Remember When (Foster Saga 1)

“Clint Eastwood is practically bald,” Grandpa put in irritably, “and he whispers when he talks!”

Corey leaned sideways and answered Cole’s unspoken question as she handed him the platter of asparagus, “Gram is crazy about Eastwood, and it makes Grandpa jealous. It’s so cute.”

“Mom, you’d love what Cole has done to the inside of the plane. You feel as if you’re walking into a beautiful living room, furnished in platinum leather, with touches of brass and gold. There were two curving sofas that faced each other, with an antique coffee table between them, a matching buffet with brass hinges, and several chairs.”

She’d neatly captured her artistic family’s attention, and as Cole listened to her colorful descriptions of everything from the Waterford crystal lamps to the oriental carpet in the plane’s main cabin, he made two more interesting observations about Diana: first, she had an indisputable talent for using words to create a vivid picture, and second, she was not mentioning the plane’s second-most important feature—its bedroom.

In his mind, he could still see her startling beauty as she lay across the bed’s gleaming silver satin comforter, propped up on an elbow, draped in a vivid purple silk gown that provided him with an erotic glimpse of her full breasts above her bodice. Her face had been turned up to his, inviting his kiss, but as he’d bent over the bed, he’d hesitated. Cold reason and hard logic went to battle against his desire, and they won out over everything else, just as they always did with Cole. Regretfully but resolutely, he’d whispered, “No”; then he’d started to draw back.

Her hand lifted, sliding over his shoulder and behind his nape, her fingers gliding into the short hair above his open shirt collar, and he’d looked into eyes as green as wet jade and as vulnerable as a hurt child’s. “No,” he repeated, but he heard the hesitation and regret in his voice. So had Diana.

Diana switched to a description of the plane’s cockpit, and he wondered whether she’d not mentioned the bedroom out of delicacy, embarrassment, or actual lack of memory. It was hard to believe she could remember that the interior of the plane was upholstered in pale gray leather and forget that one-third of the plane’s cabin was a bedroom. On the other hand, she hadn’t seen the bedroom until after they were married . . . after the stress of a ceremony in a garish, neon-lit chapel, a stop at a casino, and more champagne provided by him to eliminate the stress. She’d forgotten much about the wedding ceremony and the casino; Cole supposed it was equally possible she’d forgotten about the time they’d spent in the plane’s bedroom.

Diana paused in her story to serve herself some of the roasted duck that had just been passed to her, and Diana’s grandmother seized the opportunity to proceed where her husband had left off: “Tell us about yourself, Mr. Harrison,” she said.

“Please call me Cole, Mrs. Britton,” he said politely.

“Tell us about yourself, Cole,” she corrected, though he noticed she did not suggest he call her by anything other than Mrs. Britton.

Cole deliberately referred to his present, not his past. “I live in Dallas, but I travel a great deal on business. In fact, I’m gone about two weeks out of every four.”

She dismissed that, peered at him intently above the rim of her glasses, and bluntly inquired, “Do you go to church on Sunday?”

“No, I do not,” he informed her without hesitation or apology.

A disappointed look creased her brows, but she persevered. “I see. Well, then, what about your family?”

“They don’t go to church either,” he retorted with cool finality.

She looked completely taken aback. “I was asking about your family, not whether they went to church.” She broke off a small piece of buttermilk biscuit and buttered it. “Won’t you tell us a little about your background?” she invited quietly. “Tell us about where you’re from and about your family.”

The suggestion that he do so was so impossible, so abhorrent that Cole stalled for time by taking a bite of his salad while he glanced at the people gathered around the table—nice people who believed there was nothing unusual about sharing Sunday dinner or sitting at a gleaming wood table or having knives and forks that matched or a carpet beneath their feet instead of filth.

He glanced at Diana, who looked as fresh and perfect as an American Beauty Rose, at Addison, who’d never done anything more “demeaning” than lose a tennis game at the country club, and at Mary Foster, who subtly managed to exemplify dignity and grace and unaffected kindness.

On his left, Diana’s grandfather smelled of fresh soap and Old Spice, instead of sweat. Across from him, Diana’s grandmother gazed at him with alert, hazel eyes, her brows slightly raised in hopeful expectation, her face set off by wavy, white hair cropped jauntily and sensibly short, and gold wire-rimmed glasses that looked very nice on her. She looked proper and decent.

Cole would have found it easier and kinder to describe to her the lurid details of his most erotic sexual encounter than to tell her the truth about his early life and origins. Rather than spoil her illusions about her temporary grandson-in-law, he answered the questions with the same evasions that always served his purpose: “I’m from a small town in west Texas called Kingdom City. I had two older brothers, who are dead now, and a few cousins, who eventually moved away and with whom I’ve lost touch—except for one of them. My only other living relative is my great-uncle, who I told you about earlier. My father expected me to stay and work the ranch. Cal believed I had the brains to make it through college, and he badgered me until I began to believe it. He’ll like Diana very much. I’m eager for him to meet her next week.”

“I’m eager to meet him, too,” Diana put in, but she had picked up on the sudden chill, the aloof reluctance in Cole’s entire demeanor at the questions involving his background, and she remembered that years ago, he’d been exasperatingly vague when she tried to find out more about him.

“My uncle lives west of Kingdom City, which is about one hundred eighty miles from San Larosa. It’s not quite the hill country, but it’s beautiful and unspoiled.” Cole paused and ate a bite of duck.

“San Larosa,” Rose Britton said to her daughter. “Wasn’t that one of your stopping places when you and Robert took the girls on their first camping trip to Yellowstone?”

“It’s a popular place for campers,” Cole said, anxious to change the subject. “Although I understand that much of the area’s only suitable for experienced hikers and campers.”

For some reason that comment evoked laughter from the entire family.

“We weren’t exactly ‘experienced,’?” Mrs. Foster explained. “Corey and I had camped out a few times, and Robert had been a Boy Scout. His only other ‘camping experience’ was limited to ‘tennis camp’ in Scottsdale. But the girls and I thought it would be fun, so off we went on a three-week trip, each of us confident we knew all there was to know about ‘roughing it.’?”

Cole found it hard to imagine Diana as an avid camper when, even as a fourteen-year-old, she had seemed to be very fastidious about everything from her white tennis shoes to her short, neatly filed fingernails. “Somehow, I never thought of you as someone who would like roughing it, even when you were young.”

“We all had a great time. I loved it,” Diana lied, straight-faced.

Som

ething about that didn’t ring true, and then a hazy memory snapped into focus. “Didn’t we once have a conversation at the Haywards’ stable about things we disliked the most?”

Because Diana had been so infatuated with him at the time, each of their conversations had seemed like earthshaking events to her, and she realized almost at once what he was referring to. Surprised that he remembered it, she took advantage of an unexpected opportunity for lighthearted banter. “Did we?” she asked with a look of innocent bewilderment, before taking a bite of roasted potato.

Cole wasn’t fooled. “You know we did,” he countered with a lazy smile. “Your top two least-favorites were dirt and camping.”

“No, they were snakes and camping,” Diana corrected him, her eyes sparkling with merriment. “Dirt was third on my list.” She looked at Corey and jokingly said, “Even so, we were very well organized and prepared for every eventuality, weren’t we?”

Corey realized immediately what Diana wanted her to do, and she complied at once, eager to help Diana lighten the mood at the table. “Our father wanted the trip to be a joint family effort, so before the trip, we all had assignments. Dad was in charge of transportation and finances; Mom was in charge of food and beverages; Diana was in charge of safety manuals and safety items. I was in charge of first aid and photography. And we were both supposed to have whatever items we felt we needed to be comfortable and safe. I figured Band-Aids and some sunblock would cover first aid, so I started reading up on wildlife photography, but Diana had a much different approach to preparedness. Weeks before we left, she began poring over The Camper’s Guide to Survival in the Wilderness, and The Camper’s Companion.”

“And,” Diana emphasized laughingly, “the L.L. Bean catalogs, from which I had selected and ordered what I felt were absolute necessities for Corey and me.”