Defeat the Darkness (14 page)

Some things never changed, especially Sandra's problems with addition. Tate was twenty-six, and according to her birth certificate, Sandra had been twenty when she'd given birth. Somehow, those two figures added up to a smaller number every year. At this rate, Tate would eventually be older than Sandra, but logic had never been a strong suit for her mother either.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mother?”

Sandra perched on the edge of the chair Tate had just vacated. “I'd rather have coffee.”

“This is a tea shop. I don't serve coffee.”

She didn't have to look in Sandra's direction to see the combination of disappointment and petulance on her face. Those were the only two expressions her mother ever wore when they were alone together, just as Tate always gritted her teeth and prayed for patience.

“Fine. I'll have a cup of that same stuff you gave me last time.”

It was just another indication that they both lived in her mother's self-centered universe. Tate offered over fifty varieties of tea, yet she was supposed to remember which flavor her mother had tried months ago. But of course, she did. Sandra's visits were always memorable, if not pleasant. She reached for the Lady Grey and a pot.

She set a plate of cookies down with the tea in front of her mother and then picked up her laptop. Sandra didn't know about Tate's dream of being published, and Tate wanted to keep it that way.

“You know I don't eat sweets, Tate. That's how I've managed to keep my figure all these years. I'm still a perfect size six.”

And Tate wasn't. Her mother also towered over her by almost five inches, giving Sandra the willowy model look she was so proud of. Except for her blond hair and blue eyes, Tate had taken after her father's side of the family.

“Would you like a sandwich instead?”

“If it's not too much trouble. One piece of bread, lean turkey, no mayo. If you don't have turkey, then lean ham will do.”

Tate took her time assembling the sandwich, relieved to get a brief respite from Sandra's company. Although she loved her mother, their relationship was complicated. Somewhere along the way their roles had reversed, making Tate the responsible one.

Most of the time that was all right with her, but once in a while she wished she could be the flighty one most men adored. Accepting her uncle's gift of this house and the chance to write was the closest Tate had ever ventured to doing something wild. Well, up until she'd met Hunter Fitzsimon.

As she cut up a carrot and some celery to add to her mother's plate, the bell over the shop door rang again. She needed to hurry out and greet her customers before her mother could say anything to them.

Too late. Worse yet, she recognized the rough voice immediately. Caught up in her mother's unexpected arrival, she'd missed seeing that Hunter had returned. This was disaster in the making.

Her mother had never met a man she didn't like, even if her preference was for older, richer ones. Her concentrated efforts to hold off the changes time
wrought had paid off for her. Despite Tate's teasing Sandra a bit about her real age, the woman did look more like Tate's older sister than her mother.

Bracing herself to see yet another man enamored of her mother, Tate walked back into the shop. To her surprise, Hunter was sitting by himself, staring out the window with his back toward Tate's mother. Sandra looked confused and not a little insulted by his obvious lack of interest.

“Here's your sandwich, Sandra.”

Her mother's eyes flared at Tate's use of her given name, but she didn't say anything. Instead she gave the back of Hunter's head a pointed look. Rather than answer the unspoken question, Tate went behind the counter to fix Hunter a pot of tea.

“Here you go, Mr. Fitzsimon.” She handed him the morning paper with his order.

He looked up at her with a knowing gleam in his eye. “Thank you, Ms. Justice. I'd like a couple of those muffins when you have time.”

“Coming right up.”

She brought him the muffins and threw in a scone for good measure, telling herself it wasn't a reward for him not being instantly enamored by her beautiful mother.

Tate was at a loss as to what to do next. She really wasn't in the mood to hear what had brought Sandra to Justice Point. As much as she still wanted to corner Hunter and find out what had really happened last night, she wouldn't air his personal business in front of anyone, least of all her mother.

She kept herself busy behind the counter dusting the
shelf that she'd cleaned only the day before and rearranging the display of teacups and matching saucers in the glass counter. What next? Alphabetizing the teas? Finally, she settled in with her laptop and tried to concentrate on her story.

Melinda, the heroine, was antsy, wanting to get back home to her patient. The handsome but boring sheriff wasn't stupid; he knew something was up. He was convinced he'd make Melinda a damned good husband, but it was becoming obvious that she didn't think so. To prove his point, he kisses her.

Tate stopped to think. How would that kiss feel? Before Melinda had met Chance, she would've jumped at the chance to have the sheriff court her. Was she foolish enough to give up the security the lawman would offer her for the dark appeal of Chance? Tate realized she was staring across the room at Hunter and nodding.

Oh, yeah, that's exactly what Melinda would do.

As if sensing her interest, Hunter slowly turned in her direction. Hating that he'd caught her staring, she blushed, trying her best to ignore the tingle of awareness, which had nothing to do with the embarrassment that flooded through her. It was as if his gaze had weight, caressing her skin with a palpable heat.

The scrape of a chair across the wooden floor reminded them both that there was a third person in the room. Hunter turned his attention back to his crossword puzzle as Tate immediately closed her file and prepared to deal with her mother.

“Tate, I need the key to the apartment over the garage.”

Oh, God, this wasn't going to be pretty on so many levels. Her mother wanting to move into the apartment was the subject of several of Tate's nightmares. Her mother's fortunes must have had a serious downturn for her to want to stay in Justice Point. She was not going to be happy to find out that Tate had rented the place out.

“I'm sorry, but the apartment isn't an option. You can have your usual room upstairs for a few days.” Hopefully that's as long as Sandra was planning to stay.

Obviously her mother had other plans. “I'd prefer some privacy, so I want the apartment. It shouldn't take you much time to make it livable for me. You owe me that much, considering you didn't see fit to share the proceeds of your uncle's estate with me. I still think that lawyer misunderstood Jacob's intentions. After all, I'm his brother's widow.”

She ignored the fact that Tate was Jacob's only niece, and Sandra had never been anything but hateful to him anyway. Tate didn't bother to state the obvious, since Sandra never saw past her own selfish needs.

“The apartment is already livable, Sandra, and someone is living in it. I rented it out.”

“Tell them to move out.” Sandra pursed her mouth so hard that there was a white line around her lips.

Hunter carried his dishes over to the counter. “She can't. I have an ironclad lease for the next six months, with an option for six more if I want them.”

The look on Sandra's face would've been funny if it hadn't portended a major hissy fit.

“And you would be?” she said with a great deal of snark in her voice.

“I would be your daughter's tenant,” Hunter said, his voice rough and low.

He smiled at Tate, deliberately ignoring her mother. “I'll be up at the Auntie Ms finishing the lawn if you need me for anything.”

And didn't that just fry her brain with possibilities?

Both women stared after him until he'd sauntered out the door, leaving Tate alone to face her mother's anger. Rather than wait for the explosion, Tate gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the kitchen. Sandra wasn't far behind.

“Why did you rent that man my apartment?”

So they were back to that. “Mother, I'm sorry that you drove all the way up here only to be disappointed. That is hardly my fault, much less Mr. Fitzsimon's. I advertised for a renter. He answered the ad. It's that simple.”

Most people would've called ahead, but Sandra wasn't other people. The world revolved around her. Tate had learned that early on, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with.

“Well, since you caused the problem, young lady, you can fix it. Make him leave.”

That did it. “Mom, for the last time, I'm not going to ask him to move. He rented
my
apartment in good faith. He could sue me if I tried to break the lease now.”

Sandra launched her next salvo with a strong undercurrent of triumph. “But where am I going to put all my furniture when it arrives?”

Suddenly the sandwich Tate had eaten felt like a brick in her stomach. This wouldn't be the first time that
Sandra had imposed on Tate's hospitality without asking, but she'd never dragged along all her worldly goods.

“Well, either you'll have to pay to store your furniture somewhere or else find an apartment in town. I'm sure you can find something nicer than living over my garage.” She added soap to the dishwasher and punched the button.

“I can't afford the prices in town.”

“You can store your stuff in the garage for a
short
time,” Tate suggested, emphasizing the word
short,
“and stay with me until you find a job and get a few paychecks. Once you've got enough saved up to move out, I'll help you find a place.”

There. She'd set down the limits—not that she expected Sandra to abide by them. She never had before.

“That garage is filthy!”

“There are cleaning supplies in the utility room. Use what you need.” Tate busied herself washing the counter, not wanting to watch her mother play the martyr. Unfortunately she could still hear her. Sandra sighed and sniffed a little, as if fighting the urge to cry.

“You sound like your Uncle Jacob.”

Tate rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, praying for deliverance or at least patience. “Thank you for saying so. He was a good man.”

“It wasn't a compliment, my dear. He was a stubborn, unkind man. No wonder you're not married. Men like their women sweet and to take a little more care with their appearance.”

If that was the case, how could Sandra explain her success with men? While she did maintain her appearance,
Sandra was anything but sweet, especially when she was thwarted. She'd only get worse if Tate pushed back.

“I'm sure you're right, Mother.”

Sandra changed tactics. “What do you know about this Fitzsimon? Did you check his references before letting him move in?”

“Mother, drop it. He's here to stay.” Tate wiped her hands on a towel. “Now, if you want to spend the night, there are sheets in the linen closet. You've got plenty of time to get your bed made up, bring in your luggage, and get settled in before dinner. You can even squeeze in one of your naps if you hurry.”

Sandra vibrated with anger. “Do you treat all your guests this way? If so, I'm surprised that you've stayed in business this long.”

Tate reached for a mixing bowl. Baking always soothed her after one of these conversations.

“No, I don't ask actual customers to make their own beds. I assumed you weren't planning on paying me, but let me know if I'm wrong about that.”

“I don't know how I raised such an ungrateful daughter.” This time the crack in Sandra's voice sounded real.

Tate set the flour back down. “Okay, Mother, what's really going on? We both know you hate this place, so something must have happened to drive you to such desperate straits.”

“Not that you care, but Edwin and I broke up.”

Edwin? The last time she'd heard Sandra mention a man it was Louis something.

“I'm sorry. Had you been seeing him long?”

“Long enough that we were living together. But we had a fight, and I had to leave. He said some perfectly horrid things to me.”

Sandra allowed a single tear to trickle down her cheek before taking a deep breath and putting on a brave expression. Probably to avoid ruining her mascara.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Tate pulled out her recipe box and looked for the card for pumpkin muffins. “I'd help you get settled, but I've got to get things ready for tomorrow.”

“Fine. Let me know when you have dinner ready.”

Tate listened to Sandra's footsteps retreat. She did her best to ignore the sound of her mother's multiple trips out to her car and up the steps to the room she always used. After dealing with Hunter last night and her mother today, it was no wonder Tate's head was about to explode.

It might take several batches of baked goods to restore her equilibrium. With Hunter's sweet tooth, the extras wouldn't go to waste. Besides, she owed him for making it clear to Sandra that he wasn't going to give up his new home.

Suddenly her head didn't hurt so much.

Hunter reached for his beer and took a long drink. God, it felt good to relax. Between spending most of the night perched on a pile of rocks waiting for the bad guys to show, hiking his ass back down to the beach with D.J., and mowing the Auntie Ms yard, he was ready to stretch out and not move for a week. Or maybe ever again.

He cranked up the hot water another notch, hoping the near-scalding water would help ease the stiffness in his leg. The jets of water surrounded his body with a gentle massage that felt like heaven. He sank down lower, until only his head was above the waterline.

He'd allow himself a solid half hour in the tub before seeking out his bed. Paladins knew how to grab sleep whenever they could, so catching a few z's in the middle of the afternoon wouldn't be a problem. He'd set his alarm, though, to make sure he had time to grab a bite before heading back down to the beach before nightfall.