Chess was wearing a path through the linoleum in the hospital waiting room when Kate and Alex arrived.
"We heard she was on the bridge," Kate said, coming up to give Chess an unthinking hug.
He accepted her embrace with the same lack of forethought.
"It was on the car radio," Alex said, also giving Chess a rough, man-style clap around the shoulders.
"How is she?" Kate wanted to know, her gaze going down the hall toward the ward.
With one hand, Chess made a helpless gesture in the same direction. "I'd thought once I'd got Cookie off that damned bridge everything would be all right. But they aren't telling me anything. It's been nearly an hour."
"Calm down," Kate advised, serene. "I'm sure the baby complicates things."
Chess's head snapped up like a whip. "The baby?"
"Uh-oh," Alex muttered. "Now you've done it, Mom."
Kate's brows contracted at Chess. "Surely you know about the baby?"
Just then, and luckily for Kate, a blue-gowned doctor emerged from the hall. "Mr. Bradshaw?"
Chess stepped forward, his heart racing and his brain whirling. "That's me." The baby?
"You'll be able to see your wife in a few minutes," the doctor said. He gave Chess a reassuring smile. "We wanted to take her upstairs for some sonogram work. That's what took so long. I'd like to see her on bed rest for at least a week."
"Bed rest," Chess repeated, staring at the doctor. "Something's wrong." Something was wrong with his baby, the one he'd only just discovered existed.
"It's just a tiny cut in the placenta," the doctor assured him. "Probably from your wife's exertions during her scuffle. The baby looks fine. Everything should be fine."
At this moment, Ruth came hurrying in, unbuttoning her raincoat. "Oh, my God, Chess. Is Cookie all right? I heard about it on the news. And how's the baby?"
Chess felt the question like a slap. "You knew about this baby?"
Ruth looked affronted. "Cookie and I are best friends."
"And I'm only her husband," Chess growled.
"To answer your question," Kate smoothly interrupted. "Cookie is fine. And the baby needs a week's bed rest."
"Thank God."
"Oh, no," Alex groaned. He grabbed his mother's shoulder. "I don't believe this. What's he doing here?"
"Bernard!" Kate exclaimed. Moving out from Alex's hand, she flew to meet the man who'd come half-stumbling off the elevator.
He took her in his arms most tenderly. "I'm so sorry, Kate. So sorry," he murmured. Then he looked over her shoulder to meet Chess's eyes. "I had no idea. Diana Lorimar. She worked at Korman Cosmetics two years ago. I knew she admired me, but— How's Cookie?"
Chess felt a surprising wave of affection for the man. "She'll be all right."
Bernard nodded, obviously relieved. "And the baby?"
Chess's teeth came together. "The baby will be fine."
Alex meanwhile was staring open-mouthed at his mother in Bernard Korman's arms.
"Alex, why don't you go meet N.J. Williams?" Chess suggested. "I'm going to see my wife."
~~~
Cookie was sitting up in the hospital bed, wondering if she were going to have to get back into Theodora Scampi's dirty gown in order to leave the building when Chess came through the door.
His expression was ominous. But he came up to the bed and took her hand gently. "The doctor told me you were all right. But how do you feel?"
Cookie's voice was small. "Okay." She forced herself to meet his eyes. They were as mysterious as ever. But she knew. "He told you about the baby, didn't he?"
"Oh, no," Chess's denial was mild. "He didn't tell me. Kate did."
"Oh." Cookie bit her lip.
"And then Alex mentioned it," Chess went on. "Ruth brought it up. Even Bernard Korman."
"Oh, my." Even Cookie was surprised by this last name on the list.
"Tell me, Rebecca. Was there anyone who didn't know about this baby? Besides myself, of course."
"I'd have to think," Cookie murmured, unhappily noting that he'd called her Rebecca. "Let's see. The people I've told besides Diana? Well, there's Luther, Peter and the rest of the theater gang. Also the man who came to wash the windows and, of course, the mailman."
"The mailman!" Chess exploded.
"Chess, please. You're yelling. Someone's going to come in."
With an obvious effort, he pulled himself under control. "You told the mailman," he asked softly, "but kept me in the dark?"
"It was easy to tell strangers," Cookie shot back. "They wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad!"
"Then why are you yelling?"
He didn't say anything, then, yelling or otherwise. But his eyes expressed a thorough displeasure.
"Please, Chess." Cookie felt absolutely miserable. "I was going to tell you tonight. But as you know, something else came up."
His steely regard softened then. "Yes, tonight. That discussion we were going to have. This changes things, Rebecca." His hand tightened on hers. "The marriage is permanent now."
Cookie closed her eyes. It was exactly what she'd feared. An honorable response to duty. And total escape from any deeper confessions—assuming there were any.
"We talked about that," he reminded her, determined.
She nodded, her eyes still closed. "Yes," she sighed. "I remember."
"Come on," Chess said, stepping back. "Let's go home."
Under other circumstances, Cookie would have enjoyed the wheelchair ride out of the hospital. Friends and relatives surrounded her on all sides, eager with professions of relief, praise, and delayed horror. It was an exit worthy of any actress. But Cookie was too preoccupied with the conversation she'd just had with her husband to enjoy all the attention.
They'd agreed to stay married. He'd accepted his impending fatherhood with stoic resignation. Most significant, he had not thought either fact justified lifting the ban on love. She'd gotten nowhere with the man.
The sky was lightening with the first gray hint of dawn by the time Chess pulled the car into the drive before his house. "Don't get out," he ordered, his first words since they'd left the hospital. "I'm carrying you upstairs."
"Oh, Chess, I really don't think the doctor meant—"
"I'm carrying you," he repeated, in a voice Cookie didn't care to hear twice.
She did not attempt getting out of the car on her own.
Chess's face was set as stone as he lifted her out of the car and carried her into the house. His arms were firm around the robe the hospital had lent Cookie as he took her up the stairs.
Cookie's heart sank as he pushed open the door to the guest bedroom. "Why are we in here?"
"The doctor said you were supposed to rest," Chess grunted.
It was not, Cookie thought, a very good excuse for throwing her out of his bed.
He set her on top of the counterpane with a gentleness that was more determined than genuine. Through the white curtains, a grayish light started to filter.
"Now." Chess frowned down at her. He was still dressed in his suit trousers and white dress shirt from the day before. Somewhere along the line, he'd lost his tie and his jacket. The shirt was rolled up at the sleeves and buttoned down from his neck. It was most disheveled Cookie had ever seen the man. "Where's that damn envelope?" he demanded.
Cookie blinked up at him in confusion. "The envelope?"
Chess's jaw set. "The one from your father."
Cookie's mouth formed a wide O. She'd put that dangerous envelope right out of her mind. It was full of too many terrifying possibilities. But now Chess seemed to want confirmation that she recognized the marriage was for keeps. She was only supposed to open the envelope after she'd officially wed.
"Look, Chess, I don't think that's necessary. I understand about—"
"Where is it?"
Cookie was too exhausted and had battled too much danger in the past twelve hours to argue with the expression on his face. "Top drawer of the bureau." She'd stashed it there the day they'd come home from the lawyer's office. Three days before the wedding, she'd still been living in this bedroom.
"Thank you." Chess went over to the top drawer, opened it up, and with only a minimum of rummaging, found the thick envelope. With his face set in hard lines, he handed it to her. "Open it."
Cookie accepted the weighty thing. "Now?"
His eyes narrowed. "Do it."
Cookie tore open the seal and drew out...another envelope. She stared at the front of this second envelope. In her father's large, scrawling script was written:
Chess Bradshaw
Chess Bradshaw? Why would her father enclose a missive to Chess inside of an envelope addressed to her?
"It's for you." Cookie handed him the inner envelope with his name on it. She felt a surprising quantity of disappointment. Much as she'd dreaded the criticisms her father meant to lob at her from the grave, she'd also longed to hear his voice again.
A corner of Chess's straight mouth lifted. "I guess he wasn't so all-fired sure his schemes would work out."
"His schemes?" But Cookie's query went unanswered as Chess boldly ripped the top of his envelope.
"Just as I thought," he muttered, drawing out yet a third envelope. "This one's for you."
"For me?" Cookie accepted this with even more confusion.
"Read it," Chess suggested. He sank into an armchair with his own short note from David Thibideaux.
Cookie turned to her envelope. Taking a deep breath, she broke the seal. Inside were two handwritten sheets. She recognized more of her father's script.
Dear Cookie,
If you are reading this, then I know that my plans have succeeded. I'm sorry to have to do it this way, but I'm leaving affairs in a sorry mess, and you're the only person I know who can straighten them out. This family of mine has a hole a mile wide. In twenty years I still haven't been able to fill it up, but you can. So I'm leaving it up to you.
I realize this is no small undertaking. Any effort of such magnitude deserves adequate compensation.
So I'm giving you Chess.
Oh, I suspect you won't find him much of a bargain at first. He's not open or warm or kind. Not on the surface, anyway. But I promise you, Cookie, if you give him your love, he'll accept it as the precious gift it is. He knows the value of such things. And he'll pay you back. Even coin with interest. And love's the only kind of coin you're really interested in, isn't it? You see, I have figured that out.
And if the two of you should have some kids, take a page of advice from your father. Let them be who they want to be, whether it's to become an astronaut, a poet, or a bum. If you're reading this letter, and if you've done what I think you will, then I'll believe that you've forgiven me. As I write these lines know that I'm so proud of you and that I love you so very much.
Your father, David.
The last lines merged into a nearly illegible blur due to the tears that were coursing from Cookie's eyes.
"Are you all right?" Chess regarded her with some concern from over his own sheet of handwritten-covered notepaper.
"Oh, Chess. He would be so disappointed."
Chess's brows lowered. "Your father?"
"Yes." A sob emerged from the tight pain in her chest. "He thought I'd be good at this, but I'm not."
The paper in his hands slowly lowered. Cookie had a lot of moisture in her eyes, but she could still see the color drain from his face. "What are you talking about?"
Another sob escaped her. "Everything." She gestured around the room. "I haven't even managed to be honest with you."
He stared at her with a frighteningly blank expression.
Cookie gulped in a breath. "For example, this baby? I wanted it. I wanted it when you first proposed marriage. You see, I—I didn't think I was ever going to get married the normal way, so when you proposed, I thought—I thought maybe somehow I could get a baby out of this." She halted, gulped. "Out of you, actually."
Chess spoke in slow, careful words. "You married me, wanting my baby?"
Cookie nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "Although, to be perfectly honest, by the time we said our vows, I knew I couldn't sneak something like that out of you even if I could manage the sex. You would mind. And then—and then—" She hesitated, sniffling, but knew she had to confess all her sins. "Okay, I'm sorry if this is annoying or threatens you, but I have to say it—I love you. I really, truly love you with every dramatic, sentimental, romantic, and forever meaning of the word. I just love you so much. And, I'm sorry, so terribly sorry, but I couldn't be more thrilled that I'm going to have your baby!"
Chess listened to this confession in awestruck silence.
How Daddy could have imagined she wouldn't mess this up, too— Cookie covered her face with her hands and burst into a fresh burst of tears. Even so, she felt Chess glide from his chair by the window.
He hesitated, and then the bed sagged as he took a seat on its edge.
"Rebecca." His voice was unsteady. "Rebecca, take your hands away and look at me."
Something in his tone made her do as he said. Sniffling, she lowered her hands and reluctantly raised her eyes.
The muscles around his eyes pulled, narrowing them. "Now, Rebecca, let me get this straight. You...love me?"
She sniffed. "Yes." Too late to worry about how he might react to the claim.
"And—let me see if I have this right. You are happy to be pregnant with my baby?"
It was with an effort that she prevented another crying jag. "Yes."
"You love me and you're happy to be pregnant," Chess repeated, slowly, deliberately. He pulled back and stared at her. It was the Look. The look that said she really was one fluffball featherbrain, wasn't she? "And somehow, you think either one of these facts is going to make me angry?"
"I— Well—" She shut up as she looked into his stormy eyes.
"Cookie." His big hands closed around her shoulders. Those hands were trembling. "You love me?" he asked in a rough whisper.
Cookie felt the universe tilt. Had he wanted to hear that? "Oh, Chess." She really was a featherbrained fluffball. Framing his face with her hands, she declared, "You're everything to me."
"Cookie." Her name came out as a hoarse sound, and then he was kissing her. She barely had a chance to draw a breath before his mouth was devouring hers. "I thought you were going to leave me," he murmured against her jaw. "I didn't know how to keep you, how to convince you to stay."
"Sweetheart!" She put her arms around him. "I would never leave you!"
He gave a small cry and embraced her. "I need you so badly. Don't ever leave me. Please. Promise me. I need you, I need you," Chess kept murmuring this as though it were a dreadful confession.
"Oh, darling." Cookie soothed her hands over his back. "I need you, too!"
"Last night." He let out an unsteady breath, still holding her close. "I didn't think I would ever see you again. I felt so helpless. Then, with you on that bridge—"
"Let's forget the bridge," Cookie advised with a shudder.
The shudder passed into Chess. "I can't forget it. Darling, sweetheart." He passed a hand over her hair and then suddenly leaned back to look into her face. "You really want my baby?"
Cookie gave a short laugh at the abrupt change of subject. "Yes, I already said that." She bit her lip, knowing she wouldn't be able to skate past the biggest sin she'd committed against Chess, the irresponsibility that her father, in writing that letter, could not have anticipated. "But we've yet to hear how you feel about it."
The expression on Chess's face was something Cookie would not easily forget. "Whose idea do you think this baby was?"
Cookie's mouth opened. "But you— I mean, I thought all those times we didn't...that those were accidents."
"Accidents?" She could see she'd truly insulted him. "My dear Cookie, since when do I ever do anything without a reason?"
She simply stared at him. Finally, she closed her opened mouth and narrowed her eyes. "Are you telling me you planned on making me pregnant?"
"Um..." He must have seen a spark of fire in her eyes, for he gathered her very sweetly in his arms. "Perhaps I'd better plead the fifth, after all."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Cookie evaded his suddenly ardent mouth. "You planned all those so-called accidents?"
"Let's call it opportunistic hedging," Chess suggested, nipping her ear. "Come on, Cookie, let's stop talking and start necking."
"No. You're not going to—" The rest of Cookie's scold got lost as Chess proved that in point of fact, he was going to.
~~~
Alex shifted in his seat on the wrong side of the heavy desk in Chess's study. He had a pretty good idea of what was coming. On top of Chess's otherwise empty desk lay the wrinkled piece of paper on which Alex had been scribbling the secret formula for Love. It was pressed out as flat as possible for better viewing.
Chess had promised Alex he would be punished for his mistakes. He'd already created a payment plan for Alex to reimburse him for paying off his gambling debt. But for four weeks now, Chess had said nothing about what the punishment was to be. Until tonight, Christmas Eve. Through the closed door, Alex could smell the roast that was cooking in the oven. Chess had left Cookie temporarily in charge in the kitchen. That meant that, whatever this punishment was, it was going to be swift.
On the other side of the leather-bound desk, Chess finally looked up from his scrutiny of the evidence. His eyes hit Alex with a dash of something startling. It was amusement.
"Did you really intend to sell this? For money?" Chess indicated the sheet.
"I did." Alex had promised himself he wasn't going to deny any of the truth.
Chess leaned back in his seat. He folded his hands on the edge of the table. "What about the gambling, Alex? Is that through?"
Alex forced himself to meet Chess's eyes. "I don't want to pick up another hand of cards so long as I live."
Chess inclined his head, apparently satisfied. "Cookie told me you were hurting from David's death. I wasn't paying enough attention—or the right kind—to see that."
Alex dropped one ankle down from the opposite knee. "Jesus, Chess, my gambling wasn't your fault."
Chess gave him a level look. "A lot of things were my fault."
Alex swallowed, knowing exactly what Chess was thinking. "You had no way of knowing about Diana." Since the kidnapping, it had become clear Chess held himself accountable for allowing Diana into the picture. "According to the police detective who talked to Cookie, Diana's been categorized as a criminal sociopath. Anyway, the detective explained to Cookie that sociopaths are experts at fooling people. You know, they reopened the investigation into Diana's father's death, which was supposedly in a railway accident. The legal settlement of that is where she got the money to offer me for the prototype and the formula for Love."
"I can't believe I employed this creature for almost year," Chess grumbled.
"If it makes you feel any better, Cookie actually feels sorry for her."
"What?" Chess looked up in alarm.
Alex lifted his ankle back to his knee again. "Er, she seems to have gotten involved in monitoring Diana's case. From afar," Alex assured an increasingly disturbed-looking older brother. "Cookie says Diana didn't have the advantages Cookie did in growing up, a loving father, and so forth and so on. And also, she wants to learn whatever she can to make Bernard Korman feel better about not having spotted a problem on his staff. She seems to think he needs support."
"I'd thought Mom was taking care of that," Chess muttered.
"Believe me. Mom is, too," Alex said, in much the same tone.
The eyes of the two men met. Alex was pretty sure Chess felt as weird as he did about their mother seeing a man romantically, particularly when that man was Bernard Korman. But it had to be twice as weird for Chess since it turned out the guy was his own father.
"Back to the formula," Chess said. He looked down at said formula, brows raised. "Alex, do you have any idea what this would smell like?"
Alex's lips twitched. "Something like overripe tomatoes, I imagine."
Chess's mouth performed a similar action to Alex's. "More like rotten eggs, I believe, although I haven't actually tested the theory." He appeared to fight down a smile. "You wanted to make it look close, but you weren't going to give them the real formula, were you?"
Alex gazed to the side. "I looked at this way. Cookie had put an awful lot of time and effort into those ads. I wasn't going to let anybody take advantage of her by underselling knockoffs."
"You took a big chance."
Alex crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to the other side. "You gave me a job, Chess. I wasn't going to stab you in the back."
"Because I gave you a job."
Alex chanced a glance at him. He'd always thought Chess a cool character, someone without a lot of human emotion. But since Chess had married Cookie, he'd loosened up a bit. For example, at the moment he looked almost...sad. "No, it wasn't just because of that," Alex mumbled. "Hell, you're my brother, aren't you?"
"Yes," Chess replied, very definite. "I'm your brother. And the next time you need help," he added, very stern, "I want you to come to me. Do you understand that, Alex?"
Alex looked at him and, for the first time, thought he might actually be able to do that. "I understand."
There was a brisk knock, and Cookie opened the door far enough to stick her head in. "Chess, Kate and Bernard are here. Henry called that he's stuck in traffic. Meanwhile, something very suspicious is happening to that frittata deal in the lower oven."
Chess rose to his feet. "I'll be right there."
Alex noted that as soon as Cookie had opened the door, Chess's eyes had not once left her face. It was impossible to miss the pure devotion in his expression. It was that devotion Alex had first seen at Thanksgiving. From that moment on, he'd known he'd better accept the fact that Chess and Cookie loved each other.
Chess turned back to Alex. "I'm sure Bernard brought some rather 'fancy grapes.' You want to try a glass?"
Alex unfolded from his chair. He felt as though he'd been sitting there about a year. "Sure."
Chess let Alex get ahead as the three of them made their way back toward the kitchen via the living room. He looped an arm about his wife's waist.
"Bernard and Kate have to leave early to drop in on his oldest daughter," Cookie said. She glanced up at her husband. "You're going to have to meet them someday, you know."
He stifled a grimace. "I suppose so. But not tonight, darling. I'm just getting comfortable with my first family."
Cookie stopped to wrap her arms around his waist. The smile she turned up at him made Chess glad to be alive. "You are getting comfortable," she said. "Happy?"
"Euphoric." He bent to kiss the tip of her nose. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"
Cookie's expression changed to one of amusement. "Chess, you have never told me that you love me."
"What?" Chess turned her chin up. "You're kidding."
Cookie smiled. "Not in words, anyway."
Chess rubbed her lower lips with his thumb. "I love you, Rebecca." The words uncovered a wellspring inside of him. Emotions flowed forth like sparkling water. "I truly, deeply love you."
She framed his face with her hands and smiled. "I love you, too." Then, lowering her hands, she tilted her head. "Can I get an advance on the indulgence I'm going to engender later tonight?"
The arms he had around her waist tightened as he thought about 'later.' "Anything, my love."
She drew one of his hands over her stomach. "I'd like to name the baby David."
Happy warmth spread from his heart. "It might be a girl."
"Then we could name her Charlotte, after my mother." Her eyes sparkled up at him brightly.
His chest tightened. He'd found both a mother and a father. Cookie had neither. But she had a husband, and Chess determined right then and there that he would provide her with enough love to make up for whatever relatives she lacked. He smiled, realizing at least one way to do so. "David this one," he agreed. "Charlotte the next."
He knew by the sexy dance in Cookie's eyes that his guess hadn't been off by an inch. She pulled gently back from his arms, but her smile held all the love he could have wished. "Come on," she told him. "Our family is waiting."
The End
Alyssa Kress completed her first novel at age six, an unlikely romance between a lion and a jackal. Despite earning two degrees from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and spending nearly a decade in the construction industry, she's yet to see her feet stay firmly on the ground. She now lives in Southern California, together with her husband and two children.
You can learn more about Alyssa Kress and her other novels at http://www.alyssakress.com.
The Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way
(Book 1 of the Home Again Series)
Note to self: make sure someone's at home if you're going to return unannounced after ten years.
Erica stood before the new, paneled wood door with the stained glass insert—stained glass!—and decried her own lack of foresight. She'd told her brother Clint she'd drive to Palmwood from Los Angeles after he'd warned her their father probably hadn't much longer to live, but she hadn't been very specific about when.
Now she stood on the front porch of a house she barely recognized with no way to get inside. For God's sake, there were roses growing beside the porch and the lawn was actually green. When she'd lived here, the front yard had been more dirt than plants, and there certainly hadn't been any flowers.
"Damn," she breathed. The sun had set shortly before and a chill was creeping into the air. The cotton jacket she wore over her short-sleeved T-shirt wasn't designed for high-desert evenings when the temperature could plummet thirty degrees.
Probably everyone was at the hospital. Probably she ought to get this over with and go there, too. She'd come this far, might as well go all the way. Emotional insurance. That's what she'd told herself she was taking out by rescheduling her physical training clients for a week and driving back to a town and a person she'd never cared to see again. Making sure it wouldn't haunt her for the rest of her life that she hadn't said goodbye to her father, though even he would have to admit he hadn't earned this much devotion.
"Erica? Hello, are you Erica?" The voice came from the house next door. It was a deep voice, masculine.
Erica turned to see a rather tall man waving to her from the edge of a wide railed porch. Light from the open door behind him put him in silhouette, so she couldn't see his face.
"Are you Erica?" he asked again.
"Um..." The house that used to be next door was gone, with this two-story, crafted wood deal sitting in its place. She was pretty sure the man who'd just hailed her was nobody she'd ever met. He had broad shoulders and was wearing a button-down shirt and jeans.
"Liam's over here with me," the man told her, apparently assuming she was Erica, though she hadn't admitted it. "Why don't you come on in?"
She really should have nailed Clint down on specifics. Why was her teenage brother, Liam, in the house of this stranger? Surely he should have been with Clint. "Um...sure." Erica turned and walked down the steps of the repaired porch and walked her tooled cowboy boots across the two driveways toward the silhouetted man.
"I'm Brennan Swift," the man said as she approached the bottom of his porch steps.
Erica could now see him better. He wore a warm smile on a face of regular, if not downright handsome, features. His hair was dark and looked like he was a week or so behind on a haircut. When she got close enough, he held out his hand and shook hers. He had a firm grip.
"Please come in. I'll tell Liam you're here."
The man did nothing to indicate an opinion of Erica or that he knew a single detail about her: no wince, no squint, no subtle lowering of eyelids.
That didn't matter. Her imagination supplied him with all the judgments her father's neighbor might make, should he know the bare facts. She was the daughter who'd left at age eighteen and never looked back. She was the one who never called or emailed or visited her last remaining parent. True, she'd stayed in touch with her two younger brothers, but certainly not with her father.
She felt her shoulders lift slightly as she followed the man into the house.
The ceiling rose two stories, soaring over an open-plan living area. Erica got the impression of a lot of handcrafted wood details elegantly executed. Had Clint done the work? Whoever had, some serious money had been involved. A stair wound around the side of the room and up to a railed walkway, presumably leading to some bedrooms.
The place gave the same impression as the man who'd led her in: unself-conscious confidence. She felt a familiar, and she knew completely unreasonable, resentment.
He now went over to the foot of the scrolled staircase. "Liam!" he shouted, looking upward. "Your sister's here!"
"What?" came a muffled voice from above. It wasn't a voice Erica recognized. Except for one visit to her apartment in Los Angeles from Clint and Liam about four years ago, she hadn't seen either of her brothers, in the flesh, since leaving home. She was a little taken aback, truth be told, to hear the tones of a man rather than a boy.
"Your sister. Erica. She's here!"
"Oh." A pause. "Wow."
Wow? Erica blinked a few times, surprised by this show of enthusiasm. She tried to keep in touch, but it wasn't as though she'd ever been a real sister to Liam. He'd only been five when she'd left.
"Erica." A lanky boy appeared at the upstairs stair railing, his brown hair overgrown and scruffy. He had earbuds in, but pulled them out. He was smiling. Dimly, he looked like the last photo Erica had seen of him from Clint's Facebook page. "You came," Liam breathed.
In that moment Erica felt like the most selfish, self-absorbed creature in the universe for having ever considered not coming. She wasn't the only one with emotional needs here. Her fifteen-year-old brother had wanted her to come.
"I'm so glad," Liam said and rushed down the stairs. Once he reached her, to Erica's astonishment, he embraced her.
Awkwardly, she did her best to hug him back.
"Thank you," Liam murmured. "Thank you for coming."
The lingering guilt was beginning to grow like a cloud. She'd been the most absent sibling she could possibly get away with.
Meanwhile, she was aware of Brennan Swift, the neighbor, watching.
"Are you planning to stay in town?" Swift asked, once Liam had released Erica. "Liam's been bedding here. You're more than welcome to do so as well."
Really? Erica's brows dipped. They'd met, like, five seconds ago.
Brennan lowered his eyes. "Your father's a good friend of mine." He looked up again. "I consider his family my own."
Erica's frown only deepened. Her father had friends? Close ones? It was hard to imagine. "I'm sure that's very, uh, nice of you, but I don't know. I really hadn't planned..." Anything. She'd left in such emotional disarray that she'd neglected to determine a number of critical details. She supposed, if she'd thought about it, she'd assumed she'd be staying in her father's house and that Liam would be with— "Where's Clint?"
Brennan glanced toward Liam, who looked back. Some sort of silent communication passed between them.
"Clint is...having some issues," Brennan carefully explained. "He didn't think it would be a good idea for Liam to be around until he can, uh, resolve them."
Issues. A powerful shaft of fear struck Erica. Surely Clint hadn't started drinking. He'd know better than to go that route, right? She resisted the urge to clear her throat. "What kind of issues?"
Again, Brennan and Liam shared a look. "Uh..." Brennan was clearly hesitant to blab. Then a look of horror came into his expression when he caught Erica's eye. "What? Oh, no. Not drugs or alcohol— It's marital issues. He's having some problems with his wife."
"Soon to be ex-wife," Liam muttered. "We hope."
"Oh." She'd had no idea. She'd never even met Clint's wife, Judy. They'd married in a big hurry two years ago and Clint rarely mentioned her when he called or emailed. But now it made sense that Liam might be staying with this neighbor rather than with his older brother, whose domestic life was apparently in a state of flux.
But what was Erica supposed to do?
The Brennan fellow again seemed to sense what she was thinking. He spoke slowly. "I suppose...you and Liam can move back into your own house." He glanced toward Liam. "Now that your sister's here, you can go back to your own place, your own room and everything."
Liam brightened. "You're right. Not that I can't take care of myself perfectly well," the teen assured Erica. "I make my own meals and do laundry and everything. But people would freak out if I were living all on my own."
Hold the phone. What was going on here? They were moving her in, setting herself up as some sort of parent. She'd only thought of staying a week at the very most. In fact, she had a client scheduled for next Wednesday.
But it was impossible to miss the relief in Liam's eyes. He was no longer alone, depending on the kindness of strangers. Besides, what could she say? Oh, no, perfect stranger, supposed friend of my father, you take responsibility for my little brother, not me?
She met eyes with the other man. Once again, her imagination had him judging her, as if he were somehow in possession of the facts: she was the absent sister, left Liam home when he was only five years old with an uncertainly sober father, barely laid eyes on the kid, who was now about to lose his only parent. And even now she was hesitating about being the responsible adult in the house when clearly nobody else was currently available.
Irritation crept through her like an ant army. What about Alex? Shouldn't the Brennan Swift of her imagination also condemn the oldest brother, Alex, who'd left home and had not only never looked back but had never even contacted anybody, had completely disappeared? After setting himself up as the one they all looked up to? Erica didn't even know if he was still alive.
But Alex wasn't here and she was.
The irritation crawling through her might have originated around Brennan, but it was quickly circling around herself. Man up, sister. You are here.
"Good idea," Erica said, looking the officious Brennan neighbor Swift straight in the eye. "Why don't you go get your things, Liam? We'll go home together."
~~~
Brennan didn't like making snap judgments about people, but as he watched Erica turn toward his front door as though to lead Liam out—without actually giving the kid time to fetch his things from Brennan's spare bedroom and clearly wanting to make a point that Brennan was unneeded—he didn't think it was any longer a snap judgment to dislike the woman.
Her whole attitude was stiff and standoffish. True, Brennan was a stranger to her, but why was that? Because she'd deliberately absented herself from her father and rest of her family for the last ten years. Otherwise, she'd know how close Brennan was to Richard, Clint, and Liam.
So close that he'd promised Richard to see to Liam's welfare. Now Brennan intended to do just that. Even if he'd suggested Erica take Liam home, that didn't mean he was bowing out of the situation, not until he could make sure this would work out to Liam's advantage.
"All right, then, Liam. Let's go get your things from upstairs," Brennan declared.
She stopped her compact, athletic body and whirled, her mouth open.
Brennan turned away before she could think of some reason she needed to whisk Liam away without his clothes and his school supplies.
"Ah, I didn't have time to clean up or anything," Liam blurted, hurrying up the stairs first.
"Don't worry about it," Brennan gently told him, following up the wine-colored stair runner. "Nobody's grading you on neatness this week."
"Yeah, but—" At the top of the stairs already, Liam rushed down the hall toward the guest bedroom where he'd been staying for the past week. "There's neatness and then there's really-big-mess," he called back on his way.
Chuckling, Brennan slowed down to give Liam time to do whatever he thought he had to do before they saw the bedroom. He could hear Erica deciding to follow. Without looking, he could sense her wariness and resentment.
She was not what Brennan had imagined based on what little Richard had told him about his second-born, the daughter. She was small for the track star her father claimed she'd been, though not tiny. She was slender and pretty, with a boyish cut to her light brown hair. Brennan had not imagined pretty.
In the spare bedroom, Brennan found Liam standing in the middle of the floor and looking around him at what was not, in fact, that big of a mess. As was the case so often recently, he looked completely lost.
"Where's that duffel bag we used before?" Brennan asked. "Oh, here." He bent to snag the old canvas bag out from under the bed. "I'll throw your clothes in while you get your computer stuff together."
Liam's gaze went to the laptop and assorted electronic boxes of indeterminate employment that were sitting on the desk. "Okay." Once given direction, he was able to get moving, closing the laptop and unplugging wires.
If Erica hadn't shown up, Brennan would have let the kid simply keep everything where it was...forever. Over the four years he'd known the family, Brennan had come to consider Liam a younger brother. And Richard was definitely a second father.
"Is the stuff in the drawers yours, too?" Erica asked, moving toward the bureau.
"What? Oh, yeah." Liam was under the desk, unplugging equipment from the wall.
"Here." Erica lifted a pile of shirts and brought it to the duffel bag Brennan held.
Her nearness gave him a hit of her feminine presence, the quantity of physical energy lying just under the surface. He had to admit she had a certain animal appeal. A lot of it. Brennan leaned in the opposite direction to grab a sweater from the bed.
It probably wasn't fair that her appeal increased his negative opinion of her.
Once Liam's clothes had been thrown into the duffel bag and, between Liam and Erica, they'd collected all his electronics and his school backpack, the three of them tramped down the stairs, out the door and across the two driveways over to the Carmichael residence.
A few lights were on in the house, set on a timer by Brennan to make it look like the place wasn't deserted. But to Brennan it looked that way anyhow. This time Richard was not coming back.
"My keys," Liam muttered, swinging his backpack down onto the porch. "Where'd I put my keys?" He opened four zippers before he found them.
Despite the emotional chaos of his father's illness, Liam had gotten straight A's on his fall report card two months ago, but the simple things in life seemed to overwhelm him.
After a certain amount of fumbling, Liam got the key in the door and opened it. "There," he breathed in obvious relief. Grabbing up his backpack, he went in eagerly.
Brennan was set to follow Erica, who was holding the miscellaneous electronic boxes, but she abruptly stopped on the other side of the threshold. Brennan saw her look around her, her body language showing shock.
He didn't think there was anything particularly shocking about the checkerboard wallpaper, the polished brass wall sconce, or the Indian rug over the parquet wood floor—but he had a sudden insight regarding the source of her astonishment. During the time Brennan had known Richard, the older man had taken pride in his house and yard, spending hours trimming the lawn, fixing the handcrafted fence, or putting up new light fixtures.
He'd probably not been much of a handyman during the years he'd spent drunker than a skunk, when Erica had lived here.
"Let's put my stuff in my room upstairs," Liam told Erica. "Then you can choose whichever of the other rooms you want. They're all clean—the maid was here a week ago."
"Okay." Erica was staring at the fancy chandelier that hung over the front stair.
A dollop of sympathy dropped into Brennan's negative judgment. From what Richard had admitted to him, Brennan knew her childhood had not been easy, far from it. She no doubt had good reason to own a prickly personality. She probably had some cause to behave with ill nature under the current circumstances.
Perhaps some of his irritation with her was actually directed toward himself. She made him look at his own past with eyes he'd rather not use.
With a slow shake of her head, Erica finally started after Liam up the stairs.
In Liam's bedroom, Brennan, entering after the other two, lowered the duffel bag onto the bed.
Liam was already reconnecting his computer equipment.
"What about your things?" Brennan asked Erica, who was now staring at the braided floor rug.
"Hm?" She blinked and looked up.
"Can I help you unload your things from your car?"
"Oh, no. That's okay, I can—" She abruptly stopped, perhaps catching the expression Brennan wore. Correctly, she read he would consider it weakness on her part to spurn such a benign offer. Straightening, she said. "Sure. The car's parked right out front. I'll go open it up."
She wasn't stupid. Brennan was glad of that as he followed her back down the stairs. He wasn't quite as pleased with the additional hit of male interest he felt as he watched her descend the stairs, her movements spare and controlled. Probably the balance of his irritation with her came from her attractiveness. He didn't want to feel attracted.
At the curb sat a gently aged mini-SUV. She clicked the locks open and reached into the back for a medium-sized suitcase.
Their eyes met as she handed it to him. The size of the suitcase said she hadn't planned to stay long.
Her chin lifted in a defensive gesture.
The gesture made Brennan feel slightly guilty. Who was he to judge or dislike her? He could understand why she hadn't come home since she'd left. He could even understand why she'd only packed for a short visit, just long enough to bid her father the briefest possible goodbye.
Clearing his throat, he took her suitcase. "I doubt there's any food in the house. I'm happy to run you and Liam to the market."
"Thank you, but I remember where the grocery store is. Anyway, I'll probably simply get takeout tonight."
The brush-off was clear. I don't need you. But then, as he was turning away, he felt a touch on his arm.
A small shock went through him, as though he'd connected with a wool blanket on a dry day. Disguising the odd sensation, he turned back to give her a questioning look.
She quickly retracted her hand. In the light from the front porch, Brennan could see her prickly mask go transparent. Beneath it showed her fear and vulnerability. She bit her lower lip. "I don't know if you could tell me— But do you think we should go to the hospital right away? I have no idea...how bad things are."
Something melted in his chest. Maybe this was the real woman, someone who admitted she had feelings and cared. "I think you have time. Liam and I were there earlier, before I brought him home for a break and to get some homework done. Matters seemed fairly stable. I think you can settle in and have dinner first."
"Oh, okay. Thanks." She released her hold on her lower lip and frowned. "So, you really are friends with my father?"
Her obvious disbelief melted his moment of softness. Surely she was aware that Richard hadn't touched a drink in twelve years. Surely she could guess he might be a decent human being when alcohol wasn't drowning his brain. As a matter of fact, meeting Richard was what had decided Brennan to make a go of becoming branch manager here at Livestrength Sports equipment, who'd encouraged him to buy the branch and create his own brand, Diehard, two years ago. He'd helped Brennan restart his own life and succeed.
"We're good friends," he now told Erica and heard the huskiness in his voice. Tilting his head, he decided to simply say it. "He isn't the same person you knew."
Her nostrils flared. "You think I don't know what he's like when he's sober?" She sounded bitter. "But I also know what it's like when he falls off the wagon. And I don't ever want to be around again when that happens."
Twelve years of sobriety, treated like a fluke. All the upstanding, decent things Richard had done during that time— Brennan narrowed his eyes. "One way or another, you're unlikely to see that happen."
Clearly brought up short, she stared at him with widened eyes.
He saw he might as well have kicked her. He felt as if he had. That had been a low blow, even if it felt like it had been warranted. Which it probably hadn't been. Richard himself had never blamed either of his two oldest children for writing him off.
But Brennan didn't seem able to stay honest with himself when she castigated her father. He couldn't seem to help taking it personally.
"Here, I'll take the suitcase." She easily wrested it from his grasp. Walking swiftly, she left him behind and stalked toward the house.
Feeling a mixture of anger and embarrassment, Brennan followed in her wake. The woman was entitled to whatever feelings she had; he hadn't needed to try throwing guilt into the mix. Also, she had a superior claim for authority over Liam. At the very least, he should have played his cards better.
She pushed open the unlocked door. Brennan was sure she intended to go inside and then close it in his face. That would not be ideal. He wasn't yet sure Liam would be okay in this new situation.
Just as Erica was on the inside of the door, on the point of turning around to close it, the telephone inside the house rang.
Her eyes rose and hit Brennan's.
"Hello?"
They both heard Liam answer the phone. They both waited, silent, until the boy came up to the front door with the kitchen handset to his ear.
Liam's face was pale. "It's the hospital. They think we should come now."