by Lisa Jackson
Something wasn’t right. She sensed it and began to perspire. She cracked open the windows in the kitchen nook. “You know, Jay, you’re the last person, the very last, I expected to cave in and join the family business.”
“Life has a way of not turning out the way you expect it, Tiffany. Haven’t you learned that by now?” His lips barely moved, his eyes caught hers in a breathtaking hold that she hated, and she felt the first trickle of sweat slide between her shoulder blades. Her stomach did a slow, sensual roll, reminding her of just how easy it was to fall prey to his charm.
But not now. Not again. Never.
She swallowed hard and avoided his eyes. Suddenly the kitchen was much too small. Too close. She needed a reason to break up this unexpected atmosphere of intimacy with J.D.
“Oh, gosh, it’s almost three,” she said, staring pointedly at her watch. “Christina,” she called, looking through the window and spying her daughter drawing on the side of the garage with a piece of yellow chalk. “Time for your nap.”
“No nap!” The little girl dropped the chalk.
“Excuse me,” Tiffany said, hurrying out the back door and feeling the much-needed breath of a breeze touch her face and bare arms. It had been a long, strained week capped by a hellish day speaking with Stephen’s counselor. On top of it all, she’d learned that her father—John Cawthorne—actually expected her to show up at his wedding after thirty-three years of pretending she didn’t exist. Fat chance!
Charcoal, who had been rolling over in a spot of sunlight, scrambled to his feet and dashed under the porch. “Come on, sweetheart,” Tiffany cajoled her daughter as she picked up broken bits of chalk and stuffed them into the tattered pack.
“I not tired.”
“Sure you are.”
“No, I not!” Christina’s lower lip protruded and she folded her chubby arms across her chest.
“Well, Bub and Louie are tired and they’re waiting upstairs in bed for you. It’ll just be for a little while.” She hoisted her daughter into her arms and Christina, still pouting, didn’t protest.
Unfortunately J.D. had watched the entire display from the kitchen window. Tiffany wished he’d just go away. She didn’t need any member of the Santini family, especially not J.D., intruding into her life right now—or ever, for that matter. She knew they all thought she hadn’t been good enough for Philip while he was alive, so they could all just go and take the proverbial leap.
She carried Christina into the back of the house, mouthed, “I’ll be back in a few minutes” to her erstwhile guest, then lugged the tired three-year-old through the hallway and up the stairs to her room.
This part of the house, aside from the addition of the bathroom, was as it had been for nearly a hundred years and Christina’s room was a small alcove that overlooked the fruit trees in the backyard. The bedroom next door belonged to Stephen, and Tiffany’s was across the hall. There were two occupied apartments in the basement and a third one—an empty studio—on the top floor. The ground floor of the carriage house that flanked the backyard was rented, while the upper level was, at the moment, standing empty.
“There you go,” she said, as she tucked Christina under a hand-pieced quilt her grandmother had made. She arranged Bub, a floppy-eared stuffed rabbit missing one eye, and Louie, a black-masked toy raccoon, beside her daughter.
“Just a little while,” Christina insisted.
“That’s right.” Tiffany leaned over and planted a soft kiss on the little girl’s forehead. Christina, whom Tiffany had dubbed the “miracle” baby, had been an unexpected blessing three years ago, long after she and Philip had decided that one child—Stephen—was enough. Philip had two nearly-grown children from his previous marriage and he hadn’t thought it was necessary to “overpopulate the world,” especially when he’d already been “paying a fortune” in child support.
Gazing down at her daughter now, Tiffany was thankful that God had seen otherwise, and that despite the use of birth control and Philip’s lack of interest, Christina had been conceived. “Destiny,” she’d told her husband upon learning the news.
“Or a curse,” Philip had replied with a scowl. “How many kids do you think I can afford?”
“It’s just one more.”
“That you planned,” he stated flatly, insisting that she’d intentionally tricked him by not using her diaphragm. The fight had simmered for days, with Philip brooding and spending more time at the office. Philip had slept in the den for nearly two weeks, acting as if she wasn’t even in the same house with him until she’d confronted him and flown into a rage.
“I want this baby!” she’d told him. “Stephen needs a sister or brother.”
“He’s got one of each.”
“Half-siblings who don’t live with him.” She’d advanced upon him as he’d sat in his chair, holding the newspaper firmly in white-knuckled fists, his jaw set, his nostrils flared in a seething, silent rage. “I didn’t plan to have this baby, but now that it’s coming, I consider it a gift and you should, too.”
“I’m too old to be a father again.”
“But I’m not too old to be a mother. It’ll be all right,” she’d said, aching inside. She wanted this baby so badly. “I’ll make it right.”
His snort of derision and snap of the sports page had been the end of the argument.
Tiffany had been crushed by Philip’s attitude but determined to bear this child and bring it into a loving world.
Eventually, after brooding and pouting for a week or two, Philip had come to terms with the prospect of diapers, formula and interrupted sleep. He’d come home with a bouquet of spring flowers and told her that another baby, though not in his plan for the future, might be the best thing that had ever happened to him—to them and their marriage. “It’ll either keep me young or make me old real fast,” he’d said.
Tiffany felt a pang of remorse for a man she’d thought she loved, then stepped out of the room as Christina yawned and sighed softly, her eyelids slowly lowering.
J.D. was waiting for her, his hips resting against the balustrade, arms folded across his chest, jaw set with determination. As she closed the door gently behind her, he cocked a thumb at the open door to the third floor. “You’ve got an empty room upstairs.”
Obviously, he’d already checked it out.
“That’s right. I’m hoping to rent it soon.”
His grin was slow-spreading and positively wicked. “Well, Ms. Santini, I guess this is your lucky day.”
No! She steeled herself. Surely he wasn’t suggesting . . .
“That’s right, Tiff,” he said, as if reading her expression. “It just so happens I need a place to stay while I’m in town.”
No way. She couldn’t have him this close. He was too intrusive, too damned sexy. But then, he always had been.
“Sorry, Jay, but I don’t rent week to week, or, uh, month to month for that matter. I, uh, always insist upon a six-month lease, first and last month’s rent, and both a cleaning deposit and a security deposit.”
“Do you?” One dark eyebrow lifted in mocking disbelief.
“Always.”
“Fine,” he said, his eyes gleaming as if he loved calling her bluff. “Just show me where to sign.”
Chapter Two
“This is crazy,” Tiffany muttered under her breath as she climbed the curved stairs to the top floor. J.D. followed after her, his steps uneven as he hauled his damned duffel bag and briefcase with him. As if he really intended to rent the place.
There was no way! He was the last man on earth, the last person to whom she would hand over a key to her house.
“A little crazy,” he conceded as he reached the top and tossed his bag onto the stripped mattress of the antique brass bed. She saw the white lines around the corners of his mouth and watched as he limped slightly to the French doors that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the backyard then set his battered briefcase on the floor.
“You should try to find something on
the ground level.”
“Should I?” he mocked, then tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Don’t worry about it, Tiff.”
“Why do you need a place in Bittersweet, anyway?”
“I told you, the winery—”
“I know, but why here? Why not in California? Sonoma or Napa.”
“Dad likes to do business in Oregon.”
“There are lots of vineyards in the Willamette Valley, closer to Portland.” Her mind was spinning. What would it mean to have the Santinis here, in her hometown, her place of refuge? She’d thought when she’d moved here, to this house that Philip had bought as an investment, that she would have the time and distance she needed to start over, to keep from thinking about the pain, about the guilt.
“He thinks the climate is better here for what he wants to do. He’s already got a couple of wineries up north.”
“I know,” she interjected, remembering all too well the rolling hills of Santini Brothers’ vineyards, the place she’d met her future brother-in-law.
J.D. lifted a shoulder as if it made no difference to him. “As I said, I’m just checking out some possibilities.”
“And in the meantime you thought you might stop by and look in on me, see if I’m being the model mother I’m supposed to be,” she snapped angrily. For as long as she could remember, Carlo Santini hadn’t trusted her. He had thought she wanted his son in order to get a chunk of the Santini money. What the Santini family hadn’t understood was that when she’d met Philip, it wasn’t his family’s wealth that had attracted her, but his aura of sophistication, his charm, his way of making her feel loved for the first time in her life. She’d been young, naive and impetuous. Well . . . no longer.
And as for Philip’s money, that had become a moot point: there wasn’t much.
“No one’s ever accused you of being a poor mother,” J.D. said, turning the crank to open one of the windows. A breeze, fresh with the scents of cut grass and roses, whispered into the slope-ceilinged room.
“Just a lousy wife.”
He didn’t respond.
“I know what they thought, J.D.,” she said, unable to leave the subject alone. “I heard them say that I was looking for a father figure, that I needed an older man because I didn’t grow up knowing my dad.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I loved your brother. End of story. Not that it’s anyone’s business.”
His jaw tightened.
“Just because I was raised by a single mother didn’t mean I was insecure or needed an older man to take care of me.” She swiped a speck of dust from the coffee table and hoped she didn’t show her true emotions. Inwardly she cringed at the accusation. Especially this week, the subject of her own parentage was difficult enough to consider when she was alone with her thoughts. When anyone else brought up the taboo topic, she saw red.
“No reason to get so defensive.”
“No?” she challenged. crossing the short space separating them. “Then what’s the real reason you’re in Bittersweet, Jay? And don’t give me any garbage about the winery, okay? There are dozens of little towns down here around the border. Some in Oregon and more in California. It’s more than just bad luck that you’re here.”
His eyes, gray as the dawn, held hers and she braced herself. What was it about J.D. that seemed to bring out the worst in her? Whenever she was around him, her usually smoothed feathers ruffled easily. One disbelieving look from his suspicious eyes and she was itching for a fight, more than ready to defend herself and her children.
“Look, do you really want to rent this place?” She waved widely, taking in all four-hundred square feet of living space. It was sparse, with only room for a bed, bureau, table, love seat and television. The kitchen consisted of a small stove, refrigerator and sink tucked into an alcove. The bathroom was confining and bare bones with its narrow stall shower, toilet and sink.
“It’ll do,” he allowed in that drawl she found so irritating.
“But you won’t be down here long, so why bother?”
He studied his fingers for a second, then looked at her again. “Maybe you’re right, Tiff. Maybe I just want to be close to you.” He eyed her carefully and her breath caught in her throat.
“For all the wrong reasons,” she said, then regretted the words.
“Are there any right ones?”
“No!” she said so quickly that she blushed. “Of . . . of course there aren’t.” Clearing her throat, she added, “Well, if that’s the way you want it—”
“I do.”
He was too close. Perspiration broke out along her spine. This wasn’t going to work. “Then I guess there’s nothing more to say but make yourself at home.”
“I will.”
Why she found those last words so damning, she didn’t know, but as she hurried down the stairs she was struck by the feeling that her tightly woven little world was unraveling by the minute. First, as a widow and single mother, she had to deal with an adolescent boy who was on the verge of trouble. Possibly big trouble. Next, she’d suddenly been faced with her biological father—a man she’d been told throughout most of her growing-up years was dead. Now that man, John Cawthorne, was trying to become part of her life. And he didn’t walk alone. No, the man carried baggage and lots of it in the form of two other daughters—Tiffany’s half-sisters, whom she didn’t know and wasn’t sure she cared to. And lastly, J.D. and the Santini family. Too much. It was all too much.
“Wonderful,” she muttered in the second-floor hallway, where she peeked in on a napping Christina before continuing downstairs. “Just great.”
Why right now, when everything in her life was spinning out of control, did she have to face J.D. again? The mercurial and volatile nature of her emotions concerning her brother-in-law had been the bane of her existence ever since she’d married into the Santini family. Nothing would change now that J.D. had moved in. In fact, she was certain that things would only get worse.
* * *
“I just don’t get it,” Stephen said as he tucked his skateboard into a corner of the back porch. The board was battered and scratched, the decals for Nirvana and Metallica nearly worn off, the wheels not quite as round as they’d once been. He yanked open the screen door and walked into the kitchen where Tiffany was trying and failing to balance her checkbook while cooking dinner. “Why’s he here?” Stephen didn’t bother hiding the sneer in his voice or his dislike of his uncle, a man he thought was intruding into his life.
“Business.”
“Yeah, monkey business if ya ask me.” Stephen wiped his hands down the front of his jeans and tossed his too-long hair from his eyes. “I don’t like this.”
Neither do I, Tiffany was tempted to say, but held her tongue. Her feelings for J.D. were far more complicated than simple like or dislike. Too complicated to examine very closely. “He won’t be around that much,” she said as daylight was beginning to give way to dusk. She snapped her checkbook closed and put the statement back into its envelope until she had more time to go through it. It wasn’t that she couldn’t make the figures add up, it was that it seemed impossible to stretch her salary and the rent she collected far enough to cover all her expenses.
“Good,” Stephen grunted, eyeing the barbecue sauce that was simmering on the stove.
The temperature still hovered near eighty and a hummingbird was flitting near the open blossoms of the clematis that draped over the eaves of the back porch. Bees droned while a woodpecker drilled loudly in a nearby oak tree and the muted sound of traffic reached her ears.
“Is he eatin’ with us?” Stephen asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
“He is your uncle,” she reminded him gently. And he’s your brother-in-law, whether you like it or not, she told herself. J.D. had signed his six-month lease, given her a check and started carting his few belongings up the stairs. His limp was noticeable, but just barely, and she wondered if his brush with death had b
een the cause for his reconciliation with his father. Or had it been because Carlo had lost his eldest son?
Her heart squeezed at the thought of the accident that had taken Philip’s life. Guilt, ever her companion, encroached upon her, wrapping its fingers around her heart. She had loved Philip once, but it had been such a long time ago.
“So why did you have to see the counselor today?” Stephen asked for the first time. He rubbed one elbow with the fingers of the opposite hand, a nervous trait he’d developed from the time he was four years old.
“She just wanted to talk to me.”
The cat cried at the back door.
“Come on in, you,” Tiffany said with a smile, then noticed as she held open the screen door that the small tear in the mesh was getting larger. Sooner or later it would have to be fixed. Charcoal streaked inside.
“I know she wanted to talk to you. But why?” Deftly plucking a bunch of grapes from a bowl on the table, Stephen leaned insolently against the doorframe and began plopping the juicy bits of fruit into his mouth.
This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, because deep down, though she would never admit it, she was scared. Scared to death.
“Well, she started out by asking about you—you know, just checking on how things were going.”
“She just saw me the other day.”
“I know, but she had a few more questions. She’s worried about you, Stephen, and frankly, so am I.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
If only she could believe it. Oh, Lord, how she wanted to trust her boy. “She had a few questions about your relationship with Mr. Wells.”
He froze for a second, then spat the seed from his grape into the sink. “I worked for him. Big deal.”
