by Amy Knupp
“You’ve always loved your career,” Gram pointed out.
“Yes. Past tense. Loved the paycheck, too. I won’t make half as much here, but I’m fine with that. I’ve got enough stashed away that I can make it on a fraction of the income.”
“You can live with us longer than three months if you need to, you know.” Gram addressed Charlie but smiled at Mercedes, her joy at having both her granddaughters close tangible.
“Thanks, Gram. I don’t know what I’ll be doing by then. Maybe I’ll open my own gallery. Maybe I’ll paint caricatures for tourists. Maybe I’ll take a cooking class and open a restaurant on the beach.” She laughed quietly. “I don’t know. I could do anything.”
“So what can I do to help you?” Mercedes asked. “Do you want to update your résumé? Want me to watch job listings? Introduce you to people? Look for houses?”
“You don’t have to do anything—” Annoyance slipped into Charlie’s tone, but she stopped short and took in an audible deep breath. “Okay, forget I said that. I know that’s your way. I’d love your help as soon as I figure out what’s first.”
“Just let me know.”
The three of them discussed logistics and details for several minutes, though there wasn’t a lot to plan. Charlie had no intention of flying back east—she’d purchased a one-way ticket. She’d willingly left her furniture with her ex, had put the rest of her belongings in storage and would have them shipped.
When there was a lull in the conversation, Mercedes spoke up, more than ready to call it a night so she could reflect on everything in private—and organize herself for work tomorrow. Nothing worse than starting the week out behind. “It’s past your bedtime, Gram. Are you getting tired?”
“I guess I am,” Gram said. “Too much excitement for this old lady.” Her happiness rang through her thin voice.
“Let’s get you inside.” Mercedes stood, released the wheelchair’s brakes and maneuvered it toward the door.
“Can I help?” Charlie asked, sitting forward on her chair.
“That’s okay. You relax,” Mercedes said over her shoulder. “You’ve been traveling all day.”
When Mercedes opened the back door, Spike, their oversize white cat, rushed out onto the porch.
“Spike, get back in there. You know better.” The cat disappeared under Charlie’s chair. “There’s a job for you,” Mercedes said. “See if you can get Spike back inside.”
“Sure. Okay.” Her sister’s reply was curt.
She was the one who’d offered to help.
As Mercedes rolled Gram into her bedroom, they heard a crash and Charlie swearing out on the porch. Mercedes couldn’t help grinning. “Guess Spike doesn’t want to be caught.”
“That cat thinks he’s a wild tiger.”
“Until he gets hungry.” Mercedes pulled the chair up to the left side of the bed and set the brakes.
“Just leave the back door open,” Gram suggested. “He’ll wander in as soon as you turn my light out. Has to claim his spot at my feet, you know.”
“True. This is more fun, though.”
“I’m not sure Spike or Charlotte would agree.” Gram chuckled. “I’m thrilled she wants to stay with us. I just hope she’s okay.”
“I’m sure she is. She’s a tough one,” Mercedes said as she helped Gram to her bed.
She worried that Gram was so thin, yet she was thankful she didn’t weigh more every time they did this. The process was slow, and Gram’s muscles shook with the effort, but the therapist had told them countless times that it was good for her to use those muscles.
Once they’d gotten her situated and tucked in, Mercedes went into Gram’s bathroom and sorted out the bedtime pills she needed. She carried them and a warm washcloth out to Gram.
“Your sister seemed to appreciate the dinner you made tonight,” Gram said, taking the cloth from Mercedes. “It’s good she’s moving back. I don’t think she gets many home-cooked meals in New York.”
“I eat well, home-cooked or not,” Charlie said as she walked into the room. “The cat’s in. Stubborn feline. Do you want me to get you a drink or anything, Gram?”
“I usually get her some ice water to drink while she watches the news,” Mercedes said.
“Got it.” Charlie saluted and headed for the kitchen.
“That’s my girl. Thank you, honey.”
It was stupid and petty for Mercedes to be irritated, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever Charlie visited, Gram was so pleased to have her company. The New York sister was a novelty. All because Charlie had run away.
If Charlie left again, if the island didn’t live up to her expectations or she decided she missed the center of the jewelry world, Mercedes would be the one, once again, left to pick up the pieces. For their grandmother.
For herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SCOTT WISHED HE WAS less interested in the sight that met him in his apartment Wednesday morning after his shift.
He entered quietly, expecting Gemma to be asleep. Though he wasn’t going out of his way to get to know her, he could say with certainty she wasn’t a morning person. Something they had in common.
When he walked into the kitchen, he halted. Mercedes was standing on the bar with her arms above her, wiping down the main light fixture, her back to him.
It’d be hard for any red-blooded male not to appreciate the feminine body before his eyes. The fact that she had barged into his thoughts more than once since the last embarrassing time he’d seen her made denying any attraction difficult.
Khaki shorts covered that nicely rounded ass of hers. She wore a plain orange tank top that had inched up to reveal a strip of soft-looking, tanned skin at her waist. Her sandals wrapped complexly up her ankles like some kind of Roman fashion statement—a strangely hot one. She’d gathered her hair in a sloppy bunch on the back of her head, and bits of it cascaded sexily at her nape.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped, reacting to the increase in his heart rate.
Mercedes startled and whipped around to face him. “It turns out Gemma has an obsessive-compulsive side to be reckoned with,” Mercedes said. She reached up and wiped down the long, flat surface of the fluorescent light. “She was obsessing about dust on this thing. I don’t want her climbing up here in her condition.”
“I can take care of it. It’s not your responsibility.”
“It’s just about done now.” She finished and lowered herself to the edge of the counter then jumped down to the floor.
“Why are you in my apartment before 8:00 a.m.?”
Mercedes washed her hands, acting oblivious to his mood. She reached behind him for a dry towel. “I’m giving Gemma a ride to her job. Supposed to be there at eight-thirty.”
“Don’t you have your own job?”
“I work at home. My hours are flexible so I can take care of my grandma. Or give a friend a ride to work when necessary,” she said pointedly.
“Since when does Gemma have a job?”
“You live with her. Don’t you talk to her?”
“Not if I can help it. I told you she’s a roommate. Nothing more.” He opened the refrigerator, took out a tube of ready-to-bake cinnamon rolls, pressed the preheat button on the oven and searched in the cabinets for a pan suitable to bake them on.
“She found a babysitting gig,” Mercedes said curtly.
“Good for her. She can get some practice.” He found a shiny cookie sheet he didn’t remember seeing before and started placing the doughy rolls in a circle on it.
“Why are you like this?” She stood with her arms crossed near the doorway, as far from him as she could get without leaving the room.
Good.
“Like what?”
Mercedes chuckled insincerely. “So unhappy. Determined to make everyone around you miserable.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions based on two previous meetings.”
“Am I wrong?”
“I told you the reason I don’t
like being around her,” he finally said, keeping his focus on the rolls. “There’s a lot of history that can’t just be undone in a couple of days.” He felt her staring at him from the side and refused to look at her.
“So why do you act that way toward me?”
Because she looked like that and smelled like that and threatened to awaken things inside him he didn’t want awakened. Not now. Not when he was on his way out of town. Not ever, really.
“I don’t see the point in getting closer to her or anyone when I’m leaving so soon,” he finally said, arranging the last pastry on the pan.
“That’s a lame excuse, if you ask me.”
He bit down on a retort, recognizing she didn’t deserve his wrath. Though he would never win any friendliness awards under usual circumstances, he was being exceptionally unfriendly to Mercedes.
“So you said you were going to be the scuba director in your new job?” she asked, taking two steps toward him.
“That’s right.”
“Do you dive often?”
Understanding that she wasn’t going to cease and desist anytime soon, or at least not soon enough for his liking, he stuck the pan in the oven and turned toward her. “No. I do enough to keep up my certification.”
“When’s the last time you had fun?” she asked.
“Fun? Really? I couldn’t tell you. When’s the last time you had fun?”
She squinted pensively for a few seconds. “Just last week. I beat my grandma at Scrabble. Clobbered her, actually.”
He grinned before he could stop himself, mostly because he suspected she was serious. “Sad.”
She frowned and turned away and, dammit, he felt a flickering of remorse for being such an incessant asshole to her. She was probably a kind person—hell, he knew she was just by her treatment of Gemma. Then there was the way she’d tried to take care of him the other day when he’d been nearly dead from a hangover. He’d worked hard ever since to be pissed by her intrusion, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. It’d been a damn long time since anyone had gone out of their way to be nice to him. Especially someone who looked as good as Mercedes.
Mercedes checked her watch. “I thought Gemma wanted to be there early today. Wonder what’s holding her up.”
“She’s a teenage female.” He leaned against the counter a few feet away, facing her. “Listen,” he said, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry I was an ass last weekend.”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised. “It’s…okay.”
He scoffed. Shook his head. “It’s not okay. I was—” He broke off and shook his head again. “You should’ve walked away the second you saw me.”
“I didn’t want your death on my conscience,” she said with a shy smile.
“The cup of water you left may have saved my life, once I was coherent enough to notice it.”
“That’s…good.” Looking uncomfortable, Mercedes took two long strides to the doorway and looked into the hall toward Gemma’s room. She was fidgety when she turned back around and returned to the counter.
He was mildly amused that he was making her nervous. She seemed to handle him better when he was acting like a jerk. Though making her uncomfortable wasn’t his objective, he pressed on. “What I’m trying to say is thanks. For…you know.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“Did more than most people would do for a stinking hungover jerk.”
She ran her fingers back and forth over the edge of the counter, meeting his gaze. “I’m trying to find a way to argue that.” A grin tugged at her lips. “But I can’t.”
He closed the space between them and put his hand over hers, surprising them both. He pulled it away quickly, but not before registering the jolt of pleasure that shot through him at the smallest touch of her baby-smooth skin. He cleared his throat and took a step away. Without looking at her, he said, “I’m embarrassed you saw me like that.”
Before she could say anything, a sturdy knock sounded at the door.
Scott frowned then walked past her to answer it. He was still mumbling to himself about the stupidity of touching Mercedes when he flung the door open and momentarily had the power of speech stunned out of him.
As seconds and half a lifetime ticked by, Scott’s mouth went dry. Rage was unleashed in him as suddenly as if he’d been struck by lightning as he stared down the man who’d ruined his family.
His father.
“Scott.” The single word seemed amplified, the voice familiar and yet aged, gravelly around the edges.
Scott noticed his own jaw was clamped shut hard and his hands shook with anger. He gripped the doorknob with all his strength and tried to formulate words.
“It’s me. Your father.”
“I know who you are.” He was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded. “The question is what the hell you think you’re doing here.”
There was movement in the hall behind him, but Scott barely registered it. Couldn’t care less who it was, as his primary objective was either getting his father the hell out of here or cutting him down to make him hurt.
“I came to take my daughter home,” his dad said. “Gemma. Is she here?”
Scott stared at his father. The man looked like hell. His hair, once brown, was gray, verging on white in places. Frown lines gave him the appearance of jowls, and he’d put on a good thirty to forty pounds around the middle. His brown eyes were flat. Tired. He looked more similar to Gemma in Scott’s memory than he did in person. His dad cleared his throat, obviously ill at ease. As he damn well should be.
“Takes a lot of nerve—or stupidity—to show up at my door after all this time.”
His dad looked to the side, maybe at whoever was standing several feet behind Scott, then rubbed his finger absently down the side of his large nose. “I’m not going to get into the past with you right now. Where is Gemma?”
Scott was torn. If he handed over Gemma, that’d get her out of his hair, but it was what his father wanted. The father who hadn’t taken anyone but himself into consideration years ago, who hadn’t once tracked Scott down since he’d left. When faced with that choice, it hit Scott that Gemma really wasn’t much trouble. She’d stayed out of his way for the most part. Though he barely knew Gemma, Mercedes had mentioned this man at his door had also walked out of the teenager’s life. Why should he be allowed to waltz back in whenever he felt the need to be a parent?
“She’s not here.”
“Don’t lie to me,” the older man said, his voice lower, quieter. “I have sources that assure me otherwise.”
Scott narrowed his eyes, trying to discern what his dad meant by that. “Have you stooped to spying? Guess that shouldn’t surprise me. You were always big on the covert life.”
“I’m concerned about Gemma, son—”
“Don’t,” Scott interrupted in a dangerous, barely controlled voice, “ever call me that.”
“As I said, I’m here to take her home.” His dad managed to sound as if he was reasoning with a small child.
Hatred pulsed through Scott as it hadn’t in…years. “Leave. Now.”
“Scott,” the older man said. “I know you don’t want to see me—”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“She’s underage.”
“She’s better off on her own than with you.”
“I’m her father. I have the right to see her.”
“You gave up rights when you walked out of her life.”
“It’s okay, Scott.” Gemma’s steely voice came from just behind him, but he didn’t turn away from his dad. “I can talk to him.”
It’d be easier for everyone if he simply slammed the door in their father’s face.
“Really,” Gemma said more softly.
He dragged his stare away from Dale and looked at Gemma, questioning her silently.
“Gemma, honey?” Their dad tried to see around Scott, who didn’t budge.
Gemma nodded at him and stepped toward the door. Scott backed off rel
uctantly, not more than a couple feet.
“Look at you,” their father said, his voice full of pride that just about sent Scott through the roof.
“What do you want?” Gemma asked, managing to sound bored and inconvenienced.
“Can I come in?”
Gemma glanced over her shoulder at Scott.
“You’re the last person I want in this apartment,” he said, his arms crossed.
“It’s his place,” Gemma said dismissively to their dad.
“What are you doing here, Gemma?”
“What do you care?”
Their father averted his gaze, shifted his weight from one side to the other. Finally, he summoned the courage to look her in the face again. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re fine, then give me five minutes to talk.”
She looked at Scott, her brows raised.
“Fine,” Scott said. “Five minutes.”
Dale shrugged and attempted to smile at his daughter.
Gemma ignored the overture and stepped back a couple of feet, giving him room to enter. “Right here is fine, but I’m not leaving with you.”
“Privacy?”
Gemma nodded at Scott, assuring him she could handle this. Scott reminded himself that “this” didn’t concern him one way or the other—protecting Gemma had just been his automatic reaction to go against what his father wanted. What did he care if she followed him home like a puppy?
From the kitchen doorway, Mercedes said, “We can wait in the other room.” She sent him a meaningful look, but he wasn’t sure what she was trying to tell him.
With a shrug, Scott followed her into the kitchen. He paused at the bar, pressing his hands on the counter, still shaking from the inside out with the urge to lash out at the man in the living room.
Mercedes lightly brushed her fingers on his upper arm. He frowned at her hand, pushed off the counter and strode away.
“I’m staying here,” Gemma said from the living room.
“Your mom told me. About your problem.”
“It’s a baby,” Gemma clarified, making no effort to hide her dislike of Dale. “Not a problem.”