Geek Groom (Forever Geek Trilogy #2) (3 page)

It’s hard to merge the two versions of Mom. The society matron with the brilliant surgeon. And yet, she is both at the same time. There’s no switch that she flips when she comes home, transforming from doctor to wife. She just is. I admire that about her, but it also pisses me off. Because both sides of her are annoying when you’re her daughter.

“Jillian, I expected you’d be here this morning rearing for a fight.”

Something else I hate is how she’s able to read me so clearly. You could call that a lucky guess except for the extra mug on the table. My mug.

“The question is, should I let you start ranting and raving now or should I take all the fun out of this and set you straight.”

God damn it. This attitude. This is her “I know better than you” tone, and it’s normally accurate. Crap.

I lay my empty takeout coffee on the table and pour a fresh one.

“You didn’t tell people Evan is a lawyer.”

I know it’s true. She’s too smug.

“No. Technically, your father is the cause of this. But you can’t blame it on him either.”

“Daddy lied about Evan?”

She runs her fingers through her brown hair—almost the exact same shade as mine—and sighs. “No one lied about Evan. Remember a couple of weeks ago when your father and Evan went out for coffee? While they were there, Irene’s father, George, dropped in for a visit. You remember him? He’s a partner in your father’s firm. Anyhow, according to Dad, during that conversation, Evan mentioned that he’d always had an interest in environmental law and he must have said something that made George think he had a legal background. You know how smart Evan is. He could be a lawyer, I’m sure. So that, my dear girl, is where your problem came from.”

I need to let this sink in. Once again I’ve been bested by my issues with my mother. And once again, I’ve been proven wrong.

“So you like Evan? You’re not worried I’m marrying beneath our status?”

It’s not too often I make Mom mad. But if the way she just pounded her mug onto the table is any indication, I might have just poked the sleeping bear.

“I love Evan. He’s great for you. And I don’t care in the slightest what he does for a living. He works, he’s kind, and God only knows how, he understands you more than anyone else on this earth. I know you don’t care about the family history, and expectations, and indeed, the role that I’ve chosen to take on in my circle of friends. And I try not to force it on you. You’ve long thought me to be the thorn in your life, Jillian, but what you’ve always failed to see is that anything I’ve ever suggested to you has always come from my trying to understand you. Not judge you. And Lord only knows, not to force you into doing something else.”

“Come on, Mom. You were the first one to say I should go to med school. You were the first one to tell me getting a PhD in Classics was a waste of my energy. You are always telling me what I should be wearing, and eating, and reading. Nothing I do is good enough.”

“Where you see me telling you what to do, is simply me trying to have a conversation with you. To see what we have in common. To try to get to know you. You’re not sixteen anymore, my darling. I don’t give a good God damn what you do as long as you’re happy.”

This is what I hate. She’s always had a way of making me feel guilty for the way I feel. She turns it around on me, so that my feelings don’t matter, as if I’m being childish and ungrateful. She plays the caring mother card, which in turn leaves me unable to have a real conversation with her.

I bet you’re taking her side right now. Because she talks a good talk. She’s all smiles and concerned eyes, but there’s a passive-aggressiveness there that simmers beneath the surface.

She pats my hand, and I notice for the first time that hers are starting to look a little wrinkled.

“Why don’t you and Evan come over tonight for supper? Better yet, how about we go out for supper? And Dad and Evan can explain how he’s apparently a lawyer.” She laughs. I cringe.

Argh. What else can I do but agree?

“W
hy didn’t you tell me what was wrong yesterday?”

As Evan slowly rubs honey-scented skin cream along my back, all the stress of the morning evaporates. The good thing about Evan working for himself is that sometimes, when I call him and plead that I need him, he can come and help talk me down.

Sometimes it involves very little talking.

It was only after the mind-numbing sex that I told him about his new profession. As usual, it doesn’t seem to bother him. And also as usual, he’s more than willing to work his damnedest to make sure it stops bothering me.

“I didn’t want you thinking Mom didn’t like you.”

His laugh is rich, like a warm cup of coffee that’s been spiked with an abundance of Bailey’s.

“I gotta be honest with you, my love. You’d have to work pretty hard to convince me that was the case. I’m the son she never had, don’t you know?”

I jump a little as he puts more cream on my back. It’s cold but his hands warm it, and me, up in the most delicious ways.

“Are you sure you can handle being married to me and all this mother-daughter drama that I just can’t seem to get beyond?”

“My love, your family would have to be pretty bad to stop me from wanting to spend the rest of my life with you. Like, lich-king bad. Demon-spawn bad. And even then, I could be swayed to the dark side because you’re a pretty fine temptress.”

“You just want me to be your dark master again.”

Who knew that role-playing could be sexy? He had to talk me into it a bit, but wow, from time to time, bringing dice and props into the bedroom is a ton of fun!

“Again? More like always.” He drops a kiss onto my shoulder. “I don’t have to be anywhere until noon. Do you want to talk about your mother any more or can we get back to more of this?”

His arm slides around my waist and he pulls me back onto the bed.

I do want to talk about Mom some more. But let’s be honest. There’s a time and place for everything. And this is neither for dissecting my mother issues.

I
t doesn’t matter how booked a restaurant in this city is. If my mother gets it into her head that she wants to eat there, now, then by God, we eat there. I’m hoping for a perfectly civilized dinner, and so far, it’s going well. There’s two bottles of a decadent red wine on the table, and we’ve just polished off a round of appetizers boasting grouse and moose.

“Do you hunt?” Dad asks Evan, as he dabs a piece of bread in the last drop of juice from his meat.

“Not really. When I was a young fella I went out setting snares with my grandfather a time or two, but I don’t have the heart for it. Dad doesn’t either. Our deep freeze was kept stocked by my uncles in exchange for Dad doing their taxes.”

“I thought your parents were teachers?” Mom interjects.

“Yea, but Dad taught math and physics for years. He’s always had a head for numbers. He finds doing taxes relaxing. He’s certainly saved me money over the years.”

“You don’t have a business accountant?”

Both Mom and Dad stare at him as if he’s just revealed a terrible secret. Then again, money is no laughing matter in their world. Not that it is in Evan’s and mine, either. But they grew up with tales of the Depression nearly wiping out family fortunes. The fear of loss that was instilled in them from an early age never really left. Maybe that’s why they pursued the traditional big money professions around here: medicine and law.

For me, money has always been there and I don’t really worry that it won’t. And I know as far as Evan is concerned, as long as he can pay his bills, keep a roof over his head, have a nice rainy day fund, and have enough left over to buy the newest game to strike his fancy, he’s good. Another reason why I love Evan Sharp. He’s smart with money, but not obsessed about it.

“I’ve got good accounting software.” Evan shrugs. Sometimes I forget about his computer geek background. It’s hard to remember when he’s stomping off to work in the mornings in steel-toed work boots.

Now, if it were me so brazenly flippant about money, the lecture would kick in, oh, in about two seconds flat. Maybe four if they needed to swallow their wine first.

But it seems Evan is right. He is the golden man, evident clearly by Dad’s sage nod, and pat on the back. “I bet you tweaked it to make it exactly right.”

“Bruce and I were just saying this afternoon, Evan, that there’s nothing you can’t do. I was telling him about mine and Jillian’s conversation this morning.” She looks directly at me. “I’m guessing you did tell Evan all about our chat, yes?” God. Stop trying to figure me out! But it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she’s waiting for my acknowledgement or anything. “Anyway, we were talking about how if you were interested in the law, you’re quite young still and you would have no trouble getting into Dalhousie.”

“My old alma mater,” Dad says, and I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are they seriously trying to talk Evan into becoming a lawyer? “Of course, it would be hard for Jillian to pack up and move to Halifax with you. You could always wait a few years and see if the law school Memorial is proposing gets off the ground. But the sooner you start, the better it would be for your career.”

I look at Evan, waiting for him to laugh or, more likely, politely steer the conversation into another direction. But he’s quiet too long.

“You’d present quite the different application,” Dad says, leaning in closer to Evan. “With your knowledge of the environment and your software engineering background, there are countless corporate avenues that you could pursue. And you could clerk at the firm, of course. Practice there too, if you were so inclined.”

Jesus Christ. This is an ambush. I know it. I’ve lived it. Replace law with med and this is the same damn conversation I’ve had with them for about ten years. And counting.

But after the conversation with Mom this morning, I’m going to try a more diplomatic, good-daughter route.

“Are you trying to send my fiancé to another province for three years?” I laugh. But really, I want to scream.

“I didn’t know MUN was considering a law school,” Evan says.

If he doesn’t shut down this conversation soon I’m going to stomp on his foot. I don’t think he’s wearing steel-toed boots.

“Yes, and it’s looking promising. You wouldn’t have to move away if you wanted to wait a while.” Dad reaches across the table and pats my hand, which is clutching the fish knife. “But if you did want to apply to Dal, I’m sure Jillian could find work in Nova Scotia. Plenty of universities in the Maritimes.”

“Jillian might even be on maternity leave before long,” Mom says, in a sweet tone that is about as subtle as a neon sign.

Five. Come on, Evan. Four. Time’s running out. Three. If you don’t stop them they’ll take your silence as acquiescence. Two.

“On that note, I’d like to propose a toast,” Evan says, smiling at me, for all the world as if he knows I’m a second from melt down. He refills my glass with the deep red Malbec, right to the brim. Good man. Way to send a “We’re not pregnant” sign to them. 

“To family,” Evan continues. “A man can never have too many people wishing the best for him.”

E
van is leaving for Juniper Cove for the weekend. His brothers are throwing him what they’ve decided is a proper stag party tomorrow night. I joke they’re worried that Evan’s townie friends, his geek friends, won’t do right by family tradition and get the bachelor properly drunk and disorderly. I have yet to see Evan be either of those things. Sure, he likes a beer or a drink from time to time, but he’s not a big drinker. Comes from some teenage escapade when he stole a bottle of dark rum from his father and proceeded to drink the whole thing. It wasn’t the going down that was his problem. It was the return trip that made him wary of over-indulging.

I’m trying to do something nice. Something a wife would do. But packing his bag is a bit of a challenge. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m a master packer. But there’s only so many ways you can fold huge wool sweaters to get them to fit.

“I can do that,” Evan says, looking up from his computer.

“You have to get those invoices finished. I can manage to pack a week’s worth of clothes in my carry-on. I’m sure I can manage a weekend of your stuff in this duffel bag.”

That’s what I’d like him to believe. I’m trying not to show my frustration with the sweater that just won’t cooperate. Failure is not an option. I am sending Evan to his mother’s house with a bag full of freshly laundered, properly folded clothes. None of this loading the bag up with dirty laundry for her to clean on my watch. I have my pride. And while Suzy-homemaker I may not be, I won’t let her think her son is marrying a total domestic failure.

“There’s no point trying to fold that. Just shove it in. It’ll be more compact if you stuff it. That’s my method.”

See. There’s my point. Nope. Not happening.

“The easy thing to do would be to pack one sweater. You’ve got at least two in the truck. And I’m sure there are more left out there.”

There was a time I found Evan’s love of wool sweaters and his almost constant wearing of them sexy. Now I’m just excited when we have a dress up occasion so I can see him in something other than wool and jeans. Come on, summer. Summer Evan is a far better feast for the eyes. In some parts of Canada it might even feel like summer already. Not here in good old St. John’s.

“Are you sure you won’t come out for the weekend? Tuck me in after I’ve had too much to drink and feed me a big greasy breakfast in the morning to help me feel better?”

“No way. I’m not getting between you and your brothers. I was given strict orders to stay away. Are you sure there’s not a local exotic dancer that caters to the Juniper Cove stag party crowd?”

“Nah. Phonse Whelan gave that up ages ago when his wife caught him with a toonie stuck in his bum.”

I have two choices right now. Believe him and be called gullible. Or laugh at him and have him prove that this is a true story. I never can tell when he’s making something up when it comes to Juniper Cove antics. I’ve met Phonse Whelan. He’s seventy if he’s a day. And as odd as they come. It’s possibly true.