The Way to a Man's Heart

  “I don’t think you have much to worry about, Grey,” Meghan assured him. “Uncle Harry’s mellowed out the last several years.”

  “Does he play chess?”

  “Not with my father,” Meghan explained, chuckling. The only one brave enough to tackle Pat O’Day was the man whose arm was draped over her shoulder.

  “What about football?”

  “Loves it, as long as it’s on a screen and doesn’t involve anything more than a few choice words of advice for the referees and coaches. You’re in luck. He hasn’t personally touched a football in years.”

  Grey nodded. “Then he sounds like my kind of man.”

  Following banana splits at the ice-cream parlor, Grey dropped Chad and Danny off at the house, stopping in briefly to say hello to Meghan’s parents. Then he drove Meghan back to her apartment. He was unusually quiet the whole way there, and she longed to bring up the incident in the theater but wasn’t sure how. A couple of times she was tempted to make a joke of it, then decided it would be better if Grey mentioned the episode himself. She didn’t know why Grey should be so troubled by it, but he obviously was. Their evening had been perfect until two of his students had recognized him and commented.

  “You’ll come up for coffee, won’t you?” she invited, hoping that he would. Then at least there was the chance they would talk this matter out.

  “You’re not too tired?” he asked, then promptly yawned. He looked almost embarrassed as he placed his hand over his mouth.

  “I’m fine. But from the look of it, you’re exhausted.”

  “It’s been a hectic week.” He yawned a second time, looking chagrined. “Maybe I’d better just walk you to your door and say good night there.”

  He escorted her to her apartment door and brushed his lips over hers in the briefest of kisses, leaving Meghan feeling frustrated and cheated.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Grey. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  His answering smile was lame at best. Meghan bit into her bottom lip to keep from calling out for him to come back. Instead, she moved inside her apartment and plopped herself down on the sofa, letting her disappointment work its way through her.

  ***

  The following morning when Meghan walked into her family home, she was immediately greeted with the pungent smells of sage and pumpkin-pie spices.

  “Meghan, I’m glad you’re here,” her mother greeted, and kissed her on the cheek. “Grey just phoned. He told me he tried to catch you, but apparently you’d just left the apartment.”

  Meghan dipped her finger into the whipped topping and promptly licked it, savoring the sweet taste. Her mother insisted on using real cream in her recipes and not the imitation products that had become so popular over the years.

  “Is Grey going to be late?” Meghan asked, examining the variety of dishes that lined the kitchen counter.

  “No,” her mother said sadly. “He called to give us his regrets. He won’t be able to spend the day with us, after all. Apparently, something’s come up.”

  Nine

  “Something’s come up?” Meghan echoed her mother’s words, hardly able to believe what she’d heard. “What did Grey mean by that?”

  “I don’t know, Princess, but he hardly sounded like his usual self.” Her mother was busy whittling away a huge pile of potatoes. Once they were peeled, she let them fall into a large pot of salted water.

  Normally Meghan would have reached for a paring knife and lended a helping hand, but she was too upset. She started pacing the kitchen, her arms wrapped around her waist, her gaze centered on the ceiling while her thoughts collided in a wild tailspin. She should have guessed something like this would happen following the incident with two of Grey’s students in the theater.

  “I was afraid this would happen,” she muttered, discouraged and disappointed—in both Grey and herself. She should have insisted they talk about what happened before he left her apartment.

  “Did you and Grey have a falling-out, dear?” her mother asked, reaching for another potato.

  “Not really.” Meghan leaned her hip against the sink and appealed to her mother with her hands. “Do you think I’m too young for Grey?”

  “Sweetheart, what I think is of little importance,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s something that should be settled between you and Grey, not you and me.”

  “I know you’re right.” Meghan hesitated, then exhaled sharply, thinking it might help to discuss the matter with her mother. “Last night a couple of Grey’s students were in the theater. They were whispering and we couldn’t help overhearing what they said. Those girls seemed to think Grey was too old for me. Honestly, Mom, it doesn’t bother me. Dad’s eight years older than you and it’s never been an issue.”

  “Seven and a half years,” her father corrected as he sauntered into the kitchen. He reached inside the cupboard above the refrigerator and brought out a huge bag of salted peanuts.

  “Don’t be ruining your dinner, Patrick O’Day,” Colleen warned, shaking her index finger at him.

  “I won’t, but a man’s got to have some nourishment.” He wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and nuzzled her neck. “You can’t expect me to live on turkey and stuffing alone, you know.”

  “Oh, get away with you.” Colleen chuckled and squirmed out of his embrace. “Dinner will be ready by one.”

  “We’re eating early this year, aren’t we?”

  “I’ve got to be to work by three, Dad,” Meghan reminded her father. She hesitated and glanced at the kitchen clock. If she hurried, there would be enough time for her to drive over to Grey’s house and talk some reason into him. With any luck, she would be able to convince him to join her and the rest of her family at least for dinner, if not all day. To allow those two thoughtless students to ruin the holiday would be wrong, but the fact that Grey had allowed the matter to upset him to this extent troubled her even more.

  “Mom,” she said hurriedly, “do you need my help in the kitchen, or can I leave you for a few minutes?”

  “No, everything’s under control—your aunt Theresa’s due anytime. Are you going over to Grey’s? Good—you convince him to come to dinner. Remember, the way to a man’s heart is often through his stomach.”

  Smiling, Meghan nodded, not surprised that her mother had read her thoughts.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Colleen continued, surprising Meghan. “Don’t come back without him, you hear?”

  “I won’t.” Meghan kissed her mother’s cheek, appreciating her understanding. “I shouldn’t be any more than an hour. But it might be longer if he proves to be stubborn.”

  Colleen O’Day laughed softly. “Then I won’t look for you for at least two hours.”

  All the way over to Grey’s house, Meghan prepared her arguments. Her mother was right—more than right! Neither one of them could afford to allow what others thought to dictate their relationship. The instant she arrived, she planned on kissing Grey long and hard. Then he could tell her she was too young for him. The strategy had merit, and Meghan grinned, knowing full well that Grey wouldn’t have a leg to stand on!

  Smiling at this novel plan of attack, she parked her car on the street in front of his house. Excited now, she hurried up the steps, rang the doorbell, and waited impatiently.

  “Meghan.” Her name was issued on a rush of surprised pleasure when Grey opened the door.

  “Now, listen here, Greyson Carlyle, what’s this about you not coming over for Thanksgiving dinner?” she accused, her eyes flashing with mischief. “Mom gave me some flimsy excuse not even worth mentioning. I want to know exactly what you think you’re doing, and I want to know right now.” She punctuated each word by playfully poking a finger in his stomach. With each thrust, Grey took a step in reverse, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

  “Meghan …”

  He tried to get her to listen, but she wouldn’t let him. “I can’t believe you’d let what two students said disturb you this
way. If you’re worried about our age difference, then I dare you to take me in your arms. I challenge you to kiss me and then argue the point.”

  “Greyson, who is this woman?”

  The sober, dry voice came from behind Grey, in the direction of the kitchen.

  Stunned, Meghan looked beyond him to face an austere middle-aged woman with silver-white hair that was severely tucked away from her face. She wore a dark blue suit and black shoes—and no smile. Meghan blinked, certain she’d inadvertently run into Pamela Riverside’s mother.

  “Meghan O’Day, I’d like to introduce my mother, Dr. Frances Carlyle.”

  “How do you do, Dr. Carlyle?” Meghan said, the teasing laughter in her eyes wilting away under the solemn stare of the older woman. Meghan stepped forward and the two exchanged a brisk handshake. Her legs felt as if they’d turned to water, and the size of the knot in her throat would have rivaled a golf ball’s.

  “Are you a student of Greyson’s?” his mother asked, her gaze boring holes into Meghan. Her tone wasn’t openly unfriendly, but it lacked any real interest or warmth.

  “No—we’re friends,” Meghan quickly explained.

  “I see.”

  There was that phrase again. Meghan longed to share a knowing look with Grey, but she dared not.

  “Mother was here waiting for me when I returned last night,” Grey explained. He motioned toward the recliner, indicating that Meghan should take a seat. Apparently he noticed she was having trouble remaining in an upright position.

  “Would you like some tea?” Frances Carlyle asked.

  “Please,” Meghan accepted, hoping that once Grey’s mother had vacated the room, she could talk to him. She wished with everything in her that she hadn’t charged into his home, stabbing him with her finger and chiding him at the top of her voice, demanding that he kiss her.

  “I’ll be just a minute.”

  Meghan was convinced his mother had told her that as a means of warning her, but as far as Meghan was concerned, a minute was exactly long enough. She waited until the older woman had left the living room and then covered her face with both hands.

  “Good heavens, Grey!” she wailed in a thick whisper. “How could you have let me go on that way?” She wanted to crawl inside a hole, curl up, and die. Within a matter of two minutes, she’d given his mother the worst possible impression of herself.

  “Meghan, listen—”

  She lowered her hands. “I feel like such a fool, barging in here like King Kong. And you let me do it.”

  “Could I have stopped you?”

  She shrugged, then admitted the truth: “Probably not.”

  “I tried phoning you this morning.”

  Meghan bit into the corner of her bottom lip. “I know. Mom told me.” She could have saved herself a lot of grief if she hadn’t let her cellphone battery wear down.

  “My not coming to dinner had nothing to do with what happened last night,” Grey said, reaching for her hand. He reluctantly released it when he heard movement from inside the kitchen. Meghan gave him a reassuring smile; she didn’t need his touch when his gaze was so warm and gentle.

  “I can just imagine what your mother thinks,” she whispered, feeling all the more miserable.

  Grey was about to say something more when Frances Carlyle walked into the room carrying a tray. Grey stood and took it from his mother and set it on the coffee table.

  “Cream or sugar, Meghan?”

  “Just plain, thank you,” she responded, scooting to the edge of the cushion. There were four cups on the tray, but she didn’t give the matter more than a passing thought until Pamela Riverside casually strolled into the room with all the dignity of one who knows she has “arrived.” The size of the lump in Meghan’s throat doubled in size. She turned her gaze to Grey, and her breath jammed in her lungs.

  “When I wasn’t home last evening, Mother phoned Dr. Riverside,” he said, his gaze holding Meghan’s and seeming to plead for understanding.

  “Dear Pamela was kind enough to come to the airport on such short notice and drive me to Greyson’s house,” his mother added in a light, accusing tone.

  Meghan noted that Grey’s jaw tightened slightly. “I would have been more than happy to come for you myself, Mother, had I known you were arriving.”

  “It was a surprise, and I hated to ruin it. I suppose it was wrong of me to assume you’d be home, but I couldn’t imagine what you’d be doing out the evening before Thanksgiving.”

  “You were with Ms. O’Day?” Pamela asked, stirring sugar into her tea with a dainty flip of her wrist.

  “We were at the movies.”

  “How quaint.” Grey’s mother smiled for the first time, but once more Meghan read little amusement or welcome in the other woman’s gaze.

  “That must have been … fun,” Pamela commented, seeming to search for the right word, although she did appear genuinely interested.

  If Dr. Riverside was the least bit uncomfortable, it would have been impossible to tell. Actually, there was no reason for her to feel any annoyance, Meghan mused. She was the chosen one, basking under the glow of Frances Carlyle’s approval. And who could blame her? Not Meghan.

  “What movie did you see?” Pamela pressed.

  Meghan should have known that one was coming. She lowered her gaze and mumbled the title, hoping the others wouldn’t understand and would let it pass: “Chainsaw Murder, Part Twenty-three.”

  Frances Carlyle gasped softly, doing her best to disguise her shock. “I’m sure I misunderstood you.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds, Mother,” Grey said, and his voice carried a thread of amusement.

  “I never dreamed my own son would lower himself to view such rubbish,” Frances said, fanning her face a couple of times as though the room had suddenly become too warm. “Naturally, I’ve heard Hollywood is making those disgusting films, but I certainly didn’t think that sort of rubbish would appeal to you, Greyson.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t,” Meghan inserted, automatically defending him. “My brothers were the ones who wanted to see that particular film and they conned Grey into taking them.”

  “Your brothers ‘conned’ my son?” Grey’s mother echoed, her look all the more aghast. She held on to her cup with both hands and it looked for a split second as though she were going to drop it. The cup wobbled precariously, then steadied.

  “I didn’t mean it quite like that,” Meghan hurried to explain. Every time she opened her mouth, she dug herself deeper into a pit of despair. She cast a pleading look in Grey’s direction, wanting to let him know how sorry she was for muddling this entire conversation. “The boys mentioned how much they wanted to go, and Grey, out of the goodness of his heart, volunteered to take them.”

  “I hardly think that is the type of movie for young boys.”

  “They’re fifteen and thirteen.” On this matter, Meghan actually found herself agreeing with Grey’s mother. But she couldn’t force her tastes on Chad and Danny, who seemed to thrive on horror films of late.

  “Meghan’s family had invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner,” Grey said, directing the comment to his mother. “I phoned earlier and made my excuses.”

  Frances Carlyle nodded approvingly. “Pamela and I will be preparing our own Thanksgiving dinner,” she explained, and smiled fondly at the other woman. “However, it was kind of your parents to invite him, but Greyson’s with his family now.”

  From the look Grey’s mother cast at Pamela, it was all too apparent that she’d personally handpicked her son’s future wife. She’d done everything but verbally announce the fact.

  Meghan’s heart was so heavy it was a wonder she was able to remain sitting in an upright position. The differences between her and Grey’s social status hadn’t actually bothered her until that moment. Whenever they were together, Meghan had been swept up in the magic that sparked so spontaneously between them. But it was all too clear that Grey’s mother wasn’t interested in hearing about magic; she wou
ld be far more concerned with passing on the proper genes and balancing out intelligence quotients.

  Meghan leaned forward and set her cup back on the tray. She’d barely tasted the tea, but she couldn’t endure another minute of this awkward conversation.

  “I have to be getting back,” she said, as calmly as she could. “We’re eating earlier this year, because I have to be at work before three.”

  “What kind of employment involves working on a holiday?” Frances Carlyle asked.

  Once more, Meghan had exposed herself without realizing what she was doing. She would have given anything to quietly inform Grey’s mother that she was a brain surgeon and was needed for an emergency procedure within the hour. Instead, she calmly announced, “I’m a waitress at Rose’s Diner.” She didn’t bother to look at Grey’s mother, knowing the woman’s expression would only reveal her disapproval.

  “I see,” Frances Carlyle said, in a tone so like Grey’s that it would have been comical if it hadn’t hurt so much.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Grey insisted.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said, keeping her voice as even as possible and having trouble doing so.

  “Nonsense, Meghan. I’ll see you to your car.”

  Frances Carlyle stood with Meghan and Grey. “There’s no need to expose yourself to the cold, son. You can say good-bye to your … friend here.”

  Certain everyone could see how badly she was trembling, Meghan reached for her purse, buttoned her coat, and headed toward the front door.

  Ignoring his mother’s advice, Grey followed her outside.

  “Meghan, I’m sorry,” he said, taking her by the shoulders when they reached her car. His eyes were troubled, his expression grim. “I had no idea my mother was planning to fly in at the last minute like this.” He frowned and his face darkened momentarily.

  “There’s no need to apologize. I understand.” By some miracle, Meghan was able to force a smile.