The Husband Contract. Kathleen O'Brien

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      She came to the doorway, scowling. “Of course he did.”

      “How?” Ted ambled into the kitchen and extracted a fat strawberry from the pie on the windowsill. “Did he break in and sabotage the oven thermostat?”

      “He might as well have.” Melanie pulled the strawberry from his fingers just an inch short of his lips. “Honestly, Ted, you’re as bad as Nick.” She tucked the berry back into its cradle of whipped cream. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes—I curse Clay Logan and all his dogs because he’s an insufferable man, and I hate him. I’m so busy hating him, in fact, that I’ve ruined a perfectly good dinner.”

      “No, you didn’t. The spaghetti’s fine. And I made one hell of a salad. Let’s eat.”

      She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t. I hate Logan too much to eat.”

      “Good. More for me.” Ted reached around her to rummage for utensils. “But seriously, are you sure it’s Logan you’re mad at, Mel? He was just the hired gun, wasn’t he? The will itself is your problem—and that was your uncle’s idea.”

      “Yeah, I suppose so.” She knew Ted was right, but her annoyance was no less intense for being irrational. She could still see how Logan had looked at the chess match the other day, sizing her up, obviously deciding that Joshua had been right. “But I wish you could have seen his face when he told me. He was the hired gun all right, and he thoroughly enjoyed pulling the trigger.”

      “Well, that dirty rat!” Ted’s attempt at a gangster accent failed miserably. “I’ll stab him in the alley like the dog he is.” He tossed silverware nosily. “Or I would if I could find a damn knife.”

      Melanie patted his forearm affectionately. Good old Ted—she thanked heaven for his support this past year. It had been a tough year for both of them. Ted’s fiancée had left him last summer, a break that had wounded him more deeply than he liked to acknowledge. And at about the same time, Melanie’s life had been turned upside down by the arrival of her little brother, who had decided he could no longer tolerate living with his domineering Uncle Joshua.

      Melanie herself had escaped Uncle Joshua’s tyranny years ago, running away when she was only sixteen, but Nick had stayed with the old man until last year, when their relationship finally grew so stormy that the boy had sought sanctuary with Melanie.

      As the dean of boys at Wakefield, Ted had heard about Nick’s change of address immediately and phoned Melanie for a conference. Since then, Ted had become her best friend. She’d rested her woes on his shoulders a hundred times.

      And nice shoulders they were, too—trim and solid and warm. She wondered, not for the first time, why their relationship had never blossomed into a romance. Perhaps Ted wasn’t over Sheila yet—Melanie suspected he might never forget his former fiancée. But Melanie didn’t mind. In spite of Ted’s many charms, she had never felt anything more than friendship toward him. No leap of flame. Not even a tiny wriggle of heat.

      The sad truth was, she’d felt more sexual awareness watching Clay Logan launder his shirt with his lips today than she ever had here in Ted Martin’s arms.

      Yes, life was just a charming little bundle of ironies, wasn’t it?

      Still, his big brother comfort was just what she needed now, when her heart was so sore. Who would have guessed she would find her uncle’s death so unnerving? Was it possible she had been harboring hopes of an eventual reconciliation?

      Surely not. She might be naive, immature, impractical—all the things Joshua had accused her of—but she wasn’t a complete idiot. She’d given up yearning for his love years ago. Now she merely wanted justice.

      Still—suddenly she couldn’t bear the memories of her uncle. Joshua, bent over his dusty old maps. Joshua, barking into his cellular telephone. Joshua studying the financial pages. Joshua, completely ignoring the little girl waiting in the doorway.

      She caught her breath, stunned by the wave of sorrow that overwhelmed her. Instantly aware, Ted dropped the flatware and wrapped his arms around her gently.

      “It’s okay,” he said, his voice low and steady. “It’s going to be okay.”

      “I know.” She shut her eyes. Ted was right. Everything would work out, love or no love, money or no money. Somehow she and Nick would get through.

      “Oh, man, that is so gross.”

      Straightening, she looked up to see Nick squatting by the open door of the refrigerator, scrounging irritably through the bowls and bottles.

      “What’s gross?” With a smile, she patted Ted’s cheek, extricated herself and hurried to her brother’s side. She peered in at the shelves. “Has something spoiled?”

      Nick grimaced and grabbed a cold leg of fried chicken. “Yeah, my appetite,” he said. He stood up, gnawing on the drumstick. “People can see you two through the window, you know. Can’t you save that crap for when I’m gone?”

      Melanie slowly closed the refrigerator door before speaking. She hardly knew which transgression to address first “Don’t use that word, Nick,” she began.

      But he merely grunted and turned his back to her. He had the remote control in his hand and he flicked on the television.

      “And what do you mean, when you’re gone?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral. “Were you planning to go out? It’s a school night, you know. It’s Tuesday.”

      “Wow.” Nick didn’t turn around. “News flash. It’s Tuesday.”

      Behind her, Melanie felt Ted’s tension snap. She touched his arm, warning him, but it was too late. “Listen, Nick,” he said in the tone he ordinarily reserved for the Wakefield campus, “that’s no way to treat—”

      Nick finally looked around. His face was hard, closed in. “Hey, we’re not at school now, okay?” He tossed the stripped chicken bone toward the trash can. It missed by two inches, landing with a disagreeable splat on the linoleum. “You’re not the dean when you’re here, man.”

      “Nick! Apologize to Mr. Martin immediately,” Melanie ordered, but her words were almost lost beneath a sudden barrage of honking. Five short, aggressive, obviously impatient blares reverberated into the living room.

      The sounds acted on Nick like a starting pistol on a sprinter.

      He yanked his grimy baseball cap from the kitchen table and darted for the door.

      “Nick.” Melanie’s voice was unyielding.

      The boy paused. She could almost see him working to swallow his pride.

      Finally he turned to Ted. “Sorry, Mr. Martin,” he said, dragging every syllable out with effort. “I guess I lost my cool there. I really didn’t mean to be so rude.”

      Ted still looked ruffled, but he accepted the apology fairly graciously. Melanie breathed a sigh of relief. One more crisis averted. Life with a teenager was like this—all peaks and valleys. Poor Nick seemed to be strapped to a hormonal tiger—and Melanie was whipping along behind, holding the bucking tail, trying to hang on.

      “Sorry I was being a pig, Mel,” he said, turning СКАЧАТЬ