Mixed-Up Matrimony

Instinctively placing a hand on Bronson’s arm, which felt like corded steel under her cold fingers, Tamara jumped in verbally before Bronson could jump his son physically. “Wouldn’t it be better if we ate first?”

Noticing that Bronson’s words had further unified and alienated the kids, she suggested two of Sabrina’s favorite foods, trying to keep the trembling out of her voice. “How about getting some pizza, or maybe a steak with fries?”

“You know I don’t eat that greasy food anymore, Mother. Besides clogging the arteries, it’s bad for my quickness on court. We’ll meet you at the Knight’s Inn—or not at all.”

Tamara looked at Bronson, and would have laughed if she had not felt so much like crying. Apparently not a man used to remaining quiet, he looked as if he were about to suffer from apoplexy. His strong features were red and strained, and his blue-gray eyes shot off silver sparks. But there was deep pain behind them, which he was trying very hard to keep from his son.

Tamara felt a huge lump in her throat, and had to blink back a burning moisture from her own eyes. She and Bronson had more in common than she’d thought at first. They would really have to get on the same page if they were to divert disaster.

“Is that okay with you, Mr. Kensington?” she asked softly.

Bronson looked at her with a distant expression, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Shaking his head, he told her, “Please call me Bronson. And no, it’s not okay with me—”

Seeing Tamara’s warning look, he smiled wearily at her, and added, “But I guess it’ll have to do.”

The children grinned at each other, acting as if they had won a major victory.

Tamara’s throat closed again. How young and naive they were. They could win as many battles as they wanted, as long as she and Bronson won the war.

Putting his arm protectively around Sabrina’s shoulder, Christopher told her gently, “Come on, Bree. I’ll walk you to the locker room.” Over his shoulder, he tossed at his father, “We’ll see you two outside when Bree is done.”

Not only did Bronson’s large fists clench, but his whole body seemed to tense. Tamara feared again that father would attack son, and teach him a thing or two about manners.

Thankfully, Bronson was able to maintain control. She noticed the painfully visible way he forced his body to relax.

As the kids headed toward the locker rooms, Bronson muttered, “How touching.”

Tamara swallowed, unable to speak. Turning to her and correctly interpreting her look of fear, Bronson gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to kill my son. Yet.”

Tamara nodded. “Good. My daughter would never forgive you.” Carefully keeping her expression and tone neutral, she asked, “Do you think we could speak for a moment? Outside?”

“Going to beat me up? Go ahead. Take your best shot. You’re right—I am at fault, if my son can act like such an ass.”

“Let’s refrain from violence and assigning blame just yet, shall we?” Tamara suggested, warming to Bronson Kensington despite herself. Although she wanted to be on his good side and seek his support for the matter at hand, she did not want to like him too much. All they had in common was the children—whom they were obviously both crazy about—and they needed a temporary alliance in order to separate them. Anything beyond putting aside their common distrust and uniting for the matter at hand was out of the question.

Although she resisted generalizing, in her own experience—which had culminated in her marriage to Robert—good-looking men were too attached to their own refletions. What made Bronson even more dangerous was that he seemed quite different from her ex-husband. And that was a problem: he was already causing curls of awareness in the pit of her stomach. How could she deal properly with this crisis if she behaved in the same adolescent manner as Brina?

Putting on the car coat she had taken off when she’d entered the tennis lobby, Tamara took a quick look at the framed pictures of the Notre Dame tennis teams, men’s and women’s.

“How can they think of throwing all this away?” Tamara murmured, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

“Maybe because they’ve both been so spoiled they don’t know what life is really like,” Bronson answered softly, his eyes taking in the smiling faces of the women’s tennis team as they posed around the NCAA Championship sign.

About to protest, Tamara desisted. Maybe there was some truth in what he’d said. It would certainly be food for thought, when she had a free minute to dwell on it.

Right now they had to make sure they would be able to leave this campus with their respective children in tow.

And for that they would have to utilize all of their combined wiles and experience.

As they turned away from the pictures, Bronson touched Tamara’s shoulder gently with his hand, and she found she liked its strength and assurance. Fighting against the pleasing sense of companionship his contact aroused, Tamara once again reminded herself of why she’d rushed over to Notre Dame.

And she reminded herself that Bronson was Christopher’s father. Right now, he represented the enemy camp. If he happened to have more substance than Robert, well, she’d have to deal with it. He was fighting for his kid; she was fighting for hers.

His next words addressed her own sudden craving for some space and oxygen.

“Let’s go outside, shall we? I really need some fresh air.”

Three

“I don’t believe it!”

Tamara looked at the spot where her car had been. Carjacking? In South Bend? On the venerable Notre Dame campus?

Tamara turned outraged eyes on Bronson and caught the smile he was trying to hide.

“What’s so funny?” Tamara asked, even more furious. It was bad enough that Bronson had taken her parking space, but now he was laughing at her car’s disappearance!

Speechless, Bronson pointed toward the street that bordered Alumni Field.

Her maroon Continental looked like a wounded animal, suspended from the rear of a tow truck as it labored down Ivy Road.

Burying her head in her hands, Tamara debated whether to laugh or cry.

To say this was not her day would be a vast understatement.

“Need a ride?” Bronson asked, lips twitching.

Tamara gazed at him through narrowed eyes. He looked quite handsome framed against the Eck Pavilion’s geometric entrance. His hair, more brown than black in the pale sunshine, fell rakishly over his forehead, while his opalescent eyes regarded her with renewed interest.

Was he watching to see if she’d crack?

Squaring her shoulders, Tamara shored up her lagging spirits. Too much was at stake for her to come unglued over an inconvenience...even a major one like being left without transportation in Indiana, while she lived in Illinois.

“Thank you, but I think Sabrina can give me one.”

Bronson kept staring at her thoughtfully, and then finally seemed to come to a conclusion.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” Bronson asked with amused resignation.

“Any reason I should? I certainly have not had an easy time of anything today. Why should you?” But Tamara softened her words with a smile. She was curious to see what he had to say.

“First of all, I’d like to apologize for taking your parking space. I would normally say that anyone who parks in a no-parking zone deserves anything she gets for taking the chance, but under the circumstances...”

“You mean my being in the same desperate hurry that made you take my spot in the first place,” Tamara supplied sweetly.

“Exactly.” Bronson grinned. “I was consumed with worry, and I can see you were, too.”

“And?”

“And I’d like to apologize for those cracks about your daughter. Up close, Sabrina looks nothing like a boy, but with that short hair, and stature—”

“Sabrina might be five-two, but she’s due for a growth spurt soon. She just looks short next to that sequoia you call your son—” Tamara cut herself off when she realized Bronson had been teasing. “I’m sorry. I should not have called your son an orangutan.”

“Apology accepted. Although I can see how you wouldn’t be kindly disposed toward Christopher at the moment.”

Tamara did not deny Bronson’s statement. “I’m not too thrilled with either of the children right now.”

“The children better not hear you call them that.”

Automatically glancing at the entrance to the Eck Center to see if the kids were coming out, Tamara asked Bronson, “How did you find out about them?”

“A frantic call from my cousin, who’s the head tennis coach at Deerbrook High.”

“Brandy Cavanaugh is your cousin?” Tamara felt like adding that it was no wonder Christopher played number-one varsity singles, but knew the comment would be unfair. It wasn’t nepotism that had gotten him the top spot: the boy really was talented. Although with the kind of build he possessed, he could have his pick of any sport.

Retraining her focus away from the inequities of gender-based athletic opportunities to the business at hand, Tamara asked Bronson, “How did Ms. Cavanaugh find out they were planning on eloping?”

“They were supposed to hit with Dale, the junior varsity coach, before first period. Christopher was to have been in school in the morning for a pre-Calc test, and then drive down here for his session with the scout.”

Tamara nodded. “Sabrina mentioned something about hitting with the top dog on the boys’ team before school because of the invitational coming up, which includes nationally ranked kids from out of state. She told me they were even coming from Kansas and Wisconsin. So when she left at five with an extra tennis bag, I thought nothing of it. She sometimes goes out with her friends on Fridays after classes or a home meet, and takes extra clothes with her.”

“I guess they had it all planned. I certainly knew nothing about Sabrina. Did you know about my son?”

Tamara’s smile was full of irony. “Did I look or sound like someone who knew what was going on? I know I’ve been putting in a lot of long hours at work, but I’ve always been able to trust Sabrina. She’s never lied to me before—not about anything important—and I certainly never opposed her dating, as long as she kept her grades up.”

“Apparently Brandy had heard some rumors about my son and your daughter, but she’d discounted them because of the envy factor. Being a top varsity player brings a certain amount of pressure and exposure, and jealous comments are always flying around. She told me this morning that she had confronted Christopher a few weeks ago, and he’d given her the old bromide about their being just good friends.”

“And Sabrina mentioned your son only in passing, and only in reference to how good a tennis player he was.”

“Brandy asked around and finally cornered my son’s best friend, Jonathan, who finally admitted that our kids were really serious about each other, but since they anticipated opposition from us—”

“And they were right!” Tamara interjected, her whole being a twisted mixture of shock, betrayal and pain.

“—they thought it better to just shoot first, and ask questions later.”

Tamara fought the traitorous tears that were threatening to roll down her cheeks. She strove for composure as Bronson’s sonorous voice washed over her, calming the waves of hurt and anger which this morning’s grim realities had stirred up in her.

“She checked to see if their cars were still there, and when they weren’t, she called me. I left my foreman in charge, and I really pushed the pedal. I was lucky the ever-present State Patrol on I-90 didn’t get me.”

Tamara’s gaze was grim. “Brina’s best friend stopped by early this morning. Even though Meghan and my daughter live only a couple of blocks away from school, they both like to drive there.”

“Teenagers’ love affair with cars,” Bronson said, rotating his head and trying to rub some tension away from his neck with a hand, which, to his surprise, was shaking.

Tamara smiled ruefully. “Despite their outspoken devotion to saving the environment, neither Brina nor Meghan will hear of conserving energy or cleaning up the air through carpooling.” Looking at her own hands, she noticed she had been wringing them so forcefully they were red and throbbing. Shaking her head, she said in a low, painful voice, “Apparently, Meghan didn’t sleep a wink last night, because of conscience pangs. She finally decided to tell me this morning, and she bled with each word she uttered.”

“The tribal code teenagers live by,” Bronson said, shaking his head. “Thank God our respective teens’ best friends showed more maturity and responsibility than they did.”

“Neither Brina nor Christopher is going to think so once they find out who told on them.” She shivered as the chilly winds buffeting the campus exacerbated the icy feeling her daughter’s actions had engendered.

She was startled out of her tormented reflections when Bronson’s hands lifted the collar of her coat to protect her against the rising wind. His fingers brushed against her throat, and their warmth stayed with her long after he’d reluctantly lowered his arms.

“Why don’t we sit in my car while we wait for the kids to come out?”

Bronson’s throaty tone was not lost on Tamara. She had not misread the sparks that had flown between them, even when they’d acted like two feuding roosters upon discovering each other’s identities.

Tamara looked at the silver Porsche. It would be crowded in that small two-seater. She was finding it harder and harder to view Bronson objectively, and sharing close quarters did not seem a good idea.

On the other hand, standing in the icy wind that promised rapidly dropping temperatures tonight was not very judicious, either. The last thing she needed was to come down with a cold or the flu. She was on overload right now, both physically and emotionally, and her immune system was probably too weak to fight any circulating virus.

Sighing, she nodded and followed Bronson to his car, feeling strangely like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

Bronson opened the door for her and then went around to the driver’s side. Tamara ignored his long leg accidentally knocking into hers as he got in, and turned in her seat, ostensibly to look at him, but actually trying to put more space between them. Despite the two huge strikes against Bronson—his good looks reminding her of her ex-husband and his being Christopher’s father—she felt the ripples of his sex appeal shrink the limited space in the car, steaming away the chill she’d felt outside.

Ignoring his all-too-knowing gaze, Tamara strove to remind them both of what was urgent. Even if their bodies seemed to have minds of their own.

“Meghan was almost hysterical. The poor kid was torn between loyalty to my daughter and concern over Brina’s welfare. Meghan said Sabrina had told her Christopher and she were in love, and planned on getting married, no matter what. I guess they see each other as some sort of Romeo and Juliet. Of course, Sabrina knew exactly what I’d say. Marriage before she even tries to accomplish her goal of turning pro, or at least graduating from college, would be premature.”

Bronson frowned. “Your daughter is thinking of turning pro? So is Christopher. We had discussed the possibility, but we weren’t sure if he could pursue his dream unless he received a scholarship and got help from the USTA Touring Pro program. At his advanced level, I cannot afford to front the cost of a traveling coach for him, plus equipment and tournament travel all over the world.”

Tamara chose not to follow this trend in the conversation. It was bound to cause friction between them, and right now she and Bronson needed harmony and cooperation.

“I know what you mean. I’ve been so busy trying to make ends meet, attempting to pay for Sabrina’s private lessons, equipment and tournaments—” Tamara noticed Bronson’s puzzled look. “If you’re thinking of the Continental, it’s paid up. It’s the only thing I’ve kept from the errant eighties, when everyone thought the sky was the limit.”

“Your company went under?”

“They ‘restructured.’” Tamara could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “After getting my MBA in night school, and seven years of slowly but steadily rising through the ranks, Sports Science Comp showed me—as well as several other executives—the door.”

“No retirement benefits, pension...gold watch?” Bronson asked sympathetically.

“Not even a pin,” Tamara said. “I’m self-employed now, and run a consulting firm. But the hours and overhead are brutal, and I’ve tried to keep the ugly facts from Sabrina.”

“Which was undeniably a mistake,” Bronson said quietly. Noticing that Tamara was still shivering, he reached into the back seat and grabbed a large green sweatshirt with NOTRE DAME emblazoned in gold on the front. “Why don’t you put this on? I’m sure it’ll fit over your coat.” As Tamara held the sweater in her hands, he added ruefully, “I guess I was anticipating that Christopher would enroll here.”

“I guess you were,” Tamara said, giving him back the sweatshirt.

She saw Bronson’s look of surprise, and heard the uncertain note in his voice when he asked, “Would you like me to turn on the heat? You’ll be even more chilled when you get into your daughter’s cold car.”

Tamara felt like answering that he had turned on the heat already, but knew innuendo would not be appropriate at the moment. She had no doubt Bronson would retaliate in kind, and who knew what that could lead to?

And even though Bronson’s kindness made her feel like a heel, she couldn’t stray from her original mission here. She didn’t dare to openly show her resentment of Christopher right now, because she needed Bronson. They needed each other. They had to solve one problem at a time: they had to stop their kids’ foolish plans.

Looking about the luxurious interior, she said, “You seem to be doing all right.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. I’m also self-employed, and find myself putting in a few more hours a day and still not coming close to the business I had in the mid and even late eighties.”

“I guess everyone is feeling the pinch in the nineties,” Tamara agreed. Remembering his earlier comment, she said, “You mentioned before that we’d been too easy on our kids. Do you think you spoiled Christopher that much?”

“My parents were not able to help me after putting my two older brothers through college,” Bronson told her. “I wanted Christopher to have everything he desired—he’s never held down a job—and everything I never had...especially after the divorce.”

Starting up the car, Bronson turned on the heater. “When it gets warm enough, you can take off your coat. Then you can put it back on when you get into Sabrina’s car.”

“If that day ever comes,” Tamara said wryly. “Sabrina has always been a fast dresser—comes from all those years of being called on to play doubles after finishing her singles matches in ninety-plus weather. I’m sure that the delay is not attire-related.”

Bronson grinned. “I’m sure you’re right.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and then lower still, taking in her curved but athletic form. When his eyes returned to her face, Tamara could feel twin flags burning in her cheeks. All of a sudden the interior of the car—as well as her interior—was suffocatingly hot.

Trying to distract Bronson from his disturbing scrutiny and her body from its traitorous response, Tamara said, “Your wife took you to the cleaners?”

“Cleaners?” Bronson asked, his face a blank, his voice husky. Clearing his throat, he recovered swiftly. “Ah, no. Joanna wasn’t after my money. Just her freedom, and a ‘meaningful career.’ She hasn’t seen Christopher in years.”

Tamara shook her head. “Amazing, the parallels between our lives. Robert has not shown any interest in Brina, either.”

A charged silence fell between them. Tamara felt as if she were swimming underwater, and knew that, without the specter of Sabrina’s future floating in the intimate confines of the car, she and Bronson would have been doing more than talking.

Horrified at letting her body’s demands arise at a time when her daughter’s needs were paramount, Tamara fought the attraction. She forcibly removed her gaze from Bronson’s frank, glittering one, and changed position so she could look out the passenger-side window.

Tamara could feel fear creeping into her in twisted tendrils. Was it possible that she had been so busy trying to provide Sabrina with material things that she had neglected her emotional sustenance? Tamara had never been one to doubt herself, but something was wrong if her only child had chosen to confide in someone other than her own mother.

Bronson’s hand shot out and gripped both of Tamara’s, which she’d been torturing in her lap. “Don’t.”

She looked up from their entwined fingers, startled. Even the slightest contact with him seemed to touch a chord deep within her.

“Don’t blame yourself. We taught our children right from wrong. Life is not always neat, and it’s not always fair. Don’t let your daughter do a guilt trip on you, or she’ll walk all over you.”

Tamara wanted to protest that Sabrina was not that calculating, that manipulative. But today she had seen a side to her daughter that she had never known before—either because Sabrina had hidden it from her, or because her daughter had changed so drastically, so quickly, that Tamara had not been able to detect it.

And it was definitely a side that Tamara did not like. At all.

Bronson’s other hand covered hers, squeezing them reassuringly. From the renewed tension in his body, Tamara could tell the children had come out of the tennis center.

Four

Nervously, Tamara opened the door and got out of the Porsche.

Sabrina looked at Tamara with condemning eyes. “Do you and Mr. Kensington know each other, Mother?”

Bronson had also gotten out of the car and had come to stand by her. Tamara could feel him stiffen next to her at Sabrina’s insolent tone, and it took all of her willpower to keep from lashing out at this stranger, who was once her daughter, who stood so challengingly before her. Glancing pointedly at Sabrina’s hand, which was held tightly in Christopher’s, she said coolly, “Not as well as you know Christopher, Sabrina. Bronson and I just met today.”

Since Sabrina had stopped addressing her as Mom today, Tamara had also dropped her own shortened version of Sabrina’s name, Brina. It hurt like the very devil to do so, but if Sabrina wanted a war, she was going to get one. As Bronson had said, she could not show any weakness that either of the kids could capitalize on.

“Ready for lunch now?” Tamara asked.

“Christopher and I decided to eat later. We’re not really hungry now, and it’s better if he waits until the scout takes a look at him. He shouldn’t play on a full stomach, because it’ll slow his footwork.”

“Well, I didn’t have any lunch—or breakfast, for that matter. I’m sure your mother is in the same boat, since she has to work like the dickens to keep you in lessons and a private school. I vote we go out to lunch—there are plenty of restaurants in the nearby mall.”

Christopher seemed ready to object to Bronson’s peremptory suggestion, but after one look at his father’s face he desisted. Perhaps he was choosing which battle to fight.

Tamara felt renewed stabs of fear. Sabrina was hot-tempered, very much like Bronson. She could be counted on to blurt out exactly what she felt. But if Christopher was the self-possessed type, who kept things close to the vest...well, she and had Bronson better stay on their toes.

“I’ll ride with you, Sabrina. My car got towed.”

“You parked it in a red zone, Mother?” Sabrina asked, her voice full of that unique blend of condemnation and superiority that teenagers seemed to master as soon as they hit those magical years.

Once again Bronson came to her rescue. Although it was unneeded, it felt good to have a man rise to her defense.