The Rags-To-Riches Wife. Metsy HingleЧитать онлайн книгу.
to run yet,” he told her just as thunder boomed overhead. Grateful for the interruption, he noted the crowd beginning to disperse as the sky darkened and rain scented the air. “I should go pay my respects to Abby and Luke before the rain hits. Give my best to Frank.”
Delia turned up the collar of her coat and glanced at the threatening skies. “You might want to wait until you get to Abby’s.” She paused. “You are going to Abby’s house, aren’t you?”
“For what?”
“The after-service reception. At a time like this, Abby needs the support of all of her friends. I’m bringing a layer cake.”
“I see,” he said, surprised. He wouldn’t have pegged Delia as a friend of Abby’s. After all, everyone in Eastwick knew that Abby was part of the Debs Club—the name the members of the country club had given the group of women who met regularly for lunch at the club. As far as he knew, Delia wasn’t a part of that circle.
As though reading his thoughts, Delia said, “Just because I’m not part of the Debs Club doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad for Abby. I do. After all, I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I lost both of mine when I was a teenager.”
“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw tears filling her eyes. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right,” she said and dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I don’t like to talk about it.” She sniffed and shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of her coat. “I’d better go. Frank’s waiting for me. But you should go to the Talbots. Maybe your lady friend will be there.”
She wasn’t there, Jack decided after spending the better part of an hour moving from room to room in Abby and Luke Talbot’s home. She wasn’t there, but practically everyone else was. Half the members of the Eastwick Country Club were there. So were most of the politicians, the newspaper editor and the entire board of Eastwick Cares. As he scanned the room in search of his mystery woman, he noted Luke Talbot excusing himself from a group and disappearing down the hall. He couldn’t help but note the way Abby’s eyes followed her husband.
A hand came down on his shoulder. “Jack, my boy, I’ve been looking for you.”
Turning, Jack stared at his father. At sixty-eight, John was the picture of health. He kept his six-foot frame just under two hundred pounds. The tan he’d acquired from his weekly round of golf at the country club accented his silver hair and gray eyes. He suspected his father’s recent retirement from the law firm accounted for his relaxed demeanor. “Hey, Dad.”
“You looked like you were in a bit of a hurry when you left the funeral service. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
His father eyed him skeptically. “You sure there’s no problem at the office? Because if there is, you know I’ll be happy to help out.”
“Relax, Dad,” Jack told him, knowing that his father had not found it easy to turn over the reins of the law firm he’d founded, even though he had wanted the freedom of retirement. “Everything at the office is fine. I just saw a friend at the service that I’d been trying to reach for a while.”
His father arched his eyebrow. “Did you catch up with her?”
“I never said it was a woman. But no, I missed her.” Not wanting to give his father the chance to question him further about who she was, he said, “You said you were looking for me. Did you need something?”
“Your mother wanted me to tell you that she brought a spinach quiche. It’s one of her new recipes and she wants you to be sure to try it. It’s in the dining room.”
Jack grimaced. His mother was a lousy cook. When he’d been growing up, the lady had managed to burn, undercook and virtually ruin more meals than his stomach cared to remember. Unfortunately, she loved to cook and neither he nor his two sisters nor his father had ever had the heart to tell her how truly awful she was at it. Thankfully, their housekeeper Alice did most of the cooking. But his mother continued to astound them with new recipes. “Is it as bad as her liver mousse?”
“Nothing’s as bad as her liver mousse,” his father said dryly. “Come on, she’s looking this way.”
Jack followed his father into the dining room and was directed toward the quiche. Reluctantly he placed a serving on his plate. Looking up at his father, he asked, “Aren’t you having any?”
His father smiled. “I had some last night. Now it’s your turn.”
“I hope my stomach will forgive me,” Jack muttered and shoveled a bite of the quiche into his mouth. The egg-and-spinach mixture seem to expand inside his mouth and he forced himself to swallow it.
“Here,” his father said and handed him a glass of water.
Jack washed it down, then shuddered. While his father chuckled, Jack took the remainder of the serving and dumped it in the trash. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, he told his father, “You’re a better man than I am. I don’t know how you do it.”
“It’s called love, son. Mark my words. Someday you’re liable to find yourself eating something that tastes like dirt. But you’ll do it with a smile because it makes the woman you love happy.”
“Hopefully I’ll marry someone who can cook.”
His father shrugged. “Maybe you will. But then, I never married your mother for her cooking ability.”
No, Jack thought. His parents had married for love. It was something that had always amazed him, how after forty years of marriage they were still in love with one another. He, on the other hand, had had numerous relationships in his thirty-three years and had even gotten engaged a few years ago until he and his bride-to-be had realized they were better off as friends than as husband and wife. But he had never come close to experiencing with anyone the kind of connection his parents shared.
Suddenly he recalled a slim redhead with ghost-blue eyes. He had felt something with her that night, something strong and powerful, something that went beyond the physical attraction and incredible sex. It was as though some invisible force had drawn him to her that night. And obviously, she’d felt it, too.
“Jack?”
“Sorry, Dad,” he said, shaking off the memory. “What was that?”
“I said Tom Carlton asked me if you’d give any more thought to running for Petersen’s seat in the senate when he retires.”
“I’m considering it. But I just don’t know if I’m right for the job.”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t be,” his father told him. “You’re a fine attorney, son. You’re smart and savvy enough to work with those politicians and get things accomplished. Most importantly, you’re honest and you care about people. Just look at what you’ve been able to do since you joined the board of Eastwick Cares. Everyone’s raved about the program to battle illiteracy.”
“It was a joint effort. There are a lot of good people on that board and working for Eastwick Cares.”
“Bunny, God rest her soul, told your mother it was your idea.”
It was true, but he and the other members had all contributed to making the program happen. “Even if it was, sitting on the board of a non-profit agency and sitting on Capitol Hill are two different things. I’m not sure I want to make that kind of commitment and jump into the political fish bowl.”
“Well, you’re going to have to decide soon. Petersen has just over a year left to serve before he retires and people are already lining up to toss their hat into the ring for his seat. Running a campaign is expensive and the sooner Carlton and his group know who their candidate is, the better.”
“I told Carlton I’d give him my answer by the end of the month.” And Jack knew he would have to make a decision soon.
His