The Matchmaker's Sister. Karen Toller Whittenburg
Over by the buffet table. You remember Mark?”
“Of course I remember Mark. I also remember that he lives in Jamestown, not in Newport, not in our ward, and he will not be voting in our city elections in November.”
Nate frowned, undaunted by his mother’s chiding. “Jamestown, huh? Well, I won’t be shaking his hand again. Can’t waste perfectly good handshakes on nonvoters.”
Charleigh’s smile was affectionate, if slightly reluctant. “It’s good to have you home, son. Nicky isn’t quite the source of entertainment you’ve always been.”
“That’s because he pops in and out as if the house had a revolving door, never giving even ten minutes’ alert that he’s coming home and barely five minutes’ warning that he’s leaving again. If he’d spent the last twenty-five years only visiting you once or twice a year, you’d probably find him much more entertaining, too.”
“I’m thinking of moving to Florida,” she announced evenly as if she were merely musing on what the weather would be tomorrow. “Your aunt Tilda loves it there. She’s been begging me to buy a place near hers and I’ve just about decided to go down next month and check it out.”
This was new. And unsettling. “I offered to get a place of our own, Mother. I can still do that.”
She smiled softly, a little sadly, and patted his hand. “The house has been too empty for too long. It’s right that you and your children should have it. Lord knows, Nicky would sell it if he got half a chance. Revolving door notwithstanding.”
Nate acknowledged that with a rueful grin. “Or worse…raze it and build some architectural nightmare in its place.”
“Angie and I talked about this, Nathaniel. We agreed that the children need the security of living in the home in which you grew up. What they don’t need is a grandmother trying to fill their mother’s role…and you know I’d try to do that. I can’t help myself.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Nate said, wanting to believe it. “No one will ever take Angie’s place. Or her role in the children’s lives.”
“Maybe not for Will and Cate. But the little ones? Kali and Kori are barely seven. They’re still forming…and as much as I hate to say this, Nate, it’s clear to me that you’re not entirely comfortable with being a single parent.”
“No, I’m not,” he agreed, stung not so much by the truth of that as by the awareness that she knew it. “It’s going to take a while to be entirely comfortable with anything. If it’s even possible. Angie’s only been gone a year.”
“And she was dying for three years before that. You’ve grieved for her, Nate. Your children have grieved. Now it’s time for you to start out as you mean to go on. By plunging into life. For the children’s sake if not for your own.”
He thrummed his fingertips on the table, heard voices and laughter coming from the east terrace where the cake cutting must be commencing. “You sound like Angie,” he said finally. Because, really, there wasn’t anything else to say. His mother was right. Angie had known he’d be scared out of his wits at the idea of raising their children to adulthood without her. It wasn’t that he thought he was a bad father. On occasion, he was positive he’d been a damn good one. So far, anyway. But he’d depended on Angie to smooth any rough edges, to balance his tendency to issue orders, as he had been accustomed to doing in the military. He’d counted on her to be around to share the responsibility with him. He’d never in a million years thought he’d have to bear it alone. Angie had known all that, just as she’d understood, too, that he’d be tempted to allow his mother to take on some of that responsibility if she offered.
“She hoped you’d remarry, Nate. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. She probably figured I’d totally mess up the kids if left to my own devices. But, personally, I think she was wrong about that.”
Charleigh smiled. “I think so, too. But I did promise her I’d make certain you got into the social swing and stayed there. So let’s go see if the wedding cake looks better than this.” She nodded at the untouched food on the plate. “And then I’ll have some wine and watch you dance.”
He was already on his feet, extending a hand to help her up…because she’d raised him to be a gentleman. Not because she needed any help. She was a spry seventy-three and could probably dance circles around him still. “I wasn’t planning on doing any dancing.”
“Nonsense,” she stated succinctly, rising easily and taking his arm. “You can ask some lovely young woman to dance, or if you prefer, I can do it for you.”
“Angie put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“I do have an occasional idea of my own, but Angie did mention, several times in conversation, that you’re a wonderful dancer and shouldn’t be allowed to pretend otherwise.”
“How about I pretend I was adopted?”
“Too late, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to face your fear of rejection and ask someone to dance. It won’t kill you.”
“Oh, nicely put, Mother.” He guided her toward the terrace doors and the sounds of the orchestra playing an overblown version of “The Way You Look Tonight.” “So…are you going to tell me who you want me to ask or do I have to go through a painful process of elimination?”
“I saw that lovely Miranda Danville talking to you across the buffet line. Why don’t you ask her?”
“She used to date Nicky.”
“Yes, but I think we should forgive her that lapse. She was very young then.”
“And I was married and a new father.”
“And now you’re not.” Charleigh nodded, decision made. “You’ll ask Miranda. After we’ve tested the cake and had some wine.”
The idea of dancing with Miranda was undeniably appealing. Also a trifle intimidating. She was beautiful. Not that dogs howled maniacally at his approach, but he knew his face was more character actor than soap opera star. And Miranda was also young. Not that he was old, but Mark had just told him that women like her looked at men like him as…well, older. Not that age mattered. Angie would be the first to point that out if she were here. Which, of course, she wasn’t.
Which brought him right back to the question of how to ask a young and beautiful woman to dance.
He was still pondering the how of it when his mother eventually pushed away her cake plate, dotted her mouth with a napkin and lifted her eyebrows expectantly.
“More cake?” he asked hopefully.
Her smile told him the grace period was over even as her attention moved past him and up. “Why, Miranda,” she said graciously, “how lovely to see you.”
A long, slow tingle slid the length of his spine as he pushed back from the table and stood, turning to see the woman, who’d occupied most of his thoughts since she’d hit him in the chest with her salmon, standing at his elbow, a bottle of club soda clutched in her hand.
“You remember my son Nathaniel?” Charleigh said.
“Oh…yes, of course,” Miranda answered, clearly not remembering until that very second. “Nate.”
“I’m Nicky’s older brother.” He couldn’t believe he’d said the O word first thing. Way to go, Nate. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”
She smiled a little uncertainly. “I, uh…no. No, I always rather liked Nick. Although I haven’t seen him in some time. A long time, actually.” Her smile hesitated, turned from him to his mother. “How is Nick?” she asked as if she thought, perhaps, she ought to ask.
“Still wildly attractive and unattractively wild. From a mother’s standpoint, anyway.”
“Oh.” Miranda’s lovely