A Pretend Proposal: The Fiancée Fiasco / Faking It to Making It / The Wedding Must Go On. Элли Блейк
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The problem was, he already knew which university she’d attended, what discipline she’d studied while there and what she’d opted to do with her life upon graduation. Okay, that left her spare time. What did she do when she wasn’t working? What were her hobbies and interests?
What were her vices?
On a groan, Thomas switched on the radio, flipped the station until he found some mind-emptying, bass-thumping rock and listened to music for the remainder of the drive.
Fifteen minutes later, he turned on Clement Avenue, going slow, not only out of deference to the children who were outside playing, but also so that he could read the address numbers.
Elizabeth lived in one of the city’s older neighborhoods. As such, the street was lined with mature trees and with homes that, while generally well-kept, were in need of a little updating. Hers was no exception, Thomas thought, as he pulled his car to a stop in front of a small bungalow. The faded green aluminum awnings that covered the porch and front windows harkened back a good half century. They reminded him of the awnings that had graced his parents’ house. The home he’d grown up in until the accident that had taken one life and irrevocably changed three others.
Nana Jo had moved into the house with Thomas during his father’s first unsuccessful stint in rehab, appalled to discover that her son had removed every last trace of his late wife from the rooms. Gone were the photos, the mementos, even some of the furniture that Lynn had purchased. Indeed, gone in some places was the plaster, where Hoyt had smashed his fist through the wall as he’d raged against God and fate, and drank himself into oblivion while his young son watched, frightened and baffled.
Four more stints in rehab followed before Thomas started middle school. At first, Hoyt came home between his stays at Brighter Futures Addiction Recovery. Sober, he was full of apologies and promises, but also weighted down with guilt and the dooming grief that he was never able to shake. Eventually, he stopped going to rehab and he stopped coming home. Thomas would have wound up a ward of the state, the house lost to back taxes, had it not been for Nana Jo.
She had been, and in many ways remained, Thomas’s rock.
Gradually, she’d brought more of her belongings over from her own house across town. Doilies appeared on the living room tables, knickknacks on the empty shelves that bracketed the kitchen window. A cheery, hand-crocheted afghan was draped over the back of the sofa, and new linens appeared on the beds. The walls were patched and repainted. The house became a home again and Thomas’s busted-up life was put back together, too.
Nana Jo sold the house after he left to attend college and then purchased her condo in Charlevoix, which had no yard work or outside maintenance for her to do. He still missed that little house sometimes, but only because of the good memories that Nana Jo had taken such care to preserve and later create.
Dated or not, Elizabeth’s house managed to be every bit as inviting as his boyhood abode thanks to a vivid assortment of flowers that spilled from a pair of large pots on either side of the front walk. From one side of the porch, a fern dripped from a hanging basket. The word Welcome was printed on the mat, but it didn’t need to be.
Home, he thought. And that word stayed in his mind, even after the woman appeared in the door.
AT HOWIE’S barking, Elizabeth peeked out the window and spied Thomas standing on the sidewalk. He was gazing at the house, a far-off expression on his face. She could only imagine what he was thinking.
He was fifteen minutes early. Again. At least this time she was ready for him. She’d left work early so that she could let Howie out to work off the worst of a day’s worth of pent-up energy, and so that she could tidy up her house. Of course, her small bungalow didn’t need much tidying.
She liked order. Growing up with her freewheeling parents, who’d eschewed home ownership for a more nomadic lifestyle, Elizabeth now thrived on the stability of knowing where she would be sleeping each night and that the bed would be made with fresh linens. Small things like having a well-stocked refrigerator and the appliances necessary to make a hot meal added a sense of security that her childhood had lacked. She wasn’t completely boring, but she had a clear plan for her future. Surprises were fine as long as she was prepared to deal with any consequences that came along with them. Her parents were no good at dealing with consequences.
She loved them dearly, but she didn’t want to be anything like them, except where their relationship with one another was concerned. Skeet and Delphine were quirky, oblivious and downright irresponsible, but they loved one another without reservation or condition.
So, she’d been looking for a man who was nothing like her father; but, at his core, very much like her father. That is to say, capable of deep love and lifelong commitment. What she hadn’t been looking for was a man like Thomas Waverly, but that was exactly who now stood on her doorstep holding a bag of Chinese food and a clutch of daisies, and wearing a forced smile as Howie growled menacingly at him from behind her.
“Howie!” she admonished. To Thomas, she said, “He’s really nothing but a big baby.”
Her “big baby” looked ready to jump through the screen door at her guest, which was odd. He’d never had this reaction to company in the past.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s never acted like this before.”
“Apparently, I bring out the worst in him.” Thomas laughed tightly.
“It’s probably just that not many men come to my door … lately.”
Thomas eyed the dog and drew a different conclusion. “He’s protective of you. It’s a good quality in a dog.”
“I guess so.” She reached for Howie’s collar, pulling him back. “I’ll just go put him in my bedroom.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Thomas said.
When she came back down the hall, he was still standing on her porch. “All clear?”
“All clear.”
She held open the door and then led him back to her small kitchen. Its harvest-gold appliances and battered Formica counter-top were hopelessly out-of-date. As were the white cabinets that had been painted so many times that some of them refused to close properly. Renovation was on her to-do list, but she had neither the time nor the money to tackle any serious home improvement for the foreseeable future.
“It’s very retro in here,” Thomas commented.
“Retro. Yes. That’s exactly the vibe I was going for.”
“You have a good sense of humor,” he accused on a smile as he set the cartons of food on the small, bar-height bistro set that was tucked into the corner of the tiny kitchen. “A dry one.”
“I guess I do,” she agreed. “Are those for me?”
He was still holding the flowers.
“Yes.”
He all but thrust them into her hands. Elizabeth gave the bouquet a sniff. Daisies didn’t emit the lush fragrance of, say, carnations or lilies, but she found their subtle earthiness refreshing. “Daisies are my favorite flower.”
“They’re a hostess gift,” he blurted out with curious intensity.
“Well, they’re lovely. Thank you.” As she pulled a vase from a cupboard and put them in water, Elizabeth said, “Has anyone ever told you that you have wonderful manners?”
“All the time.” He removed his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair before taking his seat. “It was my grandmother’s doing.”
“I like your grandmother.”
“Just wait until you meet her.”
Both of them grew serious then. That was