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“He’s not such a bad kid,” J.D. said, watching Stephen vanish past a stand of pine trees and draping an arm familiarly over Tiffany’s shoulders. They stood at the edge of her rose garden near one side of the house. Honey bees buzzed around the blooms, and their fragrance filled the hot air. Why did it feel so natural for his hand to rest on her shoulder? Why did the scent of his aftershave tickle her nostrils and make her think of tumbling into bed with him?
“Never said he was.” She shrugged and slid away from his touch.
“I was kidding, Tiff. You’ve always stood up for your kids and your family. Even Philip.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
His eyes narrowed on the distant horizon, but Tiffany suspected he wasn’t watching the jogger and the black Lab running along the sidewalk, or that he noticed a van full of kids and a harried mother drive by. No, his mind was turned inward, and he was focused on his own vision, his private viewpoint. “Philip wasn’t a saint, you know.”
“And you are?” She plucked a dying rose from its thorny stem, and an angry bumblebee, buzzing indignantly, flew out of the petals as they dropped to the ground.
J.D.’s laugh was without a drop of mirth. “A saint? Far from it.”
“What is it they say about casting stones?” She twisted another dying bloom from the nearest rosebush, then decided to wait until she’d located her gardening shears to finish the task. “I know Philip gambled, Jay.” She squinted up at him as the late-afternoon sun was still bright, the day hazy and hot. Perspiration began to collect on her scalp. “And I realize that he cheated on his first wife.” Her brother-in-law’s eyes registered surprise. “He told me about sneaking around on Karen when Robert and Thea were still toddlers,” she admitted. “Granted, he didn’t confess until after we were married, but still, he told me.”
“Maybe he thought it would be better coming from him rather than hearing it from a stranger.”
“Well, he was right. As far as I know, he never betrayed me, and even if he did, what good would it do now to know about it?” she asked, searching his face for any kind of clue as to what he was trying to say. She’d known Philip’s flaws as well as anyone. “The fact of the matter is that he died saving Christina’s life.”
“So he is a saint.”
“Just a good man. With his share of faults.”
J.D., if he was going to argue, didn’t get the chance because at that moment Christina finally caught the bug she’d been chasing and let out a horrified squeal. Brown stain covered her fingers. “He’s bleeding on me.” She dropped the grasshopper as if it had bitten her.
“It’s just his spit,” J.D. said with a laugh.
“Spit?” Christina was horrified.
“We used to call it tobacco juice,” Tiffany said, hauling her daughter into her arms.
“It’s icky!” Tears rolled down her eyes.
“Come on, let’s clean you up, then get something to eat.”
For once her daughter didn’t protest, and after a bath, a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and glass of milk, she settled down to watch television. Tiffany started dinner by cooking pasta for a salad and mixing the dressing in the blender. J.D. stopped his work for a bottle of cold beer, then continued to work outside, fixing a leaning handrail and several window latches. Exhausted from a long day, Christina dropped off in her chair, and rather than rouse her for dinner, Tiffany carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed.
After she’d picked up a few scattered toys in Christina’s room, Tiffany finished making the salad and checked the time. Stephen was already half an hour late, and she was a little nervous. The kid always pushed her and was forever ten or fifteen minutes late, but a half hour was longer than usual.
“Don’t borrow trouble,” she told herself as she tossed shrimp, green onions and artichokes into the pasta salad, then turned on the oven to preheat. Stephen would be home soon. After all, he’d mislaid his watch a few weeks back. He’d probably just lost track of time.
Chiding herself for being a worrywart, she glanced up the drive as she walked outside to the corner of the house where J.D., wrench in hand, was fixing a broken outdoor faucet. The handle had fallen apart, and he was replacing the worn piece with a new one.
“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” she said. “It’s not part of the rental agreement.”
“Just wait till you get my bill.”
“Oh, right. And how much will that be?”
His eyes glinted wickedly. “Well, Ms. Santini, we’re not talking dollars and cents, you know.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. I was thinking more along the lines of a trade. Tit for tat. I scratch your back, you scratch mine...”
She laughed. “I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking.”
“It’s twisted,” he teased.
