. I don't think I'd be willing to give it up now, even for a man as wonderful as your father was."

  Jenny shook her head. "The first year after Andrew died, I couldn't even have looked at another man." Nick came drifting into her mind again. She ordered him away. "And I know how you felt about Dad. I think you're fooling yourself a little about this. If that man you described had come along, you wouldn't have married him. I just don't believe you could have done that."

  "Jennifer," her mother chided, "I love you dearly. But we are two different people."

  "Well, I know that." It came out sounding defensive, though she hadn't meant it to.

  Her mother smiled. "Sometimes one needs reminding, even of the most obvious things."

  Jenny glanced at her watch. Nick would be leaving soon. She really ought to get home. "So then. You're happy? As a single woman."

  "Yes, I am. But I think the real question here is, are you?"

  Jenny opened her mouth to say something brisk and final. But then her glance fell on the toaster, over on the counter by the stove. The blue toaster that matched the walls of her mother's kitchen exactly. Andrew had found that toaster. At Sears, shortly after Kirsten had moved in here. He'd brought it over and taken it out of the box and plugged it into the wall. If Jenny closed her eyes, she could still see him now.

  Andrew in old sweats and a T-shirt, standing by the counter where the toaster sat gleaming. He'd been grinning with pride. "Well, Kirsten." He'd gestured with his long, lean arm, a sort of flourish, at the toaster. "What do you think?"

  And her mother had answered, "I think that my daughter has married a very thoughtful man."

  "Oh, Mom." Jenny didn't sound brisk at all. The words came out harsh and low. "I loved him so."

  Across the table, her mother whispered, "I know."

  "How could there be anyone else for me? It still hurts, just to think of him. I don't think I could take it, to love like that again—to open myself up like that again, all the time knowing just what it would be like, to lose like that again."

  Her mother said nothing. She simply reached out her hand. Jenny took it, gratitude washing through her, that her mother didn't say all the easy things, about taking a chance again, about getting past her fears. Jenny knew all those things. Hearing her mother say them wouldn't help her.

  They sat there for what seemed to be a very long time, holding hands across the table.

  Jenny was the one who pulled away at last. "I should go. Nick's with Polly, but he'll be leaving soon."

  "I'm here. If you need me."

  "I know. And it helps."

  When Jenny arrived home, she found Nick and Polly in their usual seats at the table.

  Polly had her head bent; she was writing something. Daisy sat in Nick's lap. Several sheets of blank paper were stacked in front of h
im. For a second, Jenny stared at the blank paper, frowning.

  When she looked up, Nick was watching her. She felt that bothersome jolt of awareness that always took her by surprise now whenever he glanced her way. He smiled. "Hey, Jen."

  Something wasn't right. He looked … uncomfortable. Maybe even a little bit embarrassed. That smile was … what? Sheepish. Yes. That was the word. She looked at him more sharply. He broke eye contact with her to gaze down at the kitten, which he then began petting.

  Jenny could hear the low, contented purr. She watched Nick's big, tanned hand as it moved in slow, gentle strokes from the top of the orange head, down the fuzzy body, to the end of the striped tail, which the kitten had left uncurled so it draped over the hard curve of his thigh. Each stroke seemed to engulf the cat, since it was so small and Nick had such big hands.

  All at once, in the middle of a stroke, he looked up and snared Jenny's glance again. Jenny felt a maddening, lazy warmth, down low in her belly.

  She shook herself. "Hi, you two." Her voice sounded casual, and that pleased her. She felt one hundred percent certain that Nick had no clue of her new and disturbing reactions to him. "How's the training going?"

  Nick got that look again: sheepish. "Uh, just fine."

  Polly made some indecipherable noise and kept her head studiously bent over the paper she was scribbling on. She'd pulled the dining-room wastebasket close to her chair.

  Puzzled, Jenny started for the hall. As she passed Polly's chair, she glanced down into the wastebasket. It was half full of wadded-up papers. Failed efforts, apparently.

  But failed efforts at what?

  She kept walking, to her bedroom, where she set her purse on the dresser and hung up her coat. Then she went and stood right by the open door to the hall. She listened.

  Quiet. It was too quiet. The two of them should be arguing. And Nick should be laughing. Then Nick spoke. "Let me read that."

  "Just a minute."

  "Pol, come on. You've been scribbling away for half an hour. Let me see."

  "I want to get it right. I want her to be overwhelmed with your depth and sensitivity. I need time to do that. You'll just have to wait."