Key Of Valor (8 page)

“I don't think there is anything you can't have,” Malory told her. “We wouldn't have this place if it wasn't for you.”

“That's silly. Just because I found the house—”

“Not just the house, Zoe. The idea, the vision, the faith.”
Impatient, Malory laid a hand on Zoe's shoulder, gave it a little shake. “You started this. So I think when you figure out what you really want, you'll figure out the way to get it.”

To keep her hands busy, Zoe picked up the box cutter and started on the next carton. “Were you ever in love, really in love, before Flynn?”

“No. I've been in lust, experienced infatuation, had some very heavy like. But I've never loved anyone the way I love Flynn.”

Zoe nodded. “And it was always Jordan for you, Dana.”

“Whether I wanted it to be or not, yeah.”

“I've been in love.” She spoke quietly as she worked. “I loved Simon's father. I loved him with everything I had. Maybe some people think you don't have a whole lot when you're sixteen, but I had so much love to give. I gave him all of it. I didn't think, I didn't hesitate, I just gave it.”

She pulled the cardboard away, let it drop to the floor. “I've known men since. Some good men, some who didn't turn out to be so good. But none of them ever came close to touching me the way that boy did when I was sixteen. I wanted him, Mal, almost more than I wanted to live.”

“He didn't stick by you,” she replied.

“No, he didn't. He did love me, I believe that, but not enough to stick by me. Not enough to make the choice to be with me, or even to acknowledge what we'd made between us. He just walked away and went back to living his life, while mine was torn to pieces.”

To vent some of that old, old anger, she sent the knife whizzing through the carton. “He got engaged just a few months ago. My sister sent me the clipping from the newspaper. Got a big wedding planned in the spring. I got mad when I read that. I got mad because he's planning a big, fancy wedding in the spring, and he's never once laid eyes on his son.”

“His loss,” Malory said.

“Yes, that's true. It is his loss. But still, I loved him, and I wanted him. I couldn't have him, and that almost broke me.” With a sigh, she rested her head on the side of the unit. “I'm not going to want what I can't have again. So I'm afraid of Bradley because he's the only one who's come along in ten years who makes me remember, just a little, what it was like to be sixteen.”

T
HE
important thing to keep in mind was that she was a grown woman, and grown women often had men over for a meal without falling apart, or falling in love.

It was just a little twist to her Monday routine.

It meant she picked up some fancy bread and fresh makings for a salad on the way home. And made extra sauce. She had to get Simon started on his homework earlier than usual. And that was a battle, even with the bribe of his good pal Brad coming over for dinner.

She had to clean herself up, change her outfit twice and retouch her makeup. Then she had to clean Simon up, which caused another battle, then light fragrance candles so everything looked pretty and the air wasn't tinged with Eau de Moe.

There was the salad to make, the table to set, arithmetic and spelling to check and a dog to feed.

All this had to be done between three-thirty-five and six-thirty.

He probably wasn't used to going out to dinner so early,
she thought as she stirred sauce. The richer people were, the later they ate. But Simon had to be in bed by nine o'clock on a school night. That was the law around here, so Bradley Vane would just have to adjust, or he could go eat his spaghetti somewhere else.

She hissed out a breath. Stop it! He hadn't complained, had he? She was the one making all the trouble.

“Simon, you really need to finish that up.”

“I hate fractions.” He bumped his heels against the leg of his chair and scowled down at the math assignment. “Fractions blow chunks.”

“Some things don't come in wholes. You need to know the pieces that make them up.”

“Why?”

She took out the cloth napkins she'd run up on her sewing machine. “So you can put things together, take them apart, understand how it all works.”

“Why?”

She folded the napkins into triangles. “Are you trying to irritate me, or is it a natural gift?”

“I don't know. How come you're using those things?”

“Because we're having company.”

“It's just Brad.”

“I know who it is. Simon, you've only got three more problems there. Get them done so I can finish setting the table.”

“How come I can't do it after dinner? How come I always have to do homework? How come I can't take Moe outside and fool around?”

“Because I want you to do it now. Because that's your job. Because I said so.”

They sent each other mutual looks of heat and annoyance. “It's not fair.”

“Bulletin for Simon: Life isn't always fair. Now get the rest of that done, or you'll lose your hour TV-and-video
privilege tonight. And stop kicking that chair,” she snapped.

She hauled out her cutting board and began chopping vegetables for the salad. “You keep making those faces at my back,” she said, coolly now, “and you'll lose those privileges for the whole week.”

He didn't know how she knew what he was doing behind her, but she always did. In a small rebellion, he took three times as long to solve the next problem as he needed.

Homework
sucked
. He glanced up quickly just in case his mother could hear what he was thinking. But she kept on cutting junk for the stupid salad.

He didn't mind school. Sometimes he even liked it. But he didn't see why it had to follow him home every single night. He thought about kicking the chair again, just to test her. But Moe bounced into the room and distracted him.

“Hey, Moe. Hey, boy, whatcha got there?”

Zoe looked around, and dropped the knife. “Oh, my God.”

Moe stood, tail thumping, whole body wagging, and what was left of a roll of toilet paper clamped in his teeth.

When she leaped toward him, it was a signal in Moe's mind for the game to begin. He charged left, zipped around the table, then bolted back through the kitchen doorway.

“Stop! Damn it. Simon, help me get that dog.”

He'd already done his work. Shredded bits of paper, streams of mangled paper, were sprinkled and spread all over her floors like snow. She chased him into the living room while he growled playfully around the crushed tube. Giggling in delight, Simon streaked past her and dived.

Boy and dog rolled over the rug.

“Simon, it's not a game.” She waded in, managed to get a hand on the wet roll. But the harder she tugged, the brighter Moe's eyes became.

He bore down, with happy snarls.

“He thinks it is. He thinks you're playing tug. He really likes to tug.”

Exasperated, she looked at her son. He was kneeling beside the dog now, one arm thrown over Moe's back. Some of the shredded paper had attached itself to Simon's clean pants, Moe's fur.

Both of them were grinning at her.

“I'm not playing.” But the words choked out over a laugh. “I'm
not
! You're a bad dog.” She tapped a finger on his nose. “A very bad dog.”

He plopped on his butt, lifted a paw to shake, then spat the roll onto the floor at her feet.

“He wants you to throw it so he can fetch.”

“Oh, yeah, that's going to happen.” She snatched the roll up, put it behind her back. “Simon, go get the vacuum cleaner. Moe and I are going to have a little chat.”

“She's not really mad,” he said in Moe's ear. “Her eyes get sorta dark and scary when she's really mad.”

He bounded up. Moving fast, Zoe grabbed Moe's collar before he could follow. “Oh, no, you don't. Look at the mess you made. What do you have to say for yourself?”

He collapsed and rolled over to expose his belly.

“The only way that's going to work on me is if you know how to run a vacuum cleaner.”

She let out a little sigh when she heard the knock on the door, and Simon's shouted “I'll get it!”

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

She stared after Moe as he raced away, and heard Simon's excited voice telling Brad about Moe's latest adventure.

“He ran all over the house. He made a real mess.”

“So I see.” Brad turned into the living room where Zoe stood, surrounded by shredded toilet paper. “The fun never stops, huh?”

“He must've nosed his way into the linen closet. I just have to clean this up.”

“Why don't you take care of these?” He crossed to her,
held out a bottle of wine and a dozen yellow roses. “Simon and I can clean it up.”

“No, really, you can't—”

“Sure I can. Got a vacuum cleaner?” Brad asked Simon.

“I was getting it.” He dashed off.

“Really, you don't have to bother. I'll . . . get it later.”

“I'll take care of it. You don't like roses?”

“Yes. I do. They're beautiful.” She started to take them, then looked down at her hand, and the soggy remains still gripped in it. “Oh,” she said on a very long sigh, “well.”

“Trade ya.” He plucked it out of her hand before she could stop him, then filled hers with the flowers. “You'll want to take this, too.” He passed her the bottle of Chianti. “You might want to go ahead and open that, so it can breathe.”

He turned away from her when Simon hauled in the vacuum. “Plug her in, Simon, and let's get this done because something smells really good around here.”

“Spaghetti sauce. Mom makes the best. But we gotta have salad first.”

“There's always a catch.” He smiled at Zoe as he rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue shirt. “We've got this covered.”

“All right. Well. Thanks.” Not knowing what else to do, she carried the roses and wine back into the kitchen. She could hear Simon still chattering away, then the quick roar of the vacuum, followed immediately by Moe's insane barks.

She'd forgotten Moe considered the vacuum a mortal enemy. She should go back and get him. Then she heard Simon's peal of laughter, the deeper, but equally delighted sound of Brad's, and the increasingly frantic barking that meant man and boy were only encouraging Moe to go postal.

No, they were fine. She should leave them alone.

And it gave her the opportunity to simply bury her face in the flowers. No one had ever given her yellow roses
before. They were so sunny and elegant. After some debate, she settled on the slim copper urn she'd rescued from obscurity at a yard sale. With the brilliant shine she'd given it, it was a suitably bright home for yellow roses.

She arranged them, opened the wine. After putting a pot of water on to boil for the pasta, she went back to the salad.

It was going to be okay, it was going to be fine. She had to remember he was just a man. A friend. Just a friend who'd dropped by for dinner.

“Back to normal,” Brad said as he strolled in. He noted the arranged bouquet she'd set on the counter. “Nice.”

“They're really beautiful. Thank you. Simon, why don't we put Moe out back for now? You can take your books in the other room and finish those last couple of problems. Then we'll eat.”

“What kind of problems?” Brad asked as he wandered around to Simon's books.

“Stupid fractions.” Simon opened the back door for Moe and sent his mother a long-suffering look. “Can't I do them later?”

“Sure, if you don't want your hour after dinner.”

Simon's mouth curled in what his mother recognized as the onset of a serious snit. “Fractions bite. It all bites. We got calculators and computers and junk, so how come I have to do it?”

“Because—”

“Yeah, calculators make it easy.” Brad spoke casually over Zoe's heat, and traced a finger over Simon's work-sheet. “These are probably too tough for you to figure out by yourself.”

“No, they're not.”

“I don't know. Look pretty tough to me. You've got to add this three and three-quarters to the two and five-eighths. Heavy stuff.”

“You just have to change the quarters to eighths, that's
all. Like this.” Simon grabbed the pencil and, clamping his tongue in his teeth, did the conversion. “So, see, now you can add up the six-eighths and the five-eighths, then you take it down again to one and three-eighths, plus the whole number jazz. So altogether you get six and three-eighths. See, the answer's six and three-eighths.”

“Ha. How about that?”

“Was that a trick?” Simon asked suspiciously.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He ruffled Simon's hair. “Do the last one, smart guy.”

“Man.”

Zoe watched Brad lean over her son's shoulder, felt her system start to slide toward melting when he looked up, smiled into her eyes.

No, she was afraid he wasn't just a man, not just a friend who'd dropped by for dinner.

“Done!” Simon slapped his book closed. “Do I get parole, warden?”

“You're out of the slammer for now. Go ahead and put your books away, and wash up for dinner.” Zoe poured two glasses of wine as Simon bolted out of the room. “You're good with stubborn little boys.”

“It probably helps that I used to be one.” He took the glass from her. “He's quick with numbers.”

“Yes, he is. He does really well in school. He just hates homework.”

“He's supposed to, isn't he? What are you wearing?”

“I . . .” Off center again, she looked down at her navy blue sweater.

“Not the clothes, the perfume. You always smell fabulous, and never quite the same.”

“I'm trying out a lot of different products. Soaps and creams and . . .” Catching the gleam in his eye, she lifted her wine to her lips before he could lean in and take them with his own. “Scents.”

“It's funny. A lot of women have a favorite scent, like a signature. And it can haunt a man. You make a man wonder what it'll be today, so he can't stop thinking about you.”

She'd have backed up, but there wasn't enough room in the kitchen to do so without making it obvious. “I don't wear scents for men.”

“I know. That only makes it more seductive.”

He caught her panicked glance toward the doorway when they heard Simon coming back. Casually, Brad moved aside and let Zoe turn back to the stove.

“Are we going to eat now?” Simon demanded.

“Just putting the spaghetti in. Go ahead and sit down. We'll start on the salad.”

She set a pretty table, Brad thought. Colorful plates, festive bowls, linens in a cheerful pattern. There were candles burning, and since Simon made no comment about them, Brad concluded they weren't unusual at the McCourt table.

He thought she was relaxing into it, by degrees. The boy was responsible for most of that, of course. He was full of chatter, questions, comments, all of which he managed to get out even though he ate like a stevedore.

Not that Brad could blame him. Simon's mother made a hell of a plate of spaghetti.

He had a second helping himself.

“I like your pictures in the living room,” Brad said to Zoe.

“The postcards? I collect them from people I know who go places.”

“We make the frames,” Simon put in. “Mom has a miter box. Maybe one day we'll go places, and we'll send people postcards. Right, Mom?”