Marrying Mr. English:The English Brothers #7(21)

Tom was silent. Van had a point.

"People can change that fast," continued Van. "In fact, believe it or  not, she and I still haven't . . . haven't actually . . . Tom, if you  ever share this with anyone, I will call you a fucking liar."

"Just spit it out, Van."

"We haven't sealed the deal yet."

Tom's mouth dropped open.

"What?"

"Don't give me shit, huh? She's . . . I don't know what she is. She's  under my goddamned skin is what she is. When Troy told me he needed a  nanny, I practically fell to my knees in thanks because I had a reason  to invite her along. And yes, I spent the afternoon explaining that Hong  Kong wasn't the fictional place where Godzilla was born, but I didn't  mind. I don't know what it is about this girl, but she makes me laugh,  she makes me feel good. She's just . . ."

"You love her," Tom whispered.

"I don't know about that," cried Van. "I just . . . I just don't want to  . . . I don't know. I like her a lot. I like her a lot more than a lot.  I'm not ready to end this weird thing with her. Not yet."

"So you're going to Hong Kong together."

Van chuckled. "Yep. That's the plan. We leave a week from today. In  fact, we're flying back to Philly tomorrow. We were hoping to see you  and Ellie while we're in town."

Eleanora walked back into the room with a red nose and bloodshot eyes,  and Tom reached for her, relieved when she sank into his lap and curled  up in his arms with her cheek on his shoulder and her sweet breath  blessing the skin of his throat.                       
       
           



       

While she leaned on him, Tom told Van about everything that had happened  with his grandfather-how he'd soundly rejected Tom's marriage, how Tom  had told him to go to hell, how Tom had refused to divorce Eleanora, how  they were being kicked out of the penthouse, and how he was about to be  blackballed at every financial company on the East Coast.

"So where are you going to go?" asked Van.

"No clue. I have to find work somewhere."

"Let me loan you some-"

"No way, Van," said Tom, using his free hand to stroke Eleanora's back. "I have some savings. We'll be okay."

"Hey!" said Van. "Wait a second! I have an idea!"

Tom heard papers rustling in the background and used the free moment to  whisper in Eleanora's ear. "Van cares about her, baby. He'll look after  her in Hong Kong."

He felt her clench her jaw against his collarbone and decided to leave it alone for now.

Van came back on the line. "Listen, my folks had Juanita forward my mail  to Vail, and . . . yeah, here it is. The alumni bulletin from Kinsey  Hall. Do you remember Professor Wiggins?"

"Wacky Wigs?" asked Tom, a brief smile stretching his lips as he  recalled the elderly teacher at the Connecticut boarding school where he  and Van had first met each other. "Sure. Freshman and sophomore  English, right?"

"Right. He was eighty-two. He passed away last month."

"Aw," said Tom, feeling a genuine sense of sadness. "That's too bad."

"Yeah. It's sad," said Van. "But they still haven't found a replacement."

"For . . ."

"Freshman and sophomore English," said Van. "The parents are starting to  complain because they've gone through three subs since Thanksgiving  break. Why don't you-"

"What? Teach?"

"Sure, teach. Teach at Kinsey. You're an alum, Tom. You went to Princeton. They'd be crazy to turn you away."

"Van, I know nothing about teaching kids."

"That might be true, dummy, and I know that, and you know that, but you know who doesn't know that? The dean of Kinsey Hall."

Tom talked to Van for a few more minutes, then urged Eleanora to patch  things up with her cousin before hanging up. By the time she got off the  phone, she was still weepy, but she managed to smile for him as they  said good-bye.

"Lots of postcards," said Eleanora. "And letters! I mean it, Evie! A  letter a week." A pause. "I don't care. I'll buy you a dictionary, and  you can look up the ones you don't know." Another pause. "I wouldn't  have . . . I might not have left Romero without you. I know. I love you  too. Be safe."

Tom hung up the phone and let Eleanora cry on his shoulder for a good  twenty minutes before he finally calmed her down and convinced her that  her cousin would be fine.

"It's just so far away."

It was on the tip of Tom's tongue to tell her that they'd go visit Eve  Marie whenever she wanted to, and it stung to realize he couldn't make  her that sort of promise anymore. He could no longer afford that sort of  luxury.

"My whole life has just changed so fast," she sobbed. "Meeting you.  Getting married. Leaving Colorado. Now leaving Philadelphia. It's a  lot."

He held her closer, pressing his lips to her temple. "You're tough, baby."

"I don't feel tough, Tom."

"You are," he said, leaning back and running his fingers through her  hair. "You're exceptional. And you're mine. And we're going to make it.  In fact . . ."

His voice faded in his head as he merged onto the Palisades Parkway.  He'd shared Van's idea with her, watching her face morph from grieved  cousin to supportive spouse in a matter of minutes. She declared it a  wonderful idea and asked him a battery of questions about Kinsey Hall  and Connecticut, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and hope.

"I'll call them tomorrow," he promised her.

"Nope," she said, sitting up straight on his lap, her hands pressed down  on his shoulders like she meant business. "We'll leave early tomorrow,  and you'll go see them. Make your case in person, Tom. Get the job. You  can do this!"

"Yeah?" he asked, marveling at her go-getter spirit and seeing, so  clearly, the young girl who'd left her small town to find a better life  in Vail.

He remembered some musings he'd had while they were in Vegas-wondering  if there was anything she couldn't do, wondering if she could be born in  a poor town in Colorado and end up a millionaire's wife. Or, heck,  maybe a teacher's wife. And the most incredible, wonderful thing about  Eleanora Watters English? The fact that, though his salary-if he even  got the job-would likely keep them just on the outskirts of comfortable,  it wouldn't bother her. She'd roll with it. She'd make it work.                       
       
           



       

It made his heart swell and surge with love for her. For her spirit and  hope, for her faith in him, for her unsinkable, unshakable, unwavering  conviction that things could always be worked out, that life could  always be better.

"Yeah," she said, beaming at him, her eyes bright and alive.

"I'm falling in love with you," he murmured. "I can't help it. When life  presents you someone between a dream and a miracle, you hold on as  tight as you can."

Her eyes flooded with tears, but instead of answering his declaration  with one of her own, she clasped his face fiercely in her trembling  hands and kissed him passionately, letting him cradle her in his arms  and carry her back to bed.

Sighing happily, he glanced over again at her sleeping form in the  passenger seat and debated whether to wake her up. She'd told him that  she wanted to see the views from the Bear Mountain Bridge, but he was  reluctant to interrupt her rest after he'd kept her up for two nights  straight.

Just as he paid the toll to cross the Hudson River, her eyes fluttered  open, and she looked up at him with a lazy smile that made his heart  jump.

"Hello, husband," she murmured.

My heart.

"Hello, wife," he answered, his voice gravelly.

She grinned at him, her blue eyes a mirror of yet-unspoken love.

"Are we there yet?"





Chapter 12




"Dean Gordon," said Tom, smiling at the older gentleman and offering his hand in greeting.

"Well, Tom English, you're a sight for sore eyes."

He pumped Tom's hand in the doorway of his office, then put his arm  around Tom's shoulders, ushering him into the  one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old head dean's office at Kinsey Hall.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Tom had graduated from Kinsey fourteen years ago, but finding himself  face-to-face with the former assistant dean, he couldn't help feeling  like a student again.

"Ha, ha," chortled Neville Gordon, slapping Tom on the back. "They all  come back and still call me sir." He gestured to a rich-looking leather  sofa. "Take a seat."

"Thank you, sir."

"Neville, Tom!" said Dean Gordon, taking a seat behind his desk. "We're peers now. Neville's just fine."

"Thank you for taking the time to see me, um, Neville," said Tom, smoothing his white shirtfront with his palm.