by Addison Fox
What had she seen?
“Mom. Mrs. W. You know Emma Vandenburg.”
Emma pasted on the smile she always associated with greetings to the elderly and turned to the two women. She hadn’t seen Emily Weston since she was young, and she’d never formally met Nick’s mother. “Mrs. Weston. It’s good to see you again.”
“Peter’s daughter all grown up and lovely.” The older woman pulled her close, the warm embrace a complement to the gleeful note that threaded through her words. “It’s good to have you back in the neighborhood.”
It was only when she turned to Nick’s mother that Emma’s voice dried in her throat. What did she call the woman? Her last name wasn’t Kelley. Nor was she a Mrs. Or was she?
As if sensing her discomfort, the woman extended a hand. “I’m Louisa. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Emma nodded, grateful for the save. “Likewise.”
She and Nick quickly made room for their new arrivals at their table, and it was only after they were settled that Emma realized that the large tray one of the counter boys carried, hovering behind their party, was for these two small women.
“It’s late for lunch.” Emily plopped herself down in the empty chair next to Emma’s and reached for a steak sandwich that would likely give Nick a run for his money. “Shouldn’t you young people be working right now?”
“We were working,” Nick interjected smoothly before snatching a tater tot off the woman’s plate. “Emma’s a slave driver and scheduled meetings through lunch.”
“I’m not—” She stopped and smiled. “I’m trying to show Nick the brewery’s not all fun and beer.”
“So far she’s failed miserably. She donated two kegs to the park boil last night, and today she took me to the Kings stadium and got me a tour of the ball field.”
Louisa didn’t say much, but Emma didn’t miss the gentle scrutiny. Her attention seemed kind, yet Emma was still relieved when it moved on to Nick. “I understand there was some excitement at the park last night.”
Nick’s eyebrows lifted. “Landon?”
“No, it was Fender, actually. He was still mad about it when he came ’round for breakfast this morning.”
Emma took in the subtle cues between Nick and his mother, a world of communication passing in what they didn’t say. Clearly Landon was the vocal one, yet it was Fender who’d shared the night’s events. And how nice that he stopped over for breakfast.
They might not be related by blood, but Nick and his family were a tight-knit group.
Although she’d done her level best to compartmentalize the events in the park, they’d swirled in her thoughts all day. Nick’s defense of the woman who’d been attacked. The frustration he’d carried through dinner. And then those explosive kisses. And underneath it all, that telltale comment that played over and over.
Until he gets out and it all starts again.
Did those close family bonds make his upbringing better? Or would it make those memories harder to bear?
“Your father still have a stick up his ass?” Emily’s mouth was full, but the put-down was unmistakable.
The question pulled her from her thoughts, jarring yet highly effective. “Excuse me?”
“I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing, though. Marcy was a good friend.”
Despite the original jab and the lingering punch every time her mother was mentioned, Emma found something about Emily Weston hard to resist. Unable to hold back a laugh, she said, “Well, if by ‘stick up his ass’ you mean is he still generally miserable, you’d be on the mark.”
“You think Nicky here’s going to be successful in winning him over?”
Emma eyed Nick, unaccountably pleased to see his stiff shoulders and slight grimace at Emily’s unorthodox questions. “He should be worried about winning me over.”
Emily’s quick laughter filled the restaurant before she patted Emma’s hand. “You’re a feisty one. Your father should be happy you’re home.”
He should be happy. Or even content. But Peter Vandenburg was neither, and her attempts at gamely managing the old woman’s barbs faded. “My father should be lots of things he isn’t.”
“You can put that one on a T-shirt,” Emily said.
The urge to flee was strong, but Emma reached for her drink and settled in to wait out the awkwardness, only to have Nick steer the conversation onward.
“Hey, Mom, how’d the luncheon go in Sheepshead Bay?”
“It went fine.”
“I’m sure you wowed them with your speech.”
Emma reached out, scrabbling for the conversational lifeline. “What were you speaking at?”
“Mom’s running for borough president.”
“It’s not definite.” Louisa played with a chip on her plate. “I haven’t fully decided.”
“What do you mean?” Nick turned toward his mother, and it was the first time Emma noticed some cracks in the veneer. Where Louisa had been embarrassed by Emily’s forward questions, a fleeting darkness ghosted her eyes before she reached for her sandwich. “The borough presidency is a big job. And running for it requires a lot of focus.”
“Which you have.”
“I’m still deciding if I want to overhaul my life that way. I have a few more weeks to formally declare.”
“She’s just being modest.” Emily waved a hand as she reached for her soda. “I’ve been at her all week that she’s being silly. Come to dinner tonight and help me convince her.”
“I’m not sure I’m free,” Nick mumbled.
Emma watched the byplay, fascinated and absolutely sure something else was going on under the surface when Emily’s laser gaze turned to her. “You too, Emma. I’m making fried chicken, and Landon and Fender are already in.”
“Oh, Mrs. Weston, I couldn’t—”
“Impose. Sure you can. You’re new back in town, and you need a bit of meat on those bones.” Emily gave a hard nod before she picked up her enormous steak sandwich again. “You’ll come. Seven at the brownstone. We’ll eat in Lou’s kitchen.”
Emma glanced toward Nick, who just shrugged his shoulders.
It looked like she had dinner plans.
A cab rumbled past as Hector crossed the street to the End Zone. He’d spent most of the day there, moving stock and doing a bit of security review on the weekly tapes. Around three he’d gone back to his apartment to get a few hours down before heading back. Why, he had no idea, since it was his night off, but something about the routine and the noise was what he craved.
Another cab behind him honked at someone who wasn’t moving fast enough, but he ignored it—the noise was as much a part of his neighborhood as that crazy quiet that descended around three each morning. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at it before shoving it back into his jeans. If he looked at it one more fucking time he was going to toss it into the damn street.
Why the hell did he keep looking at it, like some sad sack of shit?
He had Becky’s number. She’d given it to him last night, before . . . Just before. But she’d been more than clear this morning that she didn’t want to hear from him.
Like he blamed her.
The FUBAR Rodriguez boys didn’t get numbers from nice girls like Becky Owens.
Rebecca.
He’d bet her name was Rebecca.
She sounded like a milkmaid. One with pale skin and wide blue eyes. Which she basically had, only there was no farm in sight in their crowded, oversettled burg.
He’d always liked it—had always believed he liked it. The anonymity and the noise and the bustle. It wasn’t quite Manhattan—Brooklyn had more trees—but it was a good place to get lost.
Only of late it had begun to feel crowded instead of anonymous. And his life had started to close in on him, his past sins whispering to him as he walked home at night after closing up for Nick, or catching him unaware from the corner of his eye as he stood out front at the End Zone, checking IDs and dealing with yuppie bastards.
And then she’d walked into the park.
He’d seen her before. The End Zone catered to most everyone in town under forty, and quite a few over it as well. She didn’t quite fit “cool blonde” territory, but every time she’d been in it was obviously date night. The last one had been a tool, but it still wasn’t any of his business, so he’d watched from a respectful distance.
And then last night she’d walked straight up to their group, no tool or spiffed-up yuppie bastard in sight.
Hector reached for his phone again, managing to still the urge to pull it from his pocket, the metallic edge warm from his body heat.
She didn’t need this. And he so didn’t need this. But for the first time last night, the demons that had dogged him of late had faded into the background, forgotten in the light of her presence.
And God help him, until last night, he hadn’t realized just how much he craved the light.
The scent of fried chicken greeted Nick just before he pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen. His mother hovered nearby as Mrs. W. stood over the deep fryer, a platter of chicken already heaping on the table beside her.
“Smells good in here.”
Emily glanced up from the fryer. “It’s going to smell even better when the corn bread comes out.”
Nick moved in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, their standard greeting since he was ten. “I never knew you were born south of the Mason-Dixon line.”
Emily waved a wicked-looking set of tongs at him. “I’m born-and-bred Brooklyn, and don’t you forget it.”
“So how’d you learn to make fried chicken like a debutante?”
“We all have our secrets, Nicky boy.”
Emily smoothly flipped several pieces in the oil, and Nick fought back a smart-ass retort. On the subject of secrets, there were no doubt lingering questions about why he and Emma were out for lunch. And he still hadn’t fully filled his mother in on the situation with the Unity, although if Fender was there this morning, he’d likely spilled it all in clear detail.
He and his brothers had a code about what they didn’t tell their mother, but that list was surprisingly short. What had included cigarettes, makeout sessions, and fistfights at fifteen had morphed a few decades later, but not by much. And the town grapevine usually gave up their secrets anyway.
“So, Nicky. What do you have cookin’ with Emma?”
And there it was—the very conversation he wanted to avoid.
“Nothing’s cooking, Mrs. W.”
“I’m not blind.”
“And I’m not spilling.”
She gave him a solid smack on the back of his shoulder before shoving the tongs toward him. “I need more oil upstairs. Flip these for me.”
“I’ve got oil.” His mother was already headed for the cabinets when Emily’s tart voice stopped her.
“No, you don’t. I used it.”
Nick could only shake his head. “I’ll go get it.”
“Are you calling me old, young man?”
“No ma’am.”
Mrs. W. shoved the tongs at him once more. “Then turn my chicken and don’t let it burn.”
In moments she was through the door and headed up to her apartment. They heard the heavy clunk of the elevator they’d had restored a few years back, the thunk-thunk-thunk echoing back toward the kitchen.
Nick turned the chicken as he was asked, no novice after helping out in his own kitchen at the End Zone. “She’s subtle.”
“As a freight train.”
He eyed his mother, his smile falling as he caught sight of her. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“Yeah, but I asked first.”
Her acknowledgment she held something back slammed into his gut. Laying the tongs on the platter, he moved toward her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He pulled her into his arms, not for the first time realizing just how small and slender she was. “You’re not sick? Or something like that?”
Bone-deep fear washed through him, obliterating everything in its wake. Was something really wrong? Friends had already dealt with aging and sick parents. Heck, Emma’s whole life had changed with the death of her mother.
“No, sweetie.” She pulled back and looked up at him, her gaze softening. “No, nothing at all. I’m fine.”
“Then what is it? The borough presidency?”
“No.” Her gaze shut down as she pulled fully from his arms. “I’m still deciding on that.”
“I thought you decided.”
His mother snapped up the tongs, turning the chicken in a few quick, hard jerks. “It’s a big job.”
“Which you can handle.”
“That I need to think about.”
Nick stepped back, not quite sure what to do, since pretending he was busy with the chicken was no longer an option. His mother had always been so open with them, the idea that she even had a secret, or a concern or, hell, just something bothering her, was a tough pill.
“How are things going with the Unity?”
“Not like I expected.”
“Fender suggested as much.”
The fear that had lodged like a tight ball in his stomach exploded on a rush of energy and unleashed temper. “What the hell else did the mouth say?”
“Nick?”
“Seriously. What the hell was he doing? Sitting here like an old lady gossiping in your kitchen over breakfast? Did you serve him some fucking coffee cake, too?”
“Nicholas James, you want to run that one by me one more time?”
“You have a question, ask me. Don’t go snooping with my brother.”
Slamming through the door, he headed for the family room and the escape of a ball game. He’d apologize later. Right now he wanted some fucking air.
Emma juggled the small bouquet in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other. She’d whipped up a double batch of chocolate chip after she got home, figuring she could use half as her contribution to the evening and the other half as a peace offering to her father.
She needed to talk to him about the contract at the Kings stadium and hadn’t yet settled on her approach. If nothing else, the cookies would occupy his mouth for the few moments she had to make her case. When the inevitable guilt followed at her unkind thoughts, Emma pushed it back. She could add the remorse and blame to the same pile she carried over not being here for her mother. One more tick in the “Emma sucked at family” column.
“You need help with that?” Landon did a quick leap up the front stoop of the brownstone and extended a hand, taking the bobbling bouquet off her hands.
“Thanks.”
He easily juggled the flowers with the two bottles of wine he carried and a backpack slung over one shoulder. In that rush of motion, Emma took a quick minute to take in the long, lean form of Landon McGee.
The geeky boy she remembered had certainly grown up into an attractive man. He was still thin—she suspected he cursed the inevitability of genes on that one—but he had filled out those scrawny lines with a solid frame. Nicely toned biceps peeked out from beneath the edge of his T-shirt sleeves, and well-worn jeans hugged his slim waist.
But it was the eyelashes.
Long and spiky, they framed rich, dark eyes, the color of espresso. Combined with his easy smile, both added just enough to the lean lines of his face to make a woman look twice.
The smile tipped up at the corners as he gave her a wry grin. “I heard you’d gotten roped into fried-chicken night.”
“You heard?”
“Mrs. W. texted me to bring extra wine. She used that time to gleefully tell me she’d seen you and Nick at lunch, she’d invited you to dinner, and we needed to fatten you up.”
Since that pretty much matched her lunch to a T, Emma only shook her head. “I’m not sure if I’m terrified or if I’ve missed this.”
“This?”
“I was in Chicago for over a decade. I didn’t even know my
neighbors on either side of me.” With a wry smile of her own, she added, “Which isn’t exactly a shining testimony to my own skills at neighborly bonding.”
“Town gossip can be a bit much.”
“Brooklyn’s not exactly small.”
“No, but our neighborhood is. And there’s nothing Park Heights likes more than someone who comes back home to it.”
There was an odd sort of sense in his comments, and his warm smile made it easy to ask his opinion on her bigger concern. “I think Mrs. Weston’s trying to play matchmaker.”
“Probably.”
“I don’t need matchmaking.”
“You single?”
Although he had to know the answer, she played along. “Yes.”
“Then you’re going to have a hard time convincing anyone else of that fact.”
Landon pushed open the door and waved her on through. “Brace yourself for the madness that is dinner at my mother’s.”
“Madness?” Her comment died on the wave of noise that assaulted her from the interior of the house. The brownstone was large, a legacy from Park Heights’s wealthiest residents at the turn of the twentieth century. Emma had passed this street her entire life, but had never had the pleasure of entering one of the brown edifices that rose four stories toward the sky.
She wanted to think she was cooler than gawking at her surroundings, but the house was magnificent. In a city renowned for its lack of space, the interior of the brownstone was large, warm, and engaging.
A huge sectional couch dominated the room, colorful throws on both sides of the “L” along with vivid, matching pillows at various intervals. A flat screen on the wall blared a Mets game. The space flowed into a large dining room, with a table that could easily seat twelve. The entire area was bookended with open stairs on one side next to—was that an elevator?—and swinging doors on the opposite wall.
Louisa Mills came through the swinging door of the kitchen, a frown on her face before she caught sight of the two of them. The frown vanished, but Emma didn’t miss the quick impression of sadness and frustration.
“Emma. Landon. Come on in.”
Landon extended the bouquet. “Emma brought you these flowers.”
“They’re beautiful.” She took them from Landon, her smile bright before she pulled Emma into a tight hug.