Chapter 12 #2
"I happen to be the reigning champion," he managed to say gruffly.
"You're going to lose your title," she told him with a laugh as she left the room.
He sat there, staring at the doorway, and felt the hardness around his heart cracking. He really liked her.
She was irreverent and did not care one whit about his position or the fact that he had influence, tremendous influence. And she wasn't cowed by him.
Neither was his grandson. They were a match for each other.
Picking up his pipe, he studied the excellent work and, to his surprise, felt his eyes moistening. Damn her, he thought shakily.
She had come into their lives and home and was changing things.
The supper was a celebration of their return, as was whispered by Millicent.
"He wanted to kill the fatted calf," she told them as they made their way to the formal dining room. Things had changed here too.
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and flowers were on every surface.
"We had to clean top to bottom, and he was right there issuing orders. He wouldn't listen to his doctor about taking it easy, either."
She glanced at Craig, who was looking around in surprise. "He had Andre prepare all your favorites."
"He doesn't know them."
"Of course he does," she muttered. "He has been keeping tabs on you for years."
There was duck in orange sauce, sweet potato casserole, wild rice, rosemary chicken, garden vegetables, and lemon meringue pie made from scratch.
Craig had to struggle not to show his appreciation, but he needn't have bothered. Sitting back in the chair, he watched as the old man and Regina parried back and forth, arguing with each other.
And they discussed everything under the sun: politics, religion, and the state of the economy.
"You're a Democrat," he said it as an accusation.
"And proud of it." She speared her chicken and took an appreciative bite.
"I don't see how a smart woman like you can vote for that moron."
"I don't see how a marginally clever old man like you can be fooled by his policies. He might be the president, but he's an idiot."
Craig held his breath and waited for the showdown.
"Watch your mouth," his grandfather growled. There was fire in his eyes, but a twitch touched his lips.
"As far as I can tell, we live in the US of A, where we're blessed with the freedom of speech, and I chose to vote blue." She pointed her fork at him, really enjoying the debate.
"You cannot tell me that you agree with him building walls and weeding out immigrants."
"They're the ones destroying the country."
"They're the ones building it," she corrected him as she scooped up some potatoes.
"The backbone of this country, the success of it, was made possible by immigrants. Hell, we're all immigrants or our ancestors were. You're one to talk; your people came over from Ireland."
"So?"
"You're making my point."
"That's not the only thing he's doing."
"You're damn right. He's making a mess of things."
She swung her eyes around to look at Craig. "What do you think?"
Holding up a hand, he used his other one to pick up his wine glass, eyes glinting in amusement. "I'm not getting involved."
"Coward," she muttered.
"Practical," he corrected. "And you seem to be doing fine."
When she rolled her eyes, he laughed.
Watching them together, Cecil felt a pang. She had brought laughter and light into the house, and it was possible that she would be significant in bringing him and his grandson together.
Craig left them to their Scrabble, refusing to join with the excuse that he wanted to check on something in his office.
They retired to his grandfather's bedroom, where a cheerful fire made a difference in the usually gloomy room.
He was using his father's office, and the familiarity of it settled around him like a comfortable cloak. Clive Muldoon had gone for comfort instead of style, and the sturdy desk had seen years of use.
The chair was weathered and worn, fitting his body perfectly. Books lined the wall because his father had loved his volumes.
Spinning the chair around, Craig studied the first editions. Yeats, Byron, and Shakespeare were mixed with James Patterson, Stephen King, and a few other bestselling authors.
His mother had been a romance buff.
Craig grinned as he swung his gaze to the section that had been hers. Nora Roberts headed the list.
She had also been into mystery and had a passion for historical romance. He had fond memories of seeing them seated on the electric blue sofa tucked beneath the window, cuddled together and reading.
There would be a glass of his father's favorite scotch on the cherry wood table, and his mother would have her glass of Cab next to her.
They had never allowed the gloom of his grandfather's bad temper and rigidity to spoil their times together.
Leaning back and ignoring the files piled on the desk for his attention, he felt a frown touching his brow as his thoughts went upstairs. The old man was mellowing.
In the past, he never would have allowed discussions at his table unless it had to do with the company. And he would deliberately ignore his daughter-in-law, making it obvious that her opinion didn't count.
Rosemary Muldoon had been an ardent and passionate advocate for abused children and the homeless and had been actively involved in a number of charities. She had hated to see anyone hurting and had even been involved with several animal shelters as well.
Craig was proud of her. She had made a difference.
And he wanted to as well. He wanted to make them both proud.
But yes, the old man was mellowing, and he knew it was because of Regina.
The woman could melt stone. She had that type of personality.
She was vivacious and full of life. She also combined those traits with her brutal honesty.
She was kind and caring even though she liked to pretend otherwise. She knew all the staff by name, and in the brief time she had been here, they had fallen in love with her.
He knew the feeling firsthand. Wasn't he madly, head over heels in love with her himself?
Shaking his head, he pulled the files towards him and tried to concentrate on them. Some contracts to consider, a company or two the acquisition department had been eyeing.
And his project.
Renovations to the building would start within the week. He had every intention of taking an active part.
It was his pet project, and he wanted to see it to the completion stage.
What the hell was she still doing up there? he wondered restlessly. A frown touched his brow as he glanced at the clock.
It was way past eleven. The old man should be getting his rest.
And he wanted her. Wanted to be with her.
The tug of resentment that she was spending so much time with him was brutally squashed. But he rose nonetheless with the intention of putting an end to the game or whatever they were doing at this time of the night.
He found them in the middle of a heated discussion. His brows rose as he stopped just inside the doorway of the bedroom.
They were seated on a rose gold sofa tucked beneath the large bay window overlooking the tennis court and the bed of azaleas and peonies. Light from the Tiffany lamp shone on the Scrabble board.
She had made herself comfortable by kicking off her ankle boots and curling her feet under her.
His grandfather was leaning back on the cushions tucked behind his back, and he was gloating.
"That's absolutely not a word," she insisted. "I've never heard of it before."
"That makes no difference. I happen to be an English major, like my son had been."
As the boy came in, he glimpsed him and saw the expression on his face. With a twinge, he realized that the very interesting evening was about to be curtailed.
Craig walked into the room and sat on the arm of the sofa at her back.
"He was. And I forgot to mention, he also cheats."
"I'm beginning to believe you."
Craig felt the pleasure race through him as she leaned back against him. His hand came around her instantly.
"Absquatulate is a real word, and it means to leave somewhere abruptly or suddenly," he crowed. "I told you that I'm a whiz at this game."
"You cheated. I know you did."
"You'll never hear me admit to anything like that." He started to rise.
"I suppose it's time for bed." He flicked a glance at Craig.
"She isn't half bad."
"Okay, old man, I'm going to be gearing up for you next time."
"Which will be soon, I imagine." His expression looked so hopeful that she found herself nodding.
"Oh, naturally. I simply cannot afford the indignity of you beating me at Scrabble. Your brain is old and shriveled."
He merely snorted. "Get her out of here, boy."
He looked disconcerted when she rose and moved to kiss his cheek. "Sleep tight and try not to croak while doing it."
Her perfume still lingered in the air, even after they had left. Cecil changed into his pajamas and just sat on the edge of the bed, eyes darting towards the sofa.
For the first time in more years than he could remember, he felt completely and utterly alive.