Come On Closer (16 page)

It had taken her all of five minutes to decide, once and for all, that Jim Sullivan was a complete asshole.

Larkin glanced at Shane, who'd been uncharacteristically silent all evening. It was like being on a date with a different person, and she wasn't sure what to do about it. Every time she looked, he was glowering into his food, or staring out the window, or playing with his wineglass. He barely said a word . . . and his parents didn't seem to notice.

Imagining him as a child at this same table left her with a dull ache deep in her chest. No wonder he'd found ways to escape. It was something she understood intimately . . . and a connection to him she was surprised to feel.

“So, Larkin,” Jim said, pulling her attention back to the moment, “where did you say you were from?”

They'd been here an hour, and that was the first personal question she'd been asked. She'd actually started to think they were going to skip this part, which would have been fine with her. Carefully, she finished chewing her food—a really excellent bite of filet mignon covered in rich sauce—before answering.

“I'm from a small town in California.”

“Which one? I like to get out to wine country now and again. Beautiful towns out there.”

She felt her jaw start to tighten. It wasn't a big surprise that Shane's father was one of those guys who was unaware that any but the biggest or best parts of her home state existed. They sure didn't make it out to places like where she'd grown up, dead-end towns where a lot of people were below the poverty line and drugs were rampant because it was one of the few escapes from what could be a grinding reality.

“Purvis,” she said. When his expression blanked, she
added, “It's really small. Pretty agricultural. In the San Joaquin Valley.”

“Oh. I've never been to that part,” Jim said. “What do your parents do?”

Her mouth went dry. She'd forgotten how much she hated being grilled by people like this. She could pretend it was innocent curiosity, but the glint in his eye said otherwise. This was a screening.
Are you one of us or not?
Larkin glanced at Shane again and realized he was finally paying attention. So how much gloss should she put on her answer? That was always the question.

“My, ah, parents are divorced. My mother works in the restaurant business.”
It's a bar. A really, really crappy bar where she meets her seemingly endless supply of equally crappy boyfriends, but last time I heard she
is
working, so that's something.
“My father works for a major oil company.”
On a rig. Which enables him to pretend he never had any children most of the time, much easier since we've all grown up and he can put his child-support-is-for-suckers years behind him.
Larkin smiled brightly. “There isn't much to tell, really.”

Normally this answer was accepted with a faint whiff of derision, or even pity. Nobody wanted to inquire much further than that, which was fine. Occasionally, though, she'd end up in the path of someone who was more interested than he or she ought to be for purposes that were never in her best interest. Someone, naturally, like Shane's father, who thought they smelled weakness and couldn't resist.

“Hmm,” he said in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Well, I'm sure they must be very proud of you. Small business owner—from
what I hear, an excellent baker. Did you learn from your mother? You said she was in the—”

“Restaurant business. Yeah. No, actually, I got interested all on my own. She let me experiment in the kitchen.”
Because I had to cook, because she was never around, and would you like to hear how tiny that kitchen was? I kind of think you would.

“Well, at least she was supportive,” Liz chimed in. She was a thin, nervous woman with perfectly coiffed strawberry blond hair and long, elegant fingers that sparkled with some very tasteful jewelry that probably cost more than Larkin's house. “Does she get out to visit much?” she asked.

Larkin fought the urge to chew the inside of her cheek. It hadn't been asked as a gotcha question, but it was one anyway. Liz didn't seem to be the barracuda her husband was, but she definitely deferred to him. She was probably nice enough on her own. It was exactly the kind of relationship Larkin never wanted to have, and the sort that she'd started to fall into a few times before she'd taken a step back and had a good, hard look at her instincts and where they came from.

Shane was still watching her, his expression keen in the way it always was when he was interested. Larkin debated what to say, took a sip of her wine, caught a glimpse of Jim's sharp eyes glittering in the candlelight, and decided she might as well get it over with.

“I'm estranged from my parents,” she said calmly. “Both of them. It's one of the reasons I live on the other side of the country. I graduated from high school early, worked my way through Bakersfield Community College, got an associate's in culinary arts, and spent some time around LA getting experience before I found
my way out here.” She forked up a bite of her steak, smiled, and finished with “It's been an adventure.”

“Oh. Well . . . good for you!” Liz smiled in the particular way people did when they were horrified and trying not to show it, so it was more of a grimace than anything. Larkin maintained her own fake smile and wished she were anywhere but this beautifully decorated dining room. She'd just outed herself as a member of the unwashed masses, after all. It didn't bother her, but this sort of discussion, once initiated, rarely went anywhere good.

“Bakersfield Community College,” Jim said, rolling the words around in his mouth and seeming to find them distasteful. Must be the legendary dumpiness of Bakersfield hadn't escaped his notice after all, his preference for the wine country notwithstanding. “Well, you've got to start somewhere, I guess.”

Don't get defensive, don't get defensive.
“They have a good culinary arts program. I'm glad I went there.”
Well, so much for that.

“I'm sure you are,” he replied, and it was dismissive enough that she briefly considered knocking his glass of scotch into his crotch. She might be a nice person, but she'd put a great deal of time and effort into not being a doormat, and being forced to play nice with guys like this was a struggle. She looked over at Shane, who was studying his plate with interest, and pressed her lips together. It would have been nice for him to speak up in her defense, but then again, she wasn't sure what might help besides grabbing her hand and dashing out into the night,
Doctor Who
style.

“How did you ever hear about Harvest Cove?” Liz asked, and Larkin could see her trying to salvage the
conversation. She obliged, mostly because she wasn't interested in ruining dinner over an impassioned defense of Bakersfield. It had its pros and cons, like anywhere. But it was no Harvest Cove.

“I threw a dart,” Larkin said.

Liz's smile froze. “What?”

“A dart,” Larkin repeated, miming the action of throwing a dart. “I'd made it as far as Boston, and I knew I liked the state. I wanted a small town, though: somewhere I could settle in, build my business, really get to know the people around me. So I did some research, made up a list of towns that met all my requirements, stuck the list on my wall, closed my eyes, and left it up to fate.” She remembered it well. She also remembered the two shots of tequila she'd done beforehand, which she decided not to mention. It had been a weird night.

Shane finally spoke up. “You came here because you hit the Cove with a dart? Seriously?”

“Well, after the first one broke a picture. I gave myself a do-over.” She shrugged. “It was a lucky shot. I love it here.”

She could see that Jim's lip was just about curled. “There's no such thing as luck. Hard work, brains, drive: Those are the things that'll get you somewhere. A dart is no way to manage your future. You could have ended up with a pastry shop in some backwoods Podunk, and then where would you be?”

“Happy, probably,” Larkin said mildly and poked at her asparagus. “I like baking and people. People like my baking. It would have worked out.”

“I'm sure it would ha—,” Liz started, only to be steamrolled by her husband.

“Oh, bullshit,” he said, and the humor in his voice didn't do much to counteract the cold, ugly way he regarded her. “You'd be broke. Nobody's happy broke.”

“Dad,” Shane attempted to interject.

“No”—she raised her voice to be heard—“nobody is. Fortunately there's a lot of space between fabulously wealthy and dirt poor. I'm used to having to make do with a little less. Tends to help with keeping a realistic perspective.”

Jim started coughing—she wasn't sure whether it was the steak or simply reality that had gone down the wrong way—and Larkin took the opportunity to pop a bite of the absolutely amazing mashed potatoes in her mouth. Too bad she didn't have much of an appetite, but she hoped that chewing would put an end to the conversation.

It worked. Sort of. Jim cleared his throat, took a sip of his scotch, and turned his attention to his son. “Well, maybe she'll push you and your Boston College education to work a little harder.”

“I work.” Shane didn't look happy at the attention, but fair was fair, Larkin thought. It was definitely his turn.

Jim snorted. “Tammy said you stayed late all last week, but I know she covers for you. One day I'll retire, and people will want to know they're in good hands.”

“They
are
in good hands,” Shane said blandly. “Dan and Brigid could run the place by themselves.”

Jim glowered, Shane got a mulish look on his face, and Liz sighed. Larkin was suddenly certain that this was only the latest chapter in an ongoing argument. She tried to shift the subject away, just a little, even though it meant drawing attention back to herself.
“Speaking of, I met some of the people at the office, and I think they're—”

The word “great” vanished somewhere beneath an onrushing wave of bluster.

“They're not
supposed
to run it by themselves. They're supposed to work for me, and for you, one of these days,” Jim said. “What was the point of all that education otherwise?”

“You tell me. You wouldn't pay for anything but a law degree.” Larkin blinked.
That
was new information.

“This again. Like you had so many more appealing career options. I guess you'd rather be teaching acting to the misfits down at the high school. Probably have a boyfriend, too. People would have a field day with that.”

The ugly homophobia didn't surprise her, but that didn't mean she wanted to listen to it. “Hey,” she began, and this time was steamrolled from the other direction.

“Yeah, a son with the double horror of being artsy and gay,” Shane snapped. “Wow, I'm so glad you saved me by badgering me into law school. I definitely wouldn't have liked girls otherwise.”

“Don't get smart.”

“I'm
not
that smart. Ask anybody at the office. It would probably run better without me. Ask Dan and Brigid.”

“Damn it, Dan and Brigid's names aren't on the building,” Jim shot back, his face going as red as his hair. “Yours is. You just don't respect it. Every time I come out of my office you're entertaining someone. Your schedule isn't exactly challenging, and I know that's by design. You could take on more, but you won't. And that's
laziness
, not stupidity!”

Shane's face began to redden to match his father's. “My workload is just fine. I have a life outside of the office.”

“Not one that makes any sense.”

Shane rolled his eyes and groaned dramatically. Larkin looked between them silently. She'd given up trying to derail this train. It was, at least, an up-close-and-personal education on Shane's family problems. Somehow, despite what she'd heard, she hadn't thought it could be this bad. Not in the same way hers was bad, but . . . she wouldn't want to live like this, either. Liz caught her eye across the table and gave her an apologetic look. The men appeared to have forgotten they were there.

“And what the hell am I supposed to do that makes sense to you? Join the country club? Take up golf? Go on long, unnecessary weekend trips?” Shane was almost shouting now.

He seemed to hit a nerve, and Jim's left eye twitched. “You could act like you care about this family, for one thing. About what all the men who came before you built, what enables you to sit on your ass and have the luxury of not caring. You're a
Sullivan
, damn it. The last one, once I'm gone. That means something around here.”

Shane snorted. “Yeah. It means things. Ask around.”

“Your behavior doesn't help. I put up with the partying, and the theater garbage, and the fact that you ran through damn near every girl in the Cove without even thinking of marrying one of them, not to mention your grades, but it's time for you to grow up.”

“I did grow up. You just didn't notice.” His jaw was so tight it sounded like he was growling out the words. “Too busy golfing, I guess.”

Jim threw up his hands. “Oh, that's nice. Go ahead and brush it off. But when you're fifty and saddled with a bunch of kids and the firm has closed its doors because you can't be bothered with it, playing Xbox in a trailer over on the North Side isn't going to seem like such a wonderful leisure activity. Maybe some of your friends will still come see you, though. They'll probably be living over there, too. The adopted kid, and the gay one.”

Shane's nostrils flared. “Sure, why not? They have names, by the way. Not that you'd remember them.”

Liz mouthed
Dessert?
at Larkin. She nodded vigorously. If this didn't stop soon, she thought there would either be nasty words or fists thrown, and neither one was going to end in anything but a hasty, unhappy exit. Liz got up and hurried into what Larkin assumed was the kitchen. Malia was in there somewhere, probably hiding out and eating whatever the dessert was supposed to be. She knew that's what she would be doing, which was why it was probably best that she hadn't decided to become a personal chef.