“WHY DIDN’T YOU ASK him some questions?”
“Jesus, Carla. The man was a wreck, worried about his kid.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, and pulled the edge of the yellow-and-white curtain back so she could watch Mr. Charm and his daughter walk back to the Garvey cottage. The man matched his steps to the child’s, and even from a distance Carla could tell that he was talking to her. Probably warning her away from the dangerous puppies—and any opportunity for fun.
“Poor kid,” she muttered.
“She looked well fed and well dressed to me.”
“Are you serious?” She dropped the curtain and turned around to glare at her brother. “Her hair looked like he took a weed whacker to it. And please. I mean, would Beth ever let little Tina out of the house in a mismatched outfit?”
Tony’s gaze dropped to the surface of his coffee. He began stirring it as though it required all of his concentration. “No. Beth’s a great mother.…”
She frowned and watched him, suddenly noticing the body language she’d missed before. He sat hunched at her kitchen table, one hand gripping the stoneware mug, the other still using a spoon to churn the coffee hard enough (had it been milk) to make butter.
Carla loved all of her brothers, but that didn’t make her blind to their flaws. And God knew, they all had plenty of them. But brooding had never been one of Tony’s. Until today, apparently. Leaning back against the yellow-tiled counter, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“There’s a ‘but’ hanging at the end of that sentence.”
He glanced at her. “No, there isn’t.”
Hmm. Maybe she wasn’t so far off the night before when she’d guessed that there was trouble in paradise. Tony and Beth had been high school sweethearts. Prom King and Queen. The captain of the football team and the head cheerleader. They were, in fact, every odious high school cliché ever written. And they’d managed to carry that right on through college. It would have been so easy to hate them both. Except for the fact that they’d been in love since the moment they met in freshman year.
They’d been the golden couple, and seeing them marry and have a baby and begin to live their happily-ever-after was … comforting, somehow. Especially to someone like Carla—whose legendary fiascoes in the romance department made Edgar Allan Poe’s tales read like Harry Potter.
Like the time she decided to meet Jim Hennesey in Florida for the weekend. Hurricane Hilda swept through and ripped their little beach shack right down to its last palm frond. With them in it. Or the time she was sweet-talked into the backseat of Bob Bennet’s Camaro. Just when things started to get interesting, the beam of a cop’s flashlight landed on her naked behind and Bob shoved her away so fast, he swore later that he’d broken “it” and was now a eunuch. Then there was the blind date from hell. She arrived at the restaurant to find her “date” already there and buying drinks for the sock puppet he wore on his left hand. Of course, the sock insisted that Carla buy her own drinks. Which she had. Several of them, as she recalled. But she’d drawn the line at sharing her steak with the puppet.
She shivered at the memory. But it wasn’t just her disastrous dating habits keeping her from diving into the singles pool. It was more that Carla just couldn’t bring herself to care deeply about anyone right now. There was just too clear a chance for being hurt. And her heart was still a bit too bruised to take another hit at the moment.
Nope. Think I’ll pass on romance, thanks.
But Tony and Beth were different.
Picking up the coffeepot, she carried it to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down opposite her oldest brother. Refilling his cup and then hers, she asked, “So what’s going on with you and Beth?”
His gaze shot to hers quickly. Actually too quickly. Good thing he was a cop rather than a criminal. His poker face stunk.
“Leave it alone, Carla.”
“Hey, I didn’t bring it up.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Okay, I did. But you can’t really blame me. You’re usually walking around with a huge irritating smile on your face and now—”
“Fine. I’ll smile.”
She blinked at the fierce expression on his face. “You’re baring your teeth, not smiling.”
“Whatever.” He picked up his coffee, gulped it down despite how hot it was, then shoved back from the table. Standing up, he looked down at her. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”
Carla glanced at the yellow-ducky wall clock hanging opposite her. Its battery-operated eyes rolled counterclockwise and its orange feet paddled back and forth as if swimming across the cream-colored wall. Shaking her head, she looked back at him. “Oh, yeah, it’s nearly seven-thirty. Crime wave’s about to start.”
“Funny.”
“Hey, it’s early.” She stood up, too. “Tony, if there’s anything I can do to help—”
“I don’t—we don’t need help,” he said, his voice cutting across hers like a whipcrack. She looked mad, but that was better than the glimmer of sympathetic concern he’d been reading in those brown eyes a minute ago.
Tony didn’t need sympathy. He and Beth had been together for years and that wasn’t going to change. Every married couple had arguments, he told himself, ignoring the cold, hard knot in his guts. They’d get past this. As soon as Beth stopped being so damn stubborn and started listening to reason again and … Carla was staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. And hell. Maybe he had.
“Tony.”
“Carla, for the love of God, let it go.” He headed for the kitchen door, eager to get back to work. He’d lose himself in paperwork. Chase down complaints. Anything. Hell, anything to keep from thinking about what he knew damn well was going to plague him all day. He grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and paused long enough to look at his sister.
“Does Mama know what’s going on?” she asked.
He actually paled. “God, I hope not.”
* * *
Was a steak really worth this?
Carla groaned and rethought her decision to buy meat at the small local grocer/butcher shop. Next time, she swore silently, she’d drive into Monterey. Or San Jose. Go to a regular supermarket. It would be worth the forty-mile trip just to avoid Frank Pezzini.
She glanced up. Yep. Still watching her. As he weighed Mrs. Flannery’s pork chops, he shot Carla what she guessed he thought was his sexy “hey-baby-wanna-get-lucky?” look. Oh, man. There just wasn’t enough alcohol in the world for that.
Standing about five-foot-nine, Frank was only an inch taller than her, and his broad, once-muscular chest had slipped substantially closer to his waistline. The white belt he wore strained against the chore of encircling his belly and looked as if it were about to spring loose. If it did, it would probably whip around the room taking out half the housewives of Chandler.
Which would leave her and Frank alone to repopulate the town. What a hideous thought.
To avoid any more of same, she turned her attention to the gossip flying around her like bees in a garden.
Carla glanced at Abigail Tupper. Ninety if she was a day, she wore two bright red spots of what she fondly referred to as “rouge” on her cheeks and a scarlet slash of lipstick bled into the deep wrinkles around her lips, but her nose fairly twitched with the urge to hear the latest news. Her still-sharp green eyes were fixed on her cohort, Virginia Baker. At seventy-five, Virginia wasn’t quite as spry as her former baby-sitter, but she more than made up for the lack with the efficiency of her grapevine.
“Well.” Virginia leaned in but didn’t bother to lower her voice. “I hear he’s on the lam.”
Carla muffled a snort of laughter. The old lady’d been watching too many gangster movies on AMC again.
“Really?” Abigail was fascinated by the possibilities. “And with that sweet-faced little girl, too. Such a shame.”
“No better than he should be is what I heard.”
Another country heard from, Carla thought, and let her gaze slide sideways to watch Rachel Vickers, the mayor’s wife, ooze up to join the conversation.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Rachel?”
Good question, Abigail, Carla thought, still watching Rachel.
“Well, look at him. Hiding out there in the summer cottage. Hardly ever leaves the place. And he’s been there a week.” Rachel sniffed, clutched her pocketbook a little tighter to her impressive bosom, and looked down her nose at Abigail. “Not healthy, that’s what I say. That poor child.”
Carla shifted from foot to foot and felt just the tiniest stab of sympathy for Jackson Wyatt. True, he wasn’t the friendliest man on the planet. But she knew all too well what it was like to be the juicy piece of meat being chewed on by the local cats.
“I still say he’s on the lam.” Virginia nodded so firmly, one steel gray curl dislodged itself from her sprayed solid hairdo. “Probably selling drugs.”
Carla eyed the woman, fascinated in spite of herself.
“Now, you don’t know that, Virginia,” Abigail said, dismissing that statement. “But perhaps the Ladies’ League should pay a ‘neighborly’ call on the man. Let him know that the town ladies keep a watchful eye on the goings-on around here.”
Oh, good God.
“Excellent idea. I’ll make up my famous tuna-and-pineapple casserole.” Rachel smiled and one dyed red eyebrow lifted into an arch that would have sent her husband running for the hills. “We’ll take it over there this afternoon.”
With their game plan set, the three women moved as one farther down the counter, ogling the meat. Carla was rooted to the spot. Okay, she could just butt out and let Mr. Charm suffer the pangs of not only the Ladies’ League but also Rachel’s tuna surprise. Or she could do the neighborly thing—hell, the humane thing—and warn the man that he was about to be invaded.
All right. She’d do it. Not for his sake, of course. But the image of that poor little girl trying to choke down tuna, mayonnaise, and pineapple was enough to tear her heart out.
“Carla,” Frank said, and his voice was loud enough to carry all the way back to Produce. “You’re next.” He wiggled bushy eyebrows at her, gave her a “come-hither” leer, and offered, “My chops are good today. What’dya say?”
What could she say?
“Ooooh.…” Abigail primped her thin thatch of snow-white hair and practically purred. “I do believe someone here is sweet on someone.”
Somebody shoot me.
* * *
The whole place looked like a Hollywood set.
Any minute now, Jackson expected to see Andy Taylor and Opie strolling around a corner carrying fishing poles and whistling.
Antique globed street lamps lined tidy sidewalks. Neatly trimmed trees were plunked down at regular intervals along Main Street, and at their bases, riots of flowers bloomed in dozens of colors. Storefronts crowded together, their display windows glistening in the afternoon sunlight, beckoning the teeming visitors—carrying their bulging wallets—inside.
The perfect tourist spot, Chandler, California, was far enough north that it never got too hot and just south enough to avoid snow in winter. On the coastal side of town lay the ocean, stretching out for miles in shimmering shades of blue and green. From that direction came the deep, throaty barks of the seals and the slap of waves against the rocks. On the eastern side lay a forest, in jewel tones of emerald and deep shadows creeping back to the foot of the mountains, with the sequoias just a stone’s throw away.
Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue, the kind Jackson didn’t often see back home in Chicago. A sea breeze danced in off the ocean, trailed cool fingers across his face, then raced on. Jackson tightened his hold on Reese’s hand, glanced down at his daughter, then continued on down the street. His heart ached a little at the closed, distant expression on her face, but he told himself it wouldn’t always be like this. He’d find a way this summer to reach her. And today was the first step in his—well, it wasn’t defined enough to call it a plan. Call it a scheme. A strategy.
Hell, call it like it was.
A last-ditch, desperate attempt.
And it started now. Their first foray into Chandler required something special, he told himself. Something to get the child’s mind off of visiting the puppies she hadn’t been back to see in a week.
Wryly he admitted that, though she didn’t speak, she had no trouble at all making her wishes known. She’d been bugging him about those dogs since that first morning. But they hadn’t come here to make friends with brown-eyed, sharp-tongued women and their pets. They’d come here to heal Reese. To accomplish that task, he needed his daughter focused on talking, not puppies. He just had to get her interested in the rest of the town. The beach. The forest.
Hell.
Anything.
“How about some ice cream?” he asked, spotting the oversize, double-decker cone serving as a sign in front of the ice-cream parlor.
She looked up at him and nodded.
His heart twisted and he winced with the twinge of pain. Every time he asked her a question, a part of him still waited for an answer. A spoken answer. And that same part of him was disappointed again and again. It had already been a year. A year since he’d heard her voice. Now he could hardly remember the sweet sound of it. But he had no trouble at all recalling with clarity the number of times he’d asked her to settle down. To be quiet.
Be careful what you wish for.
He inhaled sharply, caught the taste of fresh bread on the air, and told himself to stop by the local bakery before going home. Home.
The small place that he’d rented for the next three months wasn’t home. But then, their place in Chicago wasn’t home anymore, either, was it? There were too many memories. Too many ghosts. Too much pain.
Maybe he’d been stupid to stay there after Diane’s death. But he’d wanted Reese to have normalcy. Well, as much normalcy as he could provide, considering that she’d lost her mother. It had been so fast. So unexpected. But even as he thought that, he wondered if death was ever expected. Wasn’t it always sudden? Even to those who were sick for a long time, wasn’t death, when it arrived, a shock?
That last rainy morning with Diane rose up in his mind. He could almost hear her voice again. Hear the fear and then the anger in her tone. And he wondered again what might have happened if he’d done things differently.
But wondering, like wishing, wouldn’t change anything. He quickly looked up the street and, seeing that it was clear, stepped off the curb and led his daughter to the other side. Nodding to those people he passed, he barely noticed them. His mind was too full of doubts, questions. Maybe if they’d moved out right away, his little girl wouldn’t have retreated so deeply into herself. Maybe she would have turned to him as he kept hoping she would. On the other hand, he thought, throwing himself a mental bone, maybe she would have been worse off if they’d left.
Though how things could be worse, he didn’t know.
Reese suddenly pulled on his hand and stopped dead.
“What is it?” he asked, looking down to see her face wreathed in the kind of smile he saw all too rarely and her right arm extended, pointing at something off to their left.
He looked and nearly sighed.
The dog.
The golden retriever sat outside a grocery store, her head tilted, ears perked as if listening to a joke only she could hear. Well, perfect. If that dog was here, the woman, Carla Candellano, wouldn’t be far away. And he was in no mood for playing more word games with a female who looked too damn good for his peace of mind.
“Okay, Reese, I see it. But we’re going for ice cream, remember?”
She shook her head and started for the dog. He kept a tight grip on her hand, though, and despite her small body leaning forward with all its might, she didn’t move an inch. Reese looked at him over her shoulder and gave him a look that put him in mind of her mother. God. How many times had Diane shot him smile. Reese hadn’t smiled again since that morning at Carla’s place, and he just couldn’t get enough of it.
This was good.
For about ten seconds.
Then the dog’s owner stepped out of the grocer’s and looked at him.