Rachel Gibson - Simply Irresistible

“Jeez-us,” John interrupted. “Is there a point to any of this?”

Georgeanne’s smile fell, but she was determined to remain pleasant. “I was getting to it.”

“Well, you might want to do that real soon because Ernie isn’t getting any younger.”

“Stop right there,” his grandfather warned.

Georgeanne patted Ernie’s arm and looked into John’s narrowed eyes. “That was incredibly rude.”

“I get a lot worse.” John pushed his empty bowl aside and leaned forward. “The guys on the team and I want to know, can Virgil still get it up, or was it strictly his money?”

Georgeanne could feel her eyes widen and her cheeks burn. The idea that her relationship with Virgil had been fodder for locker-room jock talk was beyond humiliating.

“That’s enough, John,” Ernie ordered. “Georgie is a nice girl.”

“Yeah? Well, nice girls don’t sleep with men for their money.”

Georgeanne opened her mouth, but words failed her. She tried to think of something equally hurtful, but she couldn’t. She was sure a perfectly witty and sarcastic response would come to her later, long after she needed it. She took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. It was a sad fact of her life that when she became flustered, words flew from her head-simple words like door, stove , or-as was the case earlier when she’d had to ask John for help- corset . “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you say such cruel things,” she said, placing her napkin on the table. “I don’t know if it’s me, if you hate women in general, or if you’re just terminally bad-tempered, but my relationship with Virgil is none of your business.”

“I don’t hate women,” John assured her, then deliberately lowered his gaze to the front of her T-shirt.

“That’s right,” Ernie broke in. “Your relationship with Mr. Duffy isn’t our business.” Ernie reached for her hand. “The tide is almost out. Why don’t you go on down and look for some tide pools near those big rocks down there. Maybe you can find something from the Washington coast to take back to Texas with you.”

Georgeanne had been raised to respect her elders too much to argue or question Ernie’s suggestion. She glanced at both men, then stood. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Maxwell. I didn’t mean to cause trouble between y’all.”

Without taking his eyes from his grandson, Ernie answered, “It’s not your fault. This has nothing to do with you.”

It certainly felt like her fault, she thought as she stepped behind her chair and slid it forward. As Georgeanne walked through the narrow, foam green kitchen toward the multipaned back door, she realized that she’d let John’s good looks impair her judgment. He wasn’t pretending to be a jerk. He was one!

Ernie waited until he heard the back door close before he said, “It’s not right for you to take out your bad temper on that little girl.” He watched one brow rise up his grandson’s forehead.

“Little?” John planted his elbows on the table. “By no stretch of the imagination could you ever mistake Georgeanne for a ‘little girl.’ ”

“Well, she can’t be very old,” Ernie continued. “And you were disrespectful and rude. If your mother were here, she’d give your ear a good hard twist.”

A smile curved one corner of John’s mouth. “Probably,” he said.

Ernie stared into his grandson’s face and pain wrenched his heart. The smile on John’s lips didn’t reach his eyes-it never did these days. “It’s no good, John-John.” He placed his hand on John’s shoulder and felt the hard muscles of a man. Before him, he recognized nothing of the happy boy he’d taken hunting and fishing, the boy he’d taught to play hockey and drive a car, the boy he’d taught everything he’d known about being a man. The man before him wasn’t the boy he’d raised. “You have to let it out. You can’t hold it all in, walking around blaming yourself.”

“I don’t have to let anything out,” he said, his smile disappearing altogether. “I told you that I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ernie looked into John’s closed expression, into the blue eyes so much like his own had been before they’d clouded with age. He’d never pressed John about his first wife. He’d figured John would come to terms with what Linda had done on his own. Even though John had been a dumbass and married that stripper six months ago, Ernie had hopes that he’d begun to work things out in his own mind. But tomorrow marked the first anniversary of her death, and John seemed just as angry as the day he’d buried her. “Well, I think you need to talk to someone,” Ernie said, deciding that maybe he should force the issue for John’s own good. “You can’t keep it up, John. You can’t pretend nothing happened, yet at the same time drink to forget what did.” He paused to remember what he’d heard on the television the other day. “You can’t use booze to self-medicate. Alcohol is just a symptom of a greater disease,” he said, pleased that he remembered.

“Have you been watching Oprah again?”

Ernie frowned. “That isn’t the point. What happened is eating a hole in you, and you’re taking it out on an innocent girl.”

John leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m not taking anything out on Georgeanne.”

“Then why were you so rude?”

“She gets on my nerves.” John shrugged. “She rambles on and on about absolutely nothing.”

“That’s because she’s a southerner,” Ernie explained, letting the subject of Linda drop. “You just have to sit back and enjoy a southern gal.”

“Like you were? She had you eating out of the palm of her hand with all that white sauce and funeral bullshit.”

“You’re jealous,” Ernie laughed. “You’re jealous of an old guy like me.” He slapped his hands on the table and slowly stood. “I’ll be damned.”

“You’re crazy,” John scoffed, snagging his beer as he stood also.

“I think you like her,” he said, and turned toward the living room. “I saw the way you were looking at her when she didn’t know you were looking. You may not want to like her, but you’re attracted to her, and it’s pissing you off.” He walked into his bedroom and stuffed a few things in a duffel bag.

“Where are you going?” John asked from the doorway.

“I’m gonna stay with Dickie for a few days. I’m just in the way here.”

“No you’re not.”

Ernie glanced back at his grandson. “I told you, I saw the way you were eyeing her.”

John shoved one hand in the front pocket of his Levi’s and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. With his other hand, he impatiently tapped the beer bottle against his thigh. “And I told you, I’m not going to have sex with Virgil’s fiancйe.”

“I hope you’re right and I’m wrong.” Ernie zipped the duffel bag closed and reached for the straps with his left hand. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing by leaving. His first instinct was to stay and make sure his grandson didn’t do anything he might regret in the morning. But Ernie had done his job. He’d helped raise John already. There was nothing he could do now. There was nothing he could do to save John from himself. “Because you’ll end up hurting that girl and damaging your career.”

“I don’t plan to do either.”

Ernie looked up and smiled sadly. “I hope not,” he said, unconvinced, and strode toward the front door. “I sure as hell hope not.”

John watched his grandfather leave, then he walked back into the living room. His bare feet sank into the thick beige carpet as he moved toward the picture window. He owned three houses; two were on the West Coast. He loved the ocean, the sounds and smells of it. He could lose himself in the monotony of the waves. This house was a haven from life. Here, he didn’t have to worry about contracts or endorsements or anything attached to being one of the most talked about centers in the NHL. He found a peace here that he couldn’t find anywhere else.