Prelude to a Wedding (27 page)

James Monroe glanced down at his hand as if
in surprise. "The fire came up the back stairwell. We started that
way, but when I tested the door, we knew we'd have to find another
way."

Paul swallowed as he realized how his father
had tested that door. He reached down, intending to take the object
out of his father's hand so he could put on the coat, but before he
could, James Monroe tightened his grip, despite the wince the
movement produced, and Paul pulled his hand back.

"It's odd how your mind works at times like
that," his father said. "When the alarm sounded, it hit me that the
smell I'd just barely been catching for a while was smoke. I
realized we had to get out. We had to get everyone out of the
building right away. I told them all not to stop for anything. But
I did. I couldn't leave without it. It's odd how you see your
mistakes, how you know what's important at times like that."

Paul looked down to where his father's
fingers slowly loosened from the object he'd rescued as he escaped
the fire. Paul's brows contracted in a puzzled frown as he saw the
dull hard glint of gold. Then his father's hand opened, and the
beam of light fell on what it held: the gold-framed photograph of
the family taken the summer before Paul's senior year in
college.

"But all the things in your office. Your
baseball glove, your awards, your pictures . . ." All the things
that had chronicled his father's successes. Paul glanced up at the
smoke still billowing into the sky and wondered if a bit of leather
and some aging paper could have survived.

"Probably gone."

Paul's gaze came back to his father's face,
and he could see no more hint of despair there than he'd heard in
his voice.

"I might miss those things, but I took what's
most important to me."

His father looked at the photograph held in
his burned hand, and standing there in the cold, with the sting of
smoke all around them, he smiled.

* * * *

Paul wouldn't forget that smile, not as long
as he lived. That and the way his parents held on to each other
when he and his father finally made it to the house in Lake Forest
some time near midnight.

His father had insisted on seeing that all
the people from his office were safely on their way home and that
the fire department had declared the fire out before he agreed to
let Paul take him home.

Even on the drive to Lake Forest, Paul knew
his father hadn't fully relaxed. That came only when he walked into
his wife's arms at the front door.

After his father showered and had his hand
bandaged, they sat in the kitchen while his mother fed them, and
the three of them talked.

Before his mother went up to bed, she laid
her palm along his cheek as she used to to console some childish
hurt.

"Mom . . ." He wanted to tell her . . .
exactly what, he wasn't sure.

She shook her head slowly, wiping out the
need for special words. "Everything will be all right, dear." She
might have been talking about his father's condition or his
business. But Paul didn't think so. Her next words confirmed it.
"Look into your heart, and then don't be afraid to go after her.
She loves you. And love can survive a lot of hurt."

The words were so soft, so unlike his
mother's usual breeziness, that Paul didn't fully comprehend them
until she had left the room. How did she know Bette had left? How
had she fathomed his turmoil?

The questions had barely formed when he
realized his father had lingered. When their eyes met, his father
spoke.

"I know you always hated my joining the
family firm, Paul. And you blamed your grandfather. But you
shouldn't. Your grandfather didn't force me into anything—the firm,
the position, the house. I'd never had those things, and I wanted
them. So I made a choice—a choice, Paul. Nobody forced me. I still
enjoy all those things.

"That doesn't mean I haven't had regrets.
There are a few things I wish I'd done differently."

Paul felt the full force of his father's
look, a communication as intangible yet as real as the silent
connection of twilight games of catch two decades ago.

"Maybe I let being the best lawyer I could be
consume me, Paul. Maybe I wasn't around enough, especially in those
first years as head of the firm. Maybe I let the image and the
externals get to me. Your mother and I . . . well, she forgave me a
long time ago. Now, I hope you will."

"Forgive you? Dad, I—"

"I wasn't there for you like I should have
been. It was better when Judi came along, but for you—"

"Dad, you were always there when I needed
you."

Paul knew the truth of the words as he said
them. He might have wanted more of his father, but what kid didn't?
And what kid could be reasonable about it, could comprehend the
incessant juggling of career, marriage, family and occasional
privacy? He could understand his father's need to be the best
lawyer he could be. Hell, he'd inherited the same compulsion to
give his clients the best.

His father waved off his objection. "I did
you a disservice, Paul, by not overtly stepping in between your
grandfather and you."

"I did all right on my own with that
fight."

A flash of understanding lit the past: he
hadn't fought alone. Why hadn't he seen that before? Why hadn't he
recognized that, with no fanfare, his parents had withstood Walter
Mulholland? It was so obvious now. If they hadn't, he would have
been sent to military school six times over during his adolescent
rebellions. And he might have made speeches about not attending an
Ivy League college, but who'd paid tuition at the school of his
choice?

His father shook his head even as he smiled
dryly. "I didn't mean stepping in to protect you from Walter
running roughshod over you— I agree, you did a better job of that
than anyone else ever could have done—but to prevent you from
dismissing everything he believed in. Walter Mulholland wasn't all
right. But he wasn't all wrong, either, son."

That night, lying in the bed he'd known as a
twelve-year-old, Paul thought of those words and his own
insights.

The boy he'd been had so desperately fought
his grandfather's dictatorial ways that he'd boxed himself in. Even
if he'd wanted to go to that Ivy League college, he never would
have done so. Even if he'd wanted to be a lawyer, he never would
have become one. His father's words echoed in his ears. Walter
Mulholland wasn't all right. But he wasn't all wrong, either.

What an ass he'd been.

But no more.

What was it he'd accused Bette of doing?
Trying to live up to every expectation of her dead grandfather?
Wasn't he equally as bad—spurning every expectation of his dead
grandfather? Time to start weighing decisions against what he
wanted.

And what he wanted was Bette Wharton.

* * * *

"And of course, the party is tonight. Then,
Saturday we'll go to the Thompsons for cocktails and dinner, but
other than that, I really haven't planned very much."

Aware of an expectant pause, Bette filled it,
though her mother's words hadn't sunk in. "That's fine, Mom."

"Is it? Well, with Ronald and Claire here,
too, I just didn't know how many plans to make. Especially with the
children. It's a long trip for the little ones for such a short
time, and if there are too many things going on, it gets too much
for them."

Her mother had already gone over the weekend
plans twice before, once after picking up Bette at the airport on
Wednesday and again yesterday. With her mother covering the same
information as they sat on chaise longues in the waning sun while
the rest of the family enjoyed a boat ride on the lake, Bette
didn't have to bother pulling her thoughts from what had occupied
them since Tuesday night. Paul.

She'd acted on impulse in his office. Without
considering where it might lead or what its repercussions might be,
she had said exactly how she felt—about him and what was happening
between them. At least half of how she felt. Because she'd told him
only about the pain. She hadn't told him about the joy he'd brought
her. And no matter how much he might hurt her, she could never deny
the laughter and the loving he'd given her.

"Would you like that, Bette?"

"Sorry. What?"

"A tennis lesson. I said I could set you up
with a tennis lesson Saturday afternoon so you'd have something to
do. We haven't planned much for you this trip."

"No. Thanks, Mom, no tennis lesson. It's all
right."

"Is it? I know you like to have things
structured. That's another way you've taken after your grandfather.
But down here, we've gotten into the habit of taking life easier.
And, of course I knew you'd bring some work with."

Her mother's words penetrated this time.
"Really, Mom. It's fine."

. . . Like to have things structured … knew
you'd bring some work with . . .

She
had
brought work, though she
hadn't taken it out of the suitcase. And she
did
like
structure, though that didn't mean twenty-four hours a day.

Another way you've taken after your
grandfather. Took after him or blindly emulated him? That was what
Paul had accused her of. No time for fun, only time for work and
advancement.

"Oh, here they come!" Her mother headed down
the path to meet the boat pulling up to the Whartons' small boat
house.

She watched her mother and father, Ronald and
Claire, and remembered her belief that she couldn't possibly fall
in love with Paul Monroe because she saw his faults too clearly.
She'd been wrong. Her mother and sister-in-law weren't blind to
their men's faults; love just focused beyond the faults. Reason
gave way to something wiser.

She hadn't given that to Paul. She'd fought
hope so hard that she hadn't admitted there might be cause for it;
Paul had changed in the past weeks. Had she?

Her fears for the future had looked over her
shoulder at every stage, never allowing her to open herself to him
fully. Even telling him she loved him had carried the reminder of
the future, and her fears for it.
I love you, but I don't want
to. God, I don't want to . . . someday I think—I hope—I'll stop
loving you. And then I'll leave.

Another thought had her sitting upright and
swinging her feet to the patio.

Fears for the future.

Her grandfather had taught her to look to the
future. Maybe she'd taken the lesson too much to heart, turning her
back on the present, but with Paul she'd done something else. She'd
forgotten that hope was also part of the future.

She'd already started out of the chaise, when
she heard her father's shout.

"Bette! C'mon down and we'll take you out,
too."

"No, thanks, Dad. You go ahead without me
this trip. I've got to make a phone call."

No answer at his office. She checked her
watch. Nearly five-thirty in Chicago. They were gone.

His answering machine picked up at his
apartment. She hesitated, then hurried on before it cut her off.
"Paul, it's Bette. Please call me at my parents'."

Hanging up, she wondered if she should call
back, tell him more, tell him . . . No, the things she had to tell
him couldn't be compressed between the beeps of a message tape.

He'd brought so much into her life, the
laughter, the passion, the companionship. From him she was learning
the value of now. With his impromptu reactions and the way he drew
spontaneity from her, he'd taught her that today was as important
as tomorrow. She could enjoy window decorations now and then
without forfeiting the future.

Or take an evening boat ride with her family
while she prayed for the phone to ring. And hoped that enough
todays would build a tomorrow.

* * * *

Forty hours after finding his father, Paul
stared at his reflection thrown back by the multiple layers of
glass in the airplane's window. He'd spent Friday walking the
beaches he'd known all his life, watching Lake Michigan's brooding
December power and doing some brooding of his own.

The first answer came with a gust of cold
wind that sliced through his clothes. Like a tactile memory, the
cold stirred thoughts of Thanksgiving night and he heard Bette
asking him, "What are your dreams, Paul?"

He knew now. She was his dream. A life with
her. It was what he'd wanted from the start and what he'd fought so
hard against. Fought her, fought himself, because he was still
fighting Walter Wilson Mulholland.

He remembered his thoughts of earthquakes
while he and Bette sat in Jan and Ed Robson's living room and
looked at each other across the tiny body of a baby. More like a
heartquake, he thought now. Well, the rumbling and shuddering were
over—at least as far as he was concerned. His world had shifted and
rearranged itself into a new conformation. Into a landscape that
had Bette at its center. He wanted to make plans now. Plans for
children, for finding a house with a yard, enough room for some
twilight games of catch. Plans for college educations, for old age.
Plans for a life with Bette.

In a few minutes they'd land at the Phoenix
airport and he'd be at the Whartons' house not long after. Then he
would tell Bette the things he hadn't told her Tuesday night. Then
he could try to make her see what had happened since she left two
days before.

Paul Monroe had grown up.

* * * *

Uncertainty solidified into a sharp-edged
rock in Bette's stomach when she answered her parents' door late
Saturday afternoon and found Paul Monroe staring back at her.

He hadn't answered her twenty-four-hour-old
message, but he'd come after her. What did that mean?

"Paul." She knew her lips formed the word,
but she wasn't sure if it had any sound.

"Hi, Bette." One corner of his mouth lifted,
but it wasn't much of a smile. "I had to see you."