The Wedding Tree (10 page)

The front door opened, then slammed. Excited girls' voices sounded below.

“I don't want the girls to find you here,” Matt said in a dark, low voice.

“Okay.” I stood stock-still, not knowing exactly what he wanted me to do. Was there another staircase? Did he want me to hide in a closet? Bail out a second-story window? “Where . . . ?”

“Daddy!” called a child's voice from downstairs.

“
Get out of here.
” His voice was a whispered growl.

“But they'll see me if I go downstairs.”

“So don't.” He looked at me as if I were a halfwit. “Just get the hell out of my
bedroom
.”

“Oh!” I set the photo down, accidentally tipping it over. I tried to right it and fumbled.

He snatched it from me. “For God's sake—go back to the girls' room.
Now!
”

I scampered out the door, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process, and flew down the hallway.

“Daddy, where are you?”

“Up here, girls!” His tone was completely different. He sounded easygoing, friendly—
nice.

Multiple feet charged up the stairs like a tiny herd of rhinos. “I got news!” called a girl's voice.

“I can't wait to hear it.” His voice held no trace of the snarl I'd received a moment earlier.

I stood in the pink bedroom, my heart pounding, and listened to the scamper of feet. I drew several deep breaths, trying to calm myself, feeling guilty as a burglar.

matt

M
y reaction to finding Hope in my bedroom was all out of proportion. I knew it even as I was chewing her out, but I couldn't seem to dial it down. Seeing her standing there holding my wedding picture had hit some kind of primal button.

I don't need a shrink to tell me why: I'd fantasized about Hope while I was showering last night, and I felt guilty as hell about it. When I'd sought release since my wife's death, I used to conjure up memories of Christine, or think about some anonymous female body part. I hadn't fantasized about a specific, living person. Finding the woman I'd jacked off to the night before standing in my bedroom, holding a picture of Christine and me at our wedding . . . well, it just set me off. And I didn't want my daughters to come home and find us in my bedroom together, and to think . . .

I balled my fingers into fists so hard that my fingernails dug into my palms. What the hell was I worried they would think? They were four and five years old, for Christ's sake! My own dirty mind was creating problems that didn't exist.

The girls clambered to the top of the stairs, wearing tutus over their leotards, their hair pulled back in ballerina buns. I pulled them both into a tight hug.

“What's your news?” I asked.

“I've got a new loose tooth!” Zoey stepped out of my embrace, opened her mouth, and wiggled an incisor.

I grinned. “Well, the tooth fairy needs to be put on notice.”

“Hey—she's already here!” Sophie pointed down the hall.

I looked up to see Hope standing in the girls' bedroom doorway, her face a flaming shade of fuchsia.

She lifted her hand in a little wave. “Sorry to disappoint, but I'm really not the tooth fairy.”

“So why are you here?” Zoey asked.

Damn good question. I decided to let Hope answer it herself.

“Your, um, grandmother asked me to come take a look at your bedroom and see about painting a mural.”

Zoey cocked her head at a quizzical angle. “What's a mural?”

“A painting on a wall. I understand you want your room to look like a castle.”

“Yay!” Both girls jumped up and down and squealed.

“What's the cause for celebration?”

I turned to see Jillian standing at the top of the stairs, with Peggy behind her.

“Hope's gonna paint our bedroom like a castle!” Sophie announced.

Jillian's lips pulled tight. It was an expression Christine used to make—a mix of displeasure and worry. It was gone so fast I wondered if I'd imagined it, but it tapped into a reflexive, vestigial husband part of me that immediately dumped an I-need-to-fix-this rush of adrenaline into my bloodstream. The additional adrenaline only served to exacerbate my irritation, but now it focused on Jillian.

Damn it. Why did she always have to be around, with those ghostly little micro-expressions and Christine-like body parts and other creepy similarities to my wife?

“How lovely.” Jillian was smiling at Hope, but the curve of her mouth looked forced. “But how will you find the time while caring
for your grandmother?” Her tone was innocuous, but the implied judgment was hard to miss.

It wasn't lost on Hope, judging from the way she wrapped her arms around herself and stiffened. “Gran, uh, has home health aides around the clock.”

“Adelaide volunteered her, and I talked Hope into accepting the job,” Peggy said, coming up the final stair and joining us at the top of the landing. “Hope can't spend all of her time cooped up in that house or she'll go crazy.”

“No one told me anything about it,” Jillian said.

Because it's none of your business.
The thought made me feel unkind and petty.

“Did you bring your paints?” Sophie asked.

Hope shook her head. “First I need to talk to you and find out exactly what you want. Then I'll draw a sketch, then I'll make any changes you want, and when everyone agrees, then we'll get started on the actual walls.”

This induced another round of girlish jumping and squealing.

“Well.” Jillian gave a tight smile. “I'll go start dinner.”

“Thanks, but no need,” I said. “I'm going to fire up the grill.”

“Hamburgs?” Sophie asked eagerly.

“Yeah.”

“Yay!” From Sophie's standpoint, it was shaping up to be a perfect evening.

“I can make a salad,” Jillian said.

“Thanks, but I've got it covered.”

Silence hung heavy in the air.

“Maybe Jillian can join us,” Zoey said.

I swallowed. “I thought we'd have a quiet night with just the three of us.”

“It can be quiet with Jillian, too,” Zoey said.

Peggy turned to Jillian. “Dad and I were hoping you'd have dinner with us. We're going to Covington to Del Porto. You said you wanted to try the place.”

Relief flooded through me. I sent her a silent thanks for the bailout.

“Sure,” Jillian said. “Sounds lovely.”

“Well, then, let's leave these folks in peace and let Hope talk to the girls about what they want.”

Peggy hugged the girls, then kissed me on the cheek. Jillian followed suit. I tensed as she approached me. Had Jillian always kissed me hello and good-bye, or was this a new development? I wasn't sure. I only knew that lately I'd become uneasy with it, but I didn't know how to stop it.

I caught the scent of her perfume as she moved in. A band squeezed around my chest. Good God—she was wearing Clinique's “Happy,” the same scent Christine used to wear.

I wasn't the only one who noticed, either. “You smell like Mommy,” Zoey said.

Jillian patted her cheek. “Well, I'm the next best thing.”

The answer made me irrationally angry. There was no next best thing. No one was like Christine—not even close. And the fact Jillian was trying just made me crazy.

I drew a deep breath and held it until she and Peggy had made their way down the stairs and out the door. I blew it out in a heavy sigh.

“You okay, Daddy?” Zoey asked.

“Sure.” Zoey could be way too perceptive. I forced a smile and ruffled her hair. “I'm going to start the burgers. Why don't you and Sophie tell Hope what you want your room to look like?”

With that, I headed downstairs, drawing my first easy breath since arriving home.

hope

Z
oey was the spitting image of Sophie, but taller, thinner, and much more solemn. She regarded me skeptically as she sank down on her bed. “Are you really an artist?”

It was a question I sometimes asked myself. “Well, I have a college degree in painting and design.”

“I like to paint, too,” she said.

“Really? That's great! You can help with the mural.”

Her face lit up with a gap-toothed smile. “Cool!”

“Me, too!” Sophie said.

Zoey shook her head. “You're too small.”

I tried to play peacemaker. “I'm sure we can find parts for both of you to paint.”

Zoey looked doubtful. “She's really messy. We want it to look good.”

“Oh, it will.” I sat down beside her. “So tell me what you want.”

Sophie climbed up on the bed with us. “A castle with a moat and a drawbridge and a tower!”

“That's the outside,” Zoey said. “Our room will be inside.”

I was impressed with her understanding of perspective. “Maybe we can paint a big window, and it will look like we see the moat and drawbridge through it,” I suggested.

“Yeah!” Sophie said.

Zoey's eyes brightened. “And a tower that's on the other side of the castle.”

“Great idea. Do you have some paper so I can write this all down?”

Sophie brought me a pink piece of construction paper. I jotted down some notes. “What color should it be?”

“Pink!” they both exclaimed.

I grinned. “The inside or the outside?”

“Both,” Sophie said.

Zoey looked thoughtful. “Yeah, but castles are made of stone, and stone isn't pink. It's white or gray or brown.”

“I don't want brown.” Sophie made an ick face.

“What if the outside is white, but a sunset is making it glow pink?” I suggested. “And what if a beautiful vine with pink flowers is growing up the side?”

“Yeah!” Sophie bounced on the bed.

Zoey nodded.

“Okay.” I made another note. “We have a plan. Do you have any pictures that might help me?”

“I've got some castles in my coloring books,” Sophie said.

“And we've got some real books with pictures, too.” The girls dragged out a half dozen or more books from their bookcase, along with a couple of DVD covers. We sprawled together on the floor, a girl on either side of me, and they took turns pointing out what they liked most.

Their enthusiasm was contagious. Ideas bubbled in my mind, and I rapidly scribbled them on the construction paper.

“How's it going?” asked a masculine voice about thirty minutes later.

I looked up to see Matt standing in the doorway. To my relief, he'd lost his angry face.

Sophie jumped up. “Daddy, this is going to be so cool! She's gonna paint a tower and a window and a moat and a drawbridge!”

“Sounds like a lot. We'd better let Hope tell us how much she can do in the limited time she has.”

I scrambled to my feet. “Don't worry. I won't start anything I can't finish.”

“I didn't mean to suggest you would.”

That was pretty much exactly what he was suggesting, but I decided to let it go. “I'll sketch out a few ideas, and bring them over tomorrow. Then the girls can tell me what they like and what they want to change, and we'll go from there.”

“Hey—want to see my princess dress?” Sophie asked.

“Sure.”

She ran across the hall to another bedroom and returned with a yellow Belle ball gown.

“I have one, too,” Zoey said. “Plus I have a princess gown dress my mom made, but I'm too big to wear it now.”

“I'd love to see it,” I said.

Matt cleared his throat. “Peggy has it. She's getting it professionally preserved.”

“How nice.” And how sad, I thought. Were memories ever just one or the other?

“Here's a picture of our mom.” Sophie pointed to one of the framed photos on the dresser.

“She's very beautiful.” I sheepishly glanced up at Matt. “I was admiring photos of her before you got home.”

“We're gonna look just like her when we grow up, because she looked just like us when she was our age,” Sophie said authoritatively.

“Yeah,” Zoey confirmed. “My gramma has a photo of Mommy that was taken when she was my age.”

“Actually, Hope's grandmother took that photo,” Matt said.

I turned to him. “Really? I didn't know Peggy and Griff had lived in Wedding Tree that long.”

“They had a home on the other side of town when Christine and Jillian were growing up, then they moved to Houston for Griff's job. They moved to their current house when he retired a few years ago.”

“And Jillian?”

He shifted his stance, as if the question made him uncomfortable. I wondered what the situation was between them. “She got a job at the local middle school when they moved here. She has her own place about a mile away.”

“I can understand why they'd all want to move here. I spent every summer in Wedding Tree when I was a kid, and it's a great town.”

“Did you know the people who used to lived in this house?” Sophie asked.

“When I was your age, it was an elderly lady.”

“Did she give you cookies like Mizz McCauley?”

“No, but Gran and I used to take cookies to her. The house was much different back then. It's far lighter and brighter and more beautiful now. I always wondered what the upstairs looked like.”

“I'll show you the rest of it!” Sophie pointed down the hall. “Daddy's room is that way, an' next to it is a sittin' room.”

“I, uh, saw those when I came upstairs.” I was keenly aware of Matt watching the proceedings from the hallway. “Let's not intrude on his private space.”

“Okay.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me into a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. “This is our bathroom. The first sink is mine.” She opened a door and led me into another pink room. “This is supposed to be my room, but Zoey and I decided to share.”

“We've shared a room ever since Mommy died,” Zoey said. “I didn't want to be alone, and Daddy said I couldn't share his bed.”

Matt ran a hand across his jaw, looking uneasy.

Sophie pulled me across the hall into a room with a sofa, a desk with a computer, and toys scattered on the thick rug. Zoey followed. “This is our playroom. And next to that is another bathroom, and then there's Jillian's room,” Zoey announced.

Matt cleared his throat again. “It's actually the guest room.”

“Yeah, but Jillian's the only guest.”

“That's only happened a couple of times when I had to be away overnight and your grandparents were busy,” Matt said.

Was he trying to clarify the nature of Jillian's sleepovers for the girls' sake, or for mine? What was the real nature of their relationship? I'd picked up a territorial vibe from Jillian earlier. “It's got to be convenient, having family so close by.”

He nodded. “That's why we moved here.” He suddenly looked ill at ease, as if he'd said too much. He thumped on the doorframe. “Well, I'd better go check the burgers.”

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Sophie asked.

“She's not invited,” Zoey said flatly.

Matt raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but Zoey continued before he could get a word in edgewise. “You wouldn't let Jillian stay. You said you wanted a night with just the three of us. So she can't stay, either.”

I quickly lifted both of my hands. “Actually, I've already eaten. Gran's on the senior dining plan, which means dinner is served at five o'clock sharp. And speaking of time . . .” I made a show of looking at my watch. I wasn't wearing one, so I had to pull my phone out of the pocket of my running shorts to look at the time. “I'd better get going so I can get started on the sketches.”

I said good-bye to the girls and headed down the stairs. Matt followed me into the foyer. I was about to open the door, but Matt reached around and opened it for me. He wasn't touching me, but I could feel the heat of his body as I turned toward him. Or maybe not; maybe the heat was coming from me. All I knew was that the air between us suddenly felt a whole lot warmer.

I paused. “Look—I'm really sorry about earlier. I had no business looking at your pictures.”

He raised his shoulders. “No harm, no foul. I overreacted.”

Up close, he was more attractive than ever—and I was close enough to see the lighter blue facets around his pupils. He smelled of starch and soap and testosterone. My stomach fluttered. I gave a nervous grin. “Well, from now on, I promise to stay out of your bedroom.”

The minute the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded. My cheeks flamed.

The corners of his eyes tensed. For a long, hot moment, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I couldn't move. I just looked at him, trapped in a bubble of thought-erasing heat.

His gaze shifted to my mouth, then back to my eyes. He smiled. “I've got about a dozen clever rejoinders swirling around in my head, but I'd better not say any of them.”

I couldn't think of a single response to save my life. My face on fire, I muttered a fast “good night” and ducked out the door.