Falling into Forever (Wintersage Weddings Book 1)

by Phyllis Bourne

  Isaiah shook his head as he automatically reached to touch an old scar, hidden by his short-cropped hair.

  “Uh-huh.” Tony looked at Isaiah’s hand. “Isn’t that the spot where you damn near split your head open after you ran into the goalpost because of gawking at her?”

  Busted, Isaiah shoved his traitorous hands into his jacket pockets.

  Good thing high school was over, and he never had to worry about seeing Sandra Woolcott in a cheerleader uniform again.

  Chapter 4

  Three days later, Sandra steered her yellow MINI Cooper with one hand and answered her cell phone with the other.

  “Where are you?” Vicki demanded.

  “Stopped at a red light, but I’m almost there.”

  “Good, because the longer you wait, the worse it’ll be for you.”

  “You’re right,” Sandra grumbled, as she turned off the main thoroughfare onto a familiar private road. She’d been putting off this visit since Tuesday.

  Each time she thought about telling her parents she was backing out of cooking on Thanksgiving, she pictured the smug I-told-you-so expression sure to stretch across her father’s face, and found another reason to stall.

  Sandra slowed the car to a stop in the circular driveway in front of her parents’ two-story Colonial and stared through the windshield at the house she’d grown up in. No doubt her folks had eaten dinner by now and adjourned to the den to watch Jeopardy.

  “I’m here,” she said into the phone.

  “Go on and get it over with,” Vicki coaxed.

  “Crawl, beg, retract.” Sandra repeated the strategy she’d rehearsed at her friend’s flower shop.

  “Exactly,” Vicki said. “And whatever you do, don’t let your dad provoke you into saying something that will get you into even more of a predicament than you’re in now.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  Sandra ended the call with a promise to check in with her friend after the deed was done. Moments later, she opened her parents’ front door and called out her arrival.

  Silence.

  The ticktock sounds of a game show jingle weren’t blaring throughout the house. Nor did she hear her mother shouting answers in the form of a question, while her father insisted to an unhearing Alex Trebek his answers to the quiz show’s questions were not wrong.

  “Mom. Dad,” she yelled out again, walking through the living room and down the hallway leading to the family room. She peeked inside.

  The large flat-screen television was off and the leather sofa facing it sat empty.

  Frowning, Sandra went to the kitchen, where she found her parents’ longtime housekeeper, Milly, standing at the kitchen island work space. Earbuds from the iPod Sandra had given her last Christmas were stuffed in her ears and a pen stuck in her hair, which was twisted into a French braid. The older woman was totally engrossed in her laptop screen and the textbook opened beside it.

  Sandra flicked the kitchen light off and then on again to avoid startling her.

  Yanking the earbuds from her ears, Milly turned around. She spotted Sandra and smiled. “Hey there, stranger,” she said. “You just missed your brother. He stopped by to pick up a Halloween costume your mom bought for little Mason.”

  “Was the baby with him?” Sandra asked.

  “Your mother volunteered to take him to the bedtime story program at the library, so Jordan could work late on the Windom campaign,” Milly said.

  Sandra wasn’t surprised her mother had absconded with the toddler. Both she and Nancy babysat whenever they could to give Jordan, who had primary custody of his son, a break. However, between the preparations for Janelle’s hastily arranged wedding and trying to get caught up at work, Sandra hadn’t seen her nephew in nearly two weeks.

  No way was she going to miss seeing him decked out in his pint-size Patriots uniform.

  She had a date tomorrow night, and Jordan’s ex-wife was supposed to pick up Mason for her scheduled visitation. Sandra made a mental note to arrange to see her nephew before Allison arrived.

  Rounding the kitchen island, she peered over Milly’s shoulder. “You in an online class session or doing homework?”

  “Homework. Class ended an hour ago.”

  Having put two children through college, Milly had begun pursuing her own education after her youngest graduated from Boston College. Now the fifty-five-year-old cook and housekeeper was only a few credits shy of earning her bachelor’s degree in business administration. She already had standing job offers from both Woolcott Industries and Sandra’s Swoon Couture.

  “Microeconomics?”

  Milly nodded. “I’ve got a quiz to study for and a paper to write. Both are kicking my old behind.”

  “Need some help?” Sandra offered.

  “Not this time, sweetheart. You’ve already helped me get through my science elective last year, and then Analyzing Financial Statements last semester.” She patted Sandra’s hand. “Besides, your dad offered to look over the paper when I’m done. It isn’t due until December, but I want to get it off my back before I leave for the Thanksgiving holiday. I may want to extend it and spend more time with my grandchildren.”

  Sandra groaned. The mentions of both her father and the holiday reminded her this visit wasn’t exactly a social call.

  “Speaking of Thanksgiving,” Milly said, “word is you’re cooking this year’s feast.” She scrunched up her nose and shivered. “No offense, but I’m glad I’ll be out of town.”

  An idea popped into Sandra’s head. She smiled and put her arm around the older woman. Maybe she wouldn’t have to rescind the offer, after all.

  “Um...I was thinking maybe you could teach...” Sandra leaned down and placed her head on the housekeeper’s shoulder.

  “Oh, no.” Milly shook her off. “I tried to teach you to cook when you were a little girl, and again as a teenager, remember?”

  “But...”

  Milly held up two fingers. “Twice I tried. First there was the spaghetti sauce explosion. I scrubbed this kitchen for three hours before giving up, and your father hiring a cleaning crew. And let’s not leave out the stir-fry fire.”

  Sandra wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “But I helped you with your classes.” She started by pleading, but when she saw she wasn’t making any inroads, she changed her approach midstream.

  “You owe me, Milly,” she said firmly.

  Swayed by neither argument, the older woman responded with a humorless chuckle. “Don’t even try it with me,” she said. “I suggest you march yourself out to the garage, where your father’s tinkering with his second wife, and rescind that ludicrous offer to cook.”

  Sandra felt her shoulders slump. She should have known better than to think she could get something over on Milly. “But you’re still coming to work for me at Swoon when you graduate, right?”

  “We’ll see.”

  The housekeeper walked over to the big jar on the granite counter near the sink. She retrieved an oatmeal raisin cookie and handed it to Sandra. “Good luck.”

  Polishing it off, Sandra walked out the back door and cut across the dormant lawn to the garage. She could hear the pounding beat of an eighties rap group coming through the side door as she approached.

  She pushed open the door, knowing her dad wouldn’t hear a knock over the music.

  Stuart, dressed in coveralls to protect the shirt and tie he’d worn to work that day, looked up from under the hood of the Chevelle. He saw her and smiled, a warm smile that made the fine lines around his brown eyes crinkle.

  It brought home the fact that no matter how much of a disappointment she might be to him, no matter how much he could annoy her, he was her daddy, and she loved him.

  Sandra returned his smile. She watched as he wiped the grime from his hands with
a rag. He picked up a remote and muted the iPod, which was docked on a speaker.

  “That was Dr. Dre, right?” Sandra asked, inclining her head toward the speaker. “The old guy who sells headphones. He’s rapping with the other old guy who does the funny movies and beer commercials.”

  Stuart laughed. “Old guys to you, but they’ll always be N.W.A. to me, and back in the day, they were considered controversial and edgy.”

  “If you say so.” Sandra shrugged at the notion of those old dudes or her conservative father ever being cool.

  Stuart opened the minifridge and pulled out a can of orange soda. “Want one?”

  She shook her head and silently reviewed her game plan.

  Crawl, beg, retract.

  She stared at the SS emblem on the grille of the Chevelle. The car was a heap when her father had had it towed home years ago, so covered in rust she hadn’t been able to determine its original color.

  Now the muscle car was painted in her father’s fraternity colors, gold with two wide black stripes down the middle of the hood, and its finish gleamed like Murano glass under the garage lights.

  Sandra cleared her throat, and her father looked at her expectantly. “I came over to talk to you about Thanksgiving.”

  He took a long swig of his soda, then placed the can on his workbench. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the Chevelle. “Can’t say I haven’t expected this visit,” he said. “In fact, I thought you’d have come crawling a few days ago to tell me you put your foot in your mouth and wanted to beg off this preposterous offer to cook dinner.”

  Crawl.

  Beg.

  The very words that made up her game plan were irksome coming from her father. Pushing them out of her mind, she replaced them with Vicki’s wise words instead: ...whatever you do, don’t let your dad provoke you into saying something that will get you into even more of a predicament...

  Sandra took a deep breath. All that was left for her to do now was retract.

  “Dad, I—”

  Her father cut her off. “What in the world made you issue an invitation like that in the first place? You couldn’t even manage instant oatmeal without us having to get a brand-new microwave, and it already came in a bowl,” he said incredulously. “All you have to do is add water, stir and microwave. Hell, Mason can do that.”

  Stuart laughed at his own joke.

  Sandra bit down on the inside of her lip, hard. Distracted by a three-way phone call with Vicki and Janelle, she’d inadvertently left the metal spoon in the cardboard container, hit the start button on the microwave and walked away. She hadn’t seen or heard the sparks until it was too late.

  “That happened when I was in high school, Dad. Do you think you can finally let it go?”

  He coughed, his laughing fit apparently irritating his throat.

  “As I was about to say, I knew there was no way you could possibly pull off a holiday meal. So I’ve already called Fred and wrangled an invitation for your mother and myself to have Thanksgiving with them. Did I mention Ivy was cooking?”

  Her father had just given her the perfect out, Sandra thought. All she had to do was swallow her pride, nod her head and take it.

  So do it!

  She sighed. She. Just. Couldn’t.

  “Well, I suggest you call Mr. King and unwrangle that invite, because you already accepted a previous engagement at your daughter’s house.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Dad. I’m cooking dinner for me, you, Mom and Jordan. Mason, too, if his mother doesn’t have him for the holiday.”

  Sandra had no idea how she’d pull it off, but she would. She had to.

  “B-but Ivy’s cooking—” Stuart stammered.

  Sandra cut him off. “Doesn’t matter what she’s cooking, because you won’t be there. You’ll be eating at my house.”

  Her father’s eyes narrowed. His expression hardened to the one he wore when things went awry at Woolcott Industries. “So let me get this straight. You expect me to pass on one of Ivy’s gourmet meals, and you know it’ll be extra special for the holiday. For what? To end up sharing a greasy bucket of take-out fried chicken at that cramped beach shack of yours?”

  Sandra squared her shoulders, determined not to show weakness in the face of his stony expression and, she had to admit, logical argument.

  “But isn’t Thanksgiving really about being with family?” she asked, answering his question with one of her own.

  Eyes identical to hers stared back at her. “Yeah, a family surrounded by a scrumptious feast. Not a cleaning crew or the fire department.”

  “My dinner will be good, Dad,” Sandra said with more confidence that she felt.

  She was a competent adult. Surely she could overcome her mishap-ridden past in the kitchen and successfully put one meal on the table.

  Her father grunted, picked up his soda and took a big gulp. He put the can on his workbench, and then Sandra caught a nearly imperceptible glint in his eyes.

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” he said. “What if it doesn’t turn out good?”

  “It will,” Sandra insisted.

  “Then you wouldn’t have a problem making a tiny wager with your old dad?”

  Sandra arched a brow. “What kind of wager?”

  A grin accompanied the now obvious gleam in her father’s eyes. “If your dinner ends up the inedible fiasco I expect it to be, the next time Dale Mills asks you out you’ll say yes.”

  “Dale.” Sandra said the name as if Stuart had put a leash on a skunk and asked her to walk it around the block.

  “He’s a fine young man who’s shown quite an interest in you. If you’d just give him a chance, you’d see he’s a great guy.”

  Sandra rolled her eyes skyward. All Dale Mills had an interest in was brownnosing his way up the ladder at Woolcott Industries. Romancing the boss’s daughter was just part of it.

  Stuart stroked his gray-flecked goatee. “If you can put an edible dinner on the table, like you say, then you’ve got nothing to lose, right?”

  Sandra took in her father leaning against the Chevelle. His grin had morphed into a smug smirk. He’d put her on the spot, and he damn well knew it.

  However, she was his daughter. “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” she said, flipping the script.

  “I’m already thinking how pleased Dale will be when you agree to go out with him.”

  “Then you won’t mind upping the ante on your proposed wager?” If she was going to have the possibility of a date with his protégé hanging over her head, then her father would have to put something on the line, too.

  Something big.

  She eyed the Chevelle.

  Stuart followed her gaze and turned his head to look back at the car. When he faced her again, his smug expression was replaced with shock.

  “You’re kidding, right?” He stood up straight and stared at her, openmouthed.

  Sandra folded her arms across her chest, mimicking his earlier action. “Big talk calls for big stakes. So if I manage to pull off a tasty Thanksgiving meal, the Chevelle’s mine.”

  Stuart reached for the can of soda and finished it in one gulp. He stroked his chin again as he thought it over.

  “Well?” Sandra prodded.

  “If I agree, we’re not talking about just any meal. I want to sit down to turkey basted in that sage butter seasoning I like so much, surrounded by all the trimmings—green beans, sweet potatoes and dessert. I’m thinking something with apples. Pie, strudel, I’m not picky.” He jabbed his finger in her direction. “However, every morsel must be cooked by you and you only.”

  Sandra swallowed. So much for her idea of keeping it simple with maybe a chicken or a couple of little Cornish hens.

  Stuart shut the hoo
d of the car and smoothed a hand over its shiny finish. “Also, if I’m going to put my girlfriend here on the line, you’re going to have to put up bigger stakes.”

  “Like what?” For goodness’ sake, she already had to figure out how in the heck she was going to turn out this meal or go on a date with, blech, Dale.

  “Five dates with Dale.” Her father held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. “And you’ll ask him out.”

  “M-me?” Sandra stuttered over the single word.

  Stuart dusted his palm on his coveralls before extending it to her. “Do we have a bet?”

  She stared down at her father’s hand for a long moment before finally clasping it. They shook once, sealing their bargain.

  “I just hope I’m released from the emergency room, where I’m sure to be getting my stomach pumped Thanksgiving night, in time to see you and my future son-in-law, Dale, head off on your first date. I trust you’ll take him someplace nice.”

  Sandra opened her mouth to respond, but was stopped by the sound of knocking, and they both turned in the direction of the side door.

  “Come in,” her father yelled.

  The door opened and Dale Mills stepped through it, holding a cardboard box. He wore a wool coat over a charcoal suit and slightly askew burgundy tie. An eager grin, akin to that of a dog awaiting a pat on the head from its master, was plastered on his face.

  It got even bigger the moment he saw Sandra.

  “Dale, what brings you out here, son?” Stuart emphasized the last word, an endearment Sandra knew was more for her ears than his employee.

  It wasn’t that Dale was a bad guy, Sandra thought. In fact, the executive would tick the boxes on most women’s husband-material checklist.

  However, the over-the-top sucking up grated Sandra’s nerves. Even if she had been attracted to him, pleasing her father and Woolcott Industries would always be Dale Mills’s number one priority.

  Sandra had learned her lesson the hard way. Never again would she fall for a man who couldn’t put her first.

  Dale held the box out to her father. “It took some doing, but I managed to locate the special brand of car wax you mentioned trying to find. I bought you an entire case of it. I wanted to bring it over before I left for the business meeting in Miami.”