With This Ring (10 page)

"Sure you don't want to ask Sam if he minds first?"

"Of course not. We'll meet you at Seraphina's."

* * *

Lark looked different than she had looked in the now-completed painting sitting on Amy's easle. It was more than just a different hairstyle, Sam decided. She had some harder edges than she'd had when she was younger. You could see them in her eyes and mouth, sense them in her no-nonsense handshake and don't-mess-with-me stance.

Her get-up shouted her independence and disdain for anyone's opinion: faded and patched cut-offs paired with heavy black boots studded with silver and a skin-tight, black tank top that clearly defined her nipples. Her blond hair stuck up every which way and her big silver earrings were mismatched. One lobe sported a huge starburst, the other a long dangle of fruit.

In contrast, Amy wore a neatly pressed pair of white walking shorts, a dark green silk blouse and white sandals. Her hair was swept back with a white headband.

Lark gave Sam a long, assessing look as they were introduced.

"Do I pass inspection?" he said lightly.

Her smile was challenging. "The jury's still out."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Don't mind Lark. For some reason, she thinks she needs to protect me."

"Somebody has to," Lark said.

"Oh, Lark . . . " Amy gave Sam a conspiritorial smile.

Sam didn't blame Lark for having reservations about him. After all, she obviously cared about Amy. They'd been friends for most of their lives. He was an unknown quantity. In her shoes, he'd be wary, too.

They ordered margaritas. When their waitress left to fill their orders, Lark said to Sam, "Amy tells me you're a photographer for
World of Nature
and that you just got back from Alaska."

"Yes."

She reached for a chip. "So you're between assignments right now?"

"No, I'm on vacation."

"Oh." She ate the chip and chewed thoughtfully. "A long vacation?"

"Kind of. Four weeks. I report back to work the tenth of August."

"And then you'll get another assignment."

He smiled. "Yes."

"Where will it be, do you know?"

"No. Not yet." He avoided Amy's eyes. They had studiously steered clear of this subject. "It could be anywhere."

"How long do the assignments generally last?" Lark said.

"Two, three weeks. Sometimes longer."

"That long." She looked at Amy. "Boy, and I thought I traveled a lot, but at least I'm only gone a few days at a stretch."

"Lark's a flight attendant," Amy said.

"Traveling for longer periods of time is actually easier," Sam said. He refused to let Lark's questions irritate him. In fact, they sort of amused him. She was acting like a surrogate parent. Perhaps she felt in the absence of Amy's own parents, she needed to.

"Easier on you, maybe," Lark said, giving Amy another pointed look.

Sam thought it might be better to let that comment pass without an answer. Until he had made his decision about the future—and whether he wanted it to include Amy—he would not be drawn into this kind of discussion.

"Sam and I went to Rockefeller's the other night and saw Asleep at the Wheel," Amy said in a bright voice that was an obvious ploy to change the subject. "They were great."

Lark smiled and continued eating chips. She took a long swallow of her margarita, her large gray eyes meeting Sam's over the rim of her glass. "You haven't met Amy's parents yet, have you?"

"No."

"They won't be home until a week Monday," Amy said.

"I'm looking forward to meeting them," Sam lied. He wasn't looking forward to meeting them at all because he was sure the Carpenters would not be happy about his association with Amy— another complication if he wanted to make their relationship more permanent.

As if she'd read his mind, Amy said softly, "My parents will be crazy about you." Under the table, her hand crept over to squeeze his leg.

He smiled down at her. Amy. She was a complete romantic. She saw things as she wanted them to be. It was one of the things he liked most about her—that trust and unbridled optimism. Sometimes, when he was with her, he even began to believe in the basic goodness of people. Unfortunately, the very qualities that made her so refreshingly appealing were also the ones that made it difficult to get her to face reality . . . or to prepare for trouble.

For a while, the talk turned to more impersonal topics, and Sam was grateful for the reprieve. He leaned back against the leather booth and listened to the two women, interjecting a comment now and then. They discussed the current heat wave, agreeing that they were already sick of summer and it was only the third week of July, Lark's job and how much she hated it and the career change she was considering, a mutual friend and her marriage woes, and two current movies—agreeing about one of them and having a good-natured argument over the merits of the other.

Their waitress came and they ordered another round of margaritas. Their food was served, and they ate and continued to talk casually.

Amy asked about Lark's mother.

"The bloom has worn off the rose," Lark said.

"So soon?" Amy said.

"Yeah, well, you know my mother." Lark looked at Sam. "Mother's working on her third marriage, and I don't think this one is going to take any better than the first two." Her smile was wry. "Trouble is, she has lousy judgment. She goes for the type with killer charm and movie star good looks instead of the type with staying power." Her gray eyes met Sam's coolly.

Despite the fact he'd decided he was amused by her self-appointed role as Amy's protectress, Sam was beginning to get a little pissed off by Lark's relentless jabs. He stared back, and was gratified when she was the first one to look away.

After they'd finished their dinner, Amy said, "I'm going to the Ladies'." She looked at Lark.

"I don't need to," Lark said. When Amy was out of earshot, she said, "She's terrific, isn't she?"

"I think so."

Her gaze pinned him. "Tell me something, Sam, are you serious about her or are you just screwing around?"

He didn't answer for a long moment. When he did, his voice was even, his temper under tight control. "I don't think my relationship with Amy is any of your business."

"Well, I'm making it my business. See, the thing is, I love Amy. She's special. Really special. And she's also the best friend I have in the world. I don't want to see her get hurt."

The control slipped a notch. "And you think I do?"

"I don't have any idea whether you do or you don't. I do know, though, what kind of life you lead, and I don't think it's conducive to happily ever after."

"You don't know anything about me," he said stiffly.

"That's why I asked if you were serious about her."

Their gazes locked. "I care about Amy," he hedged.

"Good. Glad to hear it."

She didn't look glad. Her expression said she that she didn't trust him one bit. That she classified him in the same category as the men her mother had married.

Hell, maybe Lark was right. He wasn't sure he had staying power, either. Right now, he wasn't sure of anything.

"I just want to say one last thing, Sam," Lark said. "And it's this. If you
do
hurt Amy, you'll be sorry."

* * *

Amy wondered what Lark and Sam were talking about while she was in the Ladies' Room, but later, when they were alone, he didn't say anything, and she didn't ask. All he said was, "Has Lark always been like that?"

"Like what?"

"You know. Tough. Cynical."

"She's always been tough. When we were little, she used to get in fights with the boys all the time." Amy smiled, remembering. "But the cynical part, that's been a slow, steady kind of thing that started when her parents were divorced."

"Hit her hard, huh?"

"I didn't think so at the time. She acted as if she didn't care, but looking back, I can see that she did."

"How old was she?"

"We were fourteen."

"Parents can really screw up their kids," Sam said.

"Yes. The older I get, the more I realize what wonderful parents I have." She snuggled closer to him.

In answer, he just put his arms around her and kissed her lightly. "And they produced a wonderful daughter."

* * *

The day before Amy's parents were scheduled to arrive, Amy went through their house making sure the maid had given it a thorough cleaning and that everything smelled fresh and welcoming. Once she was satisfied that it looked the way it should, she turned her attention to her own apartment.

She decided it might be a good idea to put away anything that screamed out Sam's presence. After all, her parents would find out soon enough that he spent most nights with her, but there was no sense rubbing their noses in it. They might be sophisticated and modern in many ways, but where she was concerned they were still very old-fashioned and traditional.

She felt ridiculously nervous. She couldn't imagine why. Her parents would adore Sam, she was sure of it.

But what if they don't?

She paused in the act of dusting her entertainment center. "Well, they'll just have to accept him," she said aloud, "because he's the one I want, and he's here to stay."

"I'll be glad to get home, won't you?"

Faith Cameron Carpenter smiled at her husband, who sat next to her in the aisle seat of the first-class section. "You know I will. Three weeks is too long."

Alan had presented a paper in Brussels at the European Cardiac Surgeons' Conference during the first week they were away, and because their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary fell the following week, they had decided to expand their trip to include Ireland and a visit to Faith's sister in Dublin and then France, where they'd spent their honeymoon. They'd had a wonderful time, but home was home. Faith was tired of living out of suitcases and eating rich food and sleeping in unfamiliar beds. Besides, she missed Amy.

That was the trouble with only having one chick. A mother tended to obsess.

As if he'd read her mind, Alan said, "This new fella Amy's dating sounds serious."

"Yes, he does." Each time Faith had talked to Amy in the past two weeks, her daughter had seemed more and more in love.

"What's bothering you, darling? I thought you were eager for Amy to meet someone."

Faith gave her husband a sidelong look. He knew her so well. Even the slightest change in her tone of voice or the subtlest nuance alerted him to her feelings. It had always been this way. She sighed. "I know, but I'm not sure this young man is the right someone. However, I'm reserving my judgment until I meet him."

"What is it about him that concerns you?"

"I don't know . . . a number of things, I guess."

"Like what?" Alan pressed.

"Well, he's apparently rootless with no family to speak of. And God knows what kind of background." She met her husband's eyes. "I know this will make me sound like a snob, but I was hoping Amy would marry someone more like her. More like
us.
"

Alan frowned. "Marry? Is she talking about marrying him?"

"Not in so many words, but I know Amy. That's what she's thinking."

"But she hardly knows him."

"I know."

Alan lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Then he reached over and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry, darling. Amy's not stupid. If she's fallen in love with this young man, he must have the right stuff. And if, for some reason, he doesn't, we'll talk to her. She's very sensible, you know."

Faith nodded and gave him a reassuring smile, but she knew how fast common sense could fly out the window when the heart was involved. Not to mention hormones. No, she was terribly afraid that if Amy was set on marrying Sam Robbins, nothing Faith or Alan could say would make any difference. The best Faith could hope for now was that Sam was worthy of Amy's love . . . and that he returned it.

* * *

Amy waited impatiently just beyond the customs checkpoint in the International Terminal at Intercontinental Airport. According to the arrival monitor, her parents' Air France flight should have landed by now. She kept her gaze trained on the double doors where the arriving passengers would emerge. There had been a steady trickle of incoming travelers, but she knew these were stragglers from a flight that had landed about fifteen minutes earlier.

She couldn't wait to see her parents, not only because she'd missed them but because she was so excited about them meeting Sam. Not that the meeting would happen immediately. No, she and Sam had talked over breakfast this morning and decided that he would make himself scarce this afternoon. But tonight he would come over, and they would all have dinner together at her parents' house.

Amy had already made all the preparations—putting together a chicken casserole and fixing a salad and buying fresh French bread from the French Bakery. She'd also baked a banana creme pie—her father's favorite.

She'd laughed at herself when she realized what she was doing. She told herself her parents didn't need bribing. They would love Sam. But she'd made the pie, anyway.

"Come on, come on," she murmured. She hated waiting. It was such a monumental waste of time.

A few seconds later, the double doors burst open and dozens of people poured through. Amy stood on tiptoe and searched the faces. There they were! She waved, but they weren't looking in her direction. And then her father turned his head. Amy knew the moment he spied her, because his face lit up with a big smile and he said something to her mother. Then they were both waving at her.

Faith was the first one through customs, and she and Amy hugged hard. As always, her mother smelled of Joy and the expensive English soap she favored. Amy smiled. Anyone else who'd just spent long hours traveling would smell tired and stale, but not Faith. She looked as lovely as always, too—her dark blond hair smooth and perfectly styled in the short, breezy cut she'd worn the past few years, her makeup muted and impeccable, her clothing neat and attractive. No one looking at her would guess she was sixty-two years old. She could have passed for at least fifteen years younger.