Authors: Maureen Child
God, Sam’s head hurt. She hadn’t slept all night. Every time she closed her eyes she thought about Jeff. She remembered the stunned look on his face when she’d told him that Cynthia claimed to be pregnant. The desperation in his eyes when he’d tried to convince her that the blonde was lying. The hope that had leaped up in his eyes and then died when she’d told him she loved him but would get over it.
“God,” she muttered, “this so sucks.”
“Pretty much,” Mike agreed.
Jo slapped the back of Mike’s head.
“Hey.”
“Well, for God’s sake, give it a rest.” Turning to face Sam, Jo leaned over and, meeting her gaze, said, “You told him you love him, right?”
“Yeah.” Sam picked off a piece of cinnamon roll and tossed it into her mouth. “And I told him that I’d get over it.”
Jo smiled. “The point is, you told him.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So,” she said, “ball’s in his court now. Why don’t you sit back and see what he does with it?”
Sam thought about it a minute, indulged herself in a few flights of fancy: Jeff storming onto the job site and carrying her off in his arms, or standing on a street corner, shouting his love for her, or even
crawling
back to her on two broken kneecaps to beg forgiveness. That last one she enjoyed the most, until she realized she wouldn’t have much respect for a man who did that much crawling anyway.
But then reality crashed back down again and she reminded herself that this was Jeff. He was the calm, cool, rational half of this little duo. And he was no doubt already giving thanks that she’d signed the papers and walked out of his life.
Nope.
Ball in his court or not, nothing would change.
“Okay,” Mike said into the silence, as if she knew Sam needed an emotional break. “If you’ve finished with the hearts and flowers portion of the program, let’s talk about the home show.”
Sam’s eyes widened, she groaned, then leaned over
double and let her forehead smack the tabletop. “I forgot about the Home Show.”
“Not surprising with everything else going on,” Jo noted.
“It’s tomorrow,” Sam whined, her voice muffled as she still lay eyeball to glossy surface of table.
“Oh yeah.”
She heard the amusement in Mike’s voice. “I’m supposed to do a faux-finish painting seminar.”
“Right again.”
She lifted her head high enough to look at Mike. “You want to do it?”
Mike swung her long blond braid back over her shoulder. “I’ve got my own deal to worry about, remember? Plumbing for the amateur.”
“And I’m explaining simple home repairs,” Jo put in as she lifted her coffee cup, “so don’t even ask me.”
Sam groaned again and sat up.
“Papa’s going over there today to finish setting up our booth.” Mike pulled a piece of her muffin off and nibbled at it. “He said Grace is going along too. She wants a close look at the other booths to give her ideas, God help us, for her house.”
“Grace is going with Papa?”
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason.” Sam sighed inwardly and told herself that she had enough to think about. She was just going to stick her head in the proverbial sand over Papa and Grace. The less she knew, the happier she’d be. “Fine. I’ll worry about it tomorrow. For now, we’ve got today off, so I think I’ll take Emma to the beach.”
“Good plan,” Jo agreed. “Why don’t we all go?”
“Ready for a refill?” Stevie asked as she walked up to the table carrying a tray loaded with three fresh lattes.
“You’re a queen, Stevie,” Mike said, reaching for one of the cups. “How’d you know we’d need more?”
“Are you kidding?” Stevie laughed and shifted the tray to a more comfortable position against her hip. “I know my customers. You guys are always good for at least two lattes each.”
As she stacked the empty cups on the tray, she looked down at them and asked, “So why are the Marconi sisters going to the beach instead of the library?”
Mike gave her head a shake. “Why would we go to the library?”
Stevie just stared at them. “You guys have
got
to get out more. Haven’t you heard?”
“What?” Jo scooted her chair around and looked up.
“People are finding
cash
in the books.”
“Cash?” Mike repeated. “Money?”
“Yep,” Stevie said, clearly enjoying the opportunity to tell some news. “Tens, twenties, even some fifties.”
“I don’t get it,” Sam said.
“Nobody does,” Stevie said. “But the library’s been looking like the mall at Christmas for the last few days. Once word spread, the place has been packed. I hear Mrs. Rogan’s been chasing people with her ruler.”
Mrs. Rogan, who was, at last count, a hundred and ten, had been the town librarian since before God learned how to read. And she wielded her long yardstick like a broadsword in the hands of a knight. Every so often, one of Chandler’s kids would get up the nerve to steal the damn thing, but Mrs. Rogan always replaced it.
“Who’s putting the money there?” Jo wondered.
“Nobody knows,” Stevie said, shrugging. Then as someone on the other side of the room called out for a refill, Stevie turned and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “Gotta go. You guys want anything else, just call.”
As she wandered off, Sam looked at her sisters. “Money in books? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mike said, easing her chair back onto two legs to rock again. “Papa always said that ‘knowledge is the real wealth.’ ”
“Cute,” Jo muttered.
Mike shrugged. “I try.”
Jeff was a man possessed.
Sam’s words kept ringing in his ears, driving him, pushing him.
She loves me
. He wouldn’t believe it was past tense. Couldn’t believe it. If he did, it would kill him. To find her again after all this time, to rediscover the magic of what they’d had, only to lose it again.
No.
He wouldn’t let it happen.
Hell, since taking over the family bank, he’d handled hundreds of insurmountable situations. He’d doubled the bank’s holdings, made their shareholders rich, and found that, like it or not, he
did
have an innate gift for the business end of things.
If he could do all of that and come out on top, then he could damn sure win Sam Marconi.
And he wouldn’t quit until he pulled it off.
Reaching for the phone, he dialed.
When the phone rang, Sam turned and stared at it as though it were a writhing cobra preparing to strike. She
set down the bottle of Lysol and tossed the dishcloth to the countertop she’d been busy cleaning, for the tenth time. It didn’t matter how often she scrubbed it down, though, the memory of what she and Jeff had done there remained.
The phone rang again and it was as if he were in the room with her. She knew it was him calling. Felt it in her bones. And as the shrill ring bounced off the walls again, it was almost as if she could
hear
him, taunting her. “
Too scared to answer, Sam? Must mean you don’t trust yourself to talk to me
.”
“Scared, my ass,” she muttered and stomped across the room to snatch up the receiver on the fifth ring. “What?”
“Is that the voice you use to frighten telemarketers?” Jeff asked.
“Don’t call here.” Her fingers tightened on the long, twisty cord, hanging from the old-fashioned blue wall phone.
“Have to if I want to talk to you. And Emma.”
“You don’t get to talk to me,” Sam said, congratulating herself on her restraint. Her calmness. Her absolute indifference to hearing his voice rumble through her body. Until she looked at the cord, tight enough around her hand to cut off the circulation. “Dammit,” she muttered and unwound the thing quickly.
“Sam, I—”
“Just a minute, I’ll call Emma.” She yanked the phone away from her ear, not quite trusting herself to remain strong. “Emma, your daddy’s on the phone.”
Footsteps, light and quick, sounded out and the little girl raced into the kitchen and crashed into her mother. Grinning her still gap-toothed smile, she reached up
for the phone. “Hi, Daddy, do you miss me, I miss you. I went to the beach today and found some seashells and I met Jonas and he let me play with his dog Goliath and can I have a dog too and I’ll name her Ariel and we’ll play and—”
Sam tried to zone out while Emma chattered in a high-pitched voice filled with excitement. It had been a good day. She and her sisters and Emma had met up with Tasha Candellano and her son Jonas. Tasha was now officially past her baby’s due date, and had headed to the beach to get away from her husband Nick’s overpowering mother-henning. Sam smiled to herself over the amazing transformation of one of the most determinedly single men she’d ever known into a doting husband and frantic father-to-be.
“Mommy says I can have a dog and it can live here and I can visit it whenever I come to see Mommy,” Emma was saying, as she shot her mother a quick smile. “But I don’t wanna go back to San Francisco, Daddy. I wanna live here with my puppy and you and Mommy and then we can go to the beach all of us and—”
Little dreams, Sam thought as she picked up the bottle of Lysol and tucked it away under the sink. All Emma wanted were the things any kid wanted. A mom and dad to love each other. A puppy.
She turned on the hot water tap and washed her hands with a squirt of detergent.
“Okay,” Emma said, lowering her voice to what she probably thought was a whisper. “I can. Okay. We’re going to a house show tomorrow and Mommy said I can help, so you could too, and then we—
Okay
.”
Sam glanced at her, but Emma had wandered into
the doorway of the living room, where she continued to whisper. “I love you too, Daddy. Okay, I will. Bye.”
Emma turned around and walked to Sam, handing her the phone receiver. Then she wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs and squeezed.
“Thanks,” Sam said, running her hand across Emma’s baby-fine hair. “But what’s the hug for?”
The little girl tipped her head back and looked up at her. “It’s from Daddy,” she said. “He wanted me to give you a hug. He said you needed one.”
A twinge of something sharp and sweet tore at Sam’s heart.
“Did you?” Emma asked.
Sam forced a smile. “I always need your hugs, mouse.”
“I
love
you, Mommy.”
One short sentence brought Sam to her knees. Wrapping her arms around her daughter, she held her close, inhaling the sweet, summery little-girl scent of her. No matter what else this summer had brought—no matter what pain she might be dealing with in the weeks to come—it had all been worth it.
She’d no doubt be lonely again, as she had been before. She would miss Jeff for the rest of her life and always wonder about what might have been. But there would never again be that soul-numbing emptiness, filled with haunting shadows and desperate cold.
Burying her face in the bend of her daughter’s neck, Sam whispered, “Oh baby, I love you, too.”
The Home Show was a crowded, noisy, over-the-top showcase for local home-building talent. Every year, Marconi Construction took part in the festivities, and every year, they gleaned new customers and visited with old friends.
Booths lined the huge San Jose Convention Center and those manning the booths were like barkers at a carnival.
“Try this electric drill bit with a light embedded in the tip. No more drilling in the dark . . .”
“With this lamp, you’ll only have to replace a bulb every two years, guaranteed, or your money back . . .”
“Why paint when you can
stucco
?”
“Aluminum siding is the ‘green’ way of building . . .”
“Wallpaper doesn’t have to be a chore . . .”
Sam walked the narrow aisle between booths and shook her head at the chance to try out a new circular saw. The crowds were thick and the noise level higher than an elementary school at the start of summer vacation. Plus, over and above the roar of the mob and the shouts of the dealers, came an announcer’s voice over a loudspeaker set at a level designed to shatter eardrums.
Ordinarily, Sam loved the Home Show. It was a chance to do the fun stuff and show off a little as she did it. She never failed to wow the crowd when she started demonstrating the varied kinds of faux-finish painting styles. She usually spent lots of time with bored kids being dragged around behind focused parents—and let those same kids vent a little frustration with a paintbrush.
But today, she just wanted to go home.
Hug her misery close.
Ever since leaving Jeff’s condo the day before, she’d been going over and over everything. Her heart ached, but her head was clearer now, less fogged by fury, and she could admit that Cynthia’d had more reason to lie than tell the truth. And Jeff had probably been right when he said the woman had no doubt known exactly how Sam would react to such news. And it pissed her off to admit that she’d accommodated the perfect bitch even that much.
Sam shook her head at a man trying to hand her a flyer about roofing specials and remembered instead everything she’d said to Jeff the day before. Not that she regretted any of it or anything. But she kept remembering the look on his face when she’d told him she loved him.
Had it really been a spark of hope in his eyes? Or was she just finding new and unusual ways to torture herself? Safer, she told herself, to hang on to her anger and let the sorrow drain away. She’d be hurt less by temper than regret.
“ ’Bout time you got back,” Mike shouted as Sam stepped up to the Marconi booth. “Jesus, did you go to Brazil and pick the coffee beans by hand?”
“Do you absolutely
have
to talk?” Sam handed her
the carrying tray filled with four cups of steaming hot coffee, courtesy of the Home Show’s snack area, set up behind the hot tub and spa display. The coffee was probably poisonous, but any caffeine port in a storm.
Snatching one of the cups for herself, Sam glanced around for Emma.
“Yes, actually, I do.” Mike took one of the cups and set the tray aside for Jo and Papa. “Jo’s off drooling over the goodies at the True Touch tool booth. But if you’re looking for Emma, she’s wandering with Papa and Grace.”
Sam winced. Papa and Grace. Even having them so close in the same sentence felt a little uncomfortable. But she so wasn’t in the mood to think about that today. Besides, what the hell?
Somebody
should be happy.