She eyed the jar of dog treats on the counter longingly. Now she wanted him to reward her for being a world-class nag? Not in this lifetime.
“Know what, Ellie?” he grumbled. “You’re a real bitch.”
Then he threw her a goddamn Milk-Bone.
DEIRDRE HAD BEEN DREADING the slam of the screen door for hours. She pulled the covers up higher over her pajamas and glanced at the clock on her bedside table, knowing Emma was home. The girl was more reliable than Old Faithful. Always on time or calling to check in if something earth-shattering was making her late. It made Deirdre a little sad, knowing how careful her daughter had become in the years since Deirdre had left her with Cade for those nine long months. It was as if some part of Emma were still afraid Deirdre might leave her again if the going got rough.
And in the near future things around here were bound to get rough indeed. Because Jake Stone or no Jake Stone, Deirdre wasn’t about to give up on finding her real father. A musician, just like she was, she thought with a tingle of anticipation. She wanted to see him, wanted to know how she looked like him, how they were alike. Wanted to see unreserved approval in a parent’s eyes and know…know that someone believed her perfect, just the way she was.
There is no guarantee he’ll feel that way, her subconscious warned in a voice annoyingly like Jake Stone’s.
But she had to believe Jimmy Rivermont would understand how it felt to make mistakes, and fear you could never make things right. After all, he’d had an affair with a married woman, gotten her pregnant. Had he known he’d fathered a child? The letter made it sound as if her mother had never told him.
“Mom?” Emma called softly, knocking on the bedroom door.
Deirdre’s heart squeezed. “I’ve told you a jillion times you can just come in.”
Emma carefully opened the door and peered inside, her face far too pale, too sad, too young. Deirdre’s heart ached for her. This was supposed to be Emma’s big day—getting the part she’d worked so hard for, defying the high school pecking order and earning the chance to prove to everyone that she was the finest actress Whitewater High had ever seen.
“Come in already,” Deirdre urged with tender impatience. “What are you waiting for?”
“I keep hoping someday I’ll knock and you’ll surprise me.” Emma gave a wan smile. “You’ll get all embarrassed and say, ‘Just a minute, sweetheart, let Mel Gibson here get on his clothes.’”
“Emmaline!”
“I can’t help it. I won’t be around forever, Mom. I…worry about you.”
Deirdre surrendered any effort to keep her game face on. “Children aren’t supposed to worry about their parents. It’s meant to be the other way around.”
“Tell that to Uncle Cade.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I’m an adult. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think so. Especially after…well, after today. That letter.” Emma fretted her lower lip. “You looked like—like it was the end of the world when you read it. I called Uncle Cade on my break, to warn him, you know…about what you read. So he could fix it.”
“Oh, Emma!”
“You should have heard him, Mom. He said you’d already been there. He sounded like…I hadn’t heard him sound like that since the morning when I was ten and we woke up and you were gone.”
Deirdre tensed. Imagining that morning had become the stuff of her worst nightmares. “The information in the letter wasn’t exactly news to your uncle,” Deirdre said, feeling defensive.
“It was to Grandpa. He’s really upset, Mom.”
Deirdre’s heart sank. Sometimes she almost felt jealous over the relationship between her daughter and Martin McDaniel. Envied their easy camaraderie. Who ever would have believed two people as night-and-day different from each other as Emma and her grandfather could understand each other perfectly? “You saw the Captain?” Deirdre said, already guessing the answer.
“I took off a little early.” Emma blushed—and no wonder, Deirdre thought. She’d broken McDaniel rule number 563—never take off work unless you’re in the hospital, a car accident or dead.
“Miss Madison said I looked sick.” Emma’s eyes turned pleading. “It wasn’t a lie. I felt like I was going to throw up.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Deirdre threw back part of the covers and opened her arms. Emma crossed to the bed and climbed stiffly in beside her. It had been too long since Emma had done this, Deirdre thought with a tug of regret.
Once this had been an every-night treat, Emma snuggling up in her mother’s bed before she’d toddled off to her own. Emma had talked and talked in her adorable, ohso-serious way, confident her mother could explain all the mysteries of the universe. But once she’d turned thirteen, Emma had guarded her new dignity so fiercely the nighttime ritual had all but vanished.
Deirdre wished that she could just relax and enjoy this night and the closeness she’d once taken for granted, Emma warm beside her, baring the secrets of her heart. But what had happened today had changed everything. There was no going back. Even Emma would have to understand that.
“Mom, everybody’s a mess over at the cabin,” Emma confided. “Aunt Finn’s been crying until her eyes are all swollen. And Uncle Cade’s gritting his teeth so hard his jaw looks like it’s going to crack. And the Captain, he wouldn’t even let me talk to him about—well, about the letter. But I wouldn’t go away. I cornered him and I told him not to worry. You always told me it didn’t matter who my father was. What mattered was who I was.”
Deirdre flinched, Emma’s words digging deep. She cuddled Emma close, burying her nose in the crown of her head. A sweet, fruity scent filled Deirdre’s nose—no simple baby shampoo for Emma anymore. She’d changed to something that promised to tame the wild curl in her hair. Thank God it hadn’t really worked.
Deirdre closed her eyes, thinking about how many times she had told her baby how wonderful she was, had said her father didn’t matter. Deirdre had tried to shield Emma, protect her, give her armor against inevitable gossip, even though she knew plenty of nasty jabs would slip through. Everyone in Whitewater was aware that Emma had never known her father. And she never would.
Deirdre started, realizing Emma had kept on talking, certain her mother was hanging on every word. “That’s why I had to see Grandpa and tell him that as soon as you cooled off, you’d know it doesn’t matter who your birth father is, either. Because that’s what you told me.”
“Oh, Emma.”
“I hate that tone of voice. It’s your ‘poor little Emma can’t understand something so grown-up’ voice. But nobody in the whole world understands better than I do about this. Wondering who your father is. Wondering if he’d love you or if he’d turn away, trying to pretend you didn’t know each other.”
Deirdre swallowed hard, tried to grasp the least painful way to tell her daughter the truth. “Emma, I know this is hard.”
“Yeah, well, hard is starting over at new schools so often you don’t even bother trying to make friends anymore. Hard is getting stuck in fifth grade with kids who’d known each other since kindergarten. It’s not like I don’t know what ‘hard’ means.”
Deirdre’s eyes stung. “Emma, you’re a smart girl. You have to know things have never been great between the Captain and me.”
“It’s because you’re too much alike. You just keep butting heads and no one will say they’re sorry, even when you both are.”
“This is my decision. Can you understand that? Trust me to know—know what I need to do?”
“You can do whatever you want. But I’m keeping the family I’ve got. I’m not calling anyone but the Captain Grandpa. It would break his heart.”
And I always thought he was more concerned about his pride. Deirdre bit her lip until it stung to keep from saying the words aloud. Her daughter didn’t need to hear them.
“What are you going to do?” Emma asked. “How are you going to…well, how does a person look for their father if they don’t know him?”
&nbs
p; “I’m not sure,” she said, thinking of Jake Stone, a knot of helplessness and frustration balling up under her ribs. “But I intend to find out.”
“Mom?” Emma hung on to Deirdre, tight.
“What, angel girl?”
“I’m scared.”
“I am, too. But we’ll…we’ll get through this together, okay? Nothing can come between the two of us, right?”
Emma gazed up at her, doubtful.
“Enough of all this gloom and doom. I want to hear about you. Tell me about the play. About rehearsals and running lines and all those things you love.”
A shadow of a smile curved Emma’s lips, and Deirdre burned at the injustice that the disastrous letter and Emma’s triumph had surfaced on the same day.
“Mom, we can talk about all that later. I know you don’t feel like—”
“Hearing how my baby turned the whole drama department on its ear? Oh, yes, I do. Come on,” Deirdre encouraged, forcing a smile of her own. “You must be excited.”
“Yeah. Most of the time. But sometimes, well, it’s scary, too.”
“You’ve never had stage fright in your life!” Deirdre said, surprised.
“All the popular kids in school want me to fall flat on my face,” Emma confided. “They say Juliet was Brandi’s part. She was so sure she was going to get it that her mom volunteered to donate costumes for the play. She had this place in the Quad Cities sew a velvet Juliet gown to die for.”
“I’m sure it will look wonderful on you.”
“I suppose. But it’s a lot of pressure, you know? I’m going to have to practice real hard. And at school, well, it’s going to be awful tense with everybody hoping I’ll screw up.”
The little jerks, Deirdre thought, wishing she could spank every one of the spoiled, undertalented brats.
“Anyway, I was thinking, well, I wanted to ask you if you’d mind…”
“Mind what?” Deirdre said, knowing she’d do anything in her power to drive the self-doubt from her precious daughter’s face.
“If Drew and I practiced here after school sometimes. Away from all the craziness.” Emma’s gaze flitted like a butterfly, landing anywhere but her mother’s face. “We could use the gazebo.”
Deirdre closed her eyes. She was always thrilled when Emma had friends over; her daughter’s close little crowd had always been a delight. But right now, with her insides churning, her mind racing, trying to think how to begin this search—for once, Deirdre just wanted to be alone.
“You’re not going to let little witches like Brandi Bates ruin this for you, are you?” she hedged, trying to sort things through.
“Of course not. I just…she’s acting so weird. All jealous. It’s ridiculous. She’s gorgeous and I’m…well…I’m me. It isn’t like she has any reason to think I could steal her boyfriend even if I wanted to.”
Deirdre’s heart skipped a beat. “But you don’t want to.”
“Mom!” Emma drew out the word in the age-old voice of teenage disgust. Deirdre tried not to worry that Emma wasn’t looking her straight in the eye. “I know things are crazy right now, but Drew and I won’t get in the way. I promise. You won’t even know we’re here.”
“All right,” Deirdre said, giving Emma one last hug. The whole Romeo and Juliet thing made her nerves twitch. But if Emma was going to be making big eyes at this Drew person, better Deirdre should be around to keep an eye on things instead of some brain-dead teacher who obviously thought all this teenage romance stuff was exquisite drama.
Deirdre knew better. She’d found out the truth the night her daughter was conceived.
DEIRDRE WOKE WITH A JOLT, a bright ray of sun squeezing between cracks in the plantation shutters sending frissons of panic racing through her. She glanced at the alarm clock, but the ringer was off. Did she forget to set it last night? Finn was going to kill her. The giant oak table in the dining room should be full of guests expecting one of March Winds’ famous breakfasts of freshbaked muffins and spinach omelets and there wouldn’t be a crumb in sight. Why hadn’t Finn wakened her when she came over to help serve?
Deirdre scrambled into jeans and a T-shirt, raked a brush through her unruly hair, swiped a toothbrush across her teeth and ran for the kitchen. She was halfway down the stairs when it hit her—the cold, clear memory of the day before. Deirdre stumbled to a halt, loss, betrayal and anger washing over her as if they were brand-new.
Her stomach turned over, and for an instant she wished it was yesterday morning again. She and Finn preparing breakfast together, laughing over one of the twins’ latest escapades.
Deirdre had never had a friend like Finn before, someone she felt completely safe with, trusted enough to let glimpse her softer side. Someone she trusted—who had been lying to her the whole time.
How long had Finn known the whole sordid story? How much of Finn’s friendship was based on plain, ugly pity?
Poor Deirdre…not her fault…She could just imagine the scene at the cabin, even without Emma’s description the night before.
Thank God no one else in Whitewater knew the truth. Only Emma and Cade and Finn and the Captain. More humiliating still was her encounter with Jake Stone. She squirmed inwardly. Never before in her life had she begged anyone for anything. But she’d begged him to help her. Probably given him something to laugh about with Miss Great Legs, Trula Devine.
Deirdre’s cheeks burned. She wished she could turn around and run back to her bedroom, lock the whole world out until…
Until she was in control again. Control of her feelings, her life, her past…but then, anyone in town could have told her a long time ago that she was out of control.
Still, dodging breakfast duty wouldn’t change any of that. She’d have to face Finn sometime. Better get it over with now.
Deirdre opened the kitchen door, but instead of chaos, an amazing serenity reigned, the kitchen smelling of cinnamon apple muffins, the antique china Finn cherished neatly rinsed, stacked and waiting to be loaded into one of the dishwashers. Finn leaned over her very pregnant stomach, settling teacups in the top rack.
“It was supposed to be your day off kitchen duty,” Deirdre said.
Finn shot her a searching look, then shrugged. “I told Emma to shut your alarm off before she went to bed.”
Was that why Emma had slipped into bed with her last night? Because she was on some subversive mission from the enemy? Deirdre wanted to be aggravated, but it was so like Finn to think about her, do something kind. Deirdre’s throat ached.
“What did you think? If I took a nap like a good girl I’d get over the crazy notion of trying to find my real father?”
“No. I thought you might be tired.” Finn poured a mug of coffee and pressed it into Deirdre’s hands. “You aren’t a morning person on the best of days.”
And she never would be, Deirdre thought. All those years of singing in clubs had thrown her body clock completely out of whack. One more way Deirdre had been out of sync with the early-bird McDaniels. But maybe Jimmy Rivermont would understand. Musician to musician.
Not that she was a musician anymore, she told herself firmly. She’d hadn’t sung anything besides “Happy Birthday” in six years.
“Finn, listen, I appreciate you coming over and playing back-up. But I’m here now, and I’m in a real barn burner of a mood, so if you have to hover over somebody, hover over Cade and the—”
A sharp knock on the door cut Deirdre off midsentence. Please, God, she thought, exhausted, don’t make this one of those “speaking of the devil” deals. Facing Finn was one thing. Cade and the Captain? That was one confrontation she just wasn’t ready for.
“The Captain and Cade have the old Porsche in pieces all over the garage. With Amy and Will ‘helping,’ they may never get it back together again,” Finn supplied, able to read her thoughts as usual.
Deirdre should have guessed what her brother would be up to. It was vintage Cade McDaniel, trying to fix the nearest engine the way he could never mend his family.
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Deirdre started toward the door, but Finn cut her off. “I’ll answer it. You’ll scare the guests away glaring like that.”
Finn opened the door, but her “Welcome to March Winds” speech died on her lips. Deirdre’s heart jumped, wondering what was wrong. “M-Mr. Stone?” Finn’s voice quavered. “Did something happen to Mrs. Aronson?”
Deirdre quelled the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Trust Finn to inquire after the woman she and Cade had written all those checks to over the years.
“No, ma’am,” Stone said, so respectfully Finn might have been the Queen Mum. “Mrs. Aronson is just fine. I’ve come to see Deirdre.”
“Deirdre?”
“She visited my office last night regarding a private matter.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” Finn shot a searching look Deirdre’s way. Finn was white as March Winds’ ghost. And what was this “I see” garbage? Why didn’t she just say, “How could you hire this man who reminds me that my father was a thief?”
Stone stepped inside. He wore black jeans, another black T-shirt and a black Stetson. Who’d he think he was? Johnny Cash? Stone removed the Stetson, cradling it in one strong hand. His gaze dipped to Finn’s impressive stomach. “You look wonderful, Mrs. McDaniel. Happy. I’m glad.”
Yeah, Deirdre thought. Her sister-in-law was so happy at the moment Deirdre would be lucky if Finn didn’t deck her later.
“Stone,” Deirdre said, trying not to hope he’d changed his mind about helping her. But then, why else would he be here? To try to talk her out of pursuing the whole thing? Deirdre grimaced—she’d just tell him to get in line.
He turned toward her, and Deirdre found herself staring smack in the middle of all that imposing male chest. “I’ve been considering your case. Talked it over with someone and decided I might have time to take it after all.”
Deirdre tracked her gaze up his corded neck, past his square, chiseled jaw and hawklike nose so she could glare right into his eyes. “Let me guess. Ms. Great Legs Trula Devine needed more cash than you had on hand?”
Finn looked as if she’d swallowed a teacup.
The Gazebo Page 6
