by Mary Campisi
He and Helena had talked about renting until they could afford a home of their own, but maybe with Tate’s offer, they’d be able to buy sooner. A year ago, he hadn’t been interested in renting a place longer than a few months. Keep moving had been his motto. Don’t stop, don’t slow down, and don’t look back.
All that changed the day Helena Montrey walked into his life with a bowl of hot-and-sour soup and an egg roll. Who would have thought he’d be thinking about a home, a real home with mail delivered to Mr. and Mrs. Lucas Donovan? He smiled, hopped out of his truck, and bounded up the front steps of his aunt’s home. Who would have thought...?
Luke rang Camille’s doorbell, waited for someone to answer. His aunt’s home was a smaller version of the Alexander mansion, from the outside anyway. He couldn’t compare the inside since he’d never been in the Alexander mansion, though he could guess. But after his conversation with Tate this afternoon, he had a new respect for the guy and the fact that blood relations didn’t make a family, no matter how much money they had.
The door opened and a tall man in a dark suit ushered him in. Growing up, Luke had visited his aunt’s house a handful of times. It was one thing to laugh and enjoy Camille’s company in the Donovans’ living room, and quite another to witness her transformation once she crossed the threshold of the home she shared with Carter and their children. Spoiled brats, including the husband. Luke wouldn’t have come today if Camille hadn’t left him three messages saying she had to see him ASAP. He sighed at his aunt’s tendency toward the dramatic, handed the butler his jacket, and followed him to the “sitting” room. He remembered this place because it was covered in chrome, glass, and cherry—not intended for children.
“Mrs. Alexander will join you in a moment.”
The dark suit bowed and disappeared, leaving Luke to contemplate whether the British accent was real or the result of practice. Who knew? This place made him jumpy and he’d dreaded the few times he’d had to come. No matter how much he wanted to have a good time, something bad always happened when he came here. He glanced at the Oriental rug and wondered if it were the same one he’d puked on when he’d eaten too many jelly beans. Or if Carter had ever found out Luke had broken one of his favorite vases. It was a clean break and Camille made sure it got fixed, but Luke knew the damn thing cost more than his father made in a month.
He’d never been able to draw a clean breath in this place for fear he’d puke or break something again. Bad things happened when he visited this house and while he wasn’t a kid any longer, bad things could still happen.
“Lucas!” Camille descended upon him in a fluff of pale blue, her high heels clickety-clacking toward him. “Dear boy, it’s always lovely to see you.”
She flung her arms around his neck, hugged him tight, then pulled back. Next came the kiss on the cheek, followed by a brush of her fingers to remove the lipstick mark she’d left. Luke grinned down at the tiny woman who never seemed to run out of energy—or lipstick. Some things never changed. “You just saw me four days ago.” He let out a laugh and added, “And aren’t you coming to dinner tomorrow night?” Maybe she was too lonely in this big empty house that had become more mausoleum than mansion with the kids and the husband gone.
Her blue eyes misted, and her smile faded. “This couldn’t wait.” She linked her arm through his and pointed to the couch. “Let’s sit.”
He didn’t like the tone in her voice that said bad news was headed his way. And what about the tears? Not good. “Did something happen to one of the kids?” Luke had never been a big fan of his cousins, but maybe they’d grown up and weren’t the spoiled brats he remembered. People changed. Look at him. He wasn’t the same angry, self-destructive, reckless jerk he’d been the last time he left town.
“No, Victoria and Simon are fine.” She eased onto the couch, patted his arm. “I wish Oliver were here. I miss him so. He’s always such a calming force.” Pause, a sniff. “But when your best friend tells you he’s got stage four pancreatic cancer, you don’t ask him to hold on a few months while you spend time with your family. I doubt he’ll return from California before Donnie passes.”
Donnie had been lead vocals in Oliver’s band and his best friend for longer than Luke had been alive. “I’m anxious for Oliver and Helena to meet, but it can wait; we’re not going anywhere.”
“Actually, the reason I called you here is because of your wife...”
“What about her?” Why would she want to talk to him about Helena? Camille had only met her a few times and as far as he could remember, they’d seemed to like one another. Yes, his aunt had been inquisitive, but so what? That was the Donovan way: ask questions, then ask more questions.
“Well...” She drew in a breath as though capturing enough air for the words that would follow. “A few months ago, I became acquainted with a private investigator from New York. He was trying to locate the whereabouts of his friend’s daughter. The woman had disappeared over ten years ago with a man—” she clutched his hand, squeezed “—and the mother had no idea what had become of her. That’s when Lester got involved. Lester Conroy is Texas born and bred: a real cowboy type with the Stetson, boots, big belt buckle, and a nose for tracking. His investigating led him to believe the woman might be in Reunion Gap.” Her voice dipped, swirled around him like she was telling a story that was not part of someone’s life. “Of course, you can’t send a lanky cowboy with a drawl into our town and not rouse suspicion.” She cocked her head to the side, whispered, “That’s where I came in. Lester contacted me because of my association with the town and asked me to do a little digging and report back to him.”
Luke stared at his aunt. “He asked you to ‘do a little digging and report back,’ as in spying?” What did any of this have to do with Helena?
She nodded her red head. “Yes, and he said I was very good at it. He called me a natural.”
“I see. So, did you identify the woman? Was she in Reunion Gap?” Maybe she hadn’t wanted to be found; had anyone ever considered that? He didn’t care about the woman who didn’t want to be found; he only cared about whatever his aunt had to say about Helena. But knowing Camille, he wouldn’t find out until she’d told the rest of this convoluted story.
“We did identify her. It was Jennifer Merrick.”
Jennifer Merrick? “You mean the woman who owns the bed-and-breakfast?”
“The very same one.” A faint smile hovered about her lips. “She’s since reunited with her mother, who had no idea she also had a granddaughter. You remember little Hope, the shy child who rarely speaks?” When Luke nodded, she continued, “They’ve already visited each other once and I believe they’re heading back to Jennifer’s hometown again soon. And at some point, the mother is coming here. Plus—” she leaned in, patted his hand “—your Uncle Oliver is sweet on Jennifer. She’s sweet on him, too, but it’s all hush-hush for now.”
“Yeah, I get it. He’s trying to protect the poor woman from the Donovan interrogation routine.” Helena had been great about his family’s mountain of questions, but he could tell there were times when it bothered her. “So, are we done with the private investigator story? I need to get home, and you said you had something to tell me about Helena.”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat, those blue eyes settling on him. “Yes, I do. Have you ever heard of the Annabelle Grace greeting cards? There are a few different lines: Annabelle Grace Loves, Annabelle Grace Lives, Annabelle Grace Laughs, and Annabelle Grace Cries.”
He raised a brow, stared. “Everybody’s heard of them, especially the sticky-sweet love cards.” Heat swirled to his face, settled on his cheeks. “I’ve even been known to buy one or two.” A shrug, followed by a throat clearing. “Helena likes them. She’s written a few samples for the company and is waiting to hear back. Why do you ask?” Why did his aunt care about those cards? Had Helena shared her hopes to write for the company? She was private about it, but maybe Camille had said something that made her share.
“I as
k because...because Helena writes these cards.”
Why did his aunt look so miserable? So, they weren’t literary masterpieces? Who cared? She was writing about feelings and emotions and people could relate. “I know she writes these cards. I just told you that.” He rubbed his jaw, sat up straight and checked his watch.
“No, Lucas. Helena writes cards for the company and has been since the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
She blinked, blinked again. “The beginning of the Annabelle Grace line. Helena is Annabelle Grace.”
“What?” He squinted at her as though he couldn’t comprehend the meaning behind her words, which he couldn’t because none of it made any sense. “Helena’s Annabelle Grace?”
Camille’s head dipped. “Yes,” she murmured.
“Helena’s Annabelle Grace,” he repeated. “Then she’s not just a waitress...not almost bankrupt.” Luke paused. “She’s...she’s...”
“Wealthier than I am? Part owner of a major greeting card company? The creator of a very successful greeting card line?” She laid a hand on his forearm, “Yes, to all of them.”
“But...”
“Why didn’t she tell you? Why did she keep it all a secret? I have no idea and neither does Lester.”
“Lester? The cowboy investigator?” When his aunt nodded, Luke stood, shoved his hands in his back pockets to keep from punching something. “I don’t believe it. The guy’s either lying or there’s a mistake.”
His aunt folded her hands in her lap, glanced up at him. “Lester Conroy is an honest and decent man who wouldn’t lie. And there’s no mistake. I have the report to prove it.”
“Let me see it. I want to read the accusations with my own eyes and then—”
“He’s not lying, Lucas. I have photos, too. It’s the truth.”
“Truth? You want to talk to me about truth? Let me see the report.” He paced the room, sucked in air as the oxygen in the room shrank. There was a mistake, there had to be. He’d finally gotten his life together, was happy and in love, married, for hell’s sake, and expecting a baby. This could not be happening.
“There’s more.”
Luke swung around, faced his aunt. “More? How much more could there be than this Lester’s accusation that Helena is some rich greeting card princess? This is crazy. My wife would not have lied to me, not about something like this.” Maybe his aunt was used to a husband and wife lying to each other, but Luke and Helena had vowed to always tell the truth. No matter what. They were a team. But his aunt’s next words told him how wrong he’d been—about everything.
“She’s not your wife. The marriage isn’t real.”
Chapter 12
Helena spent the early afternoon helping Rose bake pumpkin pies. The trick is in the fresh nutmeg, she’d said, and not overbaking. Too many people follow recipes step by step instead of trusting their gut and using common sense. If an oven runs hot, then adjust your cooking time. If your husband prefers extra cinnamon, don’t be afraid to add a pinch more than the recipe says. Adapt, that’s what life is all about, just like marriage. Her laughter had trickled from the kitchen sink to the table where Helena stirred the pumpkin into a large mixing bowl.
Life was settling down and she and Luke had started talking about a place to live that was not the house where he’d grown up. Maybe one of these days Luke would look past his old prejudices toward Tate Alexander and talk to the man about their housing situation. Luke was a strong-headed, proud man who didn’t want to owe anyone, but maybe he’d admit they could use help and a little direction, and Tate could give them both. Some nights, Luke pulled out a notebook and showed her the plans for his dream house: a two-story log cabin. One day, I’ll build it for you, he promised. And it will have everything in it we want. When she’d tried to tell him all she wanted was him, he’d laugh and kiss her. You’ll always have me, he said. No matter what.
What he should have said was You’ll always have me. Until I find out the truth you’ve been hiding.
“Helena?” Rose disrupted her thoughts, pulled her back to the present. “Once we finish the pies, why don’t you rest a bit and I’ll make us a cup of tea?”
Since they’d arrived in Reunion Gap, the woman had been working her way down a list of her son’s favorites that included homemade applesauce, fried chicken, wedding soup, meatloaf and mashed potatoes with garlic and sour cream. The pies were for tomorrow’s “Thanksgiving” dinner because Luke had missed it and, according to Rose Donovan, this family had a lot to be thankful for, especially new members and upcoming babies.
How to argue with that? Helena wasn’t used to family meals or traditions and the very idea that Luke’s mother cared enough to create several meals for her son despite the work and time required was heartwarming. “I’ll fix the tea,” Helena said. “Chamomile?”
Rose nodded her dark head, her blue eyes sparkling. “Tate brought me a tin of macarons; they came straight from some fancy store in New York. We’ll sample those, too.”
“I’ll never turn down a macaron.” Helena added the remaining ingredients to the pumpkin mixture, plus an extra pinch of cinnamon—because Luke loved cinnamon—and turned off the mixer. She was about to ask Rose for the next step when the front door banged open, followed by footsteps and Luke’s voice—loud, angry, uncontrolled.
“Where is she?” He stormed into the kitchen, homed in on Helena who stood with a spatula in one hand and his mother’s recipe in the other.
“Luke? What’s wrong? What happened?” But the look on his face said he was in no mood for questions.
“We need to talk.” He pointed a finger to the hallway and the direction of their bedroom. “Now.”
“Lucas?” His mother wiped her hands on a dishtowel, moved toward him. “Settle down. You look dreadful. Let me get you a glass of—”
“Mom, I don’t want anything except the truth, and you can’t help me with that.” His gaze narrowed on Helena, burned into her. “You, on the other hand, can. Let’s go.”
Helena placed the recipe on the counter and the spatula in the empty pumpkin can. “Rose, would you mind finishing?” She didn’t wait for an answer but turned and followed Luke from the room. Of all the ways she’d pictured this moment playing out, this had not been it. In fact, she’d been certain she’d be the one doing the telling—when the time came. But somewhere between her first lie and now, he’d uncovered his own version of the truth and it didn’t match hers. He motioned toward the bedroom, waited for her to enter before he followed and slammed the door shut.
“Damn you.” He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it on a chair. “Was this all a joke?”
“What? No, no. Luke.” She moved toward him, but he held up both hands to keep her away. “Stay right there. I don’t want anything from you but answers. Can we try that and this time, let’s go for the truth?”
Helena sank onto the edge of the bed, clenched her hands into fists, waited. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought. After all, who would have told him anything? “You’re making me nervous.”
That brought out a harsh laugh. “Good one. I’m making you nervous. Is that how you get guys to stop asking questions? That’s called deflection and I’m the king.” He leaned against the dresser, crossed his arms over his chest, and said nothing. If he were trying to intimidate her, then he was doing a darn good job. Helena cleared her throat, waited. It didn’t take long for him to lodge the first attack. “You’re rich. Filthy rich. Sick rich. Annabelle Grace greeting cards? That’s your family.” He shook his head, sucked in a deep breath. “That’s you. And here I was trying to build up your confidence to submit more work. I’m such a fool and you played me all the way.”
Nothing she said now would make a difference, but she had to try and explain her reasons for keeping her identity a secret. “I had to make sure you cared about me and not...my money.”
“Your money?” He stared at her like she’d just said she had to make sure he wasn’t a monkey. “Are you
serious?”
“People do it all the time.” Pause, a swipe at her cheeks. “It happens.”
“Did you ever care about me or was it just a game, a lie and a way to pass time?”
The disgust on his face was not that of the man who’d laid his head on her belly and talked to their baby or promised to build her a log cabin one day. That man was gone, killed by her dishonesty, and he wasn’t coming back. A stranger had taken his place, cold and unforgiving. “Luke, please…”
“Please? Please what? Please understand I’ve been lying to you from the second we first met? Please understand it was nothing personal? Or please understand that I didn’t trust you enough to tell you the truth, not even when you were spilling your guts to me?” He cursed under his breath. “Take your pick. Any one of those,” he spat out. “Or all of them.”
“I never expected to meet anyone like you but then you walked into my life,, big and bold and beyond anything I could have imagined. I was scared. I’d never felt that way before and I wanted to trust you, but how could I after I’d been betrayed?”
“Huh. So, another guy burns you and the next one has to pay the price?”
The look he gave her said it was a poor excuse and he wasn’t buying it. “It sounds horrible when you say it that way, but—”
“But? But it didn’t matter because it was all about you? You didn’t mind screwing me over while you were screwing me? Tell me, Helena, because I want to know why you would torch what we had because you were scared.”
“I’m sorry.” She blinked hard. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Sorry? That’s not going to do it. What other tricks do you have hidden? Because if you’re not telling me everything, you can damn well rest assured I’ll find out, and when I do, it’s not going to be good.” She opened her mouth, closed it. “Trying to figure out a lie before you speak again? I wouldn’t advise it. Tell me now, damn it, what else did you leave out of our grand romance? Did you target me? Was it fun? Did you and your rich friends laugh at me, see who could nail the unsuspecting idiot and make him fall in love with you?”