Page 44 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

By her manner, you’d think she had known him for decades, and it put everyone at ease. Charlene and Ranney turned together into the living room, heading for the French doors, Tom following behind.

“He’s taller than the first one,” Charlene said out of the corner of her mouth.

Ranney’s head whipped around, checking to see if Tom had overheard, and he winked at her.

With that tiny gesture, she relaxed and saw the humor, and the entire evening suddenly shifted.

Maybe this wasn’t some torturous tribunal where she would be called to account for her poor decisions?

Maybe this could be an enjoyable meeting of four quirky but intelligent people who might otherwise have never met but were brought together by what some might call fate?

Maybe she'd stop shaking soon?

When they stepped out onto the terrace, Mame rose from her chair and came to meet them. She was wearing a blue shantung silk tunic over black trousers, with sapphires in her ears and an armful of gold and silver bangles.

“Hello, darling,” she said smoothly, kissing Ranney on the cheek. “Don’t you look lovely! Is that a new outfit?”

Ranney’s newfound composure slipped just a little. “This? No! I’ve had this for… a while.”

“Well, it’s very flattering.” She turned to Tom. “I’m Miriam, but you‘ll probably call me Mame, they all do. I suppose I’m your mother-in-law.”

Unintimidated, Tom bowed just slightly and presented the roses he was carrying.

“Tom Phillips,” he said. “World’s luckiest man.”

Taking the flowers, Mame laughed, the warm chuckle of a much younger woman.

Ranney and Charlene gave identical eye rolls: Mame was a well-known and incorrigible flirt.

Not that she ever meant or caused any harm, and she was certainly never inappropriate, but she was a believer in good, clean, healthy fun.

Her brand of flirtation was perhaps better described as focused attention, and she bestowed it on everyone from Cub Scouts selling candy bars to CEOs of large corporations. At parties, there was often a crowd around her.

“Drinks?” Charlene asked, managing to infuse that one word with twenty years of ‘I know where this is going and I’d just as soon be in the other room.’

“My usual,” Mame answered. “Ranney will have wine, and Tom..?”

“Martini, please, gin if you have it.”

“That’s my drink!” Mame exclaimed, in the tone of someone who has just discovered their missing twin. “I have Tanqueray, will that do?”

“Lovely,” Tom said. “Very dry, please, Charlene.”

With his use of her name, Charlene thawed perceptibly.

“Actually,” Ranney put in, “I think I’ll have a martini, too. Special occasion.”

“Four martinis, then,” Charlene said, taking the roses from Mame. No one questioned her math.

“Let’s go sit down.” Mame took Tom’s arm. “Come and tell me how you came to be in Boston. I understand you’re a brilliant architect.”

Watching this, Ranney was torn. Half of her felt compelled to stick close and manage the conversation, micromanage it if necessary. As charming and socially skilled as Mame was, there was really no predicting what she might say next, and she realized that the same could be said for Tom.

They were a pair of loose cannons.

On the other hand, what difference did it make?

She reminded herself that tonight was merely a courtesy to her elderly mother, including her in a notable event in her daughter’s life.

Whether or not her mother and her ‘husband’ hit it off, nothing would change, because the outcome was predetermined.

In a relatively short amount of time, Ranney and Tom would be going their separate ways.

Although that kiss...

And anyway, it was clear that they’d already hit it off. She followed Charlene into the kitchen.

The first thing Charlene had done was to retrieve a French flower bucket from the pantry, and she was now using a chef’s knife to slice the woody stems at an angle. This required considerable effort.

Ranney took out four martini glasses, the gin, and the barely necessary dry vermouth bottle and set to work.

It wasn’t a cocktail that required precise measurements.

They went about their tasks in companionable silence until Ranney had plopped the last olive into its glass.

Charlene was separating leaves and checking stem heights–she knew Mame’s preferences, even for the arranging of flowers.

“What can I do to help?” Ranney asked. “I’ll deliver these, but those two seem fine on their own. Can I make the salad?”

“No, no, it’s all made. Just need to put the lobster meat into the bisque and warm it up. You go back out there. It’s your party.”

“I suppose so.”

Entering the living room slowly, balancing the stemmed glasses on a tray, she could hear their laughter. This should have calmed her nerves but did not, and she hesitated for a second, wondering about the source of her discomfort.

Everything just felt a bit forced, slightly fake, as if they were all playing parts in a romantic comedy: The Accidental Husband, now streaming in Mame’s backyard. But they all understood the situation, no one here was being deceived or suffering from amnesia or any other rom-com device.

Ranney set the tray on the cocktail table, appropriately enough, and sank down on the sofa. Sighing, she lifted a martini glass and took a cool and bracing sip.

All her life, she’d been a straight shooter. Maybe that was the problem? To her, fake was worthless; only real things have value. She’d never seen the point of imitation. There were probably no face lifts in her future, and what was this marriage but a face lift for her middle-aged love life?

Marrying Tom was about helping to fix a problem.

But now she had a different problem, one that tasted so fine. And it wasn't the drink.

Through the open French doors, she could hear the murmur of their conversation, and now she focused in.

“No! Did you really? ” Mame sounded enthralled with whatever story Tom was telling.

“We did. It was brilliant. We–”

There was a knock on the front door.

Charlene emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands, a startled look on her face.

“Are you expecting anyone else?” she asked Ranney.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Whoever was outside tried the doorknob, which was locked, then knocked again louder. Charlene made a “hmph” sound and went to the foyer. Standing, Ranney followed her, trying to remember the self-defense moves that Archie had taught everyone at work.

“Charlene?” someone yelled. “It’s Evan!”

Ranney’s brother Evan tried to look in on his mother whenever he could, but he was a busy man. A partner at Whetstone they were not friends.

There was no acrimony, they were just very different people, oil and water.

Ilene smiled through all holidays and family events, picked out and wrapped expensive sweaters and scarves as gifts were needed, and even dropped off the occasional casserole, but longer visits fell to Evan.

And truth be told, Mame preferred it that way. She liked to have her son to herself, and she liked having his undivided attention in return. They chatted and reminisced, and Charlene would bring out a dish of Evan’s favorite ice cream or some of those spiced pecans he loved.

While Evan wasn’t exactly the home handyman type, he could tighten a loose bolt if necessary, and if the task was beyond his skill level–which was usually the case–he would call the proper professional.

Thus he stood at the front door, a bunch of Gerber daisies in one hand and a big paper bag from the corner bakery in the other. Surprise and pleasure were evident in his expression when he saw his sister.

“Hey! This is a happy coincidence!” He kissed her, then turned to Charlene and did the same.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Ranney said. “I would have picked a different night.”

“Thanks,” Evan responded drily.

“Not what I meant! You know I love to see you, it just would have given Mame another visit if we didn’t overlap.”

“This way she gets to see both her beloved children, double the fun.” He was unperturbed. “And I get to catch up with you, too. What’s new in your world?”

“Hoo boy,” Charlene said softly–but not softly enough, in Ranney’s opinion. “Would you like a good, stiff drink, Evan?”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Ah, just the usual, please.”

“Let’s wait in the kitchen while Charlene fixes it,” Ranney suggested, stalling for time. Her mind was frantically trying to think of a way to introduce Tom to Evan without sounding unstable, but so far, she couldn’t come up with one.

What did Evan know? Had Mame or Nessa spilled the beans? The very last thing she needed now was for her brother to focus his Harvard Law brain on her current marital status and its legal implications.

“How are my nephews?” she asked, but she heard not one word of his response. It didn’t matter; Mame could fill her in on that.

Mixing a drink takes only so long and inevitably, Charlene handed Evan his glass.

“Where’s Mame? On the terrace? How’s she doing today?” He turned in the direction of the living room and Ranney had no choice but to follow.

“Yes, she’s outside. She’s chatting with a friend of mine.”

Might as well just dive in–that seems to be how I roll lately, she thought, bending to pick up the tray of drinks she’d left on the table.

“Oh? Anyone I know?”

“No, I don’t think so. He’s–”

But then the French door opened and Tom himself appeared.

“Miriam is wondering where you all went,” he said cheerfully. “Oh, hello.”

“This is my brother, Evan,” Ranney explained. “Evan, this is Tom Phillips.”

“Good to meet you.” Evan held his hand out, smiling, and they shook. “Are you a friend of Nessa’s?”

“I am, but really I’m a friend of Ranney’s.” Unperturbed, Tom put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Evan was studying them, clearly unsure what was going on. She leaned away.

"Well!” she said brightly, “I should deliver these, they’re not even cold anymore. I’d never make it in the restaurant business.”

Tom held the door open for her as she made her way toward Mame, moving as fast as a tray of fragile, stemmed glasses full of liquid would allow.

“We have company, Mame,” she announced. “Look who’s here!”

“Hello, darling,” Mame said, tilting her cheek for Evan’s kiss. “I see you’ve met Ranney’s new husband.”