by Karina Bliss
“Iatrogenic cause?”
Her anxious gaze met his. “Yes, that’s it.”
“It means she picked it up in hospital, through procedures or treatment. More common than you’d think. Is she on antibiotics?”
“Yes, but I don’t see an improvement. Someone should be with her.”
Ross resisted the urge to say Viv would have if the sisters hadn’t pulled this stunt. “What does Meredith say?”
“That she’ll be fine and for me to concentrate on the funeral.”
“Then let’s do that.” God knows, they had enough to worry about.
“Anyway, I need to make these kids dinner.” She started toward the kitchen. Definitely no spring in her step today.
“Shower and get out of those wet clothes first.”
“The kids are hungry.”
He began to feel caught in a vice, Viv and her misguided altruism on one side, his need to disengage on the other. “I can start dinner,” he said grudgingly.
“You can cook? No, don’t tell me.” He saw a flicker of returning spirit in her smile. “SAS guys can do everything.”
“My mother taught me.”
“Well, if you could beat some eggs for me, fry bacon and put pasta on to boil that’d be great. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“No hurry. I can handle carbonara.”
“Just don’t add anything green, including herbs. Tilly’s in a bad mood as it is.”
“So training wasn’t a success?”
She pulled her hair free of its constricting ponytail and rubbed her scalp. “I let her run some of it.”
“Let me guess. It was like inviting Captain Bligh back onto the Bounty.”
Viv nodded. “We had a mutiny after ten minutes.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Ross caught himself watching her legs as she walked away, and frowned.
Twenty minutes later, the kids were eating and Tilly was pouring her troubles into her uncle’s ear. “She can’t do anything right, Uncle Ross. At soccer, we hardly even kicked the ball.” Tilly was a grade ahead of her age through sheer tenacity but she struggled to match the coordination of the eight-year-olds. She mis-hit the ball, kicked wildly and then blamed the pitch, the boot, the ball, the pass…. But you couldn’t question her fierce and unswerving passion for the game, or her dedication.
Viv, her hair hanging in shiny waves, walked in wearing kick-ass boots teamed with a shirt and jeans too well-fitting to be Meredith’s. “I need some ‘me’ time,” she said, mistaking his surprise for disapproval. It wasn’t.
Seventeen months and suddenly his libido was firing for this woman?
Harry opened his mouth to greet his aunt and Ross took the opportunity to shovel in another spoonful. They didn’t need to hear “Iv” right now. “Tilly’s getting a few things off her chest,” he warned.
“And she put onions in the ground beef and then smelly cheese on top,” Tilly continued. “She’s just not as good as Mum.”
“This isn’t a competition, Tilly.” Viv’s tone was light but it was obvious their niece had struck a nerve. “I’m just filling in. I’m good at other things.”
“Like what?” The little girl was genuinely curious.
“Building an international career in costume design,” Viv offered, pulling up a chair.
Losing interest, Tilly returned to her carbonara. “Well, Mum has a job and she can play soccer and cook mac and cheese and put the trash out on the right day and teach Brownies and drive without saying, ‘stay left, stay left’ all the time.” She paused to suck up a strand of spaghetti. “And dogs like her,” she finished.
“Dogs like me,” said Viv in a small voice. “Just not your dog.”
“Attila, you could help Viv with Salsa,” Ross suggested.
She shook her head, sucking up another spaghetti strand. “I don’t have to help anyone. I’m a little girl.”
“Except how will you be able to do all the things your mum can if you don’t practice?”
Viv added, “You don’t want to end up like me, do you?”
“No,” said Tilly.
Viv’s smile faltered.
Ross coaxed another spoonful into Harry’s mouth. “Your aunt does have a cool party trick,” he said casually. “She can do a cartwheel holding a glass of wine and not spill any.” He’d seen it at the wedding.
“Really?” Tilly looked at Viv with new interest.
“I used to do gymnastics when I was a kid.”
“I thought you did ballet with Mum…I saw a picture. You were fat then,” she added.
“The exploding meringue next to the dainty princess picture? I wish she’d destroy that. Anyway I only lasted in ballet two weeks before changing to gym.” She added reflectively, “All those tiny, careful movements made me want to scream. But I always envied your mom her sparkly pink tutu.”
As he wiped the excess food off Harry’s chin, it occurred to Ross that a free spirit would have a difficult time being an identical twin.
Tilly handed Viv her empty plate. “Mum said you wore it to a party and spilled green jelly on it and the stain never came out.”
Viv stood up with the plate. “Gee,” she said, “does she say anything good about me?”
“She said you’re the fun one.” Tilly’s tone made it clear she didn’t agree with that assessment.
Brat.
Shoulders slumped, Viv turned to the sink.
“If Tilly won’t help with Salsa,” Ross suggested, “maybe you could look up the patron saint of dogs in that book of yours.”
His niece jumped to the bait. “Dogs have a saint?”
Viv dumped Tilly’s plate in the sink and dug the tattered booklet out of her back jean pocket. They fitted so snugly Ross was surprised she got a hand in there—not that he was complaining. “Every animal has a saint,” she said, thumbing through the pages. “Here we go…Saint Roch. Busy guy. He’s helping your mom’s knee. And he also covers plagues and pestilence. Hmm, I would have thought Salsa was a pestilence.”
“You can talk,” Ross commented.
She ignored that. “Tilly, you have a saint too. Saint Agnes watches out for girls.”
“Lemme see.” Viv pulled a chair close to Tilly’s and they bent their heads over the book. Their hair was the same rich brown. Suspecting he might be missing some fun, Harry squealed to get out of his highchair.
“Hang on, mate.” Ross cleaned him up with the dishcloth first.
“Look, Tilly, Joan of Arc has the Girl Guides, which is what Brownies grow into.” Viv lifted the baby into her lap. “Girl Guides and soldiers, Ross. Isn’t the juxtaposition sweet?”
“Darling.”
But Tilly was delighted. “Uncle Ross, the same saint looks after both of us.”
“That’s cool, honey.”
“Here’s another patron for your uncle,” added Viv. “Elmo.”
Tilly gurgled with laughter. “That’s silly. Elmo is a toy.”
“Let me see that,” he said.
She held the book out of his reach. “His real name is Erasmus, Tilly, but his friends call him Elmo and he looks after pyrotechnicians. That’s a fancy word for people who enjoy blowing things up.”
“So Viv and I share a patron saint, too,” he retorted. “Since she excels in destroying the peace. Tilly, if you’re done, go wash your hands. We’ll make the cake while Viv eats.” Tilly scrambled from the table and left for the bathroom.
Viv stared at him. “You made enough food for me?” Her delight made him wonder when she’d last eaten.
“Running on empty leads to mistakes, mistakes lead to discovery.” Nothing personal in it. He dished up a portion and put it in front of her. She’d used her own perfume…that honeysuckle again. “I figure I’ve got an hour and a half before Charlie expects me home.” Ross held out the cutlery. “Use me.”
The remark hadn’t been intended as sexual, but their eyes met and the cutlery clattered on the table as they mistimed the exchange.
“Harry, want
an ice cream?” Ross grabbed the baby, plonking him in the highchair, then opened the freezer, tempted to stick his head in to cool down.
It disgusted him that he wanted her. He reminded himself that she was a liar, aiding and abetting a cheater to mislead his brother. That he’d been emotionally blackmailed into this scam. And that her brother had just sold him down the river. It helped.
When he shut the fridge Viv was eating, focused on her plate. As if it was her first good meal in days. Ross tore his gaze from her mouth. Making Harry a small cone, he reminded himself she was identical to his brother’s wife, and he’d never been attracted to her—but his body didn’t buy it. He’d thought after Dan’s betrayal today, that his life couldn’t possibly get worse. Seemed it could.
Viv cleared her throat. “Was Susan there when Charlie picked up Harry from day care?”
“She does work there.” He handed his nephew the chocolate ice cream and Harry gummed it.
“That could have been awkward…their first meeting since the breakup.”
He shrugged and picked up the cookbook lying open on the table. “I guess.”
Viv cleared her throat again. “Did Charlie mention anything about it?”
“Of course.” Ross scanned the cake recipe. “We talk about that kind of stuff constantly. How Charlie could have done things better or differently. Oh, no, wait, I forgot. I’m a man.”
“Is he interested in dating Susan again or not?” Viv asked impatiently.
He glanced up. “Not. Your. Business. Not my business, either.”
As Viv opened her mouth to argue, her cell rang. She checked caller ID. “Meredith,” she said to Ross. “Hey, sis.” Ross disappeared into the walk-in pantry where he scanned the shelves for ingredients.
When he emerged a few minutes later, Viv was waiting for him with a pensive expression. “Merry rang Dan to reiterate that he didn’t need to come to the funeral.” Viv saved the egg carton, precariously balanced on the top of the armful he carried and put it on the counter. “He said he’s having trouble getting a hold of you and asked her to remind you to phone.”
“I’ll do it later,” he lied. He’d blocked Dan’s number. Viv finished her meal and started unbuttoning Harry’s ice cream-splattered bib and pajama top.
“He said it’s urgent.”
“Later,” he said harshly, drawing that astute gaze.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, everything’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” The house phone rang. “Will you get that?” she asked. “Normally I’d let call answer pick up but if you’re here…”
It could be Dan. Brown eyes challenged his. She knew it, too. The woman was smart. Holding his nerve, Ross picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“’ello? This is Jean Paul. May I speak with Vivienne, please?”
“Sure, mate,” Ross said easily. “She’s just undressing ’arry.”
“Excuse me?”
He thought about clarifying and discounted it, figuring any guy stupid enough to take on Hurricane Viv had to be a masochist anyway.
He held out the phone. “The Frenchman.”
Shaking her head, she whispered, “I’m not here.”
Ross put the phone to his ear. “She’s right here, mate, and dying to talk to you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Standing in the doorway, Viv stared bleary-eyed at the empty cell charger, then at Harry who was wandering around the living room, the dog at his heels and her phone pressed to his ear. His diaper hanging in a soggy lump between his skinny bow legs, he beamed at her. Delighted to see her, delighted with his new toy—all obviously right with his world.
It was the morning of the funeral and she’d overslept.
With a moan, she moved to rescue the cell and something crunched under her foot. She lifted it to see crushed cornflakes. Her eyes followed a splotchy trail of milk and cornflakes from the kitchen to the overflowing cereal bowl on the coffee table.
She’d cleaned the place spotless last night. Now the kitchen and living room looked as if there’d been a wild party. And the TV was blaring loud enough to wake the dead—sorry, Linda. And yet somehow, Viv had slept through it. Maybe the alarm had gone off, maybe it hadn’t. It was certainly switched off when she’d woken up and stared in disbelief at the time. 9:05.
“I got breakfast for me and Harry.” Tilly didn’t glance up from the TV where two cartoon Ninjas were balletically beating the crap out of each other. “I’m being helpful, like Uncle Ross said.” Eyes glued to the screen, she waved a dripping spoon in Harry’s general direction. “Here, Harry,” she cooed. Obediently the toddler trotted over, but Salsa and his little pink tongue got there first. Tilly laughed.
“Dog,” chortled Harry, and in his glee, threw the cell. It landed with a plop in the bowl.
With an exclamation, Viv fished it out and wiped it dry on Merry’s cotton pj’s. The battery light flickered and went out.
She tried to find a bright side. “Well, that’s all the crazy out of the way early.”
Tilly snuggled into the armchair with the remote. “I did good, didn’t I, Auntie Viv?”
“Call me Mum, Till, so you don’t forget when it’s important.”
“Mum,” said Tilly absently. She’d been captured by the Ninjas again.
Harry toddled over and wrapped his arms around Viv’s shins. “Iv,” he said.
In between getting everybody dressed, icing the cake in chocolate frosting, staging the house with flowers, and accepting a delivery from the caterers, Viv sang, “Mum-Mum-Mum” to her nephew to reindoctrinate him.
She tried to prepare her niece for the funeral. “It’s okay,” Tilly reassured her. “I have buried a guinea pig.”
Five minutes before Ross arrived, Viv finally found a few minutes to phone Merry and tell her to reroute messages to Ross’s cell. “How are you feeling…any improvement?”
“Definitely on the mend.” Viv took her word for it, she didn’t have time to go on Skype. “I talked to Charlie last night,” her twin added.
“Really?” Please, Charlie, don’t have brought up our argument yesterday.
“About anecdotes for the funeral…he was really offhand. I think he’s made up with Susan.”
“I’m sorry, Mere.” God, I’m so sorry. But if the guy couldn’t stand hearing a few home truths then her sister was better off without him.
“Yeah, well, you told me not to get my hopes up,” Merry said tiredly. “Let’s go over the chorister names again.”
“Barry the balding baritone. Cindy the frizzy-permed alto—”
“Cindy’s a soprano. Concentrate, Viv! If you mess this up—”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Of course you can pull this off,” Merry said unconvincingly. “It’s just there’s—”
“A lot at stake. I know.” Viv couldn’t keep the sharpness out of her tone. “You don’t have to repeat it. Ross’s SUV is pulling up. We need to go.”
“Good luck.”
“Shouldn’t that be break a leg?”
“I know you joke when you’re nervous but don’t, Viv, there’s too much at—” Merry caught herself. “Do what I do. Chew your nails.”
Except she’d cut them short yesterday. “Are you kidding, acrylic nails are ten dollars apiece.” Yuk, Yuk, Yuk. Oh, yuk.
She commandeered Ross’s cell as soon as he walked in and waited anxiously while he checked her appearance. A black Polo dress—Merry always chose clothes half a size too big because she didn’t like showing off her figure—with a matching plaited belt.
Viv had teamed it with one of Merry’s carry-all handbags, low black pumps, a fine gold chain and small gold hoop earrings. She’d pulled her hair into Merry’s customary ponytail and her only makeup was lip gloss and eye shadow. Merry wore blue, instead of the brown that suited their coloring.
In one way, at least, Viv figured she’d perfected Merry. Drawn, tired and drained of confidence.
“Perfect,”
Ross approved, and tears sprang to her eyes. Encouragement had been in short supply. She blinked hard.
“Attila?” Ross touched their niece’s shoulder. “Go put your brother in the car seat, hey? And you can choose the music for the ride to the chapel.” Tilly loved being in charge of in-car entertainment
“You okay?” he said when they’d gone.
She resisted a sudden urge to lay her head against his broad shoulder. “I will be.” Viv fished the saints book out of Merry’s bag.
“You use that thing like crack.” Ross took it away from her. “We’re relying on preparedness, remember?”
“And I’m covering all the bases.” Grabbing it, she flicked through the pages. “Saint Jude’s our man. He looks after desperate situations and lost causes.”
Ross reconfiscated it. “Where’d this thing come from, anyway?”
“I dressed the production of The Sound of Music last year and the producer gave me a thank-you gift of crystal rosary beads. The saints guide came with it. I started reading it as a curiosity and now I don’t go anywhere without it.”
She made a grab for it and he held it out of her reach. “You can pull this off.”
“I’ve got melodies, posture tips and names all jumbled together in my head,” she admitted. “I don’t think I can keep everything straight.”
“You’ve done the work, the information will come when it’s needed.”
“Harry keeps calling me Iv.”
“Damn. I’d hoped it was a one-off.” He thought a minute. “Okay, it’s short for ‘give’ as in ‘gimme.’ Whenever he says it, hand him something.”
“Yes.” She felt a rush of relief. “That could work.”
“If things get too dicey, pretend you’re overcome and start crying.”
“Now that I can do.”
His mouth softened, Ross’s equivalent of a smile. He handed over the saints book. “And I’ve got your back.”
“Think you can resist the urge to put a knife in it?”
Ross shepherded her through the front door. “A British prime minister, Lord Melbourne, once said he wanted men who would support him when he was in the wrong. Today, I’m your guy.”
And tomorrow? Viv paused on the doorstep. “How’s Charlie doing this morning?” Obviously he hadn’t mentioned her outburst to Ross or he would have lectured her by now.
