WHEN SEAN O’SHEA INVITED him to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner, John came dangerously close to turning the invitation down. He’d pretty much made up his mind to keep his distance from Shannon, and tough as that was proving to be, he’d been sticking to his decision. He’d seen her at work, but he’d managed to keep things strictly professional between them.
“This is the first Sunday in a long time that Shannon and I have both been off—we usually work alternate shifts,” Sean explained. “So the whole family will be there.”
Meeting her extended family didn’t seem the best way to go about getting her out of his system, John thought, although there were also powerful reasons he ought to accept Sean’s invitation.
Shannon’s brother Patrick was the mayor. Sean was a fellow firefighter, extending the brotherly hand of friendship, and unless John came up with an airtight explanation as to why he couldn’t attend, it would look downright surly to refuse.
And what kind of excuse could he come up with, anyhow? All he had planned for Sunday was a visit to the nearest Laundromat.
“Thanks, Sean, I’d love to come,” John said. “Sure your mother won’t mind?” He wouldn’t in his wildest nightmares consider bringing a guest home for dinner with his own mother. The idea was so ludicrous it almost made him laugh. If the guest was male, she’d do her best to seduce him. Female, and his mother would find a way to humiliate her. Naomi couldn’t abide competition, and neither could she cook.
“Sunday dinner’s a tradition with my family,” Sean said. “Mom’s a great cook and she loves it when we bring someone new home.”
“Give me time and place, and I’ll be there.”
John scribbled the address down on a paper. “We eat early, around five, so come an hour or so before and meet everybody.”
AT QUARTER PAST FOUR on Sunday, after two trips around the block to work up his courage, John finally pulled up in front of the rambling two-story frame house on one of Courage Bay’s quiet, old residential streets. He’d faced loaded guns and a switchblade with cool confidence, but the knots in his gut right now were a direct result of pure terror.
Get over it, Johnny boy. Just go in there and act your socks off. It’s only dinner, for crying out loud. How tough can it be?
He delayed for a moment, studying the house.
Well cared for was what came to mind.
The front lawn was closely trimmed, as was the box hedge. A riot of late summer flowers bloomed in neat beds, and a hanging basket by the front door spilled scarlet geraniums and white baby’s breath. Lavish blossoms that John didn’t recognize filled huge pottery planters that bordered the paving stones leading to the front door.
What did he know about families? He’d grown up living with his mother in apartments, some not bad, but then as her drinking got worse and money became a major issue, they’d started moving from one low-rent dive to the next, until at last they were living in rat-infested dumps. He’d known he had to get through school at all costs, so he’d worked at anything he could find until he graduated.
As soon as he started making real money, John had invested in a condo for himself and an adjoining apartment for his mother. He’d paid an astronomical amount to have both places professionally decorated, but because of his job, he was hardly ever home, anyway.
His mother regularly hocked most of the apartment furnishings for money for booze and drugs, so he’d started using less expensive modular pieces to fill in the blanks.
So much for his nice middle class upbringing. This whole white picket fence, American family bit was foreign to him. Few things made him nervous, but families were one of them. He had no idea how they operated.
Well, you got yourself roped into this, so get your ass in there and pretend to have a good time.
With the bottles of wine he’d thought to bring tucked under his arm, he made his reluctant way to the entrance and rang the bell. The door opened almost instantly—and it was apparent that the tall, heavy man balanced on the step was on his way out.
“You must be John Forester. Come on in.” The big bald guy smiled and held out a massive hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, John set the bottles of wine on the hall runner and shook hands.
“Pleased to meet you, John. I’m Sean’s father, Caleb. I’m just on my way to the convenience store. Been sent on an errand by the wife. She forgot to get whipping cream for the banana cream pie. Can’t have my favorite pie without cream.” He chuckled, a low, friendly rumble, and John found it easy to smile into his arresting blue eyes. So this was where Shannon and her brother had inherited those startling eyes, and also where their height came from.
Caleb was eye to eye with John and probably fifty pounds heavier, which would put the older man at six-five and in the low-three-hundred range.
“Mary,” he bellowed over his shoulder. “Mary, sweetheart, come and take charge of this young fellow while I get the cream.”
“For heaven’s sake, Caleb, stop hollering.” But the reprimand was accompanied by a smile every bit as welcoming as Caleb’s had been, and the tall, big-boned woman with the halo of long, wild white curls grasped John’s hand in both of hers and held it. Here, too, he could see traces of Shannon—in her mother’s high cheekbones and long, graceful neck.
“I’m Mary O’Shea, Caleb’s wife,” she introduced herself. “And of course you’re John Forester. Welcome to our noisy home, John. It’s a wonder the neighbors haven’t made us muzzle him, he’s that loud,” she said as her husband planted a noisy kiss on her cheek and headed out the door, slamming it behind him.
“We’ll have to just wait here a minute—he’ll be back for his car keys,” Mary confided with a wink. “I’ve got them in my pocket.”
Sure enough, the door burst open an instant later.
“Where the hell are my—”
“Here you go. I found them on top of the microwave this time.”
Caleb took them with a sheepish shake of his head and left again.
Mary laughed. John retrieved the wine and handed it to her, and she thanked him. “I love this wine. You have great taste, John. We’ll enjoy it with dinner.” She set the bottles on the small entrance table. “I’ll open them and let them breathe in a minute, but right now, come this way and meet the gang.” Holding John’s hand in one of hers, she led him down the hall and into a spacious living room that seemed filled with people and loud voices.
A quick glance told John that Shannon wasn’t there, and he felt a sharp stab of disappointment. The fact that she would be here was the single thing about this invitation that had been appealing.
“Hey, John, glad you made it.” Sean was standing behind a tall, beautiful lady, his arms looped around her shoulders. He kissed her cheek, released her and came over to John, drawing him into the group.
“You’ve met Mom, and this is my wife, Linda.” His voice resonated with pride.
John extended a hand, and Linda took it. She was a confident-looking woman, and she had a firm handshake and a wide smile.
“Pleased to meet you, John.”
He had the distinct impression that her astute gray eyes were doing a fast and expert assessment of everything from his clothing to his haircut and shoes.
“Shannon told me you patched up her foot the other night.”
Her words had a mischievous undertone, and John wondered how much else Shannon had told her. He was debating whether to ask where Shannon was when an older man appeared beside Sean. Sean slung an arm around his shoulders.
“This is my grandpa, Brian O’Shea. We just celebrated his eighty-fifth birthday last week, and we’re trying to talk him out of learning skateboarding. Grandpa, this is John Forester, the newest member of the Courage Bay firefighting team.”
“Good to meet you, John.” Brian’s grip could have been that of a much younger man. “These young whippersnappers just want to stop me from having any fun,” he complained. His wide smile was mischievous and young, although the heavily veined hand John held trembled slightly. “No one offered you a beer yet, young man? Got to watch this crowd—they’re territorial about their beer.”
“Just about to give him one, Gramps.” Sean held out an icy can, and John took it gratefully as Sean indicated an older man who looked very much like Caleb. John immediately recognized the woman beside him, although they hadn’t been formally introduced.
“This is my uncle Donald O’Shea—he’s Dad’s big brother. And this is Willow Redmond. Willow, John Forester, the new guy at the firehouse.”
“We’ve sort of met,” Willow said with a wide and wicked smile. “Almost. Good to see you again, John. How’s it going with the reflexology?”
“I think I need more training.” He remembered exactly how it had felt to hold Shannon’s foot against his chest, and when Willow looked at him, John could tell from the amusement dancing in her eyes that she was remembering the same scene.
“Reflexology?” Donald frowned. “That something else you’re into, Willow?”
She turned and put her hand on his arm, stroking it a little. “Not really, Donnie, it’s just an interesting alternative therapy.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime,” he purred, looking at her with a fond expression.
“Absolutely,” Willow said, winking at John, who was studying Donald O’Shea.
Donald and his brother Caleb could be twins, they looked that much alike. Both were tall, well built and moderately overweight. They had even both chosen to shave their heads, and it suited them.
Willow seemed impossibly fragile next to Donald, small-boned, slim and dramatically elegant. Her silver cap of hair shone; her black silk pants and matching top looked sophisticated. Silver bracelets jangled when she extended a long graceful hand, and John thought he detected the clipped syllables and rapid speech of the native New Yorker, a clue that had escaped him the other evening at Shannon’s. But then, he’d been otherwise occupied.
Her words confirmed it. “Sean says you’re from New York, John. I’ve lived in New Jersey most of my adult life, but my family are native New Yorkers from ages back.” She smiled warmly. “What made you decide to leave the big city and come to Courage Bay?”
He needed to be careful here. Instinct told him that this woman might trip him up if he wasn’t careful.
“Oh, I needed a break from the city, and I saw a documentary about smoke jumpers and Courage Bay,” he said in a casual tone. “This place intrigued me, so when an opening came up in the fire department, I applied.”
“We must get together and have a talk about the city,” Willow said. “I’ve always found that sooner or later, New Yorkers discover they know some of the same people. It’s amazing. It’s happened to me over and over.”
John very much doubted that it would happen with him. Unless he was badly mistaken, there wasn’t a chance in a million that he and Willow Redmond’s paths had come within a mile of one another, much less crossed. All the same, he was relieved when Sean said, “And here’s the mayor, late as usual. Patrick O’Shea, John Forester.”
Black, well-cut curls, those trademark blue eyes and a wide, engaging smile had probably helped get Patrick O’Shea elected. All the O’Shea offspring were distinctively attractive. John watched as the two brothers exchanged friendly high fives before Patrick turned and extended a hand in his direction.
“Hello, John, welcome to Courage Bay. I’m pleased to meet you.”
But the heartiness in his voice wasn’t matched by any warmth in his penetrating blue gaze. It was obvious Patrick O’Shea was putting John on probation, for whatever reason. How to best set him at ease? John was working on that one when he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.
“Hey, Big Bad John, how’s it going?” Shannon had come up behind him, a white butcher’s apron covering her abbreviated green shift. Her face was flushed; her long legs and feet were bare. He knew the cut on her foot had healed without incident, and he noticed that she now had brazen red polish on her toes. Having her close to him had the usual effect—his heart rate increased and he had to force himself not to stare at her lips.
“You been introduced to this whole crew?” she asked.
“Yes, Sean did the honors, thanks.” John couldn’t stop looking at her. Her midnight hair was again pulled up into a messy, shiny knot at the crown of her head. Bits were floating around her ears and down her neck, and her blue eyes with those amazing long, curling lashes sparkled at him.
John’s pulse picked up another several notches. God, she was beautiful.
“Sorry I didn’t come and say hi sooner, but I was trapped in the kitchen. Mom made me stir the gravy—it’s really high maintenance.” She motioned to several brown stains on the front of the apron and wrinkled her nose. “Darn stuff spits at you, too. No gratitude whatsoever.”
John watched her, mesmerized, as she turned her attention to Patrick. “Hello there, big bro.” She gave him a quick, hard hug and a smack on the cheek, and John noted the softening of Patrick’s expression as he held her close for an instant. These people cared deeply about one another, and they weren’t afraid to show it.
Observing them gave him a feeling that might have been emptiness. Or maybe he was just hungry.
“So,” Shannon said to Patrick, “you and John talking politics and religion already? I’ve heard that’s the very best way to get a party going.”
“We only just met,” Patrick said, glancing over at John with that considering look. “No time yet for controversy.”
“Well, don’t start, because Dad’s back and Mom says dinner’s ready, so come and sit down.” She raised her hands high over her head and clapped them as she announced in a loud voice. “Dinner is served in the dining room, ladies and gentlemen. And the cook is temperamental, so don’t waste any time. Just follow me—one, two, three, march.”
Laughing, talking, arguing, everyone did as she ordered.
In the spacious dining room, John found himself seated between Linda and Willow. He felt a tiny stab of disappointment when Shannon, her apron gone, sat down across from him, a brother on either side of her like protective bookends. Caleb was at the head of the table and Mary at the foot.
The long dining table, covered in snowy-white linen, was laden with a mouthwatering array of food. A standing rib roast decorated with scarlet crab apples sat in the middle, surrounded by bowls of buttery mashed potatoes, a platter of asparagus, beets and carrots, a huge ceramic bowl of green salad scattered with oranges, plus various small pots of relishes and pickles. John drew a deep breath and realized he was ravenous. Breakfast had been a very long time ago, and nervousness had made him skip lunch.
He filled his plate as the food was passed and the wine was poured. He was about to lift his fork when Mary said, “Caleb, would you ask the blessing?”
After a quick glance around, John bent his head along with the others, and both Linda and Willow reached over and took one of his hands in theirs.
“We thank you for bringing friends and family together on such a beautiful afternoon,” Caleb said. “We ask your blessing on this wonderful food that Mary and Shannon have prepared for us. Thank you for bringing John and Willow to share it with us. Protect each and every one of us as we go about our daily lives, and give us peace and joy and love in our hearts. Amen.”
Everyone murmured amen.
Intellectually, John knew that many people said grace, but this was the first time in his entire life he’d been a part of such a group. Religion hadn’t figured in his upbringing. It gave him the strangest feeling to have Caleb mention him by name, and suddenly he felt deeply ashamed of deceiving these good people. When the grace was over, he looked up and met Patrick’s eyes, and it seemed to him that Patrick knew, that he could sense just by looking at him that John wasn’t being honest.
Get hold of yourself—the end justifies the means, John told himself, but the old mantra didn’t have much power today. The food lost a tiny bit of its appeal, but his hunger dictated that he eat, and every bite confirmed how delicious it all was.
“So, John, tell me exactly what neighborhood you grew up in in New York? What did your father do for a living?” Willow took a bite of roast and waited expectantly as he swallowed his own mouthful.
Her words fell into one of those silences that come about in groups, and he could sense that everyone around the table was listening, waiting expectantly for his answer.
“My dad was a fireman. He’s dead now.” That much was accurate, as far as it went. There had been a fireman named John Forester, and he was no longer alive.
“We lived in Sunnyside, Queens,” John lied, feeling a sudden and disturbing reluctance about embellishing the mixture of fact and fiction that was his cover story.
“Queens,” Willow said. “Nice neighborhood. Did your house have a view of the New York skyline?”
“We lived in an apartment building—one of those six-story brick jobs,” he said, relieved beyond measure that he’d taken the time to scout out the area he’d chosen as his fictitious home.
“What station was your father at?” Willow asked. “My mother’s family had a number of firefighters. Mother’s people are Irish.”
Willow was like a bulldog, John thought—grabbing on and never letting go. “Hall Seventeen, in Brooklyn,” he replied.
“Really? I had an uncle with the Brooklyn Fire Department. He might even have been at Hall Seventeen, I’m not sure. He knew everybody. He was the head of the union, so he might have known your father. Sorry, but what did you say his name was again? My brain is a sieve sometimes.”
“Same as mine.” John could see Patrick paying close attention as his tongue took him further and further from the truth. “John Forester.”
“John Forester,” Willow repeated thoughtfully. “I’ll ask my uncle if he knew him.”
John thought about coincidence. What were the odds of meeting anyone in a small city on the West Coast who’d have personal knowledge of a fire station in Brooklyn? Yet here he was, sitting next to the second person he’d met so far who did. Somebody, somewhere, had a weird sense of humor.
As soon as he could, he turned toward Linda and asked her questions about the documentary she’d helped make about the smoke jumpers. Here, at least, he was on firm ground, because he’d watched the video enough times that he could talk about it with confidence.
“I especially enjoyed the story the interviewer told about the sacred pool up in the mountains,” he said to her. “And the footage you had of it was spectacular. It really conveyed a sense of timelessness. Have you made it back there again?”
“No, unfortunately not. It was a magical place…I still want to go back someday.” She looked over and caught Sean’s eye, and the intimacy of the look they exchanged made John feel uncomfortable again. “We’d planned to go back to the sacred pool on our honeymoon, but Sean was called out to a fire in Montana, and I had an assignment in Mexico. By the time we were back, we’d both had enough of roughing it, so we went to Hawaii. And while we were there, I found out I was pregnant. I haven’t felt up to mountain climbing.”
John knew less than nothing about pregnancy. The whole idea made him feel queasy, and he averted his eyes from Linda’s flat middle.
Of course he knew where babies came from. He just hadn’t been around very many women who were growing them.
“You travel much, John?”
“Some. A couple trips to Mexico, a few to Europe, and last year I had a job—uh, took a trip to Ireland.” He was still concentrating hard on not looking at her midsection, and the question had caught him unawares.
Pay attention, he warned himself. You slipped there. A fireman probably wouldn’t have money enough to go globe-trotting, idiot.
Get her talking. It was safer that way. “How about you, Linda? What are you working on at the moment?”
“Until very recently, I worked as a television photographer based in San Diego. I traveled most of the time. When we got back from Hawaii, I landed this super job at the local station. I’ll be filming interviews, covering sports events. I never thought I’d be content to settle down in one place, but that was before I met Sean.”
“So you don’t miss it, the globe-trotting?”
“Not so far.” She smiled across at her husband. “I guess falling in love changed me. Living with Sean is all the excitement I can handle these days.”
“Works for me,” Sean declared.
Had he ever met a couple who appeared to be this happy? John wondered. This visibly in love?
“How about you, John?” The question came from Mary. “You think you’ll be able to settle down here in Courage Bay after all the excitement of the big city?”
“Oh, for sure. Courage Bay has a lot to offer—no traffic jams, no crowds.” He remembered that he was supposed to be living on a fireman’s wages. “No exorbitant rents, either, I hear.”
“John’s looking for a condo or an apartment to rent,” Shannon said. “I called Matthew. He said he’ll be in touch, John.”
“My nephew’s an honest Realtor,” Caleb assured him. “He’ll find you something at a fair price.”
The talk veered to real estate. When everyone was finished eating, Shannon got to her feet and began to collect the plates.
Linda started to get up to help, but John said, “Why don’t you let me?”
He stood up, gathered plates and cutlery and followed Shannon into the kitchen. He noticed that Mary and Willow also started to help, but at some signal from Linda they sat back down.
He was grateful, because he was sweating and felt as if he’d been through an ordeal. He and Shannon repeated the clearing process several times, and after the final trip to the kitchen, Shannon said, “So, Forester, you rescue injured ladies on the beach, walk dogs, help with dishes. Do you do windows as well?” She set the last load of plates down and started scraping food into the garbage container and then stacking the dishwasher.
He did the same. “Only when there’s a fire and the windows need breaking. I’m not exactly what you’d call an expert in the kitchen.” He smiled at her, admiring the way her simple dress skimmed her body, hinting at the slender curves underneath. “Willing but inexperienced, that’s me. Cooking is pretty much a mystery.”
She gave him a curious look. “You must have had to cook at the fire station when you were a probie.”
Jesus, Johnny boy, get a grip. “Yeah, of course. I’m just not much good at it.”
Damn. He was slipping and sliding all over the place today. It wasn’t like him.
“Well, stick around here and we’ll get you whipped into shape.” She was bent over, rummaging in the fridge. Her dress hiked up to the top of her thighs, and he took full advantage of the view.
“Speaking of whipping…” She looked at him over her shoulder and caught him staring. He raised a suggestive eyebrow, and her dimples appeared as she laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you. It’s the cream we’re working on here.”
He longed to take the container out of her hand, back her up against the cabinets, press her tight against him and kiss her senseless.
There’s danger here.
“Here’s the mixer.” She handed it to him, dumped the quart of thick cream into a large bowl. “You do that, and I’ll make coffee.”
He’d never whipped cream before, but how hard could it be? He plugged in the mixer, shoved the blades in and turned the machine on high.
Cream spattered across his face, his shirt, his jeans, the curtains, the wall. He yelped and then swore, and Shannon burst into giggles.
“Your technique needs work. You have to hold the beaters straight up and down, like this,” she demonstrated, moving in close and taking the machine.
Her hair brushed his arm. She smelled like coffee, like cream, like vanilla, like everything delicious he’d ever tasted.
“Now beat this until it’s good and thick, but not too thick, because it’ll turn to butter, and we’ll be sunk. Put a spoonful of sugar in once it starts to thicken, and then add the vanilla and mix it just a tiny bit more. I’ll slice these pies and put the pieces out on serving plates, and you scoop up a good-size dollop of cream and plonk it on each one.”
“Plonk? Is that a cooking term? I thought it was cheap wine.” He was enjoying himself. He was enjoying her. He was wondering how long they could spin this out.
“Get busy, slave.”
He did, and this time, he actually managed to turn the thick mixture into whipped cream. Together, they ladled out generous portions of pie and cream. When the last was done, Shannon ran a forefinger around the bowl, scooping up the remainder of the cream, and stuck it in his mouth.
“Good, huh?” She gave him a teasing, mischievous grin, and those blue eyes seemed to dare him.
Her smile faded and she gasped when he sucked lasciviously on her finger, holding her hand so she couldn’t pull away. Then he tugged her close and kissed her, hard and fast and very thoroughly. She tasted like something elusive that he’d been searching for all his life.
“We’d better get this pie in the dining room before my dad comes looking for it,” she said when he let her go. But he noticed that her voice wobbled and her hands were trembling when she started loading the plates on a huge wooden tray.
He lifted it, and he was on his way out when he heard her say in a soft tone, “I can’t quite put my finger on what’s going on with you, John Forester. But I’m going to find out…you can bank on it.”
Now why didn’t he find that reassuring?