The piece was a twin-size quilt, creamy-hued pieces of fabric, plain or with tone-on-tone patterns so subtle she had to look twice at some to see them. It was a simple quilt, twelve-inch blocks with a scalloped edge. The beauty of this one was in the quilting, a meandering maze that led to a small outline-stitched heart. Though the long-arm quilting machine stood a few yards away, Sophy was finishing this one by hand because it was special.
It was for Dahlia, and maybe it would be with her when she someday found her heart’s desire. Please, God, let it be more worthy than her mother’s.
Daisy continued to wander, but the shop was a reasonably safe place to let her do that. The back door required a key to open the dead bolt. The stairs that had once led to the second floor ended at a blank wall and were used for display. There was a bell at the front door that chimed the instant anyone stepped on the floor mat, before they’d had a chance to even touch the door, and the windows were secured with extra locks.
As Sophy settled in, a sense of peace seeped through her. She loved every aspect of quilting, from choosing a pattern to assembling fabrics, cutting and piecing and quilting. To make her parents happy, she’d tried to major in business in college, dutifully attending classes at Clemson, stuffing dull facts she cared nothing about into her brain, giving up her social life and spending all her time studying. Quilting was the only other thing she made time for, and when one of her quilts won a major competition, she’d thrown in the business-major towel. Though there had been some lean times the first years the shop was open, she’d never regretted it.
Thanks to a Christmas gift from her sister, Miri, she wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time.
When the bell dinged, she secured the needle in the fabric, then set the quilt on the worktable. Neither Daisy, too short to be seen over the stands of fabric bolts between them, nor the customer was visible from Sophy’s location, but clearly they could see each other as Daisy greeted the newcomer.
In a particularly Holigan sort of way.
“What are you doing here?”
Giving her chair a hip bump to slide it into place, Sophy hurried down the wide center aisle.
“Maybe I came to make a quilt.”
Sophy blinked. The voice was low and gravelly and definitely male, definitely not anyone she knew. It was the kind of voice that belonged on the radio in the middle of the night with a half-moon casting slivers of light across the bedroom floor while the half-open windows provided brief drafts of air cool enough to dry the skin. She would have recognized it if she’d heard it before. She would have dated this voice without caring a damn about the rest of him.
She saw Sophy first, head tilted back, hands on her hips, then another couple steps brought the man into view on the other side of a sampler hanging from the ceiling. She stopped suddenly.
She was wrong. She’d heard this voice before, a long time ago, and it had been Reba dating him. Her rebellious stage, Reba had later called it, designed to drive Mom and Dad insane. But Sophy had always thought her sister’s laugh when she said that seemed a tad wistful.
“Men don’t make quilts,” Daisy announced as if she actually knew.
Sean Holigan. Sophy had spent maybe a total of twenty minutes in his presence in all the time he and Reba had dated. She’d practically lived on the front porch swing back then, and he’d never been invited in while her parents tried to dissuade Reba from leaving the house with him. He had always leaned against the porch railing, smelling of cigarette smoke and heat and essence of bad boy, and he’d usually ignored her with her nose buried in a book.
Naive and just turned fourteen, she’d pretended to ignore him back, but deep inside, she’d been intrigued by him. It had broken her innocent little heart when he and Reba broke it off after less than a month. Soon after, he’d left Copper Lake, followed in the family tradition of going to jail, then disappeared from the radar.
And now he was back.
Not yet noticing her, he gazed down at Daisy, the resemblance so strong that anyone could see they were family. “Men can make quilts if they want to.”
“Nuh-uh. I’ve been here a long time, and I never seen one man makin’ a quilt.” Daisy’s vigorous headshake was the final straw for the band holding her hair. It flew loose, landing on the floor right between Sean’s scuffed boots. He bent to pick it up and, somewhere in the process, became aware of Sophy’s presence.
Slowly he stood, his gaze rising with the same easy fluidity. Her feminine ego wished she’d chosen prettier shoes, was glad she wore a dress that showed a lot of leg and hugged all her curves, and couldn’t help but shiver inside as he reached her face and his dark eyes turned smoky.
She’d bet her eyes were smoky, too. In fact, she was pretty sure steam was escaping wherever it could—her ears, the strands of her hair, the pores of her arms. The handsome teenage bad boy was all grown up, sinfully and wickedly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous. His black hair was a little too long, his jaw unshaven for a few days, his mouth quirked in a way that was part smile and part sardonic curl and totally sexy.
As he finished straightening, he stretched the hair band over the second and fourth fingers on his left hand. She couldn’t help but look at his hand, noticing the absence of a wedding ring first, the scars and crooked joints of the fingers second. He’d been one of the guys who’d hung out at Charlie’s Custom Rods back then, always messing with cars. That could be dangerous work. So could being a Holigan.
It finally penetrated her dazed brain that she should say something, but before she could find even one word, he spoke.
“If it isn’t little Sophy Marchand. You grew up.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and her heart fluttered. Her fourteen-year-old self was dancing in circles: He noticed me! He remembered me! He knows my name! She was searching for the woman sharing space with the girl—she didn’t want to act like a flustered kid—and thought she managed a reasonable substitute. “Sean Holigan. I didn’t know you were back in town.”
A blur somewhere on her left, Daisy said, “Hey, that’s me and Dahlia’s name, too. We’re hooligans. We like to run wild and break rules. Do you run wild, too?”
Aw, Sean Holigan embodied wild and rule breaking.
That quirk touched his mouth again. “Me? Do I look wild?”
Daisy’s gaze narrowed as she studied him. “Yup,” she concluded. “You got long hair and a beard.”
“Nah, anyone can grow hair and a beard. It takes more than that to be a Holigan. Your mama doesn’t have a beard yet, does she?” He pretended to scrutinize Daisy’s jaw. “Though it looks like yours is about to come in. There’s a tiny hair here and another over there.”
With a squeal, Daisy ran off to find the nearest mirror.
Smiling, Sophy drew him away from the door and deeper into the store. “How did you remember my name?”
“I waited on the porch at least three times a week for nearly a month, with you in your prissy little dress and your prissy little ponytail and your prissy little books. You’re the only one in the family who didn’t routinely close doors in my face.”
Though he said it lightly, shame stabbed at Sophy. When Sean had shown up for his and Reba’s first date, Mom and Dad had been arguing upstairs with her, so Sophy had answered the door. She’d invited him inside, and he’d taken maybe two steps across the threshold when her father had rushed down the stairs, ushered him back out, then closed the door. A quick peek out the window had shown that his features were bronzed, but they’d been nowhere as hot as her face was now.
After Reba had ridden off with the bad boy destined to lead her straight into hell, Sophy and her father had had a rather heated conversation about manners and being polite and standing behind the welcome they symbolically issued to everyone. The conversation had run in Dad’s favor, and that was why she’d made the point of being on the porch every time Sean came over. Waiting outside with her, she’d figured, would seem less a slap in the face than being told to wait out there alone.
“I’m glad you stuck with the dresses. Legs like those should be seen, not covered.”
The warmth of a pure flush touched her cheeks. “I remember hearing about this in middle school. Blarney, isn’t it? Pleasant flattery, charm, not to be trusted?”
“So young to be so cynical. All those books you were reading on the porch swing...what were they? Dry, dull stories by people who didn’t get their share of flattery and charm growing up?”
His description might describe the outside of the books, but she’d usually had one of her mother’s romance novels hidden inside. She would admit—only to herself—that despite the characters on the covers, all the heroines resembled her as she’d imagined herself in ten years, and a fair number of the heroes had had black hair, beard stubble, tight jeans and tighter T-shirts.
Interesting to know that fourteen years later, he was still prime romance-novel cover material.
Corralling those thoughts, she gestured toward the work space. “Come on back. We’ve got coffee and snacks.” She patted an empty table as she passed and felt when he stopped following her there. It was a combination of heat and cold, comfort and risk and danger. Giving herself a mental shake, she continued to the corner, started the coffee, and carried napkins, forks, paper plates and her usual box of pastries from A Cuppa Joe to the table.
“Daisy, are you going to join us?” Please don’t, Sophy thought. No, please do. Pint-size safety was better than none.
Daisy skipped over to kneel on the chair across from Sean’s. “You fibbed. I don’t have any hair growing there.” Her pout made clear she was disappointed. She would have had some fun with whiskers.
“You will before long,” Sophy murmured back in the corner, putting coffee mugs, cream and sweetener on a tray. She didn’t intend for Sean to hear her, but his grin when she turned around suggested he had.
She carefully set the tray down, then took the chair beside Daisy. “I don’t believe you two have actually met, have you?” she asked as she took her coffee, holding the cup in both hands to steady it.
Daisy looked up over her apple juice, poured into a coffee cup so she didn’t feel left out and earnestly replied, “We just met. He’s a hooligan, and I’m a hooligan. Didn’t you hear?”
Sophy smiled for the girl but kept her gaze on Sean. After a sip of coffee, he grimaced, shifted his attention to his niece and asked, “Do you know your mom’s brothers?”
“Yup.” She held up one hand to count them off. “There’s Declan and Ian and Sean. They’re all gone. That means they’re in jail.” Conspiratorially she whispered, “Mama’s in jail, too, so she’s gone—”
As understanding dawned on Daisy’s face, Sophy realized that gripping the cup wasn’t enough to keep her hands from shaking. She set it down and clasped them together in her lap.
“My mama’s got a brother named Sean, and your name is Sean, too. Isn’t that funny?”
Maybe it was premature to say understanding.
“Not really.” Sean took a breath. “I’m your mom’s brother. I’m your uncle, Daisy.”
* * *
Sean had never imagined himself saying those words to anyone. Hell, he’d never planned on having family in his life again. He’d had enough of Holigans to last three lifetimes, and he had no intention of taking on a wife, her family, maybe kids. Too much responsibility.
But he’d said them, and here he was, holding his damn breath waiting for them to sink in. He had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t the reaction he got.
Daisy stared at him a long time, her head tilted to one side, then put her cup down, got to her feet and slid her chair under the table. “Mama says she don’t need her worthless brothers, so we don’t, neither.”
Picking up the cup again, she walked away with a fair amount of dignity for a five-year-old.
Maggie’s words were no surprise. Neither was the fact that she’d said them to her daughters. She’d always been one to speak first and consider the consequences—well, usually not at all. The surprise was that hearing them in Daisy’s little girlie voice added an extra sting to them. He hadn’t even known she existed before yesterday, and she knew just as little about him. Of course she would repeat what she’d heard Maggie say.
“I’d love to be able to say something wise here, but the truth is, I’m pretty new at this fostering business. I’ve only had the girls a few weeks, and we’re still getting to know each other.” Sophy smiled ruefully. “They have a lot of personality.”
That was a polite way to put it. He’d usually heard words like unruly, undisciplined, out of control, disreputable when people described Holigans. “I wasn’t expecting a warm and fuzzy reunion.” He shouldn’t have met the kids at all. There was no need. He was here to deal with Maggie.
But when he’d left the jail, he’d walked out to his car, then kept on walking. Before he’d known it, the sign for Hanging by a Thread—looking like a tabletop holding scissors, needles, thimbles and a big spool of thread, with a slender pony-tailed blonde climbing up its dangling tail—was ahead of him. He’d turned automatically through the gate, climbed the steps, walked through the door...and there had been one of the Maggies he remembered: young, inquisitive, bold and innocent.
Innocence being relative, he thought, recalling her casual words: Gone means they’re in jail.
Five-year-old girls with big eyes shouldn’t know what jail was.
“So...” Sophy fiddled with her cup. “What brings you back to Copper Lake?”
“I heard about Maggie.”
Concern crossed her face, making her brown eyes shadowy. “You came for the girls?”
“You mean to take them?” He’d faced a lot of scary things—hell, he’d been in prison—but the idea of taking custody of a five-and a six-year-old girl made him quake. “What would I do with them?”
Relief washed over her, and she tried to cover it by breaking off a piece of cookie from the box in the middle of the table. “Mostly answer questions. Repeat things to them. Try to teach them a few manners here and there. Chase them down.”
“Are they escape artists?”
“The best.”
Sounded familiar. “Our father used to tell us about when Declan started school. He ran away and made it all the way back home by himself three of the first five days. Ian did it four.”
“And did you make it five?”
He shrugged modestly.
“They haven’t succeeded in getting away from me yet, except for the day Ty and the social worker brought them. Since Ty was still here, I share the blame with him.” She rapped her knuckles on the wood tabletop for luck. “The only reason they haven’t escaped yet is because this place and my apartment—” she gestured toward the second floor— “are pretty secure. They’ve tried when we’re out, but I’m fast and I know my way around better than they do.”
The minds of kids baffled him. He had a pretty good idea what life was like for Daisy and Dahlia with their mom—a shabby house, probably never cleaned, dirty secondhand clothes, no regular or healthy meals, baths only when they couldn’t be avoided, men in and out, always a little drama going on. Sophy’s apartment was surely as clean as her shop; it was probably quiet, homey, with a room of their own, clean sheets, clean clothes that fit, good food, a healthy environment.
Gazing at her, he wondered if there was a man in her life. Probably. She’d fulfilled the promise of beauty he remembered in her fourteen-year-old self. Golden skin, a pink Cupid’s-bow mouth, a smile that could make a man think about forever, and who didn’t love a brown-eyed blonde?
If he were a different sort of man, he could. But he wasn’t. No attachments, no obligations, no emotional ties—those were his goals.
How’s that working for you, buddy?
“Where are you living these days?”
“Norfolk.”
“Still crazy about cars?”
“How do you know that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. Everyone knew the Holigan boys a
nd the Calloway boys practically lived at Charlie’s.” Then she grinned. “When my friends and I walked over to SnoCap for cherry limeades, my mom always told us not to talk to any of you. She had us half-convinced that something awful would happen if we did, that we’d go straight to hell or grow horns and a tail or something.”
Of course she did. Mrs. Marchand had had very strong ideas about who was suitable company for her daughters and hadn’t been shy about expressing them. “A Marchand and a Calloway seems like a good match.”
Her mouth pursed slightly, Sophy shook her head. “They’re all married and so settled you wouldn’t recognize them.”
“Even Robbie?” He’d been the youngest of the Calloway brothers, the one least likely to do anything of merit with his life.
“Loving husband, adoring father of two, lawyer, goes to church, does volunteer work and everything.”
“I’m impressed.” Not that it was hard for a Calloway to amount to something when the family owned half the damn county.
Jeez, even to himself, Sean sounded bitter.
“Why Virginia?”
Before he could answer, Daisy came scuffing back around. She glared at him, then at Sophy. “What time will Dahlia be out of school?”
“About three-fifteen.”
“How long is that?”
“Four hours.”
“How long is that?”
“Halfway between lunch and dinner.”
Daisy’s face wrinkled with impatience, then she cocked her head Sean’s way. “He’d better be gone when Dahlia gets here.”
Sean would have let her wander off again, but Sophy turned to face her. “Remember when we talked about being rude? What did I tell you?”
Her ducked-down head muffled Daisy’s voice. “Not to, or I’ll get a time-out.”
“And that would mean no class for you today. Why don’t you get your bin out and start setting up?”
Undercover in Copper Lake Page 5