~*~
Her ears were ringing. As Sam paced slowly down the aisles of Leroy’s Gas ‘n’ Grocery, Aidan’s face danced against the backs of her eyes: his serious, almost haunted expression; the warm chocolate color of his eyes. Try, he’d said. He wanted to try. Try what, exactly? Shed their clothes in great desperate yanks and fall into bed, see if they fit together physically? Or was he talking evening strolls, dinner dates, and hand-holding?
She scoffed inwardly at the idea. Aidan had no idea how to go about a real relationship.
Didn’t mean he was averse to trying, though.
She paused in front of the olive oil display and massaged her temples. She had to clear her mind. Obsessing had never done her any good, and she couldn’t afford to go there now. Besides, she was picking up a few things for dinner. Assuming Erin would actually come out of her room and eat with them…
“Sam?” A voice said beside her, and she jumped, startled.
A man stood at her elbow, slight and unremarkable, with nondescript brown hair and a face that looked younger than it probably was.
As the shock faded, something tickled at the back of her mind. A brush of recognition.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, offering an apologetic smile. “I just wanted to say hi. I’m Greg. Greg Harris, from high school. I sat behind you in chem.”
It clicked into place. “Greg! Yeah, hi. We made cheese together that time,” she said with a laugh.
“In the beakers.” He shuddered. “It didn’t taste right.”
“Well, Miss Prussell probably cleaned the sulfuric acid out of them first.”
They chuckled over the memory, and then the normal silence of two long-separated acquaintances lapped around them.
Greg spoke first. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be off living in Paris or something, writing books for the snobs over there.” He grinned, but it was a question, asking what had happened to her.
She winced. “I’m a professor, actually. The farthest I ever made it away from home was Nashville, and that was just for my graduation trip.” She shrugged. “And I kinda hated it because I’m not into country music.”
His smile turned almost sympathetic.
“What about you?” she asked. “What’ve you been up to?”
He made a vague gesture. “You know. Little of everything. I’ve actually got a new job,” he said, brightening, “working here in town, so that’s cool.”
“Yeah. What do you do?”
“Sales. I’m a salesman.”
“That’s great,” she said, meaning it. She knew firsthand how crushing it was to get out of school and realize all those bright shiny dreams your elders had alluded to were just that: dreams.
He nodded. “Hey, do you ever still talk to Aidan Teague?”
It shouldn’t have, but the question touched her pulse, sent it kicking. She shrugged. “I didn’t ever talk to him back in school. But I do now sometimes, yeah. Are you trying to get in touch with him?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, I was just curious.” He grinned. “It was great seeing you, Sam, but I gotta run.”
“Oh, okay. Take care.”
“See ya.”
She watched him walk away, feeling a rush of empathy. They were alike, the two of them – two lonely kids who’d wanted nothing more than to be in Aidan Teague’s shadow, all grown up and not quite able to let go.
Ten
“Fancy,” Ava remarked, leaning forward to glance up at the wrought iron gate through the windshield.
“Hmm,” Maggie agreed from behind the wheel, buzzing down her window just as the intercom beside them crackled to life. “Poor Aidan. The first time in his life that he’s on the other side of taking advantage. He didn’t stand a chance.”
No, he hadn’t, Ava thought, staring at the house that lay before them. On the other side of the gate, the house unfurled across a golf course-worthy lawn, stone chimneys and spires thrusting skyward, windows glimmering in the bright autumn sunshine. It was a masterwork of stone, with arched doorways, slate driveway, and artfully planted trees.
“Can I help you?” an officious male voice said through the intercom, and Maggie smiled a small, private smile just for the two of them.
“Yes, we’re here to see Tonya.”
“May I ask for your names?”
“Maggie Teague and her daughter, Ava. We’re Aidan’s people – tell her that. And tell her there’s no use turning us away; we can either talk here, or I can stalk her to pilates and accost her on the street. Either way.”
A long pause. Then: “Please come in,” and the huge gates swung inward without a sound.
Maggie touched the gas and the Caddie rolled forward up the drive, coasting to a stop in the circular turnaround that looped a massive multi-tiered fountain. The front stoop loomed like church stairs ahead of them, leading up to double doors that were also, appropriately, monastic in looks.
Ava felt a clean, divisive line slide through her conscience. The literature buff in her loved the slightly Gothic ambiance of the place. It was classic, tasteful, and expensive, all of it screaming for a cravat-wearing lord to go striding up the front steps, hunting hounds in tow, groom leading away the master’s horse.
But the half of her who’d been the natural prey of women like Tonya Sinclair raised its hackles. Yes, Aidan was a womanizing asshole most of the time. But this time? He was the victim here. The one who’d been used. It served him right; she didn’t wish he hadn’t had the lesson. But she wished she wasn’t about to plead a case for possession of her niece or nephew.
“Mom.”
Maggie paused in the act of gathering her purse.
“Just for the record,” Ava said, tasting bile at the back of her throat, “I’m not someone who wants to be in other people’s baby business. If you know what I mean.”
Maggie stared at her with mixed attention and sympathy. “I do.”
“But I know what it did to Mercy, having a mother who didn’t want him.” An image of Dee Lécuyer filled her mind, the withered prostitute leaned back on her pillows, mocking her son with her dying breath. “If neither of his parents had held on to him…” She shook her head and pushed back the sudden spurt of anger, the tears that wanted to come. “I just think that if Tonya’s going to bring this baby to term, and then give it away – I think the baby deserves to be with blood family. And I think Aidan deserves a chance to figure out what kind of father he can be.”
Her mother kept staring, unnerving a little.
Ava took a deep breath. “Mercy and I talked last night. If Aidan can’t just yet–”
“Oh, baby,” Maggie murmured, reaching to cup the side of her face.
“ – we’ll take the baby. Boy or girl. And raise it as ours, if that turns out to be what’s best.”
Maggie’s smile trembled, then firmed, her eyes suspiciously shiny. Her thumb stroked Ava’s cheek. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“Yes we do.”
“God love you. You two just can’t lay off with the babies, can you?” But her smile widened.
Ava breathed a laugh, tears threatening again. “My man likes kids. What can I say?”
Maggie pulled back and sighed, one of those dreamy grandmother sighs. Then shrugged and steeled her expression, everything about her tightening. She slid her sunglasses into place and sent Ava a smile. “Into battle we go, then. You ready?”
“Armed and dangerous,” Ava assured, and they climbed out of the car.
The front doors swung open before they reached them, revealing a tidy, round man in a sweater-vest and tie, bald head tilted back at an imperious angle.
“Do people still have butlers?” Maggie whispered.
“Apparently they do,” Ava whispered back.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them in what was decidedly not a welcoming tone. He stepped back and motioned them into a cathedral-ceilinged foyer floored with terrazzo. Ava had an overwhelming impression of sideboards
, mirrors in heavy frames, and the light scent of real orchids. “If you’ll wait here” – he motioned to an elaborate wooden bench along one wall – “I’ll inform Miss and Missus Sinclair of your arrival.”
He left them without a sound, non-slip shoes silent on the tiles. His disapproval was plain, though, in the set of his shoulders and the parting sniff of derision.
“Don’t think Jeeves likes us much,” Maggie said, dropping down onto the bench, purse laid across her knees. For some reason, the simple bag took on the air of a weapon, a club ready to be wielded.
Ava snorted and stayed on her feet, arms folding. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors, in her fitted leather jacket, black skinnies and heavy, buckle-festooned boots. She looked like a delinquent, and was glad for it.
The butler was back a moment later. “Follow me, please.”
It might have been influenced by classic design elements, but the house was fairly new, and the layout, as they passed through it, proved the point. The foyer fed into a hall that seemed to run the length of the first floor, open concept to various sitting rooms and sun porches. The butler led them to a room full of windows, soft autumn light pouring across a set of white sofas and chaises, a gas fire hissing on the grate. It was a sumptuous room, muted, but full of expensive touches. Touches like, say, the two women seated on either end of one long couch, cozied up with magazines and steaming mugs.
It struck Ava as quietly hilarious and grave all at once. Two mothers, and two daughters, a whole world gaping between them.
Tonya she remembered, coldly beautiful, elegant, with a bitch face to rival Scarlett O’Hara. She was just as beautiful now, but had lost some of her imperious aura, what with the sweatpants and the throw wrapped around her shoulders. Ava recognized all too well the green-around-the-gills look of the first trimester. There was no faking that.
Tonya’s mother was an older mirror image. Her beauty had been weathered, lined, and fleshed out with a little extra mom-weight, but still there, beneath the layers of makeup and hairspray. She wore a stylish yoga getup and loose cowl-neck hoodie, diamonds at her ears and throat, each hair coiffed neatly into place.
Ava jammed her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels, curious to see which tack her mother would take.
Maggie decided to go with cheerful. “Well.” She pasted a wide smile on her face, cocked one hip to the side and folded her arms. “I’ve heard so much about you, Tonya, and I’ve seen you across a smoky room. But at last I finally get to meet you.”
Tonya’s lips pressed together into a tight white line, but she said nothing.
Her mother drew herself upright, but didn’t stand, drawn-on eyebrows crimping together. “Who in the world are you, barging into my house like this?”
Maggie’s grin widened. “Oh, you know exactly who I am. One, because your little bellhop back there told you. And two, you wouldn’t have let him bring us in if at least part of you didn’t want to hear what I have to say. But since your short term memory seems to be rusty,” she said, graciously, “I’ll refresh it. Maggie Teague, and Ava Lécuyer. Aidan’s stepmother and sister. I’m guessing you know who Aidan is. Tonya did tell you his name, didn’t she?”
Tonya made a sound, like a retort was squelched.
“And you are?” Maggie said.
“Eugenia Sinclair,” the woman said in a huff. “And this is outrageous–”
“I agree,” Maggie said. “It’s outrageous that your grown daughter chose to act like an irresponsible child, and rather than talking through the problem with her partner in crime, she’s trying to bury the problem and pretend it never happened. So outrageous.”
“You’re right,” the woman snapped. “It is a crime what that hoodlum did to my baby.”
Maggie laughed. “Did to her? Tonya, did he rape you?”
Tonya’s eyes flew wide.
Before she could respond, Maggie said, “Obviously not, because a family as well-connected as yours would have pressed charges, and you didn’t. So, no, he didn’t do anything to you. The two of you had a good time, and now there’s consequences for it. Time to put your big girl panties on and face them.”
Eugenia shot to her feet, like a buoy surging up through the surface of the water. Two dark spots bled through the makeup on her cheeks, fury spreading beneath her painted skin. “It was your stepson’s failure to take precautions. His mistake.”
Maggie snorted. “What century is this? It’s the man’s job and his job alone to remember the rubber? Nah. Try again.”
Eugenia started to say something else.
And Tonya interrupted. “Mom,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Just stop.” She tucked her hair back and stared at her knees, expression defeated. “It was both our faults. You know it.”
Her mother opened her mouth and then closed it, expression pinched.
Tonya’s gaze flashed up, flickered between the two of them. Hardened. “But this isn’t your business. Neither of you.”
And Ava saw the opening that she couldn’t help but step through. “It is our business.” Everyone glanced at her like she’d sprouted a second head. “You could have chosen to end things quickly and quietly, and we would have never known. But you’re carrying the baby, and you told Aidan about it. Now either you have a shred of conscience, or secretly, you’re not so okay with the whole adoption thing. Either way, that child’s biological family has claim to him, if you don’t want him.”
Tonya glared at her. “Don’t make suppositions about me.”
“Don’t make suppositions about me. I’m nothing like those brittle bitches you grew up with. You can’t get away with treating me like that.”
“Well said, baby,” Maggie said, then turned the full force of her mother-stare on the Sinclair women. “Bottom line: we want the baby. And we have a very good lawyer who’s prepared to take you to court for us should it go that way.”
Eugenia had composed herself, had slipped back inside her debutante shell, and eased back onto the sofa now, reaching for her coffee cup. “The way I understand it, your stepson’s not fit to raise a stray dog.”
“I’ll grant you he has some learning to do,” Maggie said.
“If my brother can’t handle the job, my husband and I are prepared to step in as legal guardians,” Ava said. “We’d raise the baby as our own.”
“Your husband?” Eugenia sent her a mocking smile. “Am I to assume he’s another of these marauding bikers?”
“You are. I’ll be sure to give him your address the next time the boys pull out the longships and go pillaging.”
Maggie chuckled.
The Sinclair women choked on their tea.
“Look, there’s nothing to argue about here, ladies,” Maggie said, tone reasonable. “You don’t want the baby, and we do. And we all know that it’s better for the child to have at least one parent.”
“Even if that parent’s an outlaw?” Tonya asked. She’d grown quiet and serious suddenly, expression intense. Ava saw true doubt in her, worry. “I can’t…I am unable to…but that doesn’t mean…” she said, struggling for the words.
Maggie’s tone softened. “I know. But don’t you worry about it. The law’s got nothing to do with how much we love our babies. You let us take him, and you won’t ever have to fret about it again.”
~*~
They left twenty minutes later with assurances that Ethan would be in contact with the Sinclairs’ lawyers right away, Eugenia red-faced, Tonya notably relieved.
“I feel a little skeevy,” Ava admitted as they slid into the car. “Like we were making a drug deal or something.”
“Change your mind?”
“Oh no.” Already there was a new lightness in her chest, a sense of things sliding into their proper cosmic alignment. “It’s better this way.”
“Yeah.” Maggie sighed. “Now we’ve just gotta work on your brother. See how many crowbars it takes to pry his head outta his ass.”
Eleven
Sam didn’t
want to miss Aidan, but the fact was she did. She’d come to love their afternoon snack dates – if she could call them such. It wasn’t just the old fascination at work; there was something about his undefeated, juvenile fuck the world attitude that calmed her inside, eased all the tension she carried in her shoulders. When they walked side-by-side, hands wondering what it would be like to tangle together, she felt the weight of all the planned minutes and hours that lay ahead drop slowly away from her. Fuck the world, she thought, and was left with only a cool moment on a university sidewalk, sunlight dappling his gorgeous headful of dark curls.
She went a week without his visits, after their Dartmoor garden talk. And then suddenly, there he was, waiting outside her classroom door like he hadn’t kissed her, and hadn’t asked to try. Like normal.
Fuck the world, her conscience whispered, and she leaned up against the wall beside him.
“You’re back.”
He nodded, eyes bright with their usual mischief. “I couldn’t stay away too long. Had to get my fix.”
“Ugh,” she groaned, but her face warmed with pleasure. “Come on, you hopeless romantic you.” She tugged at his sleeve and he followed her down the hall and out through the double doors, into a windswept, sun-drenched afternoon.
The air hummed with the cold, hundreds of leaves scrabbling across the cobblestones faster than the groundskeepers could blow them away. The kind of day that made you want to lean into the person you walked beside.
Instead, Sam shoved her hands in her coat pockets and felt the wind wreak havoc on her braid.
“How’ve you been?” Aidan asked, and she could sense the carefulness in him. At another time she might have laughed to think that he was treading lightly around anyone, but she took it as a compliment with a decisive burst of warmth in her chest.
“Up to my eyebrows in sloppily-written papers,” she said. “Is ‘misogyny’ really the only ten-dollar word college kids have ever heard of? That’s their entire literary analysis these days.”
“Dunno. I’m not real sure what that is.”
Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) Page 12