“Of course.”
“Well, maybe this is your chance. I’m not always going to be here,” he reminded her unnecessarily. “I’ll be going off to college in less than three years. You don’t want me feeling guilty about leaving you alone, do you?”
She couldn’t help laughing at that. “Of course not.” Since they were actually getting along so well, she reached up and ruffled his hair, the way she used to. “How did you get so smart?”
“I guess it’s in my genes, since I’ve got a smart mom,” he said. Which may have been the first compliment she’d heard from him since he’d turned twelve. “There’s something else I need to tell you. About that pot.”
“Oh, honey.” She shook her head. “It’s okay. I totally understand. Anyone can make a mistake, and—”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“What?” And wasn’t tonight just turning out to be one surprise after another? “But it was found in your locker.”
“Yeah. I know. But it wasn’t mine. I guess, since I’m not going to BHHS anymore and we’re not living in the neighborhood, I might as well tell you the truth. It was Lila’s.”
“Lila Greene’s?” Daughter of the adulterous next-door neighbor?
“Yeah. She kept some of her stuff in my locker because it was closer to the cafeteria and more convenient for lunch.”
“Did you know about it?”
“I knew she smoked sometimes,” he said. “And before you ask, I never did because I didn’t want to screw up my lung capacity on the court. I didn’t realize she brought the stuff to school.”
“And yet you never said a word.” Even when it looked, for a short time, as if he might be expelled.
His shoulders lifted in that shrug she’d grown to hate. But instead of a lack of interest, this spoke of helplessness. “She told me that her father had warned her if she was busted again, he’d send her to boarding school.” He held up both oversized hands, palms up. “What was I supposed to do?”
Telling herself that it was all water under the bridge, Claire didn’t respond with the obvious. He should have told his mother the truth.
“It was a difficult situation,” she allowed. “But let’s agree that if anything like this ever comes up again, we’ll talk about it. And figure out a workable solution.”
“Okay. I guess that’s what I should’ve done back then, huh?”
This time she followed her heart and wrapped her arms around him. “Bygones,” she said. “This is a new start for both of us.” Because she was afraid she was going to cry, she backed away and glanced up at the myrtle-wood mantel clock, another thing that had come with the house. “Now, you’d better start getting ready for bed so I don’t have to turn you in to Coach Slater for breaking curfew.”
As he laughed, sounding much like his old self, and left the room, Claire had to admit that Dillon Slater might represent more trouble than she was prepared to deal with, but he was also responsible for giving her son back to her.
39
A
fter a great deal of consideration, Phoebe had come to a decision.
Since she’d discovered that cooking soothed her nerves and cleared her head, she’d been in the kitchen fixing Ethan a crab bisque when the answer suddenly came to her. It seemed so right, she was amazed that she hadn’t seen it right away.
He was sitting across the apartment’s combination kitchen / living room, feet up on the coffee table, reading the latest issue of
Acres
magazine. The radio was tuned to KBAY, the town’s country station. Pulling the saucepan off the stove (she could always reheat it later), she crossed to stand in front of him.
“What I said?” she began. “About not being able to marry you until this problem with the Fletchers is settled?”
“You don’t have to worry.” He put the magazine down, took her into his arms, and began stroking her back in a way that may have been meant to soothe but had her thinking of dragging him into the bedroom and tackling him on that pretty white bed he’d put together for her. “I understand.”
“That’s the thing.” She pulled away enough to look up at him. “I was wrong. Their custody suit came so out of the blue, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Who would have been? I sure as hell never saw that coming.”
“I should have. His mother is a master manipulator. But here’s the thing. . . . I was so focused on not allowing her to push me into a marriage that’s everything I’ve always dreamed of, I didn’t realize that once again I was letting Peter pull the strings.
“I swore when I left Colorado in the middle of the night to come here that would never, ever happen again.”
His hands cupped her shoulders, his fingers digging a bit too deeply. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Hope and love and myriad emotions too complex to catalog were in his eyes and on his face.
His dear, dear face.
“I’m saying I want to marry you, Ethan. As soon as possible.”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, which he’d painted a pretty pale sky blue for her. “Thank you, God.”
Then, as Rascal Flatts’ “I Won’t Let Go” began playing on the radio, he began dancing her around the room, singing along with the lyrics that he’d fight her fight and stand by her and never let her go.
And unlike all those times when Peter Fletcher had caused her to weep, Phoebe’s tears were born not from pain and fear, but from love. And much, much joy.
40
Sax and
Kara’s house was, like Claire’s, set on a cliff overlooking the sea. That was the only similarity.
She knew movie stars in Beverly Hills who didn’t own homes as large as this sprawling white, red-roofed house. But she knew none whose homes were as comfortable and welcoming.
“You have a stunning place,” she told the couple, who greeted her and treated the pumpkin pie she’d brought from Take the Cake with the same pleasure they might have shown if she’d given them a deed to their own diamond mine.
No, she thought, as Matt immediately disappeared with Johnny Tiernan-St. James and she followed Kara—and the amazing aromas—into the kitchen, where J.T., Lucien, and Leon Douchett had pans simmering and pots boiling, with the six-burner range in full use. These people had no use for diamonds. Because they had a more valuable commodity. A family.
And another guest.
Which was not surprising, given what Kara had said about inviting others in town who didn’t have family to celebrate the holiday with them. What she’d failed to mention was that one of those people just happened to be Dillon Slater.
Appearing not the least bit surprised to see her, he lifted two bottles of wine—one red, one white.
“You’re just in time,” he greeted her, another clue that he’d been expecting her. “Sax made me bartender before he and Cole went outside to deep-fry the turkey. So what can I get for you?”
Claire had two choices. She could be peeved at having been set up this way or she could relax and enjoy the day. And the company.
“The chardonnay would be lovely,” she said. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” For a fleeting moment, as he bestowed a slow, unreasonably sexy smile on her, it was as if they were the only two people in the kitchen.
The cheerful conversation, the bubbling pots, the oil sizzling in heavy cast-iron pans, all faded away as he poured the wine and handed her the stemmed glass.
She took a sip of the chilled wine, hoping it would cool the heat the intimate look he was giving her sent flashing through her veins. It didn’t.
“This is wonderful.” Damn. Instead of sounding light and casual, a guest complimenting her host, her voice had come off as breathless.
“It’s from a friend’s winery,” Sax’s mother said. “Sax serves it in Bon Temps.” Maureen Douchett, who had to be in her late fifties or early sixties, was stunning, harkening back to the golden days of Hollywood glamour with her glossy black hair, emerald green eyes, and red lips, which smiled a warm welcome. “He doesn’t make a lot. But what he does make is very special.”
Claire couldn’t disagree.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” she asked, feeling guilty watching all the work going on in the bustling, steamy kitchen. “I can’t cook, but I could help peel potatoes or set the table—”
“The kids set the table,” Kara said.
“And the men do all the cooking.” Maureen smiled her satisfaction at that idea over the rim of her own wineglass.
“Well, most of the men,” Dillon said. “J.T. and I, who apparently are not to be trusted, have been relegated to peeling potatoes and shrimp.”
“When I was growing up, I was convinced the reason Cajuns had kids was so they’d have someone to peel their shrimp,” J.T. said from behind a counter piled high with shells. “Since I was the youngest, I usually got stuck with the job.”
“It’s because you’re so good at it, darling,” the most famous woman in the room said with a smile immediately recognizable to movie fans all over the world. Claire, who was used to going to the occasional party with celebrities, was surprised to be having Thanksgiving dinner with Mary Joyce, a major A-list movie star.
“You’re just trying to butter me up,” he complained without heat.
“The men also do all the cleanup,” said Kelli, who was married to Cole, the eldest Douchett brother.
“Which makes this about the most perfect day on the calendar,” Mary said. “And yet another reason to love America. The average Irishman would probably have trouble finding so much as a pot in a kitchen in his own home.”
“OMG,” Matt, who’d come in with Johnny to get some popcorn shrimp and Cajun devil peanuts, blurted out. “You’re Mary Joyce.”
“I am indeed,” the actress said, the lilt of Ireland in her friendly tone. “And you must be Matt. The basketball player everyone’s talking about.”
“Um . . . yeah . . . I guess so.” His cheeks flushed. “I mean, yeah, I play basketball for the Dolphins.”
“My husband and I are looking forward to watching your first game in a few days.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re coming to our game?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” J.T. said. “Believe it or not, Mary spent all that time in L.A. and never once got to a Lakers game. So she’s never even seen basketball.”
“We’re not the Lakers,” Johnny said. “But Coach Dillon is teaching us their triangle offense.”
“Well, as I said, I’m looking forward to cheering you all on. My older brother played football during his school days back in Ireland. There was, for a short time, talk about him possibly becoming a professional, but he wanted to be a war photographer instead.”
“My dad was a war photographer, too,” Johnny said. “Now he just takes pictures of people.”
“My brother got out of the business as well,” Mary said. “He’s now a farmer in Ireland.”
“I really like your movies,” Matt blurted out. “I’ve seen all of them bunches of times.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely.” The smile she bestowed on the teenager had him turning red up to the tips of his ears. Partly, Claire suspected, because the actress was nearly naked in her Selkie films.
“My Maureen could’ve been a movie star,” Lucien Douchett, Sax’s father, informed Claire as he deftly whisked a roux with one hand while stirring a pot of shrimp and crab gumbo with the other. “But she turned down a big Hollywood producer to marry me and stay in Shelter Bay.”
“It was a very small offer,” Maureen said as she went over to the stove and kissed him on his weathered cheek. The look they exchanged was so intimate, Claire almost felt as if she were intruding on a personal moment.
Having grown up a single mother who was the product of a divorce herself, she honestly had never believed that type of love existed. Sax’s parents and grandparents, Adèle and Leon Douchett, were living, breathing proof that it did.
“You’re a lucky woman,” she told Kara as they watched Angel following Trey Douchett around like a lovesick puppy. The tiny ballerina had informed Claire that when she grew up she was going to marry this boy she’d “loved forever.”
Listening to the absolute determination in the little girl’s tone, although it was highly unlikely, Claire almost believed her.
“I tell myself that on a daily basis,” Kara said.
“Me, too,” Charity said as Angel demonstrated an arabesque, which had her wobbling a bit on one leg, to the ever-patient Trey. “When I moved here I was a runaway bride. Now I have a fabulous, talented husband and two children whom I couldn’t love any more if I’d given birth to them.”
“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” Claire said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
“Of course,” Charity said without hesitation.
“I have a showing in Portland next week and will have to stay overnight. Matt insists he’s old enough to be left alone, but—”
“Of course he should stay with us,” Charity said without hesitation. “Johnny would love it.”
Relief swept over Claire. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s no problem at all, and, as I said, Johnny really likes Matt. I suspect they share that fish-out-of-water feeling, although Johnny’s fit into school much better than I thought he would.”
“That’s probably something he learned being moved from foster home to foster home,” Kara suggested.
“Probably so. I never liked moving, but I got so I could deal with all the schools and all my mother’s marriages,” Charity agreed.
“You make me feel a bit guilty,” Mary said. “I lived in the same house I was born in, attended the same school, then went off to university. Then came here and met J.T. My life, compared to so many others, has been very blessed.”
“You lost your mother when you were just a girl,” Charity pointed out. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“No. But I was fortunate to have my gram and my older sister.”
The bond between the women was obviously very strong. But, just as when they’d shown up at the cottage, there was nothing cliquish about them. They welcomed Claire into their group as if she’d always been part of the fabric of their lives, and if they did bring up Dillon a few more times during the conversation leading up to dinner, she understood that it was only because he was a friend as well. And they wanted him to be as happy as they all appeared to be.
* * *
The dining room, which was about twice the size of Claire’s cottage, was packed with people. The table groaned with platters of surprisingly moist deep-fried turkey with giblet gravy and an andouille sausage and corn bread stuffing; baked ham with a sugarcane-bourbon glaze, because, as Leon informed her, no Cajun holiday dinner was complete without two meat main courses; corn
maque choux
Lucien had made by braising corn and vegetables until the corn became creamy, then adding bits of crispy bacon; shrimp and crab gumbo, again, made by Lucien, with shrimp peeled by J.T.; fried oyster patties and crab cakes; a sweet potato casserole utilizing the potatoes Dillon had been peeling when she’d arrived; green beans with bacon and onions; spicy corn bread; and dirty rice.
Conversation flowed like wine, back and forth across the table, as they shared old stories and teased one another in ways she sensed were family jokes. She also learned that the house had originally belonged to Sax’s grandparents, who’d inherited it from a wealthy lumber baron’s widow. When it became too much for the elderly couple to take care of, they’d moved into town to live with their children, passing the house on to their middle grandson.
After dinner, Angel danced, Lucien played a clarinet and Sax his guitar, accompanying Maureen, who entertained with her still strong voice. The house was redolent with spicy scents and flavors, laughter, and lots and lots of love.
Which had Claire thinking back on Thanksgiving with her mother, who’d thought that roasting an entire turkey for three people was a waste of time and effort. So they’d always dressed up and gone out, where stuffy waiters delivered expensive meals and wouldn’t have thought of breaking into song or telling a joke.
“You look as if you’re having a good time,” Dillon said as they stood side by side on the porch after a sinfully rich pumpkin bread pudding, watching the sun sink into the ocean in a dazzling display of gold, ruby, and bronze.
“I am.” She turned toward him and smiled. “Enough that I’m not even going to be upset that they sprung you on me.”
“What makes you think you weren’t sprung on me?”
She looked up at him and saw the answer in his eyes but asked anyway. “Was I?”
“No. Kara’s newly married. She’s in love. So it’s not so surprising she wants everyone else she knows to experience the same thing.”
“Love isn’t contagious. It’s not like the flu.”
“I used to think that. Especially watching everyone I knew get divorced. But here we are in a house filled with people who definitely offer contrary evidence.”
“That’s not very scientific.”
“Sometimes you just have to go with your gut and figure out the science later,” he countered easily. “You sure are a picture today, Claire.”
She’d noticed that his Texas accent and syntax came and went with his moods. Like now, it surfaced when he was relaxed and enjoying himself. Or when he was yelling at the team on the sideline. Or when he went into seduction mode, which she braced herself for now.
“I’m overdressed.” Her blouse was cream silk, her slacks a black lightweight wool. Kara had told her that dress was casual, but certain that she didn’t mean Claire’s usual jeans and T-shirts, Claire had delved deep inside her closet and pulled out something that she knew her mother would approve of.
When Cole Douchett had opened the door wearing worn jeans and a faded
WHO’S YOUR CRAWDADDY
T-shirt, she realized Kara had, indeed, meant
casual
.
“Maybe just a bit, for this company,” he allowed. “But I can help you out with that.”
“How?” she asked, knowing that she was walking into a verbal trap.
“This is a big house. I figure we can find ourselves a little corner somewhere and I’ll mess you up a bit.”
As if to demonstrate, he cupped the back of her neck, beneath her hair, and brushed his mouth against hers. His lips were warm, the air cool, his kiss tender and undemanding.
“That’s a start,” he decided, smiling against her lips.
Then kissed her again.
A third time.
Each time, his lips lingered a bit longer. His thumb brushed a gentle pressure against her chin, inviting her lips to part.
Which she’d just done, when she heard an all too familiar voice calling her name.
“Mom?”
She jumped back, feeling as guilty as if she’d been caught stealing dollars from the church poor box.
“I’m out here, Matt,” she called back.
“Johnny’s got to go feed the dogs at the shelter. I told him I’d come with him.”
“Fine.” She was all too aware that she was still out here all alone with the man she’d sworn to stay away from, and her voice wasn’t nearly as steady as she’d have liked it to have been.
“And we thought we might go to a show afterward. The Orcas is having an
X-Men
marathon.”
“Just be home by eleven,” she said. “You know the team curfew.”
“And your coach just heard you,” Dillon called out. “Wouldn’t want me calling and checking up on you boys later, now, would you?”
“No, sir.” Claire heard a faint disappointment in his tone. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good time.”
She heard a door close. A minute later, the Escape pulled away from the house with both boys in it.
“Now he knows we were alone.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?”
“I’m a single mother of a teenage son. It comes with the territory.”