“She seems . . . I don’t know. Tired. Not in an it’s so busy kind of way, but deeper. Weary, I guess.” Bree swallowed. “Like she’s been carrying something for too long and she’s reaching the end of her ability.”
Unfamiliar silence descended on the car.
“Now that you mention it,” Annie said slowly, “she’s been different since Dad moved back to town.”
“So six months? And we’re just noticing it now?” Kyrie shook her head as she signaled a lane change. “We are scum.”
“We are not scum,” Bree decreed. “She’s the mom. She’s good at hiding things from us. That’s what mothers do—they shove it down and put on a smile and keep going.”
“God, I am never having kids,” Jenna said.
“Does Cole know that?”
“How could he? I just decided this minute.”
That got a few giggles going.
“Has she talked to him yet?” That came from Kyrie.
Bree exchanged glances, shrugs, and shakes with the others.
“Okay. So, as far as we know, she hasn’t had any contact,” Bree mused. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe she wants to talk to him, but the opportunity hasn’t arisen. Or she’s trying to avoid it.”
“Or he doesn’t want to talk to her,” Annie said, inciting a violent shake of the head from Jenna.
“No. No, I think he would like nothing more than to see her again.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Kyrie.
“One time, when I got conned into having breakfast with him, I said something about her. And he clammed up right away, said he wasn’t discussing her with me.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “It’s funny. Much as I hate to admit it, he’s been up front about everything else I ever asked him—jail, his time hiding out in Costa Rica, all those topics you’d think he might want to avoid. But Mom is off the table.”
“Do you think he still loves her?” Annie said into the shocked silence.
“Do you think he ever did?” asked Bree.
She meant it to be rhetorical, but Jenna tipped her head back and addressed her words toward the rear seat.
“Come on, Bree. You’re the oldest. You remember what they were like.”
Unfortunately, Bree did.
She didn’t have a lot of memories from those early years. She had been only nine when her father was investigated for fraud and corruption charges, ten when he supposedly died and Neenee moved them back to her childhood home of Calypso Falls. Most of Bree’s recollections revolved around the constant stream of babies that arrived after her—first Jenna, then the twins, then Annie after Rob took off.
But she did have some warm fuzzy memories. Christmas mornings, with her father grabbing their mom in a giant hug and yelling, Ho Ho Ho, at the top of his lungs. The way he always called out a huge Hello when he walked in the door at night and waded through the throng of little girls to hunt out Neenee and give her a kiss.
“Were they good together?” Annie asked. “I mean, I know you were little, but kids know these things. They pick up on stuff that adults don’t. Trust me on this.”
Bree did.
“I remember, one time . . . it must have been soon after Kyrie and Paige were born. Or—no—wait. Mom was pregnant. I remember the shirt she was wearing. It had one of those Baby on Board logos over the stomach.” She smiled at the thought. “She was in the big chair, the giant one that could hold her and you and me all together, Jenna. Remember?”
“The cozy chair.” Jenna nodded. “I loved that one.”
“Yeah, you loved it so much that you curled up on it when you were sick and then you threw up all over it, and it never smelled right again.”
Jenna twisted in her seat and stuck out her tongue. Bree rolled her eyes.
“Anyway, Mom was in the chair, probably supposed to be resting, but we kept bugging her to go get ice cream or something. And I remember she was kind of half sitting, half lying there, and she started to cry. Quietly. That mom thing, when they can’t stop the tears, but they’re fighting like hell to keep the kids from knowing that something’s wrong.” She bit her lip. “Then Dad came in, and he took one look at us and scooped you up, Jen—I think you were kind of crawling all over Mom—and he told me to get my shoes on, because we were going out. He sent us both to the bathroom, but I turned around to ask him something, and I saw them. Mom was sitting up, leaning against him, and he had his arms around her so he could rub her back. She was making these little whimpering kinds of noises and he just kept rubbing and he kissed her head and said something. She started laughing. Hiccup kind of laughs, the ones you make when you’re still sort of crying.”
“And then?” Annie prompted.
“Then,” Bree’s throat tightened, “then, she kind of leaned up and kissed him. And they did the forehead thing—you know, heads resting against each other—and he took her hand. And even though she was as pregnant as an elephant and there were two other kids in the house, right at that moment, you know—”
“It was just them,” Jenna finished.
That was about it.
“So I guess he really did love her,” Annie said with something like wonder in her voice.
“Same for her,” added Kyrie.
“Do you think they still do?” Kyrie put into words what Bree was pretty sure all of them were thinking. “Do you think it might have lasted?”
“God, I hope not.” Jenna blew out a deep breath. “Can you imagine going through life unable to let go of the person who had hurt you like that?”
“Can you imagine going through life knowing you were the one to inflict that kind of hurt?” Kyrie said.
“It doesn’t seem possible.” Bree spoke slowly. “But this family has never been known for doing things the expected way.”
“Thank God for that,” Annie said. “I couldn’t have handled being in a normal family.”
“There’s no such thing.” Bree felt compelled to say it, even with the ban on psych talk. “Every family thinks they’re the exception.”
“Yeah, but we really are.” Annie spoke with certainty. “So what are we going to do? About Mom and Dad, I mean. Should we try to get them back together?”
A chorus of disapproval rocked the car. Annie winced.
“Okay, sorry, it was just a thought.”
“If they want to talk to each other, there’s nothing stopping them,” Jenna said. “Other than, you know, twenty-odd years of history and lies.”
“But what’s that in the face of true love?” Kyrie said glibly.
“I think we need to back away from this one,” Bree said. “They are adults. They know what they want, or don’t want, and the consequences. Remember when he first came back and Mom said we each had to make our own decisions about whether or not we wanted to see him? And that everyone had to honor the others’ choices?”
“Shit,” Annie said, and Bree knew her message had been received.
But she also knew that taking her own advice was going to be harder than she expected. Especially when she couldn’t quite shake away the memory of her parents locked in that laughing, crying embrace.
* * *
Spence wasn’t sure how he’d let himself get talked into dinner at Calypso Falls’s busiest pizza place, especially on the night of a high school concert, when everyone was in search of a fast bite. But his niece had said something about a fund-raiser for the orchestra trip. And his sister had begged him to come along so she wouldn’t have to sit with any of the HSA moms that she always referred to as the Bored and the Beautiful.
“If you’re there, you’ll scare all the busybodies away,” she had said when she issued the invitation. “Except the ones on the prowl, who might be willing to risk your wrath to get laid.”
He had snorted as he thought of the way most of them shied away from him. “I don’t think any of them are tha
t desperate. And I know I’m not.”
Livvy had laughed and made a joke about him being secretly gay. He’d played along, but he’d heard the relief in her voice when he agreed to join them, and his radar lit up. Livvy could simply be trying to ward off the professional mommies.
Or she could be back on a road she’d been down too many times before, keeping herself sane and the kids amused while her husband “worked late” yet again.
So on a frigid Wednesday evening, Spence fed the dog, dragged himself out into the late January cold, and spent an hour eating mediocre pizza with his three favorite people in the world. All in all, a fair trade.
The service was slow—no surprise, given that half the orchestra families were in attendance—so Livvy and the kids had to scoot to get Emma to the school by the required half hour before her concert. He sent them on their way with a promise to join Livvy and Max in the audience as soon as he’d paid.
And if he gave himself a few minutes of solitude to finish his beer as the place emptied out—well—that was one of the perks of being the single uncle instead of the high school parent.
He sat in his booth, soaking up the relative peace, when his eye was caught by a sight that had been blocked from his vision by the earlier crowds: Bree Elias, sitting alone at a table in the corner.
At least he thought it was her. Her back was to him and she seemed to be bent over a book. He glimpsed a few strands of auburn curls peeking out from beneath one of those flat, sideways hats that he always associated with French artists. His gaze moved lower. There seemed to be some decent curves, but again, it was hard to tell beneath the heavy ski sweater.
If he could get a look at her legs . . .
He liked the way she sat curled over her book, left hand holding it open, right hand loosely clasping her beer. She didn’t move, but there still seemed to be an energy around her. Maybe from the finger tapping the side of her glass. Maybe from the foot swinging slowly beneath her chair.
He’d spent way too much time thinking about their so-called apology lunch. It bugged him—more than he wanted to admit—that her apology seemed to be so half-hearted. And it bugged him a hell of a lot more than was comfortable that he was letting this bother him.
This was what he’d set out to do all those years ago: lead folks to believe he was a badass. Build a reputation that told the world he wasn’t going to let anyone dupe him. Make folks believe he skated on the edge of trustworthy, just enough that they would think twice before attempting to pull anything over him the way Rob had done to his father.
It had been long enough now that he didn’t need to reinforce his reputation anymore. Bree’s actions were proof of that, and he should have seen it as a victory, one made even sweeter by the fact that it was an Elias handing him the proof that he had won this battle.
So why didn’t it feel like—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a tall, dark-haired man entering the restaurant. His brother-in-law, Carl.
Working late, my ass.
Spence’s first reaction was to walk up to the bastard and confront him, to grill him about the who, what, and where of his latest conquest. Because Spence knew damned well there was another woman again. Livvy knew it, too, even though she would never come out and say it, in so many words.
His toes tapped rapidly inside his boots, burning with the need to march up to Carl and toss the dregs of his beer into that lying face. His fists clenched.
But they were in public. He had no proof. And from the way Carl was peering around the place, he just might have been trying to make it here in time to meet up with Livvy and the kids. Spence didn’t believe that for a minute, but Livvy would want him to give the son of a bitch the benefit of the doubt.
On the other hand, if Carl was being brazen enough to meet someone here . . .
Spence didn’t think. As the hostess led Carl to a table on the other side, Spence kept his head down, grabbed his coat as he slid out of his booth, and made tracks for the corner table and the woman he hoped to hell was really Bree.
“Hi.” He dropped into the chair opposite hers, letting a small sigh of relief escape when he saw that he’d guessed right.
Her head jerked upright. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, showed a moment of surprise before relaxing into something still wary but a lot more welcome.
“Sorry to do this,” he said as he twisted his chair deeper into the shadows. “But there’s someone here I need to watch without being seen.”
The corner of her mouth quirked. He noted, distantly, that she’d taken off her glasses and set them beside her book. Her phone completed the little tableau. If someone were to snap a picture, they could call it “Woman Alone.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be past the point of playing secret agent?”
“What can I say? Some of us mature faster than others.” The hostess handed a menu to Carl. Would she do that if he was waiting for someone?
“Look,” Spence said, “I can’t explain this, because . . . just because. But I need to hide out here for five, ten minutes, max. Let me do it and your dinner is on me.”
He kicked himself as soon as he said it. Too desperate. The tough businessman Spencer James would simply sit down, remind Bree that a bowl of soup and a half-assed apology were nothing compared to how she’d publicly humiliated him, and tell her he was joining her whether she liked it or not.
But this was about Livvy. And Spence’s priorities shifted when his sister was involved.
Bree watched him for a second, as if gauging his sincerity. Then, being no dummy, she picked up the dessert menu.
“The cheesecake, I think.” She closed the menu and pushed it toward him. “Care to join me?”
“No. Doesn’t anything ever throw you?”
“Constantly.” She shrugged. “The trick is to never let it show.”
A lesson he thought he had learned.
Carl was still alone, his finger running down the menu. Bree twisted slightly sideways and followed the direction of Spence’s focus. Spence braced himself.
But instead of asking anything about Carl or Spence or the situation, she picked up her glasses, swung them from her fingers, and said, “So, why are you on the task force?”
“Sorry?”
She rolled her eyes. “Hello. If you want to make—whomever—think that you aren’t spying, you need to at least give the appearance of being engaged in some kind of conversation with me. So, task force. Are you on it just because of your landscaping background? Because from what I hear, it seems like far too much of a commitment for someone who usually shies away from volunteerism.”
Shit. Busted.
Discussing his real motivation with Bree probably wasn’t a good plan.
“Why are you here tonight, anyway?” Yeah. Counterattack was the better move. “You don’t have any ties to the high school orchestra anymore, do you?”
“Nope. My flute playing days are long behind me. Too bad, because I always got a kick out if it.”
For a moment, her face relaxed into the faraway softness of good memory. He found himself leaning forward, intrigued by the hint of a smile playing around her mouth.
She had great lips. She’d probably been excellent at playing the flute.
Did she ever use them to play anything else?
He reared back in his seat. Whoa. Where the hell had that come from?
“No,” she continued, seemingly oblivious to his misbehaving imagination, “I don’t have any orchestra connections anymore. And sad to say, I can’t even claim a burning desire to help budding musicians. I was hungry, there’s no food in my apartment, and I live around the corner. That’s as altruistic as it gets. So are you going to tell me why you’re spying on your brother-in-law, or shall we discuss your reasons for joining the task force?”
Her smile had a sharpness now that sent him back to
other high school times—daydreaming in English, forgetting his homework, blanking on a test. He felt a sudden sympathy for the kids in her classes.
“My father wanted to do an urban food forest.” Better to go with the easy explanation. Bree was no dummy. She probably could guess at why he might be hiding from Carl. But Livvy wanted to maintain a public facade of a faithful marriage, and he would be damned if he would say anything to add to Bree’s suspicions.
“He did?”
Spence nodded. “He read about it years ago. Before . . . before he went to Arizona. He always thought it would be a great thing for a place like Calypso Falls, a way to help bring the town and gown communities together.”
“He was right. It has a lot of potential that way.” She crooked her finger at the waitress, raised the dessert menu, and pointed to the picture of the cheesecake before glancing at Spence. “Sure you don’t want anything?”
“No. I have to run soon.”
“The orchestra concert?” she asked quietly, and it was all there, unsaid but hiding beneath her words: Carl’s presence here while his daughter performed, Spence’s caginess, and something that Spence was pretty sure sounded like compassion.
“Look, Bree.” He placed his palms on the smooth wood of the table, leaning forward. “I can’t . . . I mean, I—”
“Appreciate me letting you sit here,” she said, sliding her glasses back into place. “Not to worry. I have four sisters. I’m very good at knowing when to speak and when to keep my mouth shut.”
Again with the mouth.
“I appreciate it.”
“It’s going to take me a while to eat my dessert. And this book is very interesting.” She tapped the cover. “I know you want to get to the concert, so feel free to head out whenever you need to go. I know how to look up and check out the crowd every once in a while.”
Gratitude raced through him. He pulled out his wallet, grabbed a business card, and slid it across the table.
“Here. Just in case.”
“Your cell will be on during the performance?”
“No. But I wouldn’t come running back here anyway.”
Romancing the Rival Page 5