Now You See Me (4 page)

And he would lose her.

“Your mother. Of course. I understand.” Lydia stood, smoothing the fabric of her khaki-colored pants, drawing his attention to nicely rounded hips. All thoughts of the building and the town and even his mother fluttered from his mind at the sight of long fingers sliding nervously down her thighs.

He shook his head. Four months of celibacy was obviously too long. If this were anyplace but the Cove he could try to amend that sad condition, but the mere thought of finding someone here was enough to bring a wry smile to his lips.

“My children will be here any minute.” Her words pulled him back to attention. “I need to get ready for them.”

“Right.” He sprang to his feet, reached for her outstretched hand. Her shake was firm. His grasp lasted a fraction of a second too long. Well, to him it was too short. Who would have suspected that her palm would nestle so intimately against his? But from the slight frown and the speed with which she pulled back, he knew he’d overstayed his welcome.

“I don’t want a bidding war, but I’m not giving up and moving out meekly, Mr. Delaney. I have too much invested here to let go just like that.”

He nodded, certain that if he tried to say anything, he’d end up apologizing all over himself and practically giving her the building. “I understand. Why don’t you take a day or two to consider your options and get back to me?”

Lydia’s gaze darted around the room, lingering in the oddest places—a scarred section of the fireplace, a pane of glass in the window that didn’t seem to match those surrounding it. He would have thought she was reassessing as she looked around, but the soft glow in her eyes told him he’d missed the boat.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as possible,” she said as she walked him to the door. He nodded and reached past her for the handle. For a moment they brushed against each other. He was close enough to breathe in the scents of coffee and vanilla that clung to her, near enough to hear the small breath that escaped from her lips when he touched her. He was filled with a crazy yearning to forget the door and reach for her instead.

It was impossible, of course. She might not have judged and dismissed him like the rest of the populace, but a hero’s widow and the town bad boy—reformed or not—wasn’t what anyone would call a likely pairing.

The best thing he could do was hope that from now on, she would wear shirts that wouldn’t get him thinking.

CHAPTER THREE

W
HERE
WAS
SHE
going to get the money?

Lydia gave the wheelbarrow a vicious push as it caught on a root hidden in the grass of her front yard. Officially, she was toting the embers from the evening’s barbecue out front to dump on the giant maple stump in the middle of the yard. In reality she’d jumped at the chance to gain a moment’s privacy—a moment to relive her conversation with J. T. Delaney.

“Another buyer, my left foot,” she muttered as she wheeled her load across the grass. “J.T. probably stands for Jerk the Tenant.”

She upended the barrow and carefully shook the coals onto the last reminder of the tree that had towered over the yard until a January ice storm brought it down. The hiss and spit of the embers as they hit moist wood was nothing compared to the hissing and snarling she longed to indulge in now that she had the chance.

Except she couldn’t.

Oh, she was mad, that was for sure. Angry at the way her new security was being yanked out from beneath her, frustrated that these changes were being forced on her, scared silly whenever she considered the money she would have to dredge up. That line about there being another potential buyer, well, that was just the whipped cream on the latte. Honestly. Did the man really think she would fall for that?

She pulled the wheelbarrow away from the stump and sighed. She was ticked at her new landlord, true. But she couldn’t work up as much steam as was currently billowing into the air before her. The man was infuriating, but at the same time, he was so different than she’d expected that she was kind of intrigued.
Different
wasn’t something that happened a lot in Comeback Cove. She was usually okay with that. Her life had been thrown into chaos once. Stability and routine were her good friends now.

She didn’t want that to change just because J. T. Delaney had skated into town, even if he was the most interesting thing she’d seen in ages.

She gazed up into the blue sky, focusing on a wisp of long, thin white cloud. “Glenn,” she said softly, “remember when you bought me that really awesome necklace for Christmas, and then you forgot all about it until I found it, like, two years later? Well, is there any chance you could have done that with some off-shore bank accounts, or—”

“Mommy!”

Lyddie’s focus jerked back to earth and the sight of her youngest child bounding across the yard with a cell phone in her hand, pigtails bobbing in time with her leaps.

“Slow down, Tish. These coals are hot. You don’t want to fall in them.”

“Mommy, I’m not a baby. I’m almost seven. I know how to walk.”

“Humor me, okay?” Lyddie walked around the steaming stump and met Tish on the safe side of the yard. “Who’s on the phone?”

“Aunt Zoë.”

“Thanks, kiddo. Go back inside and tell Sara to start your bath. I’ll be there soon.”

“Can’t I skip? I don’t want a bath.”

“Nope. School night. Hop to it.” Lyddie bestowed a loud kiss on Tish’s soft cheek, then patted her daughter’s denim-clad bottom before lifting the phone to her ear.

“Hey there, fertile one.”

A long groan was her answer, deep and painful enough to make Lyddie’s heart do a quick thud.

“Zoë? What’s wrong, are you in labor? Talk to me, Zo.”

“No.”

“No, you won’t talk to me, or—”

“No, I’m not in labor.” Zoë sounded more like her normal overwhelmed self now. Whew. “It’s these stupid Braxton Hicks contractions. Who invented them, anyway? I mean, what’s the point of a contraction if you’re not in labor? Is this supposed to be like the previews at the movies?”

Lyddie laughed and picked up a long stick to poke at the still-simmering coals. “This is your third kid. You don’t need a preview.”

“Damn straight I don’t. It took me years to forget what labor feels like. I don’t need reminders.”

“Cheer up. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Zoë moaned and called Lyddie a name that would have earned her a bar of soap in the mouth if their mother had heard it. Lyddie merely giggled.

“So what’s up?”

“Nothing.” Her sister’s voice was a sound portrait of frustration.

“Nothing? That’s why you called?”

“Kevin left early this morning and has a dinner meeting tonight, and Nick has a cold so he’s clingy and miserable, and Dusty decided that today was the perfect day to see what would happen if you cook Play-Doh in the microwave for ten minutes on high. I hurt all over. I can’t breathe. I’ve been having these stupid Braxton Hicks all day and it’s hotter than Hades here and if this baby doesn’t come out the minute Sara gets off the plane, I’m grabbing a knife and giving myself a homemade Cesarean.”

Lyddie pushed a coal farther over on the stump. “Congratulations. You’re having your eight-month breakdown.”

“You don’t have to sound so damned happy about it!” Across the miles, Zoë burst into tears. Lyddie sighed and sat on the ground. Might as well get comfortable.

Five minutes of soothing, empathizing and commiserating later, Zoë finally stopped crying.

“You okay now?”

“A bit.” Sniff. “It helps to hear another adult voice. I should have kept working right until I popped. I wasn’t made to be a suburban housewife. Tell me stories of the real world.”

Despite herself, Lyddie laughed. “The real world? Have you forgotten that I live in Comeback Cove?”

“It beats the hell out of the ’burbs. At least people talk to each other there. Tell me—anything. Make something up. Anyone interesting come into the store today?”

This time it was Lyddie’s turn to groan.

“That sounds promising. Now use words.”

“They won’t all be nice,” Lyddie warned, and after glancing around the yard to make sure none of the kids were lurking in the evening shadows, she gave Zoë the scoop.

“So that’s where I am,” she said. “You have a spare hundred grand or two tucked away with your cookie stash?”

“Sorry, I blew it all last week on nursing bras. But seriously, are you sure you want to buy the place?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Why?
Wasn’t it obvious? “This is home now.”

“Is it? I mean, I know you like it there, but geez, Lyddie. Do you really want to tie yourself to a place where they call you the Young Widow Brewster?”

Oh. That.

“Not everyone says that.”

“But they think it,” Zoë pointed out, and Lyddie realized that what had intrigued her most about J.T. was the way he’d talked to her. There’d been none of the deference that characterized so many of her interactions with her fellow residents. Other than his brief condolences, there had been no mention of Glenn, no pity in J.T.’s gaze. It had been, well...refreshing.

Still, even if she sometimes felt a bit stifled by the way people dealt with her, she couldn’t discount the way she and the kids had been embraced by the town. “This is a good place. The kids need to be here.”

“That’s debatable. Sara seems awfully excited about coming here for the summer.”

“Sara is fourteen. Of course she wants to get away, it’s part of the adolescent code.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?”

The question was so un-Zoë, so very much like something her mother-in-law would say, that Lyddie had to laugh. “Did Ruth pay you to do this?”

“Oh, my God. You mean Ruth and I actually agree on something?”

“Not precisely, but...” Lyddie sighed and leaned back until she was flat on the ground, staring at the pink-tinged clouds floating through the darkening sky. “Look, you know why I’m here. I agree it gets a little, um, claustrophobic at times, but everyone is really very nice. Plus it’s the closest I can come to keeping Glenn alive for the kids.”

“And there’s no other way that could be done?”

“Not nearly as well.”

There was a moment of silence, during which Lyddie could easily visualize her sister perched on the edge of her bar stool, one finger twirling her hair while the other tapped against the phone—Zoë’s favorite thinking position.

“Is he married?”

“Excuse me?”

“The landlord. Is he married?”

“What the heck does that have to do with anything?”

“Because if he’s married, I can’t tell you to jump him.”

“Zoë!”

“Oh, come on, Lyd. You said he’s kind of James Dean–ish, right?”

Lyddie remembered the shorts, the sass, the smile. The man did have a basic animal appeal. Maybe it was just the shock of seeing someone who obviously didn’t care what anyone thought about him—a rare find, indeed, in Comeback Cove.

“I am not going to jump him.”

“You sure? It would go a hell of a long way toward improving your negotiating position.”

“Positive.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to start researching mortgages.”

The shudder that rippled through Lyddie had nothing to do with the damp ground or the cool breeze coming off the river. Of course she had to get a mortgage to buy the building. It was the only way. She hated the thought of taking on that much debt, but she would do it. Even if it meant working until after she was dead to pay it off.

Her kids had already lost their father. They weren’t going to lose one of their strongest links to him, too. Not while she had any say in the matter.

* * *

L
ATE
THAT
NIGHT
, Lyddie stared at the computer, the only light in the darkened den, and tried not to get too depressed as she focused on the sample mortgage payments in front of her. Amazing, how simple squiggles on a screen could generate such worry.

It hadn’t been like this before, when she and Glenn had bought their house. That research had been accompanied by giggles, nervous excitement and a bottle of champagne.

This time, each figure she took in seemed more overwhelming than the one before it. It was almost enough to make her seriously consider Zoë’s suggestion that she improve her negotiating position by jumping her landlord.

Right. And then she would pull a Lady Godiva in the middle of Main Street.

She minimized the page and clicked on the next bank in the list she’d generated. Maybe this one would have better terms. And maybe she could forget about J.T. And maybe she could even stop Zoë’s other question from surfacing every time she printed out another loan application.

Do you really want to tie yourself so permanently to a town where they call you the Young Widow Brewster?

“Yes,” she muttered as she stabbed her pencil against the notepad. Concentrate. That’s what she had to do now. Focus on the store, on her future, on building a forever life in Comeback Cove. All those other thoughts would have to wait until—

“Lydia?”

Until she dealt with her mother-in-law.

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

Oh, no.
Not that tone. Not the I’m-alone-and-lonely voice.

“A minute.” She turned away from the computer, not certain if she were getting into something better or worse. “What’s up, Ruth?”

“I know you’re planning to send Sara to your sister’s for the summer, but is that carved in stone?”

Lyddie was tired and frustrated, haunted by questions she couldn’t answer and worries she couldn’t share, and all she wanted was to check out a couple more banks and then go to bed. She longed to tell Ruth that whatever it was, it would keep until a better time. But in all honesty, between the coffee shop, Ruth’s job and three kids needing to be carted around town and/or talked around, that “better time” was about twelve years down the road.

It looked as if she were going to have to get it over with.

“Her plane ticket is bought and paid for. Zoë is counting on Sara to help with the boys after she has the baby. So yeah, it’s pretty well definite.”

“I see. It’s just that...” Ruth paused as she walked into the room and sat in the desk chair beside Lyddie’s. “I talked to my sister today. She suggested that I bring the girls along when I go to Florida next month. Ben will be at camp and I thought it would be a nice treat for them.”

Florida in July? Ew. Tish wouldn’t mind the heat, she thrived on it, but Sara had inherited Lyddie’s love of cooler weather. She would wilt in two hours. Besides which—

“Ruth, that’s a wonderful offer, but Sara has her heart set on Vancouver. Zoë has arranged for her to have weekly lessons from someone who plays clarinet in the Vancouver Symphony, and you know Sara and music.”

“Clarinet lessons? I know everyone is making a big deal over her winning that orchestra award in school, but does she think she’s a musical genius now?”

“Actually, I think that being a musical genius is what led to her getting the award.” Lyddie spoke a bit more sharply than she’d intended, but tough.

Ruth shook her head. “I didn’t mean to dismiss her ability. You know I’m as proud of her as you are. But are you going to let one factor dictate her future?”

“Sara’s future is Sara’s concern. She loves music. She wants to make a career out of it.”

“But that’s ridiculous. She has her father’s brain—she could easily do anything she sets her mind to do.”

“And her mind is set on music.” Lyddie raised her hand before Ruth could speak again. “Look, she’s fourteen years old. She could decide next week that she wants to be a politician, or an undertaker or even a physical therapist, like Glenn. But right now she’s set on music and I have the chance to give my child something that could further her dreams. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t do that?”

“A mother who wants to keep her child safe at home.”

In a moment Lyddie’s budding anger drained into understanding. Ruth had Lyddie, the children and her sister in Florida. That was it. The core of her world—her husband and her son—had been ripped from her. Lyddie couldn’t blame her for wanting to hold on as tightly as she could.

But as much as she felt for Ruth, her needs could not override Sara’s.

“Ruth.” Lyddie placed a hand on the older woman’s arm. “I’m going to miss her, too. It won’t be the same without her. But she’s at the age when she needs to spread her wings a little. Florida would be wonderful, and I’m sure she’ll be torn, but this trip to Vancouver is making her happier than she’s been in months. I know you wouldn’t want to take that away from her.”