She frowned, fiercely confused, sick to her stomach. Darn it, he was deliberately rattling her. “Fox, I Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
never said that.”
“Well, I want you to think about it. Because I’m not disappearing, red…unless you send me away. I’m not positive where I’m going, but I won’t be hiding in the shadows anymore. I am sure of that. And I want to be sure of what you want from me.”
She heard an implicit ultimatum in his voice. Not a threat. Just a fish-or-cut-bait warning—the same one she’d been waiting for weeks now. “I can’t be, Fox! You don’t understand!”
“Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “I understand.” And he turned away from her and stalked back to his car.
Eleven
Fox, standing at the stove in his mother’s kitchen, pointed the royal finger at his mom. “No. Sit. You are not to help. You are supposed to sit there and drink wine and let me do the work.”
“You’re treating me like a dog,” Georgia complained. “Sit. Stay. What kind of language is that to use with your mother?”
“Down, girl,” Fox repeated when she tried to stand up again. “This is my night to cook for you, remember? You said you wanted to do this exercise of Phoebe’s. That means you’re supposed to put your feet up and I’m supposed to do the dinner. That’s the deal.”
“Something is very scary about you lately,” Georgia said darkly. “At least when you were sick, I could order you around. You still didn’t obey much, but you didn’t give me all this lip.”
“I think we always gave you a ton of lip, Mom.” Before he could stop her, she’d sprinted out of the chair—carrying her wine—and was trying to see over his shoulder at the progress of the sizzling food on the stove.
“That isn’t remotely related to beef Stroganoff,” she announced.
“You’ve got that right.”
“I bought all the ingredients for your favorites. Beef Stroganoff. Double blueberry pie. Waldorf sa—”
“Sit.”
Muttering ominous threats, Georgia retreated as far as the counter stool, but she still looked at him with nosy, suspicious eyes. Mother eyes. “What’s going on,” she said finally, flatly. She didn’t make it a question.
Fox deserted the stove long enough to set the table—at least, his version of setting the table. He scooped up some forks and knives from the silverware drawer, added a couple of plates, then tossed some napkins on the middle of the table. He wasn’t sure everything was going to be ready at the same time, but whatever. He could cook well enough not to starve. Putting together a complete dinner—especially the dinner he was trying to create tonight—was impossibly tricky.
“Fergus Lockwood, answer me,” his mother said firmly.
“What’s ‘going on’ is that this is the last dinner you have to put up with, as far as risking life and limb on Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
something I cooked. I’m at the end of Phoebe’s crazy program.”
“The whole family loved the program, Fox. It made all of us feel we were doing something for you, instead of just sitting back and watching you hurt. That was awful.”
“Well, I’m not admitting it out loud—at least to Phoebe—but I’ve liked it, too. What can I say? I’ve got a helluva great family. But there’s just no need for it now. I’m better. Really better.” Since he was stuck talking about sticky stuff, he eased into another little matter. “It’s time I moved out of the bachelor house.”
“Why?” she demanded instantly. “I’ve loved having you so close! And the house is just sitting there.
There’s no reason on earth—”
“I know. You’d like all of us close. And weare close, but I need to get my own life back together. You know the property up on Spruce Mountain? I want to build a house up there.”
“Oh. That’s not too far.” Georgia took a sip of wine, looking relieved. “Fergus. You put the knife on the right of the plate, not the left. That’s a beautiful site up there. Still in the school district…in case a body ever wanted kids…but peaceful and quiet and all.”
He motioned her to the table and started serving dishes. “So, here’s the plan. You’re hearing it before anyone else. I’m going to spend the year building a house up there. And next fall I’ll be teaching again.”
“Not this year?”
“Not this year. I’m going to coach the basketball team. Keep my hand in with the kids. Work with some of the liners.” The “liners” was the term he and the principal created for kids who were on the line between failing and making it—those who could fall the wrong way if something didn’t happen to pull them out of a slump. “I talked with Morgan about it two days ago. It’s a done deal.”
“You really are putting it back together,” his mom said quietly, and then looked at the dishes in front of her. “Fox, since when did these become your favorite foods? What’s this?”
“Chicken with cilantro.”
“And this…well, I can see this is the holiday potato dish—”
“Yup. And dessert is a marshmallow sundae with chocolate ice cream.” He added kindly, “You can have the sundae with dinner, if you want. This isn’t like growing up. I won’t tell if you have dessert first.”
His mother lifted a fork, then put it down and just stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s Phoebe, isn’t it.”
She didn’t phrase it like a question, just like she almost never phrased things like questions when she already had a mom sense about the answers. So Fox didn’t try to balk or duck.
“Yeah, it’s Phoebe,” he said quietly. “But don’t start counting on grandchildren, Mom, because the truth is…I think I lost her.”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“Oh, Fox, you—”
“No.” This time his voice turned firm. Not disrespectful. Just firm. “You want the secret side of stuff, I’ll give it to you. I love her. Completely. Totally. Enough so that she’s the only thing in my head, the only woman I
