by Lisa Jackson
“Dad!”
Her heart stopped. “He’s got Christina, don’t worry,” she said to her son though she was dying inside. Her husband. Her baby. Where were they? Dear God, keep them safe! Oh, please!
“Mom?” Stephen’s voice was faint, his teeth chattering and she realized that she was numb all over. Not a good sign.
“Try to get to the shore,” she managed.
“Where?”
If she only knew. Frantically she looked around. Blackness everywhere. Only inky, cold, terrifying blackness. They could be in the middle of the creek or close to one bank. Who knew? But they couldn’t stay in the freezing water. They’d both die from hypothermia.
Which way?
“M-m-mom, I’m so cold.”
“Hang on, Stephen.” How long had they been in the water? “Philip!” she cried and strained to hear. Far away there were voices. “Listen!”
She looked up and saw a bobbing light. The freezing water whirled and danced madly around her.
“Hey!” a male voice boomed. “Anyone there?”
“Help! Oh, God, help us!”
“Hang on, we’re comin’,” the voice assured her and she clung to Stephen and the car, trying to stay conscious, praying that her husband and daughter were safe.
She didn’t remember the rescue. It had taken over an hour and both she and Stephen, suffering from hypothermia, had passed out. She awoke in a hospital in Portland to the news that she and both children had survived, but Philip, as a result of his efforts to save Christina, had died on the way to the hospital. No attempts at reviving him had been effective.
Tiffany was barely out of the hospital, hardly able to function from grief and despair, when she had to arrange a funeral. All of Philip’s family was at the long, mind-numbing service. She was a widow. Alone with her children.
J.D. sat between his parents and sister-in-law, not so much as touching her or offering any sign of condolence during the funeral. White-faced, drawn and tense, he’d partially shielded Tiffany from the rest of the family.
But it hadn’t worked. Philip’s father, Carlo, had been grim and forbidding, his black eyes boring into Tiffany throughout the eulogy. Frances, seated at her husband’s side, wouldn’t even look in Tiffany’s direction, but shunned her and pretended that her daughter-in-law didn’t exist.
Philip’s ex-wife, Karen, a short blond woman with huge blue eyes, clung to her ex-mother-in-law and sobbed loudly, blowing her nose and sliding furtive glances at the woman who had, eventually, replaced her in her ex-husband’s heart. She wailed loudly, while her children, Robert and Thea, were stoic and grim. Philip’s older children were both in college, both acting as if they’d rather be anywhere in the world but at the funeral home, both seeming more bored than grief-stricken.
Throughout the service Tiffany held on to both of her children. Christina sat on her lap, and Stephen, pale and wan, was beside her in the pew.
Even without the harsh glares cast in her direction or the cold shoulders meant to shut her away from the rest of the family, Tiffany didn’t have to be told that the entire Santini clan blamed her for Philip’s death. She’d been the one who’d insisted upon going skiing that day. Philip had only indulged her. And she’d been behind the wheel at the time of the accident.
There had been a gathering of family and friends at the Santini winery in McMinnville after the funeral and gravesite service. Tiffany had never felt so alone in her life. Everyone was coldly polite and the hours went by at an excruciatingly slow pace. She just wanted to be alone, to hide and lick her wounds, to mourn her husband and plan her future; her children’s futures.
The words of sympathy echoed in her heart.
“Sorry about your loss.”
“A tragedy. Such a tragedy.”
“I don’t know what Carlo will do without him. And Frances . . . My, how this has aged her.”
“Good luck to you and the children.”
But after a few kind words—a courtesy to the Santini family—the mourners let her be, each finding his or her small group at the gathering, each whispering and talking about the accident, sending her looks that bordered on pity but oftentimes were tinged with hate.
She’d put on a brave face for nearly two hours, sipping too much wine and fighting back tears of desperation, when a voice behind her said, “Let’s get out of here. I think you’ve done your time for today.”
She whirled to find J.D. with her coat and the kids’ jackets. Somehow she managed a thin smile and shook her head. “Thanks, but I have my own car.”
“I know.” Carefully, he removed an empty wineglass from her hand. “I think I should drive.” For once he seemed sincere. Almost kind. “This has been a rough day.”
“Amen,” she agreed, and didn’t bother to argue. She gathered up Christina and Stephen and handed J.D. the car keys. On the ride home, she closed her eyes, grateful for someone’s thoughtfulness—even her irreverent brother-in-law’s.
At the home she’d shared with Philip in northwest Portland, she managed to get the kids into bed before she felt herself coming undone. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said as J.D. lingered in the kitchen.
“Brotherly duty.”
“Above and beyond the call, if you ask me.” She poured herself another glass of wine, though she was already lightheaded. She was a widow. A widow, for goodness’ sake. The future, once so certain, seemed suddenly bleak as it stretched endlessly before her. “Join me?”
“I think I’ve had enough.”
“Me, too.” But she took a long swallow of last year’s Santini Brothers premium Pinot Noir. Feeling dead tired, she kicked off her high heels and leaned over to rub her arch.
“I’ll help you to bed.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. But don’t fight it.” He eyed the wine bottle and scowled. “Didn’t the doctor prescribe some tranquillizers for you?”
“Haven’t taken any.”
“Don’t. Not until you’re sober.”
“I am sober,” she argued, and defiantly drained her glass.
“Come on, I’ll help you upstairs.”
“I don’t need any help,” she lied, determined to appear independent. She’d fall apart when she was alone.
“Fine.”
She started for the staircase and nearly stumbled. J.D. caught her and sighed. “Come on, Tiff. I know it’s been hard.”
His gentle words, so unexpected and sincere, caught her off guard. With a tender smile, he managed to pierce the emotional armor she’d worn since the accident. Tears gathered in her eyes for the first time since the funeral service.
“I’m . . . I’m okay.”
“So you’ve been trying to convince everyone.”
“But I am.”
“Sure.”
She swayed again and he picked her up, swinging her off her feet as deftly as if she weighed nothing. “Come on, Tiff, let’s put it to rest.” He carried her upstairs and down a long hallway to the bedroom she’d shared with Philip. Once there, he placed her carefully on top of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “It’s all right to break down, you know.”
Her chin wobbled and tears drizzled from her eyes.
“You were married to the guy.”
“I’ll miss him.”
His jaw hardened. “It’s only natural.”
She dabbed at her eyes and sighed. “Oh, God,” she admitted, “I’m so scared.”
He stared down at her for a long moment, then shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair and lowered himself onto the bed beside her. The old mattress squeaked as if in disapproval. “You’ll be all right,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. His breath whispered across her hair and she let go of the storm of tears that had been building for days. Sobs racked her body as he held her, keeping her safe, whispering soft words of encouragement. She didn’t fight him but let him hold her and by the time she fell asleep, emotionally and p
hysically exhausted, the front of his shirt was wet with her tears and smudged by her makeup.
During the night, he’d pulled the covers around them and when she awoke sometime before dawn, her head aching, she turned and found him staring at her with eyes a deep, smoky gray. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. He kissed her gently. Once. Twice. A third time.
Something inside her stirred. They kissed again—longer this time—and his lips were warm and gentle; his hands, when they touched her, were loving.
He didn’t ask.
And she didn’t say no.
Yet they took comfort in each other. Loving, kissing, stroking and finding solace in their shared grief.
In the morning, it was over. All the quiet comfort of the night was gone and guilt, her companion ever since, lodged deep into a very private place in her soul....
J.D. had left and never once called her. Nor had he written or stopped by. She’d moved to Bittersweet, and, until that day just last week when he’d shown up and rented the upstairs room, she hadn’t seen him again.
She’d thought what they’d shared was long over. A mistake. A one-night stand.
Now she knew differently.
And it scared the heck out of her.
Chapter Eight
“I’m just telling you she’s doing the best she can,” J.D. said into the mouthpiece of his telephone. It had been installed on Friday and he’d finally decided to report to his father.
“She’s no mother,” Carlo insisted, then his voice was softer as he turned away from the phone. “No prune juice . . . I don’t care, Frankie, I won’t drink it. Just coffee and toast. We’ll have brunch after Mass.”
“I think you’re wrong.” J.D. wasn’t afraid to stand up to the old man.
“About Tiffany?” Carlo snorted. “What would you know?”
“She loves her kids.”
“Love, shmove. Stephen’s already in trouble with the law, isn’t he?”
“A little,” J.D. lied. There was no reason to bring up the Isaac Wells mess; not until there was concrete evidence as to Stephen’s involvement. J.D. intended to take care of the situation—without his father’s interference. “She’s got problems, but she seems to be handling them.”
“Sure.” Carlo didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. “What happened, J.D.? Have you fallen under her spell like your brother—may he rest in peace—did?”
If you only knew. “I’m just telling you what I’ve observed.”
“Yeah, and remember, if it wasn’t for her, he’d be alive today.”
“You don’t know that, but let’s not get into it again.”
J.D. wasn’t foolish enough to point the finger at Tiffany for Philip’s death, but his parents needed someone to blame, someone to punish for the loss of their firstborn.
“You’re already standing up for her and you’ve hardly been there a week yet.” Carlo sighed in disgust. “Sending you down there was probably a mistake.”
“Probably,” J.D. countered, refusing to be baited by the irascible old man. “You know I go by gut instincts.”
“Humph. And what does your gut tell you about a new winery?”
“Still working on it, but I’ll fax you copies of the most promising,” J.D. said, thankful that his father had dropped the subject of Tiffany, if only for the moment. Frances was chattering in the background. “Your mother wants to know if you’re keeping up with your physical therapy, if your leg is any better.”
“Stronger each day.”
“Good. I’ll pass the word along. You’ll call again?”
“Soon,” J.D. promised as he hung up. He was surprised that he’d stood up for Tiffany, that he was changing his mind about her. He rubbed the tension from his shoulders with his right hand.
Tiffany wasn’t quite what he’d expected when he’d driven to Bittersweet. Stronger than he’d suspected, a better mother than he ever would have thought, she gave the outward appearance of being a responsible woman trying to make it in the world. Even if, as his parents were convinced, she’d been a gold-digging girl looking for a father figure a long time ago, she’d grown up, blossomed and done her best with the kids.
“Dammit all, anyway,” he growled.
No matter what, she was a problem.
For him.
He wanted her. More than he’d ever wanted a woman. He’d given in once, when she was grieving and alone. She’d reached out and he’d reached back, going too far. He’d felt like a heel ever since, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her, wanting her, needing her. Taking a room in this house with her just one flight down the stairs had been a mistake he’d probably regret for the rest of his life.
Tiffany Nesbitt Santini was the one woman on this earth whom he should avoid. Being with her was a betrayal of his dead brother. It didn’t matter that he and Philip had never been close. Blood was supposed to be thicker than water. Honor and loyalty to a person’s family were more important than lust. And yet, where Tiffany was concerned, J.D. was able to toss away his deepest convictions.
Well, he couldn’t just turn tail and run. No, he had to face her. Until he’d finished his business down here and could return to Portland.
To what?
An empty apartment.
A domineering father.
A worrywart of a mother.
A job he detested.
“Hell,” he ground out, then decided he had to do something—anything to keep his mind off her and his hands occupied. He’d start with the fence. One section of the old boards sagged and that was just the beginning. There were more projects around here to keep him busy. The porch was rotting, the windows losing their seals, and the roof and gutters needed attention. He could keep himself busy for a couple of weeks and maybe do some good for his sister-in-law and her kids. Just stay away from her, Santini. He found his shoes and hitched his way down the stairs. His leg still bothered him, but it was healing without the physical therapy that his mother seemed so focused upon.
On the second floor he hesitated outside Christina’s room, then poked his head inside the partially open door and saw that the little girl was still sleeping. The bed was rumpled, the one-eyed rabbit on the floor again, but the imp was tucked into a fetal position, her thumb near her lips, as if ready to be sucked at any moment. He smiled to himself and walked the few paces to Stephen’s room where he rapped gently on the door, despite the DO NOT ENTER sign hanging from its knob.
No response.
He knocked a little more loudly.
“What?” was the groggy response.
J.D. took that as a sign to enter. He twisted the knob and shoved the door open to gaze upon a mother’s nightmare. The kid’ s room was a mess. Clothes, towels, magazines, CDs and guitar picks were strewn all over the floor. A sleeping bag, unrolled, was kicked into the corner and the wastebasket overflowed with candy wrappers and empty fast-food drink cups. Stephen’s guitar, with one string broken and curled, was propped against the end of the bed and a set of weights was rolled against a wall housing a low bookcase. “What d’ ya want?” Stephen asked, then opened his good eye a crack and spied J.D. His demeanor changed instantly from surly to wary.
“You could lend me a hand.” J.D. stepped inside, crunching a corn chip beneath his shoe.
“Doin’ what?” Stephen rubbed his face groggily and with an exaggerated groan sat up in the bed.
“Some things to help your mom. A couple of downspouts need to be replaced, the gutters cleaned, the rail of the porch should be shored up, there’s a broken step on the back porch, the windows need recaulking—”
“I get the idea.” Stephen flopped back on the bed. “Maybe later.”
“In half an hour.”
“How about three hours?”
“Be ready.” J.D. didn’t give the kid a chance to worm out of the chores. He found Tiffany in the kitchen, wearing a soft yellow bathrobe and slippers as she poured pancake batter onto a griddle already sizzling with oil. At the sound of his footsteps, she g
lanced over her shoulder. Hot color washed up her neck and cheeks, and her eyes, gold in the morning light, slid away from him.
“Morning, Jay,” she said as if he’d come down her stairs at eight in the morning every day of her life. She plucked a few fresh blueberries from a colander and dropped them onto the heating griddle cakes.
“Hi. I stopped by Stephen’s room and tried to nudge him out of bed.”
She smiled and cleared her throat as if neither of them were thinking about last night and the kisses they’d shared on the bench outside. Just at a whiff of the memory, his damn crotch tightened.
“How’d that go over?”
“Oh, you know, like the proverbial lead balloon.”
“I’ll bet. He usually sleeps in on Sunday. No summer school.” She smiled and showed the hint of a dimple. “Stephen’s not known for being overly enthusiastic in the morning.”
“Is any teenager?”
She shook her head, the dark strands gleaming in the morning light that streamed through the windows of the nook. “There’s coffee in the pot if you’re interested.”
“Thanks.” He poured himself a cup from the glass carafe and tried not to notice how her hips shifted invitingly beneath the terry cloth. “I’ve been thinking, Tiffany.”
“Always a dangerous sign.”
“About Stephen.”
All her muscles tensed and her spine stiffened slightly. “What about him?”
“We both know he’s not involved in Isaac Wells’s disappearance.”
“Of course he isn’t,” she snapped testily. “He’s only thirteen, for crying out loud! How could he be involved?”
“He’s not. You’re right. But my guess is that he knows more than he’s saying.”
“Knows what?” She kept her back to him as she worked, but he knew he had her undivided attention. “Oh, this is ridiculous. He’s just a boy.”
“Then why didn’t he come clean weeks ago?”
“What are you saying, Jay?”
“It could be he’s protecting someone.”
“Who?” she asked, looking over her shoulder, her eyes darkening to the shade of amber he found so mesmerizing. In the terry-cloth bathrobe with her hair piled haphazardly on her head and the barest touch of makeup, she was damned near irresistible.