“Does Mama know what’s going on?” she asked.
He actually paled. “God, I hope not.”
* * *
Was a steak really worth this?
Carla groaned and rethought her decision to buy meat at the small local grocer/butcher shop. Next time, she swore silently, she’d drive into Monterey. Or San Jose. Go to a regular supermarket. It would be worth the forty-mile trip just to avoid Frank Pezzini.
She glanced up. Yep. Still watching her. As he weighed Mrs. Flannery’s pork chops, he shot Carla what she guessed he thought was his sexy “hey-baby-wanna-get-lucky?” look. Oh, man. There just wasn’t enough alcohol in the world for that.
Standing about five-foot-nine, Frank was only an inch taller than her, and his broad, once-muscular chest had slipped substantially closer to his waistline. The white belt he wore strained against the chore of encircling his belly and looked as if it were about to spring loose. If it did, it would probably whip around the room taking out half the housewives of Chandler.
Which would leave her and Frank alone to repopulate the town. What a hideous thought.
To avoid any more of same, she turned her attention to the gossip flying around her like bees in a garden.
“So, what’ve you heard?”
Carla glanced at Abigail Tupper. Ninety if she was a day, she wore two bright red spots of what she fondly referred to as “rouge” on her cheeks and a scarlet slash of lipstick bled into the deep wrinkles around her lips, but her nose fairly twitched with the urge to hear the latest news. Her still-sharp green eyes were fixed on her cohort, Virginia Baker. At seventy-five, Virginia wasn’t quite as spry as her former baby-sitter, but she more than made up for the lack with the efficiency of her grapevine.
“Well.” Virginia leaned in but didn’t bother to lower her voice. “I hear he’s on the lam.”
Carla muffled a snort of laughter. The old lady’d been watching too many gangster movies on AMC again.
“Really?” Abigail was fascinated by the possibilities. “And with that sweet-faced little girl, too. Such a shame.”
“No better than he should be is what I heard.”
Another country heard from, Carla thought, and let her gaze slide sideways to watch Rachel Vickers, the mayor’s wife, ooze up to join the conversation.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Rachel?”
Good question, Abigail, Carla thought, still watching Rachel.
“Well, look at him. Hiding out there in the summer cottage. Hardly ever leaves the place. And he’s been there a week.” Rachel sniffed, clutched her pocketbook a little tighter to her impressive bosom, and looked down her nose at Abigail. “Not healthy, that’s what I say. That poor child.”
Carla shifted from foot to foot and felt just the tiniest stab of sympathy for Jackson Wyatt. True, he wasn’t the friendliest man on the planet. But she knew all too well what it was like to be the juicy piece of meat being chewed on by the local cats.
“I still say he’s on the lam.” Virginia nodded so firmly, one steel gray curl dislodged itself from her sprayed solid hairdo. “Probably selling drugs.”
Carla eyed the woman, fascinated in spite of herself.
“Now, you don’t know that, Virginia,” Abigail said, dismissing that statement. “But perhaps the Ladies’ League should pay a ‘neighborly’ call on the man. Let him know that the town ladies keep a watchful eye on the goings-on around here.”
Oh, good God.
“Excellent idea. I’ll make up my famous tuna-and-pineapple casserole.” Rachel smiled and one dyed red eyebrow lifted into an arch that would have sent her husband running for the hills. “We’ll take it over there this afternoon.”
With their game plan set, the three women moved as one farther down the counter, ogling the meat. Carla was rooted to the spot. Okay, she could just butt out and let Mr. Charm suffer the pangs of not only the Ladies’ League but also Rachel’s tuna surprise. Or she could do the neighborly thing—hell, the humane thing—and warn the man that he was about to be invaded.
All right. She’d do it. Not for his sake, of course. But the image of that poor little girl trying to choke down tuna, mayonnaise, and pineapple was enough to tear her heart out.
“Carla,” Frank said, and his voice was loud enough to carry all the way back to Produce. “You’re next.” He wiggled bushy eyebrows at her, gave her a “come-hither” leer, and offered, “My chops are good today. What’dya say?”
What could she say?
“Ooooh.…” Abigail primped her thin thatch of snow-white hair and practically purred. “I do believe someone here is sweet on someone.”
Somebody shoot me.
* * *
The whole place looked like a Hollywood set.
Any minute now, Jackson expected to see Andy Taylor and Opie strolling around a corner carrying fishing poles and whistling.
Antique globed street lamps lined tidy sidewalks. Neatly trimmed trees were plunked down at regular intervals along Main Street, and at their bases, riots of flowers bloomed in dozens of colors. Storefronts crowded together, their display windows glistening in the afternoon sunlight, beckoning the teeming visitors—carrying their bulging wallets—inside.
The perfect tourist spot, Chandler, California, was far enough north that it never got too hot and just south enough to avoid snow in winter. On the coastal side of town lay the ocean, stretching out for miles in shimmering shades of blue and green. From that direction came the deep, throaty barks of the seals and the slap of waves against the rocks. On the eastern side lay a forest, in jewel tones of emerald and deep shadows creeping back to the foot of the mountains, with the sequoias just a stone’s throw away.
Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue, the kind Jackson didn’t often see back home in Chicago. A sea breeze danced in off the ocean, trailed cool fingers across his face, then raced on. Jackson tightened his hold on Reese’s hand, glanced down at his daughter, then continued on down the street. His heart ached a little at the closed, distant expression on her face, but he told himself it wouldn’t always be like this. He’d find a way this summer to reach her. And today was the first step in his—well, it wasn’t defined enough to call it a plan. Call it a scheme. A strategy.
Hell, call it like it was.
A last-ditch, desperate attempt.
And it started now. Their first foray into Chandler required something special, he told himself. Something to get the child’s mind off of visiting the puppies she hadn’t been back to see in a week.
Wryly he admitted that, though she didn’t speak, she had no trouble at all making her wishes known. She’d been bugging him about those dogs since that first morning. But they hadn’t come here to make friends with brown-eyed, sharp-tongued women and their pets. They’d come here to heal Reese. To accomplish that task, he needed his daughter focused on talking, not puppies. He just had to get her interested in the rest of the town. The beach. The forest.
Hell.
Anything.
“How about some ice cream?” he asked, spotting the oversize, double-decker cone serving as a sign in front of the ice-cream parlor.
She looked up at him and nodded.
His heart twisted and he winced with the twinge of pain. Every time he asked her a question, a part of him still waited for an answer. A spoken answer. And that same part of him was disappointed again and again. It had already been a year. A year since he’d heard her voice. Now he could hardly remember the sweet sound of it. But he had no trouble at all recalling with clarity the number of times he’d asked her to settle down. To be quiet.
Be careful what you wish for.
He inhaled sharply, caught the taste of fresh bread on the air, and told himself to stop by the local bakery before going home. Home.
The small place that he’d rented for the next three months wasn’t home. But then, their place in Chicago wasn’t home anymore, either, was it? There were too many memories. Too many ghosts. Too much pain.
Maybe he’d
been stupid to stay there after Diane’s death. But he’d wanted Reese to have normalcy. Well, as much normalcy as he could provide, considering that she’d lost her mother. It had been so fast. So unexpected. But even as he thought that, he wondered if death was ever expected. Wasn’t it always sudden? Even to those who were sick for a long time, wasn’t death, when it arrived, a shock?
That last rainy morning with Diane rose up in his mind. He could almost hear her voice again. Hear the fear and then the anger in her tone. And he wondered again what might have happened if he’d done things differently.
But wondering, like wishing, wouldn’t change anything. He quickly looked up the street and, seeing that it was clear, stepped off the curb and led his daughter to the other side. Nodding to those people he passed, he barely noticed them. His mind was too full of doubts, questions. Maybe if they’d moved out right away, his little girl wouldn’t have retreated so deeply into herself. Maybe she would have turned to him as he kept hoping she would. On the other hand, he thought, throwing himself a mental bone, maybe she would have been worse off if they’d left.
Though how things could be worse, he didn’t know.
Reese suddenly pulled on his hand and stopped dead.
“What is it?” he asked, looking down to see her face wreathed in the kind of smile he saw all too rarely and her right arm extended, pointing at something off to their left.
He looked and nearly sighed.
The dog.
The golden retriever sat outside a grocery store, her head tilted, ears perked as if listening to a joke only she could hear. Well, perfect. If that dog was here, the woman, Carla Candellano, wouldn’t be far away. And he was in no mood for playing more word games with a female who looked too damn good for his peace of mind.
“Okay, Reese, I see it. But we’re going for ice cream, remember?”
She shook her head and started for the dog. He kept a tight grip on her hand, though, and despite her small body leaning forward with all its might, she didn’t move an inch. Reese looked at him over her shoulder and gave him a look that put him in mind of her mother. God. How many times had Diane shot him smile. Reese hadn’t smiled again since that morning at Carla’s place, and he just couldn’t get enough of it.
This was good.
For about ten seconds.
Then the dog’s owner stepped out of the grocer’s and looked at him.
CHAPTER FOUR
THINK OF THE DEVIL and up he walks, Carla thought. And wasn’t the devil taking the time to do himself up right these days. His short-sleeved light green shirt hugged a chest that apparently spent a lot of time at a gym. Khaki slacks with a knife-sharp crease did great things for his legs, but the shadows in his eyes and the scowl on his face quickly took care of the nearly instinctual spurt of lust that erupted inside her without warning.
Just as well. The last time she’d let her hormones do the driving, she’d ended up with a broken engagement and a wedding invitation to her former fiancé’s joyful reunion with his ex-girlfriend. Gee, no. Let’s not.
Besides, if she wanted a summer fling, she’d go to Europe. Maybe Greece. She sure as hell wouldn’t do it right here in Chandler. If she was going to have a romance that ended badly, the least she could do was get a stamp in her passport this time.
So why was she bothering with him at all? She’d spent the last two years avoiding people—deliberately distancing herself from caring. Yet here she was, ready to go where she so clearly wasn’t wanted. Why? It wasn’t just the fact that looking at him made her knees weak. Sure, he did great things for her insides. But she could ignore that. With practice. No, there was more here.
Her gaze drifted down to the child at his side. Those messy off-kilter pigtails and wide blue eyes drew Carla in just as they had the first time she’d seen the girl. Carla didn’t want to care. She just couldn’t seem to help herself. Okay, that’s why.
Because of that little girl, Carla was going to ignore her own instinct to draw back and completely disregard the GO AWAY sign flashing in the child’s father’s eyes. After all, he didn’t know it yet, but she was about to become his best friend. At least she wasn’t trying to force-feed him Tuna Surprise.
Although maybe a heaping helping of Rachel’s “specialty” might be good for him. Carla glanced again at the little girl currently having her face licked off by Abbey. Nope. She just couldn’t let that happen to a kid. Especially one who looked so … lost. Might stunt her growth or something.
“Hi, kiddo,” she said, and the tiny blonde looked up long enough to give her a smile. “Looks like Abbey’s as happy to see you as I am.”
The little girl nodded, then buried her face in Abbey’s golden coat again; her smile was wide and bright and … silent. Too silent.
Glancing at the child’s father again, Carla gave him a smile. If she was going to interfere, the least she could do was be friendly. “So,” she asked, not wanting to leap right into a Warning: run for your life spiel, “what do you think of Chandler?”
“Does the word Mayberry mean anything to you?”
“That you’re a closet Nickelodeon fan?” Which she would know, since she was one, too.
“Besides that.”
Okay, yeah, it did mean something. Some big-city types meant the kind of Mayberry crack as an insult and could put Carla’s back up faster than anything. Jackson Wyatt, on the other hand, actually seemed to mean it as a compliment. One point for Mr. Charm. All right, sure she was the first to admit that Chandler was no hot spot for anyone looking for a wild nightlife. But when the partying was done, this was a good place to come home to.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” she said, turning for a quick look up and down Main Street. “But that’s what we like about it. Small enough to get annoying but only about a half hour’s ride from a city big enough to ease that itch whenever you need to.”
He nodded, then gave her a look that clearly said, Okay, conversation over. Where’s the nearest exit? She cut him off at the pass. Before he made the great escape, she had to clue him in.
Glancing over her shoulder quickly, Carla made sure the local cats were still preoccupied buying their meat from Fabulous Frank. Then she took a step closer to Jackson and said, “Actually, I was going to stop by and see you on my way home.”
One dark brown eyebrow lifted. “Really?”
She drew her head back and stared at him. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Manage to inflect a whole ‘Royalty to Peasant’ attitude in one word?”
“Did I?”
“There it is again,” she pointed out, then added, just for the hell of it, “but this time it took you two words.”
“Look, Ms. Candellano—”
“Carla.”
“Fine. If you’ll excuse us, Reese and I were just going to get some ice cream and—”
“Excellent idea. I’ll come with you.” She didn’t really want ice cream, but then again, she never turned it down, either. Besides, it was a lot of fun to throw monkey wrenches at a man who so clearly didn’t approve of his plans being disrupted. And she still had to deliver her warning.
“But—”
“Oh, it’s no bother,” she said, then glanced at Abbey. “Come on, girl. Ice cream.”
The dog reacted just as a pet of hers should. All quivers and drool. Hey, the words ice cream should always be treated with the same respect given the word chocolate. And for chocolate Carla had been known to make midnight trips to a convenience store more than thirty miles away, wearing nothing but her flannel jammies and a bad hairdo. When you had to have it, you had to have it.
“Don’t you have leash laws around here?” he asked as they started walking and Abbey trotted happily alongside Reese.
Carla laughed and shook her head. “You really aren’t from around here, are you? Nope. No leash laws. No Super-Duper Pooper Scoopers, either. So be careful where you plant those nifty shoes of yours.”
He glanced at the sidewalk, then
muttered something she couldn’t quite catch, which was probably just as well.
“So what were you going to stop by to see me about?”
“I wanted to warn you,” she said, and enjoyed seeing his big blue eyes narrow in suspicion.
“About what, I’m afraid to ask.”
“As you should be,” she commented, and shifted her small grocery bag from one hand to the other. “Apparently, you’ve become the latest hot topic.”
“What?”
“The local gossip mill is, even as we speak, planning their invasion.”
He shook his head, disgusted. “Perfect.”
“Hey, you said it yourself. Mayberry. Don’t you remember Aunt Bee and Clara? And the telephone operator…” Carla frowned to herself. “What was her name again?”
“Juanita?”
“No,” she said, scowling at him, “that was the waitress at the diner.” Carla thought about it for a second. “Thelma Lou?”
He snorted. “Barney’s girlfriend.”
She looked up at him and half-smiled. Okay then. Another point for him. Who knew a guy like him would know classic TV so well? She’d gotten hooked on old reruns through desperation. All those nights of waking up in a cold sweat. Of a sad reality becoming a nightmare that haunted her into the wee hours of the morning. Whenever she woke, shaking and crying, she’d stumble into the living room, turn on the TV, and lose herself in the fictional world of Mayberry or Lost in Space or That Girl. In the darkness, with only the flicker of the screen light for company, she could forget and would, eventually, fall asleep again, sprawled on her sofa.
But she couldn’t help wondering what demons prompted Jackson Wyatt to be up in the middle of the night watching television programs that had been canceled and forgotten long before either of them were born.
“Does it really matter what a fictional telephone operator’s name was?” he muttered, shattering her train of thought.
“Nope,” she answered quickly, though not knowing was going to drive her nuts. Still, she was glad to be rid of the sympathetic leanings she’d been about to indulge in. “Anyway, back to my original warning—around here, the names to watch out for are Abigail, Virginia, and Rachel.”
Finding You Page 4
