Daddy would give him the boot, hard and fast. But what would he think of his only daughter’s escapades with the man? No, she couldn’t expose Adam Brandon unless she divulged the rest of the story, and that was not going to happen. Ever.
When Bree arrived at her parents’ home twenty minutes later, she expected to find the consultant sharing a drink with her parents, her mother chatting away about this and that, but all the while assessing him and his responses. That was Mama. She should have been an investigator, though she could have been a psychologist, too, because she was very good with people and relationships. Daddy would be sitting in his recliner, sipping his bourbon, watching the clock, and waiting for Bree to arrive. He liked order and timeliness, neither of which was Bree’s strong suit. She bet the girls would be in the basement watching television in the area Daddy had remodeled a few years ago. The man couldn’t do enough for his grandbabies or his daughter, and since Brody’s death, he’d tried to anticipate every little detail of what they needed—even though he might not have a clue.
“Hello?” Bree opened the back door, stepped into the kitchen, anxious to get the confrontation with Adam Brandon over. “Mama? Daddy? Girls?” She made her way through the kitchen, past the pots and pans and the delicious smell of homemade applesauce and pineapple upside-down cake. A string of giggles and a very male, very familiar laugh pulled her into the living room where Adam Brandon sat cross-legged on the floor, with Ella Blue, Lindsey, and Scarlett clustered around him. The older girls pointed to a large book in Adam’s lap while Mama and Daddy sat on the sofa and took it all in. What on earth were they all doing?
“Hi, Mama!” Lindsey scrambled to her feet, hugged Bree, and scooted back to her spot on the right of Adam, like she worried her sisters might steal her place.
Adam smiled at her, his voice dipping a pinch when he said, “Hi, Bree.”
Goodness, why was he looking at her like that, as though he wanted to kiss her, or do something like he’d done the other night, or like they’d done in her office today? Had her parents heard the mini hitch in his voice when he spoke? She darted a gaze at her mother and father who eagle-eyed the situation just like she knew they would.
“Come and see, Mama,” Ella Blue said, pointing to the book in Adam’s lap. “We’re showing Mr. Adam pictures of you when you were young.”
Horror of horrors, they could not! But they were. Bree stared at the photo album in his lap, zeroed in on the girl with the braces and braids, the crooked smile, the silly pink pony T-shirt. She’d been twelve or thirteen, zits on her forehead, bangs two inches above her eyebrows—eyebrows in desperate need of plucking. Ack! Bree snatched the book from Adam’s lap, snapped it shut, and held it against her chest. “This is a private album, girls. We do not share it with just anyone.”
“But Mr. Adam isn’t just anyone, Mama,” Ella Blue said in a quiet voice. “He’s your friend. Grandpa said so, and Grandma said it was okay if we showed him the album because he’s an uncle, too.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have any kids of his own.” This from Lindsey. She peeked at him, tilted her head, and asked, “Do you want kids, Mr. Adam?” And then, as if that weren’t awful enough, she went on. “Do you have a wife yet? ’Cause you need one of those if you’re gonna have kids.”
Well.
Were they even serious? Bree shot him a look and thank the Lord he had his eyes on Lindsey. “Maybe someday,” he said in a gentle voice. “You can’t pick just anybody. It has to be a very special someone.”
Those words and that voice glued Bree to her spot. She clutched the photo album to her chest, stared at the straight nose, the strong jaw, the full lips. When he spoke in that tone, she could imagine a line of women wanting to be his special someone, and she could almost imagine herself as one of those women. But Lindsey’s next words blew the moment apart faster than a blender full of strawberries without the lid on.
“Mama was Daddy’s special someone, and he was hers.” Bree’s mother gasped and her father cursed under his breath.
“Grandpa!” Scarlett pointed at him and frowned. “Bad word.”
Bad word indeed, but oh, such a true word. Adam cleared his throat, met her gaze. There was heat in those eyes and she couldn’t tell if it was the result of anger, embarrassment, or something altogether different that had to do with desire. Heavens, but that look scorched her insides, made her toastier than a marshmallow at a campfire. Bree hefted the photo album to her other arm, fanned herself, and said, “Is it dinnertime yet? I’m famished.”
* * *
Dinner at the MacGregors was certainly different from the meal times Adam remembered growing up. Of course, there’d been grace and please and thank you, but there was no conversation, and absolutely no jokes or laughter. That was reserved for out of doors, away from adults. His father preferred silence or, if speaking were necessary, a quick sentence or two, not a story that would drag on, invite debate or questions. His mother agreed, saying quiet aided a person’s digestion, though that hadn’t helped their father, who ended up with an ulcer.
But the MacGregors weren’t worried about digestion as conversations bounced around the table, one person interrupting the other, voices rising to match the clatter of silverware, followed by spurts of laughter, and even a joke or two. Questions bombarded Adam, usually when his mouth was full, always seconds after he’d finished answering the previous questions, to the point where he could not keep up.
What did you do in California?
Did you ever see a shark?
Will you go back?
Why’d you go there?
Why’d you leave?
The only person who didn’t ask questions or fight to get a word in was Bree. She dabbed her lips, sipped her wine, chewed her pork, and pretty much pretended he wasn’t there. In fact, she’d developed a great interest in the snowflake design of the tablecloth because she’d been staring at the same spot for the past two minutes. The woman was a mystery, a challenge, and a headache, all in one, and despite the warning signs that said Run, you have no business getting involved with her or her children, he didn’t run. In fact, he planted his feet and joked with Ella Blue, told Lindsey about trees and bushes that grew pomegranates, and promised to send Scarlett real shark teeth.
What the hell was he doing?
When Kathleen MacGregor shooed the girls to the basement and brought out coffee and heaping plates of pineapple upside-down cake, Adam accepted the plate with a vow to double his run time tomorrow.
“Do people ever ask if you’re any relation to Matthew Brandon?”
“Excuse me?” Adam stared at Rex MacGregor, tried to stall his answer. What should he say? The truth? They ask every single time they hear my last name. Even the ones who aren’t readers and shouldn’t know anything about the guy ask. And do you know why? Because they like the way he looks. How crazy is that? They don’t know anything about him other than what he lets them see.
“Are you talking about the writer?” Bree’s mother asked. “The handsome devil with the silver eyes? Oh, but he is a fine-looking man.”
“Mama.” Bree raised a brow. “I’m sure Mr. Brandon does not want to hear you swoon over the physical qualities of a man who shares his last name. I certainly would not want to be subjected to what can only be looked at as a comparison between the two.”
Kathleen MacGregor blushed and darted a glance at Adam. “Goodness, but Bree’s right. Where are my manners? I am so sorry. I had no intention of making a comparison between you and the other Brandon.” Her voice dipped, turned sweeter than the brown sugar on the pineapple upside-down cake. “You have a handsomeness all your own, Adam, and I’m certain you’ve heard that a time or two.” The sweetness grew thicker. “Anyone can see it.” She darted a glance at her daughter. “Though not everyone will say it.”
Bree cleared her throat, sat up ramrod straight in the chair, and shrugged. “Vanity is not a quality we should subscribe to, Mama.” Pause. “Or encourage.”
Her father
let out a snort and mumbled, “Give me a shot of vanity over stupidity any day. Vanity is a nuisance that can be curbed and cured, but stupidity?” He held his daughter’s gaze. “Now that ruins families.”
No doubt the man was talking about his dead son-in-law. Damn, how did she stand the constant reminders of the guy’s poor choices? Bad enough he’d destroyed her faith in men, but Rex’s comments were only going to make Bree question her own judgment. He owed her for saving him from admitting Matthew Brandon shared a hell of a lot more than a last name. Why had she jumped in and bailed him out? He’d find out later, but right now, he had a few things to say. “I think we can get stupidity mixed up with stubbornness. We see the answer staring straight at us, but the person we care about doesn’t see it, or maybe doesn’t want to see it.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Rex folded his beefy arms over his chest and nodded. “They want to do whatever feels good and forget everybody else.”
“Sadly, true.” Bree’s mother sighed. “No matter how many times you try to redirect them onto the right path, they don’t like that road.” She sniffed, eyed her daughter. “Because they’ve found a shortcut.”
A shortcut? As in, the girlfriend was the shortcut and Bree was the road? These MacGregors sure were a confusing yet curious bunch. “I don’t know about roads and shortcuts, but I do know you can’t make people do something they don’t want to do, no matter how much you want it.” Hadn’t he cared enough about Sara, tried to convince her it would be sufficient until she developed feelings for him? He was an educated man with years of schooling, but how had he ever thought that would work? One look at Sara and Matt together and any person with a brain cell could see they belonged together. Except Adam. He’d refused to see what was right in front of him.
“Adam’s right.” Bree looked at her parents, her soft voice filling the space between them. “You can’t make folks do something they aren’t ready or willing to do. And it’s a fool who thinks they can.” She slid her gaze to Adam, pulled him in with those amber eyes and sad smile. “And that’s why you have to protect your heart and make sure you never get close enough to let anybody break it ever again.”
8
Harry sat in the corner booth of his restaurant and studied the new menus. Greta said it was time to give them a facelift, not just the artwork, but the meals. Why did they have to go changing out the Veal Saltimbocca for the Chicken Piccata? People liked the veal dish and he bet they wouldn’t want to see it shifted to fifth position under the “also available” section. His wife’s newest introduction was the “small plate,” which should be every restaurant owner’s nightmare. What the hell was a small plate and what was its real purpose? Not the marketing mumbo-jumbo that got tossed out, but the behind-the-name reason that drove marketers to call it that. Who was going to order a small plate? Would Christine come here with her pals and pick out a few? He’d have to ask her opinion and make sure she didn’t know it was Greta’s idea or Christine would turn all diplomatic on him and bow out of an answer.
He was not going to have his customers calling him a cheapskate because the portions and the plates had shrunk, even if the price shrank with it. Appearances mattered, impressions counted. It just didn’t feel right and Harry was a man who relied on his gut. Small plates. Humph. What did that mean anyway and who were they kidding? Did they plan to eat less because the plate wasn’t as large as the regular one, or did they want variety? And what the hell happened when they realized they’d eaten four small plates. Yeah, what about that? He’d seen it all in Chicago; a small plate was one more fad to make the customer think he was eating with intent and control, right up until he stared at the empty plates stacked one on top of the other. Small plates be damned.
Harry closed the menu and scooted out of the booth. How about if he asked the chef what he thought? After all, Jeremy Ross Dean was the one who had to prepare the menus for the damn “small plates.” Harry would get his opinion on beef carpaccio and fried calamari mini-sized. He pushed open the kitchen door and hollered, “Hey, kid, what’s cookin’?”
Jeremy Ross Dean glanced up from the stainless steel counter. “Hi, Harry.”
Oh, boy, something was up. The kid’s expression said “My world’s ending” and his voice said, “If not this second, then ten minutes from now.” Harry didn’t do well with touchy-feely conversations and sad faces. Nope, not in his DNA to pass out handkerchiefs and encouragement unless the ones in need were his family. Jeremy was a likeable kid with a soft spot for Lucy Benito and a real talent in the kitchen. Maybe Harry could sidestep the whole-digging-further-into-his-unhappiness business and get right to the small-plate question. He tossed the menu on the counter, but before he had a chance to say a word, Jeremy opened his mouth and the pain dribbled out.
“I’m gonna lose her, Harry.”
“Lose her?” Harry stared at Jeremy Ross Dean. “Are we talking about Lucy Benito?”
The kid nodded. “Yeah.”
“You can’t lose something you don’t have, boy.” He sighed, placed his hands on the stainless counter, and said, “You do not have Lucy Benito. Not that you couldn’t have her by now, but you’re more interested in opening car doors for her and taking care of another man’s baby while she goes about her business.” He shot the boy a look that said wrong and bad move. “Where’s the flowers? Where’s the fancy dinners? You’re a chef, for chrissake. You should be creating dishes called Lucy’s Lobster Ravioli and My One and Only Fettucine or some kind of BS. Women love that touchy-feely stuff. Anything that says you’re thinking about them longer than when you leave their bed.” The boy’s face turned the color of the Roma tomato he was chopping. Ah, so the bed wasn’t in the equation. “I see.”
Jeremy nodded, the signature flat top he wore not budging. Harry bet the boy spent a chunk of his pay on hair products and a good half hour on the placement of the stuff. It was all about style and feeling your best, and if a bunch of gunk that made a person’s hair stand straight up and stay in place, no matter wind, rain, or humidity, made the kid happy, then go for it. But maybe it was time the boy transferred some of that personal-care energy to Lucy Benito.
“His name is Jax. How can I compete with a name like that?”
Harry shook his head, snatched a chunk of tomato from the cutting board, popped it in his mouth. “Listen, kid,” he said, chewing, “you gotta stop with the sad-sack routine. No girl wants to hook her star to some guy who doesn’t think he deserves it. You gotta act like you’re the king of the island, even if you can’t get across the room without tripping.” He stole another piece of tomato. “Confidence, that’s the key. Start acting like you’re a big deal and watch the girls fall all over you.” True words: it had happened to him. Of course, the extras hadn’t hurt either. What woman turned down jewelry or a weekend in New York City? He pushed back the answer, but it snuck past his defenses. His wife. If he’d tried that fancy footwork on Greta, she might never have become Greta Blacksworth, but Jeremy didn’t need to learn that yet. The kid needed a boatload of confidence if he were going to beat out some punk kid named Jax who rolled into town two weeks ago on his motorcycle and may or may not be Lucy Benito’s baby daddy. Yeah, who was going to ask that question? Harry wouldn’t shy away from it when he met up with Pop tomorrow for his weekly breakfast at Lina’s Café.
Jeremy tossed the tomatoes in a bowl, went to work on the red pepper. “I think it’s too late. I asked if she and Teresina wanted to take a ride with me to Renova for more olive oil and Pecorino Romano cheese, but she said she already had plans.”
Was the boy kidding? Harry blew out a sigh and shook his head. “Of course she said no. The only person who would say yes is eighty-three-year-old Mrs. Genova. The girl doesn’t need to be going on errands with you and toting her kid along. That is not a date and if you think it is, you got bigger problems than this Jax guy.” Jeremy stopped chopping the pepper, looked up. Dang, but now the kid was going to cry. Another “can’t happen” if he wanted to win a girl. Ha
rry gentled his voice like he did when he talked to Lizzie about animals getting sick and why she had to brush her teeth every day. “Okay, listen. There’s the basics of courting and it doesn’t matter how old you are or where you come from, they’re still the backbone of male-female relationships.” Now he was a relationship expert? That was a good one. Greta would have a thing or two to say about that, but right now, all he wanted to do was keep the kid in the game before Jax booted him out with his coolness and bad-boy good looks. The rest of the touchy-feely, spill-my-guts-out that women loved could come later.
“Backbone? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Jeremy sighed, chopped harder, faster. “Lucy’s gonna totally fall for Jax. Game over.”
“Keep talking like that and it’ll be life over. Damn it, kid, you’ve got a lot going for you, but maybe you’re taking too long, being too nice. Maybe Lucy doesn’t think you like her.” Hell, the kid had been snooping around Pop’s granddaughter since she came to Magdalena. So, what was the problem? Have a relationship with her and take her the hell to bed before Jax did. But if this Jax was the baby daddy, then he’d already done the deed and left his stamp on her. What a mess. Not unfixable, but the kid needed a lot of help if he was going to “get the girl.”
A Family Affair: The Wish: Truth in Lies, Book 9 Page 10