Purely Relative
Authors: Claire Gillian
Purely Relative
Claire Gillian
Published
by
Claire Gillian
United States of
America
Copyright
©
2013 Claire
Gillian
Cover: Claire
Gillian
Cover Photography:
©
Lev
Dolgatsjov - Fotolia.com
Editor: Gabriella
West Editing
ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
WARNING: The
unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No
part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of Claire Gillian, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and other non-commercial uses
permitted by copyright law.
This book is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, or any other
element is entirely coincidental.
Bonus Read: First Kiss from
Jon's POV
To all my public accounting
comrades-in-arms in Dallas and Albuquerque. Not a single P.U.R.E. nor murderer
among you!
RIP Arthur Andersen & Co.
Hey buddy! How's DC? Has Gayle
said 'yes' yet?
I paused to wink at Jon. "If he only knew, eh?"
~The P.U.R.E.
11 Months Earlier...
Most people think meeting your
boyfriend’s family is a hallmark of commitment. I’d have rather been committed
than go to the Cripps’ for a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal. Oh, I loved a
gluttonous turkey feast as much as anyone. The meal wasn’t the problem.
Wondering how much Jon’s sister, Jenny, had shared about the night she met me kept
me on a steady diet of fingernails and nerves.
Catching me and her little brother going at it in her guest
bedroom probably wasn’t the best way for him to announce he’d traded in his
longtime family friend/fiancée for some short blonde chick with a fat ass. I
didn’t steal him from Thalia. He told me I didn’t. At least I hoped I hadn’t.
Jon assured me Jenny would never share something like that
with their parents, but I wasn’t so sure. I could totally see her telling Jon’s
mother, “And she had her legs wide open while Jon did his nasty business in my
guest bed.
My. Guest. Bed!
Jon never would have done something like that
if he’d still been with Thalia. He had manners until he met that Gayle
slut
!”
I shuddered and contemplated my lipstick shade. Harlot Red
or Porn-Star Pink didn’t seem to be wise choices, nor did going natural.
“Gayle, are you about ready? We don’t wanna be late for the
turkey carving.” Jon’s far-too-cheerful voice bled through my bathroom door.
Why was he so unaffected and happy? Didn’t he know they were
probably going to hate me? In addition to
not
being Thalia, I was also
responsible for getting him fired from the firm we both used to work for.
“Almost!” I opted for the peachy-pink shade called “’Virgin’s
Blush” and had to laugh as I applied the color to my significantly
less-than-virginal lips. “Coming! Coming!”
I slipped out of my bathroom and into the living room where
Jon sat on my sofa tapping away on his smart phone. Thank goodness I was more
interesting than whatever he had loaded. His eyes led a reconnaissance mission
up and down my body, lingering at his usual spots of interest—my legs and
my boobs. The man’s libido existed in a constant state of revving or fast
idling. I had every confidence he’d nab the ass as we walked out the door.
“Okay, so your brother and your sister will be there, and
your mom and dad, of course. Who else, did you say?”
He took his time shutting down his phone and stashing it in
his back pocket, the hesitation I knew so well on display. He wasn’t sharing
everything. “Um, there’s been a last minute addition to the guest list. I’m
sorry. I didn’t know until right before I came over here to get you. I don’t
want you to freak out any more than you already are.” He handed me my purse and
headed to the door.
I froze in place. “Whoa! You can’t just drop that on me,
then move on without sharing the rest of it. Who are the other guests?”
The turn he made to face me seemed deliberately slow, like
he was plotting how best to word his disclosure. “Uh, my sister’s fiancé.”
I crossed my arms. “Mmm-hmm. And?”
“A couple of old family friends.”
My breath caught in my chest. “
What
family friends?”
“Sophia and Alex. Friends of my parents. They were supposed
to go on a cruise but cancelled at the last minute.” He tugged at the cuffs to
his shirt, but wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Sophia and Alex who?
Milano
?”
His head shot up and he met my gaze. “Uh—”
“Thalia’s parents?” My voice had risen an octave with each
successive question. I didn’t have much range left.
“Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Thalia won’t be
there, just her parents.”
His Swiss-cheese manner of conversing with me earned him no
diplomacy points.
“Her parents. They know you aren’t engaged to their daughter
any more?”
“Of course.”
“You aren’t giving me the warm fuzzies here.” And he wasn’t.
Being with Jon had always been a lesson in total body communication. His
natural inclination was to be stingy with his vocal chords. Fortunately for me,
the rest of his body was more talkative. Oh, and how bold parts of him could be
at times. Which was what was responsible for my state of angst.
Drawing me into his arms, his chin on the crown on my head,
he sighed. “Thalia told them we broke up, and the why of it had nothing to do
with you. So don’t worry.”
“But what did Jenny tell them?”
He pulled back, one eyebrow lifted. “
Gayle
. Jenny
would
never
share anything like that with the Milanos.”
“Not the Milanos! I meant your parents. You’re sure Jenny
didn’t happen to mention how she first met me?”
A kiss on the forehead and a soft squeeze of my ass preceded
his hasty “sure,” which sounded anything but.
***
I grilled him on the way to his
parents’ house—names, dates, preferences, quirks, funny stories about
him, anything and everything I could think of to prepare. But it was no use. I
knew I was headed into the lion’s den.
“Here we are,” Jon announced as we turned into the gated
driveway of a two-story mansion. Entry required an electronic passcard or
someone on the other side of the intercom willing to admit the visitor.
“You said they weren’t filthy rich.” I crossed my arms and
pouted.
“They aren’t. They bathe every day,” he said, snorting a
laugh.
“Ha-ha. Your subterfuge is not appreciated.” Though my
family could be called intellectuals, we were barely a notch above blue-collar,
financially speaking. I knew which forks to use at the dinner table, but
growing up we rarely dined out anywhere that used a full place setting.
Albuquerque wasn’t known for its haute cuisine, though I’d choose a good
blue-corn chicken enchilada smothered in green chiles over a filet mignon any
day. And give me a margarita on the rocks instead of a rare red wine any time.
“Oh, Gayle. What’s the big deal? They’re just people. People
who will love you because I love you.” He shot me a smile that curled up on one
side and melted me. How could I be mad at him?
“Fine. I’ll deal.” Deep breath in, slow release out. Repeat.
“You will, because that’s what you do. You’re amazing.
They’ll be smothering you with adoration in no time.” He turned off the engine
of the car he’d dubbed Christine and moved to open my door for me.
“What do you think, Christine?” I asked Jon’s possibly
sentient Porsche that had an uncanny ability to sense my moods and react
accordingly. My door locked right as Jon began to open it.
Uh-oh.
I huffed as I pulled up the lock and got out of the car,
difficult because of my tight dress and very high heels.
Jon held my hand to steady my tottering on my five-inch
heels with a one-inch platform toe bed. They killed my feet, but were so worth
the agony for what they offered in the height department.
We walked in without announcing our arrival, Jon needing no
invitation to enter his boyhood home. The living room greeted us first, a
soaring room of pristine white—white carpet, white sofa, white chairs,
and a massive portrait of the family all dressed in, of course, white. Jon
didn’t look much younger than he was currently.
A white piano commanded one corner of the room. On top sat
an array of photos, like a Stonehenge of a family monument that did not include
me. I spied several shots of Jon and Thalia. Such an encouraging start to my
visit, what with the smiling mugs of my boyfriend and his ex-fiancée taunting
me.
Jon must have followed my gaze because he moved swiftly to
the piano and removed no less than six photos of the love that predated me. His
arms full, he said, “Sorry about this. I’ll just,” he turned and scanned the
room, “put them under the coffee table. Nobody notices them anymore.”
“It’s okay, Jon. Really not a big deal.”
But it still
sucks.
I couldn’t be upset with Jon. He was trying, but he had no sway over
what his parents chose to display in their own home. I had no right to expect
them to sweep a lifelong family friendship under the rug—or coffee
table—at a moment’s notice.
We moved toward the back of the house. As we left the living
room en route to the dining room, voices wafted in from the adjoining kitchen.
“…let him get her out of his system and all will end well,”
came a heavily accented woman’s voice.
I glanced at Jon, who flushed up his neck and onto his
cheeks. He gave a loud cough then yelled, “Hello, we’re here!”
“Oh, finally!” The speaker, a tall elegant woman with dark
hair that defied even a single gray hair to sneak by, met us in the narrow
butler’s pantry. “Johnny! We were wondering what kept you.” Her eyes darted to
me, then back to Jon, then back to me. She reached out and took my hands. “You
must be Gayle, yes?”
My smile strained at the seams, not disingenuous but not as
enthusiastic as I pretended. “I am. It’s very nice to meet you. You have a
lovely home, Mrs. Cripps.”
The woman, slender as a reed and decked out in fine jewelry,
burst out laughing. Her dark brown eyes cast a glance over her shoulder to
speak to someone behind her. “Did you hear that? You’ve been replaced,
Giuliana!”
Jon spoke up and said, “Gayle, this is Sophia Milano.
Tia
Sophia, this is Gayle Lindley.”
“Well, of course she is!” She reached out and pinched Jon’s
cheek. “I didn’t think you’d have moved on to yet another new woman
that
fast, Johnny.”
The mortified expression on Jon’s face was oddly reassuring.
Knowing she was Thalia’s mother allowed me to better place her face, an older
version of her daughter’s, and thank the heavens she wasn’t Jon’s mother.
As I studied Mrs. Milano, Jon drew a much smaller woman
under his arm and toward me. I had her in the height department by about … five
inches. Without my shoes, we’d be nose to nose. I snuck a peek at her feet and
the flat, sensible shoes she wore. The face was so much like that of the man I
loved—the same milk chocolate eyes, espresso brown hair, and slight cleft
in the chin that looked a lot better on Jon I’d have to admit, if compelled,
though I hoped I never would be. Even their mouths were similarly shaped.
Despite being a munchkin like me, this woman could be none other than Jon’s
mother. My flush had to be more profound than Jon’s.