Love In a Small Town (36 page)

House parties by the upper classes were deadly dull, but Irene rarely required comment. Her opinions were sacrosanct and she scattered them casually, as though they were glass beads at a Mardi Gras festival.

Deftly, Sam stirred a pitcher of orange juice with one hand, while using the other to remove crispy bacon from the microwave.

"Uh huh," she muttered as she worked, bare-footed, wearing her usual morning dress of pajama bottoms and a sleep tee. Later she'd change into jeans and a t-shirt and tuck her short, blonde hair under a baseball cap. Suburban Chicago living required little else.

Oops
. A pause at the other end of the phone meant her mother waited for an answer.
What had she been talking about? Oh, yeah.

"Yes, Mother, the Biedermierer is perfect; the decorator is very impressed that I could get my hands on such fine stuff so fast. I told him my clever, globetrotting mother is my secret weapon." With no guilt whatsoever, she fed Irene's insatiable desire for flattery. Sam's passion for antiques had led her into a part-time career of antique finder for several decorator clients. She prowled continually.

"Oh, watch out for some French Empire when you get to Paris. I have another client with a yen for female figurines with clocks in their bellies."

Laughing, she opened the fridge to get the eggs, imagining her mother's look of displeasure at such a display of irreverence for costly objects.

"Good morning, Babe." Paul came up behind her and caught her in his arms, nuzzling the back of her neck. A tingle of sexual tension hovered, never far below the surface for either one of them. She leaned against him, loving the feel of his lean, muscular body, while savoring his strength and what she thought of as his "ready-for-the-office" smell; soap, after shave, shampoo and toothpaste. On weekends she preferred him unadorned; pure "essence of Paul."

"Morning, Irene," he said loudly into the phone, and gave her another hug before he settled onto a bar stool to listen to her conversation and drink the coffee she poured for him.

Sam gave him a wink while admiring the primitive masculinity she adored. The sharp angles and planes of his face were enhanced by his dark shaggy brown hair, worn slightly long. The razor-sharp intellect that reflected in his dark brown eyes gave him a predatory look that never failed to excite her. He lived, and loved, enveloped in an intense, passionate aura that he carried over into his career, making him one of the most sought-after, and successful, documentary film producers in Chicago.

Sighing, she turned her attention, once again, to the phone, rolling her eyes in silent communication. Morning phone calls from her mother were a given in this house.

"We'll be on our way tomorrow. We'll start shooting the film next Monday. Use my cell number. I'm not sure the farmhouse has phones." A pause, then she added, grimly, "Mother, come off it. The local chamber of commerce arranged for us to stay there and I'm sure they're reliable." Her mother really tried her patience. The woman was relentless.

"I'm not talking about this anymore. The dream is merely coincidence, not some message from the netherworld." Her voice reflected an assurance she didn't quite feel. Her heart rate rose, warning of anxiety simmering under the surface, ready to engulf her. No, she wouldn't give into it.

Take deep breaths. Don't think about it.

She winked at Paul to lessen the irritation she knew he felt whenever she mentioned anything even vaguely paranormal, and shrugged, listening. "Yes, I will let you know the minute we get there." Paul's frown and her roiling nerves prompted her change of subject.

"So, this is a castle where you're going? No? Oh, a house party at a country estate." She listened, shaking her head at Paul, pantomiming boredom while Irene launched into a recitation of all the famous names who would be there.

"Look, Mom, I'm cooking and I need both hands, so I'm going to hang up.

"Yes, Irene, I understand. It makes you feel old. I'll delete the word 'mom' from my lexicon. Take care, and I'll call you. Bye, Mom." She hung up, shaking her head.

"And how is your mother?"

She laughed. Her body relaxed. "Hard at work staying young. Sixty is the new forty. She called from Orly. Apparently, Africa is 'tedious,' meaning no interesting men, so she's off to Paris to visit a Count de Coucy or somebody. He's having a big birthday bash and Irene's been invited along with about two hundred of his closest friends, or, as she put it, 'anybody who
is
anybody.' "

Sam filled a plate with scrambled eggs and set it in front of him, along with a muffin. She carefully considered what to say, anticipating Paul's reaction.

"This farmhouse we're renting and my dreams about it have her spooked. She insists the availability of the place isn't coincidence, but some sort of cosmic plot. She's going to consult with a psychic while she's in France."

He frowned. "Don't let her get you started on supernatural crap. It's bad enough you think those antiques you find come with ghosts."

Sam noted the sarcastic emphasis in Paul's voice. He simply dismissed as fanciful imaginings the other presences she sometimes felt.

"Your mother is a nut case, but a well-meaning nut case," he amended quickly, as she started to frown back at him.

Sam sat on another stool and spread half a muffin with cream cheese, totally relaxed now, nerves settled.

"She's okay. She has a hard time not meddling in my life. That's all."

"I can't help it, Sam. We've been married for fifteen years and she still regards me as the man who plucked her daughter from a life of luxury and subjected her to one of unseemly deprivation. She doesn't believe I have a real job. I say I'm a film producer, so she wonders why don't I know Clint Eastwood."

Paul never could keep the resentment from his voice when they discussed her mother. Her casual dismissal of documentaries as not really "movies" rankled him even more.

"So she doesn't understand the difference between documentaries and feature films. She can't help who she is, Paul."

Talk of Irene could raise Paul's ire in a heartbeat. "What kind of mother drags her five-year-old kid around the world, visiting one acquaintance after another, with no real home?"

He had a point. The nomad lifestyle left her longing for roots, family, and a permanent home. Paul and Andy meant everything to her; they were her solid base.

"She couldn't deal with being alone when Dad died," she said quietly.

"So you lived in hotels." He gave a disgusted snort.

Sam eyed her husband with amused acceptance. "We could afford it. She did the best she could." Paul saw everything in either black or white—gray not even an option.

"Mom lived the original princess bride lifestyle while Dad was alive. She had everything done for her, never lifting a finger. When he died, she couldn't cope with running the house, even with a horde of servants. She saw no reason why we couldn't live in a hotel or stay with friends." Sam smiled, remembering. "We existed in a fantasy world. Beds were made. Food appeared magically. Clothes were always clean and hanging in the closet."

A familiar sadness entered her thoughts. Her mother never knew of her daughter's nightmare; that one day she'd wake up in a house where no one knew her, abandoned by a mother who had forgotten all about her daughter. Smiling fondly at Paul, she reached for the coffee pot to fill his cup. He'd never fully understand how fiercely she loved him. He'd given her what she craved most: a home of her own— a safe haven— and reassurance that she was loved. He would be there when life got tough and she couldn't handle it alone. The memory always brought tears to her eyes.

"Ah, Babe, I'm sorry," Paul said, catching her lone tear with his thumb, "I just get hot when I think of Irene; the way she's interfered with our marriage, all those books she sent on housekeeping, which were her subtle way of reminding me we couldn't afford a maid."

"She didn't mean it that way." Her mother had good intentions, although her efforts appeared malicious at times. "Admit it, Paul, I was pretty helpless those first months." She giggled at the memory.

"Oh, I wish I could have seen the look on my mother's face when I called her two weeks after we were married and asked her to put Lord Kensington's estate housekeeper on the phone so I could find out how to do laundry."

The giggle blossomed to laughter. "My poor mother had never, in her life, faced a situation with such dire social consequences; her own daughter, educated in Europe's finest schools, pleading with the hired help for lessons on how to do laundry. She'd never live it down."

Her boisterous laughter was so contagious, Paul laughed with her. "Yeah, I could live with her meddling until Andy came along, then it got to be too much."

"I know," she sighed. "It seemed like Airborne Express pulled into the driveway every day. Phone lines were near collapse with the neighbors calling each other to report the latest. It hurt her when I put my foot down."

"So now you get daily phone calls, instead of daily deliveries."

He hesitated, becoming solemn, a frown on his face.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Sam, these dreams you've been having are bad enough for you to tell your mother about them. Be honest with me. Would you rather not go on the shoot and don't want to tell me? You don't have to go. I thought it a good idea because we'd have some time together, and I thought it'd be a chance for Andy to see how we make documentaries, and maybe do some work for me. He's asked often enough."

"What brought this on?"

"Well, worry and anxiety sometimes causes bad dreams."

She smiled at him affectionately. She did, indeed, love this man, even though he had his difficult moments. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Irene this morning. No way would I miss this opportunity to fulfill a childhood dream by living in a two-hundred-year old farmhouse that’s fully furnished in authentic Victorian and surrounded by history. To spend days roaming the countryside, searching for antiques. Paul, I want to go. It's been years since I've gone on a shoot with you, and this one will be special because it's all about the history of a very old town." Clearly, her answer didn't satisfy him.

"Lloyd and I were talking. He says I don't listen and sometimes I bully you into doing things you don't want to do."

Ah.
Lloyd Greer, Paul's business partner and best friend since their first year at the University of Chicago. An enigma in his own right. Rich as Croesus, due to inherited money, but determined to ignore it and make his own way. In her freshman year at college, she'd known Lloyd for a few days and had been mildly attracted to him, but after she met Paul there wasn't anyone else. She wondered if Paul knew Lloyd was still a little in love with her, after all these years.

"Lloyd doesn't want Andy and me to come along?" Something she found hard to believe.

"He remembers the last time, before Andy had been born, when you didn't want to go and I talked you into it and you had a miserable time."

"Don't think for a minute I'm staying home. I've never been on a real farm. Country estates don't qualify. It's my chance to play at being a Victorian farmer's housewife. Maybe the kitchen will have an old wood stove, like the one at the Chicago Science and Industry Museum."

He didn't look convinced, so she tried another tack. "Paul, if I didn't want to go, believe me, nothing you could say would get me there. I allow you to think you bully me into things, because it's good for your ego." She paused, enjoying the reaction—his pretense at outrage.

"But, you know, when it's time to take a stand, I do it, and nothing changes my mind. Rest assured, I'm looking forward to the house, antique hunting, and being with you. Andy will love the chance to work along with his father. Besides, think of the people who lived there before us."

"Okay, Sam. Stop right there." Paul's voice warned of burgeoning temper. "We're not going to have any of this crap about 'feeling' former owners. I put up with that nonsense with your antiques and their previous owners, but I'll be damned if I'm going to live with it on this trip. There will be no references to previous tenants."

Her resentment flared. Paul's rigid intolerance for anything paranormal tried her patience. If he knew she not only 'felt' the presence of former owners but that she sometimes saw them too, he'd freak out.

"Oh, come off it, Paul. Are you the only one in this family allowed to have an imagination? I'm supposed to admire your creativity when you're making a film, but keep quiet when I have fanciful ideas, so the man-genius is not upset?"

Her need to express her uneasiness over her dreams and Paul's unrelenting rejection of anything remotely supernatural ate at her.

"Fine. Whatever I think or feel on this vacation will remain private so your delicate sensibilities will not be disturbed."

"Ah, Babe, I'm sorry."

At least she heard some tone of apology in Paul's response.

"Just forget it, Paul. The subject is off the table. And tell Lloyd he should find himself a wife to worry about."

Paul's expression turned thoughtful. "Lloyd's been restless lately. I think he's finally decided he wants to settle down. He's tired of his playboy lifestyle."

"He'd be better off if he didn't have a trust fund and actually had to support himself," Sam said.