Jennifer Greene - Ain’t Misbehaving

But it was Aaron who’d nudged Mitch into minerals, gruffly challenging his son out of his depression, filling the library with books, bringing in tutors so Mitch would have the education he certainly never thought he wanted at fifteen.

And at the moment, his father was impatiently surveying the octagonal room, with its sheets draped as curtains and its bare floors and spectroscopes and balancing scales, with Mitch’s own feeling of possessiveness. “Are you going to keep me in suspense for the next year?” his father demanded. “Was the meeting worth it or not?”

“Well worth it. He jumped for the tourmalines, but more important-” Mitch handed his father the loupe. Silently, Aaron fitted it to his eye and bent over the table. The single stone, on white velvet, had the dazzling brilliance of an emerald. Its fire caught every ray of light as Aaron slowly shifted it in his fingertips.

“Tsavorite,” Aaron identified it. “Dammit, I’ve never seen one this large before.”

“Flawless,” Mitch affirmed. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, enjoying his father’s pleasure. Neither said anything for a minute.

“How much did you have to pay?” Aaron demanded finally, but his eyes were still on the stone. Perching on the stool, he adjusted the lamp and then bent over the tsavorite again.

Mitch answered his question.

“You know, with a little more training, you could have been a thief,” Aaron complimented him wryly.

“Hell, he tried to pawn a tray of smoked opals off on me first.” Mitch took the stone and wrapped it carefully before locking it in the trunk chest against the far wall. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“No time. Was that the only stone you bought?”

Mitch shook his head. “A few others,” he said as they wandered back toward the front of the house. “He didn’t really have the quality I wanted. Frankly, I don’t know how he got his hands on that one.”

A barren hall with a swinging lightbulb led to the living room, where Aaron paused, giving his son a wry smile. It wasn’t exactly a living room yet. Ladders and drop cloths and paint cans caught the early afternoon light. “You know,” Aaron drawled, “you’re socking away plenty of money these days. Going to get around to buying a few sticks of furniture for this old barn eventually?”

“In time. It’s taking me a long time to fix the place up.”

“All of which you could afford to hire others to do.”

Mitch shook his head, and his father chuckled. “When do you sleep?”

“I haven’t time.”

Aaron sobered abruptly. They were alike physically, both tall and broad-shouldered and lean. Mitch had his father’s dark hair, the same quietness in the way he moved, the same enigmatic expression in his dark eyes. They were both stubborn. Both fiercely independent. And they understood each other, at times, far too well. “You’re pushing it, you know,” Aaron said quietly. “Trying to do everything all at once. It’s not like that anymore. You’ve got time. And you know I’ll help you-”

“Good. You can let me know what my last round of medical adventures cost you.”

Aaron sighed. It was an old argument. Even before that final operation, Mitch had been pulling his financial weight in the family, with a drive that his father respected and a stubbornness no one could control. Lately, yes, Mitch had pursued a most determined course in fortune-building…and he’d fiercely resented his father’s paying the last hospital bill.

Aaron understood. Mitch had never been able to tolerate feeling dependent on others, and had a man’s need to pay his own way. But for Aaron there was no forgetting the long hours in the waiting room, with the knowledge that this last operation could swing either way. It wasn’t the gift of money but the gift of life he’d been so desperate to give his son. The decision to go under the knife one final time had been Mitch’s. It was Aaron who’d barely survived it.

“If you want to help me out, you can accept your mother’s invitation to dinner tonight,” Aaron said abruptly.

Mitch dug his hands in his pockets as his father pulled on his coat. “Dad-”

“She told me to tell you there’d be prime rib, a good Burgundy, glazed carrots, blueberry pie…”

“And who’s she lined up as a surprise across the table this time?” Mitch smiled dryly.

“Laura Kingsley.”

Mitch chuckled. “Let no one suggest that Mom leaves any stone unturned.”

“Your mother-” Aaron cleared his throat “-occasionally lacks subtlety. On the other hand, she says we haven’t had the Kingsleys over in some time.”

“And their daughter, by some miracle, just happened to be in town.”

“A miracle, yes.” Aaron looked at his son and burst out laughing. “Do you want a word of fatherly advice?”

“No offense, Dad, but not particularly.”

“Thank God.” Aaron glanced at his watch, then negotiated a path around a pile of cardboard boxes near the door. “You know, if you should want to sell that garnet-”

Mitch shook his head. “If I can find a match, I’ll work up a set of earrings for Mom for Christmas.”

“Dinner?” Aaron asked abruptly, giving his son a wry look. He knew damn well Mitch was going to find some way to pay back the debt.

Mitch hesitated. “Not tonight, Dad. I’ve got an afternoon of painting here, plus I want to get a run in, maybe a game of racquetball. Beyond that, I honestly have work to do. Tell Mom thanks-and I’ll stop by to see her tomorrow.”

“That’ll mollify her.” There was a moment more, as both men stood in the doorway, a quick flash of eye contact that simply conveyed the very real affection they had for each other. “Not that I appreciate being left alone to entertain those two vacant-headed Kingsley women over dinner this evening. You just keep in mind that you owe me one.”

Mitch closed the door a moment later. With his father gone, the house seemed pregnant with a peculiar, lonely silence. He tugged off his tie, taking the steps upstairs two at a time. His bedroom was the only room in the entire house that was more or less furnished. There’d been ample space in the huge room for a couch and armchair on one side, for his double bed on the other. The rest of the furniture included some handsome teak bookcases and an old chest lacquered in navy blue, Chinese style, that had belonged to his grandparents. He’d collected Chinese prints from the time he was a kid, so the walls didn’t look too bare. Chinese had been the first language he’d started to learn during those years when he’d been forced to pursue sedentary activities.

Sheets hung in the windows. He’d gone to a store to buy curtains once, but couldn’t make head or tail of the measurements, nor did he have the least idea what a valance was. Of course, he could have asked for help-but he wasn’t much inclined to take help from anyone these days. All his life, he’d had to ask for far too much from other people.

Within ten minutes, he was out of the business suit he’d worn to lunch and into painting jeans and an ancient crewneck sweater.

He switched on the overhead light and opened a paint can, smiling to himself as he thought about his mother’s less than subtle machinations.

She wanted him married. She also wanted an even dozen grandchildren. Preferably yesterday.

The paint roller scudded over the wails, turning an odd shade of rose to an antique cream. The house was around fifty years old. When he’d finally recovered from the last operation, he’d looked at newer houses. And to speed the recovery process, he’d generally tried to fill most evenings with a woman across a restaurant table from him. That’s what he thought he should want: to buy a brand-new bachelor’s pad, and to hurry back into circulation and make up for lost time. Neither houses nor women had been hard to find.