A Proper Wife. Sandra Marton

he asked carefully.

      James looked up from his plate. A strange little smile skimmed across his mouth.

      “I hadn’t thought of it that way, my boy, but yes, I suppose you might say that we are.”

      Ryan nodded. “And what would it be, sir?”

      James smiled and shook his head. “No more questions for now, Ryan. We’ll talk after dessert, I promise.”

      As if on signal, Miss Brimley banged open the service door, the very briskness of her step an indication she disapproved of whatever it was she carried on the oval silver platter in her hands.

      “Dessert,” she said coldly.

      Ryan stared at the platter as she extended it to him. He hadn’t seen such an assortment of goodies since childhood. Tiny golden creampuffs, bite-size chocolate éclairs, chunky squares of shortbread....

      He raised shocked eyes to Miss Brimley. “Are those white-chocolate brownies?”

      She sniffed. “Indeed.”

      He started to reach for one, thought of the workout he put himself through each morning, and drew back his hand.

      “I, ah, I don’t think so, thanks.”

      The housekeeper’s expression softened, if only slightly. “At least someone’s still using his brain as God intended!”

      James wheezed out a laugh. “If you are trying to ruin my appetite, Brimley,” he said, helping himself to one of everything, “it will pain you to know you are not succeeding. Bring in the coffee, if you please. Real coffee, not that decaffeinated swill you’ve been pawning off on me all these years. Then shut the door and leave us alone.”

      When she’d done as ordered, James sighed, reached inside his vest, took out a cigar—an act that only recently had seemed daring but which now was all but fraught with innocence, Ryan thought dazedly—and bit off the end.

      “Excellent meal, my boy, don’t you think?”

      Ryan rose and took his grandfather’s old-fashioned cigar lighter from its place on the mantel.

      “I suppose that depends on your definition of excellent,” he said, his tone wry. He held out the lighter and flicked the wheel. “Julia Child would probably agree, but I suspect your doctors would take a different view.”

      “Doctors,” James said dismissively. “Shamans, you mean, beating their drums and dancing around the fire when we all know the best they can hope to do is delay the inevitable.”

      Ryan grinned. “Your diet may have changed but I see your disposition is still as sweet as ever.”

      The old man chuckled, then drew on the cigar until the tip glowed bright red.

      “So,” he said, blowing out a wreath of smoke, “what’s new in your life, young man?”

      “Why don’t you tell me what’s new in yours first?”

      James’s lids drooped down over his eyes. “What could be? I spend my days taking pills and eating pablum.”

      “Not tonight.”

      “No.” James smiled. “Not tonight.”

      “You said you’d explain that cholesterol-laden feast once we’d finished it.”

      “You don’t mind if we have a chat first, do you?”

      Ryan frowned. His grandfather’s tone was light. Why, then, did he feel so uneasy?

      “No, of course not. What would you like to talk about?”

      “I told you. What’s new in your life?”

      “Well, let’s see... We’ve decided to bid on that property in Santa Fe, and the subdivision we’re developing outside Vegas will—”

      “How did you get that bruise on your jaw?”

      Ryan grinned. “Would you believe me if I said I bumped against the shower door, reaching down for the soap?”

      “No,” James said, his eyebrows lifting. “I would not. Did some irate husband give it to you?”

      “Grandfather!” Ryan shook his head. “I’m surprised at you,” he said, trying not to smile. “You know I believe in the sanctity of marriage.”

      The old man got a strange look on his face. “I’m counting on that. And I’m still waiting to hear how you came by that bruise.”

      “Suppose I said a woman gave it to me?”

      James chuckled. “I’d say you probably more than deserved it. All right, don’t tell me how it happened. I don’t suppose it matters.” He tapped his cigar against the rim of an ashtray. “What else is new?”

      “Well, that Vegas subdivision—”

      “Yes, yes,” James said impatiently, “I’m sure Kincaid, Incorporated, is doing fine. You’ve made an enormous success of the company, more than I ever did, and we both know it.”

      Ryan laughed. “Wait a minute,” he said. “This is too much for one evening. First that meal, then flattery—”

      “I meant,” James said, his voice overriding Ryan’s, “what’s new in your private life?”

      “Ah.” Ryan smiled and sat down. “We go straight to the bottom line. You want to know if I’ve proposed marriage to anyone between now and the last time I saw you.”

      “Not to ‘anyone,’” his grandfather said without smiling back. “To a woman who would make a good wife.”

      “A proper wife,” Ryan said, and chuckled.

      “I see nothing amusing here, young man!”

      “I was just thinking of a conversation I had with Frank Ross—you remember Frank, don’t you, sir?”

      “I do. I take it he has not settled down yet, either.”

      “I’m not sure you appreciate how the world has changed,” Ryan said gently. “Women aren’t what they were.”

      “They are precisely what they were. There have always been women men should marry. The trick is to find them.”

      “Well, when I find one-”

      “When, indeed,” James said sharply. “At the rate you’re going, it will be never. And time is passing.”

      “Grandfather,” Ryan said firmly, “I really have no wish to discuss this tonight.”

      The old man gave him a searching look. Then he sighed and stubbed out his cigar.

      “This room is drafty. Let’s go into the library.”

      Ryan rose to his feet. “Let me help you, sir,” he said as James put his hands on the arms of his chair. It was an offer he made each time he saw James struggling to stand. The response was always the same. “I’m not in my grave yet,” the old man would say.

      But not tonight.

      “Yes,” his grandfather said, “I suppose you’d better.”

      Ryan’s eyes shot to the old man’s face, but it gave nothing away. He eased him to his feet, led him across the hall to the library where a fire blazed in the hearth despite the mildness of the fall evening, and settled him into a leather wing chair.

      James sighed. “That’s better. Now pour some cognac.”

      Ryan started to object, then thought better of it. Why not cognac? Compared to dinner, cognac was small change. He poured drinks, handed one snifter to his grandfather, then drew a chair to the fire and sat down.

      “All right, Grandfather,” he said, “let’s have it.”

      “Have what?”