Lover's Lane

by Jill Marie Landis

  As quickly as it began, the kiss ended. It had been short, yet achingly sweet. As innocent as a youth’s first kiss. But he wasn’t a fumbling, virginal teen. He knew exactly what he’d be missing tonight.

  Her hand slipped from his neck, her fingers might have trailed down the front of his sweater, he was too shaken to know for sure. She stepped back, clasped her hands together.

  “Thanks again for a lovely evening, Jake. Good night.”

  He didn’t even remember to say good-bye again as he moved in a fog to the car, hit the alarm release on his key ring. Slipping into the front seat, he closed the door and tightened his hands on the top of the steering wheel.

  He rested his forehead on the backs of his hands and sat there with his eyes closed for a few seconds and heard Rick Saunders’ words ringing in his head—as clearly as if Rick were sitting in the passenger’s seat.

  Hey, Montgomery! I’m getting married. Will you be my best man?

  By the time Jake started the engine and the beam from his headlights lit up her front porch, Carly was gone.

  15

  CARLY CLOSED THE FRONT DOOR IN A DAZE, TURNED OFF the lights and moved through the darkness to her studio in the enclosed back porch. She heard Jake’s car start, listened to the sound of the motor fade as he headed back up the hill toward town.

  Rubbing her arms against the chilly dampness, she looked out at the night. Above the high wall of the surrounding bluff, stars shone like glittering teardrops.

  She had shocked Jake Montgomery when she kissed him good night. She’d seen the confusion in his eyes. His expression had made it perfectly clear that the kiss wasn’t expected.

  What he didn’t know was that the spontaneous gesture had startled her as much as it had him.

  Even now she had no explanation for why she’d kissed him, except that he had been so sweet all evening, asking Chris along, treating him like a grown-up, not once patronizing him. Then when they’d returned home and she’d been shy and tongue-tied, Jake had opened up, put her at ease as he talked about his family. In her vocabulary, family had always been synonymous with disaster, hurt, and loss.

  When he told her that he had been eight years old when his father died, she’d had an urge to put her arms around him and tell him that she knew, she truly did know how much his life must have changed afterward.

  But although his father, like hers, had died when Jake was young, essentially Jake’s life had remained stable. Jake had a mother who deeply cared for him, and not only that, he spoke lovingly of his stepfather and stepsister. In fact, he had never once referred to her as anything other than “my sister Julie.”

  Over and over Carly was reminded of how different their childhood experiences had been. Jake’s world growing up would have been as foreign to her as life in some far-off country. He’d been raised in a world of family, the likes of which she had only read about or seen on TV. The kind she hoped she was creating for Chris.

  Wilt had once told her that real families were nothing like the ones she constantly watched on reruns of old black-and-white sitcoms. He’d assured her those kinds of families didn’t exist anymore, that they never really had.

  Neither did the updated versions—parents and kids merged by second marriages, step-moms and step-dads and a mixed bag of step-siblings who stood around exchanging witty banter and getting along with each other.

  It was all a crock, according to Wilt.

  But for Jake, at least, the concept of family meant something. After his father died, he still had a mother who had kept him from falling into a bottomless void of loneliness, not to mention the tangled web of social services and foster homes.

  Listening to him earlier, she’d been reminded of all she had missed.

  Lingering in the darkness of the studio, worn-out doubts and insecurities plagued her. How could she possibly pass on the concept of something as foreign as family love, loyalty, and commitment to Christopher when she never experienced them firsthand?

  “When’s Mommy coming home?”

  She was five. Skinny legs, knobby knees and elbows, blond braids, wearing a baggy sundress. She left her bike on the sizzling sidewalk and walked into the house in Albuquerque to get a drink of water.

  The sun was blistering hot, the air as dry as brittle bone.

  “Daddy? When’s Mommy coming home?”

  “She’s not.” That’s all he said about it the day her mom walked out on them. “She’s gone and she’s not coming back, so don’t ask me again, you hear?”

  He was lying on the couch in front of the television, just like always, as if nothing terrible or unthinkable had happened to change their lives forever. The coffee table was littered with empty beer cans, an overflowing ashtray, crumpled cigarette cartons, and prescription pill bottles.

  It was Wednesday, but it didn’t matter to Bobbie Nolan what day it was. He never went to work the way other dads did. He got checks from something called disability for as long as Carly could remember. Mommy made most of the money, at least that’s what she always said whenever her parents argued after Mommy got home late from dancing at the Kitty Kat Club.

  The day her mom left, Carly stood on a kitchen chair to get her own glass of water. Then she walked into Mommy and Daddy’s room to see if her mother’s things were still there, hoping maybe he was wrong, that he was just being fuzzy-headed—that’s what Mom called it—the way he got sometimes. But the minute she walked over to her mom’s dresser, she knew he was telling the truth.

  All the makeup was gone. So was the silver-handled brush Mommy used for her blush, the one Carly didn’t have permission to touch. There was no slippery silk nightie wadded up on the unmade bed, no high heels scattered around on the floor.

  Carly held the water glass tight to her chest and sat down on the closet floor and pressed her back up against the wall to keep her heart from beating its way out.

  She cried for what seemed like days in the dark on the closet floor, cried until Daddy came and took her for a ride.

  Secretly she hoped they would go by the club to look for Mommy, but they only drove down to the liquor store.

  He was worried about running out of beer.

  An ache Carly didn’t dare acknowledge drove her out of the studio, so she wandered down the narrow hall to look in on Christopher.

  She drew his covers up. Needing to touch him, she let the palm of her hand linger on the mound of his shoulder beneath the comforter.

  In her own room, she paused in front of the mirror, able to make out only a dim outline of her head and shoulders. She touched her lips with her fingertips.

  It was still hard to believe she had actually kissed Jake Montgomery a few moments ago. She still felt the warmth of his mouth. Still tasted him. She closed her eyes.

  Had she really kissed him out of gratitude, or from some deeper need, some longing for intimate connection?

  Had she seemed desperate? A single mom looking for a meal ticket?

  She had no idea how to go about establishing a new relationship. No idea of how to make one last. She’d never had a chance to find out.

  God, it had been so long. When she first left Borrego, fear of discovery was never far from her mind. Time had slipped away as she moved from place to place, at first scared of her own shadow and yet forced to focus on building a stable life for Christopher. She hadn’t met any man who truly interested her—not enough to take a chance on.

  Not until the moment Jake Montgomery had walked into the gallery.

  She pulled her sweater over her head, tossed it on the chair near the bed, fighting to convince herself she shouldn’t make more of tonight than what it had been—an evening out with a really nice guy.

  There was nothing wrong with giving him a very innocent good-night kiss.

  But it was hard to convince herself of that when, for her, it had been much, much more.

  It had been a big step toward connecting again, one that very well might be the first on a road to somewhere she’d never been bef
ore. Somewhere she’d only dreamed of going.

  Only time would tell.

  16

  WITH A GARAGE-SALE PICNIC BASKET IN HAND, CARLY NEGOTIATED the warped front porch and lingered on the doorstep of Jake’s rental house on Lover’s Lane, high above the sea.

  He was waiting for her inside, standing just over the threshold, anxious to hear what she thought, as if her opinion actually mattered.

  Chris nudged past her to stand beside Jake and look around the living room.

  “Wow, Mom. It’s big, huh?”

  “Mostly it’s a big mess.” Jake shook his head, taking it all in.

  Chris was hopping from foot to foot. “Can I walk around?”

  “No.” Carly shook her head.

  “Sure,” Jake said at the exact same time.

  Chris’ gaze shot back and forth between the two of them. “Which?”

  “Go ahead,” Carly told him, “but don’t touch anything.”

  She glanced at Jake and smiled tentatively as she stepped inside. When he had called about picking them up this morning, he thoughtfully hadn’t mentioned the kiss, nor had he on the drive up the hill. He wasn’t acting any differently than he had last night. He wasn’t awkward, embarrassed, or hesitant.

  She wished she could say the same for herself. She had to force herself to look up at him as he held the door open for her.

  Carly set down the basket and turned her attention to the wonderful house. It was easy to see the beauty of the place beneath the peeling paint and chipped plaster.

  Moving along with Jake beside her, she ran her hand over the detail in the painted woodwork and paused to study the view from every window.

  She walked over to the built-in sideboard, opened one of the glass-fronted doors. By some miracle, very few had broken panes.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” she sighed.

  “I have a feeling Tracy Potter might think differently.”

  Carly caught him smiling into her eyes. “I have a feeling you’re right,” she laughed.

  Chris came bounding in from the kitchen with an empty jar in his hand. “I found this on top of the wastebasket. Can I go look for bugs?”

  “No, I think you should stay right here.”

  “Aw, Mom. I’ll stay close to the house.”

  “Let’s go take a look.” Jake walked into the kitchen. Carly followed until Chris cut between them so he could walk behind Jake.

  The back door had to be forced open. As Jake stood in the center of the deck, Carly walked over to the railing and looked around. There was no ocean view, but the sound of the sea hitting the shore echoed off the hillside.

  About sixty yards from the back door, a dry creek bed cut through a shallow arroyo lined with cottonwoods and mesquite.

  “Mom? Can I pleeeze hunt for bugs?” Chris sidled close to her hip.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she told him.

  “He’ll be fine,” Jake assured her. “We’ll picnic outside so I won’t be reminded of all I have to do to get this place ready to move into.” He glanced down at Chris. “But the final decision’s up to your mom. She’s the boss, right?”

  Carly shook her head and smiled. It was hard enough to tell Chris no, especially now that they were double teaming her.

  “Okay.” She ruffled Chris’ hair. “But you stay near the house. I’ll go get the basket.”

  Chris rushed off the porch, jar in hand, headed for a nearby bush. Jake followed her inside. She paused in the dining area.

  “I’d paint the walls all white and strip the woodwork so that the detail shows.” She tried not to notice how close he was standing or how his eyes hadn’t left her for more than a heartbeat.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” he agreed, his voice low and even. “Restore it to what it was originally. Of course, that’ll depend on how long I’m here and what the owners allow.”

  Perhaps he was subtly reminding her that his stay was only temporary, that this wasn’t his place, but a rental for a few weeks this season. That she shouldn’t expect anything permanent.

  The picnic basket was in the living room. They reached for it at the same time. When their arms and shoulders touched, Carly pulled away first. She watched Jake’s fingers close around the mended handle.

  When she straightened, she met his eyes, and her stomach cartwheeled. She couldn’t go on pretending that nothing had happened last night. Maybe she had let hormones make a fool of her, but she had to know, one way or the other.

  “Jake . . . I’m sorry if I embarrassed you last night. I certainly embarrassed myself. I’ve never . . .”

  He set the basket down again. “Let’s get one thing straight.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t embarrass me. You surprised me, but embarrassed? You’re talking to a man who once licked a margarita off a tabletop in Ensenada. I don’t get embarrassed.”

  “I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.” She looked down at her hands, studied her fingernails.

  “You gave me some ideas, but there was nothing wrong with them.” A slow, sexy smile replaced the serious expression on his face.

  “Why did you do it, Carly?”

  “Do what?”

  “Kiss me last night.”

  “I suddenly wanted to . . .” Had to.

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “. . . to thank you for the nice dinner,” she finished.

  “I should feed you more often. It was a nice kiss, but it was over too fast. What do you say we try it again? Maybe get it right this time?”

  He moved before she realized he wasn’t kidding. His arms suddenly closed around her, brought her up against him. She shut her eyes, leaned into his solid warmth, and melted from the inside out. His lips teased hers, his embrace tightened, his kiss deepened.

  He kissed her until her head swam and her knees went weak.

  Colors swam and blended in her mind. Inspired light and color, scenes and vignettes came to her. Sunsets and rainbows, the shimmering surface of the sea. His heart beat against hers, an echo that eased the aching loneliness that lingered in the shadowed corners of her heart.

  She took a step back, but Jake continued to hold her at arms’ length. For an instant she thought she saw haunted confusion in his eyes, but in a flash the look was gone.

  “What’s happening here, Carly?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, shaken, realizing that he didn’t have any better idea of where this was going than she. Thoughtful, Jake picked up the basket, ran a hand through his hair. Together they walked in silence through the house and this time Carly reached the back porch first. He noted the attractive blush across her cheeks before she shaded her eyes and looked for Christopher.

  “He must have gone around front.” She hurried down the back steps, calling the boy’s name. Rounding the corner of the house, she walked out of sight.

  He set down the basket and looked around. Spring rains had thickened the grass on the hillside, turned it emerald. Here and there, blooming yellow mustard stood out like splashes of gold against the vibrant green.

  There was a deep peace and serenity here that the city had lost. Inside himself, he was far from peaceful.

  Sleep was a luxury he’d done without last night. Around three in the morning he wished he’d checked into a real motel with room service, a television in every room, cable movies, and twenty-four-hour news. Doomed to suffer insomnia at Rose Cottage, he’d tossed and turned in the too-soft bed, haunted not only by suffocating clusters of roses, but by the memory of Carly’s sweet kiss, the fragrance of her hair, the fleeting taste of her lips.

  From the moment she had climbed into the car this morning, he’d been aching for another. Now he wanted more.

  He shoved his hands into his back pockets, tested a loose floorboard with the toe of his shoe. He wasn’t fool enough to rationalize that he was hanging around for the sake of his friendship with Rick or to honor his friend’s memory.

  Maybe in the
very beginning, before he’d laid eyes on Carly, his quest had been altruistic, carried out because he had wanted to help bring closure to the Saunders and to assure himself that Rick’s son was being well cared for.

  In the beginning that’s what it had been all about. But what about now? What would Rick think of what I’m doing now?

  The answer was pure and simple.

  Rick wasn’t around to think anything.

  It was a perfect spring day. The Southern California sun was working overtime to make up for winter.

  Jake answered a knock at the door, surprised to find Rick standing on the other side.

  “What’s it been? Three years since we’ve actually seen each other?” Rick asked. He pumped Jake’s hand as Jake ushered him into his sparsely furnished condo.

  Marla had ended up with most of their stuff after the divorce. She wanted it a lot more than he wanted anything around to remind him of her.

  “Can’t be that long, but it probably is,” Jake admitted. “How about a beer?”

  “Sure.” Rick looked tan and rested, more than Jake could say for himself, but then, Rick was a trust-fund brat who would never have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to.

  Rick followed him into the kitchen and took the Pacifico Jake handed him. “Thanks, buddy. I came by to ask a favor of you.”

  “Shoot.” There was little Jake could say no to, not since Rick had lent him some of the money he would need to start his own firm. Not only that, but Rick had made Jake promise not to think about paying him back until it wouldn’t be a hardship.

  “Montgomery, I’m getting married. I want you to be my best man.”

  “Married? You?” Rick was a consummate playboy. Jake almost laughed, until he noticed a new expression of ease and maybe even contentment in Rick’s eyes, one he’d definitely never seen there before.

  Some girl had finally gotten to the playboy, hook, line, and sinker.

  “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Jake told him. Inwardly he groaned at the thought of donning a tux and writing a toast worthy of a wedding that would no doubt be the social event of the season. “I have to admit though, I’m surprised,” he added. “Back when I got married, you said you planned to stretch out your bachelorhood until you were sixty.”