A Proper Wife. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
me exactly what I deserved.”
“The old man hasn’t changed, huh?”
“Unlike the female of the species,” Ryan said with a fond smile, “my grandfather is always predictable.”
So was an evening in the Kincaid house, Ryan thought as Frank excused himself and headed for the lavatory.
Drinks first, in the old-fashioned sitting room. Bourbon for Ryan, seltzer for James since he’d given up whiskey on orders of his doctors. Then Agnes Brimley, his grandfather’s prune-faced housekeeper would call them into the dining room for a medically approved dinner of gritty brown rice, mushy vegetables and stringy chicken. Dessert would have the look, smell and texture of pulverized soap.
Then the old man would shut the door on both logic and the disapproving Miss Brimley, light up one of the ropy cigars that were his sole remaining vice, fix Ryan with a rheumy eye and deliver The Lecture of the Month.
The World and How Much Better it Had Been Seventy Years Ago was always the choice opener. Second would come Advice on How to Manage Kincaid, Incorporated—even though in the five years Ryan had been running the development firm his grandfather had founded, he’d built it from being an east coast success to a national conglomerate.
But those were only warm-ups to James’s favorite lecture, which always began with the words, “Time is passing, my boy,” and ended with the admonition that Ryan was going to be thirty-two soon and that it was time he settled down.
Ryan smiled. And he would sit through it all without more than token protest. What would the pundits of high finance make of that? Ryan Kincaid, the man Time magazine had dubbed The Lone Raider, would endure the lectures for the simplest, most complex of reasons—because he loved his grandfather and his grandfather loved him, even if the old man would sooner eat nails than admit it.
His grandfather had raised him and Gordon both, after their parents’ messy divorce. Now, with Gordon gone, neither Ryan nor the old man had anyone else to care about.
“So, what about Sharon?”
Ryan looked up as Frank eased himself onto the stool again.
“What about her?”
“She can’t be thrilled to be without you this evening, considering how she fusses over our weekly boys’ night out.”
Ryan grimaced. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not talk about Sharon.”
“Problems?”
“Well, I forgot her birthday.”
“Which is why we ended up in Montano’s.”
“Yeah, but there’s more.” Ryan sighed. “I thought we understood each other. She didn’t want anything permanent and neither did I. Now she’s starting to talk about how all her friends are getting married and having babies.”
“I hope you told her you’re too young to end your life.”
Ryan lifted his glass, brought it to his lips, gazed into the dark liquid and then put it down again, untouched.
“The thing of it is, I’m not.”
Frank recoiled in horror. “What?”
“We’re pushing middle-age, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“At thirty-two?” Frank began to grin. “I get it. You’re anticipating Grandpa Kincaid’s lecture about Getting Married, Settling Down, and Producing Little Kincaids to comfort him in his old age.”
“There are times I almost think he’s right.” Ryan’s mouth twisted. “After all, my brother’s dead, and heaven knows his marriage didn’t produce any heirs.”
“Yeah. That was a fiasco, wasn’t it?”
“What else could it have been? Gordon got himself hitched to San Francisco’s own version of Jezebel.”
“Bettina Eldridge, right? I remember.” Frank sighed. “Look, pal, this is America. Kingdoms are not lost because the Prince Royal has yet to take himself a bride. Tell that to the old man, why don’t you?”
Ryan ran his finger along the edge of his glass. “My grandfather’s gotten very old,” he said softly. “Time passes, you know.”
“Tying on the ball and chain won’t stop the clock from ticking,” Frank said bluntly, “but if you think it will, there’s always Sharon.”
Ryan grinned. Even back in their undergraduate days at Yale, Frank had had a way of bringing things back to basics.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Marriage just isn’t man’s natural state.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Hell, just look at the Kincaids. My mother celebrated her fifteenth anniversary by asking my father for a divorce so she could go off and become an anthropologist. My father fell for his secretary a year later and disappeared into parts unknown. My brother married a woman who saw dollar signs whenever she looked at him...”
“Marriage sucks,” Frank said agreeably.
“My grandfather’s always telling me that his marriage was a joy, but why wouldn’t it have been? The rules were simpler. My grandmother was an old-fashioned woman. Pleasant, sweet-tempered, eager to please.”
Frank sighed. “That’s how women were raised in those days, pal. A girl was raised to be a lady. To play piano, serve tea and embroider doilies, to bring a man his slippers and his newspaper...”
Ryan’s brows lifted. “We’re talking about a wife,” he said gently, “not a cocker spaniel.”
“And with it all,” Frank said, ignoring the interruption, “she’d be gorgeous and more than willing.”
An image suddenly swept into Ryan’s mind. He saw the blonde from Montano’s, saw himself stripping her of that velvet cape. He saw her naked under his hands, all tanned, silky skin, high, sweet breasts and gently curved hips...
Damn! Ryan reached for his glass and drank the last of the chilled Coke.
“If I could find a babe like that, I’d marry her myself,” Frank said emphatically.
“Who wouldn’t?” Ryan grinned, glanced at his watch, and stood up. “You’re describing a proper wife. But they haven’t made a model like that in years. And that’s exactly what I’m going to point out to my grandfather.” He took out his wallet and tossed a couple of bills on the bar. “Thanks for the talk, friend. It was just what I needed.”
Frank smiled modestly. “My pleasure.”
“This time when the old man launches into the Why Don’t You Settle Down speech, I’ll sing him a chorus of I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl that Married Dear Old Grandad. Then I’ll fold my arms, sit back, and smile.”
As he had since childhood, Ryan sat to James’s right at the Kincaid dining room table. But tonight was nothing like those childhood dinners. It was nothing like the hideous dinners of the past several years, either.
Ryan frowned. What in hell was going on?
Prepared for the sort of awful meal he’d described to Frank, he’d come close to falling out of his chair when Miss Brimley had come marching in with the first course.
“Ah,” James had said happily.
“Ah,” Ryan had dutifully repeated, and prepared for the worst. But when his grandfather had uncovered the tureen, a wonderful scent had wafted to Ryan’s nostrils.
“Lobster bisque?” he’d said incredulously.
“Lobster bisque,” James had replied.
Agnes Brimley had glared.
The bisque had been followed by well-marbled