MARRIAGE MATERIAL Read online

  And what a test.

  Yesterday, Lance had made her think of a steak, a homegrown, All-American beefsteak, thick and juicy.

  This morning he smelled of aftershave and soap. The hair at his collar was still damp from a shower, and his jaw showed a tiny nick from shaving. Tamara thought of Black Forest cake, sinfully delicious and far too rich for her tastes.

  Food images. That wasn't terribly difficult to figure out. She was practically starving.

  She took a long breath and let it go slowly. It didn't help much. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hand on the steering wheel, strong and square and dark. When he said, "swoon," it had been his hands she'd thought of, his hands gliding over her body with expertise and attention to detail.

  The fresh man smell filled her head. Impossible. This whole thing was impossible. It was hilarious that she'd even imagined she could even attempt to seduce such a man.

  "What's your test in?" he asked.

  Her heart nearly stopped dead. "Pardon?"

  He looked at her, a secret dancing in those bright blue eyes. "Your test. What is your test this morning?"

  "Oh." A tinge of heat moved on her jaw. "Accounting." She pointed at an intersection. "Turn left up there."

  "I know where the college is, honey. I'm a native of this town, and it's not like anything is hidden." He changed lanes and took a swig of coffee from a thermal cup. "You like it?"

  "Yes," she lied.

  "You don't strike me as the accounting type."

  "Oh." Maybe if she answered in monosyllables he'd stop talking in that warm, teasing voice and the little shivers on her arms would cease.

  "No," he said, pulling into the parking lot at the school. "You seem like you'd be into all those poets, Byron and Whitfield—"

  "Whitman."

  "Right. And Shakespeare." He stopped the car in front of the front doors and gave her a wicked grin. "Maybe John Donne."

  Tamara couldn't help herself. She stared at him. "You know Donne?"

  Wickedness winked in his eyes. "'Love's mysteries in souls do grow, but yet the body is his book.'" He put an arm along the back of the seat and leaned toward her. "Does poetry make you swoon?"

  It did. And he knew it. Tamara sat rooted to her seat, her ears awash with the sound of his voice shaping those elegant words. He edged forward and his eyes touched her mouth. His sun-burnished face filled her whole vision, with the sensual, mobile mouth at the center.

  He was very close, and he smelled like heaven, and his mouth moved infinitely closer. She felt his breath whisper over her lower lip. Her heart pinched as if a huge heel were bearing down on it, and still she couldn't move.

  And there, so close, millimeters from kissing her, he said, "You'd better get to class, honey, before you're late."

  Tamara bolted, yanking open the door, half tumbling out, the little hairs on the back of her neck standing on end the way they did when she had to go up the basement steps in the dark, sure there were ghosts and demons and evil spirits on her heels. "Thank you," she said.

  "Tamara."

  She swallowed. "What?"

  "Let me have your keys. It takes two dollars and three minutes to change a spark plug, and I'm guessing you have no idea how to do it." He pointed to a parking lot. "I'll leave it right over there, the keys in the glove box. You can pay me back next time I'm in the Wild Moose."

  She couldn't bear one more second of looking at him. Rather than argue, Tamara reached into her purse, dug out the keys and tossed them at him. "Thanks for the ride," she said, and bolted for class.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  She flunked her test. She got into class, flustered and rushed, only moments before the instructor passed out the forms. When she saw the sheet of questions, she realized she had studied the wrong chapter. Her heart sunk. She knew none of the answers on this test. Not even one, though she made educated guesses on a few.

  And the day went downhill from there. In business administration, the teacher sprang news of an elaborate project that would be due in three weeks, an analysis of a corporation that would entail massive amounts of research. She grabbed a granola bar before statistics, which improved her mood marginally. The instructor handed her an envelope as she came in. Seeing the pink slip inside, she was afraid it was going to be a "see me after class" message, and couldn't think what she might have done wrong.

  Instead, it was a scrawled note from Lance. He'd picked up her car, but it was more than a spark plug, and he'd taken the car to his mechanic. He'd left his own car for her use this afternoon. "Don't curse at her," he wrote, and signed his name.

  She held the key in the palm of her hand as if it were a five-inch field spider. Drive his car? Sit in that fast, bad car and be seen in it? Not in this lifetime.

  But in the end, she had no choice. It was her only day off this week, and she had to get her paycheck, then get some groceries in the house or they'd be eating peanut butter crackers for supper.

  Safely in the car, away from the pressures of the day, Tamara bent her head and let herself cry. She felt frazzled and hassled and unable to cope. Her Buick, ugly and old as it was, was the only car she had, and if the repair bill was too steep, she wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

  Which meant she'd probably have to drop out of school this semester.

  She allowed herself five minutes to gnash her teeth and imagine the worst, then lifted her head and dried her tears with a tissue she found in the bottom of her purse. She checked for smeared mascara in the rear-view mirror, and gave herself a stern glare. "Lighten up, Tamara Flynn." In her mother's Southern drawl, she said, "Where there's a will, there's a way."

  It made her feel better. With new resolve, she turned the key in the ignition of the car and listened to it catch with a quiet roar. It handled like a dream, responding to her every little command like a dutiful soldier, carrying her down the highway with speed and smooth power. A cassette tape hung out of the stereo, and she impulsively pushed it in and turned it on. She expected George Thorogood or some other bad-boy of rock and roll, but it was Bonnie Raitt, singing "Louise."

  The day was clear and cool, bright as only mountain autumns can be. Tamara rolled the window down and turned up the music, and let the wind blow her hair around as she sang along. The furry green of pines and blazing gold of aspens whizzed by. Sunlight poured from a sky as blue as turquoise.

  What a car! she thought with amusement, pulling smoothly into the day care to pick up Cody. Wouldn't he get a kick out of it?

  It was only as she got out and cheerfully slammed the door with a thunk that she noticed the long line of cars ribboning up the road toward Louise Forrest's house.

  The funeral was today. That was why Lance had been dressed up this morning, and why he could let her use his car. With a thick sense of guilt, she followed the progress of the limo in front, wondering if Lance had loved his father. If he would miss him.

  If he would love his son, the grandson of the man they buried today.

  * * *

  Louise served and chatted with the gathered well-wishers—nearly everyone in town. A headache pounded lightly at her temples, pervasive and not unexpected. The past few days had been a strain for all of them.

  She eyed her sons carefully. Tyler sat in the rocker in the living room, reading a story to his son Curtis, who was sleepily sucking his thumb, his eyelids drooping as he valiantly fought to stay awake. Louise smiled. What a doll that child was!

  Jake was making time with the barely dry-behind-the-ears daughter of a town councilman, a skinny blonde who'd been known to date mainly ski instructors the past few years. Judging by the gleam in her eyes, Jake was her next prey. Or she was his. Louise scowled. Today she didn't care. She was too tired.

  She couldn't find Lance at first, but found him at last on the deck that jutted out over a hundred-foot drop into the valley. Wind from below blew his hair into disorder, tumbling it onto his collar in bright points. She closed the g
lass door behind her, and joined him at the rail.

  "How are you, honey?" she asked, putting her hand on his broad back. The jacket of his expensive suit had been discarded, and she felt his extraordinary heat through the light cotton shirt. When he'd been a baby, she'd had to wait until his temperature was 102 before she called a doctor. His natural thermometer was just set high.

  He roused himself, as if returning from a long way off. "I'm all right," he said, blinking. "You?"

  "I'm tired," she admitted. "But we're almost through it all now."

  Lance took her hand, clasping it between both of his. This was her sweet son—the little lover. As a child, he'd come downstairs in the morning and found her wherever she was, to give her a hug, first thing. Even as a teenager, he'd take her arm when they were out shopping, and put his arm around her when he introduced her to his friends. It was a rare thing in a man.

  "I miss him already," he said now in a rough voice.

  "I know you do." She brushed a lock of hair from his face. He'd been so stoic at the funeral, she worried about him. "You had a real special relationship with him. A man who is loved by his son can't have lived too bad a life."

  Lance nodded, and she saw his eyes glimmer with unshed tears. He swallowed, lifting his head to the wide mountain sky, and she patted his hand.

  "I'll leave you alone. No matter what your daddy said about boys and tears, I reckon even he would be honored right now."

  She left him without looking back. It would be harder for Lance than for any of them. She had to be sure he had plenty of chances to grieve, get it out in the open where it wouldn't fester and poison him. She'd seen that festering happen with Tyler, and she wouldn't lose another son to it.

  * * *

  Tamara picked up her check and bought Cody his treat-night supper—a hamburger, shake and French fries from the local hamburger stand. Once he'd eaten, they stopped at the grocery store, where he picked out the words he'd learned to read. "Mommy, is that 'sale'?" "Mommy, is that 'fish'?" "Mommy, is that 'diet'?"

  She nodded distractedly most of the time. Although he was only four, he'd been able to pick out most of the letters in the alphabet when he was two, and had been counting to a hundred for more than a year. It didn't surprise her anymore that he was teaching himself to read. Her mother had once told her that Valerie's father was the smartest man in Choctaw, Arkansas. Cody had evidently inherited his brains.

  In the spice aisle, she bent over, looking for lemon pepper. Behind her, Cody chanted in his usual way, making comments on whatever he saw. And in her usual way, she said, "Mmm-hmm," every so often without really hearing.

  But suddenly, his words penetrated, and she looked up, stunned. He was chanting the names of spices. "Nutmeg, nutmeg, nutmeg. Salt, salt, salt." He paused and frowned. "Carmamom." The sound pleased him. "Carmamom, carmamom, carmamom."

  When he noticed Tamara looking at him, his impish little face wreathed itself in a smile. "Carmamom!"

  "Cody," she said, standing, "are you reading the labels on the bottles?"

  "Yep." He swung his feet and cocked his head. "Some are hard."

  "Which one is hard?" She pulled the basket close to the shelves.

  "That one." He pointed to a bottle of Italian seasoning.

  Feeling a queer sense of excitement, Tamara forced herself to be calm as she pointed to another bottle. "How about this one?"

  He leaned forward against the silver handle of the shopping basket and made little gestures with his mouth, murmuring under his breath. "Pop-py!" he cried. "Pop-py, pop-py, pop-py. Hey!" he cried. "That's almost pepper!" He pointed to the can nearby. "Black pepper." With a serious expression he added, "I already know the color words."

  With a happy little giggle, Tamara took his face in her palms and kissed his nose. "You are so smart," she said. "I didn't know you could read so well!"

  He leaned on the bar. "I can't read books so good. There's too many words."

  "Oh, there are many books with only a few words in them. I'll find you some, okay?"

  "Okay." With a coy little expression, he said, "Can we get some Power Rangers now?"

  "Sorry, kid. Still can't afford one today. Maybe next week. How about some cookies instead?"

  He sighed. "Okay."

  On the way home, she stopped at a discount store and got several beginning readers for Cody. At the checkout was a display of inexpensive classical CDs. Impulsively she plucked out one of Vienna waltzes, as a treat for herself. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad day after all.

  She had no real stereo system, but couldn't stand to have no way to play music, and two years ago had splurged on a boom box at an after-Christmas sale. Happily, once they got home, she put the CD on and started putting away her groceries.

  "Turn it up, Mommy!" Cody cried, running into the kitchen. "This is happy music!"

  With a chuckle, she did just that. Cody spun and whirled all over the living room, and she watched him with a deep sense of satisfaction as she stowed the perishables. Then, leaving the rest for later, she rushed into the living room and scooped him up. "We can dance together!"

  She turned up the volume another notch, and spun around with her son. The music, so rich and wild and yes, happy, washed away the strain of her bad day. Holding the precious, laughing body of her son in her arms, it all seemed worth it—losing college and Eric and having to be poor again when that was the one thing she'd vowed to avoid.

  It was worth it. A thousand times over.

  * * *

  Lance could hear the music as soon as he turned off Tamara's car in her driveway. It was the "Blue Danube Waltz," floating out on waves of fairy-tale sound into the trees and the gathering dusk. In the living room she had turned a lamp on against the darkness, but had neglected to pull the curtains. He could see her plainly through the wide front window, dancing with her son. The little boy leaned back suddenly, letting his head fall, and Tamara spun him around. The boy's hair fluttered like the fringe on a yellow scarf.

  Lance didn't move. He stood by the car, feeling somehow winded. It didn't occur to him to be ashamed of spying on them. He was simply entranced by the picture they made. As he watched, Tamara put her son on his feet, and led a march around the living room to the sound of the drums. Then the boy led. And when the swirling started again, they spun around side by side, arms out to the side. Lance found his attention snagged by the sight of her dark, sleek hair swinging in a bell around her shoulders.

  Watching them, the sense of brittleness that had surrounded Lance all day ebbed, and he felt only very tired and empty. He might have stood there all evening, immobile, but a car came down the road, spitting gravel from the shoulder. Shaken from his trance, he went to the door and rang the bell.

  Cody flung open the door. "Hey, the forest man!" he said. The blond locks were tousled, and for a single moment, Lance was reminded of his brother Tyler. Ty's hair was lighter, but he'd been impish like this.

  Hard to believe now. Lance doubted there was a more serious person on the planet.

  "Hi there," Lance said. "Can I talk to your mom, please?"

  He waited on the porch this time, unwilling to invade her private time with her child. Tamara came right to the door. Her cheeks were flushed a bright rosy color. "Oh, hi!" she said, pushing open the screen door. "Come in. Things are a mess, but … well, just come on."

  As he stepped in, the next waltz came on, deafeningly loud. "Cody, turn that down for me, please." She looked at Lance. "Sorry. We got a little carried away."

  He tried to find a smile, but it felt like only a shadow. "I saw you from outside. Looked like fun."

  "Come in and sit down," she said. "Can I get you a cup of tea or something? I don't keep liquor or beer, but we have other things."

  To his surprise, he settled on the couch. It was worn and comfortable, covered with a bright blanket. "I can't stay long. But maybe a cup of tea would be nice."

  "Stay right there. I'll get it."

  Cody had turned down the music, and
now came over and sat down on the couch next to him. The boy pretended not to be interested. He sat close to the edge and swung his feet, his little hands in his lap, like a maiden aunt sitting with company.

  Lance had practice making small talk with little ones. "You go to school yet?" he asked.

  "No. Not real school. Only preschool." He brightened. "But I can read. Wanna see?"

  "Sure." Lance chuckled.

  Cody jumped down and scuttled over to the table. He brought back a stack of Dr. Seuss books. Lance guessed he'd been read to often, and had memorized the text of one or another of them. Cody held them out awkwardly, using his knee to keep from dropping the whole stack. "Which one do you want?"

  "Let me help you, kiddo." Lance propped the books up on his palms. "You pick."

  Cody looked at them carefully. "This one has mommy in it. I know that word pretty good."

  Lance put the others on the table and let Cody crawl up next to him. The boy felt warm against him. The painful ache in his chest somehow eased with the contact, and he dropped his arm around the child. "Whenever you're ready."

  "I hafta go slow, though," Cody said earnestly, his big blue eyes wide. "And you might have to help me with some words."

  "I can do that."

  Cody flipped open the book to a page in the middle and put his finger on the first word. "I don't know this one," he said.

  "'Are,'" Lance said.

  "Are you mmmm-mmm—eeee mommy?'" he said haltingly. "Oh! 'Are you my mommy?'"

  "Good."

  "That's not his mommy, I don't think," Cody said with a frown. "A bird needs a bird mommy."

  Lance chuckled. "You're right."

  Cody read the page, and by the way he stumbled and sounded out words according to the way they looked, Lance realized he wasn't reciting, but actually reading. At the end of the page, he said, "I'm very impressed, Cody. How old are you?"

  "Four."