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FRANCESCA’S HAIR TUCKED under a red cap her sleeves rolled to the elbows she spread mulch on the flowerbed edging the gazebo as Tommy shoveled it off the bed of his truck. The day tasted of heat and summer. Trees dripped in green, and the gardens were in glorious bloom. It was a perfect day to be lazing around the pool soaking sun, but there was nowhere else Francesca would rather be.
Since the rainy night when Francesca nicked Tommy’s forehead with the clay pot—requiring three stitches—she’d spent every waking minute with him. Francesca traded tennis at the club with helping Tommy at the garden center. Riding alongside Tommy on deliveries took priority over lunch and shopping with friends at posh downtown boutiques. Walks on the boardwalk or stargazing at the empty lot replaced walking on the white sand beaches of Saint-Tropez.
Francesca fished for bass with Tommy at Musselman Lake. She’d done it to make him happy because baiting a live worm was an experienced best left untried. The weekends her father was out of town on business, Francesca, with Mrs. O’Sullivan’s blessing, invited Tommy to laze by the pool with her. Afterward, they’d enjoy a picnic by the creek, followed by a horseback ride on the estate. Many weekends she and Tommy sat by the stream, feet wading in clear water, talking. Other times, under the shade of a tree, in the circle of his arms, Francesca read Tommy the classics he’d refused to read in school.
“Am I getting paid for this?” Francesca leaned on the rake and flicked eyes up to Tommy. She’d never tire of seeing the sweat-drenched T-shirt clinging to his chiseled chest.
Tommy jumped off the bed of the truck. Landing inches from her, he pulled her in, crushed his mouth to hers with want, longing, and heat. He nibbled his way down her neck. When her breath hitched, and her body shuddered, Tommy thought there was nothing more potent than a woman reacting to a man’s touch.
“That’s your payment,” Tommy said, forcing himself to pull away. It was getting more difficult to stop himself from wanting all of her.
“I’ll settle for that, but only if you promise me there’s more of it in store for later,” Francesca said, breathing in his rich male scent.
“As much as you want.” Tommy kissed her again. This time the kiss was more passionate, and her heart melted like butter. “Have I ever told you how sexy you look when you’re all sweaty?”
“Ditto.” Francesca rested her hands on the rock-hard chest. She’d fantasized what it would feel like to get her hands over his naked body.
Francesca had dreamed about making love with Tommy, feeling his touch on her. She imagined Tommy would be a great lover, tender, gentle, understanding of her innocence. But as much as Francesca’s mind ran wild, she wasn’t ready for that type of intimacy yet, and Tommy hadn’t pushed her. The fact he hadn’t was one of the many reasons she was crazy in love with him.
Francesca had never had to fight him off, as she had to do with Quinn Montgomery II, who diluted himself to think every girl desired him. Or Harper Percy, whose idea of a date was a two hundred dollar meal, then demanding payback afterward. Francesca never felt unsafe with Tommy as she had with Blaise or Asher. Tommy was twice the man those boys—which her father approved of—would ever be.
“I got an acceptance letter this morning from Osgoode Law School.”
“Congratulations.” Tommy breathed in the scent of her hair. It smelled like a sweet summer day with a touch of sweat and freshly cut wood. It shot a slow burn to his belly.
“Osgoode is here in Toronto, so I don’t have to leave town. You hungry?”
“I am.” Tommy reached into the cab of the truck for the basket of food and the checkered blanket Mrs. O’Sullivan packed. “It’s great news about Osgoode, Francesca, but...”
“But what, Tommy?” Francesca took the basket and waited for Tommy to spread the blanket under the canopy of the weeping willow. “Talk to me.” She watched him silently spread the meal of turkey sandwiches, garden salad.
“You were also accepted at Harvard and Columbia, all excellent schools. You need to consider all your options. I don’t want you limiting yourself because of me.” Tommy poured lemonade into two cups.
“I’m not.” From somewhere above, birdsong suddenly flowed along with the pecking of a woodpecker.
“Don’t dismiss them because you want to stay close. You need to do what’s best for you.”
Francesca closed her hand over Tommy’s arm when he started to reach into the basket for napkins. “But I don’t want to be away from you.”
Looking into Francesca’s eyes, Tommy tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t want you to pass up on your dream. I don’t want you to limit yourself from reaching your full potential. You have excellent grades. You’re smart and ambitious with the financial resources to go to the best schools, and you need to take advantage of that.”
“Osgoode is an excellent school.” Francesca watched the family of squirrels scamper up a tree and perch themselves on its branches patiently waiting for the scraps of food to come.
“And so is Harvard and Columbia. Don’t you see, Francesca? You’re the type of person who will do great things. You can’t deny yourself of that because of me because, in the end, you’ll resent me if you do.” Tommy looked Francesca straight in the eye to drive his point home.
“I could never resent you.”
“You will if you don’t do what you want. You need to do what’s right for you, not what’s right for me,” Tommy said, the painful words knowing her moving away would alter the course of their lives forever.
Francesca linked fingers with his. “I’m doing what’s right for us.”
“And I love you for thinking that way. If you don’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Promise me you’ll think this through and choose wisely.”
“I promise, but you always say life is full of interruptions and complications, and I don’t want either of those things to touch us. Besides, if I were to go away to study, it would be to Stanford, and I haven’t heard from them. It’s already mid-July, too late to be getting good news from them, so my guess is I’ll be getting a rejection letter.”
Tommy sat back against the trunk of the willow, stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “They’d be crazy to pass up on you,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. Francesca only had to lift a brow for Tommy to return the cigarette to the pack.
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“I don’t want you to go away, but I don’t want you not to do what you want.”
Francesca rested her head on Tommy’s shoulder. “Would you wait for me forever?”
Tommy loosened her ponytail, felt her hair flow through his fingers. “I would.”
Francesca pulled back, far enough to meet Tommy’s eyes. “How come you haven’t asked me if I’d wait for you?”
“Because I know you would.” The smile that filled Tommy’s eyes when Francesca nudged him with her knee was sad.
Tommy knew once Francesca went away, once she was around the type of men he could never be, men she deserved to be with, she’d see the world in a different light and he’d lose her.
“Well, you’re right. I’d wait for you, Tommy.” Francesca fell into the circle of his arms. “I’d wait for you forever.” Her back snug against his chest, Tommy tightened his arms around Francesca, wondering how many more times he’d be able to do it.
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PETER THOMPSON STOOD ON THE TERRACE, eyes fixed on the gazebo. There was someone out there with his daughter, but trees and shrubs caped in thick green made it difficult to get a clear view, and he turned to go into the house.
“Who’s Frankie out there with, Mrs. O’Sullivan?” Peter asked, stepping into the kitchen. He wore loafers, black pants with perfect knife-edged pleats, a buttoned-down white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up. At a glance, Peter Thompson passed for a man in his mid-forties rather than fifty-seven.
Mrs. O’Sullivan panicked, debated how to answer. She hadn’t expected his return from his London business trip for another day, but there he was making her debate truth over deceit.
“It’s the Scott boy, Mr. Thompson.” Mrs. O’Sullivan opted for the truth. The man was a criminal lawyer, able to see through your lying eyes.
“Tommy Scott?” Dark eyes went hard in a handsome, unpleated face capped with thick hair silvered at the temples, and fringed with a fashionable stubble.
“I’ve had Francesca help him around the garden. Mr. Scott’s arthritis has been acting up, and I thought it would be good for her to do some work around the house since she’s off for the summer. Idle hands an all that.”
“Doesn’t look as if they’re doing much gardening.”
“I had Francesca take the boy a sandwich and a cold drink. It’s hot today, and the boy has been working since early morning. Tommy works hard, and he’s a good lad, Mr. Thompson.” Mrs. O’Sullivan rushed to defend, keeping her eyes focused on the dough she was shaping into cinnamon buns.
“He’s not, Mrs. O’Sullivan. The boy is bad news.” Peter inclined his head to get a better view of the gazebo. “She shouldn’t be alone with him out there, behind all the shrubbery.”
Mrs. O’Sullivan prayed Peter didn’t catch his daughter snogging Tommy as they often did when they thought no one was watching. She could only imagine what Peter would do—to all three of them. “He’s not the same boy, Mr. Thompson.”
In his misguided way, Peter Thompson loved his daughter. He’d never deny Francesca anything but his attention. As much as a young, impressionable Francesca needed him after her mother’s death, Peter was rarely there for her. His first love was his work, his firm. Law was in his blood; all he ever thought of. Everything came second to it, including his daughter.
Since his wife’s death, the little time Peter had spent with Francesca was focused on controlling her. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Do only as I say. Never an, I love you or let’s spend time together. Mrs. O’Sullivan ascribed Peter’s domineering way to the pain he carried from losing Katherine. Peter’s heart still aching from the loss of his wife, Mrs. O’Sullivan believed, was what kept him from bonding with Francesca. And God knew being a single parent was a challenge, no matter your station in life, but Francesca was a child when Katherine died, hungry for attention and love, and Peter hadn’t stepped up.
Mrs. O’Sullivan did. She became the surrogate parent Francesca needed. Since Katherine’s death, Mrs. O’Sullivan was the person Francesca turned to, for emotional support, to talk, to share her life’s events, and she was always there for her—not Peter, never Peter. Still, Peter always managed to twist everything to suit his purposes as he was now. Stepping into Francesca’s life for the few hours, he was able to spare this weekend and questioning Mrs. O’Sullivan like one of his criminal clients and making her second-guess her decision to let Francesca be with Tommy.
“The boy’s had a questionable past, and I don’t want his recklessness touching Frankie.” Eyes peeled out the window, Peter sipped on black coffee.
“That’s in the past, Mr. Thompson. The boy has turned a new leaf.” Mrs. O’Sullivan sprinkled sugar over the cinnamon buns. “I’ll keep an eye on Francesca and the boy.” She opened the oven door and set two pans side by side. One she’d deliver to Mr. Scott, along with the food she’d cooked for him when she’d visit with Francesca later in the day.
Knowing Mrs. O’Sullivan wouldn’t deny two helpless men the benefit of her cooking or a helping hand around the house, Francesca talked her into both when Mr. Scott contracted a bad case of the flu. For the past couple of weeks, Mrs. O’Sullivan prepared home-cooked meals and gave a helping hand around the Scott household. Now, with Peter in the way, Mrs. O’Sullivan wondered how she was going to manage the visit.
“How long has Francesca been helping him?” Peter’s suspicious eyes stared out the window.
“A couple of weeks.” Mrs. O’Sullivan hoped Peter didn’t detect the tremble in her lying words.
“How often is the boy here?”
Questions, questions, questions. “Weekly, sometimes twice a week.” She had to get to Francesca before Peter did, Mrs. O’Sullivan thought as she wiped the counter clean with a damp cloth.
“Well, I want it stopped now. We pay Mr. Scott for his gardening services, not to have his son entertain Frankie.” Peter walked to the coffee maker, poured himself more coffee.
Mrs. O’Sullivan fisted her hands on the sink lip. The man was home minutes and already disrupting the flow of the house—her serenity. “Of course, Mr. Thompson, I’ll speak to Mr. Scott.”
“As soon as Frankie gets back, please let her know I want to speak to her.” Peter stopped at the door. “I’m her father, Mrs. O’Sullivan. I only need you to watch over her for me, not to make decisions that affect my child’s welfare.”
“Of course, Mr. Thompson,” Mrs. O’Sullivan said, biting back tears.
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THE KITCHEN SMELLED OF FRESHLY BREWED coffee and cinnamon when Francesca stormed in and slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Mrs. O’Sullivan remained silent, deciding it best to wait it out until Francesca got the anger resulting from her talk with Peter out. Thirty years in the Thompson household had taught Mrs. O’Sullivan a thing or two about the personalities under that roof.
Right now, what Francesca needed was venting time because if Mrs. O’Sullivan knew Peter Thompson, he’d laced into Francesca about canoodling with Tommy Scott behind thick brush. And if she knew Francesca, she’d conceded defeat the moment her father opened his mouth as she always had since she was a child.
Mrs. O’Sullivan watched Francesca get to her feet, pace the room with pent up anger, then plop back down on the stool. Mrs. O’Sullivan counted down from five to one to hear Francesca tell her everything she wished she’d said to her father.
At the count of one, Francesca burst like a geyser. “He told me I couldn’t help Tommy anymore. How can he demand that of me when he doesn’t even know Tommy?” The anger in her tone meant for Peter came through loud and clear.
Mrs. O’Sullivan packed cinnamon buns, stew, and biscuits she’d made into the basket.
“He says Tommy’s a bad influence, and he doesn’t want him around me. He doesn’t know Tommy well enough to make such a cold, heartless remark.” Francesca paced the kitchen floor. “Don’t forget the beef pies, Mrs. O.”
“Yes, the pies. Thank you for the reminder, darling.” Mrs. O’Sullivan reached into the refrigerator.
“Tommy’s anything but a bad influence on me. As much as I don’t want to leave him, he’s encouraging me to do so. He told me to consider all my university options based on what I want, on my future, not our future, even if it means enrolling in a school out of the country, far away from him. Tommy thinks I have the potential to become a top criminal lawyer like Daddy, and he doesn’t want me limiting my options. Does that sound like Tommy’s a bad influence?” Francesca took the glass of water Mrs. O’Sullivan handed her and sipped to wet her sandpaper dry throat.
No. No, it doesn’t Mrs. O’Sullivan wanted to say, but thought it best not to fuel Francesca’s anger. “Your father is only thinking of your welfare. Pass me the tea towel, please.” Mrs. O’Sullivan spread the white cloth over the food, then closed the basket lid.
“Daddy told me you’d be reporting to him what I do, where I go, so not to think about defying him.”
“Yes, he’s asked me to do so.” Mrs. O’Sullivan set the basket aside and brushed the front of her flowery summer dress. She’d dabbed on a touch of lavender perfume and brushed her hair to a sheen.
“You look great, Mrs. O. Here put some of this pink gloss on your lips.” Francesca reached into her jeans pocket for the tube and watched Mrs. O’Sullivan dab it on her lips. It was the first time she’d seen Mrs. O’Sullivan express concern for her appearance. “You’re not going to report me to daddy, are you Mrs. O? You won’t tell him if I see Tommy, will you?”
The question caught Mrs. O’Sullivan off guard. What was she to do? What was she to say to the girl that she considered a daughter? How was she to balance years of loyalty to Peter Thompson with betrayal, young love over Peter’s skewed standards?
“I love Tommy. I love him so much, Mrs. O. I need to see him.” Francesca fell into Mrs. O’Sullivan’s arms.
Her girl was hurting. “I know, my darling.”
“You do? How long have you known?”
“Since the day we first spoke about him. A blind person can see how you feel about him.” Mrs. O’Sullivan brushed her hand over Francesca’s hair with a motherly touch.
“I need to be with him, Mrs. O. You won’t tell Daddy, will you?”
Nothing Mrs. O’Sullivan could say or do would change a young heart in love. She knew from experience the more she forbade Francesca to see Tommy, the more she’d push her toward defiance. It was what she’d done to her ma. Convention never held up against love, and Francesca’s love for Tommy was as real, as his was for her.
Mrs. O’Sullivan debated. What would Katherine do?
After a short contemplative silence, Mrs. O’Sullivan said, “I won’t tell your father, but you must promise me you will do as I say or the two of us, and Tommy for that matter, are going to be in deep trouble.”
With a nod of her head, Francesca threw her arms around Mrs. O’Sullivan. “I promise. I love you, Mrs. O.”
“I love you too, darling. And Frankie, I wouldn’t mention the conversation with your father to Tommy.” The boy deserved better, Mrs. O’Sullivan thought. “Now, go fetch your car keys. You need to drive me to my friend Brenna’s house.”
“I thought you were going to visit with Mr. Scott. Tommy’s expecting me.”
Mrs. O’Sullivan crossed her fingers. “Go grab your keys, and tell your father you’re driving me to Brenna’s house.”
“No, we can’t keep Brenna waiting,” Francesca said when she caught on and smiling rushed out of the kitchen.
She was already stacking the lies into the feeble house of cards, which would eventually tumble, Mrs. O’Sullivan thought. She only hoped it didn’t fall soon because if she’d seen the love in Francesca’s eyes for Tommy as clearly as she had, so had Peter, and he’d soon enough put a stop to it.
Mrs. O’Sullivan had an idea of how Peter was going to do it and when, and she could do nothing to stop him. She only hoped Peter would come to the realization his resolve to impose his skewed morality on a young girl in love stood to alienate his daughter—or possibly lose her.
