* * * *
The sense of well-being lasted less than twenty-three hours.
He couldn’t find anything to do.
He called Tris, but got his cousin’s machine in D.C. Just as well, he decided as he paced his apartment. He didn’t want her asking nosy questions, anyhow. She’d read too much into his answers, or lack of answers. The same went for his parents. Grady was otherwise occupied. Michael...He’d go see Michael.
He didn’t bother to give the idea a second thought, or to call ahead. He headed southwest to Springfield, whisking between cornfields that hinted at next summer’s fertile crop even with last summer’s reduced to brown stubble.
His mind followed its own track.
Unlike Grady, who often waged elaborate campaigns for his lady of the moment, Paul had always simply let relationships happen—or not happen—as the Fates decreed. And he’d always been honest about looking only to the moment. He made no promises, so none were broken. Obviously, he should follow that path with Bette and forget her. He depressed the accelerator another five-miles-per-hour’s worth.
The outside of Michael’s Victorian house looked great, the scars of renovation nearly healed; inside was still under reconstruction. Michael came to the door with a paintbrush in hand. His slight frown metamorphosed into a grin when he saw who stood outside the leaded glass.
“Boy, am I glad to see you.”
Paul groaned. “Don’t you think you got enough free labor out of me? How many walls did I help you knock down? Thirty? Forty? I don’t think I'll ever breathe right again after all that plaster dust.”
“Free, maybe, but definitely unskilled labor.”
“You complaining?”
“Absolutely not. In fact, I’m offering you a chance to hone those skills. Painting’s very marketable these days. And I need to get this done while I still have the time.”
“Is that your way of telling me Joan’s running for the U.S. Senate?” With Michael on state senator Joan Bradon’s staff, Paul had paid close attention to the rumors.
“I’m not telling you anything, Monroe. Read your morning paper.”
“Real nice. And then you expect my help? Oh, what the hell, lead me to that paint bucket.”
As he outfitted Paul for painting, Michael probed for the reason for this visit. Paul evaded and, though he felt the weight of Michael’s wondering, the questions ceased.
Spreading paint across the patched, multicolored surface was definitely preferable to breathing plaster dust. Windows, open to disperse the fumes, brought in the spicy air of fall. He could hear drums from a marching band at a high school football game in the distance, and an occasional roar from the onlookers. His perfect swipes covered the wall in a clean expanse of color.
The drawback was that his mind, free to wander, returned to the topic he’d tried to drive away from Bette.
A sound reminded him of Michael, painting woodwork across the room. He could talk to Michael, tell him...tell him what? That he’d met a woman he found attractive. So? Big news flash.
He tried to divert his mind; the first topic he came up with was the woman Michael had been seeing for some months.
“So how’s Laura these days?” He tossed the question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. “How come you didn’t rope her into this drudge work?”
The brush in Michael’s hand went still. “I believe Laura’s doing very well.”
Paul pivoted to face him. “You believe?”
“She moved to California at the end of last month.”
“Why?”
“She had an offer for a better position in a senator’s office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation, so—”
“Don’t give me that bull. What happened?”
At the rawness of the question, Michael rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had always bothered Paul, because he never knew what Michael Dickinson might pull out of him in such moments.
“We couldn’t give each other what we both wanted.” Michael spoke with measured reluctance.
“What was that?”
“Forever.”
The word was like a spark to Paul’s smoldering mood. “What’s so almighty wonderful about forever? Settling down, getting married, having a family, is that what you’re talking about? Why does everybody harp on that? What—”
He snapped the words off when the look in Michael’s eyes hit home. He should have remembered that Michael’s past had given him a different view of this subject.
“Paul, you take it for granted, and you shouldn’t. Family and stability—that’s pretty damn rare, you know.”
“Stability,’ Paul repeated with disdain. “Yeah, so stable that at the age of twelve your life’s mapped out for you. Just follow the step-by-step instructions and you’ll turn out to be the perfect family clone.”
“You haven’t done so badly in the individualism department, Monroe.”
Paul dropped the roller into the pan, not caring about the spatters on the drop cloth, and took a deep breath of the cool air. “I’m not going to let my life be run by somebody else’s rules, Michael. Not ever.”
Michael said nothing. After a while, Paul heard him return to painting and Paul took up the roller, though he found less pleasure in it. The silence had changed.
“Who is she, Paul?”
“Who’s who?” Michael didn’t bother to answer that, and Paul felt foolish for the evasion. “Bette. Bette Wharton.”
“And?” Michael prompted.
“And not much. Grand total of three dinners and a few kisses.” He felt no guilt at the understatement. “We went out last Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. Things seemed to click. Then she avoided me Monday and Tuesday, said no Wednesday and resumed avoiding me Thursday.”
“What about Friday and today?”
“She wasn’t around Friday and today.”
“Ah.”
“Ah what? What’s ‘ah’ mean?” Irritation spurted sharp and hot.
“What do you do when a woman turns down a date?”
“Forget her, because...” He broke off the familiar words. He’d said them to Michael and Grady maybe two thousand times over the past fifteen years. Forget her, because there’re plenty who’ll say yes.
“Yet, this woman you keep asking. That’s why ‘ah.’ "
Paul loaded paint on the roller and slapped it against the wall, then had to roll like crazy to remedy the drips, splotches and spatters. He was short on breath by the time he re-wetted the roller, this time more cautiously.
“You’ve got another session at the Smithsonian coming up, don’t you?” Michael asked from behind him. From the sound of it, he’d continued painting, too.
“Yeah.”
“Made any decision about taking up the offer to be a regular consultant?”
They were all after him about the damn museum—Jan, his father, Michael. Bette would join them if she found out about the opportunity. It was the sort of thing that would appeal to her plan-ahead mind. Probably tell him what a step forward this could he. If he were stupid enough to invite the lectures by telling her...if he ever had the opportunity to be that stupid, if he ever saw her again.
“No.”
“All right, all right, don’t bark at me. I’m not the one inconsiderate enough to give you a flattering offer.”
“Shut up, Dickinson.”
“All right.”
That was one of the most annoying things about Michael—he shut up when you told him to shut up. By the time Michael spoke next, Paul had turned the corner to the next wall, and his mood had subsided to low-level hostility.
“So, you’re leaving for D.C. a week from Wednesday and will be back the next Sunday?”
“Something like that. How’d you know?”
“The same way I ever know anything about your plans—I hear it from your mother, your sister or your assistant. This time it was Jan. I called her to con
gratulate her on the baby, and asked when you’d be around.”
“Why’d you want to know? You want to come with me? I’m staying with Tris. I’m sure there’d be room for you, too.”
He regretted the words instantly. To Paul’s knowledge, Michael had never told anyone of his feelings for Tris. Maybe never even admitted them to himself. But Paul knew him very well, and the stillness betrayed him. “I was kidding, Dickinson. Why’d you want to know those dates?”
“I'll have to spend some time up in Chicago. I thought I’d make it coincide with you being in town if I could.”
“Before Thanksgiving?” Since the first year of college, both Michael and Grady had spent most of their holidays with the Monroes.
“Yes. I’ve just decided to make it the first full week of November. Right after you get back from D.C.”
Paul twisted around, but Michael remained bent over the woodwork and the back of his head revealed nothing.
“Why?”
Michael kept painting with even, steady strokes.
“I think I should meet this Bette Wharton.”