Fool for Love: Fooling Around\Nobody's Fool\Fools Rush In (24 page)

“If you socialized with guys—like Tom, for instance—that would set them straight.”

“No, it wouldn't. They'd think I was cheating on my fiancé and report me to the
Boston Globe,
” Claire argued. “When some people get an idea stuck in their heads, it's hard to unstick it.” The way Mark was stuck in her head, she thought glumly.

Her phone rang. “Okay, I'm leaving,” Maggie said, shoving herself to her feet. “Let me know if you change your mind about coming for dinner.”

Claire nodded. She watched Maggie exit her office, then lifted the receiver. “Claire O'Connor,” she said.

“Claire? It's Mark.”

Her palm, wrapped around the molded plastic of the receiver, grew damp. Her breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes again, and remembered
the erotic pressure of his mouth on hers, the heat of his body so close to hers, the way he'd tangled his fingers into her hair. Why had he called? How was she going to get over him if he charged back into her life?

“Hello, Mark,” she said in as calm a voice as she could muster.

“How are you?”

Had he called to chat? “I'm fine,” she said, irritation dampening the mindless excitement she felt at hearing his voice. “And yourself?”

“I've got a problem,” he told her, then reconsidered his answer. “Actually, Claire,
we've
got a problem.”

M
ARK LOVED
his parents. One thing he loved about them was that they generally kept their noses out of his business. They lived in western Massachusetts, nearly three hours away, and when he got together with them, they usually had enough to talk about—politics, their students, the house, their vacation trips and the summer season at the Williamstown Theater Festival—that questions concerning Mark's social life rarely arose.

So he was surprised when his mother phoned his office to say, “What's this about your getting married?”

“What's what about my getting married?”

“You know I don't always read the
Globe,
” she began. “But Noreen's sister—you remember Noreen, don't you? The history department secretary?”

He didn't, but he said, “Sure.”

“Anyway, her sister lives in Roslindale and she read in the
Globe
last week that you were seen—I believe the word was
canoodling
—with a woman you were engaged to.”

Jeez. Didn't they have anything better to talk about at Williams College than one brief, misleading item in last week's
Globe?
Mark took a deep, calming breath and said, “First of all, I'm not engaged to her.
And second of all, we weren't canoodling. We were just talking.” And having a drink—although hers had been tea, which didn't count. And yeah, he'd been thinking she was damned pretty, and maybe he'd also been undressing her in his mind, because he was a healthy heterosexual male and that was what a healthy heterosexual male did when he was having a drink with a damned pretty woman.

But they hadn't been canoodling.

“I can't tell you how excited Noreen was, Mark,” his mother said. “She still remembers the day you left for college. As I recall, she was very disappointed that you chose not to attend Williams.”

No way would Mark have attended the school where both his parents taught, even though he could have gone there for free. At eighteen, he'd wanted only to put some distance between himself and his folks, to study at a school where everyone didn't know him as the son of professors Lavin and Lavin.

“Naturally, she was thrilled to read that you were finally settling down. I'm thrilled, too, Mark. I just wish I hadn't had to learn this news from Noreen.”

“It's not news,” Mark said. “It's not true. I'm not settling down.”

“Oh.” Disappointment added a tremor to the word.

So much for his parents keeping their noses out of his business. “It was an April Fool's Day prank. One of the deejays here at the station made the whole thing up.”

“Why would he do that?”

“As an April Fool's Day prank,” Mark repeated, figuring that was easier than explaining that Rex had
done it as a petty rebellion, sticking his boss with a woman totally wrong for him, a woman he believed to be totally cold. Which Claire definitely wasn't. But Mark didn't want to think about that.

“According to Noreen,” his mother continued, “this fiancée of yours works for Boston's Landmark Commission. My heart started pounding when I heard that.”

“She's a bureaucrat,” Mark insisted, although that word didn't seem to fit Claire any better than
cold.
“I don't know what her job entails. Tell Noreen not to believe everything she reads.”

“Old buildings,” his mother murmured blissfully. “You know how I adore old buildings. Does she save them from the wrecker's ball?”

He had no idea. The evening he'd met her at the Kinsale, she'd mentioned something about a demolition hearing. That didn't sound like saving buildings to him.

“Mark.” His mother's tone was stern beneath a layer of maternal affection. “I know you're excited about being the top bachelor in Boston—”

“One of the top five,” he corrected her.

“One of the top five. You've received this supposed honor, but you can't let it define you for the rest of your life. When Dad and I were your age, we already had our Ph.Ds, our marriage and our son. I know children take longer to grow up these days…”

Mark opened his mouth and then shut it. Why protest to his mother that he was no longer a child?

“…but if you opened yourself up to the possibility of meeting a nice woman…”

“I've met nice women,” Mark broke in. Maybe
Sherry and her killer purse wouldn't qualify as nice, but Jenna was nice…and engaged to another man. He'd known other nice women, though. Claire was nice. She also claimed that he was nice. He shook his head to get himself back on track. Nice was irrelevant.

“Someone with an interesting career,” his mother was saying. “Someone with intelligence and common sense and generosity. And a sense of humor. What more do you need?”

Big knockers,
he thought, although in fact he'd never been obsessed with breast size. He wasn't Rex Crandall. He had no complaints when it came to Claire's bosom—not that her bosom had any significance to him whatsoever.

“I mean, really, Mark, is it so difficult to find a woman with those traits?”

“Mom.” Impatience gnawed at him. He didn't want to think about the traits that made a woman desirable. He didn't want to think about how many of those traits Claire possessed. She didn't even listen to WBKX, for God's sake. And whether or not his mother considered being a top-five Boston bachelor worthwhile,
he
did. Was it a crime to want to enjoy his title for a little while? “You've never pressured me before,” he said. “Why are you doing this now?”

“Because your engagement announcement appeared in the
Boston Globe.
”

“It wasn't an engagement announcement. And it was wrong.”

“Was it?”

Actually, the blurb had contained no factual errors,
other than the canoodling part. “It was misleading,” he corrected himself.

“And I'm not pressuring you. I'm just saying, so? Who's this woman? Why shouldn't she be the one?”

“It was an April Fool's Day joke!” he erupted. At that moment, it struck him as the most unfunny joke in the world.

Ignoring his outburst, his mother said, “I'd love to meet her. Why don't you bring her out to Williamstown for a day? We haven't seen you since the holidays. We could catch up, check out your new car—I know your father would love that—and meet this fiancée of yours.”

“She's not—”

“Your fiancée. So you say, Mark. I'm not deaf.”

“But you don't believe me,” he complained.

“Well, if it appears in the
Globe
…That's a reputable newspaper. They don't usually get things wrong. Did they print a retraction?'

“No.”

“So there was nothing to retract?”

“They never actually said she was my fiancée,” he argued wearily. “We're not getting married.”

“Why? She's not smart?”

“No, she's smart, but—”

“Not generous? Doesn't have a sense of humor? Please don't tell me it's something superficial like she's not pretty.”

“She's beautiful,” he said, then clamped his mouth shut to stifle a curse. “Her appearance has nothing to do with anything, Mom. The bottom line is, Claire and I are not getting married.”

“So, you're not getting married. You could still
come out and visit us. We haven't seen you since last December. You could come and bring her along for the ride. It's a long drive by yourself, and this way we could meet her.”

“Why do you want to meet her if she isn't my fiancée?”

“Am I only allowed to meet women you're engaged to? I'd like to meet this woman you've been linked with. Is this a crime?”

Of course it wasn't a crime, any more than his mother's stubbornness was a crime. Maybe his mother's stubbornness
should
be a crime, but as of now, there were no laws against it.

“I can't imagine why she'd want to drive all the way to Williamstown with me,” he said.

“Invite her. Maybe she'll say yes. Saturday would be best. You could get here early afternoon, we'll have a nice dinner, and we'll all get to know one another. Does she like fish? I'll make my bouillabaisse. That's always a hit with guests.”

He didn't want his mother to make her bouillabaisse. He didn't want to drive to Williamstown. He didn't want to telephone Claire and invite her to join him. He wanted to forget her hair, her emerald eyes and her soft lips, her hold on his imagination. He wanted to forget the way kissing her had almost been enough to make him abdicate his top-five bachelor throne.

But his mother would never back down. She wanted him to come to Williamstown with Claire, and she'd keep at him until he buckled. He knew she would.

“I'll talk to Claire,” he said. “I'm not making any
promises about this weekend, but I'll talk to her. I want it very clear, though—we're
not
engaged.”

“Of course not. Let me know once you're certain what your plans are. I can't wait to see you—and to meet this lovely woman.”

How did his mother know Claire was lovely? What if lovely Claire had something better to do on Saturday? What if she hated bouillabaisse?

He'd survived his encounter with her mother. He supposed she could survive an encounter with his. As soon as his mother got off the phone, he would call Claire at City Hall and run this ridiculous plan by her. If she was as smart as he thought, she'd say no. And he could go back to being a bachelor.

 

“Y
OU TOLD
your mother we'd drive all the way to Williamstown to see her?” Claire blurted into the phone. Her office radio spilled Handel's “Water Music” into the air, but the mellow orchestral suite failed to calm her twitchy nerves. Above her a single balloon remained, hovering near the ceiling. The other balloons had leaked helium and by the end of last week she'd untied the droopy bouquet from the arm of her chair and discarded them. But one balloon had escaped and floated up to the ceiling. She could easily grab its cord and haul it down, but she admired its stamina. As long as it remained up there, she wasn't going to disturb it.

The string dangled within reach of her hand as Mark explained to her over the phone that they had a problem: his mother wanted to meet her and was hoping he would bring her with him to Williamstown on Saturday.

Claire had been just getting used to the idea that she would never see him again, and now she was supposed to spend all day Saturday driving across the state with him?

“If you don't want to go, I wouldn't blame you,” Mark assured her. “I tried to explain to my mother that we aren't engaged, but she didn't get it.”

Claire knew how that could be. She'd had the same experience with her own mother.

She should say no. Spending more time with Mark wasn't going to help her put him out of her mind. What if he kissed her again? What if, as he had on the night he'd met her mother, he kissed her and walked away? Why should she make herself vulnerable to him?

But Williamstown…the winding roads, the rolling hills, the scenery, the greenery. The chance to get out of the city for a day, far from her mother, her sisters, Maggie, and Meryl, Beryl and JoAnn with their shower plans…God, she really wanted to go.

She could protect herself, she resolved. She could fend off any more meaningless kisses from him. All he was asking was that she accompany him on a visit to his mother, just as he'd so generously accompanied her on a visit to hers. Williamstown was supposed to be gorgeous, and the long drive would be heavenly in Mark's slick sports car. The Saturday page of her desk calendar was blank.

Her father always used to say a person couldn't have too many friends. Why not let Mark become her friend? As long as he didn't kiss her again, she'd be all right.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to make sure your mother understands that we're not engaged.”

“We can make sure she understands when we see her.”

“The way we made sure my mother understood,” Claire said, although she wasn't convinced that they'd accomplished that goal last Friday.

“Right,” Mark said, sounding oddly tentative. His voice was steadier when he added, “If we leave the city at ten, we'll get there about one. We can spend a couple of hours and I'll have you back home by eight or nine at night.”

“Okay.” The plan in no way resembled a date. It entailed nothing romantic. In fact, she wondered why he hadn't simply turned down his mother's invitation. Did he want to inflict Claire on his mother, for some reason? Did he want to inflict his mother on Claire? Did he want company for the drive, and no one else was available? Did he want her to ooh and ahh over his car? Did he want to be friends with her?

Whatever his reason, he'd asked and she'd said yes. Call her a fool, but she'd agreed to the trip. She and Mark would be friends, and she'd get to spend a day far from the city, cruising the length of the state back and forth in his magnificent car. She wouldn't let him kiss her, wouldn't let him touch her, wouldn't let him send her any of his mixed signals—sexual overtures followed by panicked flight.

A day in the country with a friend. She could handle that.