Finding You

by Maureen Child

  “I’ll make a note.”

  “You should,” she said, since he didn’t sound like he was taking her seriously. “These women make the FBI look like sissies. They can ferret out information better than an Internet hacker and they do it all without mussing their shellacked hairdos.”

  He frowned, looked at her, and admitted, “Okay, now you’re beginning to scare me.”

  “Then my work here is done.” She gave him an evil grin. “Better men than you have tried and failed to stand up to those three. Hell, even their husbands die off regularly just to get away.”

  “Jesus. You make them sound like the SS.”

  She waved a hand at him. “Pansies.”

  “Pansies?” he repeated. “The SS?”

  Carla nodded and stopped as they came to the front door of the ice-cream shop. “Oh, yeah. They just used whips and chains to beat information out of you.”

  “And these three?” Christ, Jackson wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. But some morbid curiosity demanded an answer.

  She laughed out loud, and damned if it didn’t sound good. This was no dignified murmured chuckle that could be mistaken for a discreet burp. No, this was a flat-out, loud as hell laugh. Her face lit up with the joy of it and her brown eyes actually twinkled, for God’s sake. And when he noticed that she had a deep dimple on her left cheek at the corner of her mouth, he knew this was not a good sign.

  His body stirred into life and, even though he knew it would lead nowhere, he enjoyed the rush of need pulsing inside him. It had been a damned long time since a woman had affected him like this.

  “Oh, please,” she said, and grabbed hold of the brass doorknob behind her. “Beatings, rubber hoses, and a heat lamp have nothing on Rachel’s tuna-and-pineapple casserole.”

  Jackson just stared at her, appalled. “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, babe. That casserole is infamous around here.” She tossed that mass of deep black curls back from her face. “Rachel makes the blasted thing every time the Welcome Wagon rolls out.” She paused, tipped her head to one side, and made a big show of thinking about that. “Really, if you stop to consider it, it’s a wonder we have anyone moving into Chandler. You’d think word of that casserole would be enough to keep people out.”

  “It would have worked for me,” he said, not too proud to admit that the thought of being force-fed such a hideous-sounding concoction was enough to make his stomach roll and pitch.

  She reached out and laid one hand on his arm. A natural, friendly gesture from an obviously outgoing woman. So why did it feel like someone was holding a dryer-warmed blanket against his skin? It felt good. Too good. But it didn’t mean anything. None of this meant anything. He didn’t even know her, for God’s sake.

  She released him, almost as if she could hear his thoughts. Yet if she could, she’d do more than let go of him. She’d run like hell.

  She stared at him for a long second, then shook off whatever it was she’d been feeling. “Sorry to be the one to tell you, then. Rachel’s specialty is going to be arriving at your place this afternoon.”

  As bad as that sounded, he was glad she was talking again. Hell, he thought, talk about god-awful recipes and town gossips. Talk about anything but the near electrical zip of sensation that had just rippled between them.

  “Wonderful. Maybe I’ll move.” He was only half-kidding.

  She laughed again and Jackson enjoyed the sound so much, he basked in it for a moment or two. Until, at last, she looked down at Reese and said, “Your daddy’s pretty funny, huh?”

  Reese frowned, nodded solemnly, and that was enough to snuff out the small flicker of pleasure that had winked to life inside him. Strange. For a second there, he’d almost forgotten about the very thing that had brought him and Reese to this place. And that hadn’t happened in … well, ever.

  “You okay?” Carla asked.

  No. No, he wasn’t. And if things with Reese didn’t change fast, he didn’t imagine he’d ever be okay again. But she didn’t need to hear that. And he didn’t need to say it.

  “Fine.” He reached for his daughter’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and said, “Let’s have that ice cream and get back home. Apparently we’re going to have company later.”

  Reese rubbed two fingers all around the outside of her mouth.

  “Sure,” Jackson told her, immediately understanding. “You can have chocolate.”

  She lifted her hand, dangling her fingers and wiggling them.

  “With sprinkles,” he agreed.

  “I’m impressed,” Carla told him.

  He glanced at her. “With what?”

  “You two have your own sign language.”

  Yes, they did. They got along fine, contrary to what some people thought. But he’d give anything for it to be different. “You know what they say … necessity is the mother of invention.”

  She held up one hand, smiled, and shook her head. “Oh, no. Don’t get me started on mothers.”

  “Issues?”

  “First ice cream, then tales of life with Mama. Without a layer of good, heavy ice cream, I could get ulcers and then I wouldn’t be able to eat chocolate and if that happened, life really wouldn’t be worth living, would it?”

  “Do you always talk this much?”

  “You think I talk a lot, wait’ll you meet my mother.”

  “Back to the mother thing.”

  “After ice cream.” She yanked the door open, and over the sound of the welcoming chimes, she added, “And like Reese, I’ll have chocolate. With sprinkles. And hot fudge. And whipped cream.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Watching your figure?” he asked dryly.

  “Nope,” she assured him, swinging into the ice-cream shop. “Are you?”

  His gaze dropped to the curve of her butt. In those worn, faded jeans, it looked spectacular. And he had to admit, if only to himself, that chocolate looked good on her.

  * * *

  An hour later Carla left Jackson and Reese at the turnoff to her drive, and as the two of them walked off, she stopped to watch them. Though father and daughter were side by side, it was as if there was a chasm separating them. Even as Jackson took the child’s hand, linking them, they remained independent of each other. Unconnected.

  Carla shivered and tried to fight back the urge to run after them. To find out what was holding them apart and to fix it. And that surprised her. For the first time in two years, she was actually concerning herself with someone else’s trouble instead of concentrating on her own. But this wasn’t her business; she knew that. Heck, she didn’t even have the right to ask why Reese never spoke. Why the girl’s eyes carried a misery that no child should know.

  But her heart ached for them and that was a sure sign that she was letting herself get too involved. She didn’t want to care about another child. She didn’t want to feel another parent’s pain. Not again. It was enough. Done. Over.

  “C’mon, Abbey.”

  Carla cut across her front lawn and watched Abbey sprint out ahead of her, headed for the backyard and the puppies. Her mood better now that she’d decided to butt the hell out of Jackson Wyatt’s life, she kicked off her sandals and enjoyed the feel of the grass beneath her feet. The ocean’s roar sounded like a distant heartbeat and the wind through the trees like a soft, vaguely remembered song. White clouds raced across a brilliant blue sky and the sun was warm but not yet hot.

  In short … everything was perfect.

  And perfect never lasted long enough to enjoy it.

  “It’s about time you got home.”

  “Beth.” Her sister-in-law sat on the front porch, elbows propped on her knees. Dark auburn hair, lifted by the breeze, danced about her pale face and drew attention to green eyes that looked anything but placid. “What’re you doing here? Where’s Tina?” Carla glanced around for her niece, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “Your brother’s an idiot.”

  “I’ve got three of ’em,” Carla said, though she knew damn well whic
h one Beth was complaining about. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “The one I’m married to.”

  Uh-oh. There was no smile in Beth’s voice, so Carla’s weak attempt at humor had obviously failed. Which meant that her idiot brother Tony was really up to something stupid. Damn it, she’d meant to see Beth earlier this week. But the days kept slipping past, and as much as it shamed Carla to admit it, she’d been too wrapped up in her own little ball of misery to pay much attention to anyone else’s. So what did that say about her?

  “What’s he done?”

  Beth jumped up suddenly and shoved her hands into the back pockets of her denim shorts. “He’s driving me nuts, Carla.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty good at that.” Vivid memories of Tony scalping her Barbie doll rushed to the surface of her mind. She took the steps to the porch, opened the front door, and nodded to Beth. “It’s a gift. But to be fair, most men are pretty gifted in that area.”

  Beth followed her inside and stayed just a step or two behind her as she walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Carla went straight to the fridge, opened it, tossed her white butcher-paper-wrapped package inside, then slammed the door closed again. “What’d he do?”

  Her sister-in-law pulled out a chair and dropped into it. Slamming her elbows onto the tabletop, she winced suddenly, lifted her arms, and turned them to take a look. Grimacing, she asked, “Jesus, Carla, don’t you ever wipe this table off? There’s crumbs and…” She flicked a finger against her right elbow. “I think it’s petrified oatmeal.”

  “Did you come over here to do an inspection? ’Cause if you did, I should warn you that Mama does that weekly and I always flunk.”

  Beth pushed one hand through her hair, dusted the crumbs to one side, then set her elbows down again. “I’m sorry. I’m just so pissed.”

  “Understandable. Candellano men aren’t the easiest people in the world to live with.”

  “Now there’s an understatement.”

  “Except for Papa.” Carla just couldn’t lump her father in with the meatheads who were his sons.

  Beth nodded. “True. Except for Papa.”

  Carla grabbed a bag of Oreos off the counter and took a seat opposite the other woman. Offering the opened bag, she waited until Beth had grabbed a couple before taking one herself. “So. Tell me.”

  Beth twisted the Oreo expertly, ate the white icing first (as any good American should), then nibbled at the cookie. “Okay,” she finally said when Carla started to fidget. “But first, I have to tell you that my old boss called last week.”

  “Really?” As she remembered getting a call herself, Carla had to wonder if last week had been national Reach Out and Touch a Former Employee Week. “What’d he want?”

  “Me.”

  “What?” Both eyebrows shot up and Carla choked on her cookie.

  “Not that way. Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “It’s happiest there.”

  “Briefly, then.” Beth shook her head, grabbed another Oreo, and said, “Victor wants me to come back to work.”

  “Ahhh.…” Carla nodded. “If we were in a cartoon, a lightbulb would now be flashing over my head. So what did you tell your boss?”

  Beth sat back in her chair and sighed. “I told him I’d have to think about it and get back to him.”

  “By when?”

  She shrugged. “A week or two.”

  “But you want to go back.”

  “Oh God, yes.” Beth took another cookie. It wasn’t that she didn’t love being a mom. She did. More than she’d ever thought possible. But there had to be more to life than wiping up spills and singing along with Elmo on Sesame Street. Jesus. There had to be.

  Besides. She’d really enjoyed selling homes. Finding just the right place for people anxious to put down roots. She’d always felt as though she’d had a hand in building their futures and, darn it, she missed that feeling.

  “So go.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Beth muttered, lifting her gaze to meet Carla’s. “You don’t live with Tony.”

  “True, thank God. But you guys have been together since you were kids. You’ve always known how to handle him.”

  “Until now.” Beth shook her head. “His head’s like a rock on this subject.”

  Not a good sign, Carla thought, reading more misery in Beth’s face than anger—and that was saying a lot, since she was so clearly furious. And rightly so, in Carla’s opinion.

  “He doesn’t want you to work.”

  “Exactly.” Sighing, Beth munched at her cookie, muttered, “Got milk?,” then swallowed hard. “Your brother is going ballistic because he wants me to stay home full-time. Be a professional mother and housekeeper like Mama.”

  “Ah, the Neanderthal approach to marriage. Guess he never bothered to notice that that’s how Mama wanted it.” God, Tony. Where did your brain go? Carla half-turned in her chair, whipped open the fridge again, pulled out two cans of Diet Coke, and set them on the table.

  Beth grabbed one of them, took a long drink, then jumped up from the table to stalk around the kitchen. Her steps short and furious, the heels of her sandals clicked against the floor. Two quacks sounded out as the rubber-ducky clock struck the hour.

  “He was so pleased when I quit work after Tina was born.” Now she was talking as much to herself as to Carla and the words kept bubbling out as though they’d been simmering for ages. “I never meant it to be a permanent thing. I just wanted to spend time with Tina before going back. But I know Tony had visions of me being Superwife. Though whatever gave him that idea, I don’t know. I don’t want to bake bread from scratch. That’s why God invented grocery stores!”

  “Amen.”

  But Beth wasn’t listening. She was too busy pacing and muttering and making karate chops with one hand, and it was pretty easy to guess just who she was pretending to chop.

  “And for Pete’s sake, why in the hell would I make my own pizza when Papa John’s delivers right to my door?”

  Since Carla had Papa John’s listed first on her speed dial, she was forced to agree. Hell, even Mama didn’t make her own pizza! So exactly when had Carla’s oldest brother become a caveman?

  “This is just weird,” she finally said.

  “You got that right. It’s like…” Beth shook her head, took another drink of soda, and said, “I don’t even know him anymore.”

  A spurt of worry shot through Carla, pushing her to her feet. Okay, this wasn’t right. Beth and Tony having an argument was one thing. A speed bump in an otherwise pristine stretch of road. But it was something else to watch a “happily-ever-after” unravel.

  “Of course you know him. He’s the idiot making you nuts. The moron who loves you.”

  A sad twist of a smile touched Beth’s lips briefly, then disappeared. She looked down at her hands, and seconds ticked past before she whispered, “The job thing isn’t all of it. I think he’s having an affair.”

  Tony, you son of a bitch.

  A moment later, though, Carla reminded herself just who they were talking about here. Tony. Mr. Upstanding Sheriff. Mr. Happily Married Man and Ace Father. She was the first to admit that any one of her brothers could do something stupid. But she just couldn’t believe that Tony would risk everything he’d ever loved for a quick roll in the hay.

  She shook her head. “No way,” Carla said flatly, firmly, putting every ounce of conviction she possessed into the words. “He wouldn’t do that. He loves you.”

  “Yeah.” Beth studied the red-and-white can in her hands as though it held the secrets to the questions plaguing her. “That’s why he disappears three nights a week and won’t tell me where he’s going.”

  “There’s got to be an explanation.”

  “There is. I just don’t like it.”

  “And I don’t believe it.”

  Beth lifted her tear-blurred gaze to Carla’s. “You’re not taking his side, are you?”

  “Hell, no.” Carla dropp
ed one arm around her shoulder. “In this kind of fight, it’s X chromosomes versus Y.” They clicked their soda cans together in a silent salute. And Carla silently vowed to get to the bottom of this or beat her brother senseless.

  Whichever came first.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “TUNA AND PINEAPPLE,” JACKSON muttered, clapping one hand to his growling stomach. “Those women ought to be arrested.”

  True to Carla’s warning, the Terrible Three, as he’d thought of them almost instantly, had rolled out the Welcome Wagon, then backed it right over him. And he wasn’t at all sure he was going to recover anytime soon.

  He sat down on the uncomfortable Victorian-style sofa, laid his head on the back, and tried to settle his stomach through sheer willpower. But no one’s will was that strong.

  Thank God he’d gone with his instinct and prevented Reese from tasting that casserole. She was way too young to be expected to live through it. He closed his eyes and saw those women again. All smiles and interested eyes, they’d kept him talking for an hour. They’d cooed over Reese until the girl had escaped to her bedroom, and then the inquisition had begun.

  “Where did you say you were from?” Abigail, clearly older than dirt, inquired oh-so-politely.

  “Chicago,” he said.

  “Ha!” Virginia said. “Told you. Everyone knows Chicago is a Mafia town. Al Capone.”

  He just stared at the woman with strangely unmoving hair, who looked at him as though she expected him to pull a “gat” out from under the sofa. Although the idea of jumping to his feet brandishing a Gatling gun was somehow comforting.

  “Hush,” Rachel told her, and leaned into him, offering her poisonous casserole. “I insist you taste this, straightaway. It’s best when served hot.”

  He’d dutifully choked down a bite and vaguely wondered if this was tuna/pineapple at its best, what in the hell could the worst taste like?

  “How long are you here for?” Abigail again.

  “Three months.”