Chances Are (32 page)

“Got it.” Angie checked her watch. “Back on in three seconds.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Claire said, grabbing Maddy’s hands. “Maybe you should—”

Too late.

Angie pointed to Maddy.

Maddy smiled, then leaned forward toward the microphone.

And that was the moment when Claire’s brain shut down.

“This is Maddy Bainbridge. We’re live at O’Malley’s on The Pier in historic Paradise Point on the beautiful Jersey Shore with co-owner Claire O’Malley, who is about to join forces with Olivia Westmore, Rose DiFalco, and yours truly at . . .”

Olivia, cleavage billowing, beamed encouragement from the sidelines while she sipped a latte from the new cappuccino machine they had installed to entice the more upscale market. So far, none of the regulars wanted anything but suds or a plain old cup of joe but—

Oh God. Stop daydreaming! Maddy was winding up the introduction, and any second she would expect Claire to say something halfway entertaining, and her mind was nothing but dead air space.
You’re the mother of five . . . you’ve changed diapers in the back of a VW . . . you can make a Halloween costume in three minutes flat while waiting for the school bus—a measly radio interview should be a piece of—

Cake! Was that it? She was supposed to be talking about all the cakes and petit fours and buttery, expensive cookies bursting with chocolate that she would be baking and serving up at Cuppa on a daily basis, about how her fairy godmothers, in the form of Olivia Westmore and Rose DiFalco, had offered her the chance of a lifetime. Who would have guessed those years of producing chocolate chip cookies for the school bake fair would be her way out of what had become a safe and comfortable place to hide.

She sucked in a gulp of oxygen, squared her shoulders, and pulled herself together on behalf of overworked, underslept mothers everywhere and let it rip.

She was loose. She was funny. And, God help her, she was even sincere. She wanted Cuppa to be a success, and she wanted to be one of the main reasons. She had never been particularly ambitious. Her focus for the last twenty years had been her children and family, and O’Malley’s got whatever part of her was left over. This was different. She knew exactly what Cuppa needed, knew what women would be looking for in a tea shop and how to provide it, and that gut-level intensity powered her interview with Maddy, who, Claire couldn’t help but notice, started looking a tad shell-shocked as the minutes passed.

But everyone else seemed to be enjoying the show. Aidan grinned at her from behind the bar. The old guys managed to stay awake. And David Fenelli, aka Ryan’s father, flashed her a thumbs-up.

“You were great,” Maddy said during a commercial break after the interview ended. “My producer said phone lines at the station are popping. I think everyone loves the idea that a woman raising five kids alone can take on so many challenges and make them all work.”

“Better not ask me to take a polygraph on that last one.” Claire reached for a glass of water. “I can’t remember anything I said.”

“Most of my guests say the same thing. There’s a kind of self-inflicted amnesia that—” Maddy glanced over Claire’s left shoulder and whistled softly. “Would somebody tell me how Olivia does it? A second ago there wasn’t a man under sixty-five in the place, and now she has a major hunk draped across her shoulders like a pashmina wrap.”

“I think she grows them in her basement,” Claire said as she turned around to see who Maddy was talking about. “A little peat moss, some Bud Light, Three Stooges reruns, and—”

He smiled at her. Or maybe it was only the memory of his smile that she saw. Her first thought was that God was playing another one of his little jokes on her, like cellulite and freckles and the inability to not say exactly what she was thinking.

Her second thought was that time hadn’t been kind to either one of them. He was leaner, tougher in ways she couldn’t imagine. His thick, dark hair had gone completely silver. His deep brown eyes were almost lost in a network of lines and creases. His life was in his eyes. The anger, the mistakes, those lost days . . .

“. . . God forbid he should call first,” Olivia said, her words fighting to be heard against the rush of memory inside Claire’s head. She could feel the heat of his body warming the fabric of his shirt . . . smell the clean, salty tang of his skin—

“Maddy, I want you to meet my baby brother, Corin Flynn.”

Maddy extended her hand. “Corin Flynn, the photographer?”

“Guilty.”

“Corin’s notorious for not answering his phone calls,” Olivia said, sounding like an overindulgent big sister. “He’d rather fly halfway around the world to say hello than pick up a phone.”

“You should give him lessons, Claire,” Maddy said. “Nobody knows how to organize the way you do.”

“Nice to see you again, Claire.”

“It’s good to see you, too.”
Go away. Please, if you ever felt anything at all for me, you’ll leave.

“You two know each other?” Maddy asked.

“Fifteen seconds,” Angie called out.

“The Meehans and the Flynns were next-door neighbors down in Boca,” Olivia explained, hanging on to her baby brother’s arm. “We’re all old friends.”

“Ten seconds, Maddy!” Poor Angie sounded frantic.

“Gotta go,” Maddy apologized. “I’ll catch you guys later.” She had an extra smile for Corin. “I’d love to interview you about your time in Afghan—”

“Maddy!” Angie’s voice rang out.

Seconds later Maddy was back behind the microphone, interviewing Peter Lassiter and his assistant Crystal about the Paradise Point documentary. Claire listened for a few seconds, then her gut-level dislike of Lassiter and his crew took over, and she moved toward the crowd of regulars at the bar where Corin and Olivia quickly joined her.

“She’s good,” Corin said about Maddy. “Very easy and natural.”

“Isn’t she?” Olivia agreed. “One day somebody’s going to hear one of her broadcasts and snap her right up.”

They waited for Claire to add her compliments into the mix, but a nasty, jealous demon had control of her tongue. “And here I thought Cuppa was her holy calling.”

“Meow,” Olivia said. “Is there a problem brewing?”

“Just being a wiseass,” Claire said, painfully aware of Corin’s nearness . . . and the intensity of his scrutiny. “You know my creed: no straight lines left behind.”

She waved at David Fenelli, who took that as encouragement and crossed the room to join them. He said hello to Olivia, who introduced him to Corin. The two men exchanged reasonably pleasant greetings and a handshake.

“You were great,” David said as he turned to Claire. “You knocked ’em dead.”

She preened a little bit more than she might have without an audience. “You really think so?”

“I really think so.”

“Oh, Claire!” Olivia gave her forearm an affectionate squeeze. “In all the commotion about seeing Corin again, I forgot to tell you: you were fan-tas-tic! You and Maddy sounded like a comedy tag team.”

“Swell,” Claire said. “That’ll sell a lot of tea.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of humor,” David said. “Who said tea and laughter don’t go together?”

Corin said nothing. He observed the byplay between Claire and David, the byplay between Claire and Olivia, and she knew he was trying to calculate the relationships, trying to fit them into the viewfinder he carried around inside his head.

David checked his watch. “Still time to catch the blueberry pecan, if you’re ready to go.”

“Let me tell Aidan I’m leaving, and we’re out of here.”

She spoke quickly to Aidan, who was so focused on Maddy that he barely paid attention, then ducked into the bathroom and ran her fingers through her mop of red curls and tried not to notice the lines on her forehead and the shadows beneath her eyes.

“Relax,” she told her reflection. The worst was over. They had made it past the first awkward hellos, past the initial shock of discovering time hadn’t exactly stood still for either one of them. The earth didn’t stop spinning on its axis. There were no hearts and flowers. No sweet love songs. When their eyes met, she had seen nothing more than polite interest, which she returned in kind.

They were just a middle-aged woman and a middle-aged man who had known each other once a very long time ago and lived to tell the tale.

 
OLIVIA PUT HER hand on Corin’s arm as Claire and the guy with glasses headed for the door. “Let her go,” she said quietly. “You’ll only end up with a broken heart.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” he lied as Claire walked past the window, laughing.

Olivia linked her arm through Corin’s and drew him toward the crowd of regulars clustered at the other end of the bar. “Let me introduce you to my friends,” she said. “They’ll have lots of ideas about who and what you should photograph.”

That wasn’t the way he worked as a rule. His photos were spontaneous, born of the moment, a quick flicker of time captured before it slid into the past and disappeared. Only for an old friend like Dean would he get himself trapped in a Jersey Shore town, snapping picture postcards of renovated diners and the corner church.

Her sorrows showed clearly on her face. In the way she carried herself. The look in her eyes when she saw him again. There had always been something fragile beneath her sharp-edged, competent exterior. A tender vulnerability she worked very hard to hide from the world.

“Come here, little Brother.” Olivia tugged at his arm. “If you don’t want to photograph Barney’s tattoo, I’ll eat my Jimmy Choos.”

Barney was a burly firefighter on the dark side of fifty, one of the crew who had been on duty the day Billy O’Malley died. The tattoo was an intricate depiction of a stretch of beach overlaid with flames and the year 2001. Every man who had been on duty that day bore the same indelible badge of honor.

“Liv’s right,” he said to Barney. “How would you feel about letting me snap a few pictures later today?”

“Come by the firehouse after four,” Barney Kurkowski said. “I’ll show you around.”

He was Olivia’s brother, and that seemed to be good enough reason for them to let him into their lives.

Olivia’s new friends were a varied lot. Grocery clerks. Bank tellers. Doctors. Lawyers. Retired cops and firefighters. Teachers. Insurance salespeople. Unemployed dock workers, down-on-their-luck fishermen, and a few six-figure entrepreneurs thrown in for good measure. No caste system there on the Jersey Shore. His sister might love fancy cars, fine wines, and big diamonds, but she wasn’t a snob. Paradise Point was a good fit for her. She dazzled the old guys, charmed the young ones, and was a good friend to them all. Even better, that friendship seemed to be returned in full measure. He was glad to see she had found a place to call home at last. One of the Flynn kids was bound to get it right sooner or later, and he was glad it was Olivia.

A young woman walked through the front door and was greeted with a storm of greetings. Tall, slender, with freckles and curls the color of a newly minted penny—she seemed familiar. The owner of the bar, Claire’s brother-in-law Aidan, moved toward her as fast as his pronounced limp would allow and enveloped the girl in a bear hug.

“. . . studying for finals . . .” he heard Aidan say.

She had a clear, sweet laugh that made you feel like smiling. One of those happy girls the gods loved. “It’s too noisy in the dorm,” she said, waving at some of the old guys standing next to Corin. “I figured I’d come home, hole up in my old room, and pig out on Ma’s—” Her clear-eyed gaze brushed over him, hesitated, then returned. Her brows slid downward, then quickly relaxed into their normal position. “—macadamia nut cookies,” she continued smoothly.

“You could use a few pounds,” Aidan said. “You’re as skinny as your mother.”

“Not to hear her tell it. Since she quit smoking . . .”

The words all blurred together until they were white noise deep inside his head. Kathleen. It had to be. The only one of Claire’s girls who had kept her distance from him during that magical time, watching the progress of their romance with eyes that had seen far too much already.

“Toss me your keys,” he said to Olivia, who was batting her eyelashes at a man old enough to be their grandfather. “I need to crash.”

She pulled a pair of keys on a leather fob from her enormous handbag. “Here,” she said, pressing them into his hand. “I made up a room for you, and there’s plenty to eat in the fridge. Help yourself.”

He gave her a quick one-arm hug.

“It’ll get easier,” she whispered in his ear. “I promise.”

Sure it would. But with luck he’d be long gone when it did.

 
“YOU’RE NOT EATING your pancakes.” Claire gestured toward David’s plate with her fork. “Come on, David. They’re getting cold.”

He made a halfhearted attempt at downing a few bites, then pushed his plate away from him. “I’m no good at games, Claire.”

She poured more butter pecan syrup over her short stack. “Too bad,” she said, mustering up a smile. “I happen to be the world’s greatest armchair
Wheel of Fortune
player in Paradise Point.”

He didn’t smile back at her. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then maybe you’d better tell me what you are talking about.” Billy Jr. and Ryan hadn’t had a falling out. At least not one she knew about. “I know I haven’t been carrying my share of the load the last few days. I promise I’ll fax you a copy of the catering menu for the soccer dinner—”

“Was it serious?”

She had never felt more clueless in her life. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d better tell me what ‘it’ is before I answer.”