“Hang on. It’s a little stiff. One good shove should—there!”
With a grunt from him and a squeal from the hinges, the door gave way. Light poured back in. Lyddie squinted against the brightness and saw J.T. outside, hunting on the ground, then propping a rock against the door.
“There.” He brushed off his hands and stepped back inside. “Sorry about that. Caught me by surprise.”
He wasn’t the only one.
“It should stay open now, but if you’d rather go someplace else, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No, I...” Oh, great. She was so befuddled from the hormone surge that she could barely remember why she’d brought him here. Was this how it felt to be a man, left temporarily brain-dead when the blood headed south?
Breathe, Lyddie. You are not some idiot teenager in the middle of her first infatuation, you’re a grown woman with an adult job in front of you. Get with the program.
“It’s hot in the sun. Let’s stay here.”
“You’re sure? I don’t dare offer you a seat. I didn’t expect it to be so dusty. It’s not the way I remembered it.”
For a moment she forgot about the sale. This was the first time he’d been in his father’s boathouse since Roy’s death. Probably the first time he’d been here in twenty-five years.
Her heart ached for him. She knew all about those firsts.
“I’m sorry. We can leave if you’d rather.”
He shrugged, but without any of the cockiness she’d noticed in their earlier encounters. “I had to come back sometime.”
That he did. And that, too, she understood, all too well.
“So what was on your mind?”
She dragged her gaze away from his face—that way lay danger, which she could tell by the low current of warmth still humming through her when she looked at him—and focused on the patch of sunshine in the far corner.
“I called my lawyer today. I asked him to read over my lease and see if I had any rights of first refusal on the property.”
“You don’t. I already checked.”
Give the man credit. At least he wasn’t gloating.
“I know that now. Anyway, he let me in on another little item he thought I should know about.” She crossed her arms as the memory stabbed her once again. “He told me that all sales in the business zone must be approved by the planning board.”
“Right.”
“And that they would never let me buy just my building, because I share a parking lot with Patty’s Pizza.”
“You’re kidding.”
Another bonus point. He sounded truly, sincerely astonished by this news.
“Are you really surprised, or are you just a great actor?”
“You thought I knew?”
She turned to face him. Mistake. The swaggering jokester had disappeared, replaced by a sincerity that made her catch her breath. She had a feeling that she was seeing the real J. T. Delaney for the first time. And it was a damned intriguing sight.
She spoke carefully, uncertain how to proceed. “It’s your property. It would make sense that you would know.”
“I’ve looked at some of the papers, but not everything yet. I never had to know this before.”
That made sense. Damn.
“So I guess the price of my building has just jumped.”
He hesitated before nodding. “If this is true, then yeah. It will have to.”
Her throat tightened. She could have managed payments on her building alone. But hers and Patty’s? The possibility was looking slimmer by the minute.
“Let me guess. You just got off the phone when you ran into me in the parking lot.”
“Right in one.”
“That explains a lot.”
He was being way too understanding. Though maybe she could twist that logic for her own benefit. Maybe that overwhelming desire she’d felt when the lights went out had nothing to do with him. Maybe it was just a by-product of the frustration she’d felt, a kind of emotional leftover that misfired.
She risked another glance at him—strong arms, firm chest, a mouth that begged to be explored.
Nope. Not a leftover.
She sighed. “I need to get back.”
“Maybe we could—” He stopped abruptly, then ducked his head. “You’re right. We’d better go.”
They walked to the van in silence, which persisted through the drive back up River Road. Despite the circumstances, it was a surprisingly comfortable silence. Lyddie almost wished for the pure, hot anger she’d felt a few minutes earlier. That was a lot easier to understand than the mix of despair, hopelessness and residual lust still swirling inside her.
She pulled into the lot that was the source of this latest dilemma. They were sure to be spotted. If she acted like there was nothing to hide, maybe the gossips would go easy on her.
She reached for the door handle, then stopped. It had to be said. “J.T.?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I dragged you off the way I did. That was wrong.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been expecting to get lynched ever since I walked back into town.”
That sounded more like the J. T. Delaney she knew. Especially when he slid out of the van, then poked his head back in to flash her that killer grin and added, “But if I’d known it was gonna happen in broad daylight with a pretty woman, I would have offered myself up a whole lot sooner.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THREE DAYS AFTER Lydia Brewster kidnapped him, J.T. drove his mother downtown to help him pick out paint. Not that she was going to make it easy on him.
“You’re working too hard,” Iris said as they walked through the double-wide doors of McCoy’s Hardware. “You don’t need to paint the cabins. You should take some time off, have some fun.”
“I am having fun, Ma. Those fumes will do it every time.”
“Oh, you.” She swatted his arm playfully, but he saw the way her lower lip trembled as they made their way to the paint aisle.
That, in a nutshell, was the problem. Iris refused to believe he was really going to make her move. Rather, she believed it, but let it be known at every possible opportunity that she disagreed vehemently with this decision. No matter how much he talked about Tucson, she insisted that he could stay in Comeback Cove if he would only try. The fact that she was the one who couldn’t stay—not without risking her life—seemed completely irrelevant to her.
It was almost a relief when the owner hurried around the counter to greet them.
“Morning, Iris. J.T. What can I do for you?” Steve McCoy, son of the McCoy who’d run the store in J.T.’s day, spoke to them both but kept his focus on J.T. It was that assessing gaze that worried him. Steve wasn’t giving J.T. the “potential shoplifter” once-over that his father had perfected all those years ago. Instead, the expression on Steve’s face could best be described as...wary.
“We need paint,” Iris replied. “White. With some yellow and green for trim.”
Again, Steve’s attention was directed at J.T. “Is this for the coffee shop? Anything to do with Lyddie gets a discount.”
“Nope.” J.T. ignored Iris’s elbow in his ribs. He still wasn’t sure if the rule regarding shared parking lots had been on the books for years or if it was something Jillian might have shoved through to tip the scales in Mr. Crunchy’s favor. In any case, he wasn’t about to discuss that property with anyone other than Lydia, Iris and his lawyer.
“The cottages,” Iris explained after frowning at her son. “Roy had some cottages upriver that we used to rent out. They need freshening up before we can sell them.”
J.T. suppressed a snort. They needed a hell of a lot more than freshening. There were floorboards to replace, wallpaper to strip and steps that were lawsuits in the making. He would have his hands full getting them fixed up by the end of summer.
“Gotcha. Well, then.” Steve pulled out a few paint chips. “Here’s some popular yellows and greens. Why don’t you look them over, Iris? And J.T.,
would you mind giving me a hand with a load of mulch in the back?”
J.T. had no doubt that the “load” waiting for him had nothing whatsoever to do with mulch. But before he could say something about a bad back, Iris beat him to the punch.
“Of course he’ll help. J.T., you’ve been showing off those muscles since you got home. Go put them to use.”
God save him from mothers on a mission.
He followed Steve into the back room. But as he’d expected, Steve had something else in mind.
“Hang on there a minute, will ya, J.T.?”
J.T. came to a halt between a shelf loaded with potting soil and another one overflowing with hose heads. He hoped he could look reasonably surprised by this request.
Are you really surprised, or are you just a great actor?
He frowned in an attempt to chase Lydia’s voice from his memory. He couldn’t deal with that particular problem now.
’Course, he’d spent the whole night telling himself that. It hadn’t done a bit of good then, either. No amount of rationalizing had made him forget that moment in the dark when she had made that little sound he could swear had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with—
“So listen.” Steve pulled open a box of hammers and began stacking them on the closest shelf. “I hear you’ve got a full plate ahead of you, selling and packing and such.”
“You’re very well-informed,” J.T. said wryly.
“Small town, big mouths. Speaking of which, I have to ask—how long do you think this is gonna take?”
It was a good thing he bore no illusions about his standing in this town. He could get a complex from people asking how long he planned to stick around.
“I’ll wrap things up as fast as I can, but you know it’s not all up to me.” Then, because it was Steve asking, and at one time he and Steve had been pretty tight, he risked a guess.
“People getting nervous because I’m here?”
“Some.”
“They think I’m gonna start another fire?” J.T. paused, watching Steve carefully. “Or do they think I’m going to start talking about what really happened that night?”
“Look.” Steve swallowed hard as he placed the next hammer on the shelf. “I know you got a raw deal back then. You don’t know how many times I wished I’d had the guts to stand up for you, tell people the truth. But I didn’t. I’m not proud of it, but what’s done is done, and now I—”
“Easy, Steve.” J.T. couldn’t take much more of watching the guy fall all over himself. “Look. I’m not here to dig up old memories or start any rumors. None of that crap. As far as I’m concerned, the fire is ancient history.”
“A lot of folks don’t feel that way.”
“Sure. A lot of meddling old busybodies with nothing better to do than—”
“A lot of customers who live here year-round and keep my business going. Folks who make it possible for me to make my child support payments and keep some other people employed, too.”
Oh.
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that because I came back, people are talking about the fire again. And that’s a conversation that some folks—say, you, and Mike Smithers, and Larry Brown and Tim Pattinson and some others—would rather didn’t get started again.”
Steve’s head bobbed in what J.T. assumed was agreement. “That’s about it.”
“I see.”
J.T. rocked back on his heels, staring out at the yard. If he moved slightly to the right he could catch a glimpse of the river in the distance, the blue calling to him like an old lover.
“They’re all still here in town?”
“Some. The ones who aren’t still have family here.”
He thought back to the new stores on the streets, the names taking on deeper meaning.
He hadn’t been alone the night of the fire, but he’d been the only one spotted at the scene, the only one to flee town. The others had stayed. Stayed, and kept silent.
And helped the town rebuild.
“Steve. Look. I’m not trying to stir up anything. And I’m not—okay, for a while I was pissed that no one said anything, but seriously, it wasn’t like we could undo what happened.”
“So you’re not trying to set the record straight?”
He sighed. “I am here to sell off the properties and get my mother packed up and move her to Tucson with me. That’s it.”
Relief flooded Steve’s face.
“Right. Well, then. Let’s get you some paint.”
“Got anything that’ll whitewash the past?” J.T. asked, and followed Steve back into store.
* * *
LYDDIE HAD COME a long way in the years since Glenn died. The pain of losing him was always there but manageable now, the jagged edges blunted by time. But some days still ripped her. Today was one.
“I hate Father’s Day,” Tish said. Lyddie bit her lip and concentrated on working through the snarl in Tish’s long auburn curls.
“Why do we have to go? It’s yucky. You get sad and Gram cries. And it’s hot there, and you won’t let me run. I have to be a laaaaady.” She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. “It’s not like Daddy can see us or anything. Are you almost done? I want my hair short. Can I get it cut soon?”
“We’ll get it cut when school is out. I’ll be done in another minute—faster if you hold still. And as for why we’re going to the cemetery...” But for this, Lyddie had no easy answer. How to explain to a seven-year-old that some things are done just for the sake of doing them, for the assurance that you’ve done what you could even when you know it won’t make a bit of difference?
“We’re not going for Daddy.” She flipped the comb around and parted Tish’s hair down the middle. “We’re going for us. So we can remember.”
Silence. Then—
“But I don’t remember him, Mommy.”
Lyddie closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of her daughter’s hair, soft and curling in her hands. “I know, sweets. You were too little when we lost him. But it’s a way of remembering that you had a daddy who loved you. That’s important for you to know.”
“I know that already,” Tish grumbled, but she didn’t sound quite as reluctant. “Are you doing regular braids or fancy ones?”
“Fancy.”
“Oh, great.” Tish slid down in the chair, and blew out a drama-queen sigh that had to have come from her sister. Lyddie snickered and concentrated on the intricate weavings of a French braid, grateful that Tish had given up her protest.
An hour later, standing on the soft ground in front of Glenn’s headstone, she would have given anything to be snickering again. Ruth had left them, overcome by tears as she always was on these outings. It was just Lyddie and the kids in an artificially quiet circle. Even Ben had consented to hold Tish’s hand. And once again, as always happened, Lyddie looked from the tombstone to her children and wondered what she was supposed to say next.
She’d read all the books on helping kids deal with grief. But in real life, standing with the hot sun beating down on them and the murmurs of other visitors in the background, none of those well-meaning suggestions ever sounded helpful. Especially when the kids seemed more bored than sad.
“Are we done yet?” Tish asked.
“No.” Lyddie had no idea what they should do, but she knew Glenn deserved more than three minutes of awkward silence.
“But we gave him the flowers. And the sandwiches.”
“I know, sweetie.”
Tish dropped Lyddie’s hand to twist the sash of her pink eyelet sundress. “Why do we give him sandwiches, anyway? He can’t eat ’em.”
“Tish!” Sara had the adolescent eye-roll mastered.
Ben spoke up. “The ancient Egyptians used to leave food with the mummies. They thought it would be needed in the afterlife. And they left money and pets, and sometimes slaves were even—”
“Enough, Ben.” Lyddie could already imagine the nightmares Tish would conjure up that night. “Why don’t you tel
l Tish about the peanut butter sandwiches?”
Ben squinted behind his glasses. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Uh, well...”
No. This couldn’t be happening. Ben had the best memory of any of them. Lyddie refused to believe he could have forgotten.
Sara jumped in. “Daddy ate a peanut butter sandwich every day, Tish. With fluff and blackberry jam.”
He always said I was the jam and he was the fluff, and the peanut butter was the love.
She reached for Tish’s hand once again, gave it a little squeeze and looked at Ben. “Did you really forget, bud?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed once, twice. “I guess I did. Sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t apologize, honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just wish... What do you remember?”
Ben shrugged. “Um...well, stuff. He read me stories at bedtime. And he taught me how to skate. That was fun.”
“Sara? Can you tell Tish a story or two about your dad?”
Sara frowned and twisted the daughter’s ring Lyddie had given her on her thirteenth birthday. “Okay. Well, I remember one time when we were in church, and I was bored, and you were working in the nursery, and he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and folded it so it looked like a man’s shirt. That was cool.” She frowned. “Then Ben yanked it away from me and it ripped.”
“Did not.”
“You did, too.”
“I did—” He stopped, flushed. “Maybe I did. I don’t remember.”
“It’s okay,” Sara said after a moment’s silence. “You might not have grabbed it. I tell myself that story a lot. So I might have changed it a bit.”
“Why do you tell yourself the story, Sara?” Lyddie had planned to stay quiet and let the kids lead the way, but she had the feeling this was important.
“Because...well... Promise you won’t get mad?”
Oh, God.
“Promise.”
“Okay. Well. Sometimes, I kind of... It’s hard to remember him. You know?”
“Because it makes you sad?”
“No.” Sara lifted her head, looked directly at Lyddie with the wide-set eyes she’d inherited from her father. “I mean, I can’t remember. Not what he was really like. Just the stories I tell myself.”
Now You See Me Page 6
