Everything but a Husband. Karen Templeton

father, a successful developer, chuckled. “Real professional, Del. Good way to impress all those potential clients, you know?”

      Del shrugged, sliding down onto a kitchen chair. “Hey—one, this is my personal number, and two, who the hell would be calling me about a job tonight?”

      “Guess you have a point there.”

      “Thank you.”

      Hugh Farentino laughed again, making Del smile. Dad and he might have had their moments—still did—but he genuinely admired the man. Liked him, too. And he was glad his father, a widower for so many years, had found someone to make him happy. On the surface, Maureen Louden seemed no different than a hundred other well-heeled, Midwest born and bred, middle-aged lady Realtors—blonde and small and pretty and impeccably dressed, no matter what the occasion. But in the year-plus since his father’s remarriage, Maureen had proven that, yeah, she was strong willed, to be sure, but also determined to wring every drop of passion out of her life—and equally determined that everyone in her circle did the same.

      It was also almost embarrassingly clear how much she loved Del’s father.

      Del’s heart did this funny stuttering thing, making him frown. Was that a twinge of envy? For Dad and Maureen? Absurd.

      “So. Cora told Maureen you hadn’t decided whether or not to come to Elizabeth’s,” his father said.

      If he wanted privacy, he’d have to move elsewhere. Like to a hitherto unnamed planet. “I don’t know, Dad. Sounds like an awful lot of people…”

      “Exactly. All those kids for Wendy to play with.”

      Apprehension pulled tight in his chest, as it did a hundred times a day. Wendy hadn’t met most of these children, they wouldn’t know—

      “Del,” Hugh said softly, interrupting his paranoia. “I know what you’re thinking. But you’ve got to let Wendy start stretching her wings.”

      “She’s not even five yet, Dad—”

      That got a laugh. Which Del returned, somewhat. “Okay, yeah, I know she’s a little advanced for her years—”

      Hugh snorted.

      “—but still. And she’s also very sensitive…”

      “Which doesn’t have a damn thing to do with anything, and you know it. That’s just the way she is. You were, God knows. And it’s something she’s going to have to learn to deal with, sooner or later. It’ll be fine, Del. And Wendy will have a blast.”

      Wendy wandered into the kitchen, squeaking a chair across the floor as she yanked it back, sank into it, her face caught in her palms. Bored, would be Del’s guess. Just the other day, in fact, she was begging to see Elizabeth’s and Guy’s kids, including their toddler daughter Chloe.

      He was being silly. Wasn’t he?

      “Okay,” Del said on a resigned sigh. “I guess we’ll be there.”

      “Good. Give our girl a hug for us.”

      Del no sooner hung up than the doorbell rang. Wendy jumped up, holding out her hands for the money, which he retrieved from his wallet and handed to her. He opened the door and took the pizza, letting Wendy pay—keeping an eye on the delivery kid to make sure they got the right change back—his chest swelling with pride when she said a very clear “Thank you” to the kid as he left.

      Galen looked up from unpacking her few things from her bag, blinking in astonishment at Cora, enthroned in an armchair in front of the heavily draped guest-room window. Somehow, in all the thousands and thousands of words they’d already exchanged since her arrival, Cora had overlooked these. Just as Galen had not mentioned Del Farentino, other than to thank Cora for sending him. She was having enough trouble figuring out her bizarre reaction to the man without throwing her surrogate mother a bone to gnaw on.

      “What do you mean, we’re going to somebody’s house for dinner on Thanksgiving?” The dog jumped up on Cora’s guest-room bed; Galen pushed her off before the beast’s sharp nails snagged the comforter’s ivory satin cover. Nonplussed, Baby pranced over to Cora, who scooped her up onto her broad lap. “What was all this about not wanting to spend the holiday alone?”

      “And you believed me?”

      Galen let out a weary sigh, then carried her sweaters over to the bureau drawer.

      “See, Elizabeth and Maureen are doing the turkeys—”

      Galen turned so fast she nearly put out her shoulder. “Turkeys? Plural?”

      “Well, yeah, since one bird ain’t gonna feed fifty people—oh, close your mouth. It’ll be fun. And then everybody else is bringing the side dishes.” One maroon-nailed hand drifted up to toy with a processed wave artfully draped across a forehead smooth as the polished walnut headboard on the bed. “’Course, with Elizabeth, you can’t call it potluck, since she wouldn’t likely see the humor in a table full of twenty-five pumpkin pies and nothing else. So she assigned people food groups.”

      With a smile, Galen turned back to the bed, fishing her underwear from the bag. She’d already heard a lot about this woman and her tendencies toward obsessive-compulsiveness. And how her marriage to Guy Sanford, a free spirit with three young children and no discernible fashion sense, had loosened her up quite a bit in the past couple of years. “And what did you get?”

      “Green vegetables.” Clutching the dog to her impressive bosom, she tugged the hem of her loose red sweater back over her thighs. “’Cept when I suggested bringin’ a mess of greens, she kinda blanched. Oh, she’s too polite to say anything, but she sure did brighten up when I mentioned as how a green bean casserole might hold up better, you know? Oh, honey…”

      Galen looked up. “What?”

      “I see you didn’t get to buy yourself that new underwear after all.”

      Galen glanced down at the white cotton undies in her hands. “Sure I did. See?” She waved a bra. “Still has the tag and everything.”

      Cora heaved herself from the chair, canine in tow, and snatched the bra from Galen’s hand. Glowered at it. “You mean, you just inherited two hundred fifty thousand dollars, and you bought underwear from K mart?”

      “What’s wrong with that?”

      “Well, child, if you have to ask, there’s your answer right there.” Cora tossed the bra back like it was a snake, then hmmphed through her nose. “What are you now? Thirty-four, thirty-five? And still dressing like they just let you outta the convent. Girl, I would kill for that figure you got, and there you go, keeping it all covered up like it was some kinda sin to let the world see how gorgeous you are. And then have the nerve to wear that sorry stuff underneath.”

      Galen felt her cheeks flame. “It’s cotton. I like it.”

      It’s what good girls wear. Good women. The kind of woman I married, Galen.

      Over another hmmph behind her, Galen added, “Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anyone to exactly, well…” To her chagrin, she blushed even more. “Wear it for,” she finally finished. And no, that was not Del Farentino’s hooded, appreciative gaze that just popped into her head.

      And call it instinct, but somehow she had the feeling Del wouldn’t tell her only cheap women wore fancy, lacy underwear.

      She also had the feeling she was losing it, hooking up Del and sexy underwear in the same sentence when she no earthly reason to be thinking about either of them at all.

      “Who said anything about anybody else?” Cora was saying. “A woman wears pretty things next to her skin because they make her feel good. Like a woman, you hear what I’m saying? At least, that’s the first reason to wear ’em. Any other reason that might happen to come along’s just frosting on the cake.”

      Her cheeks still burning, Galen quickly