Then somebody kicked her under the table, making her yelp, forcing her to look up and smile at the Shaughnessy brothers, both dark-haired and blue-eyed, one grinning, one not. Only, in that instant, she saw the glower for what it was—or more to the point, what it wasn’t—and her heart melted.
Let the games begin, she thought, and tossed out that first, all-important pearl.
* * *
Leave it to his dumbass brother to make a beeline for the cousins’ table. Or more to the point, to take Patrick’s muttered, “Not a good idea, bro,” as a challenge. So here he was, standing in front of April with his hands shoved in his pockets without a clue what to say.
Not that this was a huge issue with Luke around, who’d been chatting up girls since the sixth grade. Yeah, the nuns had had their hands full with that one, boy.
But while Luke and Mel and Blythe were yakking away—about what, Patrick had no idea, he couldn’t hear for the ringing in his ears—April fixed that soft, sweet gaze on him, smiling like they’d never had that last conversation. Like she hadn’t told him he was an idiot.
Like he hadn’t acted like one.
In the reflected light splashing through the window, her hair seemed redder, her eyes more turquoise. And although the cream-colored, fluffy sweater covered her from chin to wrists, it also clung to everything between. How she could look so hot and so innocent at the same time was beyond him, but it was a deadly combination, that was for damn sure.
The waitress brought them their check. Mel and Blythe scrapped over it like cats over a chicken bone, making Luke laugh and Patrick breathe a sigh of relief. A few minutes more, and they’d be gone.
“How’s it going?” April said over the din.
“Okay,” he said, making himself shrug. Avoiding her gaze.
“Business good?”
He squinted out the window at a sailboat in the open water beyond the marina, its white sails blinding against the blue sky. “Getting by.”
“And Lili?”
The check folder clamped in her hand, Blythe rose from the table and gathered her purse, flirting with his brother in that way women did when they didn’t mean it. And Luke was eating it up. Dumbass.
“Um...she’s great,” Patrick said, reluctantly returning his attention to April, who’d stood as well to wriggle into her blazer before hiking up her own purse onto her right shoulder.
With her left hand.
His gaze zinged to hers. Which she took captive with another one of those sweet smiles before following her cousins through the restaurant to the cashier. And never looking back.
“Y’all want to sit here?” Jeannie, the waitress, asked. “I can clean it up in a jiff.”
“Sure,” Luke said, sliding behind the table and inhaling deeply. “Smell that?”
Patrick hesitated, then sat across from him, scarred side to window, the seat still warm from April. “Besides the fried fish?” True to her word, the waitress cleaned off the table in a jiffy, laying down fresh paper napkins and cutlery, then menus. Superfluous though they were, since everybody in St. Mary’s knew the menu by heart from the time they could talk. Probably before.
Luke breathed deeply again, then let out his breath on a happy sigh. “No, numskull. Women. Sweetest smell in the world.”
Patrick shook his head. “You’re pathetic.”
“No, you’re pathetic,” Luke said, leaning back in the booth, his arm stretched across the back. “Give me one good reason why you haven’t asked April out.”
“And since when is my personal life any of your concern?”
Ignoring him, Luke sat forward again to tick off a list on his fingers. “She’s cute, she’s available and she’s interested. And don’t tell me she’s not.” Luke’s sharp gaze softened. “And she seems like a real doll.”
Jeannie brought them tea, flirted a little more, took their orders and left. “Which is precisely why she’s not my type.”
“Type? What the hell, type? All I’m saying is ask her out. See where it goes. Why are you looking under the table?”
“Checking to see if Ma’s hiding under there.” Patrick straightened. “’Cause that sure sounds like her words coming out of your mouth, Mr. Marriage Is For Suckers.”
“Who’s talking marriage, for crying out loud? I’m just saying, what’s the harm in, you know? A little female companionship, if you get my drift.”
“Yeah. Got it. Except April’s not that type.”
“Not your type, not that type...” Luke shook his head. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”
“No, I’m a realist. For one thing, in case you missed it, I tried dating. It sucked. Or I suck at it, not sure which. For another, April’s...classy. And real. Not that you’d know anything about that—”
“Hey!”
“She’s also a recent widow.”
“Oh, yeah? Then she’s probably...how can I put this?” Luke grinned. “Needy.”
“Just what I need.”
“Actually—”
“In any case, I doubt she even knows what she wants right now. Or needs.”
“Oh, and you do?” Luke leaned forward, lowering his voice. “There’s worse things than having a fling with a hot widow, bro—”
“Luke. Stop it.”
“Huh,” Luke said, leaning back again.
Patrick’s gaze shot to his brother’s. “What?”
“You’re scared.”
“I’m not—”
“The hell you say. You’re scared. And you know why? Because you’ve got feelings for her.”
“That’s ridiculous, I barely know her.”
“And how many times have we heard Pop tell us about how, like, within five minutes of meeting Ma, he knew. Huh? How many times?”
Patrick rubbed his scarred cheek, the blood trying to come to the surface making the skin itch. “And since when do you believe in that crap?”
“Just because it hasn’t happened for me doesn’t mean it didn’t for them. Or couldn’t for anybody else.” He gestured toward Patrick. “Like, say, you.”
“And if you recall,” Patrick said steadily, his gaze pinned to his brother’s, “it did happen for me. With Natalie. And look how that turned out.”
“And you two were how old when you met? Hell, at that age everybody’s The One. Until you see somebody else. Then she got pregnant, which only complicated things, right?”
“I did love Nat, Luke. And if...” This time the burn was inside, where it lurked like a pilot light, ready to ignite at a moment’s notice.
“And if you hadn’t gotten injured,” Luke said, almost gently, “you’d still be together. Except you did, and you’re not. And you know something? That’s not your fault.”
For the second time, Patrick flinched. Partly at his brother’s words, but more because of the force behind them—a force strong enough to slash open the shroud of bitterness and self-pity Patrick hadn’t even known was there. Or at least had been denying pretty damn hard.
He released a breath. “I’m being a butt, huh?”
“Nah. Okay, maybe a little,” Luke said with another grin. “But the thing is, and what you apparently haven’t taken into account, is that April already knows the worst, doesn’t she? Your mug is never gonna look any better than it does now, you’ve got mood swings worse than a fourteen-year-old girl and enough baggage to sink an aircraft carrier. Yet somehow she likes you. And you’re still finding excuses why hooking up with her is a bad idea?”
When Patrick glared at his brother, he shrugged. “Fine, word it however you want. But—” Luke leaned forward again “—one word, buddy. Opportunity. Maybe nothing will come of it, maybe not. But you sure as hell aren’t happy with the way things are now, so what’ve you got to lose? You can’t hide behind what happened forever. So ask her out.” He pointed at him. “I dare you.”
To a large extent, Patrick knew what his brother was saying was true. He couldn’t deny that his resistance went contrary to everything he’d promised himself abo
ut not letting circumstances—or fear—limit him.
Even so, he thought as Jeannie brought them their food, it was one thing to face his own demons, another thing entirely to drag somebody else into the battle with him. And there was Lili to consider, too. So he wasn’t exactly a free agent here....
“I’ll think about it,” he said, and his brother softly swore.
* * *
Thanksgiving Day had started out clear and sunny, but by midday a typical late-fall gloom had settled over the town, the roiling clouds occasionally spitting a cold, mournful rain across the inn’s windows. Oddly, though, April didn’t feel the least bit melancholy, despite being alone in the huge house. She had a fire going in the gathering room’s retrofitted gas fireplace and all manner of leftover goodies in the fridge, from which she assembled a noontime dinner worthy of royalty. Then she plunked herself at one of the six deliberately mismatched tables in the dining room, watching the rain pummel the churning gray water beyond the pier as she ate and remembering her last Thanksgiving. With Clay.
Did that seem like a million years ago, or what?
Not feeling right about leaving him, she’d spent that Thanksgiving without her parents, too. They’d understood—they’d adored Clay. And April and Helene had taken their little meal—soup, April thought—with Clay in his room, eating off trays to keep him company.
Tears came to her eyes as the scene replayed in her mind. But not of sadness as much as gratitude, that she’d been there for both of them. That they’d left this world knowing they were loved. And that she’d had the privilege of loving them, too. Of their loving her.
Her meal finished, April carried her plate and tea glass back to the kitchen, washing them by hand even though there were two dishwashers—one in here and another in the butler’s pantry—as the rain suddenly stopped, a sunbeam streaking across the warm maple floor. Smiling, April returned to the dining room to let herself out into the spiffed-up sunroom overlooking the grounds behind the house, the estuary beyond. The room was all white—wooden floor, slivers of beadboarded wall between the windows, the wicker furniture—except for the sisal rugs and bright floral cushions that would eventually mimic the dozens of rose bushes Patrick and his crew had planted outside.
She still couldn’t get over how amazing it all was. Couldn’t wait to book the inn’s first wedding. Already she envisioned the rows of white chairs, the gazebo or chuppah entwined with garlands, the beaming couple exchanging their vows underneath....
Even though the ground was soaked, and her thin cardigan no match for the cold, the sun lured her outside, even as her thoughts lured her along paths that, if she had any sense, she wouldn’t go down. Although it’d felt unaccountably good, knowing she’d thrown Patrick at Emerson’s, both by playing it cool—go, her—and by making sure he noticed she’d ditched her rings. The look on his face? Priceless. And endearing, in a bizarre sort of way.
Speaking of the rings, Mel had assured her they were safe—from any temptation April might have to put them back on, especially. It felt weird, not wearing them, but...freeing, too.
But what was really freeing was finally finding the guts to shuck off those doubts and scruples and plunge bare naked into possibility. Emotional skinny-dipping, she thought, chuckling. Patrick was a good man. And obviously a great father. If the prospect of seeing where this led was a little scary...well. She was hardly a stranger to scary, was she?
The black cloud mushroomed out of nowhere, the wind charging her like a ferocious beast and turning even the tiniest twigs into brutal missiles. Her cardigan yanked over her face against the assault, April staggered across the grass and back inside, wrestling shut the door behind her.
Holy cow. The storm had returned with a vengeance, ripping through the yard, hurtling against the house as though desperate to get inside. Lights flickered as April bolted through the kitchen, keeping well away from the windows, even though she knew they were stormworthy. As was the house, which had withstood its share of hurricanes.
Still. Couldn’t hurt to wait things out in the cellar. A flashlight snatched from a shelf by the door, she ran down into the old boiler room, trying not to give her imagination its head. Lord, she’d never felt so alone in her life. Or more helpless. Extremely annoying, that.
Then the wind stopped, boom, as though a switch had been flipped. April waited, the sweater clutched to her thudding heart, listening to her own breathing in the sudden, almost eerie calm. Until, through a small window near the cellar ceiling, she saw sunlight.
Well, that had been weird.
She tiptoed upstairs, replacing the flashlight before cautiously approaching one of the kitchen windows—
Oh, dear God.
April froze, then spun around and ran to the front of the house, swinging open the front door.
Hand over her mouth and tears welling in her eyes at the sight in front of her, she crept out onto the front porch and sank onto the top step, totally oblivious to the sheen of ice-cold water glazing the freshly painted boards.
Chapter Five
The scents of cinnamon and roasting turkey, six different perfumes and at least one poopy baby, swarmed Patrick as he walked into his parents’ house on Thanksgiving. Lili perched on his hip, he dodged a screeching, undulating clot of small people on his way back to the kitchen. Every year the holidays got crazier. And more crowded. And louder. Not that his married siblings with larger houses hadn’t suggested rotating the hosting duties, but since Ma found the very thought appalling, they kept cramming an ever-increasing number of bodies into the tiny foursquare.
Never mind it’d been years since they’d all been able to sit together. Or that, every year, Ma bitched about finding squashed pumpkin pie in the sofa cushions, or that a kid or two got temporarily misplaced. Holidays meant home, and home meant where you grew up. Where your parents still lived.
And that was that.
“There’s my sweetie pie!” Ma said over the din of five women in a kitchen that barely fit one. Her hands gooped up with whatever she was making, she leaned forward so Patrick could swing—carefully—Lili over for a kiss. “Put her down, let her go play with the cousins.” The kid let loose, his mother returned to her stirring, giving Patrick a quick smile.
“So Luke tells me—”
“Ma!” Frances, his oldest sister, yelled from the other side of the kitchen. “Where’s the kosher salt?”
“I have no idea, use the regular stuff, it’s right in that cupboard in front of you. And don’t you dare go anywhere,” she said to Patrick, “I want to talk to you—”
“Grams!” A bright-eyed rug rat popped up between them. “Poppa says the game’s on, are there any munchies?”
“Yeah. It’s called Thanksgiving dinner. And he can cool his jets for an hour until it’s done.” The same argument they had every year. Tradition. Ma swiped her hand across her butt, then grabbed the kid’s chin. “You got all that?”
“Uh-huh,” the kid said, and disappeared.
“An hour, huh?”
“Got the turkey in a little late, there’s no juices in the pan yet. So it’s gonna be a while. Anyway, so your brother—”
“Holy cow,” Sarah, his youngest sister, said, staring at the small flat-screen TV mounted where the bulletin board used to be. “A small tornado touched down north of town?”
Patrick’s head jerked around. “What?”
“Yeah. Look.”
He edged past assorted bosoms, frowning at the news crawl at the bottom of the screen. North would be—
Ignoring his mother’s, “Where are you going, I’m not done with you!” Patrick pushed through the crush and through the back door, onto the faded deck his father had built twenty years before. Seconds later he was down in the bare, brown yard, his cell clamped to his ear. “C’mon, c’mon...answer, dammit.”
No response.
She was probably fine. Probably not even there, maybe with her folks in Richmond. Or with Mel and Ryder—
Staring at the ta
ngle of dead vines in his mother’s barren vegetable patch, he banged the phone three times against his thigh, then called again. Still no answer.
“Uh...yeah...” He palmed his freezing head. “It’s Patrick. The, uh, news said maybe a tornado touched down around there, so, um, just checking to make sure you’re okay. Call if you want.”
Holy crap...he was shaking?
He sure as hell was. And you know what? If dinner was an hour out, what could it hurt to swing by the inn for a minute?
“Patrick?”
He looked up, saw Ma watching him from the deck, hugging herself against the chill.
“Tell Lili I’ll be back in a little bit,” he said, then strode off through the side gate before his mother could ask why.
Although, after he’d driven a few miles through the obviously untouched countryside, he started to feel stupid. Wasn’t like the media never exaggerated or anything. Especially about the weather—
It was subtle, at first. A tree branch by the side of the road. A chewed-up shingle, followed by three or four. Then, as he got within a half mile of the inn, things got more serious—a fifty-foot pine, toppled in someone’s front yard; a missing restaurant sign; a crumpled metal shed smashed into the side of a building. Whatever it was, it’d been mean enough to screw up a lot of Thanksgivings.
His chest tight, Patrick approached the inn, only to let out a choice cuss word when he saw the mangled front yard. House seemed okay, from what he could tell, but...
Hell, did April even know? He jerked the truck into the parking area and jumped out, not bothering to shut the door before making tracks across the yard, up the porch steps.
“April! April!” He pounded on the door, rang the bell. Pounded again. “You in there?”
No answer.
His heart racing, he skipped back down the stairs, then turned, looking up at the house. Now he could see a couple shutters missing or knocked askew, some of the gutter ripped off. Nothing major, though. At least.
He forced himself to look at the front yard again. Okay, yeah, it was a mess, but not irreparable. Didn’t even look like anything was missing, although there were tree limbs and such from other people’s yards. Calmer now, he took off around the side of the house, past the bank of rhododendrons he’d planted against the new siding. Wind must’ve come from the other direction, they looked fine. And maybe, if April was away, he and the guys could come out tomorrow, get most of it cleaned up before she returned—
A Gift for All Seasons Page 7
