It Started with a House... (7 page)

“I guessed as much when I would get a busy signal. About that wine stain—I hated that you felt the need to take blame for the carpet when you knew it was perfectly fine. And while staining your dress was brilliant—”

“Actually, I didn't think about the carpet. I'm sorry. All I knew was walking out of your bedroom with your mouth imprint flagrantly on my chest would have been far worse.”

“My…?” Groaning, he said, “Genevieve…I didn't think.”

“Neither of us were doing much of that.”

“I'm definitely replacing that lovely suit.”

“That's the least of my worries.”

A frown entered his voice. “Why are you worried? No, first go back to my first question—how are you? Did I hurt you?”

“
No.
Marshall, what I'm feeling isn't about you.”
Well, not entirely anyway.

“Thanks.”

Genevieve winced at his dejection. “That's not what I meant. You were wonderful.”

He drew a long, relieved breath. “I so wanted to take you to my bed and show you that I'm not without finesse.”

“I know what you are, what you're capable of. If I didn't, what happened couldn't have happened in the first place.”

“Let me come over. This isn't a conversation that should happen over the phone. Besides, I'm aching to be with you again.”

As her gaze fell on a picture of Adam on the nightstand, her heart wrenched. “Stop! I mean…Marshall, you can't. I have neighbors, too.” Sweet older ones who had been asleep for hours, but didn't need to see a strange man leaving her driveway in the wee hours of the morning as they rose like all old people did to pace for insomnia or medical issues, often peering outside to make sure all was well on their quiet cul-de-sac.

“You're killing me, Genevieve.”

She turned her back to the photo and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I'm not feeling too well myself.”

“I can hear that, and my hunch is that you're going to try to freeze me out now because you're convincing yourself that what we shared was a mistake.”

“It was.”

“Don't say that, darling.”

“Marshall…the other reason you can't come over is because I'm not on birth control.” She heard him draw a sharp breath and continued quickly, “Don't worry, I'm sure it's all right, but that tells you that I meant it when I said that I still felt married. There hasn't been anyone else.”

“I should have known. You're not the kind of woman to indulge in casual sex. Then I should have known when it wasn't easy for you to take me.”

Genevieve had to press her thighs together and bend at the waist to keep her body from being seduced all over again by his voice and words. “Please…stop.”

“All I can do is apologize again, sweetheart. I wasn't prepared, either, even if this had been premeditated.” He laughed briefly. “I'm that out of practice.”

That was something she should cherish, but it only left her with a stark realization. “Then I guess it's not entirely a bad thing that my mother and Bart dropped by. I think one try at Russian roulette is enough for two misfit singles like us, don't you?”

“What I think is that we really need to talk, and not over the phone. Is the office open tomorrow?”

“No, we try to stay closed Sundays—and I sing in the church choir,” she added, a strong hint in case he had some idea about breakfast or brunch.

“I would have guessed you could sing. Your speaking voice is melodious. Soprano?”

“Yes,” she said, a little confused by the way he was veering off the point.

“Second?”

“First.”

“What color robe?”

The man was definitely keeping her off balance. “Peppermint stripes,” she replied, feeling a bit rebellious. “What are you doing?”

“Learning about you. I may have gotten some critical things out of sequence, but I'm a quick study. What color?”

“Gold.”

His murmur spoke of satisfaction. “That's a nice image. With your hair and eyes, you must look like an angel. Can I take you to lunch afterward?”

Speaking of voices, his was returning to that tender seductive tone that could get under her defenses way too easily. “Thank you, and that's a tempting offer, but I really better get over to Mother's and remind her of some boundaries she's not respecting.”

“She's undeniably a character, but it's easy to see why Bart puts up with her and keeps that twinkle in his eyes. She's quite an attractive woman. You hit a payload in the gene department.”

“She would love hearing that—and thank you yet again. You know, if I don't get this wet hair blow-dried, I'm going to have to get back in the shower and rinse it again. It has a mind of its own.”

“I'd like to see your wild woman look—it sounds enticing. I'm going to put it at the top of my wish list.”

“Marshall…”

“I know, I know, but if I let you hang up, you'll have time to think and I can't see how that will work in my favor. At least consider stopping by after you're done at your mother's tomorrow? You saw the condition of
this place. Doesn't that trigger any sympathy for my predicament?”

“None.” But she couldn't stop a smile from entering her voice. “Let me sleep on it, okay?”

“And how are you going to be able to do that? I won't.”

“I'm hanging up now,” she said softly. “Goodnight.”

After drying her hair, she tried to catch up on e-mails and paperwork, but she also paced around the house. She'd bought the modest white-brick home located on a maple-lined street near the library and city hall, not long after she'd gotten into real estate and started to have regular success. Adam had never been in this house. She'd bought it with her first year's earnings when she began at another agency. But his photographs were scattered around the house, and she spoke to them—or sighed at them—regularly. Tonight, she could barely bring herself to acknowledge they were there.

Her mother was one issue—a headache that she'd been dealing with all of her life. This situation with Marshall was an even bigger problem for her. It wasn't natural to feel guilt about what had happened tonight. She was single and free to date. So was Marshall. In her mind, she'd betrayed no law of man or God. And yet Adam still owned her heart. With that reality, how could she have let another man make love to her?

Call it what it was—sex. That's all.

She shivered, disliking the coldness of the term and wrapped her arms tighter around herself despite the warm robe. It wasn't fair to her or Marshall. Maybe she couldn't call it love, but try as she might, she couldn't deny that she had feelings for him, and he apparently did for her.
It was grief and loneliness that had brought them to this and that wasn't anything to be ashamed about. So why couldn't she just accept that she was transitioning?

Maybe because that would mean letting go of all she had left of Adam—her sorrow. Marshall didn't seem to be having this problem. He was flirting and ready to openly pursue her.

“Men are definitely different,” she said to the empty room.

 

At church the next day, she half expected to see Marshall in the congregation, but then he never asked what church she belonged to and there were several in town and over a hundred in their county. Her mother and Bart were present, though, and her mother was looking happy and approving since Genevieve finally had called her last night and invited herself to lunch.

After services, she was a half hour behind them since she had to put up her robe and lingered to catch up with friends. When she let herself into the house, she almost stopped in her tracks to see Bart handing Marshall a scotch and water, while her mother, holding a glass of cabernet, stood by, beaming even more than she had in church.

“Here she is,” Sydney all but sang. “Pour her a glass of wine, Bart. Gigi, isn't it wonderful that I could talk Marshall into making it a foursome for lunch?”

Closing the door gave her a chance to quell the return of frustration with her mother's underhanded ways, as well to ride out that first startling skip in her pulse at seeing Marshall. And drat the man, he was also looking at her as though reliving every second of last night
despite his fixed smile. She dropped her keys into the sage-green clutch bag that matched her linen sheath and heels and placed it on the entryway table.

“Wonderful,” she said dryly. Not only had her mother known inviting him would save her from a scolding, but she could watch the two of them interact like a lab technician observing specimens through a microscope.

She crossed the Italian marble floor of the grand, circular foyer with its sweeping staircase, and stepped onto the plush ivory rug to join them. “I didn't see the Mercedes,” she said to Marshall. “Don't tell me Mother just rang your doorbell again and bribed or blackmailed you to make you come?”

“I walked actually.” With a nod to Sydney, he said, “Your mother kindly invited me early this morning before she and Bart left for services. How was choir?”

“Oh, her clarion voice rises above everyone's,” Sydney gushed. “You should have studied, Gigi. You'd be an international icon by now doing specials with Michael Bublé and Josh Groban.”

“One performer in the family is enough,” Genevieve replied. As Bart handed her the goblet with two cocktail napkins, she caught his thumbs-up signal and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, St. Bart.”

“It's those who love her best, who are asked to suffer the most,” he opined.

“I'm an embarrassment to my family,” Sydney explained to Marshall. But she hardly looked worried about that.

“Nonsense, love,” Bart said, slipping his arm around her waist. “Modesty simply compels us to make you put up your coloring crayons now and again.”

Marshall said, “Genevieve has spoken of you with admiration and respect.”

Genevieve raised her glass to her mother in a “See there?” salute.

“My daughter doesn't care for what I write,” Sydney replied. “What she respects is that I sell lots of books.” She preened for Marshall. “I understand your dear late wife was a reader of my work. I'm so sorry that I never got to meet her.”

“Mother,” Genevieve said quietly, “I'm one observation away from losing my appetite.” She felt terrible for Marshall.

His poise intact, he replied, “It's all right.” To Sydney he said, “That would have been a thrill for her. You gave her many hours of comfort and pleasure.”

“How is it going with the hangings?” Genevieve also gave her mother a look that begged her to move on to a different subject. “Did you accomplish anything else?”

“Well, the ones we thought should be situated in the bathroom are up and they look made for the spot. Following your idea, I think I figured out a good place for four more. You'll have to tell me if I'm on the right track.”

“Bart, darling, come help me in the kitchen and let the young people chat,” Sydney said. “Genevieve, feel free to show Marshall around the house. We'll check with Dorothy to see how long before lunch is ready.”

“Should I talk in her left ear and you in her right?” Bart asked all sweetness. “You always get the good ear.”

“Oh, you.” Sydney tugged on the sleeve of his sports jacket and led him away.

Once they were alone, Marshall stepped closer to Genevieve. “How's the stain?”

He was no better than wicked Bart, she thought as his gaze slid over her left breast. “A lost cause, I'm afraid—and, no, I'm not taking you up on the offer of a replacement.”

“Why not? You wouldn't have had to go to dire straits if I hadn't done what I did.”

“Then acknowledging a lesson learned is more than enough reimbursement.”

Marshall's gaze turned tender. “You're nothing like the cool professional you exhibit on the job, yet that makes you all the more complicated and intriguing. Quite a bit gets under your skin, and your heart has critical scar tissue. You're a caretaker and nurturer, which is why no matter how frustrating your mother gets, you can't turn your back on her indefinitely. You're a genuine human being, there's nothing shallow about you. And you quite take my breath away.”

“Come take the two-dollar tour of the place,” she said abruptly, changing the subject and pivoting to lead him back to the foyer. “It really is a gorgeous house.”

“Don't be afraid of me,” he said, following her. “I'd let them take a limb before I'd knowingly hurt you.”

“Sydney actually had this staircase designed from the one in
Gone with the Wind.
”

“You look like a mouthwatering scoop of lime sorbet,” he murmured, catching up with her. “Cool and delectable.”

“If you insist on behaving the way you are, my mother is going to know what's going on before we're finished with the first course.”

“I like this subject,” he said, swirling the ice in his glass like a New Year's Eve noisemaker. But the instant he saw her stiffen, he added with all seriousness, “Wouldn't it be a relief not to have to pretend?”

“This marble was rescued from a crumbling palazzo in Florence,” she said, gesturing to the glistening white and black flooring. “The chandelier was originally a gift to the mistress of a famous Hollywood movie mogul.”

“Obviously you don't agree.”

“I've gotten as far as to accept that we got carried away,” she told him. “To ask for anything else would be too soon.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Marshall reached out and swept a strand of her hair back over her shoulder, only to trail his index finger down her bare arm. When she shivered and tried to turn away from him, he stopped her by grasping that arm. “Am I supposed to wait until you tear pages off a hypothetical calendar and gauge I-don't-know-whose perceptions of when it isn't or is appropriate for us to be with each other?”