I Think I Love You (12 page)

She retraced her steps, tingling over the awkward encounter. An appraiser from the bank? Surely her parents hadn't already put things in motion for an auction. She burst out of the back door and struggled to control her emotions as she climbed behind the wheel of her rental car. She needed sleep, she reminded herself. And food.
And a sane, intact family.

The house she'd grown up in was on the same piece of land as the antiques business, and accessible from the store on foot by a winding path through thick masses of trees, but accessible by car only by driving another half-mile, then turning left to double back into the heart of the property.

The sprawling blue Victorian hadn't changed much in her lifetime. Since they were little girls, they had called it the Doll because the gables and gingerbread trim resembled a hat; and the wraparound porch, a ruffled skirt. John and Cissy had meticulously restored and maintained the bones of the house but tended to the acres of exterior painted surfaces only on an as-needed basis. As a result, some section of the three-story gal was always in need of a fresh coat of custom Sherwin-Williams.

Referring to the bramble that encased the house as "landscaping" required a kind countenance—thank goodness the Metcalfs had never had to contend with neighbors who were particular about adjacent lawns. Oak and weeping willow trees sprawled unfettered. The grass in the yard was of indistinguishable lineage, shin-high, and studded with white clumps of clover that bowed from the weight of hungry bees. The ivy that had provided gentle ground cover for the mulch beds when she was a girl had evolved into tough, waxy Jurassic foliage. Blue and purple hydrangeas had managed to stay one step in front of the choking vine, producing mop-head blooms as large as basketballs. Everything else had apparently succumbed, including Regina's mother, who appeared to have resorted to adding color to her yard with a menagerie of concrete animals—pink bunnies, green turtles, yellow deer. But Cissy hadn't stopped with animals—Snow White and all the dwarfs lined the sidewalk leading to the stone steps that carried Regina up to the front door. Noah's Ark took over at the porch.

Before Regina could take it all in, the front door swung open and Cissy emerged, dressed in cut-off jean shorts and a T-shirt. No bra. Her gray-streaked red hair was bundled under a blue bandanna scarf, and she was barefoot. "Regina! Oh, I'm so pleased you're home!"

Regina noticed the wineglass in her mother's hand but smiled her best-daughter smile before they embraced. "It's good to see you, Mom."

She stroked Regina's shoulder and squinted. "You look tired, darling."

"I
am
tired."

"You've finally stopped wearing your glasses, I see."

Her hand flew to her temple. "No, I... stopped at the store first and I must have left them there." Darn it. That man had truly seen her at her worst.

"Oh. And did you see your father?" Cissy spoke carefully, then drained her glass.

"No. But a man was there—an appraiser?"

Cissy frowned. "That would be Mitchell Cooke. I don't trust him."

"Then why is he at the shop by himself? And why is he here in the first place?"

Cissy puffed out her cheeks. "Let's get out of this heat."

Regina dutifully followed her inside the cool, cavernous house. They had never installed central air, but the hum of fans in every room was comfortably familiar, as were other things—same supremely cluttered interior, same squeaks in the wood floors, same stale scent that set up in a home when activity ceased. How many months, years, since that cushion had been plumped? That book opened? That rug walked upon?

They moved through the entry-way and the formal living room, down a hall to the most modern room in the house, the kitchen, which was an eclectic mix of 1870s furniture and 1970s Formica. Regina sank into a padded chair, wondering about the equivalent of the breakfast bar in the Victorian Age. Every serious talk she'd ever had with her mother had occurred in this kitchen, with her mother standing up on the sink side and she seated on the other. Once again they assumed the position.

"Lemonade?" Cissy asked.

"Sounds good." Regina could have gotten it herself, but she knew her mother needed to do something with her hands. At fifty-seven, Cissy was still a striking woman, with smooth, moist skin and acute green eyes. But since their last visit, Cissy's shoulders seemed to have given in to gravity.

When the lemonade was handed over, Regina sipped. "So what's going on?"

Cissy sighed. "Your father and I are deeply in debt."

The lemonade went down hard. "What? How?"

"We made some bad investments, and I suppose we've neglected the business. The bank agreed to give us thirty days to liquidate, and they arranged for Mr. Cooke to appraise everything for auction." Cissy bit into her lip. "The store inventory has to go, of course, and everything in this house. And maybe the house itself."

Regina reached for her mother's hand. "Is this why you and Dad are splitting up?"

Cissy shook her head. "No. I didn't even know how bad our finances were until I told your father I wanted to end our relationship. He knew I'd find out, so he had to tell me everything." A dry laugh escaped her. "Believe me, it was a double betrayal to find out that not only will I be starting over, but I'll be starting over with nothing."

"A
double
betrayal?"

Cissy averted her eyes. "Some things you don't need to know, sweetheart. Let's just leave it at that."

But it was clear from Cissy's expression that John had had an affair. Regina's mind violently rejected the idea, unable to reconcile her shy, somewhat befuddled father with infidelity. In fact, Cissy had always been the flamboyant flower and John seemingly grateful that she let him hang around. One of Regina's earliest memories was the knowledge that her parents were devoted to each other... to the exclusion of their daughters.

"How can I help?" Regina asked in a choked voice.

Cissy smiled. "There's my girl. I need for you to help Mr. Cooke."

"Huh?"

"You know our filing system, and with your help, the appraisals will go twice as fast."

"But—"

"And that will allow me to tackle this behemoth of a house."

"But—"

"And you can keep an eye on him and let us know if anything seems out of kilter."

"Mom, I met the man, and I didn't particularly care for his company."

Cissy laughed. "You don't have to marry him—just watch him."

Regina searched for a straw to grasp. "But why can't Dad help him?"

Cissy smiled sadly. "Your father is drinking... a lot. I'm afraid he's rather undependable these days. To be honest, I'd feel better knowing you were at the shop keeping an eye on him, too."

And how could she possibly argue with that?

Her mother's head pivoted toward the window. "I hear a car. Maybe that's your father now."

Regina was closer, so she pushed herself up to look—and to check that she could still make her limbs move. She didn't think she could take any more shocks today. She parted the curtains and watched as a yellow Mercedes came to a halt next to her pathetic little rental. She inhaled sharply when the realization hit her.

"It's Justine," she murmured. "And she's alone."

Cissy hurried to the window. "What's Justine doing here? Did you tell her about me and your dad?"

"No. In fact, I couldn't reach her on the phone. You didn't tell her?"

"No, I only left a message for her to call me."

"Maybe Mica told her?"

"Even if they were on speaking terms, Mica doesn't know, either—unless you told her."

"No, she's been hard to track down lately, too."

"Well," Cissy said cheerfully, hugging Regina's shoulder. "Maybe Justine had a feeling that we needed her."

Regina nodded, but
she
had a feeling that Justine's sudden appearance was more about needing something for herself.

Chapter 8

DON'T let bygones be bygones, by golly.

Regina studied Justine as she and Cissy hugged and Justine gushed that—surprise—she'd just decided to drive down for a few days. Something was wrong, all right. Oh, sure, Justine's immaculate makeup, brilliant red hair, and impeccable clothes were as glamorous as always, but her eyes were beyond bloodshot and her perfect nails were gnawed down to the quicks. Regina suggested that she and Justine retrieve their luggage, and the second the door closed behind them, she said, "Okay, what gives?"

Justine had the nerve to give her an innocent look. "I don't know what you mean."

Regina crossed her arms. "I mean it's quite a coincidence that you show up here, unannounced, the day after a shoot-out at your company's headquarters."

"You know about that?"

"Just enough to think you might be involved. Didn't you get my messages? I called you at home three times last night and this morning. And when I called your office, all I got was your voice mail."

"Sorry—I didn't know you'd called. I spent the night in a hotel."

"What the hell happened?"

Justine sighed. "The wife of some guy I was seeing went off the deep end."

"The
wife
of a guy you're seeing?"

"Oh, God, don't start with the lecture—I knew this was how you'd react." Justine walked down the steps, every footfall punctuated with attitude.

Regina took a deep breath and followed her. "Okay, I'm sorry, but I've been worried about you. Was anyone injured?"

"The woman shot her husband earlier, and he's still in pretty bad shape. And a lady I worked with was wounded, but she's going to be fine."

"This man, was he someone special to you?"

Justine looked rueful. "No. He reminded me of... someone."

Regina knew that look. "Dean?"

Justine scoffed and thumbed away a tear. "Ain't that a kick in the pants? The bastard is still screwing up my life."

Regina had her own ideas of who was screwing up Justine's life, but Justine didn't seem to be in a mood for self-analysis. "I heard on the news that the shooter was a fugitive—did they catch her?"

"No. Which is why I'm here."

"You came to Mom and Dad's to hide out from a killer?"

"She'll never find me here," Justine snapped. "The woman's a lunatic; they probably have her in custody by now." She stopped. "Hey, wait a minute—why are
you
here?"

"Mom and Dad are splitting up."

Justine rolled her eyes. "Again?"

"No, this time it's for real. Mom didn't come out and say it, but I think Dad had an affair."

"No way."

"That's what I said, but she swears that their relationship is over."

"There's no divorce to file, so what's all the fuss?"

Regina frowned. "There's still a matter of property settlement, and apparently, they're broke. Everything at the shop and in the house is going to have to be auctioned off."

Justine blinked. "Dibs on the Tiffany silver candelabra."

"Is that all you can think about?"

"Well, Jesus Christ, if they're splitting up, they're splitting up. Don't look so wounded, Sis—what did you think, that after all these years they were going to get married?"

She hated herself for having a telltale face.

Justine's eyes bugged. "I don't believe it—you actually thought that someday they'd get married?" She laughed. "Don't you get it? Marriage isn't for the Metcalfs. Look at Mom and Dad. Look at me. Look at you." She snorted. "And look at our darling baby sister. Nary a marriage among us."

"But that's better than a bunch of divorces."

"Oh, come on, Sis—if you tell someone you're divorced, they don't even blink, but tell them you've never been married and they wonder what's wrong with you."

It was true, Regina conceded. Divorced people at least exuded the
potential
of being able to make a commitment.

Justine pulled a brand-new suitcase from her trunk. "So, did you come down to counsel the folks with one of your self-help books—
How to Live Happily Ever After
or something stupid like that?"

Regina pulled out her own suitcase and frowned.

"Mom wants me to work with the appraiser to make sure he doesn't rob them blind."

"Ah." Justine turned her head at the sound of another car coming down the winding driveway. "Must be Dad."

But at the sight of a blue extended van, Regina developed a sour taste in her mouth. "No such luck—it's the appraiser."

Mitchell Cooke pulled in on the other side of Regina's car, stopped the engine, and climbed out.

"Yum-yum," Justine muttered.

"Don't get excited," Regina muttered wryly. "He's not married."

He walked toward them, holding up Regina's glasses. "Thought you might need these."

She took them and smiled tightly. "Thanks."

He gestured to the Doll and her surroundings. "Nice place."

"Uh-huh." She had no intention of engaging the man in conversation.

Justine broke the awkward silence. "I'm Justine Metcalf."

He nodded. "Mitchell Cooke. I'm doing some appraisal work for your parents."