Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) by Patricia McLinn
Authors: Patricia McLinn
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bet."
Paul grinned at a photograph of Grady, Michael, Tris and himself from their college days. "That's okay, Roberts. It was a sucker bet, anyway."
He hung up, feeling more like himself than he had all week.
* * *
THE SENSE OF well-being lasted less than twenty-three hours.
He couldn't find anything to do.
He called Tris, but got his cousin's machine in D.C. Just as well, he decided as he paced his apartment. He didn't want her asking nosy questions. She'd read too much into his answers, or lack of answers. The same went for his parents. Grady was otherwise occupied. Michael . . . He'd go see Michael.
He didn't bother to give the idea a second thought, or to call ahead. He headed southwest to Springfield, whisking between cornfields that hinted at next summer's fertile crop even with last summer's reduced to brown stubble.
His mind followed its own track.
Unlike Grady, who often waged elaborate campaigns for his lady of the moment, Paul had always simply let relationships happen - or not happen - as the Fates decreed. And he'd always been honest about looking only to the moment. He made no promises, so none were broken. Obviously, he should follow that path with Bette and forget her.
He depressed the accelerator another five-miles-per-hour's worth.
The outside of Michael's Victorian house looked great, the scars of renovation nearly healed; inside was still under reconstruction. Michael came to the door with a paintbrush in hand. His slight frown metamorphosed into a grin when he saw who stood outside the leaded glass.
"Boy, am I glad to see you."
Paul groaned. "Don't you think you got enough free labor out of me? How many walls did I help you knock down? Thirty? Forty? I don't think I'll ever breathe right again after all that plaster dust."
"Free, maybe, but definitely unskilled labor."
"You complaining?"
"Absolutely not. In fact, I'm offering you a chance to hone those skills. Painting's very marketable these days. And I need to get this done while I still have the time."
"Is that your way of telling me Joan's running for the U.S. Senate?" With Michael on state senator Joan Bradon's staff, Paul had paid close attention to the rumors.
"I'm not telling you anything, Monroe. Read your morning paper."
"Real nice. And then you expect my help? Oh, what the hell, lead me to that paint bucket."
As he outfitted Paul for painting, Michael probed for the reason for this visit. Paul evaded and, though he felt the weight of Michael's wondering, the questions ceased.
Spreading paint across the patched, multicolored surface was definitely preferable to breathing plaster dust. Windows, open to disperse the fumes, brought in the spicy air of fall. He could hear drums from a marching band at a high school football game in the distance, and an occasional roar from the onlookers. His perfect swipes covered the wall in a clean expanse of color.
The drawback was that his mind, free to wander, returned to the topic he'd tried to drive away from Bette.
A sound reminded him of Michael, painting woodwork across the room. He could talk to Michael, tell him . . . tell him what? That he'd met a woman he found attractive. So? Big news flash.
He tried to divert his mind; the first topic he came up with was the woman Michael had been seeing for some months.
"So how's Laura these days?" He tossed the question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. "How come you didn't rope
her
into this drudge work?"
The brush in Michael's hand went still. "I believe Laura's doing very well."
Paul pivoted to face him. "You believe?"
"She moved to California at the end of last month."
"Why?"
"She had an offer for a better position in a senator's office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation, so -"
"Don't give me that bull. What happened?"
At the rawness of the question, Michael rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had always bothered Paul,
Paul grinned at a photograph of Grady, Michael, Tris and himself from their college days. "That's okay, Roberts. It was a sucker bet, anyway."
He hung up, feeling more like himself than he had all week.
* * *
THE SENSE OF well-being lasted less than twenty-three hours.
He couldn't find anything to do.
He called Tris, but got his cousin's machine in D.C. Just as well, he decided as he paced his apartment. He didn't want her asking nosy questions. She'd read too much into his answers, or lack of answers. The same went for his parents. Grady was otherwise occupied. Michael . . . He'd go see Michael.
He didn't bother to give the idea a second thought, or to call ahead. He headed southwest to Springfield, whisking between cornfields that hinted at next summer's fertile crop even with last summer's reduced to brown stubble.
His mind followed its own track.
Unlike Grady, who often waged elaborate campaigns for his lady of the moment, Paul had always simply let relationships happen - or not happen - as the Fates decreed. And he'd always been honest about looking only to the moment. He made no promises, so none were broken. Obviously, he should follow that path with Bette and forget her.
He depressed the accelerator another five-miles-per-hour's worth.
The outside of Michael's Victorian house looked great, the scars of renovation nearly healed; inside was still under reconstruction. Michael came to the door with a paintbrush in hand. His slight frown metamorphosed into a grin when he saw who stood outside the leaded glass.
"Boy, am I glad to see you."
Paul groaned. "Don't you think you got enough free labor out of me? How many walls did I help you knock down? Thirty? Forty? I don't think I'll ever breathe right again after all that plaster dust."
"Free, maybe, but definitely unskilled labor."
"You complaining?"
"Absolutely not. In fact, I'm offering you a chance to hone those skills. Painting's very marketable these days. And I need to get this done while I still have the time."
"Is that your way of telling me Joan's running for the U.S. Senate?" With Michael on state senator Joan Bradon's staff, Paul had paid close attention to the rumors.
"I'm not telling you anything, Monroe. Read your morning paper."
"Real nice. And then you expect my help? Oh, what the hell, lead me to that paint bucket."
As he outfitted Paul for painting, Michael probed for the reason for this visit. Paul evaded and, though he felt the weight of Michael's wondering, the questions ceased.
Spreading paint across the patched, multicolored surface was definitely preferable to breathing plaster dust. Windows, open to disperse the fumes, brought in the spicy air of fall. He could hear drums from a marching band at a high school football game in the distance, and an occasional roar from the onlookers. His perfect swipes covered the wall in a clean expanse of color.
The drawback was that his mind, free to wander, returned to the topic he'd tried to drive away from Bette.
A sound reminded him of Michael, painting woodwork across the room. He could talk to Michael, tell him . . . tell him what? That he'd met a woman he found attractive. So? Big news flash.
He tried to divert his mind; the first topic he came up with was the woman Michael had been seeing for some months.
"So how's Laura these days?" He tossed the question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. "How come you didn't rope
her
into this drudge work?"
The brush in Michael's hand went still. "I believe Laura's doing very well."
Paul pivoted to face him. "You believe?"
"She moved to California at the end of last month."
"Why?"
"She had an offer for a better position in a senator's office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation, so -"
"Don't give me that bull. What happened?"
At the rawness of the question, Michael rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had always bothered Paul,
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