by Lisa Jackson
Or devastated. Maybe worse than she was when you arrived down here, Santini. Boy, have you made a mess of things. The worst part of it was that, he, too, would feel the pain of separation, he’d started to think not only of Christina as his little girl, but of Stephen as his son.
“I’m your uncle, Stephen. I care.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true.”
Stephen’s jaw worked. He stood his ground, his fists clenched, his nostrils flared, more bravado than conviction straightening his spine.
“Now, why don’t you tell me about Isaac Wells.”
“Nothin’ to tell.”
J.D. caught his arm. “Just start at the beginning. And this time, no lies.”
“Let go of me!” Stephen said, immediately defensive.
J.D. released his grip. “I just don’t want you to run off like your friend.”
“Miles Dean isn’t my friend.”
That was one for the good guys.
“That’s a start. Tell me about Isaac Wells and his car keys.”
“I can’t.” Stephen shook his head and his skin turned the color of chalk.
“Sure you can.”
“Oh, gosh,” Stephen said, chewing on his lower lip anxiously. “You—you don’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Stephen blinked rapidly. “Miles will kill me.”
“He’s not going to kill anyone.”
“You don’t know him. Or . . . or his dad.”
“Ray Dean?” J.D.’s ears pricked up. “What about him?”
“He’s back in town and he’s . . . mean.”
“Either talk to me or to the police.” J.D. felt sorry for the kid. Obviously he was in big trouble, wedged between the proverbial rock and a hard place, but J.D. couldn’t help him if he didn’t know the truth.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Stephen hesitated. He rubbed one elbow with his other hand and nearly jumped out of his skin when Charcoal galloped out from under the porch. “Oh, God.”
“Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
Stephen looked over his shoulder and his eyes were wide with fear. “You don’t understand. If I say anything to you, or to the police . . . they’ll hurt Mom and Chrissie.”
J.D. saw red. “Who?” he demanded. “Who’ll hurt them?”
“No one.” The poor kid’s voice cracked on the lie as he tried to backtrack, but J.D. grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
“Listen to me, Stephen. No matter what you’re involved in, no matter what happened, I’m going to help you. You got that?” When the boy didn’t answer, but just looked at the ground, J.D. shook him again. “You got that?”
“Yeah.” Stephen nodded.
“Okay. So what’s going on? Who’s threatening to hurt your mother and sister?”
Stephen swallowed hard. His lips were chalk white. “It’s Miles,” he said. “Miles and his dad.”
“So Ray’s involved.”
“No . . . yes . . . Oh, man . . .” Stephen shoved his hair from his eyes. “He’s . . . he’s been in jail before and he . . . he’s the one who wanted Mr. Wells’s keys.”
“Why?” he asked, turning the information over in his head.
Stephen shook his head. “I dunno. He heard I stole the keys once and drove one of the cars. Miles told him and then Miles dared me to do it again and bring him the car and keys, but I didn’t. I messed up, stole the keys but didn’t get the car and . . . and . . . Well . . . I decided I couldn’t be a part of whatever it was, so I didn’t turn over the keys. I thought I’d get rid of ’em, but then Mr. Wells disappeared and . . .”
“And what?” J.D. demanded. The kid couldn’t clam up on him now.
“I . . . I just hid ’em. Miles got real mad. Beat me up. Told me he and his dad were going to hurt Mom and Chrissie if I didn’t give ’em the keys, and then the police came and . . . and I got in big trouble.”
J.D. held Stephen at arm’s length and looked him straight in the eye. He felt a connection with this boy, his brother’s son, who was so much like him. “Well, Stephen,” he said, his jaw rock-hard, “I think it’s time to get you out.”
* * *
Carrying a sleeping Christina, Tiffany tried to open the back door, but it was locked.
“What in the world?” she wondered, balancing her daughter as she fumbled in her purse, fishing for her keys. Stephen should have been home hours ago and J.D. was normally around at this time in the evening. She glanced around the driveway and noticed that his Jeep wasn’t in its usual spot.
Good.
Then she wouldn’t have to deal with him.
A part of her ached to be with him, to relive the lovemaking they’d shared, and yet she still needed time to think, to sort things out.
Christina yawned and opened her eyes.
“We’re home, sweetie,” Tiffany said as she found the key and managed to unlock the door. “Stephen?” she called, but no one answered. “Great.” She glanced at the table and saw no note, but didn’t panic. Not yet.
“Let’s get you upstairs and into bed,” she told her daughter, and for once the little girl didn’t protest. Within twenty minutes Christina was washed and tucked into her bed, snoring softly and sucking her thumb as Tiffany turned out the lights.
The house seemed empty without her son.
And without J.D.
She walked outside where evening had settled and down the flight of steps to Mrs. Ellingsworth’s apartment. The door opened after the first rap of her knuckles against the panels. Curlers were wound through the older woman’s gray hair and her face, devoid of any makeup, appeared older than usual. “Sorry to bother you, but I was looking for Stephen.”
“Isn’t he here?” Ellie frowned thoughtfully.
“Not that I can tell.”
“Well, he was. He and that other boy—you know the one I mean, the hooligan—well, he looks like one—”
“Miles Dean.” Tiffany’s heart nearly stopped. There was more trouble simmering in the summer night. She could feel it.
“The older Dean boy, if that’s the one,” Ellie said, nodding. “Never can keep those two straight. Anyway, he and Stephen were here earlier. I saw them through the kitchen window.” She pointed to the window in question. Though her unit was on the lowest level of the house, it still got natural light as the lot sloped sharply on the north side.
Tiffany tried to forestall an inevitable feeling of dread. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Oh—” She snapped her fingers. “Did you ask J.D. where Stephen went?”
“He’s not here, either.”
“Isn’t he? Funny, I thought I heard his Jeep earlier. Oh, well.” They chatted for a few minutes more, then said goodnight. Tiffany, lost in thought and worry, walked up the steps and was rounding the corner to the backyard when she caught sight of Luke Gates locking the door to his upper-story unit of the carriage house.
He offered her a slight smile. “Evenin’.”
“Hi, Luke,” she said and then asked, “Have you seen Stephen anywhere?”
Luke gave a curt nod. “Earlier. With J.D. and that scruffy-lookin’ friend of his.”
“Miles?” What did J.D. have to do with it? Worry set her teeth on edge.
“Don’t know his name.” Luke flashed her a crooked smile. “I just caught a glimpse of them earlier, then heard a truck or some kind of rig pull out. Thought it was probably XJ.D.’s Jeep.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
As Luke climbed into his old truck, Tiffany headed back to the house. What was going on? She felt a dread, as cold as a north wind, cut through her soul as she walked up the stairs, checked on a sleeping Christina, then made her way to Stephen’s room.
It was cleaner than usual, thanks to his efforts during the period when he’d been grounded, but she found no hint in the scattered CDs and magazines as to where he’d gone. He’s probably with J.D. He’ll be all right, Tiffa
ny tried to convince herself as she ran her finger over the top shelf of his bookcase and noticed the little car he’d fashioned from wood and entered a race with years ago when Philip had been alive. But Miles Dean is involved and that spells trouble. Trouble with a capital T.
Having found no clues to Stephen’s whereabouts, she left his room and hesitated in the hallway. The door to the third floor had been left open, was slightly ajar. Beckoning. Though she felt a sense of guilt for invading J.D.’s privacy, she mounted the stairs to the loft tucked under the eaves. She took one step into his room, turned on the lights and tensed when she saw his duffel bag, fully packed, standing ready near the door. He was leaving. Just like that. After they’d made love.
Though she’d known it would happen, had tried to prepare herself, a part of her withered in pain. Why had she expected anything different? He was just a man, and like most of the men in her life, he was leaving her.
Don’t dwell on it. Buck up.
But the dull ache around her heart only increased. She walked to the window to look through the branches of the night-darkened tree when she noticed his briefcase, open, and a document spread upon the table.
Don’t look at it.
But she saw her name—and Philip’s—on the contract.
The contract?
With trembling fingers she picked up the pages and read each of the pages. Slowly, as she sifted through the legalese, she understood the reason why J.D. Santini had come to Bittersweet. It wasn’t just to buy a winery. It wasn’t to see his niece and nephew. It wasn’t to check on her. No, the reason he’d shown his face down here and rented an apartment from her was because he was checking out his father’s investment in this house, this Victorian manor she’d called home. Her heaven.
Only it wasn’t hers.
Santini Brothers owned the lion’s share of it. Philip had signed away most of what she had assumed was her equity. Nothing much was left.
And it had been J.D.’s job to come and give her the news. Only he’d chickened out.
Tears burned behind her eyes. Betrayal raged through her soul. How had she trusted him? Believed in him? Made love to him?
Because you’re a fool for that man. You always have been and you always will be.
Her knees turned to jelly and she sagged against the table. The first tears began to rain from her eyes and she heard the sound of an engine. Swallowing hard, she looked out the window and braced herself as J.D.’s Jeep came into view. Her fingers curled over the damning papers and she forced her leaden legs to move. It was time to have it out, once and for all.
Chapter Twelve
“Who do you think you are?” Tiffany flew across the dry grass like an avenging angel. Her eyes were as bright as twenty-four-karat gold. her face flushed, her beautiful lips compressed into a furious pout, her black hair streaming behind her. In one hand she had papers, legal papers, clutched into a wad.
J.D.’s stomach tightened. Every muscle in his body tensed as he climbed out of the Jeep. He knew why she was furious. Stephen didn’t.
“Mom—”
“Go into the house, Stephen,” she ordered.
“But—”
“You heard me!” So angry she was shaking, she stopped at the Jeep’s fender. Her eyes, luminous and burning with wrath, focused on J.D. “Your uncle and I have something important to discuss.”
“We took care of it,” Stephen said.
“You what?” Her perfectly arched eyebrows drew together.
“At the police station—”
“She’s not talking about the Isaac Wells case,” J.D. clarified.
Tiffany stumbled backward a step. “Isaac Wells? Police?” She looked at her son for the first time. “What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” Stephen asked.
“I think we’d all better sit down.” J.D. reached for Tiffany’s arm because she looked as if she might fall over, but she recoiled as if the mere thought of his touch sickened her.
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Stephen had a long talk with Sergeant Pearson down at the police station.”
“Oh, God—” Her voice failed her. She blinked and clasped a hand to her chest. The papers—the damning deed and note—fluttered to the ground, suddenly forgotten.
“It’s all right, Mom,” Stephen said.
“All right?”
“Stephen explained what’s happening. Why he’s been acting the way he has, what the deal was with old Isaac’s keys,” J.D. told her as he reached down for the note and deed. Folding them together, he added, “I’d venture to guess that right about now, Ray Dean and his son Miles are being questioned.”
“Ray Dean?” she repeated. “What’s he got to do with anything?” She licked her lips. “I knew he had been released but . . . is he involved in this?”
“It looks that way.”
“Oh, Lord.” Her legs seemed to wobble again.
J.D. reached for her arm and this time she didn’t back away. He helped her into the kitchen and noticed how homey the room appeared with its hanging pots, fragrant herbs, and children’s artwork on display. He’d miss this place, he realized, feeling a pang of regret. He’d miss the house, the kids and Tiffany. God, how he’d miss her.
“Tell your mother everything you told the police and me,” J.D. said, once Tiffany and Stephen were seated at the table. He poured her a glass of water, which she ignored, and he wished there was something, anything he could do to erase her pain. Though she was relieved that her son was only a minor player in the drama unfolding around Isaac Wells’s disappearance, he was involved nonetheless.
“So . . . so Miles told me if I didn’t do what he said and get him the keys and the car, his old man would hurt you, Mom. You and Chrissie.” Tears filled Stephen’s eyes and he looked more boy than man at the moment. Tiffany couldn’t bear to see his pain. “I thought I should try to protect you.”
“Oh, honey, you didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, Mom, I did. Dad wasn’t around, so who was going to take care of you?”
Her heart swelled and she got up from her chair, pulled her son to his feet and embraced him. Tears ran down her face and she felt his frightened sobs against her shoulder. “You don’t ever have to worry about taking care of me, Stephen. I’m the one who does the taking-care-of around here. It’s my job. It’s what I want to do.” She stared at J.D. over her son’s shoulder. “I’m in charge, honey,” she whispered, kissing Stephen’s temple and feeling the scratch of new whiskers against her chin.
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry,” J.D. said. Leaning against the counter, his long legs stretched in front of him, his hands at his sides supporting his weight against the counter’s edge, he looked damnably sexy, but Tiffany told herself she was immune. Never again would he get to her. “The police have zeroed in on the Deans. No one knows for sure what’s happening with Isaac Wells yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I called Jarrod Smith and he’s working on the case independently. My guess is that the old man will turn up in a few days.”
“You think Ray Dean’s held him hostage?”
“Possibly.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“Not yet” He pushed himself upright. “The important thing is Stephen is out of it. His testimony will lead the police in the right direction. Pearson called his juvenile counselor and in light of the situation—that he was coerced, but then came clean—the local authorities will talk to a judge and expunge any charges, no matter how minor, against Stephen.”
Tiffany’s heart lightened. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”
“J.D. did it,” Stephen said with something akin to awe for his uncle in his voice. “He’s the one that insisted I get a break because of all this.”
“Is that right?” She looked at the man before her with new eyes.
“I have taken my share of criminal law,” he admitted, “though it was a long time ago.”
“I guess
I owe you a debt of thanks.”
“Do you?” He pulled the wrinkled documents from his pocket and she stiffened. The note.
“Listen, honey, why don’t you go up to your room?” Tiffany said to her son. “Uncle Jay and I have something to discuss.”
“What?” Stephen demanded, looking from one to the other. “What?”
“It’s personal,” Tiffany said. “I’ll explain later.”
Stephen hesitated, but J.D. nodded. “Go on up. This’ll only take a minute or two.”
Not certain, Stephen started for the swinging doors. He paused just as he reached them, then studied the floor for a few seconds. “Does this have anything to do with me?”
“No!” they said in unison.
Stephen managed a thin smile. “Good I thought maybe I was in trouble again.” He disappeared through the doors and Tiffany heard his footsteps on the stairs. A few seconds later he’d tuned up his guitar and notes were wafting through the floorboards.
“I should tell him not to wake Christina,” she said, but decided it wasn’t the time. Instead, she turned and faced the man she loved, the man who had taught her that it was all right to be done with grieving, the man who had used her so callously.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
“It’s simple. I came to Bittersweet to tell you that you don’t own the house, that Santini Brothers do. They bought Philip out to cover his gambling debts.”
Pain burned through her soul.
“So I’m tossed out? Me and the children?”
“Nope.” He tore the deed and note in half, then half again. “It’s forgiven.”
“What?”
