CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 

"Your mother?" I exclaim in a frenzied whisper, frantically scrambling for my clothes. "Your mother's here?"

"Dad too," Conn answers grimly, doing up his shorts. "I knew I should have moved the spare key."

"We didn't hear them come in."

"We were distracted." He stills, his eyes drifting to my breasts.

"Conn?" comes the familiar—and entirely unwelcome—voice from the living room.

"Dammit."

He snaps out of his daze, scoops up whatever fabric is closest, and tosses it at me. It's the T-shirt he was wearing earlier. I pull it on before the Garveys decide to follow their son down the hall. I wouldn't put it past them—they're a little short on formalities in their own former home. His shirt smells like his deodorant and soap and ocean. I only allow it to distract me for a moment.

"Now what?"

Conn shakes his head slowly in a hell-if-I-know kind of way. "Want to come out and say hi?" I start giggling at the ridiculousness of it all, and he flashes his sideways grin. "Stay here, okay? I'll see what they want and then send them on their way."

He steals a small kiss then comes back for a better one. Another reassuring smile and, with a martyred sigh, he's gone.

I can't hide in the bedroom, waiting for him. It's ridiculous. I should walk out the sliding door and around the deck then text him when I get home…the home I can't get into. Crap. I can't call someone for help either—I left my bag, with my phone in it, by the front door.

But the truth is, I don't want to leave. I'd rather outlast them. All optimism, I'm sure Conn will get rid of them soon enough. To amuse myself in the meantime, I can eavesdrop. I figure Bruce and Constance owe me, considering they may very well have glimpsed more of me a minute ago than they've seen since I was a toddler.

"What are you doing here?" Conn's voice is low and a bit heated but controlled. I don't recall a single time he's blown up at his parents, not even during his volatile teenage years, so of course he wouldn't now, even though they just walked right into his house. It's not in his nature.

"We can't have coffee with our son? We were at Rose Perdue's," his mother explains. "Such a lovely dinner party. We thought we'd stop by on the way back to the Davises'. We didn't think you'd be…busy."

Conn ignores her pointed comment. "Are you all right? The stairs…"

"I'm fine. Sasha said—we had brunch while she was in town, did I mention that? We had a lovely time. She said I needed to start using my hip more and do my therapy exercises regularly. Move it or lose it, she said, and she's right."

I'm so busy rolling my eyes at Constance's ham-handed name-dropping that I almost miss Conn's exasperated response.

"I've been telling you that all along. Dad's been telling you that. And your surgeon, and your internist, and your physical therapist back in Phoenix."

"Yes, but I trust Sasha," Constance insists. She pauses as if she's going to change the subject, but the next minute she asks bluntly, "Are you going to make your friend stay in the bedroom all night?" I know the segue's intentional. She sounds hopeful. Why…?

"It's not Sasha," Conn answers, just as bluntly.

Oh. Interesting. They may have seen some skin, but they didn't see my face, thanks to Conn's quick thinking, blocking me from their view.

He adds, "And I'm not going to say anything more about it."

"You're seeing someone? What about Sasha?"

"What did I just say, Mom?"

"Then why did you ask her here for a visit?"

"Strictly business, the same reason I invited Jack."

It's not surprising he hasn't told them about his plans for the new restaurant. He's always been fiercely independent, never accepting much from his parents, even in college and business school. They practically had to force this house on him, and I suspect he agreed to it only because they were moving to Arizona. If he talked about his business plans too soon, his father would try to give him money, and worse, his mother would waste no time planting a seed of doubt by moaning it could never work.

Bruce defends his son with a classic dad line: "Leave the boy alone, Constance."

Of course that line never works.

"I mean," Conn's mother persists, "she's saying the nicest things about you. Can't you two work things out? You were so wonderful together."

"No, we weren't, Mom. Sasha and I are over, we've been over, and I'm more than fine with that."

"You were so heartbroken—"

"And now I'm not."

"Because you're cozying up to some tramp? I hardly think that's the solution."

What! I mouth silently, my hands in fists at my sides. Conn doesn't sound too happy either. In fact, he's so agitated he almost slips when he defends me. "Mel—she's not a tramp. Not at all."

"And yet you haven't introduced her to us," Constance sniffs.

"It's early yet."

No, no! You've given her an opening! Aaaaannnd his mom pounces on it.

"But you're sleeping with her already."

All right, that's it. Conn's squirmed long enough.

"Mrs. Garvey. Mr. Garvey. Nice to see you." I'm amazed my voice is calm and even, considering Conn's shirt is barely covering my ass cheeks, and my underwear isn't doing much more. I nod at them with a little smile as I cross the room, heading for the kitchen.

There's complete silence behind me, although I think I hear a muffled dismayed groan from Conn. I yank open the fridge, letting the cold air cool my flaming cheeks, and take out a bottle of water. I shut the door, take a breath, and turn to the Garveys with my placid smile intact.

Bless Bruce's heart, he breaks the silence with a cheery, "Little Melanie! It's good to see you, dear. Where have you been hiding yourself?" he asks innocently.

This elicits a derisive snort from his wife, which clearly translates into Your son's bed, apparently.

Conn's squirming, so I decide to take it down a notch. "I'm locked out of my apartment, and Conn was kind enough to offer me a bed tonight. I didn't want to disturb my father to get the spare key."

Of course this doesn't explain why I have no pants on, but perhaps we'll all be civilized enough to ignore this.

Constance's expression tightens even more—I didn't think it was possible—as she snaps, "We left Charles having a nightcap at Rose Perdue's a few minutes ago. You'd know that if you'd bothered to try to find him."

This bit of information takes me by surprise. "He's supposed to be resting. He promised me he'd take it easy a while longer."

"Mm," is all Mrs. Garvey deigns to say.

I don't appreciate the implication that I'm lying. I look at Conn a little desperately. He just widens his eyes at me. I know what this means: never try to defend yourself to Constance Garvey when she's already determined you're guilty. He doesn't have to remind me. After nearly thirty years of experience with her, I know when to retreat.

I make a very slight detour, grateful I have the kitchen counter between me and the Garveys to hide my…assets as I bend down to pet Harvey, who's meowing and rubbing against my ankles. "Have a good night," I say, straightening up and making a beeline for the bedroom.

Bruce cheerily returns my good wishes. Constance does not. I can feel her glare burning into my back.

I don't even get a chance to shut the bedroom door before Constance fires the first shot. "Well, this explains a lot."

"Mom…"

"How long has this been going on?"

"A very long time."

I pause in unscrewing the cap from my water bottle, confused. A very long time? It's been a little over a week.

"Well, I think it's wonderful."

Good ol' Bruce. Constance doesn't take his defection well and starts spluttering again, so loudly I almost don't hear what Conn says next. Almost.

"I love Melanie."

"Of course you do," his father agrees amiably. "We all do."

"You don't understand, Dad." Conn's voice drops, and I nearly tip over into the hallway trying to hear him. "I mean I love her. Very, very much. I have for a really long time."

"But…" I know what's coming from his mother next. I even mouth the word as she says it. "Sasha!"

"That's over with. I've moved on. You need to move on as well." He says it so kindly, but so firmly, it should convince Constance, but she's pretty darn stubborn, especially when it comes to her ex-daughter-in-law.

"You two were so in love once."

"And then we weren't. In fact, Melanie helped me get over all that. You have no idea what she's done for me. She helped me get my life back."

Constance snorts again, and I bristle. She thinks I convinced him to leave Sasha behind so I could get my hooks in him.

Bruce is far more accepting. "It's no wonder you love her then."

"Can we please stop using that word!"

Thanks, Constance. You're a peach.

"I mean really. Melanie Abbott? Don't get me wrong—Charles is a wonderful friend, but his daughter sells real estate." Her horrified tone puts my job in the same class as running drugs or cleaning up roadkill. "Sasha's a doctor!"

We know, Constance. But thanks for the reminder.

"Plus Sasha's so beautiful. And Melanie, she's so…short."

Hey, now—that's just mean. Constance says "short," I hear "dumpy." Conn has shown me countless times how attractive he finds me, but his mother's comment still stings.

When neither man answers her, she goes for the Hail Mary. "What will her father think?"

"I hope he'll be happy for us," Conn replies evenly. "I think he will be. But it's not your news to tell—not to him or anyone else. Please keep it to yourself."

His mother lets out a very unladylike grunt. "It'll pass."

"No. It won't." He says this so decisively I practically run out into the living room and throw myself in his lap. "You need to leave now. And give me the house key, please." I can picture him towering over his mother, holding out his hand expectantly.

That's about as angry as he gets at his parents, and I'm in awe. Naturally Constance doesn't give up the fight that easily. She circles back to the same nonsense but a little more desperately this time. It doesn't matter. Everything Conn has said about me went straight to my already full heart, and now it feels as though it could burst any second. Getting naked didn't change everything. This did.

 

*   *   *

 

I've just turned off the water in the bathroom when Conn knocks on the door. "M?"

"Just getting cleaned up."

"I'm so sorry about this."

"It's not your fault."

"I mean really sorry. Please…"

"What?"

"Don't leave."

Leave? I pause. "Conn?"

"Yeah?"

"…I heard what you said."

"Oh." He doesn't say anything else for a moment. Then, "Are you freaking out?"

"I'm definitely not freaking out."

"I'm not sure I believe you. You'll have to come out of there so I can see for myself."

I take a deep breath and open the door. Conn looks me up and down, wide eyed, from my wet, now salt-free hair to the tips of my toes. He has such small bath towels, I'm not all that surprised at his reaction. I can barely keep the thing closed over my chest with one hand. I raise my other hand to show him the white bag I retrieved from the kitchen earlier.

With a delighted smile, Conn scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom. The towel doesn't make it that far.

Good? Try great.

Incredible.

Memorable.

Magical.