Here Comes Trouble

by Anna J. Stewart

  Sheila shrugged, trying not to pay much mind, but felt her cheeks flame. Any impartiality she might have possessed had been compromised upstairs when she’d considered finding out if Malcolm still had muscles in all the right places. “I’m just saying it can’t have been easy knowing what people think of him, having to face what he left behind.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Bright blue eyes widened at her. “You’re still in love with him.”

  Sheila sputtered her way free of her water glass and wiped her mouth. “Tyson Oliver.” She smacked his shoulder and cast a nervous glance around the kitchen, grateful for the clanging and banging of dishes and glasses. “Shut up!”

  “Jesus.” Ty all but rolled his entire body as he circled around and leaned his elbow on the counter. “He left you behind, Sheila. Left all of us behind. How can you forgive him for that?”

  “Okay, first of all, it wasn’t like we were engaged.” Sheila perched on the bar stool beside him and lowered her voice. “And yes, I suppose I was more enamored of him than he was of me. I mean, of course that was the case since he left without saying a word.” But she was getting off track, a track she did not want to go down. “Secondly, it’s been five years, Ty. The company is flush again; you’ve done a great job stepping in for your father and taking over as he begins moving toward retirement. Isn’t it time you and Malcolm set things right?”

  “Um . . . no.” And because Ty popped a tomato into his mouth, she knew he meant it. Conversation over. “And don’t go playing peacemaker either,” he warned as he swallowed a good third of his beer. “There’s no going back, there’s no forgiving what he did. He can give me every reason in the book and nothing’s going to change my mind.”

  “Not even if you were the reason he’s here?”

  “I saw the way he was looking at you a few minutes ago, Sheila.” Ty shook his head. “He didn’t come back for me.”

  ***

  The novelty of irritating his father by attending the party took another hour to subside. The way his grandmother’s—no, his father’s—guests were casting accusatory glances his way—as if he were an Ebola carrier newly arrived from the Mayo Clinic—was testing his resolve to keep his chin up and the past behind him. None of them meant anything to him. He might have known them most of his life, but why did he care what they thought?

  Because what they thought wasn’t true.

  About the time he was considering calling it an evening, his grandmother took her usual spot in the Queen Anne chair beside the fireplace, the gold and ivory brocade encompassing her like the throne she should occupy.

  So he entertained himself by winding his way through the crowd, dodging the occasional condemning and accusatory looks. By the time he joined Alcina, he felt like Superman—bulletproof and conspicuous, except his cape should have come with a scarlet letter.

  The one bright spot came from seeing Sheila interact with Ty once they returned to the party, their easygoing banter a testament to a friendship that had sustained the disaster of Malcolm’s removal from the family and family business. Good to know Ty had had two rational, reliable female influences around him.

  He’d struck out with Ty twice now when it came to starting a meaningful conversation. It was going to take planning and privacy if he was going to broach the real subject he needed to discuss. First he needed a few minutes to plant the seeds of doubt, to let them germinate until the truth finally grew.

  But dismantling the years of brainwashing Chadwick had imparted on Ty was going to take patience and time . . . neither of which Malcolm had an abundance of.

  Sheila seemed to have an inside track, however. The way she brushed her fingers over Ty’s tuxedo-clad arm, the way she laughed, the same way she’d laughed with him, both intrigued and irritated him.

  What did he expect? That she’d been pining away for him since he’d left her behind? The idea that she was more than friends with his brother didn’t strike a chord he was comfortable with, and the dark thoughts churning in his head when he considered the possibility wasn’t going to make reconciling with his brother any easier.

  Despite how he’d left things—and who he’d left behind—he hadn’t had a choice. It was the only way to protect those he cared about. But time changed things. The truth changed things.

  “Malcolm, I’ll be dehydrated before you hand over that glass of club soda.” Alcina leaned forward, trying to capture his gaze that was pinned on Sheila’s retreating form.

  “Sorry, Gran.” As he turned, he saw the group of three businessmen and their wives—or mistresses, Malcolm couldn’t be sure—look away as if he’d caught them looking through the curtains of an illegal peep show. “Can I get you something more to eat?”

  Alcina shook her head as she sipped from the glass. “Sheila already fixed me a second plate. Now stop worrying.” She patted his hand after she drew him down beside her. “Besides, I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite these days. Now, why aren’t you going after her?”

  “Gran—”

  “You’ve wasted five years. Take it from me, young man, do not get to a point in your life when all you have is regrets.”

  “Speaking from experience?” Malcolm teased, knowing full well his grandmother had lived her life as she’d wanted—to the absolute fullest.

  “Speaking for your father.” She lowered her voice. “I know he’s a difficult man, Malcolm. And I know whatever happened between the two of you was probably more his fault than yours.”

  “You’d win that bet.” As much as he despised his father, as much as he loathed the depths to which Chadwick would crawl to get what he wanted, Malcolm knew the truth would break Alcina’s heart. Something he was determined to avoid.

  “Where are you staying?” Alcina locked gnarled fingers around Malcolm’s hand and squeezed, and Malcolm knew it was because she was holding him here as gossip began to circulate around the room. The back of his neck prickled, his skin went hot, as if his whispered name was being used as a weapon of information, judgment, and condemnation.

  “Lantano Valley Empire.” The presidential suite in the most exclusive hotel in the city seemed appropriate if not ostentatious. He hated it. He much preferred his sparse two-bedroom apartment overlooking the San Francisco Bay in a building that history traced back to the 1906 earthquake.

  “That’s a lovely hotel,” Alcina said, and her hand trembled and club soda rocked out of the glass and splashed onto her green pantsuit. “Especially since the renovations. They used to have the nicest tea service there. Very royal hotel, if memory serves. Scones and clotted cream and cucumber sandwiches.”

  “Sounds like someone’s angling for a date.” Malcolm smiled, wishing he could block out the rumble of conversation as easily as Alcina. “Gran, I think maybe—”

  “You’ve run enough for one lifetime,” Alcina said with another determined squeeze of her hand. “It’s time for you to make your stand.”

  Malcolm agreed. To do what needed doing, someone was going to get hurt, and his greatest fear was causing collateral damage. He had to be so careful not to hurt those he loved.

  “Your mother had the same choice as you,” Alcina said, glancing aside when Malcolm turned surprised eyes on her. Alcina had never, not since his mother had left, spoken her name or even mentioned her. Not even to disparage or criticize. “I know how much pain her leaving caused you boys, but as my life comes to a close, Malcolm, I’ve come to the realization that she did what she had to in order to survive. You did the same five years ago and you’re stronger for it. Staying and fighting for what and who you want will make you stronger still. And you’ll need to be if you’re going to take up your rightful place at Oliver Technologies.”

  Panic of a different kind seized Malcolm around the throat and squeezed. “That’s not going to happen, Gran. I’ve started a new life. I started over. There’s nothing that will ever make me stay.”

&n
bsp; Alcina leaned forward, peered around him as Sheila swept through the hall, balancing on those ridiculous heels of hers as effortlessly as a dancer donned toe shoes. When he focused on his grandmother again, he saw a knowing grin on her face. She reached up and patted his cheek. “Oh, I think there’s something. And there’s no time like the present.”

  Chapter Four

  “Dad?” Sheila closed the imported Italian wood door behind her, averting her eyes from the “For Sale” sign perched at the edge of the manicured yard. As much as she understood her father’s need to start over and move beyond the house he and Catherine had shared for more than thirty years, seeing her past fold behind her stung. She loved this house. “Nathan?” she called, turning another blind eye to the stacks of boxes lining the marble hallway and soon-to-be-empty sitting room. “I think we might have a problem— Morgan!”

  She leapt back as a round strawberry-blond-capped face popped around the corner, brilliant green eyes both sparkling and wary as they locked on Sheila’s casual pale pink pantsuit. “What are you doing here?” Sheila glared at her younger sister. “You’re usually with the Fiorellis on Sundays.” Morgan was with the Fiorellis most days as she owned the house the Fiorellis lived in.

  “Are you alone?” she whispered and peered around Sheila.

  “Yes.” Sheila set her clutch on the round marble table at the foot of the curving staircase. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” But the sudden overly perky shine on her sister’s face had Sheila suspecting the opposite was true. Her sister was a master at masking unease. Most of the time.

  “Since when does packing tape capture your attention so completely?” Sheila followed her jeans-and-T-shirt-clad sibling into the kitchen, where the countertops were piled high with a lifetime of dishware and cutlery. How many Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners had been served on this china? China that would soon be packed away in storage until . . . No. Not going to think about that either. “Liza said something about a big family barbecue for the Fourth of July.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Morgan kept her back turned, but Sheila could see her twirling her hair around a finger, something she’d done for years whenever nerves got the best of her. “Big to do. Multi-family.”

  Ah. Struggling to keep a straight face, and grateful for being single, she said, “Let me guess. Nothing says a big multi-family event like Theresa Juliano.” Sheila grinned at the thought of Morgan’s future mother-in-law stalking the soon-to-be bride. “Is that who you’re hiding from?”

  “I’m not hiding.” But each pop of the bubble wrap under her fingers may as well have been a bomb for all the force she used. “Dad needed some help—”

  “Liar.” Sheila came around the black granite countertop and leaned her arms on the few inches of clear space as Morgan picked at the edge of the roll of tape. “Dad’s had an army in here for the last week loading up boxes. It’s the last place you have to be. Spill. What’s going on? You and Gage have a fight?”

  Morgan started to nod, shook her head. Cringed. “Not exactly.”

  The “happily ever after” aura her sister had carried for the better part of six weeks dimmed. Life had shifted for Morgan ever since her hunky ex-cop fiancé proposed in a cemetery of all places. Sheila shuddered at Gage’s unusual choice for romance. And yet, given the circumstances of that day, Sheila couldn’t imagine a more appropriate time or place. And talk about a story to tell the grandkids.

  “It’s nothing, really,” Morgan continued. “It’s just, Theresa has been pestering us to set a date. And it’s, well, causing some tension.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Sheila retreated to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “Set a date.”

  “Clearly you’ve never had Theresa Juliano breathing down your neck like a rabid wedding planner. The date is just the start. But that’s neither here nor there. I don’t have time to plan a wedding—whenever it might happen—right now. We have the gala in a few weeks and you’re swamped with all your events, and now with the art auction for the Olivers . . .”

  “Okay, stop.” Sheila reached out and grabbed her sister’s flailing hands, hating the look of panic on Morgan’s face. If there was one thing her sister didn’t deal well with it was disappointing people. The thought of saying no rarely crossed Morgan’s mind—part of what had landed her in some serious trouble not so long ago. “Take a minute and breathe.” She stroked Morgan’s hand, waited until her sister’s breathing evened out, and tugged her forward, shifting into big-sister mode. “What’s really going on, Morgan? You still want to get married, don’t you?”

  Shock registered before irritation. “Of course I do.”

  “Then act like it. Set a date. Get Theresa off your back even if it’s for a few days.”

  “I told you, it’s not that simple.” Morgan tugged free and began stacking plates between sheets of paper. “Now that our funding has been worked out, construction on the center is actually ahead of schedule, which means a Christmas wedding is out because we’ll be opening the door to patients by the first of the year. But the gala . . . And then there’s the kids and going back to school and well . . .”

  “Keep digging, Morgan. You’ll come up with a good excuse any time now.” Whenever her sister went silent, Sheila knew to wait for the ensuing detonation. Or shut down. “Is it Gage? Is he getting cold feet?” As if.

  “No. He’s been great. He even offered to elope next weekend even though it means his mother would disown both of us.” Ah, that blissful smile returned. Sheila’s heart squeezed in envy. Malcolm had made her feel like that—wanted, desired. Loved. Morgan cleared her throat, the sound slamming the door on Sheila’s wandering thoughts as Morgan’s strained voice brought her out of her reverie. “But, well, here’s the thing, and I needed to talk to you about it because—”

  “Please just come out with it before I smash a plate over your head.”

  “The Fiorellis got a call the other day about a pair of twin six-year-old boys who need a foster home.”

  The words tumbled out and rolled straight into Sheila’s chest. She swallowed hard, attributing the tears burning in her eyes to the stinging in her throat. Angela and Nico Fiorelli were Morgan’s co-foster parents and took in those children with serious health issues. How they did it, time after time, especially after losing one as suddenly as they’d lost Brandon Monroe, Sheila couldn’t fathom. No matter how hard she tried. But the Fiorellis, and her sister, had a calling to open their hearts and homes despite the potential wounds.

  Life kept moving forward. For everyone except her. “Nico and Angela miss Brandon.” Six weeks later and saying his name still felt like a knife to the chest. But foster parents needed foster kids. An easy equation that would never add up for Sheila.

  “We all miss Brandon.” Morgan’s voice sounded as strained as Sheila’s felt. “He was a huge presence in the house and losing him like that—”

  If only Sheila could close her ears as easily as her eyes. One day the ten-year-old cancer survivor had been playing cowboy commando and the next an embolism stole him from them. From all of them. From her . . . Brandon. “Doesn’t explain why you don’t want to set a date.” Shut it down. Shut it out. Don’t remember . . . Sheila gripped the plastic water bottle in her hand.

  Morgan nodded. “I should be grateful. I love how things are going. When I started the foster home with the Fiorellis, we planned on bringing in more kids. Except.” She pressed a hand against her heart. “It’s not replacing him, right?” Morgan blinked tear-filled eyes at Sheila, who struggled with her own strangling emotions. “He loved being a brother, having kids in the house. It makes sense to bring more in.”

  Sheila knew moving forward was the only way to make it through the pain, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pull free from the past . . . and the grief. “You and the Fiorellis started the foster home so these kids wouldn’t be treated differently because they�
�re sick. You give them a safe place, a home, people who love and care about them.”

  “I know. But Brandon—”

  “Would be the first to welcome those little boys into that house.” Even as she said it, her heart was screaming its denial, that it should be Brandon racing up those stairs, breaking the dishwasher, challenging his foster siblings to board games. Locking his arms around Sheila’s neck in a hug she could still feel when she closed her eyes and let herself remember.

  The thought of new little boys in that house, in his room, living his life, snapped her to the quick. “That kid was something,” she managed. How could such a tiny life have left such a huge hole in her heart? “But none of this has to do with you getting married. We both know when you want something bad enough, you make it happen. You want to elope? Elope. The second you pop out that first grandkid of hers, Teresa will forget about it.”

  Morgan snorted. “Keep dreaming. She’s had her heart set on a huge family wedding from the second Gage brought me home for Sunday dinner. And let’s not forget she thought William and Kate’s royal wedding was understated. Besides, I made a deal.” She buried her face in her hands. “She refrained from teasing Gage about a certain morning encounter I had with him in the shower in exchange for letting her help plan the wedding. You were there.”

  “Yes, yes I was.” And what an entertaining morning that was. “So meet her halfway. Stop stalling. Pick. A. Date.”

  “Picking a wedding date is barely a quarter of the way to meeting Theresa Juliano.” Jackson Tremayne strode into the kitchen and headed straight for the steaming coffee pot on the far counter. His silver-infused blond hair reflected against the mid-morning sun streaming through the kitchen windows. He was one of those men who was as comfortable in a three-piece suit as he was in dark slacks and a polo shirt, his usual weekend attire. “But it’s a start. Sheila, did I hear you bellow a while ago?” He looked at her over his mug to let her know her statement of a problem hadn’t gone unheard. Before she could answer, he refocused his attention on Morgan. “April is a lovely month for weddings.”