Summer at Seaside Cove (31 page)

“You came out of that other house,” Heather said in a confused voice, pointing at Southern Comfort. “Which one is yours?”

“This one. I was just, um, having coffee with my neighbor.” Jamie tossed her cash-depleted purse onto the rickety wooden picnic table, then turned to her niece.

And just as it had every time she'd looked into those soulful, espresso-colored eyes since Heather was an infant, a tiny piece of Jamie's heart seemed to break off, no longer belonging to her, but to Heather.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said, softly. “What's going on?”

She opened her arms, and behind her black-rimmed glasses, Heather's eyes filled with tears, slicing off another sliver of Jamie's heart. She stepped into Jamie's embrace and a juicy sob escaped her. Jamie pulled her in close and stroked her hair and waited for the storm to pass, all while silently cursing Laurel because she didn't doubt for a moment that her self-absorbed sister was at the root of whatever problem had brought Heather to her doorstep. Heather . . . who seemed to have grown up overnight, morphing from a shy, tomboyish little girl who loved to read into a contradiction of whiplashing moods—sweet and loving one minute, sullen and sour the next, followed in a blink by mouthy and rebellious.

After a minute or so Heather's sobs tapered off and Jamie leaned back and offered her a smile. “Feel better?”

Heather pulled a wad of tissues from the pocket of the black hoodie she wore over a dark purple T-shirt decorated with the name of some band Jamie had never heard of and scowled. “No.” She blew her nose, shoved the tissues back in her pocket, then flopped onto the picnic bench and hunched her shoulders. “My life sucks.” She shot Jamie a mutinous glare. “Something I wouldn't have had to come all the way to this lame-o place with its stupid cab drivers to tell you if you'd stayed in New York where you belong.”

Jamie cast a glance at Southern Comfort and suppressed a wistful sigh. Five minutes ago an aroused, nearly naked Nick had been carrying her to his bedroom, where, as she knew from the hours they'd already spent there, she was about to be made
very
happy. Multiple times. Instead she now had to deal with more drama, the source of which she strongly suspected was Heather's contentious relationship with Jamie's backstabbing sister. Jeez. The things she did for love of this kid. This kid who was currently giving her a crapload of attitude and trying to squash her with guilt.

She pulled her gaze away from Nick's house, plopped down next to Heather, forced herself to ignore the attitude, and spoke the same words she always replied to Heather's frequent claims that her life sucked—words that had become a private joke between them.

“My life sucks, too.”

Usually that earned a grin, but not this time. Heather merely shook her head. “Mine sucks worse. Seriously.”

“Bet it doesn't, but okay, you first. Then I'll spill, then we vote. Loser has to clean up the kitchen.”

Heather considered, then nodded. “Fine. Whatever.”

“But first some questions. How did you get here?”

“Airplane. Duh.”

“And your mom was okay with you coming here by yourself?”

A guilty flush stained Heather's cheeks and Jamie groaned. “She doesn't know you're here?” When Heather shook her head, Jamie asked, “How did you buy your ticket?”

“Online. With the credit card Mom gave me.”

“I thought that was for emergencies only.”

The defiant gleam perfected by teenagers the world over glittered in Heather's eyes. “This
is
an emergency. And like Mom would care. She's too wrapped up in her own stuff to give a crap about mine.”

“That's not true,” Jamie said, her resentment toward Laurel reaching a whole new level for being forced to defend her in any way.
This is about Heather
, for
Heather. Not Laurel,
she reminded herself. Still, it really irked. “We've discussed this before. Just because your mom is busy with her own life doesn't mean she doesn't care about you.”

“The only person she cares about is herself,” Heather said, picking at the chipped dark blue polish on her short nails.

“That's not true.”
She apparently also cares about my former boyfriend.
“She loves you.” Which in her own self-absorbed Laurel way, Jamie knew was true. She just didn't feel like assigning
any
good qualities to her sister right now. “Where does she think you are?”

“With Lindsey's family in the Hamptons,” Heather answered, referring to her best friend.

“Heather, you can't just take off like that.”

Heather looked up from her polish picking and shot a resentful glare at Jamie. “Why not? You did.”

“I'm not fourteen. And I told everyone where I was going.” Which had clearly been a huge mistake. “You need to call her. Right now. And tell her where you are.”

Resentment turned to mutiny. “I don't want to talk to her.”

“Too bad. You don't want to have a three-hour chat with her—fine. But you have to tell her where you are.” When it was clear Heather planned to argue the point further, Jamie forestalled her by raising her hand in a
stop
gesture. “
Now
, Heather. Otherwise we're getting in the car and I'm driving you right back to the airport. You can stay with me for a few days, but only if your mom knows where you are and says it's okay.”

Heather's expression resembled a thundercloud. “Fine. I'll tell her,” she grumbled. “Like she'll care.”

Jamie watched her pull her cell phone from her pocket and a tidal wave of love swamped her. Unlike blond-haired, blue-eyed Laurel, Heather resembled her dark-haired, ebony-eyed father. Instead of her mother's tall, sinuous grace, Heather was petite and curvy. And wore glasses. And braces. She hated her thick curly hair, her burgeoning boobs and butt, and her full lips, which she scathingly referred to as a “trout mouth.” Jamie thought she was adorable and knew in a few years she'd be drop-dead stunning, but of course in her teenage all-knowing wisdom, Heather disagreed.

Just as it seemed she disagreed with nearly everything lately. Jamie couldn't count how many times Laurel had lamented at the restaurant that she didn't understand her daughter, who eschewed fancy designer labels and shopping on Fifth Avenue and instead wore a steady uniform of black jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers purchased at flea markets. Her brainy daughter who read Shakespeare and F. Scott Fitzgerald rather than
People
magazine. Who dreamed of someday writing a book and spearheading her own version of Habitat for Humanity.

During those conversations Jamie tried to remind Laurel that Heather was her own unique person—and a pretty terrific one in spite of all the teenage sullen crap—not a Laurel Mini Me.

Heather looked at Jamie and rolled her eyes. “I got her voice mail—she's obviously
sooooo
worried about me. I'll leave a message.” Seconds later she said into the phone, “Mom, it's me. Aunt Jamie said it was okay if I stayed with her at the beach, so that's where I am. Bye.” She ended the call, then shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Happy?”

Oh, yeah, I'm thrilled that my drama-stricken niece arrived on my doorstep unannounced—costing me eightyseven bucks for her cab—interrupted what probably would have been the best sex of my life, and is now giving me attitude.
“Thank you. Now tell me what's going on.”

Heather's bottom lip trembled, and guilt slapped Jamie for her impatience. “My dad texted me from the hospital. His girlfriend had the baby. I have a new sister.”

And with those few words Jamie understood. This new baby meant that Heather would see even less of her absentee father, Marco, the playboy son of a wealthy Italian businessman Laurel had fallen madly in love with during a trip to Rome when she was nineteen. They'd fallen just as madly out of love shortly after Heather was born, and since they hadn't married, they'd simply gone their separate ways. Marco supported his daughter financially with a generous monthly check. His emotional support consisted of an occasional awkward transatlantic phone call from Italy, where he lived with his latest very young, very beautiful heiress girlfriend, and hosting Heather's one-week visit to his villa on Lake Como every August, a trip Heather both anticipated and dreaded.

Jamie slung an arm around Heather's slumped shoulders. “A new sister—how do you feel about that?”

Heather shrugged. “They named her Butterfly.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. At least he and Mom named me after a flower and not an
insect
. And it's not like I'll ever see her anyway. She's my sister, but I don't
feel
like a sister.”

“You'll see her soon, when you go to Italy to visit your dad.”

Heather shoved up her glasses with an angry jab. “I'm not going.” The words shot out of her mouth and she pushed to her feet to pace in front of Jamie with quick, jerky steps, her fisted hands jammed in her pockets. “Why should I? He doesn't know what to say to me, I don't have anything to say to him, and his girlfriend ignores me. All they're going to want to do is oooh and aaah over their new baby and I'll just sit there with nothing to do and nobody to do it with.”

She halted and Jamie's heart turned over at the angry misery shimmering in those big brown eyes. She didn't doubt for a minute the accuracy of Heather's prediction of what her time in Italy would be like.

“I told Mom
weeks ago
I wasn't going and she said I
have
to,” Heather continued in a voice that throbbed with resentment. “I figured she just wanted me out of the way for a while so I told her I'd stay with Lindsey instead, but she still said no, that I
have
to go visit my dad and meet my sister. I said she can't make me, she said she could, and, well . . .”

“That's when the fight started?” Jamie deadpanned.

A short, harsh laugh escaped Heather and she pushed back her curtain of dark hair with an impatient flick of her fingers. “Yeah.” She sat down next to Jamie once again and pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead. “She never listens to me, Aunt Jamie. Never! All she does is throw orders at me, like some drill sergeant, and expects me to obey. She looks at me like I'm a freakin' alien or something because I listen to music she's never heard of and I'd rather read or visit a museum or write in my journal than go to lame-ass Saks or some stupid party or get my nails done. She actually wanted to take my temperature last week because I didn't want to go with her to Elizabeth Arden for a facial.” She turned to Jamie and shot her a pained expression. “Elizabeth Arden? Facial?
Really?
Pu-leeeeze.”

Jamie inwardly winced at her sister's cluelessness regarding her own daughter's interests. Before she could reply, Heather rushed on, “She thinks that because she was Miss Perfect Popularity and had like a million friends when she was my age, I should, too. I can't stand the popular kids at school. Why isn't it good enough that I only have a few really close peeps instead of a bunch of stupid mean girls who can't talk about anything besides celebrities and boys and shopping?”

“It's good enough—”

“Mom doesn't think so.”

Jamie sighed, and again shoved back her resentment of Laurel and forced herself to think only of Heather. “Look—I agree that while the invite to Elizabeth Arden maybe wasn't up your alley—”

“
Maybe?
”

“Okay, definitely. But the fact is she at least tried to include you, suggested that you do something together. I'm guessing you responded by stomping off?”

Another shrug and frown. “Kinda.”

Jamie gave her a one-armed hug. “She'd offered you an olive branch. Granted, it wasn't a good one—”

“Ya think? It like totally sucked.”

“Agreed. But still, give some credit where it's due. She tried. Did it ever occur to you to offer an alternate suggestion?”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe a movie? Or a walk through the park? You enjoy cooking with me—have you ever tried it with her?”

Heather made a snorting sound. “Oh, sure. Can you see my mom wearing an apron or chopping onions? I don't think so.”

“Well, then how about an outing to the Met or the zoo? Frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity? Lunch?”

“Lunch?” Heather scowled. “Mom would want to go to the Four Seasons—”

“So would it kill you to eat a meal at one of the best restaurants on the planet?”

“—or to Newman's where she'd get involved with work and forget all about me.” Heather shrugged off Jamie's arm and glared at her through eyes swimming with confusion and betrayal. “Why are you taking her side?”

“I'm not. I'm just trying to get you to look at things from a different perspective. If someone makes a suggestion you don't like, you have nothing to lose by offering up one that you
do
like. It's called compromise. And it's one of those life things everybody sometimes needs to do. Maybe tell your mom that you'll go to the Four Seasons this time if you get to pick the restaurant next time.” Jamie nudged her with her shoulder and grinned. “Then go somewhere you know she'll hate.”

Heather's lips gave a tiny twitch, then she shrugged for what had to be the hundredth time since arriving on Jamie's doorstep. “I'll think about it.”

“Good. Remember—you catch more bees with honey than with vinegar. And you're not going to get your mom—or anyone else for that matter—to listen to you or respect you if you don't listen to them and respect them in return.”

“Tell that to Mom. Right after you convince her that I'm not going to Italy.”