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“No one’s ever accused you of being a poor mother,” J.D. said, turning the crank to open one of the windows. A breeze, fresh with the scents of cut grass and roses, whispered into the slope-ceilinged room.
“Just a lousy wife.”
He didn’t respond.
“I know what they thought, J.D.,” she said, unable to leave the subject alone. “I heard them say that I was looking for a father figure, that I needed an older man because I didn’t grow up knowing my dad.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I loved your brother. End of story. Not that it’s anyone’s business.”
His jaw tightened.
“Just because I was raised by a single mother didn’t mean I was insecure or needed an older man to take care of me.” She swiped a speck of dust from the coffee table and hoped she didn’t show her true emotions. Inwardly she cringed at the accusation. Especially this week, the subject of her own parentage was difficult enough to consider when she was alone with her thoughts. When anyone else brought up the taboo topic, she saw red.
“No reason to get so defensive.”
“No?” she challenged, crossing the short space separating them. “Then what’s the real reason you’re in Bittersweet, Jay? And don’t give me any garbage about the winery, okay? There are dozens of little towns down here around the border. Some in Oregon and more in California. It’s more than just bad luck that you’re here.”
His eyes, gray as the dawn, held hers, and she braced herself. What was it about J.D. that seemed to bring out the worst in her? Whenever she was around him, her usually smoothed feathers ruffled easily. One disbelieving look from his suspicious eyes and she was itching for a fight, more than ready to defend herself and her children.
“Look, do you really want to rent this place?” She waved widely, taking in all four-hundred square feet of living space. It was sparse, with only room for a bed, bureau, table, love seat and television. The kitchen consisted of a small stove, refrigerator and sink tucked into an alcove. The bathroom was confining and bare bones with its narrow stall shower, toilet and sink.
“It’ll do,” he allowed in that drawl she found so irritating.
“But you won’t be down here long, so why bother?”
He studied his fingers for a second, then looked at her again. “Maybe you’re right, Tiff. Maybe I just want to be close to you.” He eyed her carefully, and her breath caught in her throat.
“For all the wrong reasons,” she said, then regretted the words.
“Are there any right ones?”
“No!” she said so quickly that she blushed. “Of…of course there aren’t.” Clearing her throat, she added, “Well, if that’s the way you want it—”
“I do.”
He was too close. Perspiration broke out along her spine. This wasn’t going to work. “Then I guess there’s nothing more to say but make yoursel
f at home.”
“I will.”
Why she found those last words so damning, she didn’t know, but as she hurried down the stairs she was struck by the feeling that her tightly woven little world was unraveling by the minute. First, as a widow and single mother, she had to deal with an adolescent boy who was on the verge of trouble. Possibly big trouble. Next, she’d suddenly been faced with her biological father—a man she’d been told throughout most of her growing-up years was dead. Now that man, John Cawthorne, was trying to become part of her life. And he didn’t walk alone. No, the man carried baggage and lots of it in the form of two other daughters—Tiffany’s half sisters, whom she didn’t know and wasn’t sure she cared to. And lastly, J.D. and the Santini family. Too much. It was all too much.
“Wonderful,” she muttered in the second-floor hallway, where she peeked in on a napping Christina before continuing downstairs. “Just great.”
Why right now, when everything in her life was spinning out of control, did she have to face J.D. again? The mercurial and volatile nature of her emotions concerning her brother-in-law had been the bane of her existence ever since she’d married into the Santini family. Nothing would change now that J.D. had moved in. In fact, she was certain that things would only get worse.
* * *
“I just don’t get it,” Stephen said as he tucked his skateboard into a corner of the back porch. The board was battered and scratched, the decals for Nirvana and Metallica nearly worn off, the wheels not quite as round as they’d once been. He yanked open the screen door and walked into the kitchen where Tiffany was trying and failing to balance her checkbook while cooking dinner. “Why’s he here?” Stephen didn’t bother hiding the sneer in his voice or his dislike of his uncle, a man he thought was intruding into his life.
“Business.”
“Yeah, monkey business if ya ask me.” Stephen wiped his hands down the front of his jeans and tossed his too-long hair from his eyes. “I don’t like this.”
Neither do I, Tiffany was tempted to say, but held her tongue. Her feelings for J.D. were far more complicated than simple like or dislike. Too complicated to examine very closely. “He won’t be around that much,” she said as daylight was beginning to give way to dusk. She snapped her checkbook closed and put the statement back into its envelope until she had more time to go through it. It wasn’t that she couldn’t make the figures add up, it was that it seemed impossible to stretch her salary and the rent she collected far enough to cover all her expenses.
