Sandra Marton - A Proper Wife

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 beef, baked potatoes slathered in sour cream, and tossed green salad with Roquefort dressing.

“And a good claret to wash it all down, of course,” James had said.

Now, with the meal ending, Ryan cleared his throat.

“Are we ... celebrating something, Grandfather?” he asked carefully.

James looked up from his plate. A strange little smile skimmed across his mouth.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, my boy, but yes, I suppose you might say that we are.”

Ryan nodded. “And what would it be, sir?”

James smiled and shook his head. “No more questions for now, Ryan. We’ll talk after dessert, I promise.”

As if on signal, Miss Brimley banged open the service door, the very briskness of her step an indication she disapproved of whatever it was she carried on the oval silver platter in her hands.

“Dessert,” she said coldly.

Ryan stared at the platter as she extended it to him. He hadn’t seen such an assortment of goodies since childhood. Tiny golden creampuffs, bite-size chocolate éclairs, chunky squares of shortbread....

He raised shocked eyes to Miss Brimley. “Are those white-chocolate brownies?”

She sniffed. “Indeed.”

He started to reach for one, thought of the workout he put himself through each morning, and drew back his hand.

“I, ah, I don’t think so, thanks.”

The housekeeper’s expression softened, if only slightly. “At least someone’s still using his brain as God intended!”

James wheezed out a laugh. “If you are trying to ruin my appetite, Brimley,” he said, helping himself to one of everything, “it will pain you to know you are not succeeding. Bring in the coffee, if you please. Real coffee, not that decaffeinated swill you’ve been pawning off on me all these years. Then shut the door and leave us alone.”

When she’d done as ordered, James sighed, reached inside his vest, took out a cigar—an act that only recently had seemed daring but which now was all but fraught with innocence, Ryan thought dazedly—and bit off the end.

“Excellent meal, my boy, don’t you think?”