expression hardened. A steely look came into her eyes. “You wanna bet?”
“Meredith—”
“I’ll see you tonight, Alex.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and slid her hand between their bodies.
“Meredith,” he warned, then ruined it by groaning as she stroked his shaft.
“Think of me,” she whispered against his lips, then dashed from the room in a whiff of perfume.
Alex leaned back against his desk. He had little choice but to think of her, he admitted. In fact, he’d be damn lucky if he’d be able to think of anything else.
Mary Ellen Callaghan stood in the dining room of her family’s home later that evening and surveyed the table. She’d ordered that it be set with her fine china, crystal and sterling silver for the small dinner party she’d orchestrated to celebrate her seventieth birthday.
Seventy!
Heavens, such a large number of years. Good years, happy years, even if the last two had been lonely without her beloved Tommy. Feeling melancholy at the thought of her departed husband, Mary Ellen pushed the sad thoughts aside and reminded herself that just last week at her annual physical Dr. St. Pierre had declared her to be in excellent health. The constitution of a woman ten years her junior, he’d said. And she certainly didn’t think she looked like a woman of seventy. Or at least she hoped that she didn’t. Except for a mini eye tuck at sixty, she hadn’t had any work done like so many of her friends. And she’d always taken good care of herself and her skin. Besides, she had no intention of joining her Tommy anytime soon—not when she still had so much that remained undone.
Returning her focus to the evening ahead, she studied the table. Her grandmother’s lace tablecloth had been the right choice, she decided, noting how the light from the chandelier picked out the delicate fleur-de-lis pattern. As she moved about the table inspecting the place settings, she straightened a silver spoon, adjusted one of the place cards. She caught the scent of the peach roses that she’d clipped from her garden that very afternoon and had arranged in Waterford vases. Satisfied all was ready, she smiled.
It was perfect. Elegant, tasteful. Perhaps even worthy of a page in Southern Living, she mused, pleased with the results of her handiwork. Trailing her fingers along the edge of the lace tablecloth, Mary Ellen marveled at its beauty. She sighed as she remembered when she’d inherited it from her grandmother as a young bride. Oh, she’d been so sure that she would have passed it on to her own daughter or to the wife of one of her sons by now. But neither Meredith nor Jackson had married. And Peter…poor Peter’s marriage had been brief and had ended tragically.
But soon all that would change, she promised herself. If all went as she hoped it would, she would get her birthday wish and it wouldn’t be long before she’d be helping to plan her son Jackson’s wedding. He and Alicia made a lovely couple, she thought. Since her little nudges hadn’t been working, she’d decided it was time she gave that boy of hers a little push. Surely Jackson would see, as she did, that Alicia was perfect for him. Once he did, he’d ask her to marry him. And then, God willing, the two of them wouldn’t waste any time making her a grandmother.
“There you are,” Jack said as he entered the room and walked over to her.
“Jackson, darling. I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you now? Good thoughts, I hope.”
“Yes.” And because she was Catholic, she couldn’t help thinking her son’s appearance now was a sign.
“Happy birthday, Mother,” he said, and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you, dear. But I do think this is a first. You’re early and you’re never early for parties.”
“That’s because it’s your birthday. Besides, you said this wasn’t going to be a party, just a simple dinner with family and a few friends.” He eyed the table suspiciously. “This doesn’t look like a simple dinner to me.”
“Of course it is. But we’re having cake and champagne, so that makes it a party, too,” she explained. She straightened his tie and couldn’t help thinking how much he looked like his father. “You looked so handsome at the charity ball on Halloween. And wasn’t Alicia just beautiful?”
“Yes, she was.”
Disturbed by the lack of enthusiasm in her son’s voice, Mary Ellen said, “She’s a lovely young woman, Jackson. She’s well-bred and talented. And smart, too. Why look how well she’s done for herself since she moved here. She picked up that Devereaux house for a song and turn it into a showplace. And according to Phyllis Ladner, Alicia’s already among the top real estates associates in her firm.”
“As you said, she’s talented and smart,” Jack replied with that same lack of conviction.
“It still amazes me that any daughter of Abigail Beaumont could be so sweet-natured,” Mary Ellen told him, referring to the former debutante she’d had the misfortune of calling a sorority sister at Vanderbilt. The other woman had been the coldest, most calculating female she’d ever met—and she had met quite a few in her seventy years. “I can only think that Alicia must have taken after her father. I only met him once or twice, but Charles Van Owen seemed like a nice man.” Suddenly ashamed of her uncharitable thoughts about Abigail she said, “Listen to me. You must think I’m a mean-spirited old biddy, speaking ill of a dead friend that way.”
“You couldn’t be mean-spirited if you tried,” her son informed her. He held her by the shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of her head and looked at her out of eyes that reminded her so much of her Tommy’s. “And I certainly don’t think of you as old or a biddy.”
She patted his cheek. “You’re a charmer, just like your father was,” she told him, and sighed wistfully.
“You still miss him, don’t you?”
Mary Ellen nodded and attempted a smile. “We were married for more than forty years. I was lucky we had so long together. Not everyone is as lucky,” she pointed out, thinking of Peter’s short marriage and the death of his wife to melanoma. “When the right person comes along, waiting isn’t always the smart thing to do.”
“Mother,” Jack began.
Deciding to ignore that “don’t go there” note in his voice, she forged ahead. “I know that you’re too old to have your mother telling you what to do. And you certainly don’t need me to tell you how to run your love life.”
“No, I don’t,” he said firmly.
Taken aback by his bluntness, she said, “Fine. Then all I’m going to say is that Alicia Van Owen is a wonderful young woman who obviously cares a great deal for you. I don’t know what that little spat was the two of you had the other night, and I don’t want to know.”
“We didn’t have a spat, and I don’t want to discuss this.”
Irritated with him for being so stubborn, Mary Ellen poked a finger at his chest and gave him a quelling look. “We’re not discussing it. I’m simply telling you that whatever’s wrong, I suggest you fix it and fix it fast. Because if you keep dragging your feet and acting like a horse’s rear end the way you’ve been doing, some other man is going to come along and steal her right from under your
