“Thank you so much for thinking of us.”
Tate nodded and started to turn, but Teresa reached out and squeezed his arm gently.
When he met her gaze again, Teresa murmured, “Please don’t mention…” she paused, selecting her words carefully “what you overheard with Olivia. There’s no point in upsetting her so close to her return to France when everything is going to turn out just fine.”
Tate darted a look at Quinn, but she was gone. He told Teresa, “Of course.”
He couldn’t quiet describe the bizarre sensations churning in his gut as he picked up another empty tray from a nearby table and started toward the kitchen, only that they were uncomfortable and conflicted.
Quinn intercepted him, also carrying empty trays in the same direction. She stopped and smiled at him. “Great minds?”
She’d been unusually warm to him today, a surprise given the tone of their discussion last night and how cold it had ended. “I’ll go with that. Here,” Tate said gesturing to his arms, “pile those on top. I’m going in.”
“Thanks.” Once the trays were settled on top of his, she offered a random, “Olivia and I talked last night.”
Tate wasn’t sure if he should be hopeful or wary. “She’s been so busy, I haven’t gotten a chance to say more than two words to her today. Was it a good talk?”
Quinn smiled. “It was. One we should have had a long time ago. I think things are going to get a lot better. At least…between us.”
Relief slid along his shoulders, loosening muscles Tate hadn’t realized were tight. He wanted to know what she meant by “between us” but this wasn’t the place to ask, so he said, “That’s great.”
“Thanks. If it weren’t for you…” She shrugged. “You’ve been good for Liv.”
That took Beckett off guard. Olivia had done so much for him, she’d added so much to his life, he hadn’t stopped to consider that he might have been good for her in any way. “You think?”
Quinn nodded. “If your banquet had been
anyone else’s banquet, I’m sure she would have told us she couldn’t do it. Staying forced her to look at the situation longer, to stay and unearth some problems. But I think her relationship with you has helped her actually do something about it. She’s more open. More willing to get involved. So Yeah, I think.”
Tate smiled. “Thanks. Hey, about that thing you and your mom were talking about—”
“Honestly, there’s nothing Olivia could do to help that she isn’t already doing. So telling her about it would only cause useless stress and probably create more problems and set us back rather than move us forward.”
He could see how that might happen. But he still didn’t like them keeping it from her. Though she’d also moved away and dropped out of their lives, so he wasn’t sure she had a right to know. Either way, it was a family matter. So he nodded.
Quinn started back to the party and Tate headed inside. Even before he got halfway to the kitchen, he heard his father’s deep laughter, then Olivia’s lighter, bubblier one. The combination turned his mind and his mood in a completely different direction, and he smiled. His father was a people person, generous to a fault, intelligent and gregarious, yet Lisa had never warmed to him. That should have been Tate’s first clue she was bent upstairs.
“Another horrible mistake,” his father said as Tate came around the corner, “oh, I think you’ve heard this one son,” —Olivia turned, took the trays from his arms and put them into the sink while listening to his dad— “was when my reservation at a conference hotel got messed up and I had to take what I could find. It was at a tiny, tiny hotel on a side street.”
She nodded to Joe to indicate she was listening, then stroked her hand almost absently over Tate’s arm with a soft, “Thanks for bringing those in” before refocusing on his dad, who had continued to tell his story.
“…so I get up to the room and the air conditioner is broken. All right, no surprise. I go downstairs and find a very pretty housekeeper, early fifties, blonde, beautiful bone structure, anyway, she doesn’t understand English.” Joe’s grin grew, and he glanced expectedly at Tate. “Did I tell you this?”
“I don’t think so.” Tate rested against the counter and Olivia did the same, so close her hip pressed against his. And then stayed there for the rest of the story. Such a simple thing, yet such a sign of deep comfort and intimacy. And it felt as good to his heart as sex with her felt to his body. “While I’m trying to tell her about the air conditioner, instead of saying J'ai chaud,” he looked at Tate to translate, meaning I’m warm, I said—”
“Oh no,” Olivia’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t.”
Joe started laughing. “I did.”
Now Olivia was laughing so hard she bent and crossed an arm over her stomach.
Joe looked at Tate and finished the story, “I said Je suis chaud,” —he choked on another laugh— “Which means I’m horney.“
A fresh wave of hysterical laughter rolled out of Olivia. She grabbed Tate’s arm to stay upright. Tate was chuckling, too, but getting a lot more pleasure seeing Olivia so happy than out of the joke itself.
“For the longest time,” Joe went on, “I couldn’t figure out why people would look at me funny when I pronounced branler as branlee when I asked directions.”
Tate had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t care. He was loving the sight of happy tears streaming from Olivia’s eyes.