She stiffened and he was struck by her loyalty. Not only to Jonas, but also to a woman who apparently dumped all the work of running a house, a shop, and a kid on her.
“Mimi likes to travel,” she said tightly.
“And you don’t.”
“I’ve seen enough, thanks.” The words came clipped and pointed, and hinted at yet more secrets. Secrets Nick wanted in on.
“What have you seen, Tasha Flynn,” he murmured, “that makes you so unwilling to see anything else?”
She surprised them both when tears suddenly swam in her eyes. “You should go.” She sniffed, blinked her eyes frantically, and somehow, thankfully, managed to keep those tears from falling.
But she hadn’t been able to hide them, and they tore at Nick. Just knowing they were so close to the surface made him want to discover their source. Made him want to stand in front of her to make sure no other fast-talking clod brought them into life again.
“Tasha, I—”
“Just go, okay?” She stepped up, grabbed the edge of the door, and clenched it so tightly, her knuckles went white.
“I’m going.” Turning around, he stepped through the doorway and onto the porch. There he stopped and looked back over his shoulder at her. Backlit by the house lights shimmering behind her, she looked small and way too alone. “But I’ll be back.”
She tried a laugh, but it nearly strangled her. Still, she said, “Who’re you? The Terminator?”
Okay, he could play light-hearted with the best of ’em. In a deliberately hideous imitation of Schwarzenegger’s already horrible accent, Nick said those words again. “I’ll be back.”
And when the smile on her face stayed put, he felt almost as good as he had the last time he’d scored a touchdown.
* * *
Sunday dinner at Mama’s.
In any other family, that probably would have meant a pleasant evening, good food, and a visit with the brothers and sisters.
To Nick it was something else.
It was the Colosseum in Rome, filled with lions just off a hunger strike, and he was the fattest Christian in town.
He sat in his car and stared at the house where he’d grown up. It hadn’t changed much. Well, except for the paint. Every few years, Mama got some bug up her … and decided to stir things up a little. This year, the answer to Mama’s decorating binge had been, God help them all, bright, bilious blue with pale green trim on the shutters and dark green trim on the porch railings and floor.
If Papa could see it … hell. If Papa could see it, he wouldn’t have cared. If it made Mama happy, then it had been all right with her husband. It didn’t really bother Nick, either, until he was drafted into the painting team and forced to look at the god-awful colors close up.
Nick’s fingers drummed on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. He was stalling. He knew it. Wouldn’t have even tried to deny it. Any member of his family, except for his mother, of course, would have understood.
At one time or another, they’d all dawdled outside like condemned prisoners getting one last stroll around the prison yard.
He glanced into the rearview mirror and took a long thoughtful look at the road behind him. The road that could take him back to Tasha’s place. He’d been thinking about going back ever since leaving, the night before.
He could just fire up the engine, slide the car into reverse, and get the hell outta Dodge. But just the thought of having to pay the penance for that sent a shiver down his spine. Missing a Sunday dinner was only excused if you were at death’s door.
And God help you if you weren’t really dying.
No way was he getting out of this, so he might as well get it over with. Grumbling to himself, he climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and hesitated again, on the driveway. From inside the house, lamplight shone through the glistening windowpanes to dot the lawn below. The kitchen door was open, and on the wind, Nick caught a whiff of something incredible, and it was that scent more than anything else that got him moving again.
Nobody cooked like Mama Candellano.
Gravel crunched beneath his feet; the wind coming in off the ocean pushed at him as if trying to get him to the house in a hurry. And the roar of the sea pulsed in the air around him.
He passed his brother Tony’s Ford Bronco and Paul’s 4Runner parked in the driveway ahead of him. His sister, Carla, wouldn’t have had to drive, since she, Jackson, and Reese, Jackson’s little girl, lived just down the road.
Carla.
The weak link.
If she’d already spilled her guts to Mama, then Nick was walking into what would turn out to be his wake. If she hadn’t, then Nick was in for a long evening trying to dodge his sister’s questions.
Shaking his head, he took the back steps, grabbed hold of the doorknob, and paused, listening.
Voices greeted him.
Not single, distinct voices.
Not in this house.
Here it was a riot of sound and conversation. Here the Candellanos outshouted each other. Here everybody talked at once. If you waited for your turn, you might never be heard from.
Steeling himself, he wrenched the door open and stepped into a wall of heat and noise and incredible aromas.
Before anyone could notice him and spoil the moment, Nick concentrated on the scents swirling around him. He inhaled sharply, deeply, savoring the mouthwatering aroma of Mama’s sauce. Basil and onion and the spicy tang of Italian sweet sausages flavored the air thickly enough that he should have been able to bite it instead of breathe it. On the stove a pan lid rattled with the steam building up beneath it, and as his sister, Carla, pulled open the oven door, a new, richer blast of scent reached out for him and grabbed his throat.
Calzones.
Even better. Sausage calzones. With a side of spaghettini. Oh, man. Nick braced himself, because he knew whatever else the night might bring, he’d at least have a hearty last meal.
“Wipe your feet!” Mama’s voice rang out over the crowd. But that wasn’t surprising. She’d had to be louder than anyone else over the years, just to make sure they all knew who was in charge.
Dutifully Nick scraped the bottoms of his loafers against the mat on the top step, then walked into the kitchen.
“Tony, if they take away the parking spot in front of the Leaf and Bean,” Stevie was arguing, “I’ll lose all kinds of business.”
“Not my call,” Tony answered, grabbing a bread stick out of the tall blue glass jar in the middle of the table. “Take it up with the City Council.”
“Yeah, like that’ll help.” Stevie snatched the bread stick from him. “I might as well talk it over with the Terrible Three for all the good the council will do me.”
“Also not my problem,” Tony said, dismissing the council and the town gossips while taking another bread stick while glancing at Paul. “Curb your wife.”
“What was that?” Stevie nearly shrieked, narrowing blue eyes on Tony until Nick’s reflexes kicked in, warning him to duck and stay out of range.
“Whoa.…” Paul wisely backed up and away from the brewing war. “You’re on your own, big brother.”
“Mama,” Beth said, pushing her auburn hair behind her ears, “Tony’s been bugging me about making cannoli for weeks. You said you’d talk me through it.”
“I will, I will,” Mama promised as she wiped her hands on a sparkling white apron. She hurried across the room, swatting at Paul to get him out of her way, then reached up to cup Nick’s face in her palms. “Hello, Nicky. You’re late.”
Warm brown eyes stared up at him. Mama’s long graying hair was kept up in a tight bun on top of her head and she wore a dress Nick could swear was twenty years old. But she looked as she always did … starched, neat, and utterly Mama.
“Good to see you, too, Mama.” He smiled and accepted her welcome kiss gratefully. She wasn’t swinging a broom at his head, which meant Carla had—so far—kept her big mouth shut.
He slid a glance at his sister and saw her clamp he
r lips together. Good. It looked like it was physically painful for her to keep a secret. Small consolation. That’s what she got for sticking her nose into his business in the first place.
“Hey, Nick,” Jackson said as he stepped up, holding out a cold bottle of beer.
“Hi.” Nick took it, unscrewed the top, and lifted the bottle for a long drink. Mama hustled back over to the stove, where Beth started in on her again about cannoli recipes.
On the other side of the table, Tony and Stevie were still arguing, and if anyone had asked, Nick would have put five bucks on Stevie coming out the winner. Carla’s dog, Abbey, lay beneath the kitchen table, keeping a hopeful eye out for any dropped tidbits. Tina, Tony’s toddler, sat right beside the big dog, pounding its head in affectionate “pats.”
“Anything … new?” Jackson asked in a low-pitched mutter that was missed in the general din.
“No,” Nick admitted, curling his fingers tightly around the icy bottle. He’d gotten to know Jonas a little better, had breached some of Tasha’s defenses, but hadn’t come any closer to solving his problems. “Nothing’s been settled.”
Jackson blew out a frustrated breath. “We could take care of this in a snap with the test,” he whispered.
“Not yet.” Now that he’d come to know the kid, Nick wanted to take care of this himself. Find a way to get the boy to understand that Nick wasn’t his father. Without having to rub the kid’s nose in a test that would name his mother a liar and his dreams a fraud.
“Damn it, Nick—”
“What’re you two whispering about, as if I didn’t know?” Carla asked, sidling up to stand next to her husband.
Nick glared at her. “Butt out, Carla.”
“Not likely.”
“Carla honey,” Jackson said, bending in as if to kiss her cheek, “go away.”
“You, too?”
“Jesus,” Nick muttered, taking another long sip of beer. “Why couldn’t you have been that little brother we wanted? Or better yet, a puppy?”
“Love you, too.”
“Mommy!” Reese came racing up to Carla and grabbed her hand.
Despite her frustration with Nick, Carla instantly smiled at Reese and gave the child her full attention. “What is it, sweetie?”
“Come see the table,” the tiny blonde said, tugging at Carla’s hand. “I set it and Tina helped me.”
“I bet,” Nick said softly, thinking about Tony’s toddler trying to set a table.
“Well,” Reese admitted with a shrug, “she tried.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” Carla said, but shot Nick a look as she left the room.
He didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what that look meant. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
“Nicky!” Mama called out his name, giving him the distraction he so desperately wanted. “You carry the calzones into the dining room. Paul, you get the salad, and, Tony, bring the wine.”
Calzones, Nick thought as he inhaled the scent of Mama’s homemade sausage-and-cheese sandwiches. Triangles of pastry dough were filled with sauce and sausage and mozzarella cheese, then baked until they were a golden brown. Freshly grated Parmesan had been sprinkled over the tops of the calzones and was already melting into the hot sandwiches. More sauce bubbled on the stove behind him, and as Mama filled her huge dark blue pasta bowl with al dente spaghettini, Nick told himself that if the lions smelled half as good, the Christians had probably danced into the arena.
CHAPTER 10
Tasha hadn’t had the chance to talk to Molly all day. With a couple of walk-in clients needing attention, along with their scheduled appointments, they’d both been pretty much racing from customer to customer all day.
Now, though, there was time to breathe. And eat. And talk.
The old brass chandelier hung low over the dining table, sending a warm glow of light spilling into the room. The yellow flowered wallpaper looked soft and comforting rather than faded, and the wood floorboards gleamed with reflected light. Sitting on opposite sides of the wide dining room table, Molly and Tasha dug into the dozen or so white cartons in front of them.
“Try the Moo Shu Pork,” Molly said around a mouthful. “It’s terrific.”
“I think Jonas took the last of it upstairs,” Tasha told her, and reached for the carton of beef and broccoli. Maneuvering her chopsticks with practiced ease, she helped herself to some broccoli before passing the carton to Molly.
“How’s he doing?” Molly asked, shooting a quick look toward the stairs as if half-expecting the boy to pop up. “You know, with Tassel Loafer hanging around?”
Tasha shrugged. She really wasn’t sure how Jonas was doing. He hadn’t been talking to her as much lately. It was as if the closer he felt to Nick, the further he felt from Tasha. Almost as if he were choosing sides. And she was losing.
Her heart twisted and, no longer hungry, she set her chopsticks down.
“He’s not talking to me, Mol,” she said, tracing the tip of her finger across one of the gold-colored roses decorating the vinyl tablecloth.
“That’s not so unusual,” Molly said softly. “Kids are weird.”
“Not Jonas,” Tasha argued. “At least, not until lately.”
“He’s got a lot on his mind, poor kid.”
“I know. But he’s got stars in his eyes, too.” Tasha looked at her friend, and in the soft glow of the overhead light, Molly’s eyes shone with sympathy and ready understanding. “Nick comes around and Jonas feels like a king. You should have seen him after the game yesterday. All of the other kids were hanging on him, trying to be his best buddy—and he was loving it. He felt so … important.”
Molly set down the carton she was holding and asked, “Is that such a bad thing? I mean, the kid’s had a rough life. Maybe he should enjoy the attention.”
“I know, and no, it’s not a bad thing, but what happens when it’s over?” Tasha asked, swiveling in her seat to prop her tired feet up on the chair next to her. “What then? How does Jonas deal with losing something he always wanted? Does he get his heart broken and then spend the rest of his life pretending different? Does he run away and keep running?”
“Hey,” Molly said quietly, reaching across the table to lay her hand atop Tasha’s. “Who’re we talking about here? Jonas … or you?”
Tasha inhaled sharply, deeply, and then let the air slide out of her lungs in a long, slow exhale. And still she felt no more in control than she had a moment ago. She grabbed Molly’s fingers, gave them a squeeze, then let go, to scrape her hair back from her face. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Both, maybe?”
“You know, Tash, this doesn’t have to become a disaster.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Molly grinned slyly and grabbed up the carton closest to her. Sniffing and wrinkling her nose, she quickly put the squid down and reached for something else. “Jesus, why does Jonas ask for that stuff and then not eat it?” Spotting the orange chicken, she smiled and took a bite. “I mean, clearly, there’s something going on between you and this guy. Maybe you could just talk to him. Be honest. Tell him the truth and that you need his help.”
“Ah.” Tasha nodded even as her heart turned to stone in her chest. “Great plan.” She held up one hand and ticked off items on her fingers as she talked. “Let’s see, you want me to tell him that Mimi’s dead and we’re pretending she isn’t so we can hide from Social Services.”
“Well…”
“Oh. And then I can tell him that the county’s already rejected me as a foster mother because of my ‘colorful’ past.”
“Tash…” Molly grimaced tightly.
Warming to her theme, Tasha kept going. “Then to finish up, I can tell him that I’ve been saving money like a crazy person so I can pack up Jonas and run away from the law.”
“Okay, shoot me now.” Molly lifted both hands in surrender. “Bad idea.”
“Ha! Understatement. It’s right up there with Noah saying, ‘I think it’s gonna rain.’”
“Funny.”
“I try.”
Sighing, Molly set both elbows on the table and leaned in toward Tasha. “How’s the savings account looking, anyway?”
“Funny you should ask,” she said, and lifted one hip off the chair to pull something from her back pocket. The savings passbook looked just as worn as Tasha felt at the moment. But then, she pulled it out of her dresser to look at it often enough to have the damn thing falling apart. She flipped it open and checked the balance, even though she knew the total, down to the last penny, by heart. “So far, we have a grand total of eight thousand, four hundred seventy-three dollars, and sixty-seven cents.”
Molly whistled. “That’s not bad.”
Tasha ran her fingers over the numbers as if reassuring herself that they were really there. “Not bad, but not great, either. A guy who buys top-of-the-line tennis shoes and those ridiculous loafers is going to have a lot more money behind him than I do.”
Molly smiled. “I’ve got money, too, and you know you can have it.”
Tasha looked at the woman across from her and felt a huge swell of emotion rise up and nearly choke her. Molly Watson, friend extraordinaire. The thought of leaving Molly and this house, this place, where she’d made a home for herself nearly broke her heart.
Through the lonely years on her own, living on the street, and even before that, living in a house that fed on the anger writhing inside it, she’d dreamed of this. Having one place to call hers. Having friends and a job and enough food to eat and people to love.
Knowing that she was on the verge of losing it all tore at her. Still … stiffening her spine, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. To protect Jonas, she’d walk away—run, if she had to. And start again somewhere else.
But no matter where she ended up, this place would always be home.
“You know I can’t let you do that,” Tasha said, tucking the passbook back into her pocket. “You’re saving for your wedding, Mol. But I love you for offering.”
“Hmph.” Molly sat back and shook her head. “By the time Jim gets around to asking me, I’ll be fifty.”
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