Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) by Patricia McLinn Page A
Authors: Patricia McLinn
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because he never knew what Michael Dickinson might pull out of him in such moments.
"We couldn't give each other what we both wanted." Michael spoke with measured reluctance.
"What was that?"
"Forever."
The word was like a spark to Paul's smoldering mood. "What's so almighty wonderful about forever? Settling down, getting married, having a family, is that what you're talking about? Why does everybody harp on that? What -"
He snapped the words off when the look in Michael's eyes hit home. He should have remembered that Michael's past had given him a different view of this subject.
"Paul, you take it for granted, and you shouldn't. Family and stability - that's pretty damn rare, you know."
"Stability," Paul repeated with disdain. "Yeah, so stable that at the age of twelve your life's mapped out for you. Just follow the step-by-step instructions and you'll turn out to be the perfect family clone."
"You haven't done so badly in the individualism department, Monroe."
Paul dropped the roller into the pan, not caring about the spatters on the drop cloth, and took a deep breath. "I'm not going to let my life be run by somebody else's rules, Michael. Not ever."
Michael said nothing. After a while, Paul heard him return to painting and Paul took up the roller, though he found less pleasure in it. The silence had changed.
"Who is she, Paul?"
"Who's who?" Michael didn't bother to answer that, and Paul felt foolish for the evasion. "Bette. Bette Wharton."
"And?" Michael prompted.
"And not much. Grand total of three dinners and a few kisses." He felt no guilt at the understatement. "We went out last Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. Things seemed to click. Then she avoided me Monday and Tuesday, said no Wednesday and resumed avoiding me Thursday."
"What about Friday and today?"
"She wasn't around Friday and today."
"Ah."
"Ah what? What's 'ah' mean?" Irritation spurted sharp and hot.
"What do you do when a woman turns down a date?"
"Forget her, because . . ." He broke off the familiar words. He'd said them to Michael and Grady maybe two thousand times over the past fifteen years. Forget her, because there're plenty who'll say yes.
"Yet,
this
woman you keep asking. That's why 'ah.' "
Paul loaded paint on the roller and slapped it against the wall, then had to roll like crazy to remedy the drips, splotches and spatters. He was short on breath by the time he re-wetted the roller, this time more cautiously.
"You've got another session at the Smithsonian coming up, don't you?" Michael asked from behind him. From the sound of it, he'd continued painting, too.
"Yeah."
"Made any decision about taking up the offer to be a regular consultant?"
They were all after him about the damn museum - Jan, his father, Michael. Bette would join them if she found out about the opportunity. It was the sort of thing that would appeal to her plan-ahead mind. Probably tell him what a step forward this could he. If he were stupid enough to invite the lectures by telling her . . . if he ever had the opportunity to be that stupid, if he ever saw her again.
"No."
"All right, all right, don't bark at me. I'm not the one inconsiderate enough to give you a flattering offer."
"Shut up, Dickinson."
"All right."
That was one of the most annoying things about Michael - he shut up when you told him to shut up. By the time Michael spoke next, Paul had turned the corner to the next wall, and his mood had subsided to low-level hostility.
"So, you're leaving for D.C. a week from Wednesday and will be back the next Sunday?"
"Something like that. How'd you know?"
"The same way I ever know anything about your plans - I hear it from your mother, your sister or your assistant. This time it was Jan. I called her to congratulate her on the baby, and asked when you'd be around."
"Why'd you want to know? You want to come with me? I'm staying with Tris. I'm sure there'd be room for you, too."
He regretted the words instantly. To Paul's knowledge, Michael had
"We couldn't give each other what we both wanted." Michael spoke with measured reluctance.
"What was that?"
"Forever."
The word was like a spark to Paul's smoldering mood. "What's so almighty wonderful about forever? Settling down, getting married, having a family, is that what you're talking about? Why does everybody harp on that? What -"
He snapped the words off when the look in Michael's eyes hit home. He should have remembered that Michael's past had given him a different view of this subject.
"Paul, you take it for granted, and you shouldn't. Family and stability - that's pretty damn rare, you know."
"Stability," Paul repeated with disdain. "Yeah, so stable that at the age of twelve your life's mapped out for you. Just follow the step-by-step instructions and you'll turn out to be the perfect family clone."
"You haven't done so badly in the individualism department, Monroe."
Paul dropped the roller into the pan, not caring about the spatters on the drop cloth, and took a deep breath. "I'm not going to let my life be run by somebody else's rules, Michael. Not ever."
Michael said nothing. After a while, Paul heard him return to painting and Paul took up the roller, though he found less pleasure in it. The silence had changed.
"Who is she, Paul?"
"Who's who?" Michael didn't bother to answer that, and Paul felt foolish for the evasion. "Bette. Bette Wharton."
"And?" Michael prompted.
"And not much. Grand total of three dinners and a few kisses." He felt no guilt at the understatement. "We went out last Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. Things seemed to click. Then she avoided me Monday and Tuesday, said no Wednesday and resumed avoiding me Thursday."
"What about Friday and today?"
"She wasn't around Friday and today."
"Ah."
"Ah what? What's 'ah' mean?" Irritation spurted sharp and hot.
"What do you do when a woman turns down a date?"
"Forget her, because . . ." He broke off the familiar words. He'd said them to Michael and Grady maybe two thousand times over the past fifteen years. Forget her, because there're plenty who'll say yes.
"Yet,
this
woman you keep asking. That's why 'ah.' "
Paul loaded paint on the roller and slapped it against the wall, then had to roll like crazy to remedy the drips, splotches and spatters. He was short on breath by the time he re-wetted the roller, this time more cautiously.
"You've got another session at the Smithsonian coming up, don't you?" Michael asked from behind him. From the sound of it, he'd continued painting, too.
"Yeah."
"Made any decision about taking up the offer to be a regular consultant?"
They were all after him about the damn museum - Jan, his father, Michael. Bette would join them if she found out about the opportunity. It was the sort of thing that would appeal to her plan-ahead mind. Probably tell him what a step forward this could he. If he were stupid enough to invite the lectures by telling her . . . if he ever had the opportunity to be that stupid, if he ever saw her again.
"No."
"All right, all right, don't bark at me. I'm not the one inconsiderate enough to give you a flattering offer."
"Shut up, Dickinson."
"All right."
That was one of the most annoying things about Michael - he shut up when you told him to shut up. By the time Michael spoke next, Paul had turned the corner to the next wall, and his mood had subsided to low-level hostility.
"So, you're leaving for D.C. a week from Wednesday and will be back the next Sunday?"
"Something like that. How'd you know?"
"The same way I ever know anything about your plans - I hear it from your mother, your sister or your assistant. This time it was Jan. I called her to congratulate her on the baby, and asked when you'd be around."
"Why'd you want to know? You want to come with me? I'm staying with Tris. I'm sure there'd be room for you, too."
He regretted the words instantly. To Paul's knowledge, Michael had
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