Нора Робертс - Happy Ever After

On their way to their happy ever after.

And that, she admitted, was what she’d always wanted.

To make her mark, yes, to do good work, to be a good friend, a good sister, to build something and share something. And with all that, to love and be loved, to promise and accept the promise. To find someone and take hands with him in their own happy ever after.

She couldn’t try for less.

She didn’t see Malcolm again until she’d stepped outside to wave the newlyweds off.

He’d changed into his own clothes, she noted, and looked considerably calmer and more himself.

“Got a minute?” he asked her.

“Yes, a couple of them now.”

“I took a bad reaction out on you, something that’s getting to be a habit. I don’t like the habit.”

“All right.”

“I thought I’d moved on from having that kind of a reaction to Artie. Apparently not.” He dipped his hands into his pockets. “I don’t like going back there, so I don’t. There’s no point. I understand you were trying to help.”

“But you don’t want any help.”

“I don’t want to need any. I think that’s a little different.That’s no excuse for lashing out at you.”

“I’m not asking for excuses, Malcolm. I don’t need excuses when I know the reason.”

“I guess I’m still working on the reason. So . . . I’m going to take off. Give us both a little time to smooth out.”

“While you’re smoothing, ask yourself this. Ask yourself if you actually believe I think less of a boy, one grieving for his father, for striking back, for looking for an escape from an abusive bully who held every control. Or if I think less of the man he made himself into because of it.When you’re sure of the answer, let me know.”

She opened the door. “Good night, Malcolm.”

“Parker? Whatever the answer, I still want you.”

“You know where to find me,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

HE LIKED TO THINK HE’D SMOOTHED IT OUT. HE COULDN’T REMEMBER ever making that kind of a misstep—much less two in a row—with a woman before.

Then again, Parker was a first on pretty much every level.

He understood a couple of major screw-ups required a reach into the wallet for a token, a symbol—generally for something smelly or shiny. Even the girl who had everything or could easily get it for herself liked a basic I Was an Idiot gift.

He considered flowers, but her house was already loaded with them. Flowers probably hit the low end of the idiot scale anyway.

He mulled the idea of jewelry, but it seemed over the top.

Then he thought of her weakness.

What the hell, since his mother would gnaw on his neck until he got a new suit, he had to go shopping anyway.

He hated shopping, so that part of it felt like a kind of penance. Worse, he had to shell out money for clothes that made him feel like he’d decked himself out in some kind of package. It all took too long, included way too many annoying or baffling decisions, and came perilously close to giving him a headache behind his eyes.

But when he was done he had the suit and a nicely gift-wrapped box—and promised himself he would never, not in this lifetime or any other, go through that experience again.

He texted her twice, and he never texted anyone. He hated texting. His fingers were too damn big for the keys and made him feel clumsy and stupid. Still, he figured his strategy to stay out of her way for a few days had to include basic contact.

By Monday, he calculated he’d stayed out of her way long enough, and called her. He got her voice mail, another technology he hated, even when it included her cool voice.

“Hey, Legs. Just wanted to see if you were up for a drive tonight. We could grab a pizza. I miss your face,” he added before he thought it through. “So, let me know.”

He lay back down on the creeper, slid under the rattletrap he kept patching together for a customer, and got to work removing the useless muffler.

He’d nearly completed installing the new one when his phone signaled. He banged his knuckles, swore at the welling blood on the scrape, then fought his phone back out of his pocket.

He swore again when he realized it was a text.

It sounds nice, but I can’t get away tonight. We’re jammed right up to Thanksgiving. It’ll be nice to see your face, and your mother, then. PB “

PB? WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT IS THAT?”

“You brushed him off in a text? That’s cold.” Laurel sat back. “Kudos.”

“I didn’t brush him off. We had a full consult scheduled.” Which, she thought, was finished now and very well. So she could relax and have a glass of wine with her friends.

“From what you told us, he was just trying to deal with a difficult situation.” Sympathy shimmered in Emma’s big brown eyes. “Some people need to go inside awhile when they’re dealing.”

“Yes, they do. So I’m giving him time, and the space he so clearly demanded, to do that.”

“And just because he’s finished doesn’t mean he’s finished. Besides,” Mac pointed out, “you’re pissed.”

“Not really. Or only slightly,” Parker amended.“I’d rather he—or anyone—vent and spew, even if I get hit by some shrapnel, than shut down and close in. But he doesn’t want to accept sincere support, honest understanding. And that pisses me off. Slightly.”

“Okay, here’s what I have to say.” Mac drew a deep breath.“My mother rarely laid a hand on me, so I don’t have that sort of abuse to lay on her. But she used, belittled, and slapped at me emotionally.” Mac gave Emma a grateful smile when her friend rubbed her leg in comfort.“I had the three of you to talk to, but even with you, sometimes I went under—or in. And sometimes, even with you, with Mrs. G, with Carter right there with me, I need to go inside, or I’m just used to going, so I do.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Emma put in.

“I know you do, and because I know it, I add a little guilt to the brood. I’ve got a pretty good sense of what Mal’s dealing with. My father didn’t die, but he left, and since, he’s never been there when I really wanted or needed him.And I was left with someone who, a lot less violently than Asshole Artie, made me feel diminished.”

She picked up water to soothe her throat. “And sometimes, even knowing better, this shit comes down on me, and I look at Em, with her incredible family; at Laurel, who can just say ‘fuck them’ and mean it; at Parker, who’s so damn together, and just feel you don’t know. How the hell can you know? And that adds defensiveness to the guilt and the brood. So sometimes I don’t want to talk about the shit that came down because, well, it’s my shit.”

“Such a way with words.” Laurel toasted her. “We, however, have ways of making you talk.”

“Yeah, and I’m always better after. You all not only know which buttons to push to open me up again, but I end up opening because I know you love me, and you’ll accept all the shit that comes with me because you love me.”

“Not me.” Laurel smiled. “I just feel sorry for you due to my bottomless well of compassion.”

Mac nodded. “Mother Teresa was a stone bitch compared to you.”

“I told him I loved him,” Parker muttered, and Laurel’s head snapped around.

“What? Talk about burying the lead.When?”

“When I was more than slightly pissed. When he told me I didn’t understand and it had nothing to do with me. I told him he was an idiot, and it did have to do with me because I loved him. Then I came back in to work the event, which I should’ve been doing all along.”

“What did he say?” Emma demanded, a hand already pressed to her heart. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t say or do anything. He was too busy staring at me as if I’d kicked him in the balls. Which would’ve been the better option.”

“On Friday? You told him on Friday.” Emma waved her hands in the air. “We’ve been working together all weekend, and you didn’t tell us?”

“She didn’t tell us because it’s her shit.”

Parker shifted her gaze to Mac.“If we have to continue in that theme, yes, I guess that’s true enough. I needed to think about it for a while. And because none of this, just none of it is going the way I always thought it would, always planned it should. I’m supposed to fall in love with a sensible yet brilliant man with a droll sense of humor and a keen appreciation of art. And I know you’re rolling your eyes at me, Laurel, so just knock it off.”

“It was the droll sense of humor.”

“Whatever. This is my long-term plan, carefully constructed over more than a decade.”

“Seriously?”

“Shut up, Mac.” But Parker’s lips curved, just a little. “This sensible yet brilliant man and I would date casually for some months, getting to know each other, to appreciate each other before we go on a short, romantic trip—location optional. It could be a wonderful suite in a hotel in New York, a cottage at the beach, a B and B in the country.We’d have a long candlelight dinner, or maybe a picnic. After, the sex would be lovely.”

“Would it include banging in the utility room?” Laurel wondered.

“You shut up, too, or you don’t get to hear the rest of the plan.”

Looking a bit pained, Laurel mimed zipping her lips.

“So.” Satisfied, Parker slipped off her shoes, tucked her legs up. “We’d be lovers, and we’d travel now and then as our schedules allowed.We’d argue occasionally, of course, but we’d always talk it out—reasonably, rationally.”

Her gaze snapped to Emma. “You’re keeping quiet, but I can hear you’re thinking boring. However, you’ll like this next part. He’d tell me he loved me.Take my hands, look in my eyes, and tell me. And one day, we’d go back to that wonderful suite or that cottage or B and B, and during our candlelight dinner, he’d tell me again that he loved me, that I was everything he’d ever wanted. And he’d ask me to marry him. I’d say yes, and that’s how you build a happy ever after.”