Chapter 16

Michael

“I’ve invited Abby to dinner on Saturday night. I thought you might invite Walter?”

She seems a little insecure about having made plans without checking with me first, and I want her to feel like this is her home, and she has that right. “Good! I’ll give Walter a call, and we’ll hope his calendar is clear. Can I ask what brought this on?”

“I went over to my parents’ house and told them I’d moved in with you. Well, not exactly you, but with someone. I don’t want her launching into mother detective mode and showing up uninvited.”

“She would do that, eh?”

“Oh, yeah, you don’t know her. First of all, nothing of interest goes on around here without her knowing about it. Nothing. People even ask her permission in advance, and her word is final. It’s sort of scary, even if she is my mother.”

“Okay, I’ll have to take your word for that.”

She nods and continues. “Oh, and then I went over to tell Abby, who naturally has met you but is having reservations on my behalf.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s protective—that stuff with Antonio. No one trusts my judgment.”

“Do you trust your judgment?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

“Anyway, Abby was being a little gray about the whole thing, and that’s when I remembered about you mentioning Walter. I thought it might divert her attention, and it did. It will also let her see that we’re fine, and that I’m happy here.”

“Well, then, by all means, let’s do it. Abby’s seal of approval evidently holds some importance for you.”

“It would for you, too if you had my mother. You don’t know how obstinate she can be once she’s made up her mind.”

“No, I can only imagine …” I say letting the sentence trail off and wondering if she’ll catch my inference that she might have inherited a little of that from her mother. She misses it.

“And Mort won’t have to cook if he doesn’t want to. I could handle it all.”

“I’d like you to be the hostess and not the cook if that’s okay. That’s why Mort is here, and he’s a little territorial over his kitchen.”

“Really?”

“Ask him yourself, here he is,” I say as Mort enters the living room where we’re talking. “Tell her, Mort. You’re territorial over your kitchen, aren’t you?”

“Not to be rude, Miss, but it’s more efficient if I keep a mental picture of food supplies and where everything is, so in that sense, yes, I suppose you could say I am.”

I can tell Mort has been off center since Mac moved in. I’m guessing he’d rather have had Olivia stay on. As it is now, he can’t even refer to her because we’re supposed to be in mourning. I only hope it’s not my own demise that lies ahead. I hadn’t counted on Mac telling her parents quite this soon. It doesn’t really matter—they were bound to find out, eventually, but I’d hoped for a little more time to clear my conscience and let Mac know the truth about me, and about Olivia, before we entertained parental gatherings.

I feel a lump of nerves in my stomach, making me queasy at the thought of it falling through and Mac leaving me. She’s springing to her feet and off to take a shower. When she leaves, it feels like the sunshine has left the room.

“In a bit of a spot now, aren’t you, sir?” he says to me once she’s safely out of hearing.

“You might say that,” I agree.

“I just did, sir.”

I look up at him. “It’s just an American expression, Mort. Yes, of course, I’ve dug myself in deep this time.”

He nods. “Was saying that just last evening to Olivia.”

“Oh, that’s right. How are the two of you getting along?”

Mort flushes and says, “I believe you could say we’ve become what you Yanks call ‘an item,’ sir.”

“Has she found somewhere to settle in?”

“Oh, yes sir. You were quite generous to Olivia, and she’s snapped up a tidy little place near the beach and is quite comfortable. She sends her best.”

“Well, I’m glad. I was hoping she’d do just that. It’s about time she retires.” I pause. “What if I lose her, Mort?”

“Sir?” His mind is on Olivia, but mine is definitely on Mac.

“I’m referring to Mac, of course. I couldn’t stand to lose her. Never felt this way before.”

“It’s because you’re in love, sir.”

“What? Love? No, fond, maybe, but love isn’t me.”

“You’ll excuse the impertinence, sir, but you’re wrong. It’s written all over both your faces. You may as well acknowledge it now and get it over with. This pretending, sir, has simply got to stop.”

I consider what he is saying, and as much as I want to believe Mac is in love with me, I’d been burned and didn’t want to encourage my brain to think or feel in that direction.

“I don’t know about that, but I’m content with what is.”

“As you say, sir. As you say.”

Mort is about to leave the room to tend to dinner when I stop him. “Say, Mort, Mac and I will be having dinner on the yacht on Friday, or so I hope she agrees. I’m going to come clean to her. Pack us up a nice dinner, would you? Spare no expense, something much nicer than a little picnic.”

“Will you want me aboard to serve, sir?”

“No, I think I’d rather have it private.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll do that, indeed.”

“You sound relieved, Mort.”

“I’m not much of a bloke for boats, sir.”

“No? I thought all Englishmen went to sea, Mort.”

“Not those who cannot swim, sir.”

I nodded. “I see. Well, we’ll have to get you some lessons and remedy that, what do you say?”

“Perhaps someday, sir. I’m fine for the time being.”

Mac is back, smiling and absolutely adorable in a navy and white polka-dot skirt with a short-sleeved sweater top that’s low cut and is displaying her kissable cleavage. “Sweetheart, I was just asking Mort to put together a dinner for us for Friday afternoon to evening. I’d like to take you out on the boat.”

“You have a boat?”

“Of course,” I say quickly and then realize she may be questioning why Aunt Olivia had a boat. I don’t want to dig my hole any deeper, so I leave off further explanations, and she doesn’t seem prone to pushing it.

“That sounds like fun. I’m having lunch with Mom at the club on Wednesday so this will be a busy week!” She’s smiling, and that makes me happy. She comes and hugs me, and as I look over her head, I see Mort standing in the doorway, a look of forbidding doom on his face.