A Family Kind of Gal (4 page)

There was no way! He was the last man on earth, the
last
person to whom she would hand over a key to her house.

“A little crazy,” he conceded as he reached the top and tossed his bag on to the stripped mattress of the antique brass bed. She saw the white lines around the corners of his mouth and watched as he limped slightly to the French doors that opened on to a small balcony overlooking the backyard, then set his battered briefcase on the floor.

“You should try to find something on the ground level.”

“Should I?” he mocked, then tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Don't worry about it, Tiff.”

“Why do you need a place in Bittersweet, anyway?”

“I told you, the winery—”

“I know, but why here? Why not in California? Sonoma or Napa.”

“Dad likes to do business in Oregon.”

“There are lots of vineyards in the Willamette Valley, closer to Portland.” Her mind was spinning. What would it mean to have the Santinis here, in her hometown, her place of refuge? She'd thought when she'd moved here, to this house that Philip had bought as an investment, that she would have the time and distance she needed to start over, to keep from thinking about the pain, about the guilt.

“He thinks the climate is better here for what he wants to do. He's already got a couple of wineries up north.”

“I know,” she interjected, remembering all too well the rolling hills of Santini Brothers' vineyards, the place she'd met her future brother-in-law.

J.D. lifted a shoulder as if it made no difference to him. “As I said, I'm just checking out some possibilities.”

“And in the meantime you thought you might stop by and look in on me, see if I'm being the model mother I'm supposed to be,” she snapped angrily. For as long as she could remember, Carlo Santini hadn't trusted her. He had thought she wanted his son in order to get a chunk of the Santini money. What the Santini family hadn't understood was that when she'd met Philip, it wasn't his family's wealth that had attracted her, but his aura of sophistication, his charm, his way of making her feel loved for the first time in her life. She'd been young, naive and impetuous. Well…no longer.

And as for Philip's money, that had become a moot point: there wasn't much.

“No one's ever accused you of being a poor mother,” J.D. said, turning the crank to open one of the windows. A breeze, fresh with the scents of cut grass and roses, whispered into the slope-ceilinged room.

“Just a lousy wife.”

He didn't respond.

“I know what they thought, J.D.,” she said, unable to leave the subject alone. “I heard them say that I was looking for a father figure, that I needed an older man because I didn't grow up knowing my dad.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think I loved your brother. End of story. Not that it's anyone's business.”

His jaw tightened.

“Just because I was raised by a single mother didn't mean I was insecure or needed an older man to take care of me.” She swiped a speck of dust from the coffee table and hoped she didn't show her true emotions. Inwardly she cringed at the accusation. Especially this week, the subject of her own parentage was difficult enough to consider when she was alone with her thoughts. When anyone else brought up the taboo topic, she saw red.

“No reason to get so defensive.”

“No?” she challenged, crossing the short space separating them. “Then what's the real reason you're in Bittersweet, Jay? And don't give me any garbage about the winery, okay? There are dozens of little towns down here around the border. Some in Oregon and more in California. It's more than just bad luck that you're here.”

His eyes, gray as the dawn, held hers, and she braced herself. What was it about J.D. that seemed to bring out the worst in her? Whenever she was around him, her usually smoothed feathers ruffled easily. One disbelieving look from his suspicious eyes and she was itching for a fight, more than ready to defend herself and her children.

“Look, do you really want to rent this place?” She waved widely, taking in all four-hundred square feet of living space. It was sparse, with only room for a bed, bureau, table, love seat and television. The kitchen consisted of a small stove, refrigerator and sink tucked into an alcove. The bathroom was confining and bare bones with its narrow stall shower, toilet and sink.

“It'll do,” he allowed in that drawl she found so irritating.

“But you won't be down here long, so why bother?”

He studied his fingers for a second, then looked at her again. “Maybe you're right, Tiff. Maybe I just want to be close to you.” He eyed her carefully, and her breath caught in her throat.

“For all the wrong reasons,” she said, then regretted the words.

“Are there any right ones?”

“No!” she said so quickly that she blushed. “Of…of course there aren't.” Clearing her throat, she added, “Well, if that's the way you want it—”

“I do.”

He was too close. Perspiration broke out along her spine. This wasn't going to work. “Then I guess there's nothing more to say but make yourself at home.”

“I will.”

Why she found those last words so damning, she didn't know, but as she hurried down the stairs she was struck by the feeling that her tightly woven little world was unraveling by the minute. First, as a widow and single mother, she had to deal with an adolescent boy who was on the verge of trouble. Possibly big trouble. Next, she'd suddenly been faced with her biological father—a man she'd been told throughout most of her growing-up years was dead. Now that man, John Cawthorne, was trying to become part of her life. And he didn't walk alone. No, the man carried baggage and lots of it in the form of two other daughters—Tiffany's half sisters, whom she didn't know and wasn't sure she cared to. And lastly, J.D. and the Santini family. Too much. It was all too much.

“Wonderful,” she muttered in the second-floor hallway, where she peeked in on a napping Christina before continuing downstairs. “Just great.”

Why right now, when everything in her life was spinning out of control, did she have to face J.D. again? The mercurial and volatile nature of her emotions concerning her brother-in-law had been the bane of her existence ever since she'd married into the Santini family. Nothing would change now that J.D. had moved in. In fact, she was certain that things would only get worse.

* * *

“I just don't get it,” Stephen said as he tucked his skateboard into a corner of the back porch. The board was battered and scratched, the decals for Nirvana and Metallica nearly worn off, the wheels not quite as round as they'd once been. He yanked open the screen door and walked into the kitchen where Tiffany was trying and failing to balance her checkbook while cooking dinner. “Why's
he
here?” Stephen didn't bother hiding the sneer in his voice or his dislike of his uncle, a man he thought was intruding into his life.

“Business.”

“Yeah, monkey business if ya ask me.” Stephen wiped his hands down the front of his jeans and tossed his too-long hair from his eyes. “I don't like this.”

Neither do I, Tiffany was tempted to say, but held her tongue. Her feelings for J.D. were far more complicated than simple like or dislike. Too complicated to examine very closely. “He won't be around that much,” she said as daylight was beginning to give way to dusk. She snapped her checkbook closed and put the statement back into its envelope until she had more time to go through it. It wasn't that she couldn't make the figures add up, it was that it seemed impossible to stretch her salary and the rent she collected far enough to cover all her expenses.

“Good,” Stephen grunted, eyeing the barbecue sauce that was simmering on the stove.

The temperature still hovered near eighty, and a hummingbird was flitting near the open blossoms of the clematis that draped over the eaves of the back porch. Bees droned while a woodpecker drilled loudly in a nearby oak tree and the muted sound of traffic reached her ears.

“Is he eatin' with us?” Stephen asked.

“I don't think so.”

“Good.”

“He
is
your uncle,” she reminded him gently.
And he's your brother-in-law, whether you like it or not
, she told herself. J.D. had signed his six-month lease, given her a check and started carting his few belongings up the stairs. His limp was noticeable, but just barely, and she wondered if his brush with death had been the cause for his reconciliation with his father. Or had it been because Carlo had lost his eldest son?

Her heart squeezed at the thought of the accident that had taken Philip's life. Guilt, ever her companion, encroached upon her, wrapping its fingers around her heart. She had loved Philip once, but it had been such a long time ago.

“So why did you have to see the counselor today?” Stephen asked for the first time. He rubbed one elbow with the fingers of the opposite hand, a nervous trait he'd developed from the time he was four years old.

“She just wanted to talk to me.”

The cat cried at the back door.

“Come on in, you,” Tiffany said with a smile, then noticed as she held open the screen door that the small tear in the mesh was getting larger. Sooner or later it would have to be fixed. Charcoal streaked inside.

“I
know
she wanted to talk to you. But why?” Deftly plucking a bunch of grapes from a bowl on the table, Stephen leaned insolently against the door frame and began plopping the juicy bits of fruit into his mouth.

This was the opportunity she'd been waiting for, because deep down, though she would never admit it, she was scared. Scared to death.

“Well, she started out by asking about you—you know, just checking on how things were going.”

“She just saw me the other day.”

“I know, but she had a few more questions. She's worried about you, Stephen, and frankly, so am I.”

“I'm fine, Mom.”

If only she could believe it. Oh, Lord, how she wanted to trust her boy. “She had a few questions about your relationship with Mr. Wells.”

He froze for a second, then spat the seed from his grape into the sink. “I worked for him. Big deal.”

“What do you know about him? They think
you
know something about why he disappeared,” she said, finally admitting what the juvenile officer had implied. It was ridiculous, of course. It had to be. Isaac Wells had disappeared over a month ago, vanished without a trace. Whether it was foul play or by his own intention, no one knew what had happened to the elderly man. It was the biggest mystery Bittersweet had seen in years. Though Tiffany believed without a doubt that her son was innocent of any wrongdoing, she wanted to hear it from Stephen himself.

“I don't know nothin'.”

“That's what I said, but now someone, and I don't know who, has come forward and said that he…well, or she, for that matter, saw you out at the Wells place on the day that Isaac disappeared.”

Stephen blanched, and Tiffany's heart seemed to fall through the floor. “Someone saw me?”

“That's what she said.”

“Then they're lyin'. I wasn't near the place.”

“You're sure?”

“Don't you believe me?” he cried, licking his lips nervously, his eyes round with an unnamed fear.

She ached to trust him. “Of course I do, but—”

“But what?” Stephen interrupted.

“But it's your word against this other person's.”

“Whose?”

She turned her palms to the ceiling and wished her love was as blind as it had been a few seconds before. “I don't know, really,” she said. “But you've had a fascination with that ranch for a long time.”

“Yeah. I liked old Isaac's cars. That's all. Come on, Mom, you don't really think I had something to do with him up and leaving—or maybe even being killed?” Stephen asked, clearly astounded by her apparent lack of trust.

“Of course not. But I know you were there before.”

“For cryin' out loud, Mom, I drove his old Chevy once. Yeah, I admit it, I did. But that's all. It wasn't like I was going to steal it or anything. I would never do anything like
that
.” His face was as pale as death. He swallowed so hard, his Adam's apple bobbed. “I…mean, I didn't—Oh, gosh, what're you saying?”

“I know you didn't hurt Mr. Wells, Stephen,” she said, instantly filled with remorse. “Oh, honey, I know you didn't have anything to do with him disappearing, believe me.” She took hold of his arm, only to have it ripped from her overly protective fingers. “But...” He was staring at her with the eyes she'd loved from the minute he was born, and her heart hurt that she would have to broach such an awful topic. “Look, Stephen, I trust you and I love you, but I do want to know what you were doing there that day—the time you were caught by Mr. Wells. Then I want to know why you lied about it”

There. It was finally in the open.

Stormy eyes glowered from beneath dark brows. “I didn't—”

“Uh-uh-uh,” she warned. “Come on, honey.”

His jaw worked, and he looked out the window, pretending interest in the white trail of a jet that was slicing across the sky. His broadening shoulders slumped as if from an invisible weight. “The day that I took the Chevy—it was just because I was bored. Well, and because I was dared, I guess.”

“Dared?”

“By Miles Dean, don't you remember?”

How could she forget? Miles Dean, a couple of years older than Stephen, was a bad influence on her son. “I didn't lie about it. Wells caught me, made me do some extra chores that he didn't pay me for, and that was it. You know all this.”

“Go on.” Nerves strung tight, she walked to the stove and stirred the tangy sauce with a wooden spoon. Though it was warm in the kitchen, her fingers felt like ice. “What about the day that Isaac was last seen?” she asked and watched her son swallow hard, as if the lump in his throat was as big as a cantaloupe.