One Summer

by JoAnn Ross

  But then, damn, she’d smiled up at him and his mind was wiped as clear as glass.

  “Knitting?” Great opening line, fuckhead.

  She arched a dark brow, appearing as surprised as Gabe was by his opening gambit. “My mother talked me into it. We’re making blankets for kids in difficult situations.”

  “Sounds like a great idea,” he said as the two dogs began chasing each other as if it had been years rather than a few hours since they’d seen each other.

  “Project Linus is a national organization. Adèle’s spearheading the Shelter Bay group.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Yes.” She tilted her head. “But surely you didn’t come back to discuss my new hobby.”

  “No.” His knees were shaking as if he’d been going into battle. He considered locking them but, having witnessed too many fellow Marines passing out during inspection by cutting off the flow of blood to their head, forged on.

  “I came to grovel. To crawl naked down Harborview over shards of broken glass to beg forgiveness for acting like an ass.”

  “That naked glass crawling is my mother’s idea,” she said. Another slight smile played at the corners of that luscious mouth he knew he’d still want to taste when they were in their nineties, sitting on this porch, watching their grandkids windsurfing on the bay. “I also thought, at the time, that perhaps it was a bit excessive.”

  “How about this?” He dropped to one knee on the porch. “I love you. I’m not real good at saying the words, but maybe that’s partly because I don’t know any words strong enough for how you make me feel. You make me believe that I’m a better man than I know I am.”

  “A better man than you sometimes think you are,” she corrected softly.

  Oh, hell. She was beginning to mist up. Was that a good thing? Or bad?

  Whatever. The fact is that when I’m with you, I want to be the kind of man who’d make a good husband. The kind that would be a good father to Johnny and Angel. And any other kids you might want to consider having.

  “Down the road,” he tacked on quickly, not wanting her to think he was putting any pressure on her. But she had said she wanted a big family. “If you want, that is. If you don’t—”

  She placed a finger against his lips, cutting him off. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than make a child with you.”

  “You know that movie. Where Tom Cruise tells that actress that she completes him?”

  She nodded. Jerry Maguire.”

  “That’s it.” Romantic comedies would never be his first choice, but they’d shown it at the theater in the Green Zone during one of his tours in Iraq. “I always thought that was a cheesy line.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone in that.”

  “But the deal is, I understand it now.” He took hold of her hand and linked their fingers together, and, lifting them to his lips, pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “You fill a hole in me, Dr. Charity Tiernan. One I didn’t even know was empty. Until I met you.”

  “Damn.” Her eyes were glistening now, the tears starting to flow. “I never cry.”

  “I promise, if you just forgive me for being the world’s biggest idiot, I’ll spend the rest of our lives trying to make you never cry again.”

  “You are an idiot.” It was a half laugh, half sob. She hit his shoulder with her free hand. “Because these are happy tears.”

  Cooling relief flooded over him. It was going to be okay. They were going to be okay. And she wasn’t even going to make him crawl naked over broken glass. Which he’d been totally willing to do, if that’s what it had taken.

  As he took her into his arms, all Gabe could think about was that, after all these years wandering the world, he was home. With Charity.

  Home where he belonged.

  Later that evening

  They were all gathered together on the porch, sitting in the white Adirondack chairs facing the harbor. Was there a more clichéd shot than a family photo?

  Probably not.

  Was there a better shot?

  Not in Gabe’s view.

  “Okay,” Johnny instructed as he set the timer on the camera he’d placed on the porch railing, “no one move.” He shot a hard look at the dogs, who were sprawled in front of the chairs. “And that includes you mutts.”

  He started the timer clicking, then dashed back and was in his chair, sitting in front of Gabe and Charity, right beside his sister, with time to spare.

  “On the count of three everyone has to smile,” he said.

  “That’s an easy one,” Gabe said as he put his arm around Charity’s shoulders.

  “One.”

  “Two.”

  “Three,” the teenage photographer called out.

  And as the camera clicked, freezing this perfect moment in time, Gabe smiled.

  Read on for a peek at the next book in the Shelter Bay series,

  ON LAVENDER LANE

  Coming from Signet in January 2012

  Madeline Durand was braising short ribs in an Omaha department store when her husband’s sex video went viral.

  The day, which would go down as one of the worst in her life, hadn’t exactly begun on a high note when her early-morning flight from New York was delayed for three hours due to a late-spring storm that had barreled into Nebraska, bringing with it tree-bending winds, snow, and ice.

  Lots and lots of ice.

  On the plus side, when she finally did arrive in Omaha, she was greeted by a sixtysomething woman wearing a puffy down coat that was the same color as her weatherchapped cheeks, and a red knit hat pulled down over salt-and-pepper hair. Her down-to-earth midwestern friendliness gave Madeline hope that her luck may have taken a turn for the better.

  “Hi, Chef Madeline! I’m Birdy Hinlemeir,” she said enthusiastically, pulling off a red and white striped mitten and thrusting out her hand. “Head of the store’s special events department. We’re all so excited about hosting your cooking demonstration today.”

  “I’m happy to be here.” Which was the absolute truth. After holding her breath while the pilot landed in near whiteout conditions, Madeline was infinitely grateful to be back on solid ground.

  “Sorry about the weather,” Birdy said as they walked out into air thick with swirling white flakes. “We tend to have four seasons here: almost winter, winter, still winter, and wow, this has gotta be the hottest summer ever!”

  “I take it we’re in ‘still winter.’ ” Madeline sucked in a breath as a freezing mix of snow and sleet pelted her face.

  “Yep. We don’t tend to get snow this late, but the weather’s been really strange the last couple years. I guess Mother Nature had one more storm up her sleeve.”

  “You needn’t apologize. Fortunately I won’t be cooking outdoors.”

  “Oh, the store will definitely be warm enough,” the older woman assured her. “Your dish for the finished part of the demonstration arrived this morning, all packed in dry ice, so my assistant’s heating it up for you.”

  “I appreciate that.” Short ribs took three hours in the oven, so, following Julia Child’s motto that a few simple steps ahead of time could make all the difference in the end, Madeline had preprepared a dish to serve to the audience.

  “Good thinking, going with beef, since we’re definitely a meat-and-potatoes crowd out here. It’s not that often we get a celebrity at the store—usually it’s just some local selling homemade jam or sausage—so we wanted to do it up right.”

  “I appreciate the effort. But I’m not a celebrity. I just cook.”

  “Well, to us you’re certainly a TV star. I’ve never missed an episode of Comfort Cooking, but your new show, Dinner at Home, got my family sitting down at the table together again.”

  “That’s always lovely to hear,” Madeline said through teeth she’d clenched together to keep them from chattering.

  “Of course, my own three kids have left the nest,” Birdy confided. “But my daughter got laid off from her management job at ConAgra�
�the same week her cheating husband left her for the woman who claimed to be her best friend. Yeah, right. That’s a real good friend.” She shook her head in disgust. “Anyway, with money tight right now, she and her kids have moved in with me until she gets back on her feet.”

  “I’m sorry about her marriage.”

  “Oh, in the long run it’s probably for the best. He was a no-good louse from the get-go. I tried to warn her, but what can you do?” She shrugged well-padded shoulders as she clicked the remote, causing a tomato red SUV a few cars away in the lot to chirp. “They never had anything in common. Nothing like you and that sexy French chef you married. Is it true one of his ancestors cooked for Napoleon?”

  “So they say.” Maxime had never been shy about mentioning that bit of family history.

  “It’s good to know your roots. One of my ancestors, going back several generations, came here to Nebraska on a covered wagon from Philadelphia. She had a baby along the way, and both mother and son lived to carry on the family line.” She opened the hatch of the SUV, took Madeline’s carry-on bag and tossed it into the back.

  Desperate for warmth, Madeline scrambled into the passenger seat, only to find the inside of the car as cold as it was outside.

  “We’ll get the heat going right away,” Birdy promised as she climbed in and turned the ignition, causing icy air to blast out of the dashboard vents. “Does your husband ever come with you on any of these trips?”

  “Not so far. Running all his restaurants involves a lot of traveling of his own. He’s currently in Las Vegas.” And undoubtedly lounging by the pool while she was in danger of becoming a Popsicle.

  “Small world. My Heather and Tom, her ex, got married there,” she said as they headed out of the parking lot. “By one of those Elvis impersonators, which should’ve been Heather’s first clue that they weren’t exactly compatible. Tom’s into all the typical outdoors stuff. Hunting, ice fishing, four-wheeling.”

  “I imagine those would be popular activities here.”

  “True enough. But Heather prefers reading and going to museums and such. She volunteers at the library. I don’t think they have a cookbook she hasn’t read. She’s the one who got me watching cooking shows. Two years ago, Hamburger Helper and a green bean casserole were about as fancy as I got. Now I can whip up a three-course meal from what I find in the pantry.”

  “That’s a good skill to have.” It was also something Madeline stressed on both her shows.

  “You betcha. That’s our Dancing Cranes.” Birdy pointed toward a huge statue that was barely visible through the horizontally blowing snow. “It’s the largest bronze statue in North America.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “We like to think so. I realize that a lot of people on the coasts never think about us out here in the flyover heartland, but we’re not all hicks in sticks. Kool-Aid and the Reuben sandwich were both invented right here in Nebraska.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s true. Too bad you’re not going to be here longer. Hastings, home of the Kool-Aid Museum, is just a couple hours from here. Did you know that during the Depression, one of those little packages cost more than a loaf of bread?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “It sure enough did. But people bought the stuff anyway. Imagine that. Hastings got an offer from some marketing folks to change the name of their town to Kool-Aid, Nebraska, but they declined the honor.” Her dry tone suggested how ridiculous she’d found the suggestion.

  “I think they made the right choice,” Madeline said. “I haven’t always lived in New York. I spent my childhood years in an Italian village with my parents, then moved to an Oregon coastal town when I was thirteen.”

  Shelter Bay was also where she’d given her eighteen-year-old heart to a rich “summer boy,” only to have it shattered by Labor Day.

  “I read all about that.” The pompom bobbed as the woman nodded. After your folks died in that plane crash, which was a crying shame, you went to live with your grandmother on her lavender farm.

  “You can find anything on the Internet these days,” she clarified at Madeline’s surprised glance. “I even found your wedding photos. You sure were a picture in that white dress.”

  “My wedding photos are on the Internet?”

  “The photographer has them in his gallery.”

  “I hadn’t realized that.” The idea of her personal photos out there on the World Wide Web was more than a little unsettling. Unlike her celebrity chef husband, who thrived in the spotlight, Madeline had always been a private person.

  “Well, you needn’t worry, because they’re beautiful. Did you make that pretty flowered cake yourself?”

  “No. I’m not much of a baker.” Unlike the creative freedom and improvisation the comfort food she’d become known for allowed, baking required precision, a strict attention to measurements, and much more patience than Madeline possessed. “My husband’s pastry chef made it.”

  “I stick to cookies when it comes to baking,” Birdy said cheerfully. “They’re a lot harder to mess up than cakes or pies, and the grandkids love them.” Her comfortable way with a total stranger reminded Madeline of her grandmother Sofia, who acted as if she’d never met a stranger. “Though my mother-in-law is from South Dakota, so, now that she’s passed, I get the job of cooking her kuchen for this year’s Easter dinner.”

  As she launched into a lengthy explanation of the pressures of duplicating the recipe, which used raspberries atop a custard base, an oncoming car fishtailed on the icy road, then headed directly toward them.

  Birdy twisted the wheel and braked at the same time. Although she managed to avoid impact, the SUV went into a skid.

  As Madeline clutched the door handle, they skated on what felt like an ice rink beneath the tires, bumping over the rumble strip in the middle of the road.

  “Hold on,” Birdy advised with what Madeline considered remarkable calm. “We’re about to come to a stop.”

  Which they did as they plowed into a snowbank.

  “Don’t you worry.” After attempts to back up only sent the rear wheels spinning, the woman, who seemed to have sturdy pioneer blood flowing through her veins, dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a phone. “We’ll get you to the mall on time. Not that they can start without you.”

  She punched a single number on the keypad. “No point in calling for a tow truck since we’re not all that stuck. The police will be here in a two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “You have the police department on speed dial?” Without the heater blasting from the dashboard, the temperature inside the car was plummeting. Since the black suede high-heeled boots that looked so fashionable in the city had definitely not been designed for Nebraska’s “still winter” weather, Madeline’s toes were already beginning to chill again.

  “My youngest boy, Jeb, is on the force, so I keep his number handy. He’s the one who’ll pull us out.”

  And, sure enough, before Madeline’s feet could turn completely to ice cubes, a huge black SUV with white doors came up behind them, blue and red roof lights flashing.

  The officer who climbed out of the driver’s seat was large enough to have played linebacker on the Cornhuskers football team. He was wearing sensible snowpack boots, thick gloves, a parka, and a fur hat with earflaps. While his partner jumped out of the shotgun seat to set a flare and direct traffic, he walked toward the car, his feet crunching the plowed snow at the edge of the road.

  “Third time this week, Ma,” he said in greeting. Although his expression was resigned, his blue eyes revealed relief that the accident hadn’t been worse.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she said. “The driver of the other car, who didn’t even stick around to see the trouble he caused, went across the line first.” She turned toward Madeline. “Tell him.”

  “Your mother did a lot better than I would have under the circumstances,” Maddy said.

  “Driven in a lot of snow, have you, ma’am?” he asked.<
br />
  “No, but—”

  “You must be the celebrity chef from New York City,” he said, cutting her off.

  Madeline was about to explain again that she wasn’t a celebrity, but decided it wasn’t germane to their situation.

  “She is. And we need to get her to the mall on time.” Birdy might be a good foot shorter than her son, but that didn’t stop her from pulling out her mom voice. “Jebediah, meet Chef Madeline Durand. Chef Madeline, this is my baby boy. Who I’m usually superproud of.” She drummed her mitten-clad fingers on the steering wheel. “Except for when he wastes time scolding his mother when she has important things to do.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said politely to Madeline. “And I worry about you,” he told his mother.

  “Well, that makes us even for all the years I’ve worried about you. Especially during those two tours in Iraq,” she shot back. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re going to be late if we don’t get this show on the road.”

  “That’s very good,” Madeline murmured after Officer Jebediah Hinlemeir trudged back to his Omaha police SUV.

  “One of the perks of being a mother,” Birdy said cheerfully as snowflakes began to pile up on the windshield. “You get to boss around people bigger than you. Jeb’s about to become a father himself next month, but he’ll always be my baby. You and your husband planning to have kids anytime soon?”

  “I do want children—someday—but we’re both occupied with our careers right now.”

  Madeline wasn’t prepared to share the fact that she and Maxime weren’t exactly on the same page when it came to starting a family. Admittedly the time wasn’t right now, when she was forced to give every waking moment to her work and supporting Maxime’s far-flung enterprises. But she also didn’t want to reach forty-five without experiencing motherhood. Her own mother had managed to balance a career and a child, and never had Madeline felt the least bit neglected.

  Maxime, on the other hand, feared that a child would take her focus off her career. Or, more likely, she often thought, off him.