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“She’s a wonderful woman, your aunt.”
“Yes.”
His mouth didn’t say it, but everything else about him did: he would do anything for her. Even if he did want to turn responsibility for her over to someone else. It wasn’t personal. He just wanted to sculpt in solitary artistic splendor.
“She’s safe for now,” he said. “This is our time. We’re going to find a little quiet privacy.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Prof and thePool
M
ARY’S HEART LEAPED. PERHAPSshe hadn’t scared him off with her declaration of maybe-love. She pulled Van’s head down, stood on tiptoe and touched her lips to his chin. Too bad she couldn’t reach any higher.
“Let’s try the kitchen. With any luck, we can sneak past Uncle Brock and slip into the pantry and have it all to ourselves.”
Theyheadedtoadoorinthewallofthepartyroom farthest from the pool and fountain. Mary cracked the door open.
The second she did, music assaulted her ears. Uncle Brock was an opera, classical, and classical crossover fan, with a collection of recordings famed across half the country and back. He liked to play them at top volume when he was cooking.
Barely discernible over the rich voices of The Canadian Tenors was the sound of happy laughter. Male and female. It stopped suddenly. Or maybe it was just drowned out by the dogs. The dogs? What were dogs doing here?
Mary recognized Guinevere’s full-throated growl, entwining its basso profundo with Lancelot’s. The dogs were on guard, and not happy.
Mary rushed into the kitchen, with Van on her heels. He strode in front of her, between her and whatever was upsetting the dogs. Drat the over-protective orangutan, he blocked her view too.
She tried to sneak around him. The best he let her do was peek around him.
Cyn and Uncle Brock were seated at the table on the far side of the kitchen, leaning toward each other, lost in each other’s gazes. They murmured and laughed, oblivious to the dogs, oblivious to anything except each other.
“Uncle Brock? What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to hear.
Mary looked to her Saint Bernard. “What’s wrong, Guinevere?” She swiveled toward Van. “How did Guinevere get here? Why is she here?”
Van looked like a man choking out a painful confession. “I brought her over. I left almost as soon as wegothereandpickedherupoutofyourbackyard.”
“Huh?” What an elegant way to express surprise. Maryregrouped.“YouputmySaintBernardintoyour Jaguar?”
“Lancelot has been miserable without Guinevere,” Van mumbled.
Whatabig,sweet,mushymarshmallow,nomatter how much he tried to hide it. No wonder she loved him.
“I hope you at least tied a bib on her before you let her clamber and slobber all over your Connolly leather seats.”
“I refuse to answer on the grounds it — ”
“Wellfrostmytoes.Youdid!Youdidgiveherabib.”
“HowelsewasIsupposedtobringherherewithout — ”
“You still took an enormous risk with your precious wheels.”
“Lancelot hasn’t been eating properly,” Van muttered. “He needed a conjugal visit.”
Mary hooted. “Guinevere isn’t in heat now.”
