Kiss Me If You Dare (18 page)

He gave a little nod of his head. “A faked death.” He hummed in disgust. “And we all fell for it.” He glanced at me. “You were safe as long as you were dead. Now here you are, back in the thick of things.” His eyes watered up. “And you’re alive. You’re alive.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Yes, I’m alive. And I’m home. But I wasn’t safe in Del Gloria. Someone’s been trying to kill me. I’m not sure there is anyplace safe for me.” I looked in his eyes. “I might as well be home.”

A mile of pines passed by the window before he spoke.

“Patricia, things have changed. Things happened . . . You were dead, for crying out loud.”

I nodded in agreement, still smiling to be home. “I know. I’ve been gone a long time. I kept waiting for Brad to call.” I gave a little laugh. “I guess if he thought I was dead, that was a pretty good reason not to call . . .”

My brow scrunched. Something wasn’t right. Denton assured me Brad would call when it was time. They must have been in touch. Denton should have told Brad I was still alive. I put a hand to my forehead. Brad must know and was just keeping it a secret. Because if Denton hadn’t told him the truth, and Brad really thought I was dead, Brad might have moved on with his life. He could have met someone new. He might be engaged to some other future Mrs. Walters instead of me.

I gave a ferocious shake of my head. It wasn’t possible. Brad knew I was alive. He had to know.

We turned onto the Silvan Peninsula. Just a few more miles to my log home on the lake. I looked at Puppa. “I’m sure there’s no heat or anything, but I’d like to stop at my house and see if I can get things going.”

I’d lived a few places in my life, but none felt as much like home as the lodge. I’d spent summers there as a girl, wandering through half-pint pines that now towered skyward. And after I’d been ripped from the secluded safety of the lodge by well-meaning grandparents, I dreamed of the day I would return to Port Silvan and buy the log cabin and make it my own. And I’d done just that. Now that I was back from my leave of absence, I could finish the renovations and get the yard ready for an outdoor wedding, sometime next summer.

Puppa stared straight ahead, not responding.

The miles flew past in snow-covered splendor.

“Looks like we’ll be having a white Christmas this year.” The closer we drew to home, the more the goose bumps raced up and down my arms. Three days ’til Christmas. I was home just in time.

My driveway was around the next bend. My right leg pressed against the floorboard as I willed Puppa to slow down for the turn.

He turned in. The drive was plowed, the banks pushed back in tidy order. Tracks from multiple cars covered the surface, and strangely, a large wooden sign was posted to a tree. V
ALENTINE’S
B
AY
L
ODGE
, it said in burgundy and cream, with a phone number and website address beneath it.

“What’s going on? Who’s been down here?” I was used to my house being off the beaten path and my drive only lightly traveled. Who would post a sign?

“Patricia, this isn’t a good idea.” Puppa stepped on the brakes. “Stay at the lake house with me. We’ll come back another day.”

“Keep going.” I got a sick feeling in my gut. “I need to know what’s happening here.”

The vehicle slowed. “You’ve been dead since June. Things have changed.”

“Obviously my house is one of them. Keep going.” I pressed my Tasha Stewart sunglasses onto my face and set my mouth in a tight line.

Puppa accelerated, though I could tell by the set of his jaw it was only against his will.

We crossed the creek and came around the corner. And there it was. My log cabin. Or was it mine? The logs were newly stained, the door was painted a welcoming shade of red to match the new shutters, and Christmas lights and garland hung in joyous celebration of the holiday. I took a jagged breath. I hadn’t expected this. A dilapidated cottage in need of repair, yes. But this pristine building with a perky sign announcing Guest Parking where my shed once stood had never entered my mind.

I did a double-take as we passed. My Explorer—there it was in new condition, as if it had never been crunched by a murderous truck.

But the lodge . . . What if they’d sold it? What if it didn’t belong to me anymore? Could they do that? Maybe they thought I was dead, but now that I was alive again, it was still mine. Right?

Grandfather pulled close to the entry. Welcome to V
AENTINE’S
Bay arched over the door. Window boxes filled with cedar boughs, pinecones, and red bows garnished the porch.

The car doors slammed as I stepped into the crunching snow. A woman came to the door as we approached. She smiled, her dark hair and eyes sparkling even in the dingy gray light of early afternoon.

“Hi, Bernard. It’s great to see you. Who’s your friend?” she asked, holding the door wide.

I came to a dead stop. Samantha Walters. Brad’s sister. What was she still doing here? She’d been scheduled to return to Rawlings and her Coney Island diner back in September. It was now December and there she was. Standing at the door to my home like she owned it. And didn’t she realize that frumpy blouse made it look like she was pregnant?

21

I stood on the porch, speechless, my feet glued to the boards.

“Come on in,” the happy-as-ever Sam said, gesturing her welcome.

I looked past her into the kitchen, made warm and inviting by red accents against the black and tan floor tiles and gold-speckled countertops. Naturally, Sam was in her element with the ’50s décor.

I stepped closer for a peek at the ceiling. The asbestos tiles were gone. Soaring walls gave a spacious feel to the room. My eyes narrowed and my jaw set. That had been my idea. I was going to do that. Who did she think she was, stealing my house and my decorating ideas?

Behind me, I sensed Puppa’s hesitation. His hand nudged my arm, but not to prompt me forward. I could tell he wanted to pull me by the elbow back to the truck and fly down the drive at high speed. And if it weren’t for the anger that kept my attention on the woman before me, I would have gratefully complied.

But seeing Sam in my home, at my place at the door, just didn’t set right with me. No. So what if the last time we’d been together she’d saved my life?

A white flash shot through my brain and I was back in the great room of the lodge that terrible morning. One of the gunmen pointed his weapon my way, I heard a growl like a mother tiger, then Sam pounced the guy, his weapon discharging into my arm instead of my heart.

A cold wind rushed around me, permeating my California slicker and sending shivers through my body. If that flicker of memory was accurate, I’d been shot by one of Majestic’s cronies, not Candice LeJeune like I’d thought all these months.

But I could still see Candice with her weapon raised, hear the blast of the gun . . . If she hadn’t shot me, then who?

I swayed, my legs turning to jelly beneath me.

“Hey, you don’t look so good.” Sam reached for me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and guiding me into the house. The tiles passed strobelike beneath my feet, then we were through the arch and in the great room. She stood me in front of a recliner near the crackling fire. I collapsed into the soft leather, my eyes inundated by the towering Christmas tree, the draping garland, the twinkling lights. My ears flooded with the voice of Bing Crosby, “. . . may your days be merry and bright . . .”

I couldn’t take it. This was so wrong.

Sam passed me a glass of water. My hand automatically reached for it, but my mouth refused her hospitality. She gave Puppa a worried look. “Is your friend okay?” “Samantha . . . ,” he began.

I set the glass on a coaster and stood, my anger giving me strength.

“Samantha Walters, isn’t it?” I held out my hand, forcing it to hold steady.

She nodded, a confused look on her face. “Russo now,” she said.

Don’t tell me Puppa adopted her. Maybe that’s why she thought she owned this place.

I gave a tight smile. “I’m Tasha Stewart.”

Samantha met my hand in a loose grip.

“Mr. Russo there,” I smiled in Puppa’s direction, “promised I could have a tour of the lodge. But now probably isn’t a good time. We’ll just be going.”

At Sam’s questioning glance, Puppa shrugged. I made it two steps toward the arch when a man clomped down the open staircase, humming along with Bing.

“Hello, Papa B.” He smiled at my grandfather and shook his hand. “And you are . . . ?” He turned toward me, hand extended, like he was Mr. Congeniality or something.

I made no move, instead just stared at my cousin Joel. His hand hovered a moment, then returned to his side at my rebuff. His eyes squinted as he studied my face.

Samantha still wasn’t getting it. She jumped in to fill the awkward silence. “Tasha, this is my husband, Joel Russo. Joel, this is Tasha Stewart. Bernard brought her by for a tour.”

Complete silence.

If that didn’t just beat all. Sam and Joel—married. And with his arm around her shoulders like that, pulling her tight like he was trying to protect her from me, why, didn’t they just make the cutest couple? And a baby on the way too.

Joel gave an extended sigh. “Tish. Welcome home. Again.”

“Thanks, cuz.” Buried rage kept the tears at bay. “Try to act happy I’m actually alive.”

Samantha’s eyes grew huge. “Tish? Tish!”

Her stammering came off as a stalling ploy. I could just hear the thoughts running through her head.
What
would be the best way to react?
she was probably asking herself.
Should I be excited, like
“Oh my goodness, you’re still alive!”
or should I be sad, like
“Oh my goodness. You’re still alive.”

Her face continued to waver.

A smirk crept over my features as I watched. If I were in her shoes, I’d be mad as a rabid rat. Because what she thought was hers all this time really belonged to me. How dare she take my house, my car, my life?

Her face crumpled and she burst into sobs. Her arms flung around my neck. Long black hair stuck to my cheek, plastered there by tears. “You’re not dead. You’re not dead.” She said it over and over like a chant, swaying back and forth, rocking me with her.

I lifted my arms, at first trying to push her away. The firm bump of her stomach pressed against me, the fullness of her womb somehow emphasizing the emptiness of mine. But stuck in Sam’s iron grip, I felt myself relaxing, succumbing to her love. After a minute, with my sunglasses digging into my nose, I managed to slide out of the hug and take them off.

She stared me in the eyes. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

I nodded, not daring to speak.

Behind Samantha, Joel looked at me stone-faced.

What softening I’d felt a moment ago evaporated and I seethed in his direction. There was the guy who had torn my mother’s picture in two because he didn’t want his long-lost cousin moving in on his turf.

But tearing up photos and burying empty caskets didn’t change the facts. This place—this house, this land—belonged to me, not him. I bought it from Puppa fair and square. It was mine, and mine alone.

“I love what you’ve done with the place.” I sounded husky, like Cruella de Vil.

Samantha snuggled into Joel. “Thanks. It’s exactly the way you described it to Joel last spring. He wanted to—” she paused and swallowed, “—honor your memory by sticking to your ideas.”

“How sweet of you, Joel.” Evil dripped from my voice. Grandfather’s hand grabbed my elbow again, as if ready to escort me out at the first sign of violence.

So what if I was a little sarcastic, a little snippy? Who wouldn’t be in these circumstances? Sam and Joel were lucky I didn’t throw them out right now. Maybe if she weren’t pregnant, I would.

“So, Samantha, when’s the little whippersnapper due?” Bitterness, hatred . . . all the negative emotions welled up in my voice. It was as if the past seven months hadn’t even happened. Everything I’d learned in the Revamp Program, all the classes, the journaling, the working with others, the learning to live together, the improving my attitude, the changing my outlook . . . I might as well have spared myself the agony. Because when it came down to it, I was just plain jealous. I was just plain mean. And the worst part was, I didn’t even care how bad anyone else got hurt.

“March ninth,” she whispered.

Joel wrapped his arms around her.

“You two didn’t waste any time.” I glanced around. “I suppose you figured you had a lot of rooms to fill.”

Sam looked at Joel, as if begging him to make me stop.

Puppa stepped to the plate. “It’s time to go, Patricia. Put your sunglasses on and meet me in the truck.”

A final nasty glare and off I stomped. The moment the kitchen door slammed behind me, I burst into tears. It was good that Puppa stopped my downward spiral. Who knew what had been about to come out of my mouth next?

I scrunched down in the front seat of the truck. What was my problem, anyway? Joel had bent over backward for me last spring, and almost been killed in the showdown at the lodge that morning. No wonder he and Sam got married right away. Life was too short to dillydally. And what had I been thinking? Their new baby would be blood to me, a second cousin twice removed or some such thing. I’d better have an apology ready next time I saw the new parents if I wanted to watch the little sweety grow up.

My grandfather climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The diesel roared to life. He backed up and started out the driveway.

The last time I’d been here, summer was just around the corner. Green grass, green leaves, a comfy seventy degrees. Now everything was white again. Snow on the ground, snow in the pines, snow in the clouds.

And last time, I’d been driving Brad’s SUV. I’d taken it right down this driveway, past the emergency vehicles, and onto the highway. I’d driven and driven and driven west, hoping to get to Del Gloria. But there’d been the pain in my arm, some blood on my sleeve, and a heavy fog in my mind. I must have been hanging on by a thread when I smashed into the back of that minivan somewhere in Minnesota.

I gave Puppa a sidelong glance. “So how’d Brad’s car do? Did it get fixed up okay?” Maybe I should have started with an apology for my earlier behavior, but I couldn’t even deal with it yet.