For years, Stevie had followed in her mother’s wake, always aware that she was just a steerage passenger who’d somehow slipped past the gate to first class. Her mother’s boyfriends either spoiled her or ignored her, and her long succession of stepfathers signed the checks that sent her to boarding schools. Until she turned twelve.
That was the year Stevie finally found the courage to tell her mother that she wanted to live with her father. Mike Ryan. The man who welcomed her every summer for three glorious weeks. The man who took her fishing and allowed her to wear cutoff jeans and get dirty. The man who tucked her into bed at night and kissed her forehead. The one person in the world who loved her.
Joanna had agreed, more than willing to get rid of a child who was living proof that Joanna was getting older. But it hadn’t mattered. All that was important was that Stevie’d finally found a home. A place to belong. She smiled as she remembered how good it had been to go to school every day with the same kids. To make friends. To walk down the street and have people call her by name.
And soon after moving to Chandler, she’d also found Carla. Her first, and last, best friend. The huge Candellano family was overpowering and overwhelming. They opened their arms to her and pulled her inside, and between her own father and Carla’s family, Stevie’s soul had soaked up all the love she’d missed out on in her first twelve years.
Stevie stood up, letting her fingers trail across the phone receiver. Family. That’s what it was all about.
Now that her own father was gone, Stevie was alone again except for the Candellanos. She couldn’t lose them. Couldn’t lose that last connection.
“Hey, Stevie!” Sarah opened the office door and stuck her head inside. Her bright red hair looked frazzled and she was out of breath. “You coming back out here or what? A whole soccer team just dropped in and I’m drowning.”
“Right.” Stevie started for the door, deliberately putting her thoughts of the Candellanos, Carla and most especially Paul, out of her head.
At least for now.
* * *
Sunday night dinner at Mama Candellano’s was required. No matter where you were, how you felt, what else was going on in the world, Mama expected her family sitting around her table, eating. If there was a nuclear blast, Mama would wait for the toxic clouds to disappear, then start ladling sauce onto fresh pasta. But tonight was special. Carla was home from her first search-and-rescue mission in more than two years, and she and her new husband were honeymoon-bound.
Paul opened the back door of the old Victorian, stepped into the kitchen of his childhood, and inhaled deeply. Years rolled back and he was a kid again, racing in to beat the others to the dinner table. Man, there was just nothing else in the world like the smell of his mother’s kitchen. Whatever else you could say about Mama—and there was plenty, he thought wryly—the woman was a magician in the kitchen.
“Wipe your feet.” The “magician” didn’t even turn from the stove to see which of her children had entered.
The familiar command brought a smile to Paul’s face. Some things in his life, at least, remained unchanged. His mother. This house.
The Candellanos had come to California a few generations back. They’d settled in and around Monterey, following the jobs to be found with the fishing fleets, the vineyards, and the canning factories. Italian immigrants settled in Northern California and brought their traditions with them. Then Paul’s father had met Angela, seventeen, beautiful, and fresh off the boat from Italy. She’d come to California to visit relatives and hardly spoke English. But she’d taken one look at Anthony Candellano and had never gone back to her village in Sicily. They’d married and moved to the tiny town of Chandler, to give their children a home outside the city—where they would all look for work outside the factories and the fishing boats.
Paul smiled at his mother’s back. She and his father had given their children everything. A home, unconditional love, understanding, and the occasional slap to the head when necessary. And he wouldn’t trade a single memory of life in this house for any amount of money.
“I already wiped my feet,” he said. “I know the drill.”
Mama turned from the stove to look at him, delight sparkling in her dark brown eyes. “Paul! You’re early.”
Angela Candellano’s smile deepened the creases in her face and lit sparks of pleasure in her dark brown eyes. Her black hair, liberally streaked with gray, was drawn to the top of her head in a style she’d been wearing since he was a kid. She was a little wider than she used to be, but she hadn’t slowed down any.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Paul said, and crossed the room to her, sweeping her up into a tight, fierce hug. She laughed in his ear and slapped at his shoulders.
“Let me go,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Only if you feed me,” he teased, and gave her one last squeeze before releasing her. Still a beauty, he thought. And since his father’s death she’d taken over as head of the family, running her house and her life and her children’s lives as she saw fit.
“Ravioli,” she said, turning back to the stove to give the pot of sauce another stir. She was as much a scientist as any he’d ever seen at work in a lab. His mother never worked from a recipe. She used a little of this, a little of that, and regularly produced heaven.
“Sounds great.” Paul stepped to one side of her, leaned one hip against the edge of the countertop, and watched his mom while she worked. Steam lifted from a stainless-steel pot and the scent of his mother’s sauce was almost enough to make him drop to his knees, weeping with gratitude.
“You’ve seen Nicky lately?” she asked, flicking a glance at him, then concentrating on the swirl of the wooden spoon as she stirred tirelessly.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “Saw him a couple nights ago.”
“Something is wrong there.” She shook her head slowly, and when her lips kept moving, though she wasn’t making a sound, Paul knew she was rushing through one of her quick, heartfelt demands on heaven.
Mama didn’t just pray for her family. She pelted heaven with demands, requests, and indignant reproaches when she felt they were due. Paul had always had the distinct feeling that if God were paying attention, He’d do well to make sure Angela Candellano stayed happy.
But she wasn’t happy now. Nick might think he was real slick at hiding what was bothering him. But obviously, their mother was on to him. Hell, they’d never been able to put one over on Mama when they were kids. Why would Nick think he could get away with it now? The woman made the CIA look like incompetent gossips. Her network of spies had kept all of her children on their toes growing up.
But at least in this one case, Mama could relax. Yeah, there had been something wrong, but Paul was pretty sure Nick was through the worst of it now. At least he hoped so. “He’ll work it out.”
“You should help,” Mama told him, reaching for the dish towel slung over her left shoulder. “He’s your brother.”
Paul sighed and let his gaze wander the familiar room. The same green-flecked linoleum. The battered old green Naugahyde bench-seat breakfast nook. Worn counters, herbs potted on the windowsill, pictures of kids on the refrigerator—only now those photos were of her grandchildren, Reese and Tina. Coming here was like stepping into a time warp, once a week. And inevitably he walked into this room and felt twelve years old again.
But a man had to take a stand sometime. Even against so formidable an opponent as Mama.
“Nick has to help himself.” Besides, he wasn’t sure that Nick would want his help at the moment. After all, things were going great for Paul right now, while Nick seemed to be neck-deep and sinking fast.
“Family helps family,” she said, inclining her head so she could give him a good long stare.
“Some things you just have to do yourself.”
She pulled the spoon from the pot and smacked it hard against the edge before setting it down on the spoon rest in the middle of the stove top. Reaching up, she wiped her hands on the d
ish towel slung across her left shoulder, then gave Paul a quick pat on the cheek. “You were always the one with the patience. Most like your papa. Nicky…” She sighed and shook her head. “Impatient. Too much of your grandpa in him. He wants what he wants and he wants it now. Is not good.”
That about summed up the difference in the twins, Paul thought. He’d always been the one to think a problem through, work at it in stages until finally he’d worked it to its logical conclusion. Nick, on the other hand, was more likely to pick up a hammer to slam away at something in his way. And to give him his due, it had always worked for him. Until lately.
“Yeah,” Paul said, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out an envelope. He turned it in his hands, staring at it, but seeing Nick’s face the other night. Desperation was never easy to watch. And seeing it in his twin was especially hard.
“Maybe Stevie is the answer.”
“Huh?” Pay attention, Paul. “What about Stevie?”
His mother brushed nonexistent wrinkles out of the front of the spotless apron tied around her thick waist. Then, never noticing Paul’s reaction to her suggestion, she walked to the loaf of fresh bread waiting for her on the counter opposite. She talked as she picked up a serrated knife and started slicing. “Stevie. She was good for Nicky. Maybe she could be again, eh?”
A cold, tight fist closed around his heart. Jesus. Mama matchmaking? With Stevie? “Stevie and Nick broke up a long time ago, Mama.”
“I know, I know, but maybe not forever. Stevie is a good girl. Nicky needs a good girl. He should settle down. Have a family.”
With Stevie?
She shot Paul a look over her shoulder. “You could maybe talk to her. Tell her that Nicky needs help.”
If Mama pulled this off, it wouldn’t be Nick needing the help, but Paul. For God’s sake. He scraped one hand across his face and shook his head. Wouldn’t happen. Stevie was over Nick. Right? She didn’t still care. Did she?
But he’d be damned if he’d help.
“So, you’ll talk to Stevie.”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s a problem?”
“Hell, yes—”
Her eyes narrowed.
He backtracked. “Sorry. Yes, it’s a problem. Stevie’s not interested in Nick anymore. That’s over.” At least he was pretty sure it was over. That’s what he’d been telling himself. But what if it wasn’t? What if she was still carrying a torch for Paul’s twin? What if she was just making do with him, Paul—the consolation prize—until Nick wised up and came running back to her?
Would she go back to Nick?
No.
Bullshit.
Christ. He didn’t say that out loud, did he? No. If he had, his mother would be slapping a dish towel at him and yelling in half-intelligible Italian. She always reverted to Italian when on a rampage. And cursing in Mama’s house would bring down the wrath of Angela faster than anything.
But he was safe. His mother was concentrating on the bread and whatever plan she was hatching. “Over isn’t always over. Love is something you can’t plan, Paul. Is something that just happens. And when it’s right … nothing will stand in the way of it.” She looked at him and waved the knife for emphasis. “Nicky was happy with Stevie.”
“Yeah, but was Stevie happy with Nick?” Okay, that he had said out loud. And his mother was looking at him like he’d grown another head. Which he could have used.
“What’s that mean—”
“Look, Mama,” he said, changing the subject, a little late, but better than never, “before everyone else gets here…” He held out the envelope and wasn’t surprised when she didn’t take it. They went through this every month.
Mama was still under the impression that Paul was a struggling underpaid scientist. But the plain truth was, he wouldn’t have to work another day in his life if he didn’t want to. Licensing the rights to the advanced programs he’d designed had seen to that. But he couldn’t imagine not working. Not coming up with new and improved computer programs.
He loved a challenge.
Which, he thought, might explain why he was so drawn to Stevie.
Scowling at him, his mother said, “I don’t need your money, Paul. You should save it.”
“I save plenty.”
“Save more. Your papa always said to save and—”
“I know what Papa said, and this is for you.”
She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “Is not right. I don’t take money from my children.”
“If you don’t take it,” he said, leaning in and bending low enough to drop a kiss on her forehead, “I’ll just hide it in the house somewhere.”
Her mouth worked as though she wanted to argue with him a little more, but he knew he’d won again when she just sighed. “Is silly, though,” she said, taking the envelope and sliding it into the front pocket of her apron. “I don’t even spend it. I’m just keeping it for the girls.”
He grinned. “Do whatever you want to with it. It’s yours. Hell—heck,” he corrected quickly. “Spend it on fast cars and handsome men.”
She pretended outrage, then crossed herself as she said, “Your papa heard that.”
“Papa agrees with me.”
Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “So stubborn.”
“Just like Mama,” he said, and grinned wickedly when she whipped the dish towel off her shoulder and gave him a playful smack in the arm with it.
Then the back door opened and Mama shouted, “Wipe your feet!”
A moment later, Stevie walked into the room and Paul’s grin slowly faded. It had been two days since he’d seen her. Two days since he’d held her and tried to convince himself that whatever it was between them had burned itself out.
And now just one look into those deep blue eyes of hers—and he knew he was a pitiful liar.
* * *
Dinner was delicious. And loud. And just a little weird.
Sitting around the dinner table with the Candellanos was nothing new. But sitting next to Paul feeling his thigh pressed along hers was. Not easy to keep her mind on chewing when she was busy counting the tiny lightning strikes flashing along her leg to ricochet around her insides. She scooted farther toward the edge of her chair, trying to put a little distance between them, but Paul only shifted position, too. Stevie inhaled slowly, deeply, counted to ten, then twenty, then—
“Hello? Earth to Stevie…”
“Huh? What?” She came up out of her thoughts like a drowning woman breaching the surface of the water. Her gaze flicked around the table quickly and landed on Carla’s perplexed face.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Sorry. Daydreaming.”
“Must’ve been good.”
Good? Oh, man. Beneath the table, Paul’s fingertips trailed along her upper thigh, and Stevie hissed in a breath. What was he doing? They’d agreed. It was over. And even if it weren’t, why was he doing this here? At his mother’s table? She dropped her napkin, swatted at his hand, and gulped when he caught her hand and held it beneath the table. Delicately, like the touch of a feather, his fingertips traced patterns across her palm. She shifted in her seat, trying to deal with the distraction of Paul’s sudden attention. But it was no use. Her brain short-circuited, but unfortunately, Carla was still expecting an answer.
“Good? Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever.”
“You okay?” Concern glittered in Carla’s brown eyes, and Stevie immediately felt even guiltier than she had a minute ago. For heaven’s sake, she was sitting at the family table having sex fantasies.
Good thing she wasn’t Catholic, because she was pretty sure this would be considered a fairly big sin.
“I’m fine,” she lied, and crossed her legs, inching them farther away from Paul. For all the good it would do her, since he still held her hand in a firm grip that told her he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. Concentrate, Stevie. “So, you’re finally getting to leave on your honeymoon.”
“Day after to
morrow,” Carla practically cooed as she pulled at a slice of bread and popped the tiny piece into her mouth. “Mama’s going to watch Reese and Abbey and we’re outta here.”
“Paris … sounds fabulous.” Actually, all she remembered of Paris was one very elegant hotel and a lot of cranky French people. But who was she to rain on Carla’s honeymoon parade?
“I can’t wait.”
“I can tell.” And damn it, she was happy for Carla. The woman was so in love she damn near glowed. Which was wonderful and lovely and … okay, Stevie could privately admit to a little envy.
She didn’t have love.
She had … patty-fingers under the table.
She had amazing sex she couldn’t tell anyone about.
She had … Stevie frowned to herself. Just what exactly did she have?
“You guys?” Nick spoke up, pitching his voice to carry over the babble at the table.
It took a minute or two, but everyone quieted and turned to look at him. There were shadows under his eyes and he lacked the usual flash of confidence that he generally wore as easily as most men did a suit and tie.
Stevie felt a pang of sympathy for the man she’d once cared so desperately for. But she noticed that as Nick began talking, Paul released her hand.
She missed that singing warmth.
“I’m through with football,” Nick said, and instantly voices rose up in question. But he waved one hand at them all, quirked a half-smile, and said, “It’s my knee. Doc says I can’t take another hit, so that’s that.”
“Ah, Nicky.… ” Angela pushed up from her chair and walked around the table to her son. Dropping one arm around his shoulder, she gave him a hug, then smacked the back of his head.
“Hey!” He grabbed at the spot. “What was that for?”
“You don’t tell your family what’s happening in your life?” Mama’s hands dropped to her hips. Never a good sign.
“I just did.”
“Too late. This is what was wrong. I felt it. I knew it.”
“The Great Mama,” Carla murmured, earning a chuckle from Tony and a frown from their mother.
“Make jokes.” Mama threw her hands high and let them slap against her sides again.
Knowing You Page 9
