Harlequin Superromance November 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2

by Mary Brady

  “I thought so. But it’s been a while now, and sometimes she still seems like it just happened.”

  Ruth sighed. “They were together for almost fifty years. She’s not going to get over him in a couple of weeks.”

  He felt his shoulders tensing at the condescension in Ruth’s voice, but again he forced himself to stay steady. Ruth didn’t know that Iris was dealing with much more than her grief. And nobody knew how much he worried that she could end up suicidal again.

  Instead, he asked the question that had pushed him through the door. “What can I do to help her?”

  Ruth gave him a look so filled with amazement—and not the good kind—that he took a step back. It was all there in her face. Accusation, judgment, condemnation and the certainty that he was somehow the cause for all that had gone wrong in his mother’s life.

  The hell with that. He had a lot to answer for, and he knew he’d caused his share of grief back then, but not now. And if he wasn’t going to get any advice, he was out of here.

  “Okay. I guess this was a mistake, so I’ll—”

  “Wait.” Lyddie’s cheeks were almost as red as the berries in the bowl, though whether from anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. She set her spoon on the counter and addressed Ruth. “I’d like to talk to J.T. alone for a while. You want me to finish up the jam, or do you want to do it?”

  “Lydia—”

  “Ruth.”

  “Fine.” Ruth undid her apron, then tossed it over a chair. “Go ahead and have your little chat. But you might want to remember that it’s easier to prevent a problem than to cause it in the first place.”

  With that, she pushed open the screen door and went outside. J.T. watched her go with a mixture of relief and regret. He should have known.

  Though to be honest, Ruth Brewster had never been this hostile when he lived here. She hadn’t condoned his actions but he had always sensed a kind of boys-will-be-boys vibe from her back in the day. Now, though, she seemed almost eager to remind him of his guilt, to push him away.

  He could think of only two explanations. The first and most likely was that the sheer magnitude of the fire and its fallout had erased any tolerance she might have ever had for him.

  The second was that she knew he hadn’t been alone that night. That she knew—or suspected—that Glenn had been in on the action. And that she was terrified he might tell folks about that before he left.

  If he knew for sure that she knew, he would let her know she had nothing to fear. There was nothing he could gain from tarnishing Glenn’s reputation. But if she didn’t know—well, he couldn’t broach the topic. If he’d guessed wrong, and she had no idea, he would rot in a well-deserved hell if he were the one to shatter her heroic image of her son. She’d lost enough. He couldn’t take that cold comfort from her.

  “Here.” Lyddie pushed the bowl to his side of the table, bringing his focus back to her. “Harley insists on giving us berries every year, way too many. A guilt offering. We can barely keep up. Make yourself useful and start mashing.”

  He picked up the masher, looked at Lyddie and raised his eyebrows.

  “Is this to help you or to vent my frustrations?”

  “Both. I’m sorry about Ruth. She was in a wicked mood already. Sara—my daughter—”

  “The one in Vancouver, right?”

  “Right. Well, she called, and everything is fine, but she’s having so much fun that Ruth is afraid she won’t want to come home when summer’s over. Which is no excuse. But I thought you’d like to know it wasn’t all about you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good.” She gave him another one of those grins that tested his resolve to stay away from her until the negotiations were complete. “Now get mashing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He set to work, watching the berries squish into a pulpy mess while waiting. She wasn’t ignoring him. He might not know Lydia Brewster nearly as well as he’d like, but he knew this: she would talk to him. And listen. And help.

  So he bided his time while she scooped the contents of her bowl into plastic containers. She worked with no hesitation, comfortable with both her activity and with him—as he was with her.

  When she had settled the lid on the last container she carried them to the green linoleum counter, setting them beside four other tubs of jam. Then she wiped her hands and walked slowly back to him.

  “Ruth was right about one thing,” she said. “Iris isn’t going to get over this in a matter of months. But that’s not what’s really worrying you, is it?”

  “No. Are these mashed enough?”

  She peeked into the bowl. “Give them another minute. So what’s bothering you?”

  He frowned at the berries, measuring his words. “I guess it’s an issue of quality, not quantity. She’ll miss him for the rest of her days. So will I. But I’m worried that it seems just as strong now as it was when he first died.”

  “It’s probably worse.”

  That made him glance up, uncertain he’d heard her right, but she was spooning sugar into a measuring cup and didn’t return his gaze.

  “Here’s the thing, J.T. Everyone thinks that grief starts off horrendous and then gets gradually easier, like going down a slide. But it doesn’t. At first you don’t really know what you’ve lost. You know he’s gone, you know nothing will ever bring him back, but it doesn’t hit home until you try to get back to reality and find that nothing is the same.”

  He set the masher gently to the side of the bowl, focusing only on Lyddie.

  “It’s in all the little things. Having to take the garbage out all the time by yourself. Turning on the hockey game and yelling to him that the Leafs are winning for once, but he’s not there. Walking through a store and seeing a sweater that would have been perfect for him, then remembering he’s not home to wear it.”

  She looked so alone as she spoke. He wished he had the right to hold her the way he’d held Iris—not for pleasure, but for comfort. “Does it ever get easier?”

  She shrugged. “Depends on how you define easy. You get used to it. After the first few times of breaking down in Wal-Mart you remember that it’s all changed. And then, just when you think you’re going to be okay, something new will pop up, like somebody losing their first tooth or someone in town giving you a free carwash just because they feel sorry for you, and then it starts all over again.”

  “No forgetting, no escape, huh?”

  “No. And there shouldn’t be, really. Because when you really love someone and you lose him, it should hurt. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  Okay. He was still unsure what to do, but at least he knew that Iris wasn’t slipping beyond his reach.

  He waited while Lyddie carried the saucepan to the stove and started it heating. “So, anything special I should do to help her?”

  “Talk about him. Keep the memories alive. Listen. Really listen, not just to what she’s saying, but to what she doesn’t say, too. That’s going to tell you more than you’d imagine.”

  He nodded. Who had listened to Lyddie when Glenn died? Who had held her close while she wept out her grief?

  Or had she been so busy getting her children and Ruth through the loss that no one had ever done that for her?

  “She’s afraid that when she moves, she won’t remember him the same way.”

  A sad smile tugged at Lyddie’s lips. “I know.”

  “Yeah, I figured. Any words of wisdom on that count?”

  “I’m not the one to ask. Yes, I moved here, but I was coming to a place where there were even more people who shared my memories. It wasn’t the same as it will be for Iris. But...”

  “But?”

  She swiped her face, leaving a smear of red across her cheek, drawing his attention until she spoke again
. “Okay, obviously I believe in staying with the memories. But when you’ve loved someone as long as your mom loved your dad, well, I think that person is too much a part of you to ever be completely lost.”

  That sounded like something Iris would say—like something she would believe. He could give her that hope.

  “I don’t know if that makes any sense, but—”

  “It’s fine. Perfect. Thanks.” He peeked out the back door. “Do you think Ruth is plotting something vile against me?”

  Lyddie rolled her eyes and grinned. “Ruth believes in action. If she hasn’t killed you by now, you’re safe.”

  “That’s a comfort.” His focus was drawn to the smudge on her face. It started high on the cheekbone then curved to point directly at her mouth. He really didn’t need that kind of distraction. “You, uh, you have something on your cheek.”

  “I do?” She reached up, scrubbed at the wrong side with her finger. “Did that get it?”

  “No, it’s on the other— Stop, you’re making it worse. Here.” He was probably going to hell for giving in to temptation this easily, but he couldn’t stand and watch any longer. If helping her meant he had to touch her, well, he’d suffer the consequences.

  He grabbed a towel and ran the corner under water. At his approach she turned off the flame beneath the pot and looked up at him.

  He stopped when she was barely within reach, not trusting himself to go closer. He told himself this meant nothing as he raised the towel and dabbed oh so gently at the jam. But even as his fingers brushed her skin, her scent reached out to him—strawberry and vanilla and a hint of sweat, just enough to make his mind jump to other activities that could leave people perspiring.

  His hand dropped to his side. “There. Got it.”

  She stood very still, eyes wide. She bit down on her lip, quickly, then took a short breath and said, so softly that he could barely hear, “Are you sure you got it all?”

  She stepped closer. And lifted her face to his, tilting slightly to reveal the cheek that was still pink from his earlier efforts.

  There wasn’t a bit of jam in sight, but damn, he was only human.

  “You’re right. Looks like I missed a spot.” He ran his finger gently across her cheekbone, longing to cup her face in his hands and kiss her. One side of his brain whispered a reminder that he should keep his distance until the sale papers were signed. The other side was busy shouting that if he didn’t kiss her, he’d be the world’s biggest idiot.

  She lifted her head slightly so his brief touch began to resemble a caress. He saw the pulse leaping at the base of her neck. If he ducked his head he could put his lips to it and feel her pounding through him.

  She leaned closer, leading with her breasts. His fingers slipped lower, his thumb flicking against the corner of her mouth. Her eyes closed, but from the way she parted her lips, he didn’t think she was trying to block him out. Anything but.

  He might fry for all eternity, but his thumb grazed the edge of her bottom lip. She inched closer. He leaned forward and reached toward her with his other hand—

  “You said you weren’t going to hit on her.”

  Lyddie yipped and jumped back about two feet. J.T. whirled to face Ben, tense and glowering in the doorway with an expression of supreme revulsion on his face. It seemed that things couldn’t get any worse.

  Then a noise from the other side of the room made him turn just in time to see Ruth walking rapidly away from the screen door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE COULD DO IT.

  Lyddie sat at the kitchen table the next night looking over the list of supplies Ben needed for camp but her mind wasn’t on shorts, windbreakers and binoculars. Even as she made check marks next to the items he already had and highlighted those she would need to buy, all she could think of was the same subject that had occupied her mind for the past twenty-four hours: that moment in the kitchen right before Ben opened his mouth. The moment when she knew J.T. was going to kiss her.

  The moment when she knew she wanted more.

  She told herself, as she had a hundred times since, that it was good they’d been interrupted. She could still tell Ben that J.T. had merely been cleaning her face. Okay, so neither of them believed it. Ben spent the day avoiding her. Ruth stayed silent, pressing her lips together and appearing on the edge of tears whenever Lyddie came near.

  But worse than putting up with their reactions had been the knowledge that if J.T.’s lips had actually brushed hers the way she ached for them to, she would have been all over him like chocolate ice cream on a toddler. They would have needed a chain saw to get her off him.

  And all night and all day, a little voice kept whispering in the back of her head that soon, she would be alone. For two glorious weeks. Fourteen days and fourteen long, hot summer nights.

  She could do things. Things with J.T., things that would definitely make her feel like anything but the Young Widow Brewster. And nobody would be around to stop them.

  The possibilities made her shiver.

  Tish glanced up from her puzzle on the other side of the table. “Mommy, are you cold?”

  “No, sweetie.”

  “Why did you do that quiver thing?”

  Because I’m imagining how it would feel to have J. T. Delaney underneath me. “Oh, you know. Just a chill.”

  Tish considered that. At least she was still speaking to Lyddie. It was nice to know she wasn’t a total outcast.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “When will the teacher letters come?”

  “You mean the one that tells who your teacher will be next year? Just before school starts.”

  “Oh.” Tish frowned at her puzzle piece, turning it aimlessly in her hand without trying to fit it into the opening in front of her. “I hope I don’t get Miss Lockhart.”

  “Why not? She’s supposed to be good.”

  “I don’t like her. She makes me feel funny.”

  “Funny ha-ha or funny strange?”

  But Tish must have decided she’d said too much, because she merely rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I don’t know. Can I call Millie?”

  “Who?”

  “Millie. From camp.”

  “Sure, I guess. Why?”

  Tish gave one of her best drama-queen sighs. “So I can talk to her.”

  Lyddie laughed and held out her arms. “That makes sense. But it’ll cost you a hug and a kiss.”

  Tish consented to a hug and offered her cheek for a kiss. She even allowed a quick tickle before squirming out of Lyddie’s embrace and skipping to the phone. Lyddie coached her through dialing and the welcome, then slipped out of the room when it became obvious that Tish no longer needed her.

  She ran upstairs, passing the closed door to Ruth’s room. She considered knocking, then shook her head and moved on. Glenn was dead. She wasn’t. She had done nothing she needed to explain or apologize for.

  At least not yet.

  On impulse, she ran to her room, dropped the list on the quilt-covered bed and grabbed her wallet off the dresser before rapping sharply on Ruth’s door.

  “Ruth, I’m running out for milk. I’ll be back soon.”

  There was a moment’s silence, followed by a reproachful admonition to do as she wished. Lyddie shook her head but refused to stop now. She told Tish to head upstairs with her grandmother and flew to the car before anyone could stop her. Her daughter wasn’t the only one who needed to talk to someone.

  Five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the library, knowing full well that it was closed at this time of night. She locked the doors, waited for the radio to finish playing “Call Me Maybe”—grinning at the irony even as she sang along—then punched numbers into her phone with a prayer that this was a good time.


  “Hello?”

  Lyddie breathed a sigh of relief. Prayer number one had been answered.

  “Zoë, it’s me. I know things are crazy, but have you got a few minutes?”

  “If you don’t mind slurping noises and the occasional burp.”

  “Oh, do I remember those days. Not a problem. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s perfect, and I slept six hours straight last night, and Sara is a godsend and the boys are actually cooperating. But that’s not why you called. What’s up?”

  Lyddie glanced around the deserted parking lot and slumped lower in the seat. “Um, see, there’s this guy....”

  “No!” But unlike Ruth, there was nothing but delight in Zoë’s denial. “Really? That’s wonderful! Tell me.”

  “Well, he used to live here. He’s home for the summer. And he seems kind of, um, interesting.”

  “What’s his name? No, wait, I don’t want to know. I might have met him.”

  “You haven’t. But Sara has.”

  “Well, then, if you want to talk freely, he should stay anonymous. Mr. X.”

  “God, Zo, are you stuck in high school?”

  “High school is better than what I’m doing now. This kid has suction that could put vacuum cleaners out of business. So what does he look like?”

  “Dark hair. Black with a little gray you only see in sunlight.”

  “Forget sunlight. You want moonlight.”

  She thought back to the night on the porch and grinned. “Actually, in moonlight it looks raven.”

  “Holy crap, you’ve done moonlight already?”

  “Is that any way to speak in front of an innocent child?”

  “She likes it. Her little eyes are telling me she wants more excitement from Aunt Lyddie. Tell me more.”

  “Well, let me think. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. He smiles a lot, at least around me. He has this mouth that makes me remember things I thought I’d forgotten, and wonder about things I thought I’d never wonder again.”

  For a moment the only sound was muffled breathing and gulping. Lyddie assumed Zoë was tending to the baby until she heard a sniff.