A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,24
at them all affectionately. “You have to remember that Mike has been a lover of older women his whole life. He may be tired of pretty little things.”
Angela stirred her coffee. “He told me Diane was lovely, and she laughed like an angel.”
Marie looked up. “He said that? When?”
“He called me last weekend. I guess it’s the same Diane. He had dinner with her.” Angela thought for a moment. “He said he had a great time with her.”
“He said that?” Marie turned to Steve. “You have to talk to him.”
“No, I don’t. Leave your brother alone. He stopped needing advice on his love life a long time ago.” Steve picked up paint samples off the counter. “Are you going blue or beige?”
“She still hasn’t decided,” Marie said dryly. “Apparently there’s no rush, at least not until the expert arrives.”
“Expert?” Steve looked around. “What expert?”
“The mystery woman,” Marie explained, “is apparently some kind of paint maven.”
“Speaking of experts, how’s my husband doing out there?” Angela asked. Her husband was Nick Bellini, and he was an architect. They had purchased a redwood playground set for Molly and Jane the day before, and Nick was outside, sorting out all the pieces.
Steve shook his head. “There’s a million parts to this thing and he’s got to put each of them in numerical order. We won’t be putting anything together ‘till Tuesday. How do you live with him, anyway?” he asked Angela. She shrugged and made a face.
Steve sighed. “Maybe this woman can read Japanese?” he asked. “That would really help us out.”
“Denise, did he say anything to you about Diane last night?” Angela asked. “Maybe you could talk to him. He listens to you.”
“Yes, he does,” Denise agreed. “He listens very carefully, and then he does exactly what he wants to do. He’s been doing that since he was sixteen. Have you ever known him to change his mind on my account? Or anyone else’s?”
“Well it’s a good thing I have extra lasagna,” Angela said.
Marie snorted. “You made two more trays. How much do you think she’s going to eat?”
“I don’t think Diane looked like a painter.” Steve remarked.
“What does a painter look like anyway?” Angela asked.
“He was touching her.” Denise said pointedly.
They were all silent. Michael was always careful of his behavior around women, and made sure he did nothing that could be misinterpreted.
“What kind of touching?” Angela asked slowly.
“You know. Touching. Hands on each other kind of touching.” Denise looked smug. “I told you something was going on.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Marie conceded. “Anybody notice?”
“I don’t know.” Denise sighed. “I hope not. It wouldn’t be good for him if fans thought he was hanging around the mother of a couple of teenagers.”
“Is there a husband?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know. God, I hope not.” Denise looked worried. “That would be bad.”
Just then Angela’s older daughter Jane came running into the kitchen. “Uncle Mike is here,” she shouted. Angela grabbed Molly’s hand.
“I’ll check her out,” she declared firmly.
In their cavernous living room, Angela said to the two girls, “Go outside, both of you, and say hi to Uncle Mike.”
The girls started screaming, headed out the door, and ran down the lawn to where Michael had parked his pick-up in the street.
“He’s driving that old truck,” Angela called out, watching from her picture window, “so I don’t think he’s worried about making a big impression.” She watched as Diane got out of the truck.
“Well, she’s got a great haircut,” she said loudly enough for her sisters to hear, “and she’s not one of those anorexic types he’s usually with. She’s not wearing those horrible hip-huggers.”
“She used to wear those horrible hip-huggers herself,” Marie observed wryly, as she got up from the kitchen stool and followed Steve and Denise. They crowded the window, watching Michael and Diane herd the little girls up to the house.
“It’s Diane.” Denise announced triumphantly.
“She looks familiar,” Angela said slowly. “I know her.”
“Really? From where?” Denise asked.
“I don’t know.” Angela frowned.
Angela opened the front door and kissed her brother. She looked at Diane.
“Oh my God,” Angela burst out. “Dr. Matthews.”
Michael looked at Diane and raised his eyebrows. “Doctor?”
Diane stared at Angela blankly for a second, then her mouth dropped open in recognition. “Dr. Bellini?”
Michael looked from one to the other. “Diane, I guess you know my sister Angela?”
“Yes, of course.” Angela exclaimed. “Oh, it is such a small world.”
Diane was shaking her head. “Michael, you should have told me your sister taught at Merriweather.”
Michael shrugged. “How do you two know each other?”