Sweet Somethings

by Barbara Freethy

  "I never met any of their parents."

  "So no one serious?"

  He shook his head. "Nope. What about you? Did you break any hearts when you left New York?"

  "Not a one. I dated, of course, but never that seriously." She paused, realizing the parade was coming to an end. "Let's walk back to the pier. I think the band is going to start soon."

  "Sounds good."

  When they got back to the center of the action, she saw Cecelia and Martha waiting in line at a booth run by a local wine bar. Not far away was Roman's grandfather. There was something about his stance, the fierceness of his gaze aimed at the Grayson sisters that gave her a jolt, that told her she might just have stumbled on the answer to one of her questions.

  She stopped abruptly and put her hand on Roman's arm. "Look at your grandfather."

  "Where is he?"

  "Over there." She tipped her head in Vincent's direction.

  "He's just standing there," Roman said in bewilderment. "What's the big deal?"

  "He's not just standing there. He's watching Cecelia."

  Roman's brows furrowed. "I guess—maybe."

  "No maybe about it. His gaze is on her."

  "I know where you're going with this, but you're taking a big leap. My grandfather was happily married for a long time."

  "So was Cecelia's lover," she reminded him. "They're about the same age."

  "Yes, and they have both lived in this town for most of their lives. My grandmother has been dead for twenty plus years. If they were carrying a torch for each other, wouldn't one of them have done something about it by now?"

  "It depends on how much their breakup hurt, how betrayed they felt, how scared they would be to take another chance and risk all that pain again. You heard the sorrow in Cecelia's voice when we read the letters."

  "I suppose it's possible, but there's nothing for you or us to do about it. You told Cecelia about the letters. You have to let her make her own decision."

  "But your grandfather might not know about them. Maybe they need a gentle push in the right direction. They've both been eating my Wish cookies all week. Sounds like they have something to wish for."

  "My grandfather may like shortbread cookies, but I can tell you for certain that he doesn't think they're magic."

  "We should try to get them in the same room or in the same place," she continued on, dismissing his opinion. "I wonder if they're going to the dance tomorrow night. That would be a good place for them to meet up."

  "I doubt my grandfather is going to the Sweetheart's Dance."

  "You should get him to go. And I'll encourage Cecelia. If she doesn't come by the bakery tomorrow, I can take her the letters and talk to her about the dance."

  "Juliette, didn't you just say you had nonstop work to do?"

  "There's always time for love," she said.

  "Well, you're on your own with this one. I can't mess around with my grandfather's love life."

  "But we're so good when we work together. And don’t you want to see your grandfather happy?"

  "I think he's happy enough."

  "Oh, come on. Anyone is happier with love in their life. All you have to do is ask him about Cecelia."

  "That's all, huh? My grandfather and I talk about nails and plumbing and electrical; we don't talk about women. He doesn't ask me questions, and I don't ask him. That's the way it's always been."

  "You could change that. I have an idea."

  "Wait, hold on," he said, as she started down the path. "What are you going to do?"

  "Tell your grandfather about the letters. If he's not the person they're about, then he won't care."

  Roman grabbed her by the arm. "Cecelia didn't tell you who she was writing about. You should respect that."

  She wavered slightly. "I'm not going to say the letters are about him. I just think we should tell him about the letters. He is the owner of the house, after all." She pulled away from Roman and walked quickly down the path. "Mr. Prescott," she said, drawing Vincent's attention to her. "Hello."

  He gave her a nod. "Miss Adams, Roman. What's this I hear about you hiring Travis Hastings?"

  "I was going to talk to you about that. He needs a job, and you need help."

  "I thought of the two of you didn't speak," Vincent said, a puzzled expression on his face.

  "We did a lot of speaking yesterday. I'll fill you in later. It's a long story."

  "All right, but if he doesn't do a good job, he's out."

  "I told him that," Roman said.

  "There's something I wanted to tell you, Mr. Prescott," she interrupted. "Roman found a metal box filled with love letters hidden under the floorboards in the downstairs bedroom."

  "What?" he asked, his face tightening. "Love letters from who?"

  "There aren't any names mentioned," she said. "But we figured out that the letters were from Cecelia Grayson to someone she once loved."

  Looking at him in the shadowy light, she couldn't quite tell if he paled or if she just wanted to believe that.

  "I don't know anything about any letters," he said gruffly. "Why do you think they belong to her?"

  "Roman looked up who owned the house before my parents, and—"

  "You looked it up?" Vincent interrupted, giving his grandson a hard look. "Why did you do that?"

  "Originally, I thought the letters might belong to Juliette's parents, but when it was clear they didn't, we thought we'd see who else owned the house," Roman explained.

  "Where are the letters now?"

  "I have them," she answered. "I told Cecelia I'd give them back to her."

  "She knows you found them?"

  Juliette nodded. "Yes, she said she wrote them, but she never said who they were about."

  Vincent's gaze drifted back to Cecelia and Martha. "Well, that's her business. I'm glad you found them and that she'll get them back. Excuse me, I have to speak to someone."

  As Vincent left, she turned to Roman, excitement running through her body. "It's him. He's her lover; I know it."

  Roman slowly nodded, his gaze reflective. "I think you're right. And those letters might explain something about why he bought the house."

  "Maybe because he was in love with her when she lived there."

  "It's possible."

  As she looked at Roman, she suddenly realized that in her enthusiasm to match up Vincent and Cecelia, she was overlooking Roman's personal history. "I hope you know I'm not trying to say that your grandfather didn't love your grandmother or your father or his life."

  "I didn't think you were saying that."

  "Okay, good. So, what do you think we should do now?"

  "Nothing."

  "Roman," she protested, disappointed in his answer.

  "I don't know what you want me to say. You've told them both about the letters. Whatever happens next is up to them."

  He was right. It was their move. "I will give Cecelia back the letters." She smiled at his sigh of resignation. "Then I will be out of it."

  "I'll believe that when I see it."

  As he finished speaking, she saw Travis come down the path, with Cameron riding high on his father's shoulders, a big grin on his face. "Look, Roman. Look how happy Cameron is."

  "As happy as I've seen him," Roman admitted. "Travis, too."

  Travis saw them and came over to say hello. When he reached them, he set Cameron down on his feet.

  "Hi, Juliette," Cameron said. "Did you see the boats?"

  "I did. They were really pretty."

  "I was just going to get Cameron some hot apple cider. Anyone want one?" Travis asked.

  "That does sound good," she said.

  "I'll go with you," Roman told Travis, leaving Cameron with Juliette.

  Cameron slipped his hand into Juliette's and gave her a shy smile. "I got my wish," he said. "The one I made on the cookies."

  "You did? That's wonderful." She saw his gaze drift to his father. Travis and Roman were laughing about something as they stood at the back of t
he line for refreshments. "Was it for your father to come home? Wait, you don't have to tell me. It's your wish."

  "It wasn't just for him to come home. It was for his face to look like that," he said, pointing to his father.

  "You wanted him to be happy again," she murmured, thinking how sweet a wish that was.

  "He used to look like that all the time, until my mom left. Then he was always sad. But now he's back."

  "I'm so glad."

  "I'm sorry I took your cookies without paying," Cameron added, giving her another guilty look. "I can pay you back from my allowance. Daddy says I can start making five dollars a week if I help Grandma more."

  "You keep your money, Cameron. Save it for something really special."

  "I want to buy my dad a new fishing rod when I have enough. My mom broke his when she left."

  She frowned at that piece of information, not feeling too much regard for Travis's missing mother. But she certainly wasn't going to say anything to Cameron about it.

  "Hot apple cider," Roman told her, as he came back with a steaming paper cup.

  "Hmm, smells delicious," she said, inhaling the scent as she blew on the hot liquid.

  "We need to let it cool down, buddy," Travis told his son. "I'll hang on to it until then. You'll burn your mouth."

  "There's Sam," Cameron said, letting go of Juliette to point to a friend of his. "Can we go over there? Sam is my best friend."

  "Sure," Travis said. "I'd like to meet your best friend." He gave Roman and Juliette a nod as they walked away.

  "Travis looks a million times better," she said, as she carefully sipped her cider. "This is good. You didn't get any for yourself?"

  "Not really a cider fan. I guess having a job has eased some of Travis's worries," Roman said.

  "Cameron told me that he wished on the cookies for his dad to be happy again. Looks like his wish came true."

  "It's another Valentine's Day miracle due to your special cookies," he teased.

  She laughed. "It is. Speaking of cookies…" She ended that thought with a sigh. "I don't want to leave, but I have to go back to the bakery. There's just too much to do. I can't wait until morning."

  "I know. I'll walk you to your car," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders as the band started to play.

  "You should stay and have fun," she said, sipping her cider as they slowly made their way to the parking lot.

  "I might go back for a while."

  "Good, because you've been working hard, too. And as much as you don't want to talk about it or admit it, I'm pretty sure that you're worrying just a bit about your physical on Monday."

  "I'm trying not to."

  "How is that working out?"

  "Not that well. There's nothing I can do about it. I've done my part on the rehab. I just have to see what happens."

  Roman definitely had a fatalistic attitude about some things. She couldn't blame him. Not wanting things too much was a protective instinct he'd learned as a child.

  "Well, I'm keeping good thoughts," she said. Although, secretly she had to admit she had mixed feelings about his upcoming physical. She wanted him to be completely well, but being back at one hundred percent would take him away from her. Still, it was what he wanted, what he deserved, and she couldn't go against that.

  As they reached her car, instead of opening her door for her, Roman pressed her back against it and took his time exploring her mouth with his tongue.

  She felt enveloped by his body, by his warmth, feeling both safe and protected and wildly reckless all at the same time. It was the kind of feeling he always drummed up inside of her—like she could take the biggest risk because he'd be there to catch her if she fell.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t protect her from falling for him. Somehow, she was going to have to find a way to save herself.

  He stepped back and opened her door for her. "Try to sleep at least a few hours tonight."

  "I will. Tomorrow will be crazy. I don't know when I'll come up for air, probably not until the dance. I hope I see you there—maybe you and your grandfather."

  He shook his head. "You never quit. Even if I get him there, you don't have time to wrangle Cecelia into going."

  "I'll just talk to her when she stops by; that won't take much time."

  "No promises, Juliette, but I'll do what I can."

  "You'll make it happen; I have confidence in you." She gave him a quick kiss. "I'll see you later."

  * * *

  Roman got to work early on Saturday. Travis arrived by nine, and they quickly fell into a natural groove. He realized as he worked alongside Travis that they were both quiet by nature. Doug's big personality had always been the center of their trio.

  They talked a bit here and there, but mostly it was about the work. Seeing how good Travis was at following directions and working independently gave him hope that he'd finally found another person his grandfather could count on.

  With his physical and career decisions looming, he wanted to get some help lined up. He'd interviewed several subs the day before and had some good leads to present to his grandfather. Hopefully, he'd take them.

  As he heard his grandfather's big, booming voice, he left Travis in the back bedroom while he went out to greet Vincent. "I'm glad you're here," he said. "I already got one bid on framing out the back end of the house this morning."

  "From the guy you talked to yesterday?" Vince asked in surprise.

  "Yes, one of his jobs fell through, so he can start next week if you like the price. It seemed good to me." He moved over to the stack of wood where he'd left the estimate. "Here you go."

  "I'll take a look. How is Travis working out?"

  "Good. He's a hard worker. He's very motivated because he needs to take care of his son and his mother. I think he's just what you need to handle a lot of the easier but more tedious labor."

  "I can't believe you boys just kissed and made up," Vince said gruffly.

  "We didn't go that far," he said dryly. "But it turns out Chief Winters made a point of turning us against each other to try to get someone to confess to the fire—someone other than his son."

  "Well, I knew that. I just didn't know which one of those two did it. I had my money on Doug. He was entitled."

  "None of us did it. It was probably the work of an arsonist who started two other fires in the county that year, but I doubt we'll ever know for sure."

  "An arsonist, huh? You're confident you can believe Doug and Travis?"

  "I am," he said with a firm nod. "Doug went down to the police department and came back with the actual file. I read the interviews and the investigative notes. It's all there."

  "Why did Doug do that?"

  "I think he was trying to get in front of any problems before his run for mayor."

  "Makes sense."

  "I did want to say something I should have said a long time ago—thanks for bailing me out back then, standing by me, even though you didn't know if I was innocent or guilty. I always wondered why you didn't ask."

  "I knew you were innocent; I didn't have to ask. You were a troublemaker, yes, and you had your problems, but you cared about people. Not many people saw that, but I did. You gave your jacket to a homeless man and told me you lost it. I saw that guy wearing it outside the drugstore, and he said you gave it to him."

  He shrugged, feeling awkward about that old incident. "I probably didn't like the jacket."

  "And you saved that skinny kid with the glasses from a fight. I was coming back from work and saw a bunch of kids behind the convenience store. And there you were, pulling that kid away from some bullies. I would have stopped, but you had it under control." Vincent paused. "You were always better than anyone thought—better than you thought. When you first joined the Marines, I didn't like it, but it made sense. You felt good when you could help someone else. Your father was a little like that—in a different way."

  "What do you mean?" he asked, surprised that Vincent had actually brought up his father.


  "Brett liked to encourage people to follow their dreams, too. They were usually musicians, artists, or poets. I wanted him to have a practical job, a solid income, a normal life. But he wanted to travel and work when he wanted. It was all about freedom for him. Of course, he used my money to get himself that freedom. He never recognized that."

  "That's why you didn't talk to each other? Because he sold the stuff you gave him?"

  "It wasn't the money; it was the betrayal. And then it was too late. Words were said that couldn't be unspoken. I've regretted the choices I made back then, but there's nothing I can do about them now." He exhaled. "I also regret that I didn't keep in touch with your mother after Brett's funeral. She disappeared, but I could have tried harder to find her and you. I should have been there for you."

  "I used to think that, too," he admitted. "But in the end, you were there when it counted. You probably saved my life when you picked me up and brought me here."

  "I just wish I'd done it sooner. Have you spoken to her—your mother?"

  "She's sent me a few emails. She's sober—three years running."

  "You going to see her?"

  "Not any time soon. I think we're better off apart for now."

  "I agree."

  He took a breath, not sure he should risk ruining what was the most personal conversation he'd ever had with his grandfather, but he had promised Juliette he would try to speak to him about Cecelia. The timing seemed right with Vincent in a reflective mood. "Speaking of regrets and not having the chance to make things right…maybe you should talk to Cecelia Grayson about the letters she wrote."

  His grandfather's eyes darkened. "Why would I do that?"

  "Because I'm fairly certain they're about you. I saw the way you looked at her last night. It was you, wasn't it? That's why you wanted to buy this house. It had something to do with her having been one of the residents."

  His grandfather didn't answer right away, and there was both pain and anger in his eyes now.

  "Look," Roman continued. "You don't have to talk to me about it, but as you just said, you don't always get a second chance in life. If you do, you should take it."

  Vincent stared back at him. "It was a lifetime ago," he muttered.

  So his grandfather was admitting it. He was somewhat stunned. "What happened?"