A New Hope (Thunder Point #8)(12)

She didn’t budge. “And you have to get to bed!”

He ground his teeth. “I’ll call campus security,” he threatened. “And I’ll tell Dr. Weymouth I can’t give any more classes because his department secretary is harassing me.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“I would. I should. Now get out of here and please, no more of this.”

“But when are you going to forgive me?” she said, crocodile tears running down her cheeks.

“There’s something I just can’t forgive. Everything else is a distant memory, but that one thing—”

“God, who knew you were so Catholic!”

He clenched his hands into fists. They’d been over this, too. It wasn’t religious or political. It was his personal ethic about marriage, their marriage in particular, about how marriage had to work. There had to be give and take, they had to talk about deeply personal issues, they had to find a way to compromise. There had to be trust. They couldn’t lie to each other. They failed at marriage and it had nothing to do with his religion. As far as he knew every religion shared similar if not identical ethics.

He took out his cell phone.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Calling campus security. Then Dr. Weymouth...”

“Ugh!” she grunted, moving out of his way. Then she stomped back toward the building in her high heels with ankle straps, her short skirt and long legs more than distracting.

He grimaced. He should probably quit this gig anyway. He sure didn’t do it for the money. Most months of the year he could slip it into his schedule easily but spring and fall especially, it was a real inconvenience. It was just that he liked the students. There were only a few who took these particular classes to check off a box or try to get by with an easy class. Most of them were either premed or heading into agriculture or environmental science. They asked stimulating questions, created interesting dialogue and arguments, gave him something to think about. They were sharp.

He thought about going out for the evening or back to his apartment. Instead, he went to the farm even though he’d been there all morning. The nice thing about the family home, he didn’t need a reservation. The door was never locked; there was no possibility his parents wouldn’t be home. If they had plans, somewhere to go, he’d hear about it weeks in advance.

He walked in, found his mother in the kitchen and gave her a kiss. She acted like she barely had time for the kiss. “Coffee? Wine?”

He looked at his watch. “Wine, thank you. Rioja. The red. Do you have a full table tonight?”

“George, Ginny, their families. I have no trouble squeezing in one more.”

“Thanks. I’m starving.”

“And, as you can plainly see, I am cooking. I’ll have you some tapas in a minute.” She put a glass of wine in front of him. “You usually move in and out of this house without a word, unless it’s business. Tonight is different. You’re friendly.”

He laughed. His parents could really read their kids. Even as adults! “I wanted to speak to Papa but you’ll do. I want to give up that apartment—it’s too much trouble. But I don’t want to live in the house. What I’d like to do is build on Lacoumette land. If there’s a space that can be allotted to me for a house.”

Her eyes lit up and she was clearly excited. “For a family?”

He shook his head. “For me. Maybe someday there will be a family. But Mama, I still have wounds to heal, so not now please.”

“These wounds, Matt,” she said. “If you feed them too much they can heal on the outside and keep getting worse on the inside. Then you’re in trouble.”

His mother, who was not well educated in the traditional sense, knew all. “Yes, Mama. I’ll watch for that.”

“Paco will be so happy to give you your choice of land. Not too close to the house, eh? So we don’t see the hundreds of girls come and go?”

He laughed. He was going to change that, as well.

Then his brother and sister and their families started trooping in. George shook his hand and thanked him for the hundredth time for his help with the ewes. Ginny kissed and hugged him. Lori, George’s wife, did the same. The kids pretty much ignored him, as he was not an uncommon sight around here. Then Paco came in and gave him the traditional greeting, a hand on the shoulder and a swat on the cheek.

“Matt wants to build a house on the farm,” his mother said from the kitchen.

And Paco, surprised and clearly thrilled, grabbed his son and kissed him on each cheek. Then did so again. “There is a woman?” he asked.

“Just me, your bachelor son.”

“Good then. We’ll get you ready for a woman.”

* * *

It was about nine forty-five when Ginger’s cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number—it wasn’t a family member or Grace. She was in her room, reading. Ray Anne and Al were having a “date” up on Ray Anne’s private deck atop the garage. Ginger was committed to not getting anywhere near them. She was locked away so they could be alone. She wouldn’t even go to the kitchen; she did not want to hear moaning, panting or giggling.

Thinking it must be a wrong number, she answered uncertainly.

“Hi, Ginger. It’s Matt.”