A Family Kind of Gal (24 page)

“She's a beautiful woman.”

J.D. nodded.

“Had a few tough breaks, what with her old man skipping out on her mother and then losing a husband at her age.”

“She's holding up.” J.D.'s fingers gripped his glass as if his life depended upon it.

“She's strong. Well, all of John Cawthorne's daughters are. Must be in their genes. Take my sister, Katie. Tough as nails. Growing up with three brothers, she had to be.” His gaze clouded for a minute. “She's had her share of troubles, too, and managed to get by. Nothing that happened broke her.” He said it almost in wonder. “She's an amazing woman. In fact, Katie's one of the most upbeat people you'll ever want to meet. But she's pushy as all get-out. When she wants something, watch out, she'll just steamroll her way through.” Jarrod chuckled, then sobered as he poured a half glass of beer from the pitcher.

“As for Tiffany, she's different from Katie. Quieter. More thoughtful.” He rubbed the edge of his jaw. “It can't be easy trying to raise two kids so far apart in age, especially when the older one seems hell-bent on rebelling. Yep, Tiffany Santini is a helluva woman.”

J.D. narrowed his gaze on Jarrod. “Is there a reason you're telling me this?”

“Just reminding you what a lucky guy you are to be related to her.”

“Seems as if you're related, as well.”

Smith grinned. “I know. When John married my mother, I ended up with two stepsisters. I guess I'm lucky, too.”

“So it would seem,” J.D. said, finishing his drink.

Jarrod reached into his wallet and dropped some bills on to the table. “This one's mine,” he added when J.D. pulled out his money clip.

Rather than argue, J.D. tucked the clip back into his pocket “Fair enough, Smith, but the next time, it's on me.”

Jarrod didn't argue.

* * *

“So I thought, if you're not too busy, we—you and Bliss and I—could meet for lunch tomorrow,” Katie suggested from the other end of the telephone line.

A cold sweat had collected between Tiffany's shoulder blades. “I guess that would be all right,” she heard herself saying. Katie was trying so hard to get the three of them together. Too hard. But it was inevitable they would meet at some point in time, and Stephen had already let her know that he wanted to belong to a larger family. “How about one-thirty? Doris will be back by then.”

“Great! I'll set it up with Bliss, and we'll meet you at the Blue Moon Café. They've got outdoor tables.”

“I'll see you then,” Tiffany promised and hung up. Great. She was going to have to deal with her sisters whether she wanted to or not.

She heard the front door open.

“Tiffany?” J.D.'s voice rang through the house. Tiffany braced herself. The tension between them had been so thick, she was certain it could have been sliced with a butcher knife.

“In here.” She was in the hallway when he met her.

“Where are the kids?”

“Out for a couple of hours or so. Christina's with Mrs. Ellingsworth, and Stephen's with some friends at the movies—”

“Great.”

Great?
Why didn't she think so?

“It's time we took a little time off and celebrated.”

Something in his voice gave it away. She felt a cold, dark emptiness as she said, “A celebration. Why? No, don't tell me. Let me guess. It's because you're leaving.”

He paused, his gray eyes holding hers for an intimate second. “It's what you've wanted since the moment I walked in your front door.”

Oh, dear God. No. The thought of the house without him caused a new dread to fill her heart. “But—but your lease is for six months.”

“I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the knots of tension in his muscles. “But I'll keep the apartment because I'll be back.”

Her stupid heart soared at the thought. “When?”

“Off and on, probably a couple of days a month.”

“That's all?”

A smile slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “Don't tell me you'll miss me.”

She managed a cold smile. “In your dreams, Santini.”

“Always.”

She froze, and something in his eyes beckoned her, touched that part of her soul she'd tried to keep hidden. “Come on, Tiff,” he said, his voice low. “There's something I'd like to show you.”

“What?”

His flinty eyes sparked as if with a very private secret. “The reason I can leave sooner than expected.”

“Oh,” she whispered and felt as if she'd been kicked in the gut. “Sure.”

“Isn't that what you wanted?”

“Yes. No.” Confusion tore at her. She'd told herself a million times over that if only J.D. would go back to Portland, or LA or Timbuktu, for that matter, her life would be better, but now, faced with the fact that he would be gone, she felt none of the elation she'd hoped for. “I, uh, don't know.”

His eyes searched her face, as if hunting for a hidden message, a silent clue to her feelings. For a second she thought he would kiss her. Instead he pulled on her hand. “Come on, Tiff.”

She couldn't resist.

Before she could come up with one bit of argument, she was inside his Jeep, sitting close to him and staring out the windshield as the main streets of town faded behind and they were on a winding country road, slowing for a tractor pulling a mower, whipping around a truck towing a horse trailer, and avoiding squirrels that dashed frantically across the strip of asphalt that carved through the hills.

“Ever heard of the Zalinski place?” J.D. asked. The windows of the Jeep were open, and the hot breeze that filtered in ruffled his hair and tugged at her ponytail.

“I've met Myra Zalinski at the agency. They moved.”

“But they hadn't sold their farm. Until today.”

“
You
bought it?”

“Actually, Santini Brothers did.” He drove past Isaac Wells's property, and Tiffany felt a chill as cold as death when she wondered what had happened to the old man. Where was he? And what, if anything, did Stephen know about his disappearance?
Nothing. He knows nothing! Remember that, Tiffany. Trust your son.

A little farther up the road J.D. turned into a winding drive that was little more than two graveled ruts. Tall weeds grew along the sides of the lane and between the tire tracks, scraping the bottom of the Jeep. A few cattle stood in the surrounding fields, and a creek, little more than a trickling stream in the late summer, wound its way into a tiny valley where the house sat, its windows shut tight, the curtains drawn.

“What made you choose this place?”

“Size, price, proximity to the freeway, the general appearance of the land and a gut feeling.” He slid her a knowing glance as he parked the Jeep near an ancient oak tree with spreading branches. “It's not a done deal yet,” he said, “but it looks like it should fly.” His mouth drew tight at the corners, and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just what Dad was looking for.”

She didn't know what to say. Part of her wanted to tell him adios so that she could get back to living her life the way she wanted, without Santini eyes watching her every move and judging her. Another part had decided that she liked having him around, that he wasn't cut from the same cloth as his father, that he really did care about his niece and nephew. Yet another part—one she didn't scrutinize too closely—wanted him to stay because she was fool enough to love him. An ache had already begun to settle around her heart, and she tried desperately to ignore it.

“So you think you can grow grapes down here,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted, while a part of her was withering inside.

“Not just grapes. The
best
grapes.”

“Oh, right.” She couldn't even summon a laugh. He was leaving.
Leaving.
A cold wind swept through her soul, and she suddenly felt empty and desolate inside.

“Well, Santini Brothers won't be the first winery. There are quite a few vineyards between Bittersweet, Ashland and Jacksonville. We'll just have to see if we can make our mark.”

“And grab your share of the market.”

“If Carlo has his way.”

“He always does, doesn't he?” she said, and for a second he hesitated, as if he wanted to tell her something that hovered on the tip of his tongue. Clearing his throat, he looked away and lifted a shoulder. “Most of the time. Come on. I'll show you around.”

He reached into the back seat and pulled out a backpack that he slung over one shoulder before getting out of his Jeep. “For the celebration,” he explained as they walked to the house, a stone cottage that was nestled in a grove of trees. A swing set that had seen better days was rusting by the side of the house, and an herb garden, now going to seed, had encroached upon a flagstone patio that overlooked the creek.

“It's beautiful—well, it will be.” Forcing her thoughts away from the heart-wrenching fact that she'd have to patch her life back together without him, Tiffany tried to show some interest in her father-in-law's next project. She looked past the obvious need for repairs to the house and grounds. On the far side of the cottage, away from the shade, a vegetable garden with an arbor flanked an orchard of fruit trees and a small raspberry patch. A breezeway separating the garage from the house was trimmed with lattice that stretched into a grape arbor.

“The first season's harvest,” J.D. joked, lifting one of the hundreds of clusters of tiny green grapes. He grabbed her hand, linking their fingers and causing a silly little thrill to climb up her arm.

Don't think about it,
she told herself.
For once, enjoy the moment. He'll be gone soon, and then where will you be? Alone. Again. Hasn't every man who ever was a part of your life left? First your father, then your husband, now J.D.
Her throat turned to cotton, and a pain, needle sharp and hot, ripped through her heart.

She told herself that she was being a ninny, that he didn't care for her, had never cared for her, and any feelings she was harboring for him were just silly, romantic whimsies.

Remember, Tiffany, you can't love this man. You just can't!

But she did. The simple, unalterable and painful fact was that she loved him. Wrong or right
For better or worse.
Cringing inside at the turn of her thoughts, she was just a step behind him as he showed her around the grounds, pointing out reasons this farm was better than the others he'd seen.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the few clouds hanging low over the western hills blazed brilliant orange and magenta as J.D. followed a path from the house to the barn. Swallows were nesting in the rafters and screeched their disapproval of anyone in the vicinity. A few frogs began to croak, and in the distance a coyote sent up a lonely howl.

“It's peaceful out here,” she said. “Different from the city.”

“Just a tad.” The barn door was on rollers, and he shoved it open. It creaked and groaned, as if protesting their entrance before finally giving way.

“Needs a little oil,” she observed.

“A lot of oil. The whole place needs work. Obviously, but not more than I expected. Both the house and this barn are over a hundred years old, and even though they've been updated, the wiring's shot, plumbing needs to be redone and the house reroofed. But with some time, money and effort I think the cottage could be restored and turned into a gift shop, and this place could be converted into a wine-tasting room.” He motioned to the musty interior with its time-darkened beams, wide stalls and hayloft. High overhead a round window let in the last shafts of daylight, and an owl, disturbed, fluttered in the rafters.

J.D.'s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if he were already imagining what the converted farm would look like. He led her through a back door where the pasture dropped off steeply into a natural bowl. “This could be tiered and landscaped into a natural amphitheater that could be rented for parties, or summer concerts or weddings.”

“Just like the vineyard where you and I met,” she said automatically, then felt like a fool for mentioning something so personal.

“The same idea.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Didn't think you remembered.”

“How could I forget?”

He eyed her for a second, as if trying to read her mind. A small smile toyed at his lips. “You were catering the wedding and trying your best to look grown-up.”

“And you were doing your best I-don't-give-a-damn-about-anything impression.”

“Did it work?”

“Oh, yeah. Big-time. Everyone who saw you thought you were the reason we'd hired security guards.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “That was a long time ago.”

“A lifetime,” she admitted, a trifle breathlessly. It was happening again, this feeling of closeness and intimacy that she wished didn't exist.

“You weren't married yet.”

“Neither were you,” she retorted.

“Never have been.”

“Why not?” she asked, but before he could answer, she added, “And don't give me the line about not finding the right woman, Santini, because I wouldn't believe it.”

He hesitated for a second, and when his gaze returned to hers it was dark, intense. The wind seemed to have died, and it was so quiet she heard the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. “Maybe I found her, but she was promised to someone else.”

Her breath caught in her throat

“In fact, she was engaged to my brother.”

Oh, God. There it was.
So many times since Philip's death she'd wondered. Had the one night she'd spent with J.D. been, as she'd told herself, just two people trying to console each other in their grief? Or had it been more? This was dangerous territory, very dangerous, and yet she couldn't resist stepping over the imaginary line she'd drawn in her mind. “For me,” she said, swallowing against a lump in her throat, “commitments aren't to be broken.”