My Man Pendleton(7)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Unfortunately, Dirk took it in exactly that way. “Proponents of men’s studies,” he continued, still snippily, “delve far more deeply into the realm of manhood than the unfortunate stereotype that lingers from the genesis of the men’s movement.”

“Ah,” Pendleton murmured again.

And again, Dirk misunderstood. “The fur-wearing, drum-beating, poetry-spouting stereotype, I mean,” he continued. “The one that people have come to associate with anyone who has the temerity to suggest that a man’s experience in the world is every bit as important as a woman’s. God forbid we should let men have their say in this, the twenty-first century. Oh, no.”

Pendleton nodded, hopefully sympathetically, and reiterated, “Ah.”

“The father-son relationship alone,” Dirk went on, evidently anxious to don his own metaphorical fur and beat his own proverbial drum, “is an area rife for scholarly study. Do you realize how many perfectly good men have been ruined by a total lack of fathering?” he demanded, arcing his cigar through the air for emphasis.

“Ah…no.”

“Or worse still, by shoddy fathering? Do you realize how many men have fathers who were never even present in their lives? Fathers who spent their weekends working instead of tending to their sons’ needs? Who left the entire shaping of the male experience to their sons’ mothers, for God’s sake? Who selfishly thought it more important to carve a niche for themselves in the world, instead of helping their sons form some kind of cohesive—”

“Dirk.”

McClellan, Sr.’s single-syllable interruption put an effective—and immediate—stop to Dirk’s meandering, though, Pendleton had to admit, compelling, thesis.

“Anyway,” the younger McClellan concluded, glancing down at his Hush Puppies. “My work is very, very important.”

“Ah,” Pendleton said again. Then he expanded his response by adding, “I see.”

“And this,” McClellan, Sr. said as he moved on to the fourth son, “is my youngest boy, Bart. We’re fortunate that he could be with us tonight. Normally, he makes his home in Camp Lejeune, but he’s visiting on leave. Marines.”

Actually, Pendleton probably could have guessed that part, seeing as how young Bart was wearing his dress blues, complete with sword, in spite of the fact that the occasion was dinner with his family. Then again, he thought, recalling his colleagues’ warnings of that morning, maybe keeping a sharp object within reach at all times wasn’t such a bad idea.

By way of a greeting, Bart snapped to attention and saluted Pendleton. Actually saluted him. How very off-putting. “Captain Bartholomew McClellan, sir,” he corrected his father’s introduction and avoided Pendleton’s gaze.

“Uh,” Pendleton replied eloquently, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. So he only clutched his cigar more tightly Finally, he greeted the youngest McClellan son with “Semper paratus?”

Bart’s hands sprang to the small of his back, then he spread his legs and assumed a new position Pendleton supposed was meant to look more relaxed, but not really. Still avoiding his gaze, Bart replied formally,”Semper fidelis. Semper paratus is the Coast Guard.”

“Ah. Well. Semper fidelis to you, too.”

Bart nodded once, then turned to his father. “Request permission to speak with you about a private matter, sir?”

“Of course, Bart.” McClellan, Sr. puffed his cigar a few times, then eyed his youngest son warily. “This isn’t about that Donna person again, is it?”

Bart’s face suddenly flamed fuchsia, a color that did nothing to complement his uniform. His gaze flickered once to Pendleton, then back to his father. “Da-a-ad. I told you it’s private,” he whined softly.

As McClellan, Sr. and Captain McClellan moved to the other side of the room in quiet conversation, Pendleton considered McClellan, Jr. and Professor McClellan again. For a moment, he wondered where the three sons’ wives were. Then he decided that the McClellan testosterone level being what it was, the little women were probably all at home skinning fresh kill and wondering what to do about the waxy yellow buildup on their husbands’ pedestals.

The McClellans were, to say the least, a colorful family. For some reason, Pendleton felt as if he had suddenly stumbled into a Preston Sturges movie circa l930ish, replete with a cast of the usual suspects. The only thing missing was the madcap heiress, a perky little redhead in a gold lamé gown, who had an equally perky little name. Like Pepper or Dody or Annabelle or—

“Kit!”

Yeah, that’d do.

At McClellan, Sr.’s outburst, Pendleton turned to greet what he assumed could only be the mysterious, toothsome Miss McClellan. But instead of a redhead, he found himself staring at what his mother referred to as a dishwater blonde. And in place of the gold lamé gown was a little black dress that fairly shrieked, Va-va-va-voooom. Miss McClellan herself, however, wasn’t particularly little. Nor, he noted with some trepidation, did she appear to be in any way perky.

What she was in her black high heels was close to Pendleton’s own six-feet-plus, and every inch of her seemed to crackle with energy. She wasn’t by any means beautiful—her features were too angular, too strong, too striking, to be labeled beautiful. Nevertheless, there was something very compelling about her. The smile she wore held a hint of mischief, and her blue eyes fairly sparkled with anticipation. What she might have been anticipating, however, Pendleton was hesitant to ponder.

“You must be Pendleton,” she greeted him easily as she drew near. He tipped his head forward. “If I must be, then I suppose I am.”

She threw her head back, giving her dark blond, chin-length curls a dramatic shake. Then she sighed with all the melodrama of a madcap heiress, and announced, “I’m Katherine Atherton McClellan. My friends call me Kit. You, however, may call me Miss McClellan.”

“Kit,” her father called from the other side of the room, his voice edged with warning. “Play nice.”

She chuckled, her smile dazzling. Her gaze never left Pendleton’s as she asked, “Who says I’m not playing nice?”

Oh, yeah. He could see her taking a bite out of Washington. Easy. Probably from his ass.

McClellan, Sr. cut a quick swath across the library and stepped between him and Kit, though whether to make introductions or read them the rules of the fight, Pendleton couldn’t have said.