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“You don’t sound bitter,” he commented.
She shrugged. “Chris is a nice, fun guy, but he’d make a terrible husband and father, as he is the first to admit. We were together for a while, but I never expected it to last forever. Granted, Daryn was a surprise, but both Chris and I would have been miserable if we’d tried to stay together for her sake. Especially him, since he didn’t really want a child. As for me, I consider myself blessed to have her, and I’ll always think fondly of Chris because of her.”
It didn’t sound as though she received any support now from Daryn’s father, but judging from the months Tate had known Kim that didn’t surprise him. He’d always thought of her as very independent and self-sufficient. He admired that about her. Just as he appreciated her calm, quiet demeanor that didn’t quite mask a delightfully dry sense of humor. And her ease with keeping their luncheon conversations flowing and interesting. Not to mention that she was certainly pleasant to look at with her wavy, shoulder-length chestnut hair, brown eyes the color of good whiskey, a cute smattering of freckles across an impishly tilted nose and a slightly crooked smile that always made his pulse jump into overdrive when aimed in his direction.
Another happy squeal and frantic clinking came from the backseat, reminding him of the main reason why he’d never done anything about that racing pulse. As loath as he was to compare himself to Kim’s ex, Tate was in no better position to take on the massive responsibility of a child—especially now, when his long-planned business was just taking off.
“Do you mind if I turn on some music? Daryn drifts off to sleep more easily when there’s music playing. She needs her nap.”
Though he couldn’t help wondering if Kim was trying to ward off any further conversation as much as soothe her baby, Tate shook his head. “Feel free. What does she like? Heavy metal? Acid rock? Please tell me it doesn’t involve purple dinosaurs.”
Kim laughed softly. “You’re a little dated on kids’ TV, not to mention rock genres, but there are no purple dinosaurs involved. I usually tune in to a pop or country radio station, but we’re not picky.”
“I’m a country fan, myself.”
“I knew that,” she reminded him, reaching for the radio buttons.
Of course she did. Just as he knew her favorite television programs because of their weekly chats over lunch. He hoped whatever happened this weekend didn’t affect those easy conversations he’d always enjoyed so much. He supposed he hadn’t thought that far ahead beyond this impulsive outing. As hard as it would be for him to state exactly why he had agreed in the first place, he knew he had to make certain that he and Kim remained friends afterward. She meant too much to him—on a platonic basis, of course—for him to risk not having her in his life, at least on a once-a-week basis.
* * *
After a brief stop halfway into the trip for a walk break, a diaper change for Daryn and ice-cream cones for Tate and Kim, they were back on the road toward Springfield. Kim had offered to drive the rest of the way, but Tate confided he was a restless passenger and would just as soon drive, if she didn’t mind. Since she would rather ride and sightsee than negotiate the turns and traffic on the road clogged with tourists headed for Branson, Missouri, Kim was happy to agree.
Daryn fussed a little at being strapped back into her car seat so soon, but she fell asleep again within a few minutes on the road, to Kim’s relief. For the most part, Daryn was an easygoing baby who rarely cried, but she’d thrown a few memorable fits in her time. Kim was glad this wasn’t going to be one of those times.
A little more than an hour’s drive lay ahead of them when they crossed the Arkansas/Missouri state line. Kim pointed that out to Tate, telling him she would guide him to her mother’s house after they reached Springfield. She’d never been to this house, but she had been given detailed directions. Her mother had moved into a new place since Kim had last been persuaded to come for a visit.
“You know, it just occurred to me,” Tate said with a sudden frown. “What has your mother been calling me? You
said she’s told everyone you’ve been married for more than a year. Did she give your imaginary husband a name?”
“She said she called him—er, you—Trey. You know, as if you were Somebody the Third. She thought that sounded impressive, I guess.”
“Hmm. That’s rather a coincidence. Actually, I am the third Tate in my family. My mom’s dad and his dad were both named Tate, though obviously there’s no ‘the third’ in my name.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell everyone you prefer answering to Tate. As to your last name, she said she never mentioned it and no one asked.”
“Rather odd, isn’t it?”
“Not in my family,” she replied with a faint sigh. “As competitive as they all are, they wouldn’t want to hear too many details about this perfect life Mom has concocted for me.”
She saw him slant a look her way, and she could only imagine the thoughts going through his head. He and Lynette came from such a normal, stable family. Tate was in for a shock when he met Kim’s relatives. It was just as well she wasn’t bringing him home as a mate, even a potential one, she told herself. He’d be running in panic before the weekend was over rather than tie himself to anyone from the dysfunctional clan he was about to meet.
She checked the directions again as Tate turned onto the street where her mother lived. “Second house on the left,” she said, checking the numbers. “Yes, this is it.”
A car and a pickup truck were parked in the driveway of the buff-brick house, so Tate pulled up to the curb. “Nice place,” he commented, studying the modestly middle-class house on the tidy street lined with similar homes. “Somewhat more… um, normal than I was expecting.”
“It is quite average-looking, isn’t it?” She eyed the cheery flowers in the beds on either side of the small front porch. “Apparently, Mom is a suburban housewife these days.”
“As opposed to…?”
“Her first husband, my father, was in the military, so she was an army wife living on base for a few years. They split when I was just two and he died in a motorcycle accident not long afterward. Her second husband, the father of my first half brother, Julian Cavenaugh, sang in a traveling bluegrass band based in Branson. We lived in a mobile home park and Mom threw pots and made macramé wall hangings to occupy herself while he was on the road. They divorced when I was eight, when the singer decided he made better music as a single act. Her third husband had a lot of money, so she was a society maven in St. Louis during that phase, when my younger half brother, Stuart O’Hara, was born. That marriage ended when I was thirteen, when Stuart’s dad was caught in a tax fraud scheme and lost everything, including my mother.”
Tate didn’t say anything, so Kim finished her convoluted history quickly while reaching for her bag. “Her fourth husband was a cattle rancher in a little town about fifty miles from Springfield. Mom embraced country life, learning to bake and knit and raise chickens. I lived there until I was eighteen and left for college. I never went back—she and Stan split up before my first semester ended. She was involved with several men after that, but didn’t marry again until three years ago. This latest one, Bob Shaw, is a tax accountant, a couple of years younger than Mom. She turned fifty earlier this year, though she wouldn’t admit it under threat of torture. I’ve only seen Bob once. He seemed nice enough, if a little bland.”
“Are you close to your brothers?”
“Not really. Stuart was just a little boy when I moved out, and I haven’t seen him all that often since. Julian entered the military the day after he graduated from high school, married soon after that and was deployed overseas for the most part until he got out of the service and moved back to Missouri a few months ago, sans the wife. Apparently, she found new companionship while he was serving in the Middle East.”
