How the hell was she supposed to have a decent tantrum if she couldn’t punch something? New pipes lay stacked against the far wall and the gaping hole where the porcelain sink used to be showed an excellent view of ancient pipes below and a mousetrap, long since snapped closed. She’d been working all morning and still hadn’t had the chance to install the new stainless-steel sink or even to measure for the purple granite countertop. Purple, for God’s sake. Then Sam shows up to ride her ass about calling a jerk a jerk and ruins what was left of a perfectly crappy day.
Sighing, Mike glanced through the kitchen window at her niece, sitting under a tree learning how to knit at Grace’s knee. The older woman and Emma had really bonded, Mike thought. The two of them always had their heads bent together. Snow white to auburn, they were like twins separated at birth by fifty years.
But then, Emma had gotten to all of them. Papa hummed while he worked, Jo set aside her beloved ledgers for the chance to play on the beach, Mike herself had already taken Emma fishing, and Sam . . . Sam’s heart was in her eyes every time she looked at the daughter she’d never thought to see again.
They were happy.
All of them.
But it felt . . . fragile. And Mike couldn’t help wondering if she was the only one to realize it.
Shifting her gaze back to her sister, Mike reminded her, “You shouldn’t be surprised that I want to drop-kick his lying ass. All of us wanted to punch his lights out nine years ago. And Marconis never forget.”
“Don’t I know it.” Sam snatched a dirty rag from the back pocket of her jeans and wiped her paint-smeared hands on it. “The point is, Jeff’s Emma’s father. And we can’t afford to piss him off until we get this custody deal settled.”
Mike grimaced tightly. “Don’t know why you’re so worried about that. He needs you more than you need him.”
“He has Emma.”
“Yeah and he’s engaged.” Mike grabbed the rag from her sister, wiped the grease off her own hands, then stuffed the rag into her own back pocket. “He can’t exactly marry his little bimbo until his first wife lets him go, so you’re in the driver’s seat.”
“She’s not a bimbo.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s too rich. Rich women aren’t bimbos.” Grumbling now, Sam continued, “She’s gorgeous. Has class. Good taste in clothes. And to top it all off, bigger boobs than me.”
Mike snorted. “Emma’s got bigger boobs than you.”
“Depressing, but true.”
Sam’s heart was in her eyes and Mike wanted to scream. She’d been doing a lot of thinking the last few days, and though she’d tried to keep her mouth shut, for a Marconi that was damn near impossible. Now, as she looked at her sister, Mike knew she couldn’t hold it in any longer. “He’s working you, Sam.”
“What?”
Mike shook her head in disgust. Sam was just too damn nice. She usually expected people to do the right thing. She looked for the best in people most of the time, and most of the time she got jabbed in the eye with a sharp stick for her trouble.
Well, Mike didn’t expect the best of anybody. She’d figured out a long time ago that people did what they had to do to get what they wanted. And Jeff was right at the top of the heap of all the selfish, self-serving, lying, cheating weasel-dogs she’d ever known.
She hadn’t said anything, mainly because she didn’t want to be the one to pop Sam’s balloon. But nobody else seemed to be thinking what she was. No one else was looking at Jeff and wondering just what he was really up to. Even Papa had been blindsided by a tidal wave of love for his first grandchild.
Mike was glad to have Emma in their lives, too. The kid was great and God knew she wanted to see her sister happy. But she still didn’t trust Jeff to not hurt Sam again. He’d done it before. What was to say he wasn’t waiting for his chance to do it again?
“Earth to Mike.” Sam shoved her, just to get her attention.
It worked.
“Fine.” Mike whipped her hat off, yanking her braid free and sweeping her bangs off her forehead with one dirty hand. “I’ll be the black cloud to your set of rainbows. The fly in your ointment. The bottle of salt to your open wound—”
“For crying out loud,” Sam snapped, “can we do this without all the drama? Quit with the metaphors and get to the point, okay?”
“Okay.” She slapped her hat against her thigh. “I think Jeff’s setting you up.”
Sam’s head snapped back as if Mike had hit her. And dammit, that’s just what it felt like she’d done. But somebody had to say it.
“What’re you talking about?”
“For God’s sake, Sam. Think about it.” Mike fisted her hand around the brim of her cap, the stiff cardboard edge digging into her palm. Sam’s gaze speared her and Mike felt as though she were propped up against a bullet-pocked wall, wearing a blindfold and waiting for the rifles to fire. But there was no going back now. “He shows up in your life again because he needs you. He needs that divorce so he can marry the rich bitch.”
“She’s not a bitch,” Sam corrected, then added, “At least she doesn’t seem to be, though I hate her anyway just on general principles.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mike cheered. “Now if you could just do the same for him.”
“I hated him for years. All it got me was an upset stomach and a headache.”
“Yeah, and now you’ve stopped hating and started wanting again.” Mike stared hard at her and knew she was right. Sam damn near vibrated every time the weasel-dog showed up. “Hating’s safer.”
“I know. And don’t worry.” She pulled in a deep breath, blew it out again, and said firmly, “I can get past the whole ‘want’ thing. It’s just hormones.”
“And isn’t that what got you into this mess nine years ago?”
“No,” Sam said firmly, meeting Mike’s gaze and holding it. “It wasn’t just hormones then. I loved him. Really loved him. It was more than wanting. More than anything I’d ever felt before.”
“Oh, now I feel better.”
“That was then, this is now.”
“Wish you believed that.”
Sam shifted a look at the little girl sitting in the shade of an old maple tree. A goat wandered close enough to sniff at the skein of yarn at Emma’s feet, and laughing, the child snatched it up fast. Looking back at her sister, Sam said firmly, “I do believe it. He’s not mine anymore. Maybe he never was. But what’s important now is Emma. He’s going to have to give me at least partial custody, Mike, or I won’t sign. I don’t know how you think he can screw me when I’m holding all the cards.”
“Because you don’t even know what the real game is.” Mike stomped off a few steps before turning around and coming right back. “You’re playing gin rummy and he’s dealing five-card stud.”
“Back to metaphors.” Sam hit the heel of her hand against the side of her head. “You’re not making any sense.”
Mike blew out a disgusted breath. “He’s being mister nice guy right now. He’s letting the steam rise up between you because he can use it against you. He’s letting you see Emma and not giving you any shit about it. Because he needs you.”
“He’s not that manipulative.”
“Yeah? Well, what happens after you sign the papers?”
“Huh?”
“Once you’ve signed on the dotted line or whatever and he’s married to Polly Perfection . . . what’s to keep him from siccing his rabid, killer lawyers on you and snatching Emma right back?”
She didn’t take any satisfaction at all from the way Sam’s face paled. But at least Mike felt as though she’d made her point. “Bottom line is,” she added, lowering her voice even though no one else was in the room, “he’s rich enough to get away with anything, and what could we do to stop him?”
“Jeff wouldn’t do that.”
“You don’t sound real sure of that,” Mike pointed out.
“Why would he?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
Sam stared at her daughter across the yard from them, and Mike was pretty sure she could actually hear Sam’s heart twisting painfully in her chest.
Dammit.
“I just want you to be careful,” Mike said softly.
Sam nodded, folded her arms across her chest, and inhaled sharply, deeply. “I will be.” Turning her head, she met Mike’s gaze steadily and after a long moment said, “You’re right.”
She smiled. “Hey, there’s a phrase I never get tired of hearing.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Sam unfolded her arms, reached out and grabbed Mike, giving her a brief, hard hug. “You’re almost never right, but when you are, it’s right on the money. Can’t believe I never considered it myself, but Jeff’s been trying to get me to sign the divorce papers—and they’re the old ones. There’s nothing in there about custody of Emma. If I sign the ones he gave me, I’ll be signing away my rights to her, again.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Whatever I have to.”
“Sounds good. Ambiguous, but good.”
“Hey, even I need a minute or two to put a plan together.”
“Just tell me what you need.”
Sam smiled and nodded. “Don’t worry about it. I will.” She turned and headed across the room, stepping gingerly over the discarded pipes. “But for right now,” she said, pausing to look back at Mike, “I’m going to put the faux-suede finish on the library walls.”
“And then?”
“Then, I’m going to figure out how to play five-card stud.”
Pride rippled through Mike as she watched her sister. Sam’d been through a lot. Hell, for that matter, all of the Marconi girls had been through a lot—just in different ways. But they’d all come out the other side and were stronger because of it.
Jeff had no idea who he was dealing with.
“Cynthia likes cashmere,” Emma said, hanging on the top of the wooden slats as though it were a trapeze and she was center ring at the circus.
“I bet she does,” Sam murmured, trying not to think about the woman Mike had called Polly Perfection.
“But I don’t think she’d like the goats,” Emma continued as she jumped down off the wood fence.
“Not many people do.” Sam thought of Mike’s constant battles with the goats and hid a smile. Grace, though, liked to think of the animals as part of the décor. She always said that goats and sheep belonged in the bucolic countryside.
Sam walked beside her daughter and told herself she should be working. All around her, the sound of hammers and saws and the shouts of people trying to be heard over the whine of machinery told her that everyone but she was hard at it. But how often did she have the chance to just hang with Emma?
Thinking about that made her realize just how much more time Jeff and Cynthia would have with the little girl, and another twist of envy grabbed at her.
Cynthia was everything Sam wasn’t. She was champagne, Sam was beer. She had a place in Jeff’s life and Sam was no more than a blip in his memories. The woman was used to wearing cashmere, and the closest Sam got to that fine, soft wool was tripping over Grace’s goats.
Her brain raced as she remembered what Mike had said earlier. Was Jeff only stringing her along? Being nice because he had to? Waiting for the chance to change the rules? A part of her wanted to deny it all, but how could she risk that? She had to stay on top of things. Had to keep one step ahead of Jeff just in case he was planning to turn on her once the papers were signed.
“The goats are funny, but they smell bad.”
“Boy howdy,” Sam murmured, agreeing wholeheartedly with Emma. “But even Grace can’t convince the darn things to take regular baths.”
Emma giggled at the thought of goats in bathtubs.
Then a moment later she said, “Aunt Jo said I could help her hammer some stuff if you said it’s okay, so is it okay and I’ll be careful, too.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, running one hand across the top of her daughter’s head. The tiny Marconi Construction T-shirt that Mike had had made just for Emma was already filthy. What was a little more dirt in the grand scheme of things? Besides, she had the distinct feeling that her little girl didn’t get very dirty at home in San Francisco. There, she probably had piano lessons and ballet lessons and . . . who knew what else? Well, she couldn’t compete with Jeff in that arena, but she could sure as hell see to it that Emma had actual fun here.
And, she thought, while Jo and Mike rode herd on Emma, Sam could head into town and take care of something she should have done days ago.
“Go ahead,” Sam said, then was forced to shout as Emma scampered from the shed at top speed. “But be careful and no going on the roof!”
Two hours later, after a hurried consultation with Jackson Wyatt, attorney at law—and recent mayoral candidate—Sam figured she deserved a break. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk on Main Street, her head spun with all the information Jackson had given her. She was going to have to sit down and try to make sense of it all. Try to figure out just what she was willing to do—how far she was willing to go—to keep Emma in her life.
“Won’t take much figuring,” she muttered and ignored a tourist who walked a wide berth around the woman standing on the sidewalk talking to herself.
Scowling, Sam thought that if Jackson was right, then she and Jeff were about to get into a good old-fashioned war. And she couldn’t help thinking that it was generally the innocent bystanders—in this case, Emma—who ended up getting hurt.
But she’d do all she could to keep from dragging her daughter into the middle of this. She didn’t want Emma put in the position of having to choose sides. No kid should have to do that. That didn’t mean, though, that Sam was willing to roll over and play dead.
She’d fight if she had to. And if she fought, dammit, she’d win. After all, she only wanted to share in bringing up her daughter.
Wouldn’t any mother want that?
Head pounding, mind spinning, she told herself she should head back to the job site. But her stomach was in knots and her nerves were skittering like live electrical wires downed after a storm. No point in facing Emma again until she was calmer. Though how she was supposed to stay calm when thinking about going into a custody battle with a man who had more money than God was something she hadn’t really figured out yet.
Besides, with Jo, Mike, and Papa, not to mention Grace, all there, the little girl was in good hands.
Which meant Sam could take advantage of being in town.
Chandler was a small town by anyone’s standards.
Small enough so that you couldn’t walk down Main Street without having to stop and chat every few steps. But it was also big enough that you weren’t forced to drive into Monterey to shop for groceries. Small enough to escape the notice of a chain coffeehouse like Starbucks—but big enough, thank God, to support the Leaf and Bean.
Glancing quickly to her right and left, Sam jumped off the curb and sprinted across Main Street, darting between the cars stopped at the light. She waved to Joe Hannigan, sitting in his truck, then grinned at Julie Davis as she stepped out of the bakery, carrying a box that undoubtedly held a birthday cake for her son Justin.
Everything was so . . . normal.
The sidewalks were bustling and shopkeepers’ doors stood wide open in invitation to the tourists and their wallets. Sam smiled as she did a little bobbing and weaving between the people slowly meandering along the sidewalk.
Every year, the tourists flocked to town to take in the harbor and the art galleries and the eclectic little shops selling everything from pot holders stamped “California” to tarot cards and incense. The crowds were thick and noisy and Sam loved it. Made her feel as if she were in the middle of things. And today, the rush of people took her mind off—however briefly—her own problems.
Sam pushed open the door to the Leaf and Bean and paused on the threshold to linger over the fragrant aromas that reached out for her. Coffee. Good, rich coffee. And on to
p of that amazing scent came waves of tantalizing aromas . . . apples, blueberries, and oh, dear God, cinnamon rolls.
Polished wood gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the wide front windows. From the overhead beams, on silver chains, hung shining copper planters and baskets bursting with ferns and ivy—enough to start a halfway decent rain forest. The shop felt cozy, welcoming, and for Sam, just what she needed.
“Just going to stand there drooling?”
Sam grinned. She stepped all the way inside, closing the door behind her. Ignoring the scattering of people at the dozen or more small round tables, she kept her gaze on the blond woman smiling at her. Walking across the highly polished wood floorboards, she followed her nose toward the glass cases filled with muffins, rolls, bagels, and oh my, freshly made biscotti. Slapping one hand on the countertop, Sam said, “Stevie. Be a hero. One latte and a cinnamon roll before I fold up and perish.”
“Easily done.” Stevie Ryan Candellano finished wiping the already gleaming wood countertop, then set the cloth under the counter before turning toward the espresso machine. “Hey, I hear your daughter’s in town.”
Not surprising, Sam thought. No secret stayed that way in Chandler for long. Besides, her friends knew the whole story. Knew about how Sam had given up her daughter and knew the pain she’d been living with ever since.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “She’s great. Really.”
“So when do we get to meet her?”
“Soon. I promise. I’ll bring her in next weekend for some of your special hot chocolate.”
“Good.” The steamer hissed and spat as Stevie heated the milk until the surface of it frothed like a cloud.
“So how’s Beth doing?”
“Hanging in,” Stevie said with a half-shrug. “Mama’s been over at Beth and Tony’s nearly every day since the baby was born. I think Beth’s ready for a little alone time.”
Mama Candellano loved nothing more than her family, and with a brand-new grandson, she could hardly be expected to keep her distance.
And Then Came You Page 15