“I know, I—”
“Fox, you know Marjorie, don’t you? Marjorie White?”
“No. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Fox stepped forward with his hand outstretched because his mom hadn’t raised any sons who didn’t know their manners. But in a single glance, he could see the gaming table had no cards on it, no drinks, no junk food. No one else was in the room but Moose and this woman.
And where he was dressed like a rag man and holding a long-necked bottle of beer, she was wearing what his mom called country club clothes. Stockings. Clunks of gold here and there. Blond hair sharply styled. Subtle makeup, little black dress, expensive perfume.
“Fergus, I’ve heard so much about you for years.”
“Well…I’m glad to meet you.” He said politely, and then shot a shocked and confused look at Moose.
“I thought you two hadn’t met each other before,” Moose said heartily. “Marjorie doesn’t teach, Fox.
But she used to be married to Wild Curly Forster. Remember him? Linebacker, my class, not yours, but turned into the sharpest lawyer this side of Gold River.”
“Sure,” Fox said, who had never heard of the guy before.
“He died a few years ago. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” Fox said automatically.
“So you both know something about loss,” Moose said firmly.
“Say what?”
Marjorie intervened with a quiet little laugh. “Your big brother is springing this surprise on you, I realize.
But we don’t have to make a big deal out of it, Fergus. He just thought you’d like some feminine company for a change. Let’s just have a drink and talk a bit, all right?”
“Sure,” Fox said, and again spared a glance at his brother. Murder was too good for him. Hell. Torture was too good for him. “I could have dressed differently, but I assumed I was coming for a poker game.”
Moose slapped him on the shoulder. “Marjorie could care less how you’re dressed. You two just put your feet up. Get to know each other. I put a couple DVDs in the machine, got some wine cooling. I’ve got to go check downstairs. We’re having a hell of a gig downstairs tonight, company party for Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Wolcott’s.”
“Moose, hold up—”
“I had the boys make up a tray of finger foods, so just pull it out when either of you are hungry—”
Marjorie hadn’t stopped looking at him, and now a miserable flush climbed her neck. “Fergus, I realize you weren’t told about this. I never liked the idea of blind dates, either. But I’d thought, from what your brother said…I mean, it’s not like I’m so hard up that I need to be set up.”
“Of course you don’t.” Hell. Hell. Hell. Her feelings were hurt. Fox could plainly see the flush, the trembling mouth, and thought he was going to strangle his brother, and enjoy doing it. He couldn’t fulfill that daydream quite that fast, though. “Marjorie, just sit down, all right? We’ll talk. I really didn’t mean to come across as…”
God knew how he filled out that thought. Cruel? Mean hearted? He really didn’t mean to give her the impression that she was too ugly to warrant his time. She was pretty. Very pretty. Actually, she was damn near gorgeous.
She just wasn’t Phoebe.
Before he could turn around, his brother had disappeared. There was nothing he could do about it—not for a few minutes. She was obviously mortified and miserable. He couldn’t insult her, just because he wanted to kill his brother. Come to think of it, he’d really wanted to kill both brothers, because for damn sure, Bear had been consulted on anything Moose did.
Both of them were dirt. Turncoats. Pond scum.
He served Marjorie a glass of wine and then unearthed the platter of hors d’oeuvres, after which he listened to the entire, unabridged story of her marriage to Wild Curly Foster. Their courtship. His death.
Their two children. The money he’d left her. Her evil in-laws. The trip she’d taken to Paris last year to recover from all the stress. How much she missed a man.
When the telephone rang, though, he finally had an excuse to run downstairs. The call was from the local police, asking his brother for a donation. Fox offered them a four-figure gift, but after he hung up he told Marjorie the call had been from Moose—that there was some kind of emergency downstairs; he’d check it out and promised to be right back.
Faster than lightning he charged downstairs, taking the restaurant’s back door into the kitchen. He stormed past the clanging pots and steaming smells and cooks yelling at each other, past the computer service area and the maître d’s. Finally he located the fink—opening wine for a crowded party in one of the restaurant’s private rooms.
Moose spotted him in the doorway. Fox figured his brother must have noticed the steam coming out of his ears, because he promptly aimed his thumb toward the outside.
In the fresh, cold air of the parking lot, Fox darn near took a swing at him. “What thehell were you doing?”
Moose lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “The idea was for you to rejoin life again. To get out of the bachelor house. To budge you off ‘go.’ To remind you of the good things in life.”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“So you thought I needed fixing up with a woman!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What thehell would you call it, then?”
“What I’d call it,” Moose said calmly, “was Phoebe’s idea.”
“What?”
Moose slugged his hands in his pockets. “She called me two mornings ago. She knew it was my night to have you over. She assumed I’d be setting up a poker game, but she wanted to suggest a different idea. I do happen to know a few women, you know.”
“Phoebetold you to set me up with a woman?” He still couldn’t grasp it.
“Not setup, Fergus, for God’s sake. She just said part of healing—part of motivating you to rejoin life again—was remembering the good things
