As various friends and relatives drifted in and out, hugging him, asking for the quick catch-up, Miles had a chance to take in his surroundings, marveling at how it all looked the same as when he was growing up, only now he saw it through a different lens.
The lower level of the house was an open floor plan with the kitchen, family room and a casual dining table contained in one area. The space that had once seemed so large looked a little smaller than he remembered it. The tile-covered countertops that he could vividly recall his mother being so excited about years ago looked a little worn and dingy now.
The same chalkboard from his childhood hung on the wall next to the refrigerator. The same linoleum that used to be a shade of off-white and was now leaning towards light gray, still covered the floor up to the point where the carpet in the family room began. It delineated the space where the kitchen ended and the family room started.
The same large, overstuffed sectional sofa sat atop the same Berber carpet that still looked brand new thanks to his mom’s TLC and obsessive vacuuming.
He watched her as she stirred pots on the stove and checked something in the oven—it looked like meat loaf—and worried over something else in the refrigerator.
“Hey, Ma,” he called. “Let me help you. What can I do?”
“Not a thing. You just talk to everyone and relax,” she said. “Lucy can help me here in the kitchen. Lucy, I’m talking to you. Lucy!”
The girl looked up from her place on the corner of the couch where she’d been texting and pulled one ear bud out of her ear.
“What?” she snapped.
Miles saw his mother give her a look and the girl immediately straightened up. Miles was all too familiar with that look. It was a silent warning. If she didn’t comply, the punishment would be worse than a court marshal. Deena Mercer’s husband might have retired a sergeant first class, but she was the long-standing general of the Mercer army. She commanded respect and her family gave it to her.
“I think you know that the correct response is yes, ma’am,” Deena said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucy answered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.” Miles could see the way the girl’s hands were fisted in her lap, but her tone of voice was much softer now.
“Please put that cell phone down and come here. I need you to set the table in the dining room and the one here in the family room, and then set the picnic table out on the back porch for the kids. We need twenty place settings in all, please.”
Lucy didn’t smile, but she nodded and set about her duties, tucking the phone into the pocket of her jeans rather than setting it down as her mother had told her to do. Miles sensed something was up. His little sister had an edge that went beyond typical teenage angst and moodiness.
When the girl was out of the room, he asked his mom, “Is Lucy okay?”
His mother’s face tightened and her mouth flattened into a grim line. She hefted the pot of boiling potatoes off the stove and dumped them into a large colander in the sink.
“It’s been an interesting year,” she said as she set the pot back on the stove and turned back to the sink to shake the remaining water out of the potatoes.
“Grab yourself a beer out of the fridge and I’ll tell you about it,” she said. “While you’re over there would you hand me the cream, please?”
Miles handed the quart-size container to her and then opened his beer.
His brothers were occupied by a game of Mario Kart with the nieces. His older sister, Patricia, was following her toddler around making sure she didn’t get into anything she wasn’t supposed to. The others were out in the backyard, or grouped in various sets talking about one thing or another like big families did.
Miles pushed back the question of when his father might grace them with his presence. He hadn’t materialized since Miles had seen him in the office, and after mulling over the expression his dad wore, he decided he’d be damned before he asked about him. Especially since he had these few moments alone with his mother, and he could tell she wanted to catch him up on what had been happening with Lucy.
“Thank you, hon,” she said as she took the carton from him and brushed a lock of graying hair off her forehead. “Your little sister has been a bit of a handful this past year. She’s had a hard time, but she’s settling down now.” Deena heaved a sigh and looked around, as if making sure no one was listening in on their conversation. Miles guessed she might’ve been looking for Lucy, who wasn’t within earshot. He could see her through the sliding glass doors, standing next to the picnic table she was supposed to be setting, on her phone texting.
Pushing the envelope.
“About six months ago, your little sister snuck out in the middle of the night and went joyriding with that Phillips boy. She had no business being out with him at a decent hour much less in the middle of the night. He’s seventeen years old.”
Deena gestured with the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir the butter and cream she was heating up on the stove. “The boy’s parents woke up at about 2:30 in the morning, realized the car was missing and reported it stolen, before they realized their son had taken it. When the police found them, the boy was drunk. The police hauled both him and Lucy down to the station and made them call their parents, which was fine with your daddy and me because after that stunt, we’d reached our wits’ end with that little girl.”
Miles grimaced, thinking about what a nightmare that must have been for all involved. He’d pulled some pretty dumb stunts when he’d lived at home. Nothing as brazen as what Lucy had done—or at least he’d never been caught doing anything that stupid. Although his father would have an opinion or two when it came to the subject of Miles and stupidity. “So what happened?” Miles asked. “Was she okay?”
“Well, yes. She swore she hadn’t been drinking. The police made her take a Breathalyzer, so I knew she was telling the truth. And of course the parents didn’t press charges against their own son…although he did get into a heap of trouble over the underage drinking and driving. Lost his license, I think, and he’ll probably be on restriction until he’s thirty. I know we grounded Lucy for a very long time, even though the sheriff did a good job of scaring them both.”
His mom looked tired. Under the kitchen’s fluorescent lights he could see the creases etched into her face. There was a weariness about her that he’d never noticed before.
“After everything settled down and we had a chance to talk about it calmly, Lucy admitted she had been in way over her head with that boy that night. Apparently, he got a little handsy.” Deena shook her head. “I think it scared her. Like it scared me to death.” Deena was wringing her hands. “Just think of all the things that could’ve happened. I told her nice girls have no business out after midnight. That’s why she has a curfew. Nothing good happens past midnight.”
Miles winced at the irony of his mom’s words. He half expected her to chuckle and say, “Sorry for the pun. I loved your movie, honey. Even if it was a little too scary for my taste.”
Obviously, she hadn’t realized what she’d said because she shuddered and gave her head a quick shake as if clearing it of the what if cobwebs.
“How are things now?” Miles asked instead of agreeing that nothing good had happened since Past Midnight. “Lucy seemed to hop-to when you asked her to set the table.”
Deena’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Yeah, if you don’t count the preamble of sassiness. Well, she’s not allowed to date or wear makeup until she turns sixteen. Unless we make a special dispensation like we’re doing this weekend. She’s going to a dance—with an age-appropriate boy, who does not drive. His parents are taking them. And really, she’s been working hard at school and helping me around the house, basically keeping her nose clean and out of trouble. She’s invited her daddy to speak at career day next month. That made him so happy. He’s been working on his speech since the moment she asked him.” His mother sighed again. “She made a mistake. I really want to believe she learned from it. You k
now what we’ve always said. Only new mistakes.” Miles felt his father’s presence before he heard him enter the room. Because when he turned around, Miles Mercer III was standing in the threshold between the family room and the office where he’d been holed up since Miles had arrived. He was regarding his son with a look that fell somewhere between neutral nonchalance and general irritation.
That’s why Miles Mercer IV was shocked as hell when his father walked over, extended a hand and said, “It’s been a long time.”
Chapter Four
Deena Mercer had always maintained that Miles and his father were too much alike and that’s why they clashed in such an explosive way. However, Miles couldn’t stand the thought of being as stubborn and jaded as his old man. So, most of his life he had taken great pains to go the opposite direction.
That’s why they clashed. Because he wanted to be nothing like his father. Then again, “clashing” hinted that two people were close enough to careen off each other. Their problem resembled something closer to being drawn and quartered.
While last night’s dinner had started out amicably enough with the handshake, his father had seized every opportunity to land a passive-aggressive verbal punch in Miles’s direction.
For his mother’s sake, Miles didn’t take the bait. He ignored his dad’s caustic remarks about Hollywood’s fruits and nuts. When his father asked him when he was he going to settle down and get a real job, Miles had laughed it off. He’d also let it roll right off his back when his dad threw the barb about Miles’s last two movies being flops.
“Can’t win ’em all.” Miles had shrugged it off, refusing to be goaded into a verbal altercation. He also decided there was no way in hell that he would admit to his father that he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of making horror films for the rest of his life. He was restless and discontent and looking for his next project—preferably something in another genre. That’s why he was happy to have this breather working on Catering to Dallas.
“Guess not. Is that why you’ve come back here with your tail between your legs to work on that sissy cooking show?”
There had been a silence so chilling that his mother had finally piped up and said, “Catering to Dallas is a wonderful show. I don’t care if you’d come home to work on a revival of the Teletubbies, honey. I’m just glad you’re home. Dad—” Everyone had been calling him Dad for as far back as Miles could remember to avoid confusion, since they were both named Miles. “If you can’t say something nice, just be quiet.”
Then, without skipping a beat, she changed the subject, telling everyone about the annual block party that she and Dad were chairing this year.
As a career military man, Dad may have been a hard-ass, but his mother still ruled the roost. He had remained silent for the better part of the meal. After dessert of Deena’s homemade chocolate layer cake, he’d excused himself to his office. He didn’t say goodbye.
Miles Mercer III may not have offered the open-arm welcome that Miles IV had been hoping for, but at least he’d come out of his office and offered the initial handshake.
That’s what Miles would focus on. Otherwise he might be tempted to come out swinging. He’d be in Celebration for at least a month. During that time he intended to make his father understand his reasons for writing and directing Past Midnight and make him understand he hadn’t set out to disgrace the family name.
Today was a new day and he needed to put his family issues aside and focus on work. That wouldn’t be difficult to do since first thing this morning, Miles was meeting with Sydney to go over her ideas for the Celebrations, Inc., wedding catering giveaway. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to use it as a new story line on the show. Executive producer Lenny Norton had invited himself to the meeting, but that didn’t dampen Miles’s enthusiasm. Lenny had been out of town when Miles had arrived. They’d talked on the phone before Miles had come on board as the interim director, but today would be the first day the two would meet face-to-face. From what he understood, Lenny was a piece of work. The guy was a former cattle rancher who had sold his land and business and now had more money than knowledge of the television business. That was always the most dangerous kind of investor: one who didn’t know a best boy from a boom operator, but wanted to be large and in charge. Apparently, that’s what they were dealing with with Lenny.
Miles walked through the kitchen, where they were already setting up for that morning’s taping, and into the hall where Sydney’s office was located.
He rapped gently on the door.
“Come in,” she called in her lilting accent. It made him smile.
He pushed open the door and found her sitting behind her desk. She wore a red silky-looking blouse that was a sexy contrast with her dark hair and green eyes. She looked better than Christmas and the Fourth of July all rolled into one crazy-gorgeous package.
She smiled back at him. “Good morning, Miles.”
There was something about her accent that put him in such a good mood.
“Good morning,” he returned, but his words were eclipsed by a crash that erupted out on the set. There was the sound of something breaking, glass shattering, someone yelling.
Maybe it was a set light?
They both grimaced.
“What was that?” Miles asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good.”
He took a step back out into the hallway and glanced down the hall into the kitchen. A big, beefy man he assumed was Lenny Norton stood in the middle of the kitchen gesticulating wildly, his loud voice carrying over the usual sounds of the crew readying the set for the first shoot of the day.
“Looks like a hurricane is blowing through the set. We’re now short one tray of highball glasses.”
“Lenny?” she asked.
Miles nodded and Sydney squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. “Come in, quickly, and shut the door. Maybe he’ll get distracted and forget about us.”
Miles did as she asked and settled himself in a chair across from her desk. They waited as if gauging whether or not Hurricane Lenny would blow their way.
“We might be safe,” Miles said.
“Or it could be the eye of the storm,” she answered. “It always gets eerily quiet when that happens and then bam.”
They heard the boom of Lenny’s voice again, but this time it sounded farther away.
“What is he saying?” Sydney asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t hear him.”
Sydney came out from behind the desk and stood next to Miles as they both walked to the door and listened. They stood face-to-face and so close together that he could smell the scent of her fragrance, something floral and fresh, that made him want to lean in closer and inhale. They maintained eye contact as they waited and listened. Miles took a mental snapshot, wanting to learn her face by heart—the way her green eyes slanted down at the outer corners, the way her top lip was slightly fuller than the bottom one, the apple cheekbones that gave her such a patrician look.
Damn.
He sensed that she was the gorgeous, independent type who scared off the average Joe.
Miles had never been content to be average.
Hell, no.
The thought of the two of them being in cahoots, hiding out from Lenny, was kind of sexy. Even if it really wasn’t such a conspiracy. No one enjoyed meeting with the guy, especially not first thing in the morning. However, since Lenny was the bankroll, he’d bought himself a say in all matters pertaining to Catering to Dallas.
Aiden, the cast and the crew had developed a tactic that was more of a sleight-of-hand diversion to distract Lenny from important matters. Still, sometimes when he caught wind of matters, as he had with this meeting, there was no getting around him.
“I wonder what he’s going to break next?” Sydney said in a sexy, low voice.
“Do you want to get out of here?” The words were out before Miles could think better of it. “Maybe we could go downtown and
get some coffee? Get out of this chaos?”
“I’d love to,” she said without a second’s hesitation.
She returned to her desk and grabbed her purse. As Miles opened the office door, they heard Lenny’s thunderous voice booming down the hallway.
“Oh, no,” she sighed.
“There’s always the window,” Miles joked.
“Don’t tempt me.” She made a sound of frustration low in her throat and put her purse back into the drawer. “But I’ll definitely take a rain check on that coffee outside of the office.”
Miles felt the thread of something catch between them. “Absolutely.”
As she sat down at her desk, Lenny appeared in the open doorway. His considerable frame, clad in a plaid shirt, bolo tie and faded blue jeans, filled the space. A wide leather belt with a buckle that looked like a Longhorn steer head seemed to hold up his belly.
“Good morning, y’all,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for ya.”
“We’ve been right here.” Sydney shuffled papers on her desk, tidying up several stacks. She closed folders and returned pens to the mug she used as a holder, until everything was neat and in its place.
Eyeing her intently, Lenny took his seat in the chair next to Miles. “Are you this organized all the time, Missy?” he drawled.
“Er—my name is Sydney. I have to be organized or my job would be ten times more difficult,” she answered.
Miles realized that until that very moment, he’d never loved the way the word difficult sounded. It was that accent of hers. It occurred to him that he could be quite happy listening to her read the dictionary for a couple of hours. They definitely needed to give her more on-camera time. She was an underutilized commodity. Although he doubted she’d appreciate being thought of in those terms.
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