August
“And as usual,” says my father from the drive, “I’ve got the bags.”
I empathize.
Pen, however, utters a mortified gasp and quickly turns toward me to button up her shirt, as Dad trudges up the stairs. She flashes me a death glare that promises retribution. But I can only grin. I’m not the one who started a cream war.
All right, so I am the one who started taking off her shirt. Maybe I do deserve the glare. I kiss the crown of her head in penitence.
“You’re a big strong man,” my mother is deadpanning to my father. “A few bags won’t kill you.”
“Woman, I’ve the knees of an eighty-year-old.”
“I’ll remember that later, when you—”
“Hey, Pop,” I cut in quickly. “Let me get those.” Anything not to hear about “later.”
He gives me a smug look and tosses all three bags my way. With a grunt, I accept my fate, adjusting my grip, then stepping aside to let them in.
“Caught them fooling around, did you?” he says to Mom and Anne with a grin that is way too familiar.
If anyone ever wants to know how I’ll age in thirty-odd years, they need only take a look at my father. I’ve got no complaints. He’s fit and strong—despite his whining. His once dark hair is now steel colored but thick and full. All of us boys look like him. Sure, there are some differences, but overall the gene pool is potent on the Luck side.
Pen turns a lovely shade of pink and refuses to meet anyone’s gaze.
While her mother scoffs. “I thought this engagement thing was supposed to be a charade.”
“It is,” Pen hisses, still put out from being half undressed. “At least the engagement part.”
She’s been very insistent on clarifying that lately. And can I blame her? There is a huge difference between being engaged and being... whatever it is we are. What are we, exactly? I like to say she’s mine and I’m hers. Period. And I don’t really think she’s angling for marriage or upset that there isn’t one forthcoming. No, it’s that damn lie that brought us together still haunting us in subtle ways.
I find myself shifting on my feet, unaccountably uncomfortable. Worse, Mom is peering at me with interest. The woman can see through walls, I swear to God. No one is going to convince me otherwise. And I do not want her looking too closely at me, because I’m fairly certain she can read minds as well.
“Jan and the rest are out getting barbecue,” I tell them for no other reason than to fill the silence. It feels awkward andfraught—like a couple of busybody parents will soon start probing with endless questions.
Turning on my heel, I take their things into the side hall where it leads to the bedrooms. There’s only two rooms left, so I leave the bags by those doors. When I get back, everyone has retreated to the kitchen and settled around to watch Pen pack away the cream for later. The elegant line of her neck is tense as she moves, the lobes of her ears bright pink. I know she’s thinking of that cream and what we might have done with it. And that our parents are too.
Again, a pulse of aching tenderness hits me. It does that a lot now, at least once a day. I might have been concerned, except I know exactly what it is.
Moving to Pen’s side, I press my cheek to the crown of her head in comfort, and lower my voice so only she can hear. “Let me do this.”
“I got it,” she says just as softly. But she leans into me for a moment to acknowledge the offer.
Swiftly, I kiss her head, then turn back to three sets of very interested eyes. It’s clear they are completely disarmed by seeing Pen and I together. “How about some drinks. Mom, Anne, you want some white wine, tequila maybe?”
It snaps them out of it a little. Mom rises from her perch on the island stool. “I’ll get the wine.”
“Want a beer, Dad?”
“I’ll probably need more than that,” he mutters but then heads for the bar. “Guessing you need one too, son?”
God, yes, I do. “Sure.”
Anne slides up next to me. “Since I don’t know where anything is, why don’t you help me put together something to tide us over. Does January have cheese and crackers, or something?”
“Let’s see what we got.”
Anne pats my arm in solidarity. She’s a beautiful woman, but aside from their coloring, Pen and her mother don’t look verymuch alike. Whereas Pen is soft curves and delicate features, Anne is bold and vivid, her jaw more squared and sharper, her nose a strong slash down her face. Features well suited to the stage. As is her voice with crystal-clear diction and warm resonance.
