“I heard the Messina boys were back in town.” An elderly man with shoulders bowed forward leaned on their table with gnarled, age-spotted hands. He wore a wrinkled burgundy-checked flannel shirt, sleeves buttoned at his wrists, and smelled like he could use a shower or his clothes a washing. “Are you right in the head?”
Vince choked on his bite of chip. The rest of it crumpled to the table.
“If not, we don’t want you here.” The old man pushed off and wobbled backward. “Had enough of that with your father. He jumped me in a bar fight once. No warning. Just pow.”
Because of the shock, Vince couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could only watch the old man shuffle away.
“Are you okay?” Harley switched chairs so that she sat next to him. She slid her hand to the nape of his neck. “Breathe in, breath out, remember? What was that about?”
Vince drank half the water in his glass before he attempted to speak. “My dad...” His voice sounded like sandpaper on metal. “My dad...”
He didn’t want to tell her.
“Drink some more.” Her hand shifted lower, rubbing across his shoulder blades. “But don’t rush it.” A minute passed, maybe longer.
He wanted to lean into her touch. He wanted to get up and run away without explaining.
One thought coalesced: it was a mistake to have brought her here.
With every greeting, with every event, his past was catching up to him. And Harley, as witness, was curious and wanting answers.
On some level, he supposed he owed her some.
“My dad had schizophrenia.” His words came out drenched in emotion and vulnerability, when he wanted to be detached and strong. He couldn’t meet her gaze, but he couldn’t stop speaking, either. “And depression. He was diagnosed late in life. That man...” Whoever he was. “He could have been referencing a time before Dad was diagnosed.” Or not. There was no magic solution for mental health challenges.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity.” There was the strong, detached tone he’d been looking for. Inappropriate now.
“I wasn’t offering pity.” Harley’s hand dropped away. She moved back into her chair. “I’m sorry your dad had mental health issues. And I’m sorry that man was rude to you.”
Harley was compassionate. Genuine. And the first to give the benefit of the doubt.
“That was...rude of me,” Vince said, struggling to find words when he was unaccustomed to explaining himself. “I didn’t have my guard up and he got to me. I took it out on you. I’m the one who should apologize.” And he did.
She stared at him a little too long, not smiling. Earlier in the summer, he would have held her gaze with a hint of a smile and then coaxed a smile out of her. He would have reached for her hand and drawn her close. He’d always felt better when she was near.
“I understand,” Harley said.
Vince wasn’t sure she did.
* * *
THE LAMBRIDGE BED AND BREAKFAST was a large, beautiful, Queen Anne Victorian home painted green with cream colored shutters.
Harley took in the large front porch, dominant Dutch gables, and asymmetrical façade. The kind of straight-lined architecture built to endure generations of family disagreements, brutal storms and intense heat.
Vince had endured much the same. He’d weathered family gales and ill winds from the community. Given his mom had left her family and his father had braved mental illness, was it any wonder he had no interest in getting married and having children?
She hefted her duffel higher on her shoulder, and practically dragged her backpack on the ground as she followed Vince up the stairs to the bed-and-breakfast. It was barely seven o’clock, but the sun was dipping behind the mountain range to the west and Harley’s energy dipped with it. Back home it was 9:00 p.m., bedtime for someone who arose before dawn every day.
She couldn’t wait to check into a room and be alone. She’d get out her sketchbook and try to solve the playhouse balcony problem.
The door swung open and, for a moment, Harley thought Brit had come to greet them.
“Oops. Those are startled stares.” The woman shared Brit’s dark brown hair, her mahogany eyes and her wide smile, but she sounded different, more polished. “I’m Brit’s twin, Reggie. I run the B and B. Apologies for the confusion.”
Where Brit’s demeanor was as comfortable as a set of worn flannel sheets on a soft, familiar bed, Reggie’s was more like a bed made with crisp new cotton and military precision. There was nothing rumpled or wrinkled about her—not her hair, not her blue-flowered blouse, not her black pants.
She invited them inside. The foyer was grand and the mood subdued. To the right, a grandfather clock ticked among the antiques in the living room. To the left, a dining table that would fit twelve gleamed as if someone had just polished it.
Reggie smiled and a little of Brit’s warmth seeped through. “Are you a party of two? Gabe only made a reservation for one.”
Reservation for one. As in only one bed needed.
Harley’s shoulders sagged. She’d thought they’d stay at a hotel in separate rooms. She hadn’t anticipated Harmony Valley to be so very small.
“That Gabe,” Vince said flatly, not looking at Harley. He’d set his suitcase on the floor. His hands fisted, but he said calmly, “What a joker.”
“Is there enough room?” Harley asked. “We can drive back to...” Whatever the nearest city had been.
“No need to go anywhere.” Reggie bared more teeth. “I have enough beds. It’s just that the only room I have left has two singles.”
“Perfect,” Harley said. “Vince threw out his back.” Her cheeks began to heat as she spun a tale. “He’s out of commission when it comes to...you know.”
Vince frowned at Harley.
“And he’s cranky about it.” In for a penny, in for a pound. Harley forced her lips upward.
Reggie laughed, but it was an awkward sound that echoed in the big, empty space. “Just a little bit of paperwork and then I’ll give you the keys.”
After Vince registered on a tablet, Reggie led them down a hallway beneath the staircase. “Your room is on the main floor. But you have your own private bathroom. The units upstairs don’t.”
“Take that Gabe,” Vince said, regaining some of his good humor and sibling competitive spirit.
The room was small, just two twin beds. The comforters were a pale green and matched the shade of the thick towels in the tiny bathroom. As soon as Reggie closed the door behind her and it was just Harley and Vince, the room felt as confining as a jail cell.
“You take the bed by the door.” Harley plopped her duffel and backpack on the one in the corner. “We need some ground rules. All changing will occur in the bathroom.”
“Oops.” Vince had ripped off his shirt while her back was turned.
She couldn’t un-see that, but Harley covered her eyes anyway in the hope she wouldn’t remember when she’d last seen his naked chest. “Put your clothes back on.”
“Too late. I’m down to my boxers.”
She didn’t want to peek. Honest.
But she did. His jeans were still on.
“Made you look.” That grin.
He hadn’t smiled since they’d stepped foot on his family’s property. She hadn’t expected to see it after their talk in the restaurant.
The butterflies tried to return. She sucked in a breath and sucked in her stomach, stuffing every reaction to Vince—positive and negative—deep down inside. “What happened to the brooding man I’ve been with the better part of the day?”
“He came into a bedroom with a beautiful woman and all his cares slipped away.” It was a lie. Vince couldn’t quite erase the shadows around his eyes. “Or it could be that this is payback for telling Reggie I threw out my back.”
He was teasing
her.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe Vince needed some brevity after the stress of seeing his family for the first time in years.
Harley hit Vince with her pillow, grabbed her duffel and retreated to the bathroom.
It was the size of the closet in her apartment. She contemplated taking a cold shower. But the shower stall was so small, she’d have trouble shaving her legs. She doubted Vince could fit his shoulders in there. She was getting claustrophobic just brushing her teeth. And, boy, was she glad she’d decided to bring a football jersey and boxer shorts to sleep in rather than a nightie. Nothing sexy about a woman wearing a football jersey and boxers that reached to her knees.
“Are you decent?” she called through the door once she’d changed.
“You used to think so.”
The impulse to submit to his charm was strong. Harley gritted her teeth and returned to the bedroom.
Vince sat up in bed, on top of the coverlet. Still no shirt on.
Harley’s jaw popped. This was going to be a test of wills. Mostly a test of her will.
“What are you wearing?” Vince looked aghast. He reached over and drew the window shade down.
She could feel frumpy from his reaction or triumph. She chose triumph. “Clearly, this is an Atlanta Falcons jersey.”
“But...” He pointed at her. “You live in Houston. We have two perfectly good football teams in Texas to choose from. You didn’t have to defect to Atlanta.”
“I didn’t defect. I’m loyal to my roots.” Still feeling out of sorts from the stuffy bathroom, she climbed into bed and pulled her sketchpad out of her duffel. For years, she’d come up with her most creative ideas at night, transferring the intriguing ones to fresh sketchpads so she could refine her work. “Don’t tell me you’re not loyal to a California football team.”
“It was always the Cowboys in our household.”
His mother’s team, she bet.
Vince got out of bed and took his shaving kit into the bathroom. He closed the door, but she could still hear him say, “Look at the size of this shower. Gabe did this on purpose. He’s a dead man.”
CHAPTER SIX
HARLEY WAS STILL asleep when Vince got out of the cramped shower the next morning.
The pajama wars with Harley last night had been amusing. And after spending time with his family, he’d needed something to smile about. Truthfully, it wasn’t so much the family that had bothered him as their buildings and the memories contained within.
Vince sat on the bed and tied his tennis shoes, glancing at the mass of blond hair on Harley’s pillow. He’d never told her how much he was drawn to her thick, blond hair or the honesty in her clear blue eyes. He was fairly certain he’d never look at her without remembering the softness of her lips beneath his or the richness of her laughter.
Regardless, that wasn’t enough to entice him to break his rule about relationships never being permanent. His goals today were to keep up the dating façade without leading Harley on and to contain the memories of the past.
To do so, he needed caffeine. Vince went in search of coffee. He found his brother instead.
“This is my dream breakfast, Reggie.” Like Vince, Gabe was wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt. His short, dark hair was rumpled, as if he didn’t own a comb or had left it back in the barracks. “I may just have to marry you.”
“Let’s not get carried away.” Reggie wore a skirt, a soft pink blouse, and heels better suited to downtown Houston than Harmony Valley. She caught Vince’s eye and pointed at Gabe’s plate. “I’ve never seen anyone top pancakes with blueberries, powdered sugar and syrup.”
Vince scrutinized Gabe’s breakfast. “My brother has always lived for carbs.”
“Hey, I need the energy.” Gabe loaded his fork with dripping blueberries and pancake. “I ran up Parish Hill this morning while you were getting your beauty rest.” He stuffed the large bite in his mouth and talked around his food. “This is my reward.”
“Your heavenly reward? Because eating like that will send you to an early grave.” Vince inventoried the sideboard and selected two hard-boiled eggs and a large apple. Before he sat next to Gabe, he poured a tall mug of black coffee.
Reggie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two brothers alone.
“Speaking of heaven...” Gabe swallowed and reached for a glass of orange juice. “Where is your angel?”
Vince’s shoulders tensed. “Harley’s sleeping. I’ll bring her something when I’m done.”
“You’ll be regretting not having carbs when we’re working on the house this morning.” Gabe poured more syrup on his pancakes. “In addition to installing the flooring, I hear Brit found a deal on new doors. She’s nearly as good as I am when it comes to bargaining.”
Be inside the house? Vince’s stomach churned. “I didn’t bring my tools.”
“Not to worry. I borrowed everything we’ll need.” Gabe loaded his fork once more. “Nail gun, compressor, level, crowbar.” He always had been one to make things appear out of thin air, which was why he was so good at managing supplies for his Marine unit. “We’re only working through the morning. Brit’s got a shower this afternoon, leaving us some down time.” His hand stilled midway to his mouth. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Being back in town after all these years?” He lowered his fork. “Without Dad. Without Uncle Turo.”
Their uncle had raised them after their dad committed suicide.
“It’s weird without Mom,” Vince added. She’d tried to keep things normal for more than a decade.
“Mom?” Gabe rolled his eyes and jammed the fork in his mouth. “She deserted us.”
She hadn’t. “Like Dad didn’t abandon us when he overdosed on pills?” Vince lost his appetite. He pushed his plate away. Two shelled eggs and one apple untouched.
“That was different.” Gabe’s fork drowned in a sea of syrup. “Dad carried the burden of chaos inside his head, and not by choice.” Gabe’s voice was too loud, too hard, too full of conviction. He’d never see anything but his own view of the world. “Mom gave up on her wedding vows, by choice. She left her kids, by choice.”
By choice? Vince felt sick.
“And don’t tell me there’s ever an excuse for that,” Gabe railed. “It’s like going AWOL on the battlefield. You don’t put yourself above the good of your unit.”
Vince leaned back in his chair, needing a steadying force. He stared across the hall at the antique couch with its carved wood trim. It looked about as comfortable as the short bed he’d slept in last night, and as painful as this conversation.
He had a sudden urge to see Harley, to exchange a good-natured barb. Anything but this attack on their mother, when it had been Vince’s fault that she’d left.
“Do you ever see Mom?”
Gabe’s question wiped Harley’s smile out of Vince’s head. “No.”
“Harley let slip something about her being in Texas.” Gabe would have made a good interrogator. He continued to devour the sugar-laden pancakes on his plate as if this talk wasn’t vital to the stability of their worlds.
Vince pressed his lips together. He should have told Harley his brothers didn’t know he’d found their mother. “You know Mom has family in Texas. I don’t see her or her relatives.”
“Seems funny you’d stay away from Mom since you’re always sticking up for her.” Gabe tapped his fork on his plate. “When she left, we made a pact. We vowed not to mention her anymore, not to see her, not to look for her.”
“That came from Dad.”
He’d wanted them to pretend she was dead. Except there’d been no body, no funeral, no eulogy. Vince hadn’t had any closure. Truth was, he didn’t have any now, either. But he had peace and predictability. That was worth more.
“I know how you think, Vince. You believe everybody needs a helping hand, including our cold-blooded m
other.” Gabe stared at Vince as if he was a misbehaving puppy. “You need a head-clearing session with Dr. Gabe.”
“There’s the pot offering to sandblast the kettle.” Nothing Gabe could say would clear Vince’s head.
“What did you tell our sainted mother when you first saw her?” Gabe’s demand came fast, made assumptions, accused.
Back when they were kids, Vince had fallen for Gabe’s quick, bulldog inquisitions once too often. When in a sparring match with Gabe, he’d learned to remain calm or he’d give everything away.
Gabe waited for Vince’s answer with a casual look that was anything but casual. He shouldn’t have become a supply chief. He should have gone into interrogation. It was unfair to blame Harley for her slip about Mom being in Texas, but Vince couldn’t not fault her, either.
Vince tried to give his reply finality. “I told you, I haven’t seen her. End of a nonstory.”
Needing to get away, Vince moved to the sideboard and filled a plate for Harley, nearly dumping a hard-boiled egg onto the wood floor. He hadn’t drunk near enough coffee to be feeling so jittery. His fumbling fingers were a result of his irritation at Gabe, his annoyance at Harley, his anger with himself for telling Harley about his mother in the first place.
Gabe was uncharacteristically silent, not even offering a parting shot as Vince left him, coffee in one hand, Harley’s plate and utensils in the other. The buildup of anxious energy continued with each step down the hall. Vince needed to vent. Slamming their bedroom door and letting Harley know what she’d done was a good place to start.
Harley pried her eyes open when Vince opened the door. She stretched and then sank back beneath the blankets, nothing but a blond halo visible on her pillow.
Now this is how a man should wake up in the morning.
Tension drained from Vince’s body like a fast-receding tide. He closed the door softly instead of slamming it the way he’d planned just seconds prior.
“What time is it?” Harley asked in a muffled voice.
“Seven thirty.” He came over to sit on the single bed across from hers. Bitterness pressed on the verbal gas at the back of his tongue. Words spewed out, fast and low. “Don’t ask me how I slept. You snore. And you blab, although, not in your sleep.”
Marrying the Wedding Crasher Page 6
