The Sweetheart Secret

by Shirley Jump

  “I’m fine.” Emma shrugged. “Roger’s getting ready for another school year, so he’s been on campus often.”

  “Which means you’re alone a lot and Roger is gone twelve hours a day.”

  Emma shrugged again, as if it didn’t matter. As if she hadn’t been alone for months, heck, years. Her husband had used the hectic school years at Jacksonville U as an excuse to spend less and less time at home. Then he started filling up his summers with golf games and research projects, or anything that kept him away. Then he’d landed a book deal after years of writing in his spare time, and he’d disappeared into his office every spare minute he had to work on his novels. He’d become a part-time husband, making an effort just often enough to make Emma believe they still had a chance.

  Emma thought of telling her mother about the impending divorce, then decided Clara would worry too much, and end up sick again. Later, when Momma was stronger, and when Emma had figured out what the heck she was going to do with her life. “With Roger busy at school, I get the house to myself again,” Emma said, putting on a bright, happy smile that made her cheeks hurt. “I was even thinking of switching to working full-time at the insurance company.”

  “You hate that job. Besides, I thought you were doing well working on your own, with the photography.”

  “I need a steady job, Momma, not one that fluctuates between baptisms and bridal season. I can’t just sit around all day and stare at the walls.” Walls that seemed to close in more every day. Walls that echoed with emptiness, a cavern that had once been a home.

  Or had she just been fooling herself all this time?

  “You should go down to Rescue Bay and—”

  “Momma, I’m not going there. Not while you still need me.”

  Clara shifted on the lounge and gave her daughter a smile. On the TV, credits rolled over the screen for the movie that had just ended. Outside, the pool glistened in the sun and geckos darted among the shadows beneath the lanai screen.

  “I’m just fine,” Momma said. “If I need help, I’ll call one of my friends or call your aunt Willow, assuming she’s back from whatever adventure she’s off on now. You go, take care of you. And help Daisy. She can’t handle that place all on her own, you know.”

  Emma tugged a magazine out from the pile on the end table. She flashed the cover in her mother’s direction. “Want to see what Kanye and Kim are up to this week? I hear they redecorated the nursery again.”

  Clara waved that off. “Tell me when you’ll be decorating a nursery. That’s newsworthy.”

  A weight sank to the pit of Emma’s stomach. The truth bubbled inside her, like a witch’s brew, toxic and deadly. If she spoke it aloud, it would make it true, and she wasn’t ready to face that yet. She knew she couldn’t put it off forever, but right now, with her mother still pale and thin, putting off the truth was the best choice for everyone. She put the magazine back on the pile. “I have to go. I forgot I’m supposed to pick up Roger’s dry cleaning before five.”

  She hadn’t picked up Roger’s dry cleaning in four months. Hadn’t made him a dinner in three. And hadn’t had a husband to go home to in two. But she didn’t say any of that to her mother.

  Momma reached out a hand and touched her daughter’s knee. “Are you feeling all right, honey? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine, Momma. Just fine.” Maybe if she said that enough times, it would become the truth. Or maybe it would just become one more lie in a growing falsehood mountain. “Just fine.”

  Then she hurried out of the room before the tears welling in her eyes told the truth.

  * * *

  Daisy had told herself she’d accepted Colt’s invitation to dinner because it was a good opportunity to make her case about the loan. Except she hadn’t brought up the loan or the Hideaway Inn one time. Instead, she’d sat at the small round table in Colt’s kitchen, trying to figure out this new Colt, a man who surprised her in more ways than one.

  She’d expected to find him living in a tidy little modern style condo, all organized and sterile. Maybe something downtown, near his office. Instead, he shared a cozy beachside bungalow with his grandfather, a small house that could have been one of a hundred similar bungalows fronting a private section of Rescue Bay’s three-mile-long beach, just north of the Hideaway Inn. The furniture was a mishmash of recycled pieces, most of them older than Colt, but worn in a way that spoke of family memories and long evening chats. Everything, from the antique brass umbrella stand by the door to the wide-bellied cedar chest across from the kitchen table, seemed to hold histories, secrets, mysteries waiting to be uncovered.

  The second they sat down at the table—Colt with a salad he’d assembled, Daisy and Earl with the ooey-gooey pizza—Colt’s cell phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen. “It’s a consult I’ve been waiting on. I need to take this.”

  “Take away,” Earl said, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s not like we eat dinner together every day.”

  “Grandpa—”

  “It’s fine. I’ll sit here with Daisy and enjoy my pizza. She’s probably better company than you anyway.” Earl slid a spatula under the pizza. “How many slices, Daisy?”

  “Just one, thank you.” She grinned. “But I’ll be back for more soon.”

  “A woman after my own heart.” Earl slid a slice onto her plate, then took two for himself before getting to his feet, crossing to the fridge, and pulling a beer out of the bottom drawer. Colt tensed, but didn’t say anything to his grandfather.

  The phone trilled again. Colt glanced between Daisy at the table and Earl by the fridge, clearly torn about leaving the room. He started to walk away, then turned back and paused to lean down and whisper in Daisy’s ear. “Just warning you. My grandpa can be . . . difficult.”

  “Oh, I can handle difficult,” she said, trying to pretend his nearness had no impact on her. Whatsoever. “I used to live with you, remember?”

  “I was never the difficult one.” The words were hot and low, sending a tremor through Daisy. He held her gaze for one long moment, then he straightened and pressed a button on his phone, issuing a short, professional greeting before striding from the room. In an instant, Colt had gone from the man she remembered to the man in the khakis and tie.

  Earl returned to the table, and took a long swig of his beer. “I love my grandson, but most days he has a hornet up his ass the size of a pterodactyl.”

  Daisy laughed. “I get the feeling he likes things the way he likes things.”

  “All neat and tidy and without any unnecessary carbohydrates.” Earl gestured toward Colt’s salad and made a face. Then he lifted the spatula again. “Meanwhile, want another piece?”

  “Definitely.” She held out her plate.

  She and Earl ate and chatted, an easy conversation about the crazy neighbors down the street, the benefits of classic crust over pan pizza, which then segued into a conversation about her cantankerous car. Between the food and the chatting, Daisy settled in at the small maple table as if she’d always been there.

  It was what Daisy had imagined having a grandparent would be like. The kind of atmosphere she’d found at Emma’s raucous, warm house during holidays and school recital nights, before Daisy went home to a house where the words dependable and family didn’t exist.

  Daisy had grown up with a mostly absent mother, an always absent father, but no real grandparents. Her father’s parents lived in Texas, and the handful of times they had come to visit had resulted in stiff, awkward conversations that ended almost as quickly as they began. Her mother’s parents had died long ago, long before Daisy was born, and had been nothing more than photographs in an album that Daisy had found on a shelf.

  She’d imagined, in those days when she’d been young and craving family like some women craved sugar, that her grandfather would be like Earl Harper. A mix of grumpy and wise, a man with enough years behind him
to color his sentences with history and insight.

  “You know, if your car is sputtering like that,” Earl said, bringing her back to the conversation, “you might want to get the air filter checked. Could be a little clogged. And don’t take it to one of those chain places that turn a simple oil change into a full body paint job. Take it to a mechanic who’s been in business more than five minutes. Someone with some grease under his nails and experience under his belt.”

  “Thanks, I will.” She lifted the pie knife in Earl’s direction. “Do you want another slice of pizza?”

  Earl put a hand on his stomach and shook his head. “I’ve had about all this old belly can fit for now. Which means there’s going to be room for a snack later.”

  Daisy laughed. “Smart thinking. I’m all about snacks. And second helpings. And especially dessert.”

  “Good to see a girl with an appetite. Nothing more annoying than those salad-only girls. Colt’s grandma, now that was a woman who could eat. And cook.” Earl leaned in toward Daisy, his pale blue eyes assessing her. “Can you cook? Because Colt sure can’t. A man could starve to death in this house.”

  “Quit exaggerating, Grandpa. You’re not starving,” Colt said, as he walked back into the room and tucked his phone away. “I serve plenty of healthy food around here, but you choose not to eat it.”

  “Which is another way of asking a man to starve.” Earl scowled.

  Tension stiffened Colt’s stance. “I’m just trying to take care of you.”

  “I don’t need anyone to do a goddamn thing for me.” Earl started to get to his feet, then his face paled, a tremor shook his body, and he reached for the edge of the table. In an instant, Colt was there, with one hand under Earl’s elbow, and another on his back. Earl jerked away from Colt’s touch. “You know what would make me feel better? You, leaving me the hell alone. You hover over me like I’m some kind of invalid.”

  “Grandpa, I’m not trying to hover. You have some issues—”

  “What I have is a pain in the ass grandson who thinks he knows it all just because he’s got an MD next to his name. Goddamn doctors do nothing but make people sicker.” Earl pushed off from the table then crossed to the sink. Sweat beaded on his brow and his breath came in shaky bursts.

  Concern filled Colt’s features and erased all traces of irritation. He stood there, looking lost and frustrated, one hand on the back of the chair, one extended out, as if he could reach his grandfather, now several feet away. Daisy ached to soothe the waters somehow, to make it easier for Colt.

  Only because she wanted him in a good mood before she talked to him about the loan. Not because that worried look in his face softened something deep inside of Daisy. Something that transported her back, back, back in time, to the days when she and Colt had found common ground in escaping the disappointments behind their own front doors.

  In the old days, she would have grabbed Colt by the hand, and dashed away from their responsibilities. They would have bought a six-pack of PBR with a fake ID, climbed the fence for the private beach, built a little fire in the cove beside the dunes, and whiled away the hours until the moon marched across the sky and the sun began to crest again.

  But this wasn’t the old days, and she suspected Doctor Colt wasn’t one for fake IDs or trespassing anymore.

  “Grandpa, why don’t you sit down?” Colt said. “I’ll clean up.”

  “I’m not a baby. I can clean up my own damned messes.” Earl gripped the edge of the sink with one hand, and shooed Colt away with the other.

  Daisy bit back a smile. She recognized that stubborn spirit. Apparently a few things were passed down in the Harper DNA.

  Frustration and concern filled Colt’s eyes. Daisy decided to step in, even if it meant Colt ended up hating her later, not thanking her.

  “Hey, Earl, why don’t you and I knock out these dishes?” Daisy said. “Save Colt the trouble and the dishpan hands. Afterward, maybe we could sit on the porch and talk some smack about that crazy neighbor next door.” Before Earl could protest, Daisy slipped into place beside him, turned on the water, and squirted some soap over the dishes. She handed Earl a dish towel. “Here, you dry. And don’t complain one bit, because I’m doing the hard part.”

  “Okay, okay. How can I turn down an offer like that from a pretty woman like you?” Earl grinned, then leaned one hip against the counter. He made it look like a nonchalant move, as if he didn’t need the extra support. After a while, the tension in his face eased and the color returned to his cheeks.

  Daisy kept up a constant chatter with Earl while she washed and he dried. Colt finished his salad, then joined them in the kitchen, taking the dishes his grandfather dried and putting them away. The tension between the men eased. They joked and chatted with her as they worked, and the three of them whipped through the cleanup in record time. The whole thing was so domestic, so ordinary, that for a little while Daisy fell into the fantasy of being in a family. A home.

  When the last dish was washed, she pulled the plug and watched the water drain, taking along a swirl of soap bubbles. With it, the light feeling she’d had before disappeared, and she remembered.

  She wasn’t here for some warm and cozy memories. She wasn’t here to act out some missing component of her childhood or pretend she was in some traditional two-point-five kids and white-picket-fence world. She was here for business reasons—and nothing more.

  “Well, kids, it’s about time for Dancing with the Stars. I’m going to call it an early night.” Earl put the towel on the counter, then laid a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. His kind blue eyes filled with warmth. “We’ll make fun of the neighbors another time, young lady.”

  Daisy nodded. “No problem.”

  Though Daisy had no intentions of coming back here. Too bad, really, because she liked Earl. And had enjoyed the pizza more than she wanted to admit.

  Earl left the room, his steps slow and shuffling. Leaving Daisy alone with Colt, with the perfect opportunity to bring up why she was here. But for some reason the same woman who could tell off a rude customer in five seconds flat, level a grope-hungry boss with one look, and take on every challenge handed to her, had gone tongue-tied.

  It wasn’t the pizza or the homey environment. Every breath she took brought with it a whiff of Colt’s cologne, dark, woodsy, tempting. She wanted to curve into his height, lean her head on his broad shoulders, and hell, yes, jump his bones and take him upstairs to what she hoped was a king-sized bed.

  She wanted to grab Colt’s tie, unbutton his shirt, and get to the man beneath the starch. She wanted to hear his voice, growling deep against her throat, telling her everything that he was planning on doing to her in bed. Just like he had oh, so many years ago.

  Those thoughts were not helping anything. She shook her head and refocused on the topic at hand. “I enjoyed talking to your grandpa. He’s a really interesting man.”

  “Thank you,” Colt said. “You really have a nice way with him. He’s never that nice to me, not lately anyway.”

  “Well, maybe it was just the change in conversational partners. You can be a little . . .”

  “What?” He came a little closer. That dark cologne wafted between them. Enticing. “I can be a little what? Go ahead, you can say it.”

  A smile curved up her face. “A little . . . stuffy.”

  “Me?”

  She danced her fingers along that tie, the buttons, the still-fresh panels of button-down. “Yes, Mr. Khakis, you.”

  He caught her hand, and her breath lodged in her throat. “I do own other clothes, you know.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said, pretending she didn’t notice how warm her hand felt against his. “Then prove it.”

  “Come by on a weekend and you’ll see me in jeans and a ratty T-shirt.”

  “You own a ratty T-shirt?”

  “Well, technically”—a sheepish grin filled hi
s face—“I’d need to poke a hole in the fabric, maybe tear a seam or two, but yes, I can own a ratty T-shirt.”

  She laughed. “Oooh, you are living on the edge, Colt.”

  He released her hand and stepped away. Something shifted in his eyes, a shadow dropping over his features. “Yeah, that’s me all right.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  She reached for the dish towel, put her back to the sink, and busied her hands with folding it into thirds. The light mood between them had dissipated, reminding her to get back to why she was here, but she couldn’t find the words. Asking someone else for help—especially financial help—wasn’t something Daisy did. Ever. She’d been on her own since she was eighteen, and the thought of having to go outside for assistance rankled.

  But what choice did she have? Emma needed this new start, needed it even more than Daisy did. And maybe, just maybe, if she brought her cousin here, back to where their lives had once been light and happy, she’d get Emma back, too.

  “I, uh, didn’t come by for pizza.” Daisy draped the towel over the edge of the counter, then pushed off from the sink. “I came here to ask you to be a cosigner on a loan. That’s why I’m here in Rescue Bay.”

  “A loan?” Colt blinked. “For what? Why?”

  “Because . . .” She gritted her teeth, then pushed the words through. “You have better credit than I do and it turns out the bank won’t loan me the money without your signature. I thought I could get it just by staying married, but now they want you to sign for the loan, too.”

  “Wait a minute.” He stepped back. “Is that why you really came roaring into my office yesterday, pissed off about the divorce papers? Were you using my credit without letting me know?”

  “No, I wasn’t doing that at all. You happened to come up, though, when I applied for the loan. Seems we’re still attached financially, since we’re still attached legally. For the record, I didn’t want to use you at all. But . . . I have to.” She bit back a curse. Damn. She hated admitting that.