Authors: Maureen Child
But that was as impossible as what was happening between them now.
On the drive to Chandler from the city, he’d gone over and over everything Cynthia had suggested. That Sam wasn’t really interested in Emma, but only pretending, in order to keep up a good front for her family. He’d told himself she was wrong.
Small consolation to know he’d been right. Yes, Sam really wanted Emma. And she’d hired a lawyer to help her in the fight.
Which left them exactly . . .
where
?
“Why is this so damn hard?” he wondered aloud.
“It was always hard with us.”
He stared down into those pale blue eyes and knew she was right. They’d never been easy together. But hadn’t that been part of the fun?
Fun.
Had he ever once had spontaneous, unplanned, just-for-the-hell-of-it
fun
with Cynthia?
Frowning to himself, Jeff considered it for a long minute and realized that the answer was no. Strange now that he thought about it, but usually the times he and his fiancée spent together were carefully choreographed ahead of time. Cynthia had said more than once that she enjoyed the planning of an event as much or more than she did the actual event itself. Theater dates, dinners at fine restaurants, mapped-out-down-to-the-minute day trips or vacations, like the one they’d taken to Italy. Cynthia didn’t
do
spontaneous.
And he’d never noticed enough to miss it.
What did that say about him?
About
them
?
Hell of a time to think about this, he told himself as Sam continued to stare at him as if wondering where his mind had drifted off to. But dammit, could he help where he was when an epiphany struck?
Jesus. Think, he ordered himself. Just think about this. Cynthia. Him. Relaxed,
fun
.
Nope. No such animal existed.
Maybe he might have realized it sooner if they’d been living together. But with Emma in the house, Jeff had decided to wait until they were married before Cynthia moved in. With the result being, they didn’t see nearly enough of each other.
They hadn’t even had sex in weeks.
Christ. When had he stopped noticing that he was living like a damn monk?
And why hadn’t he paid closer attention to the fact that he didn’t mind not having sex more often? Cynthia was a beautiful, intelligent woman—but she wasn’t the one woman in the world he wanted with every breath.
So what in God’s name was he doing
marrying
her?
“Calling Jeff. Yoo-hoo!”
Sam slapped his arm when shouting at him had no effect, and Jeff jerked awake as if he’d been yanked out of a warm bed and tossed into an ice-cold swimming pool.
“What?”
“What what?”
He shook his head. “What’d you say?”
“Which time?”
“Huh?”
“Great.” Sam nodded and gave him a mocking smile. “Terrific. We’re talking about custody of our daughter and you’re off in la-la land.” Shaking her head, she turned away. “Let me know when you get back.”
“I’m back now.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Doesn’t look like it.”
Probably not.
Crap.
He had so many damn ideas racing through his mind, he probably looked as if his head were exploding.
Which it was, so good for him.
There were a lot of decisions to make. Some of them sooner than others.
But right now, there was Sam.
Jeff reached for her, slapping one hand down onto her shoulder and stopping her in her tracks. She slipped out from beneath his hold, but didn’t try to keep moving.
Small victory.
“I don’t know what to do about making you trust me.”
“You can’t
make
someone trust you, Jeff.”
“I know.” He did know that. Didn’t make it any easier to deal with, but he knew it.
“And I won’t sign the divorce papers until we work out the custody thing.”
“I know that, too.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder and he swore he could feel her blood rushing through her body. “I’m willing to talk about sharing custody.”
“What?”
She actually swayed on her feet.
Couldn’t blame her. He felt a little stunned himself. All he’d been worried about was losing Emma. Losing that one connection to his child. But by sharing Emma with her mother, he’d be
keeping
his daughter, not losing her. The only sure way to lose his child at this stage of things would be to deny her access to her mother. Then Emma might come to hate him. And he wouldn’t be able to blame
her
for it, either.
“You heard me.”
“I don’t think so.” She folded her arms across her chest and jutted one hip out. “Rewind and hit play again.”
He snorted. Damn, he’d missed her. “Fine. I’m willing to share custody of Emma. Plain enough.”
She reached up to check his forehead with the backs of her fingers. “No fever.”
There would be, if she touched him again.
“You’re a funny woman, Sam.”
“Not feeling the joke.”
“Not joking.”
“You’re not, are you?” she asked, staring into his eyes as if looking for the pothole he wanted her to step into.
No, she didn’t trust him.
And damned if that didn’t hit him hard.
“No, I’m not joking about the custody thing,” he said, since she seemed to need to hear it. “So are you interested or not?”
“Hell, yes. You don’t have to say it again,” she said, smiling. Then she stopped. Frowned. “Well, I guess you did. But you know what I mean.”
“I’m beginning to think so.”
“And that means . . .”
He took her arm in a firm grip. “I’ll let you know when I figure it all out.”
“That’ll be a party.”
She tried to pull free, but he only tightened his grip.
“Hello? Where am I being dragged to?”
He looked at her and so was able to see the shock stamp itself on her features when he said, “To your lawyer. We’ll just work this part out now.”
She sputtered, but didn’t speak.
As she stumbled along in his wake, Jeff smiled. Inwardly of course—he wasn’t stupid enough to let her see his grin. But damned if it wasn’t rewarding to know that he’d made Sam Marconi speechless.
Mike sat on the hood of her truck, crossed her feet at the ankles and leaned back against the windshield, folding her arms behind her head for a makeshift pillow.
Felt good to be away from the site for a while.
She’d picked up the new copper pipes for the second kitchen in Santa Cruz, but then she’d detoured before heading back to Grace’s. Hell, even a Marconi needed a break from the hammers and saws every now and again.
And out here, she found the peace she always did.
A stand of trees encircled her. Just to the right was the eastern shore of the lake, where reeds dipped and swayed with the rippling water as if dancing to a tune only they could hear. At the northern edge of the lake, almost a half mile from where she sat, Nick Candellano’s house hugged the shore. There was another
house on the western side, but it was tucked behind the trees enough that all she ever really caught was a glimpse of sunlight glancing off windowpanes.
To her left—okay,
far
left—was the ocean, clean on the other side of Chandler. But even here, back in the trees, the sound of the waves reached her. Still, it was so soft, it was more a murmuring hush, like a soothing lullaby sung to a cranky baby.
The sun had to work hard to punch through the canopy of trees, so the dappled shade kept the temperature a good fifteen degrees cooler than anywhere else in town. A whisper of wind caressed her and she closed her eyes, the better to enjoy
her
spot.
No one else ever came here.
At least, Mike had never run into anyone.
And she came here as often as she could. She’d found this little piece of seclusion when she was a kid and had desperately needed a place all to herself. Scowling as memories rushed forward, pushing the present to the back of her mind, Mike remembered those quiet, moonlit nights when she was sixteen and finding out that parents didn’t live forever.
Opening her eyes again, she stared up at the slivers of blue visible only when the leaves of the trees shifted with the wind.
“Mama.”
God, just saying that word out loud brought comfort and pain and joy and misery and too many other emotions to try to put a name to. But her mother had really been on her mind a lot lately.
Not completely true, she thought. Thoughts of Mama were never really far away. But in the last week
or so, they’d been so thick she could hardly think of anything else.
Had to be Emma’s presence. Having the girl back in their lives was great. But at the same time, having her here was stirring up the memories of nine years ago. Making everything so close. So . . . hard to ignore.
“Not that I want to ignore you or anything, Mama,” Mike said, accustomed to having one-sided conversations with her mother while she was here. “But thinking about you and about what an ass I was when you were so sick just makes me feel bad all over again.”
Such language
.
Mike smiled to herself, imagining Mama’s response.
You were a child, Mike. You shouldn’t be so angry at the girl you were
.
“Hard not to be,” she said.
“Is this a private conversation or can anybody join in?”
Mike shot straight up on the still-warm hood of her truck and looked around the clearing. What the hell? “Who’s here?”
“I am.”
“Yeah?” she asked, swinging her head around in the direction of the distinctly rough, male voice. “And who’re you?”
He stepped out of the treeline and Mike’s scowl deepened. Tall and scruffy-looking, he had dark brown hair that hung just past his collar. He swung his head to the right and his hair swished out of the way only to slide back down over his forehead. Probably would have blinded him if he hadn’t been wearing glasses.
His features were sharp, as if carved by a hasty but talented sculptor. His jeans were threadbare at the knee and the hiking boots he wore were so beat-up, they made Mike’s look brand-new. His black T-shirt was rumpled, as if he’d slept in it.
He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans as he strolled—there was no other word for it—into the clearing. He walked right through the wild flowers growing in a scattershot of color amid the meadow grass and headed for the truck. And her.
“If you don’t want to be eavesdropped on, you shouldn’t talk so loud.”
“Thanks for the advice,” she said, sliding off the end of the hood to stand on her own two feet. The better to do some serious kicking—or make a run for it, whichever came first. “But that doesn’t answer the whole ‘Who’re you’ question.”
“Lucas Gallagher.”
“And why’re you here?”
“That’s two questions,” he pointed out, still walking toward her with the air of a man who never hurried.
“There’s a limit on questions?”
“We’ll trade. Who’re you?”
“Mike Marconi.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Never knew a woman named Mike.”
“You still don’t,” she pointed out, inching closer to the door handle of her truck. He didn’t look dangerous, but then, most criminals didn’t walk around with signs proclaiming Danger around their necks.
“Don’t be so skittish,” he advised and came to a stop about ten feet from her.
“Who’s skittish?” She stopped, too, embarrassed to
be caught trying to bolt. “And what kind of stupid word is that?”
“More questions.” He shook his head, swinging his hair back from his face again. “Interesting woman.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Now go away.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re on private property,” he said and turned his back on her to walk toward the lake. “Go away.”
Something bubbled to life inside her. She was pretty sure it was the urge to throw something. “What do you mean, private property?”
“So many questions.” He shot her an amused look over his shoulder. “Look it up.”
“Just wait a damn minute,” she shouted as he moved farther away. Only a second or two ago, she’d been thinking about getting the hell out of there. Now that he’d
told
her to, she wasn’t in such a damn rush.
“Good-bye, Mike Marconi.” He didn’t look back, but he lifted one hand as if already waving her on her way.
She’d been dismissed.
Mike blinked, then looked around as if searching for someone she could say “Did you see that?” to. But she was alone and getting more so the farther he walked.
She thought about chasing him down and getting some answers out of him. But there was a cleaner way of doing that. She’d just head back to the job site and talk to Grace. As far as she knew, this land still belonged to the Van Horn family. And she made it her business to know, since she’d been saving every dime for years in the hope of one day having enough to buy it outright from Grace.
No way would this place have been sold without her knowing about it.
“Lucas Gallagher,” she muttered, yanking the truck door open and wincing as the rusted metal screamed in protest. She climbed inside, turned the key, and cursed viciously, fluently, until the grumbling engine sputtered, coughed, and finally caught. “I’m not finished with you, yet.”
Staring through the bug-splattered windshield, she watched the man as he wandered aimlessly around the edge of the lake. Maybe he’d trip and fall, hit his head on a rock and drown in the shallows.
“Nah,” she whispered. “I’m just not that lucky.”
Throwing the truck into reverse, she spun her wheels in the mud for a few interesting minutes, then backed up far enough to change gears. As she turned the truck around and headed for the road back to the highway, she checked her rearview mirror.
But he was already gone.
“Mommy says there’s gonna be fireworks and rides and cotton candy and I can hold my own sparklers and write my name in the sky with ’em and everything,” Emma said, words tumbling out of her mouth, one after the other, so close together they were almost impossible to separate. “And we get to have a picnic and see Mommy’s friend Carla and her dog Abbey and Abbey’s puppies maybe and maybe I could even get one and she said I could keep it here, ’cause I have my own room and everything and Isabel doesn’t have a dog.”