Second To None
Second To None
Muriel Jensen
The DELANCEY BROTHERSThree very different brothers. Three very different lives. One great opportunity.What's a tough cop doing in a place like this?Mike Delancey was one of the best hostage negotiators in Texas. But he's left that behind to work in the winery he and his brothers inherited.He was ready for a change, but nothing could have prepared him for Veronica Callahan. Because Veronica and her day-care center represent the two things he swore he'd never have anything to do with again–women and children.Veronica's a woman with a very interesting past–and a detailed plan for the future. Coming to Delancey Vineyards and starting a day-care center fulfills the first part of the plan. The bad news for the extremely reluctant Mike Delancey is: The second part–marriage and a family–involves him!
“I’m here to apologize. I didn’t realize that you...” (#uedc60261-4147-5a1d-b6ea-1083caf886bc)Letter to Reader (#u824b738f-b1f5-5fbd-a80a-96da00fd5bb7)Title Page (#u83b136f8-04d2-530d-897b-b370cf8208cd)Dedication (#u536b59ae-522a-57b6-8557-f2763244e6e2)CHAPTER ONE (#ub736f312-44b9-5d1c-8129-89d42219c4e3)CHAPTER TWO (#uf91ce5ce-04e9-5668-974d-efa9b3eaeeb1)CHAPTER THREE (#u5c67f6e9-36cd-56e9-9d16-0fc27f7a5e6c)CHAPTER FOUR (#u4d7a1740-c6dc-5eb7-8579-735f17874bfe)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I’m here to apologize. I didn’t realize that you...”
Veronica looked into Mike’s eyes and knew what had brought about his sudden and careful remoteness. Someone had told him about her. She regretted that it placed even more distance between them, and she was determined to put an end to it. “There’s no need to keep apologizing. My past is over. If we’re going to be crossing paths; you’ll have to start thinking of me as a regular person.”
If she’d surprised him with her bluntness, it didn’t show. She guessed there probably wasn’t much that surprised a former cop.
“All right,” he said finally. “Get in. I’ll close your door.”
Veronica couldn’t decide if that was courtesy on his part, or an eagerness to get rid of her. In any case, she drove away without a backward glance—except in her rearview mirror where Mike Delancey was perfectly framed, a tall figure standing in front of the beautiful Victorian reproduction.
He was not at all what her nicely developing future needed. Or was he?
Dear Reader,
I’m sitting in front of the computer on a cold and rainy December day, a cat in my lap and my husband at work in his basement studio. I like knowing that when you settle in your chair and open this book it will be a warm and sunny summer day. (Unless you live in Oregon, too.)
What a remarkable medium books are. They put me in touch with you despite time and distance, and allow us to connect as if we sat across from each other over a pot of tea. I also like the notion that if you hold on to your books, thirty years from now your granddaughter, heading off to work on the new international space station, might put one of my titles in her backpack.
Until then, I offer you this second book in the Delancey Brothers trilogy. I have to admit I’m fascinated by wounded people who carry on bravely, despite their pain. I hope you enjoy this look into the lives of Mike Delancey and Veronica Callahan. They live with me still.
Sincerely,
Muriel Jensen
Second to None
Muriel Jensen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Diane and Wayne McVey for all the fun!
CHAPTER ONE
MIKE DELANCEY WALKED into the quiet kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He relished the few minutes of solitude the early morning ritual afforded him before his brothers rose, and peace became a distant memory.
Tate, older than Mike by three years, would be sharing ideas for promoting the winery even as he hurried down the stairs. And Shea, Mike’s younger brother, would wander down in a semi-comatose state, then come to life the moment he stepped into the kitchen. He would want to make eggs Provencal for breakfast and talk about the opening of the restaurant.
But all Mike wanted was his cup of coffee and a moment to call his own. He loved his brothers, and everyone else who lived on the Delancey Winery compound, but he was still finding the balance in his own life and sometimes needed a brief escape. He poured a cup of steaming French roast and pushed his way out the back door.
The sweet Willamette Valley air was cool and smelled of pine, June wildflowers and the commercial grasses and herbs that grew farther south. Mike stopped at the bottom of the porch steps to take a deep breath.
Tate, who’d come to French River from Boston, was fascinated by the freshness of Oregon air. After twelve years in Dallas, Mike was captivated by the beautiful views in all directions: the rippled hills of the winery, the purple mountains in the distance, the green everywhere, even in the dead of winter.
The compound, bequeathed to him and his brothers by their uncle Jack, was situated at the top of the winery’s terraced hill. When he and his brothers had first arrived here in January, there’d been an unobstructed view from here of the long rows of grapes, the road to French River and the farm across the road, which sat at the foot of still more hills with mountains in the background.
Now a Victorian-style house Tate designed stood in the way, and was quite a sight in itself. In another month or so, it would open as the Delancey Bed-and-Breakfast, and Mike, who was responsible for public relations for the winery, would take on additional duty as manager of the B-and-B.
Tate had sold his share in a Boston architectural firm to finance the renovation of the winery. That same boldness had been evident in the commercial buildings he’d designed over the years, so this foray into late-nineteenth-century ornament came as a surprise—to Tate more than anyone.
They’d all endured a long winter of adjustment to their new surroundings, to the rain, to the strange new responsibilities of a vineyard and its motley collection of buildings. But Tate had had the most difficult time. He’d fallen in love.
Colette Palmer, whose father had worked for Uncle Jack, had come to live at the winery two years earlier after her husband had died. Now her wedding to Tate was just two weeks away—but she hadn’t been an easy conquest.
Mike took a long pull on his coffee and headed for the broad stairway that led to double front doors. It was a good thing, he thought, that he wasn’t vulnerable to a woman’s charms. His life was too bizarre already: tough cop turned vintner and hotelier?
He set his cup down on the porch railing, pulled a key out of his pocket, unlocked the big oak doors with their stained-glass windows, and walked into the house.
VERONICA CALLAHAN LOOKED OUT the second-story bedroom window at the hill of leafy grapevines and thought it was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. The rich green stretched almost to the road, then took on a lighter, subtler shade in the pasture on the other side. The hills beyond were purple, and the sky above, even in early morning, was already bright blue, with several small, puffy clouds adding charming contrast.
She loved it here. Something about the atmosphere was calming, steadying. Her terrifying and everpresent loneliness—the first emotion she could remember at age four—had been pushed way back in her mind by the beauty and the quiet here.
Here she could learn to be confident and look capable so that parents would feel comfortable leaving their children in her care. And to be fearless enough to deal with those children every day and not be swamped by the demands of their intelligence and their neediness.
She remembered the friends she’d left behind in Los Angeles, and then in Portland, Oregon, and felt homesick for the people, if not the places. But then she reminded herself that she had a friend in French River.
She’d met Colette Palmer on a tour of the winery a couple of weeks earlier. Since then, they’d talked on the phone and had met several times in Portland for lunch when Colette had gone to the city to shop. Colette had invited her here to talk about opening a day care center in the winery’s empty barn.
Step One of her five-point plan—finding a location for her business—would soon be realized. She drew a calming breath and looked at her watch. Almost seven.
She took another moment to survey the empty room, drywalled but unpainted, and thought it was too bad it wasn’t finished yet. Living at the B-and-B while she got the day care center in order would be preferable to driving back to town every night.
But that was a small problem. Her new apartment was convenient to everything and probably far less expensive than this room would be.
She shouldered her purse as she walked down the hallway’s bare floor. Here, too, the walls were drywalled, but not painted or papered. She’d use a soft colored wallpaper with a small print and a bright border above the oak picture rails.
Imagine living here, she thought fancifully, with an adoring husband and half a dozen children, and cats all over the place.
The notion made her exuberant. And I know what I would do, if they were out, and I was alone in the house.
At the top of the stairs, she didn’t stop to think, but just swung a leg over the thick, straight banister and started down with a little squeal of excitement.
MIKE HEARD THE SOFT CRY as he walked toward the parlor, and stopped. That had been a woman’s voice. Long conditioning put every nerve ending on alert.
An instant later he saw her, and, conditioning or not, he was stunned. A young woman was sliding down the banister toward him, canvas tennis shoes coming at him soles first, slender legs in jeans held out for balance in a inverted V, arms over her head, a smile on her lips, short, dark hair flying around her face.
Then she spotted him. Her laughter turned to openmouthed surprise and she seemed to forget that she was about to run out of banister.
Mike braced himself, opened his arms, and prepared for impact. The next moment he was flat on his back with a woman who smelled of flowers sprawled on top of him.
He lay there one protracted moment, the wind knocked out of him. Then he finally drew a breath and moved sufficiently to realize that nothing was broken. But he became quickly aware of other problems: soft curves pressed against his chest, something round and also soft in his hand, a leg riding up his as she groaned.
Because of the length of time since he’d last experienced such an intimate embrace, his body reacted automatically.
She pushed against his shoulders suddenly, her cheeks pink, her brown eyes wide and horrified. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Then she scrambled to her feet and proffered her hand to help him up.
Ignoring it, he stood, feeling as though he’d crossed into another dimension. He was in the right house—but where had this woman come from?
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was breathy. “I’m... Are you Tate?”
“I’m Mike,” he replied, suspicions beginning to surface. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Colette invited me,” she replied. “You’re Tate’s brother, aren’t you?”
He resisted the distraction of her easy smile. She was an intruder.
“She invited you to an empty house?” he asked doubtfully.
“We were going to have tea.” She pointed over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “In there somewhere. She told me...to go straight through.”
“Really? Then why were you upstairs?”
She closed her eyes a moment—to strengthen her resolve, he supposed. He noticed that her lashes were thick and dark. “I know I shouldn’t have done that,” she admitted, opening her eyes again and giving him a guilty look. “I wanted to see the view.”
“You get a clearer view from outside.”
Her eyes narrowed as if she finally understood the reasons behind his questions. “You think I’m a thief?” She spread her arms to indicate the empty room. “There’s nothing here to steal.”
He studied her levelly, trying to determine her sincerity. He used to be good at it in his old life.
“You didn’t necessarily know that when you came in. How did you get in, anyway?”
“Colette left the back door open,” she replied mildly, then added, “Are you this suspicious of everyone?”
“I don’t believe Colette would leave the back door open. And why would she invite you for tea at 7:00 a.m.?”
Veronica felt flustered and naive, hardly the image she’d intended to present the owners of the Delancey Vineyard, her potential landlords.
She cleared her throat. “I’m here to talk business,” she said with a dignity she knew was laughable under the circumstances.
“And you usually prepare for business discussions by sliding down a banister?” he asked.
She had to admit she had that coming. She smiled ruefully. “It was something I always wanted to do. And when I was given the opportunity, I couldn’t resist. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?” She looked into his chocolate-brown eyes, trying to assess his thoughts, but she couldn’t see beyond the cool suspicion. So she answered her own question. “No, I guess not. And that makes it hard to explain—”
“Explain what?” Colette walked into the house, a small, lidless box balanced on the flat of her hand. She looked from one to the other with a smile. “All right. I’m glad you’ve met. What’s hard to explain?”
A pleat formed on Mike’s forehead. He glanced at Veronica. “What she was doing sliding down the banister in a locked house on private property at 7:00 a.m.”
Colette hesitated a moment, raised an eyebrow at Veronica, then laughed lightly. “I don’t know the reason for the banister, but I can tell you I invited Vee here for a meeting. I have a full day that’s starting early, and she’s used to being up with the birds.” She glanced from one to the other again. “Did you mistake her for an intruder?”
He seemed to have come to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to escape. this situation without embarrassment, and apparently decided not to try. He looked wryly into Veronica’s eyes, then turned his attention to Colette. “In the future, you might let me know what you’re up to.” He drew in a deep breath and turned back to Veronica. “I apologize, Miss...?”
“Callahan,” she said, offering her hand again, and resisting the impulse to appear righteously indignant. “Veronica. I’m sorry, too. I should not have been upstairs.” She cast Colette an apologetic glance. “I was admiring the view.”
“That’s all right,” Colette assured her quickly. “Vee, this is Mike Delancey, Tate’s brother. He used to be a cop.” She grinned and added facetiously, “And you have such a suspicious face.”
Mike acknowledged the jab with a self-deprecating nod. In actuality, Veronica Callahan had a very open and innocent face—wide—eyed, pink-lipped and apple-cheeked. But he’d once arrested a woman who’d looked that innocent after having shot her boyfriend and their landlady’s daughter because they’d spoken to each other on the apartment stairs.
“I apologized,” he reminded Colette.
She laughed and gave his arm a squeeze. “So you did.” She angled her head toward the kitchen. “Want to join us? We’re going to talk about setting up her day care center in the barn. This was the best place to meet, since the house and the winery are both so busy. I unlocked the back door for her when I went to pick up the pastries.” She smiled coaxingly. “You can share my coffee.”
He shook his head. The day care center. He’d hoped Tate and Shea would change their minds about that. “No, thanks. I’ve got lots to do.”
“Oh, come on,” Colette wheedled. “If you listen to Veronica’s plans, it might put some of your fears to rest.”
“Fears?” Veronica asked. She took a step toward Mike as he started to leave. “About what?”
He really didn’t want to go through this again. He’d argued with his brothers until he was hoarse about the incompatibility of a day care center with a winery. But they didn’t see the problem, and he’d finally given up in exasperation.
“This is a winery,” he said simply. “How smart is it to have children here?”
“You mean legally? I checked. As long as we don’t give the children wine, we’re all right. And, of course, I don’t intend to do that. Apart from that, I think children would love this setting. It’s so beautiful—”
“We’re several miles out of town. Who’s going to bring their children here?”
“All the people,” she replied, “on their way to work in Portland.” She pointed in the direction of the road at the bottom of the hill. “It’s a perfect location. Lots of outdoor space, and Rachel’s animals.” When he expressed surprise that she knew about Aunt Rachel’s menagerie, she added a little defensively, “Colette and I have met in Portland a couple of times. She’s been telling me all about the compound.”
Mike knew it was futile to argue with two women allied in a common cause. He smiled politely at Veronica Callahan, then at Colette, and excused himself.
He walked to the winery at the opposite end of the compound. On the first level, Armand Beaucharnp, Colette’s father, was seated at an old desk near the door. He looked up from a supplies catalog to wave at Mike.
“Good morning, Armand,” Mike called as he ran up the stairs.
Two-thirds of the winery’s second level was a storage area that would one day be used for bottles and labels, but which now stood empty. The other third was an office with movable partitions that allowed space for individual or group projects.
Tate sat at a desk in the corner, the wall beside him decorated with framed photographs his teenage daughters had sent from Paris. Interspersed were photos of Colette and her little girls.
Mike grabbed the back of his own chair and pulled it over beside Tate’s. He sat down and began without preamble. “You still think a day care in the barn is a good idea?”
Tate concentrated one extra moment on the letter he was reading, then focused on Mike, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah. You said you were okay with it.”
“No.” He was surprised Tate had distilled his protest down to that. “You just wouldn’t see it my way, so I told you to do whatever you wanted. But this is a winery, Tate. We make booze, for God’s sake. Who’s going to bring their children to a day care where they make booze?”
Tate gazed at Mike in silence, then shook his head. “You know, for the person in charge of public relations, you have a scary concept of what we do here. We don’t make ‘booze,’ we make fine table wine—or we will, as soon as we get a harvest—and this is a beautiful place to which tourists bring their children every afternoon to walk the grounds and pet Rachel’s animals. Why wouldn’t other children be safe and happy here?”
“Those kids are visiting. When this Callahan woman brings kids here, they’ll be around all day, every day. It just seems like an awkward blend of enterprises to me.”
Tate leaned back in his chair as though something had just become obvious to him. “She’ll be responsible for the children. You don’t have to be concerned with them. She has credentials as long as your arm.”
Mike frowned at him. “Come on, Tate. When kids are underfoot, every adult in the vicinity is concerned with them. And in a couple of weeks you and Colette and the girls are leaving for your honeymoon, so who’s going to be responsible for what happens around here? I am.”
Tate was wearing the expression that meant he was going to get paternal on him. The only thing that drove Mike insane about this man—for whom he’d die in minute—was that even now, when they were in their thirties, Tate could turn into the Big Brother.
“Well, I’d like to be able to promise you you’ll never have to be responsible for another child’s safety again, but you’ve got to know that isn’t realistic.”
Mike shot him a severe look. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking—”
Tate, however, had taught him the look and gave as good as he got. “Yes, you are,” he interrupted. “You’ve learned to live around it, but it still affects every decision you make about your future. Because you’re a conscientious and sensitive individual, you’re holding yourself responsible for that woman and those kids, and that’s self-destructive. Not to mention completely unnecessary.”
Mike opened his mouth to dispute the analysis, but Tate raised a hand to stop him. “I know,” he said. “You explained to me it’s not really that you’re assuming the blame, but that when something so awful happens, the survivors feel responsible anyway. The department shrink told you the situation was already hopeless when they called you in.”
“Nothing’s ever hopeless,” Mike insisted moodily. “Otherwise, what’s the point of trying to negotiate a hostage situation in the first place?”
Tate nodded. “But when somebody’s drugged out, the whole equation’s distorted. You’re trying to bring reason to a situation when you’re operating on a different plane of reality. As hopeful as you want to be, I’m sure sometimes you know it’s just not going to happen.”
God. Mike had always thought memories lived in your head, but this one had taken root right in the middle of his chest. Every breath he drew had to go around it. Every emotion he experienced had to elbow the memory aside.
“Look,” Mike said reasonably. “I got into this winery thing with you and Shea because I was ready to take my life in a new.direction. But having a day care in the middle of our—”
“Won’t be at all like a hostage situation,” Tate finished for him. “Come on, Mike. You’ve got to confront this. You can start fresh, but not by hiding from what you left behind.”
Mike ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, for the moment at least, I’d like to try it. That barn’s going to take six men a month to make habitable.”
“The crew is going to power-wash it and give it a quick white spray. According to Colette, Veronica thinks the barn’s the perfect size because she can bring playground equipment inside in the winter. The guys’ll put up a few walls inside and install a furnace, but she’s doing all the painting and decorating. In return, she has two months rent-free. Every building on this place has to pay its way. I’m just trying to protect your investment.”
Mike sat up in his chair. “Well, then you’d better double-check and triple-check all her references, because she seems a little flaky to me. She was sliding down the banister when I walked into the B-and-B.”
Tate laughed as he handed him a sheet of paper. “You’re kidding!”
“I’m not.” Mike perused the résumé. Besides Veronica Callahan’s name, address and phone number, there was a long list of schools where she’d been educated, and then five separate schools at which she’d taught kindergarten through the second grade. All of them were private schools. She’d also counseled at a teen center.
He looked at Tate in concern. “Don’t you think she moves around a lot? She’s been all over the place. She’s taught at five schools and she’s only—what?—” he checked her birth date and calculated “—thirty? Either she moved every other year, or she was asked to leave—or was being chased.”
Tate shook his head, grinning in a way that made Mike suspicious. “She wasn’t asked to leave, she was transferred.”
“Schools don’t transfer teachers around.”
“They do if they’re nuns.”
Mike stared at him, the shock of his brother’s announcement clashing in his mind with the memory of Veronica Callahan lying on top of him, all soft and fragrant. He remembered for a moment, then refocused.
“A nun,” he said flatly. “A nun came flying at me off the banister.”
“An ex-nun,” Tate corrected. “Now she’s just a woman.”
Kids and a nun—a woman. Great. His life was right on track—backward.
“I’m sure you’ll like her once you get over this bad start. From what Colette says, she seems very genuine and not at all sanctimonious.”
Mike stood to leave. “I guess we’ll see.”
Tate got to his feet and put an arm around Mike’s shoulders. “You have a suit for my wedding?”
“No. I don’t think I’ve even worn one since Mom’s and Dad’s funeral, and you lent me that one.”
“I can lend you one again.”
Mike headed for the stairs. Tate followed. “No, I should buy one. There are a couple of events coming up that call for something other than my jeans and boots—You got the ring?”
“Yeah. We’re all set.”
They stopped at the top of the stairs. It occurred to Mike that when they’d started this venture, he and his brothers had been without women in their lives. Tate’s ex had remarried a diplomat and taken his daughters to Paris to live, and Shea had clearly left his heart in San Francisco with a woman he’d refused to discuss.
Tate’s first marriage had changed their relationship, of course, but they hadn’t actually been as close then as they were now. They’d had big plans in their youth, and a belief in their invincibility. But they’d since lost their parents in an accident, and individual calamities had befallen each of them.
Then their uncle Jack had been legally declared dead in January after an absence of seven years, leaving the winery and all its properties to be shared equally among Tate, Mike and Shea. Jack’s disappearance remained a mystery, though Mike and his brothers were making an effort to find answers. In the meantime, bringing the winery back to life was teaching them each other’s strenghts and weaknesses and deepening their relationships.
No bond, Mike thought, was quite as strong as the one forged by shared grief and adversity. It made the gift of a brother or a friend invaluable.
He clapped Tate on the shoulder. “I wish you happiness. It’s too bad your girls can’t come.”
Tate nodded. “We talked it over, and they decided they’d rather be here for Christmas. Susan and Sarah are taking special language classes this summer, and that’s important if they’re going to be living in France.”
“But you’re still going to have two kids with you on your honeymoon. You’re sure about that?”
“Yeah.” Megan and Katie, Colette’s two daughters, were seven and eight. “They’re pretty excited about getting a father. I’d hate for my first official act as their dad to be to leave them behind to take off with their mother. You guys still okay with Armand taking over my old room when we come back from Banff?”
“Of course. Shea and I both like Armand.”
“Good. I didn’t want him to move, but he insisted.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine with us. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Tate grew serious. “You willing to live with the day care thing?”
No, he wasn’t. It was going to prey on his mind until the children showed up, and then would probably cause him sleepless nights. But Tate had given up so much to get the winery going—and not just as an investment in his own future, but in Mike’s and Shea’s as well. Right now Mike didn’t want Tate to worry about anything.
“Sure. I’ll adjust. And I should probably start by apologizing to Sister Mary Trouble.”
“I really think this is a good idea.”
“Sure.” Mike said the word with convincing sincerity as he started down the stairs. But in his heart, he knew there wasn’t a chance of that happening. Veronica Callahan represented the two things he’d sworn he’d never be involved with again: women and children.
CHAPTER TWO
VERONICA BIT INTO a buttery cream cheese pastry and moaned her approval.
Colette put down her coffee cup and indicated the few crumbs on her paper plate. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve probably gained ten pounds since Shea started testing recipes for the tasting room and the restaurant.”
Veronica chewed and swallowed, thinking that no one could look better at 7:00 a.m. than Colette did—and there was no evidence of an extra ten pounds on her. She had bright, curly red hair that framed a finefeatured face and lively gray eyes. Her warmth had appealed to Veronica the moment they’d first met, and had gone a long way toward diminishing her loneliness. During their several lunches in Portland, a friendship had been born.
“You must burn it all off working on the vineyard. Is Shea going to cook for the B-and-B, too?”
“No, Rachel’s going to do that. Shea’s swamped with last-minute preparations. The restaurant opens when Tate and I—and the girls—get back from our honeymoon.”
“There’s so much happening here.”
Colette smiled thoughtfully. “When Tate and his brothers first inherited the winery, I knew everything was going to be different. The Delancey brothers have so much energy and enthusiasm, and I expected to hate seeing things changed and tourists swarming the place.” Veronica could sense the moment when Colette’s thoughts began to focus on Tate, because she heaved a deep sigh that was all contentment and anticipation. “But now I feel as though my life’s been recharged. As though...” She paused, presumably to grope for words, then apparently decided the thought was too big for them. She smiled at Veronica. “Anyway, it’s wonderful here. I know you’ll be happy. And don’t worry about Mike. He’s really a wonderful man.”
Veronica wasn’t so sure about that. “I understand why he was suspicious of me,” she said, reaching for her coffee. “But I hope he’s not going to act that way around the kids.”
“He’s good with children,” Colette assured her. “My girls love him. I think his reluctance to have a day care center here has something to do with his days as a cop.”
Veronica waited, interested.
Colette looked grim. “He was a hostage negotiator. I don’t know all the details, but this druggie killed his wife and children while Mike was trying to talk him out of it. Mike knows it wasn’t his fault, but he still blames himself.”
Veronica could only imagine the horror of that experience. Watching children suffer when you couldn’t do anything to help them must be unbearable. “How awful,” she said.
“Yeah.” Colette pushed away from the table. “He’s trying hard to move forward, but it’s got to be difficult Come on. Let’s go look at the barn again.”
THE BARN WAS HUGE but somehow friendly. Veronica loved knowing that it had been built more than a hundred years ago, that animals had been cared for here, that someone had sat here on frosty mornings and milked a cow, or groomed a horse. Her own life had been a very urban experience, but a part of her had always longed for life in the country.
She smiled. Almost every little girl wanted to own a horse or play in a barn, but she guessed few had embraced those dreams for the same reasons she had. At least, she hoped not.
“I told Tate about the partitioning you’d like in here, and he’s sketching out a plan.” Colette walked across the concrete floor, looking up at the loft. “If you approve it, the work can probably be done by the wedding.”
“You did explain that I’m coming to this with extremely little capital?” Veronica tore her mind from the dreams she had for the space and back to reality. “I can’t afford architects from Boston.”
Colette dismissed that with a curve of her lips. “He wanted to use the barn for something, and I think he’s happy to have another project.” She walked to the right side of the building and stretched her arms out to indicate the area. “I told him you wanted to be able to bring the playground equipment inside during the winter.”
Veronica followed her. “Right.” Then she pointed to the other side. “And a big room for general play, then two smaller rooms for naps.”
“Right.”
Colette gestured toward the loft. “I wondered if you might want to turn that into an apartment for yourself? Then if parents run late or want to come in early, you won’t have to worry about the commute. I know you just got your apartment, and it’s not far—but fifteen minutes is fifteen minutes. What do you think?”
No travel and being able to look at the view of the vineyard anytime she wanted? Veronica was touched by Colette’s thoughtfulness. “I’d love it, of course,” she said, “but you don’t think everyone else will think I’m...intruding?”
Colette laughed lightly. “We’re all ‘intruders.’ Rachel lives here because her husband was a friend of Jack’s. He invited her to stay after her husband died and left her broke. I came when my husband passed away so my father could help me with the girls, and I could work with the grapes. And Tate and his brothers are here because Jack disappeared and they finally inherited the place.” She paused. “The crew can do your apartment first so you can be here to watch over the rest of it.”
“I’d love that,” Veronica admitted unashamedly.
“Great. And we’ll carpet for you, too. Something tweedy that won’t show every little spot but will be easy to clean and still protect the little darlings when they fall.”
Veronica eyed the floor. “That’ll cost a bundle.”
“Tate has connections. You still want to do the painting yourself?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay.”
The arrangement was far better than okay. She gave Colette a big hug. “I don’t know how I blundered into such good deal, but I’m so grateful. I had a feeling the day I met you that you were going to become an important part of my life.”
Colette held her in the hug a moment longer. “So was I. I didn’t know then that you’d left the convent so recently, but I thought I recognized a kindred spirit. I’ve had to start over against difficult odds, but I had my girls and my father. You’re all alone.”
Veronica drew back and smiled. “I don’t feel all alone anymore. Thanks for caring so much.”
Colette looped an arm through hers and started toward the door. “Actually, I have a ulterior motive. I need a favor from you.”
“Anything.”
“Will you stand up for me at my wedding?”
Veronica stopped several yards from the door. Sun beamed in on them from grimy windows. “Are you teasing?”
“Of course not.” Colette shrugged as she prepared to explain. “I moved here two and half years ago, but for most of that time, I’ve worked long hours. I’ve made acquaintances in town, but no real friends. I feel as though I know you as well as anyone. Will you? We’re getting married on July third.”
Veronica felt joy bubbling through her. She was getting a life! “Of course. I’d be honored to.”
“Good. Do you have plans for this afternoon?”
“Nothing critical. I was just going to get paint and wallpaper samples.”
“How about if the girls and I meet you in town for lunch and we go dress shopping? No taffeta or chiffon, but something practical we can all wear again.”
Dress shopping with other women. That was something she’d never gotten to do in the convent. Or before. She agreed calmly as they walked out into the compound, knowing Colette probably wouldn’t understand a leap into the air and a click of her heels. The simple pleasure of shopping would be no big deal to anyone else.
“Where’s your car?” Colette asked.
Veronica pointed to the B-and-B. “I parked on the other side. I guess that’s why Mike didn’t see it when he went into the house.”
Colette put an arm around her shoulders. “That was good for him. Men are so sure of what they know. I think they need to be shocked every once in a while. I’ve got to get to work. See you this afternoon.”
Veronica walked across the sunny compound with a spring in her step. She did a full circuit of the fountain that stood in the middle surrounded by colorful pansies, then continued on her way, excited by ideas for the day care center. This was what she’d wanted for so long. She couldn’t believe it was actually happening.
Then, before she could feel too secure about her future, she spotted a tall, lean man propped against the trunk of her old, light blue compact, arms folded, ankles crossed. Mike.
She resumed her purposeful stride, unwilling to let him see he made her anxious. First, he was a man, and as a nun she’d had very little experience with them. She’d known priests, of course, as well as fathers of students and repairmen, but she hadn’t known men on an equal footing. Her veil had placed her on an untouchable level. Still, she’d experienced an attraction to him that was unlike anything she’d felt before. She’d found it both exciting and unsettling.
Second, she knew he didn’t want her here, and that was a major threat to her burgeoning self-confidence. And to the new life she was trying. to establish for herself. The life that might one day—if she was really lucky and determined—banish the loneliness forever.
He straightened away from the car as she approached, and she noticed things about him that her previous life had conditioned her to ignore. Broad shoulders stretching his Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, formidable biceps, long, strong legs in old jeans. She remembered in vivid detail what it had felt like to be sprawled on top of him. Despite her inexperience, she hadn’t felt endangered—at least not physically.
“Hi,” she said. “I thought you were out of the business of giving parking tickets.”
He met her gaze, but didn’t smile. “I am,” he said finally. “I’m here to apologize.”
“That isn’t necessary. Your suspicions were understandable.”
He agreed with one perfunctory nod. “But I didn’t realize that you...”
She looked into his eyes and knew what had brought about this sudden and careful remoteness. Someone had told him about her. Though his apology was chivalrous, she regretted that it placed even more distance between them.
She went past him to put her key in the lock. “Well, it was either let me land on you or let me fall on my backside. I’m glad you chose the former.”
He held the door for her while she tossed her purse in. “I’m sorry I was rude.”
She was determined to put an end to this now. “There’s no need to keep apologizing. I was a nun, but I’m not that delicate.” She spread her arms, forcing him to look at her. “I’ve survived. If we’re going to be crossing paths, you’ll have to stop envisioning me in a black dress and a veil. All right?”
If she’d surprised him, it didn’t show. She guessed there probably wasn’t much that surprised a former cop.
“All right,” he said finally. “When does your day care open?”
“In about a month. Tate’s going to have some partitions put up, and the floor carpeted. Colette thought they’d be finished with that by the wedding. Then I have to paint and paper and move in some furniture.”
“You know, with Tate gone, I’ll be too busy to help you. Will you be able to manage on your own?”
She gave him smile that had nothing to do with mirth. “That’s my specialty. Anything else?”
“Get in,” he said. “I’ll close your door.”
Veronica couldn’t decide if that was courtesy on his part, or an eagerness to get rid of her. In any case, she reversed expertly into the compound, then drove away without a backward glance.
Except one in her rearview mirror, where Mike Delancey was nicely framed, a tall figure standing in front of the beautiful Victorian-style home.
He was not at all what her nicely developing future needed.
“TUXEDOS?” MIKE LOOKED at the sign above the rental shop as Tate, Shea and Armand walked in. “I thought we were wearing suits.”
Tate beckoned him inside. “Changed my mind. Colette was talking about her, Veronica, Rachel and the girls getting dresses they could wear again, and I decided we were being too casual about this. A wedding should be special—particularly a second one, where you get to apply all the lessons you learned during the first. So the ceremony should be bigger, better.”
Shea frowned over a pink cummerbund on a mannequin torso placed on a glass counter. “But there were eight hundred people at your first wedding. This is little country church.”
Tate gave Shea an impatient look.
“He means bigger and better in spirit,” Armand explained, paternally cuffing his shoulder. “In the approach to it.” Then he grinned at Tate. “A man after my own heart. It’s good to astonish women with your sensitivity once in a while. It prevents them from thinking they have the upper hand.”
Shea raised an eyebrow at Mike, as though asking if he understood what Armand was talking about. But Mike returned his attention to something else Tate had said. “Colette talked about her and Veronica getting dresses?”
Tate leaned over the counter, looking at the ties and ascots displayed inside. “Yeah,” he said absently. “Veronica’s her maid of honor.”
As Tate’s best man, Mike was less than delighted with that news. There seemed to be no escape from the woman he was certain would be a problem.
“I didn’t realize she knew her that well.”
“They’ve become good friends in a short time. She’s moving into the loft in the barn.”
Before Mike could comment, a small round man with a tape measure around his neck appeared from behind a curtain at the back of the shop. He eyed the four of them in a clinical way. “No pink or lavender accessories, and no ruffles, am I right?”
“You’re right,” Tate said, shaking his hand. “We’re after morning coats.”
“Fashionable choice. Let me get some measurements.”
Forty-five minutes later, the four men walked across French River’s main street.
“Now where?” Shea asked.
“We’re meeting the girls for coffee. We’re supposed to pick them up at the dress shop by the bank.”
“Don’t call them ‘girls,’” Shea advised him. “They don’t like that.”
“Megan and Katie are girls,” Tate disputed.
“Yeah, but don’t lump the women in with the girls. It gets you in trouble every time.”
Tate and Mike stopped short. Shea’s observation was clearly a commentary on the woman in San Francisco he consistently refused to talk about. “And how do you know this?” Tate asked.
“Experience.”
“With whom?”
“Doesn’t matter, just trust me.”
Tate met Mike’s eyes with a grin. “Thought I had him that time.”
Mike slapped Shea on the shoulder. “Someday she’s going to come looking for him, and we’ll see her for ourselves.”
Shea laughed scornfully. “Her last words to me consigned me to hell. I don’t think she’ll be dropping by any time soon.”
VERONICA STARED at her reflection in astonishment. She could hear giggles and playful banter as Colette helped her daughters into matching yellow organdy dresses in one dressing room. In another, Rachel, who’d been declared mother-of-the-bride for the occasion, was trying on a soft green chiffon with pleats.
But in this narrow cubicle with a mirror and an empty hanger dangling on a hook, Veronica looked at a total stranger—herself.
For twelve years, she’d worn the simple blue jumper, white shirt and blue veil of the Sisters of Faith and Charity. Then in the six months she’d been out of the convent, she’d taught an English-as-a-second-language class in two very plain suits, both navy blue, that had been given to her by the St. Vincent de Paul Society. When she’d moved to French River, she’d bought a few functional clothes at the thrift shop.
It was exciting to see herself in yellow. The dress was the chiffon Colette had insisted they didn’t want, until Tate had changed her mind for her. It had a simple round neck, a short, flirty, three-layered sleeve, a.nipped-in waist emphasized by appliqued flowers with seed-pearl centers and a full tea-length skirt.
The style flattered her tall, slender figure. And the color lent an apricot glow to her completion and a sparkle to her brown eyes.
But something had to be done about her hair. She tugged at the short do that skimmed her eyebrows and her earlobes, then lay in a simple, masculine cut in the back. Under a veil it had never mattered, but now she thought it shattered her fragile aura of femininity.
She heard Colette and the girls leave the dressing room and go into the shop to look in the big mirrors.
“How’re you doing, Rachel?” Colette called.
“I’m coming,” Rachel replied. “Looking like a very large grape leaf, but I’m coming.”
Veronica continued to stare at herself. It wasn’t vanity, but a sort of fascination. Not that she’d be wearing yellow chiffon every day, but this was the woman she could be when the occasion warranted. It amazed her.
“Vee?” Colette again.
“Coming,” she called back, fluffing her skirt and combing her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to give it a little height.
The first people she noticed when she walked into the shop were Colette’s daughters, standing together in front of the large mirror, looking like an Anne Geddes photograph. Their flat little torsos emerged from bouffant yellow skirts like the pistils in a lily. Megan, the eight-year-old, had rumpled braids, and Katie, seven, had a disheveled ponytail, though Veronica had been there half an hour ago when Colette had brushed it.
Veronica rushed forward to wrap her arms around them. Even when she’d finally realized she’d entered the convent for all the wrong reasons, she’d stayed because of the children constantly crowded around her.
“You are so beautiful!” she told the girls. “Oh, and you, too, Aunt Rachel.” Rachel stood to the side, fussing with the sash at her hips. She looked lovely, the dropped waist concealing her slight plumpness.
“But look at Mommy!” Megan said, pointing to the other side, where Colette stood.
She’d chosen a simple, fitted dress with a straight skirt of ecru lace. It was set off by a veiled pillbox hat perched atop her red hair, which was coiled into an elegant twist.
“You look like a magazine cover!” Veronica said.
“Well, look at you!” Colette exclaimed, then said to someone behind Veronica, “Isn’t this color perfect for her?”
Veronica turned, expecting to see the clerk who’d helped them make their selections. Instead she faced four watchful males, studying her with varying levels of interest.
Armand smiled at her with fatherly indulgence. “The bride will have competition for everyone’s attention,” he said with Old World gallantry.
Tate’s expression was fraternal as he moved across the room to put an arm around Colette. “If I didn’t have eyes only for this woman, I’d find out what you were doing after the wedding.”
The other man, who must be Shea, seemed stricken. “I know a woman who wore that color all the time.” He sighed, then seemed to pull himself together. “It looks even more wonderful on a brunette.”
Mike heard Tate say, “Aha! Now we know you’re carrying that torch for a blonde or a redhead.” But he was too distracted to join in the banter that followed.
The only thing on his mind was how much more difficult his life was going to be with Veronica around. She was beautiful. And though he’d briefly held that trim body in his arms, he hadn’t realized just how perfect it was.
Feelings he’d thought long dead weren’t dead at all. They were asleep. And waking up.
It wasn’t simply lust. That would be easy enough to deal with. This was interest...longing. Lust with depth and complications. He wanted to touch her, but he wanted to know her, too. What had sent her into a convent? What had brought her out again?
She’d been a nun. He’d seen things she probably couldn’t even imagine in her worst nightmares.
No. If he got to know her, she’d get to know him, and that might not be a good experience. It had certainly sent Lita, the last woman in his life, running in the opposite direction.
Anyway, he didn’t want anyone that close right now. He wasn’t ready. He might never be ready.
Katie came to take his hand, and smiled up at him, all freckles and sparkle. “Don’t you think she’s pretty, Uncle Mike?”
He couldn’t lie to a child or to a former woman of the cloth. “I think she’s beautiful, Katie,” he admitted, smoothing her hair.
The men decided to wait outside while the women changed. Mike couldn’t remember ever being so desperate for a breath of fresh air.
THE WEDDING PARTY FILLED the small coffee bar with laughter and loud conversation. Veronica sat in the midst of the din and thought how wonderful it was to be surrounded by such joyful noise.
Katie sat in Tate’s lap, Megan talked nonstop to Mike, and Shea, his moroseness banished, was having a serious discussion with Rachel about breakfast menus for the B-and-B.
Colette grinned at Veronica. “Those three are always charming the men,” she said with a jut of her chin in the direction of her daughters and Rachel. “We don’t stand a chance of getting any real attention.”
That was fine with Veronica. She just enjoyed watching the happy group.
She noticed the rapt attention Mike paid to Megan, and the little girl’s complete confidence that she had his interest. He might not want other children around the compound, but he certainly seemed to treasure Colette’s daughters.
“We’re starting on your loft tomorrow, Veronica,” Tate said from the far end of the table. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. “This is what I had in mind to make best use of the space. Will that work for you?”
Colette leaned toward Veronica as she unfolded the sheet and studied the rough blueprint for her new home. A bath and bedroom were side by side at the far end of the oblong space, a U-shaped kitchen took up the middle and a breakfast bar separated it from the living room at the front.
She noticed a narrow space that ran along the very edge of the loft. “What’s that?” she asked, holding up the sheet and pointing to the strip.
“It’s the gallery,” Katie answered. “For keeping books and plants and things. And it’s gonna have windows so you can see down into the day care.”
Colette looked startled. “You didn’t even tell me that,” she complained to Tate.
He shrugged. “You weren’t sitting in my lap when I did it.”
Colette poked a playful finger at her daughter. “That’s because someone else is always in it.”
Katie giggled and leaned back into Tate’s chest, apparently not feeling repentant.
“I think it’s wonderful!” Veronica folded the sheet and handed it back. “I appreciate all the trouble you’re going to for me.”
“We’re happy to have someone in the space. It’ll make the compound completely operational.”
“I can help you with a nutritional menu for the kids’ snacks and meals,” Shea offered. “And we can order your food with ours to make it more economical.”
“Shea’s the sweet one,” Colette said to Veronica in a stage whisper.
Shea pretended modesty.
There was simultaneous grousing from Tate and Mike.
“She plays up to him for his white-chocolatemacadamia-nut brownies,” Tate accused. “I’m the sweet one.”
“No, you’re the orderly one,” Shea corrected. “The detail-obsessed slave driver who never gives any of us a moment’s peace.”
Tate opened his mouth to dispute the point.
“Save it,” Mike advised before Tate could speak. “That was more on target than a smart bomb.”
“I think Mike’s the sweet one.” Rachel, seated between Mike and Shea, patted Mike’s arm. “He takes me shopping once week, and he even had a step installed on the Blazer to make it easier for me to get in.”
Mike spread his hands wide—the seated equivalent of taking a bow.
Then Rachel added with a taunting grin, “You just don’t think of him as sweet because he always looks as though he’s going to arrest you.” She elbowed him affectionately. “You do have to lighten up, dear.”
Veronica watched Mike take the resultant laughter and ribbing with good-natured aplomb. This man was not at all what she expected.
CHAPTER THREE
VERONICA WATCHED THE CREW at work and wondered if this was what an old-fashioned barn raising looked like. Except that in this case, the barn had been put up a hundred years ago and now its innards were being renovated.
Half a dozen men swarmed over the barn, cutting holes for large, modern windows, and building walls both downstairs and up in the loft, according to Tate’s specifications. A full kitchen was installed in the day care, as well as a small, efficient one in her apartment.
Then the carpet came, a mottled hunter green that was vibrant and patterned to conceal dust and spills. Veronica walked across it one evening when the workmen had gone and found it wonderfully springy underfoot.
She sat down in the middle of it, drew up her knees and looked around. Except for light fixtures, which would be installed tomorrow, the structural work was done. Now it was her turn to paint and paper—and get ready for business.
She blessed the impulse that had made her come to Delancey vineyards for a tour three weeks ago. When she’d left the convent, a relative of one of the sisters had gotten her the ESL job in Portland. While she’d been grateful for it, she’d known immediately that she didn’t want to stay there. The small parks throughout the city were beautiful, and Portland was a wonderful city, but for the first time she was able to choose where she would make her home, and she wanted to live in the country.
She’d wanted it since she’d been a girl. From the moment she’d become aware of the ugly world surrounding the filthy tenement rooms that were all they could afford after her mother had spent her welfare checks on drugs and alcohol, Veronica had dreamed of living where there were grass and trees, and animals that didn’t come out of the walls at night to fight you for your food.
Once, when her mother had been in rehab, Veronica had stayed in a foster home with a TV. She’d watched reruns of Green Acres and enjoyed the antics of the characters. But mostly she’d thought the setting marvelous. She’d decided that when she grew up, she’d live in the country where there’d be no neighbors screaming on the other side of the wall, no dark alleys...no loneliness. Country people always looked so well-fed and cheerful—and they always stuck together.
Veronica lay back on the carpet, closed her eyes and said a prayer of gratitude. Tomorrow, Tate and his brothers were moving unneeded furniture from their house into her loft She would bring her few possessions from the apartment and stay overnight for the first time.
She had accomplished so much more than she’d expected to—and so quickly. Good. Step Two of the plan—finding an apartment convenient to her business—almost completed.
MIKE’S GAZE FELL to the newly laid carpet as he pushed on the half-open door of the barn. He was here with a message for Veronica from Colette, but he forgot it temporarily as he admired the renovations.
The walls looked neat and sound, and the upstairs had been completed, though not yet painted, windows looking down on the playroom below.
And it was as his eyes swept the rest of the area that he saw Veronica lying on the floor. His heart lurched. What had she fallen from? Or had she just collapsed? Earlier he’d watched her helping the workmen put up wallboard, then roll out the carpet padding. She’d probably overdone it—
He was halfway toward her, his concern mounting, when she sat up, looking perfectly sound, and blinked at him in bemusement. He stopped in his tracks, relieved and exasperated. He drew a steadying breath. “If you’re going to take a nap,” he said, “don’t sprawl out on the floor that way. I’m liable to draw a chalk outline around you.”
He almost expected her to be annoyed with him, but she laughed instead.
“Sorry.” She got lightly to her feet. “As you can see, there’s nothing to lie on but the carpet. I was just relaxing. Did you need something?”
She wore a pair of baggy, dark blue sweats, splattered with paint. The pants hung on her, yet failed to detract from whatever there was about her that he always noticed.
She smoothed the sweats self-consciously, probably thinking he’d been studying her with criticism rather than admiration. “I got my wardrobe,” she said, “from the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the thrift shop when I left the convent. You won’t find it at Bloomingdale’s.”
He looked down at his own winery “uniform” of jeans and sweatshirt. “I, on the other hand, am outfitted by JCPenney’s...” He indicated his jeans, then plucked at his sweatshirt with its Dallas Boys’ Club logo. “And the fund-raising efforts of a friend of mine.”
“You worked with a boys’ club?”
“No. My old partner did, and I often got roped into helping out. The shirt sale was to raise money for gym equipment...” That was all he wanted her to know right now. It wasn’t like him to talk about himself, even in a general way. But she’d looked embarrassed about her clothes.... “Colette wondered if you needed the winery’s truck to move your things.”
“I’ve ridden in that beast with Colette. It’s pretty temperamental, and I can’t drive a stick. But tell her thanks. I’ll just make a couple of trips in my car.”
“Actually, she was offering you the truck and an assistant with stick experience.”
She raised an eyebrow warily. “You?”
He tried not to be annoyed by her obvious reluctance. “Me. Tate’s picking up some friends who are coming out for the wedding. And Shea’s busy cooking for the reception.”
“It’s not that I’d prefer someone else’s help.” She seemed impatient that he thought so. “It’s just you’ve made it clear you don’t want me here, so I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing.”
That was frank. He responded with equal honesty. “That’s not entirely accurate. I don’t think the day care center should be here. It has nothing to do with you personally.”
“You’re sure?” She smiled suddenly. “You’re convinced I’m not a B-and-E artist, but you always look as though I worry you. Are you afraid I’ll force you to pray or light candles or something?”
He didn’t think he’d ever known a woman who’d kept him so off balance—and he’d known a few who had loved to try. But this one didn’t seem to be playing at anything, and that was somehow harder to deal with.
“B-and-E artist?” he asked, trying to unsettle her. “You talk more like a cop than an ex-nun.”
She shrugged and folded her arms, her stance becoming just a little aggressive. “My mother did time in every prison east of the Mississippi, several times for breaking and entering. But mostly for drugs and prostitution.”
He had to concede that round. He was pitched a little further off balance, while she seemed to root herself in place, as if she’d taught herself to stand firm under the assault of childhood memories.
“I’m sorry,” he said with quiet sincerity, his earlier annoyance with her evaporating.
She shrugged again. “Everybody has something ugly to live with. But that’s beside the point. I can move my things over tomorrow, a little bit at a time. Thanks, though, for the offer.”
He knew it was chauvinistic of him, but he’d never be the kind of man who could happily let a woman tell him what to do. He’d be the first one to admit they were equally intelligent and capable, but upbringing and instinct made him feel responsible.
A policeman protected the small and the weak and anyone else who asked for help, and although he was off the force, at the core, he’d always be a cop.
“I’ll be at your apartment at nine,” he said, ignoring her attempt to interrupt him. “It’d help if you had boxes packed already. We have the wedding rehearsal early in the evening.”
She followed him to the door, still objecting, but he turned only to remind her, “9:00 a.m.,” then walked away.
EVERYTHING VERONICA OWNED was in the bed of the truck in less than an hour.
Mike looked at the dozen or so boxes, and the clothing on plastic-wrapped hangers held together by a rubber band, and asked in surprise, “This is it?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“No furniture?”
“No.” She reached into the truck to secure the flaps on a box. “I took a vow of poverty, remember?”
He frowned and closed the tailgate, then walked around to open the passenger door for her. “I guess I didn’t realize that was meant literally.”
She dropped her purse on the floor and climbed in. “It was a promise,” she said as he handed her the end of her seat belt. “You took all your oaths as a cop literally, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. But they didn’t require that I face the world with only twelve cardboard boxes.”
“They required you to risk your life.” It amused her that he was less horrified by that. “Poverty’s easier.”
Mike looked uncomfortable, and shifted the conversation.
“We scrounged you a table and chair and a couple of other things from the house, but you have no bed, no sofa, no television.” His message of doom delivered, he closed her door and walked around to climb in beside her. “You’re going to have to spend your life standing up.”
“I’ll sleep in the bathtub.”
“People only do that in the movies.”
She shook her head as he backed the truck out of the driveway. “That isn’t true. I slept in a bathtub in New York for several months when I was about nine. I even had to keep the plug in so nothing climbed out of the drain.”
He stopped before joining the mid-morning traffic to focus on her. “You’re kidding.”
“No. It was quite comfortable.” Veronica always made references to her past with a smile. It masked the ache the memory brought. “So, don’t worry because I don’t have a sofa. I’ve dealt with worse deprivation. And if I’m in the tub, you won’t be tempted to draw a chalk outline around me.”
He waited for a mail truck to pass, then drove half a block and stopped at a red light. He turned toward her, as though trying to see how she really felt.
“Your mother was in or out of jail at the time?”
“Out. She...you know...worked in the bed.”
He said something under his breath that was seldom heard in a convent. “Where the hell was Children’s Services? You must have been in foster care when she went to jail. Didn’t anybody notice it was happening a lot?”
Veronica wondered why she’d made the tub remark. She had only talked about her past to a couple of priests, and once to another nun. It would have been much easier to let his casual remark about her lack of a bed lie unchallenged.
She didn’t think she needed to talk about it. She’d made her peace with the past long ago—the day she walked into the motherhouse of the Sisters of Faith and Charity and offered them her future.
But she’d reneged on that offer twelve years later because she knew she didn’t have a true calling. Did that mean she hadn’t adjusted, after all? It was a sobering thought.
“I was finally taken away when I was twelve and went to live with the Porters, an older couple in Philadelphia who took in foster kids. My mother ODed in prison, and I stayed with them until I graduated from high school and joined the convent.”
He studied her face for a moment, the said with a conviction that was unexpected, “You’ve made it your life’s work not to be angry about your childhood, haven’t you?”
“I’m not angry.” She looked out at the sunlight gleaming off store windows and windshields and chrome. “My foster parents were loving and protective and taught me that your life is your life. You take what you get. And if you’re in a bad situation, you do your best to make something good out of it.”
“Are they still around?”
“No. They died within months of each other shortly after I went into the convent.”
“Is that why you joined?”
She turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Another red light. He stopped the truck, then faced her again, his eyes gentle. “To make something good out of your situation? To atone for your mother? Or for yourself? For all the horrors you saw and endured and couldn’t do anything about?”
It was an astute observation, but not quite on target. At least, she didn’t think so. “I entered because I was lonely. I wanted people in my life who would be there, who would be dependable. My mother obviously wasn’t that. She always wanted me back when she got out of jail, but I was never sure why. And in the foster homes, kids came and went—nothing ever stayed the same. Val and Henry—my foster parents—tried, but they had other foster children, too. I never dated until my senior year. My past was so different from everybody else’s, I didn’t know what to talk about. And I didn’t want anyone to know.”
She rolled down her window and breathed deeply. “I’d been in the convent a couple of years, though, before I realized that. I started to wonder why I still wasn’t happy, I examined my motives and decided I’d been looking for a big family, not necessarily for God.”
“Tate said you were part of the order for twelve years.”
“Yes. I’d started helping in the classrooms while I went to school myself, and I was enjoying the children so much, I couldn’t leave.”
“But you could have taught outside the convent.”
“I didn’t have my degree yet, and I couldn’t afford to go to school and set up an apartment, buy a car and all the things working people need. And I was still somewhat confused, so I stayed in. And the longer I was there, the harder it got to think about leaving. I wasn’t happy, but I was...safe.”
“Safe.” He repeated her word as though considering what it meant. “From what you went through as a child?”
“Yes, definitely that.” They left French River and followed the winding, tree-lined road to the winery. “About eight months ago, I went on a retreat. I did some serious soul-searching and realized I was using the convent not only to protect me from the past, but as a buffer against the future. Convent walls were a fortress between me and what might be expected of me on the outside. I was hiding.”
“What brought you to French River?”
She explained about teaching in Portland but longing for the country, and the sudden impulse to take the winery tour. “I was standing behind the B-and-B, admiring the view, and Colette approached me. We got talking...and we’ve been friends ever since. Then a parishioner I used to help in Portland heard about my wanting to open a day care and sent me a generous check for supplies. So I called Colette and asked if I could rent the barn.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “I am sorry you disapprove, but I promise the children won’t get in your way.”
“Children get in the way anywhere. It’s how they learn,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Mike helped her carry her belongings to the loft, then looked around at the still considerable emptiness.
“What are you going to sleep on tonight?” he asked. “And please don’t tell me you’re curling up in the bathtub.”
She pointed to the stack of boxes. “I have a sleeping bag in one of those. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t seem to think that was possible. “I’ll bring the table and chair over right away, so you can at least sit down.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
As he loped down the stairs, Veronica put her meager groceries into the cupboards she’d washed and lined with paper yesterday. She had oatmeal, mesh bags of onions and potatoes, a string of garlic, a can of chili, a small bottle of olive oil, pasta, herbs and spices, a box of tea and a shaker of Parmesan cheese.
She would have to go shopping at the first opportunity. But tonight was the rehearsal, and tomorrow was the wedding.
She put two towels and two facecloths in the small cupboard under the bathroom sink, a hairbrush in the drawer and a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet.
Then she hung her clothes in a closet with sliding doors, stopping to admire the shelf that ran along the top and the pigeonhole divisions on the bottom for shoes. She smiled wryly because she had very little to put into it.
She’d put two boxes of school and art supplies in the center, leaving one final box to unpack. She unrolled her sleeping bag and placed a thin pillow on top, then leaned a crucifix against the window.
Mike returned with a rocking chair, a battered coffee table, and gray metal shelving. “I know this is really ugly,” he said as he put it, under her direction, against the living room wall, “but it might be useful until you can get something better. In the truck I’ve also got two small file cabinets. With a board or a door across them, you’ll have a desk.”
He brought those up, one by one, then gave her a picnic basket “Shea sent you some lunch and a few things for the kitchen.”
“Oh!” Veronica delved into it excitedly, finding two sandwiches, a small casserole bowl of pasta salad, two apples, and two cans of pop. She smiled at Mike, warming to the idea of sharing her lunch with him. “It looks as if I’m supposed to invite you to join me.”
He didn’t even take time to think about it. “Thanks, but I’ve got a million things to do.”
She nodded and moved to put the sandwiches and salad in the small refrigerator so he wouldn’t see her disappointment. When she turned back to him, she had a bright smile in place and a hand extended.
“Thank you for your help.” He took her hand in his, and she noticed its considerable size and strength. And its warmth. She drew hers away and folded her arms as she walked him down the stairs. “I appreciate your giving up your morning to help me.”
“Sure.”
The situation had become awkward, a circumstance fairly foreign to Veronica. She was good with people, and they usually warmed to her. But dealing with single men her own age was different. She felt awkward because he’d turned down her invitation, but he seemed equally uncomfortable. Because he’d rejected her? she wondered. But she was doing her best to pretend it didn’t matter.
Either she wasn’t as good an actress as she’d thought, or she still had a lot to learn as a woman.
“Do you need a ride to rehearsal?” he asked when they reached his truck.
She stood aside as he opened his door. “No, thanks. Colette and I are going to town to pick up my car this afternoon.”
“All right. See you in church, then.”
That, at least, was comfortable territory.
AFTER THE REHEARSAL, Veronica met Bill Markham and Gina Free, Tate’s former partners in the architectural firm he’d left to come to French River. Their two-year-old, Jacob, was passed from lap to lap and fussed over particularly by Megan and Katie.
The couple had also brought with them Tate’s former secretary, Cece Phips. The girl was blond with a buzz cut, an eccentric taste in clothes and a sweet, extremely enthusiastic nature.
Over appetizers at the Chinese restaurant where they’d all convened after leaving the church, Cece couldn’t stop talking about Oregon.
“I didn’t expect it to be so beautiful, you know?” She dipped fried wonton in duck sauce. “I mean, all everybody talks about is how green it is because it rains so much, but, I mean, there must be a million shades of green, and those yellow flowers along the road—what do you call them?”
Veronica knew the answer because she’d noticed them, too, and had asked Colette. “Scotch broom,” she replied. “A real problem, I’ve been told, if you have allergies.”
“I’m strong as an elephant,” Cece boasted after a bite of the crispy appetizer. “Had all the childhood diseases, but now I never catch anything. No allergies, no sensitivity to food.” She smiled wryly. “A few phobias, though. And sometimes I go at things too anxiously and I screw up. I want to do it perfectly, but I sort of go into overdrive.” The smile became rueful. “Guys don’t like that. You either have to be helpless or totally together. But if you’re sort of competent, but not entirely, then they’re tempted to get involved but don’t like it that you mess up, so they kind of come and go—you know what I mean?”
Veronica was tempted to explain that she’d just come out of the convent and really didn’t know at all. But it seemed like the wrong time to get started on that. So she ignored it altogether. “Maybe you’re just meeting the wrong men.”
Cece nodded as though that was a possibility. “I go to school part-time. I’m a Psych major. College guys are either party, party, or they’re totally intense! And the clients at Markham, Free, and McCann are so into their building plans, they don’t even see me.”
“That could change tomorrow.” Veronica passed her the mustard for the barbecue pork. “Some wonderful man who’s looking for all the qualities you possess could walk right into your office, or your lecture hall, and you’ll be the first one he notices because he’s ready to find you, and you’re watching for him.”
Cece considered her words wistfully. “You think?”
“Sure.”
“Are you married?”
“No.” Veronica saw Cece’s faith in her prediction shrivel, forcing her to explain anyway. “But I’ve been a nun since I graduated from high school. I just left the convent a couple of months ago.”
Cece’s eyes widened. “A nun! How cool! So you must, like, understand everything. Life, purpose...”
“Actually, no. We struggle along the way everybody else does. We simply have more time to pray about it.”
“Wow.”
Tate interrupted, pushing a tall, lanky young man into the chair on the other side of Cece. “Cece, I’d like you to meet Tony Fiorentino. Tony, Cece Phips with Markham, Free, and McCann. She came for the wedding. Tony’s spending the summer out here and is working with the crew that’s doing the renovations around the winery. I spotted him in the lounge and knew you had to meet him.”
Tony had a gold hoop earring, curly dark hair, a beautiful beaky nose, and a smile that was all for Cece.
“You’ll never believe where Tony goes to school,” Tate teased.
“Where?”
Tony was obviously pleased to tell her. “I’m a Psych major at Southern Massachusetts University.”
“You’re kidding!” Cece squealed.
Veronica turned away discreetly as the conversation between Tony and Cece took off. Mike had slipped into the chair on her other side, and she felt an instant resurgence of that uncomfortable feeling she’d experienced when he’d turned down her invitation to lunch.
She decided to fight it “Did you get your million things done?” she asked with a smile, then tacked on, as if the answer didn’t matter, “Did you get some of this pork? It’s wonderful.”
“Only 999 thousand of them,” he said, helping himself to a piece. “The rest will have to wait until after the wedding. Did you eat both sandwiches and both apples?”
“Yes,” she lied, “and all the salad. I did save you a pop for another time, though.”
She was sure he knew she was teasing, just as he was teasing her. It seemed to be a way to skate over the strangeness of their relationship. Or their acquaintanceship, she mentally corrected—it could hardly be called a relationship. And she liked being able to challenge him about his rejection of her invitation by telling him there was nothing of significance left anyway.
He acknowledged her comment with a small nod. Then he reached into the pocket of his chambray shirt and handed her a business card. “Got you two candidates for your day care center.”
She blinked as she took the card. “You did?”
“I ran into someone I know from the Rotary Club—Tate and Shea and I each belong to a service organization so we’ll be involved in the community. Anyway, this guy has a girl and a boy, five-year-old twins. His wife’s a teacher, and he happened to mention that she’s taken a group of high school kids to Europe for the summer. Right now his twins are at their grandparents’ until the middle of July, but he was wondering what to do with them when they come back. So I suggested you.”
“Well—” Gratitude warred with guilt over teasing him. “Thank you. But, why? I thought you didn’t want a day care here.”
Mike didn’t actually know why. Some do-gooder need to make peace for having opposed her presence after she’d had such difficult odds to fight? He didn’t necessarily understand her, but he could relate to her uphill climb.
He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Everything doesn’t always have to make sense, does it? Like sliding down a banister.”
She giggled. The sound was ingenuous and surprising, and warmed him deep inside.
“You’re right,” she said. She touched his arm, and he felt it in his fingertips. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it”
“Sure. You can reach him at that number from 9:00 to 5:30, then at the number he wrote on the back in the evenings.”
Veronica read the information on the card: Bob Burgess Furniture and Appliances. The address was on Front Street in French River.
“He doesn’t mind driving out here?”
Mike shook his head. “He lives a mile beyond us. It’ll be convenient for him.”
She grinned with the excitement of having her first two clients. “Told ya,” she said.
He grinned, too, but shook his head at her. “Nice of you not to gloat.”
She touched him again. “Thank you, Mike. Honestly.”
He moved, intending to cover her hand with his, then caught a fried shrimp with it instead. “You’re welcome,” he replied, then excused himself to resume his place farther down the table, just as a team of waitresses wheeled in carts loaded with food. He could take Veronica’s touch only in small doses.
Tony Fiorentino had apparently also excused himself because Cece claimed Veronica’s attention, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.
“What was that you were saying about the right guy walking into my life at any moment?” As she piled food onto her plate, she went on to report everything she’d learned about Tony.
VERONICA LET HERSELF into the building, which was now outfitted with a dead bolt, and flipped on the light. She stood in the middle of the large space, admiring the beginnings of Green Acres Day Care.
It wasn’t much now, but in a few weeks it would be the brightest, most cheerful place for miles. It was going to require a lot of work and energy, and she looked forward to every moment of it.
She went up to the loft, turning on more lights as she went through the living room and the kitchen.
What she was most anxious to be rid of, she thought as she placed her purse on the counter and put on the kettle, was the silence. When it closed in on her—as it did now after a busy day filled with people—it reminded her of how alone she was.
When this place is filled with children all day, she told herself, you’ll be very grateful for this silence.
But that was little comfort. Silence after a day spent with children was very different from the silence that lived with you day after day when you had no one else. And the few hours spent in the noisy company of the Delanceys brought that home sharply.
She should be grateful she hadn’t had a sibling who’d had to endure what she’d been through as a child. But selfishly, she’d often wished she’d had the company. It would be nice, now that she could come and go as she pleased, to have someone to visit, to make plans and talk over problems with.
She’d had good friends within the order, but she’d left that life behind. She corresponded with some of them, but it wasn’t the same as having them nearby. And Colette, her first friend in French River, would leave tomorrow night for several weeks in Canada.
She grabbed one of her two mugs, found a tea bag and waited for the water to boil. She went to the window that looked down on the slope behind the barn, and saw herself reflected back.
She told herself she would be fine. She’d been alone in one way or another for much of her thirty years, and she’d survived. She just didn’t like it. But life was about learning to cope with what you got, not about getting what you wanted. And pretty soon her life was going to be filled with children. Step Three—friends—was accomplished, and she’d only been in French River a couple of weeks. What more could she want?
She smiled at her reflection, but chose not to think about it. She didn’t want to be greedy.
The kettle whistled, and she filled the waiting mug with hot water. Then she turned off the light, walked into the bedroom—and stopped in the doorway.
Someone had tossed her sleeping bag and pillow onto a double bed already covered with a pink-and-green flowered bedspread. It was a four-poster with large, rounded knobs in a light mush—pine, she guessed.
She approached it slowly, shocked, wondering where it had come from. Colette? But why? She’d done so much for Veronica already.
And then a memory from earlier in the evening struck her like a sledgehammer, and she delved into her pocket for the business card Mike had given her.
“Bob Burgess Furniture and Appliances,” she read aloud into the ringing silence.
After staring at the bed another moment, she climbed into the middle of it and sat down. The mattress was soft and cupped her body. With a sigh of pleasure, she let her head fall back against equally soft pillows.
Every muscle in her body seemed to loosen. But every nerve ending fluttered in confusion.
Mike Delancey had bought her...a bed?
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE VESTIBULE of the church, Veronica adjusted Colette’s hat to a jaunty angle and stepped back to study the effect. “What do you think?” she asked Megan and Katie, who pressed close, little baskets of daisies and ivy in hand.
“I think she’s the prettiest mother in the whole world.” Katie said.
“I must agree with that.” Armand came from the men’s dressing room, fussing with the unfamiliar tie. His wiry gray hair was combed into order, and the morning coat gave him a handsome elegance.
Colette handed Veronica her bouquet of roses and orchids and reached up to adjust his tie for him.
Katie and Megan trembled with excitement, taking every opportunity to swish the long skirts of their yellow dresses and to look for their reflections in the glass doors of the church. Their beautifully curled and upswept hair made them look like an ad for a children’s shampoo.
Colette wrapped her arms around them, then urged them into position as Shea arrived to walk Rachel up the aisle.
“You ready?” Colette whispered to Veronica. She looked absolutely beautiful and remarkably serene, considering she was about to make a life-altering vow.
“Yes.” Veronica moved to stand behind Megan.
She put a hand to her fluttering stomach, thinking she was probably more nervous than Colette. Being in a church was certainly familiar and comfortable, but she’d never worn a dress like this to a house of worship before.
She felt as though something life-altering was about to happen to her.
She turned to Colette, who was now behind her, her arm tucked into Armand’s. “Did you give me a bed?” she asked quietly.
Colette looked at her through her chin-length veil. “Pardon me?”
“A bed.” Veronica kept her eye on the front of the church, where Shea was just seating Rachel in the first pew. Then she glanced quickly at Colette. “When I got home last night, there was a bed in my bedroom.”
Armand raised an eyebrow. “And that is odd?”
Colette nodded. “Yes, Dad. She didn’t have one.” Then to Veronica, she replied, “No, I didn’t give you a bed. You mean, a new one?”
“Yes. The mattress and box spring are still wrapped in plastic, and there was a bedspread thrown over them.”
Colette giggled. “Did you pray for one? With your connections—”
The opening bars of the wedding processional began with loud, commanding drama, effectively putting an end to conversation. Colette shrugged, then winked.
Veronica faced forward as Katie, well coached on when to start, set off at a stately pace. Megan followed, the length of seven pews left between her and Katie.
Veronica counted pews and decided she was not going to walk up the aisle thinking about the bed. This was her friend’s wedding and it required her full attention.
When Megan reached the seventh pew, Veronica followed, focusing on the front of the church where the minister and the Delancey brothers waited.
Despite her promise to herself, she was temporarily distracted by the handsome picture the brothers made, shoulder to shoulder, family resemblance evident though three distinct personalities were also visible—elegant Tate, tough Mike, witty Shea.
“Tough Mike” who’d helped her move, found her first two clients and bought her a bed.
Veronica returned the smiles of the small group of wedding guests as she continued walking toward the altar, wondering if they could detect her scattered thoughts.
Mike was watching her, a frown line on his forehead that made him look as if he regretted everything he’d done for her.
She didn’t care. There’d been a time in her life when kindnesses had been few and far between, and she’d learned to be grateful for any she received.
She’d also learned to return them.
If anyone deserved kindness, it was a man trapped in a cage of self-imposed guilt and painful memories.
Veronica smiled to herself as she realized that her previous career as a soul-saver made it impossible for her to do what others would probably do in these circumstances—let him work out his problems by himself and keep an understanding distance.
But she couldn’t believe that a man who bemoaned her presence, yet continued to do things for her, didn’t want, deep down, to be her friend.
As she reached the minister, she couldn’t help giving Mike a meaningful glance before turning to take her place beside Megan.
MIKE STOOD BESIDE Tate as he repeated his vows, then handed him the ring that would seal this ancient ritual. This time, he wanted Tate to get back from the marriage all he gave. He’d always thought his brother remarkable in that respect. Even personally beset with problems, Tate could find something to give to someone who needed him.
Mike had seen that firsthand when he’d been placed on leave after the fatal hostage incident. He hadn’t know it then, but when Tate had flown to Dallas to spend time with Mike, his marriage had already ended.
They hadn’t done much—sat around, drank coffee, talked about other things. Then Mike had fallen asleep on the sofa one afternoon, and dreamed the entire incident in detail, except that in his dream he’d been in the room with the victims when it all went bad, instead of outside watching. He’d awakened screaming—and Tate had been there to wrap a blanket around him and hold him while he wept with impotent rage.
That debt was hard to pay back. The small financial stake he’d been able to contribute to the winery hadn’t meant much in view of what Tate had given. For now, the best Mike could do was see to it that everything went smoothly while Tate was honeymooning with Colette and the girls.
Mike was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to send Veronica Callahan away, too, so that he’d be able to concentrate. He’d thought about her half the night, and now he was going to have to live with the image of her floating up the aisle in that sunbeam of a dress.
He’d always thought he preferred women like Lita—curvy women with flowing hair. But this slender little reed with hair not much longer than his was beginning to haunt his thoughts.
He knew what the problem was: he’d been too long without a woman. He looked around surreptitiously as the ceremony continued, half expecting to be struck by ecclesiastical lightning. Thoughts of sex were probably not appropriate for church. Particularly when those thoughts involved an ex-nun.
It didn’t help that when they paired up to leave the church, Veronica gave him a sweet smile and squeezed his arm.
She stood on tiptoe as they reached the vestibule door and whispered in his ear, “Thank you.”
He gave her his best What-are-you-talking-about? expression. It had worked during hostage situations when he’d been accused of slowing proceedings to allow other cops to get in position, and on convicted felons who’d tried to tell him someone else had promised them a deal.
But it didn’t work on Veronica. “You gave me a bed,” she said as they took their places beside Tate and Colette in a line on the church porch.
“Maybe Colette—”
“No. I asked her. You gave me the bed. And you have to let me thank you properly.”
Her dark eyes were so frank that it seemed futile to pretend. “Okay. But stop saying that.” He’d begun to regret having given her such a gift, concerned about how it might look to someone else, or how she might misunderstand his intentions. He—a single man—had given her-an ex-nun-a bed.
Though he did think about her a lot, sex had been far from his mind when he’d walked into the furniture store.
He couldn’t imagine her doing all the work required to get the day care center ready, then getting into a sleeping bag set on a wooden floor-or in a bathtub. He’d seen her possessions. He knew how little she had. He’d had to do something.
She rolled her eyes, apparently never giving a second thought to his intentions.
“Don’t pretend you had evil motives,” she scoffed lightly, smiling and shaking hands with the owners of another local winery as they offered cheerful greetings. “You were probably the kind of cop who gave homeless people shoes, and lost children ice cream.”
He frowned at her. Every cop spent time developing a stern, hard attitude. It irritated him that she could peel it away with a few words.
“Tate thinks we should furnish your apartment as we get things for other parts of the compound. That’s all that was.”
He was grateful to see Felicia Ferryman approaching—probably the first time he’d felt that way since he’d met her. French River’s mayor wore a short, silky dress in a pale shade of lavender that accentuated her delicate features. Her blond hair had been swept up under a broad-brimmed hat that matched the dress.
Mike watched Veronica offer her hand with a warm smile. Felicia took it, her smile more predatory than friendly. When he and his brothers had first moved to the winery, Felicia had set her cap for Tate. When Tate had proposed to Colette, Mike became the object of Felicia’s machinations. He usually dodged her whenever possible. But now he was happy to have an excuse to stop talking about the bed.
“And who are you?” Felicia asked Veronica, shaking her hand. She’d come with Henry Warren, a city councilman who owned a sporting goods store.
“I’m Veronica Callahan,” replied Veronica, innocent and unsuspecting. “I’ve just arrived at the winery.”
Felicia looked her up and down and reacted as she usually did to competition. She stiffened visibly. “Really. In what capacity?”
Mike saw an easy and instant solution to the problem of Felicia. He didn’t stop to think about it twice. “She’s the love of my life,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and leaning closer. “Veronica, this is Felicia Ferryman, our mayor.”
Veronica gazed at him for several seconds, clearly trying to figure out what he was doing. He waited for her to denounce him as a liar.
She turned to Felicia instead. “Hello,” she said mercifully. “It’s, uh, so nice to meet you.”
Felicia intently scanned Mike’s face, then Veronica’s. “You hardly ever leave the winery,” she challenged suspiciously. “Where on earth did you meet?”
“We—met before he came here,” Veronica said, turning to him for corroboration, a flicker of panic in her dark eyes. “I’m from...Los Angeles and... around there.” Her voice fell a little as she named the city, as though afraid it wouldn’t work into whatever Felicia already knew about him.
Felicia pounced. “I thought you came here from Dallas.”
Mike nodded. “I did. We met when she was visiting a friend.” That, at least, was true. She’d been in the B-and-B to have tea with Colette. If Felicia presumed that friend had been in Dallas, that wasn’t his fault....
Felicia looked hurt, but he’d have bet his stake in Delancey Vineyards that it was disappointment rather than pain. She took Veronica’s hand and tapped her naked third finger. “No diamond,” she commented. Then she freed Veronica’s hand and focused on her eyes. “So, you followed him here?”
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Muriel Jensen
The DELANCEY BROTHERSThree very different brothers. Three very different lives. One great opportunity.What's a tough cop doing in a place like this?Mike Delancey was one of the best hostage negotiators in Texas. But he's left that behind to work in the winery he and his brothers inherited.He was ready for a change, but nothing could have prepared him for Veronica Callahan. Because Veronica and her day-care center represent the two things he swore he'd never have anything to do with again–women and children.Veronica's a woman with a very interesting past–and a detailed plan for the future. Coming to Delancey Vineyards and starting a day-care center fulfills the first part of the plan. The bad news for the extremely reluctant Mike Delancey is: The second part–marriage and a family–involves him!
“I’m here to apologize. I didn’t realize that you...” (#uedc60261-4147-5a1d-b6ea-1083caf886bc)Letter to Reader (#u824b738f-b1f5-5fbd-a80a-96da00fd5bb7)Title Page (#u83b136f8-04d2-530d-897b-b370cf8208cd)Dedication (#u536b59ae-522a-57b6-8557-f2763244e6e2)CHAPTER ONE (#ub736f312-44b9-5d1c-8129-89d42219c4e3)CHAPTER TWO (#uf91ce5ce-04e9-5668-974d-efa9b3eaeeb1)CHAPTER THREE (#u5c67f6e9-36cd-56e9-9d16-0fc27f7a5e6c)CHAPTER FOUR (#u4d7a1740-c6dc-5eb7-8579-735f17874bfe)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I’m here to apologize. I didn’t realize that you...”
Veronica looked into Mike’s eyes and knew what had brought about his sudden and careful remoteness. Someone had told him about her. She regretted that it placed even more distance between them, and she was determined to put an end to it. “There’s no need to keep apologizing. My past is over. If we’re going to be crossing paths; you’ll have to start thinking of me as a regular person.”
If she’d surprised him with her bluntness, it didn’t show. She guessed there probably wasn’t much that surprised a former cop.
“All right,” he said finally. “Get in. I’ll close your door.”
Veronica couldn’t decide if that was courtesy on his part, or an eagerness to get rid of her. In any case, she drove away without a backward glance—except in her rearview mirror where Mike Delancey was perfectly framed, a tall figure standing in front of the beautiful Victorian reproduction.
He was not at all what her nicely developing future needed. Or was he?
Dear Reader,
I’m sitting in front of the computer on a cold and rainy December day, a cat in my lap and my husband at work in his basement studio. I like knowing that when you settle in your chair and open this book it will be a warm and sunny summer day. (Unless you live in Oregon, too.)
What a remarkable medium books are. They put me in touch with you despite time and distance, and allow us to connect as if we sat across from each other over a pot of tea. I also like the notion that if you hold on to your books, thirty years from now your granddaughter, heading off to work on the new international space station, might put one of my titles in her backpack.
Until then, I offer you this second book in the Delancey Brothers trilogy. I have to admit I’m fascinated by wounded people who carry on bravely, despite their pain. I hope you enjoy this look into the lives of Mike Delancey and Veronica Callahan. They live with me still.
Sincerely,
Muriel Jensen
Second to None
Muriel Jensen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Diane and Wayne McVey for all the fun!
CHAPTER ONE
MIKE DELANCEY WALKED into the quiet kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He relished the few minutes of solitude the early morning ritual afforded him before his brothers rose, and peace became a distant memory.
Tate, older than Mike by three years, would be sharing ideas for promoting the winery even as he hurried down the stairs. And Shea, Mike’s younger brother, would wander down in a semi-comatose state, then come to life the moment he stepped into the kitchen. He would want to make eggs Provencal for breakfast and talk about the opening of the restaurant.
But all Mike wanted was his cup of coffee and a moment to call his own. He loved his brothers, and everyone else who lived on the Delancey Winery compound, but he was still finding the balance in his own life and sometimes needed a brief escape. He poured a cup of steaming French roast and pushed his way out the back door.
The sweet Willamette Valley air was cool and smelled of pine, June wildflowers and the commercial grasses and herbs that grew farther south. Mike stopped at the bottom of the porch steps to take a deep breath.
Tate, who’d come to French River from Boston, was fascinated by the freshness of Oregon air. After twelve years in Dallas, Mike was captivated by the beautiful views in all directions: the rippled hills of the winery, the purple mountains in the distance, the green everywhere, even in the dead of winter.
The compound, bequeathed to him and his brothers by their uncle Jack, was situated at the top of the winery’s terraced hill. When he and his brothers had first arrived here in January, there’d been an unobstructed view from here of the long rows of grapes, the road to French River and the farm across the road, which sat at the foot of still more hills with mountains in the background.
Now a Victorian-style house Tate designed stood in the way, and was quite a sight in itself. In another month or so, it would open as the Delancey Bed-and-Breakfast, and Mike, who was responsible for public relations for the winery, would take on additional duty as manager of the B-and-B.
Tate had sold his share in a Boston architectural firm to finance the renovation of the winery. That same boldness had been evident in the commercial buildings he’d designed over the years, so this foray into late-nineteenth-century ornament came as a surprise—to Tate more than anyone.
They’d all endured a long winter of adjustment to their new surroundings, to the rain, to the strange new responsibilities of a vineyard and its motley collection of buildings. But Tate had had the most difficult time. He’d fallen in love.
Colette Palmer, whose father had worked for Uncle Jack, had come to live at the winery two years earlier after her husband had died. Now her wedding to Tate was just two weeks away—but she hadn’t been an easy conquest.
Mike took a long pull on his coffee and headed for the broad stairway that led to double front doors. It was a good thing, he thought, that he wasn’t vulnerable to a woman’s charms. His life was too bizarre already: tough cop turned vintner and hotelier?
He set his cup down on the porch railing, pulled a key out of his pocket, unlocked the big oak doors with their stained-glass windows, and walked into the house.
VERONICA CALLAHAN LOOKED OUT the second-story bedroom window at the hill of leafy grapevines and thought it was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. The rich green stretched almost to the road, then took on a lighter, subtler shade in the pasture on the other side. The hills beyond were purple, and the sky above, even in early morning, was already bright blue, with several small, puffy clouds adding charming contrast.
She loved it here. Something about the atmosphere was calming, steadying. Her terrifying and everpresent loneliness—the first emotion she could remember at age four—had been pushed way back in her mind by the beauty and the quiet here.
Here she could learn to be confident and look capable so that parents would feel comfortable leaving their children in her care. And to be fearless enough to deal with those children every day and not be swamped by the demands of their intelligence and their neediness.
She remembered the friends she’d left behind in Los Angeles, and then in Portland, Oregon, and felt homesick for the people, if not the places. But then she reminded herself that she had a friend in French River.
She’d met Colette Palmer on a tour of the winery a couple of weeks earlier. Since then, they’d talked on the phone and had met several times in Portland for lunch when Colette had gone to the city to shop. Colette had invited her here to talk about opening a day care center in the winery’s empty barn.
Step One of her five-point plan—finding a location for her business—would soon be realized. She drew a calming breath and looked at her watch. Almost seven.
She took another moment to survey the empty room, drywalled but unpainted, and thought it was too bad it wasn’t finished yet. Living at the B-and-B while she got the day care center in order would be preferable to driving back to town every night.
But that was a small problem. Her new apartment was convenient to everything and probably far less expensive than this room would be.
She shouldered her purse as she walked down the hallway’s bare floor. Here, too, the walls were drywalled, but not painted or papered. She’d use a soft colored wallpaper with a small print and a bright border above the oak picture rails.
Imagine living here, she thought fancifully, with an adoring husband and half a dozen children, and cats all over the place.
The notion made her exuberant. And I know what I would do, if they were out, and I was alone in the house.
At the top of the stairs, she didn’t stop to think, but just swung a leg over the thick, straight banister and started down with a little squeal of excitement.
MIKE HEARD THE SOFT CRY as he walked toward the parlor, and stopped. That had been a woman’s voice. Long conditioning put every nerve ending on alert.
An instant later he saw her, and, conditioning or not, he was stunned. A young woman was sliding down the banister toward him, canvas tennis shoes coming at him soles first, slender legs in jeans held out for balance in a inverted V, arms over her head, a smile on her lips, short, dark hair flying around her face.
Then she spotted him. Her laughter turned to openmouthed surprise and she seemed to forget that she was about to run out of banister.
Mike braced himself, opened his arms, and prepared for impact. The next moment he was flat on his back with a woman who smelled of flowers sprawled on top of him.
He lay there one protracted moment, the wind knocked out of him. Then he finally drew a breath and moved sufficiently to realize that nothing was broken. But he became quickly aware of other problems: soft curves pressed against his chest, something round and also soft in his hand, a leg riding up his as she groaned.
Because of the length of time since he’d last experienced such an intimate embrace, his body reacted automatically.
She pushed against his shoulders suddenly, her cheeks pink, her brown eyes wide and horrified. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Then she scrambled to her feet and proffered her hand to help him up.
Ignoring it, he stood, feeling as though he’d crossed into another dimension. He was in the right house—but where had this woman come from?
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was breathy. “I’m... Are you Tate?”
“I’m Mike,” he replied, suspicions beginning to surface. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Colette invited me,” she replied. “You’re Tate’s brother, aren’t you?”
He resisted the distraction of her easy smile. She was an intruder.
“She invited you to an empty house?” he asked doubtfully.
“We were going to have tea.” She pointed over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “In there somewhere. She told me...to go straight through.”
“Really? Then why were you upstairs?”
She closed her eyes a moment—to strengthen her resolve, he supposed. He noticed that her lashes were thick and dark. “I know I shouldn’t have done that,” she admitted, opening her eyes again and giving him a guilty look. “I wanted to see the view.”
“You get a clearer view from outside.”
Her eyes narrowed as if she finally understood the reasons behind his questions. “You think I’m a thief?” She spread her arms to indicate the empty room. “There’s nothing here to steal.”
He studied her levelly, trying to determine her sincerity. He used to be good at it in his old life.
“You didn’t necessarily know that when you came in. How did you get in, anyway?”
“Colette left the back door open,” she replied mildly, then added, “Are you this suspicious of everyone?”
“I don’t believe Colette would leave the back door open. And why would she invite you for tea at 7:00 a.m.?”
Veronica felt flustered and naive, hardly the image she’d intended to present the owners of the Delancey Vineyard, her potential landlords.
She cleared her throat. “I’m here to talk business,” she said with a dignity she knew was laughable under the circumstances.
“And you usually prepare for business discussions by sliding down a banister?” he asked.
She had to admit she had that coming. She smiled ruefully. “It was something I always wanted to do. And when I was given the opportunity, I couldn’t resist. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?” She looked into his chocolate-brown eyes, trying to assess his thoughts, but she couldn’t see beyond the cool suspicion. So she answered her own question. “No, I guess not. And that makes it hard to explain—”
“Explain what?” Colette walked into the house, a small, lidless box balanced on the flat of her hand. She looked from one to the other with a smile. “All right. I’m glad you’ve met. What’s hard to explain?”
A pleat formed on Mike’s forehead. He glanced at Veronica. “What she was doing sliding down the banister in a locked house on private property at 7:00 a.m.”
Colette hesitated a moment, raised an eyebrow at Veronica, then laughed lightly. “I don’t know the reason for the banister, but I can tell you I invited Vee here for a meeting. I have a full day that’s starting early, and she’s used to being up with the birds.” She glanced from one to the other again. “Did you mistake her for an intruder?”
He seemed to have come to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to escape. this situation without embarrassment, and apparently decided not to try. He looked wryly into Veronica’s eyes, then turned his attention to Colette. “In the future, you might let me know what you’re up to.” He drew in a deep breath and turned back to Veronica. “I apologize, Miss...?”
“Callahan,” she said, offering her hand again, and resisting the impulse to appear righteously indignant. “Veronica. I’m sorry, too. I should not have been upstairs.” She cast Colette an apologetic glance. “I was admiring the view.”
“That’s all right,” Colette assured her quickly. “Vee, this is Mike Delancey, Tate’s brother. He used to be a cop.” She grinned and added facetiously, “And you have such a suspicious face.”
Mike acknowledged the jab with a self-deprecating nod. In actuality, Veronica Callahan had a very open and innocent face—wide—eyed, pink-lipped and apple-cheeked. But he’d once arrested a woman who’d looked that innocent after having shot her boyfriend and their landlady’s daughter because they’d spoken to each other on the apartment stairs.
“I apologized,” he reminded Colette.
She laughed and gave his arm a squeeze. “So you did.” She angled her head toward the kitchen. “Want to join us? We’re going to talk about setting up her day care center in the barn. This was the best place to meet, since the house and the winery are both so busy. I unlocked the back door for her when I went to pick up the pastries.” She smiled coaxingly. “You can share my coffee.”
He shook his head. The day care center. He’d hoped Tate and Shea would change their minds about that. “No, thanks. I’ve got lots to do.”
“Oh, come on,” Colette wheedled. “If you listen to Veronica’s plans, it might put some of your fears to rest.”
“Fears?” Veronica asked. She took a step toward Mike as he started to leave. “About what?”
He really didn’t want to go through this again. He’d argued with his brothers until he was hoarse about the incompatibility of a day care center with a winery. But they didn’t see the problem, and he’d finally given up in exasperation.
“This is a winery,” he said simply. “How smart is it to have children here?”
“You mean legally? I checked. As long as we don’t give the children wine, we’re all right. And, of course, I don’t intend to do that. Apart from that, I think children would love this setting. It’s so beautiful—”
“We’re several miles out of town. Who’s going to bring their children here?”
“All the people,” she replied, “on their way to work in Portland.” She pointed in the direction of the road at the bottom of the hill. “It’s a perfect location. Lots of outdoor space, and Rachel’s animals.” When he expressed surprise that she knew about Aunt Rachel’s menagerie, she added a little defensively, “Colette and I have met in Portland a couple of times. She’s been telling me all about the compound.”
Mike knew it was futile to argue with two women allied in a common cause. He smiled politely at Veronica Callahan, then at Colette, and excused himself.
He walked to the winery at the opposite end of the compound. On the first level, Armand Beaucharnp, Colette’s father, was seated at an old desk near the door. He looked up from a supplies catalog to wave at Mike.
“Good morning, Armand,” Mike called as he ran up the stairs.
Two-thirds of the winery’s second level was a storage area that would one day be used for bottles and labels, but which now stood empty. The other third was an office with movable partitions that allowed space for individual or group projects.
Tate sat at a desk in the corner, the wall beside him decorated with framed photographs his teenage daughters had sent from Paris. Interspersed were photos of Colette and her little girls.
Mike grabbed the back of his own chair and pulled it over beside Tate’s. He sat down and began without preamble. “You still think a day care in the barn is a good idea?”
Tate concentrated one extra moment on the letter he was reading, then focused on Mike, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah. You said you were okay with it.”
“No.” He was surprised Tate had distilled his protest down to that. “You just wouldn’t see it my way, so I told you to do whatever you wanted. But this is a winery, Tate. We make booze, for God’s sake. Who’s going to bring their children to a day care where they make booze?”
Tate gazed at Mike in silence, then shook his head. “You know, for the person in charge of public relations, you have a scary concept of what we do here. We don’t make ‘booze,’ we make fine table wine—or we will, as soon as we get a harvest—and this is a beautiful place to which tourists bring their children every afternoon to walk the grounds and pet Rachel’s animals. Why wouldn’t other children be safe and happy here?”
“Those kids are visiting. When this Callahan woman brings kids here, they’ll be around all day, every day. It just seems like an awkward blend of enterprises to me.”
Tate leaned back in his chair as though something had just become obvious to him. “She’ll be responsible for the children. You don’t have to be concerned with them. She has credentials as long as your arm.”
Mike frowned at him. “Come on, Tate. When kids are underfoot, every adult in the vicinity is concerned with them. And in a couple of weeks you and Colette and the girls are leaving for your honeymoon, so who’s going to be responsible for what happens around here? I am.”
Tate was wearing the expression that meant he was going to get paternal on him. The only thing that drove Mike insane about this man—for whom he’d die in minute—was that even now, when they were in their thirties, Tate could turn into the Big Brother.
“Well, I’d like to be able to promise you you’ll never have to be responsible for another child’s safety again, but you’ve got to know that isn’t realistic.”
Mike shot him a severe look. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking—”
Tate, however, had taught him the look and gave as good as he got. “Yes, you are,” he interrupted. “You’ve learned to live around it, but it still affects every decision you make about your future. Because you’re a conscientious and sensitive individual, you’re holding yourself responsible for that woman and those kids, and that’s self-destructive. Not to mention completely unnecessary.”
Mike opened his mouth to dispute the analysis, but Tate raised a hand to stop him. “I know,” he said. “You explained to me it’s not really that you’re assuming the blame, but that when something so awful happens, the survivors feel responsible anyway. The department shrink told you the situation was already hopeless when they called you in.”
“Nothing’s ever hopeless,” Mike insisted moodily. “Otherwise, what’s the point of trying to negotiate a hostage situation in the first place?”
Tate nodded. “But when somebody’s drugged out, the whole equation’s distorted. You’re trying to bring reason to a situation when you’re operating on a different plane of reality. As hopeful as you want to be, I’m sure sometimes you know it’s just not going to happen.”
God. Mike had always thought memories lived in your head, but this one had taken root right in the middle of his chest. Every breath he drew had to go around it. Every emotion he experienced had to elbow the memory aside.
“Look,” Mike said reasonably. “I got into this winery thing with you and Shea because I was ready to take my life in a new.direction. But having a day care in the middle of our—”
“Won’t be at all like a hostage situation,” Tate finished for him. “Come on, Mike. You’ve got to confront this. You can start fresh, but not by hiding from what you left behind.”
Mike ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, for the moment at least, I’d like to try it. That barn’s going to take six men a month to make habitable.”
“The crew is going to power-wash it and give it a quick white spray. According to Colette, Veronica thinks the barn’s the perfect size because she can bring playground equipment inside in the winter. The guys’ll put up a few walls inside and install a furnace, but she’s doing all the painting and decorating. In return, she has two months rent-free. Every building on this place has to pay its way. I’m just trying to protect your investment.”
Mike sat up in his chair. “Well, then you’d better double-check and triple-check all her references, because she seems a little flaky to me. She was sliding down the banister when I walked into the B-and-B.”
Tate laughed as he handed him a sheet of paper. “You’re kidding!”
“I’m not.” Mike perused the résumé. Besides Veronica Callahan’s name, address and phone number, there was a long list of schools where she’d been educated, and then five separate schools at which she’d taught kindergarten through the second grade. All of them were private schools. She’d also counseled at a teen center.
He looked at Tate in concern. “Don’t you think she moves around a lot? She’s been all over the place. She’s taught at five schools and she’s only—what?—” he checked her birth date and calculated “—thirty? Either she moved every other year, or she was asked to leave—or was being chased.”
Tate shook his head, grinning in a way that made Mike suspicious. “She wasn’t asked to leave, she was transferred.”
“Schools don’t transfer teachers around.”
“They do if they’re nuns.”
Mike stared at him, the shock of his brother’s announcement clashing in his mind with the memory of Veronica Callahan lying on top of him, all soft and fragrant. He remembered for a moment, then refocused.
“A nun,” he said flatly. “A nun came flying at me off the banister.”
“An ex-nun,” Tate corrected. “Now she’s just a woman.”
Kids and a nun—a woman. Great. His life was right on track—backward.
“I’m sure you’ll like her once you get over this bad start. From what Colette says, she seems very genuine and not at all sanctimonious.”
Mike stood to leave. “I guess we’ll see.”
Tate got to his feet and put an arm around Mike’s shoulders. “You have a suit for my wedding?”
“No. I don’t think I’ve even worn one since Mom’s and Dad’s funeral, and you lent me that one.”
“I can lend you one again.”
Mike headed for the stairs. Tate followed. “No, I should buy one. There are a couple of events coming up that call for something other than my jeans and boots—You got the ring?”
“Yeah. We’re all set.”
They stopped at the top of the stairs. It occurred to Mike that when they’d started this venture, he and his brothers had been without women in their lives. Tate’s ex had remarried a diplomat and taken his daughters to Paris to live, and Shea had clearly left his heart in San Francisco with a woman he’d refused to discuss.
Tate’s first marriage had changed their relationship, of course, but they hadn’t actually been as close then as they were now. They’d had big plans in their youth, and a belief in their invincibility. But they’d since lost their parents in an accident, and individual calamities had befallen each of them.
Then their uncle Jack had been legally declared dead in January after an absence of seven years, leaving the winery and all its properties to be shared equally among Tate, Mike and Shea. Jack’s disappearance remained a mystery, though Mike and his brothers were making an effort to find answers. In the meantime, bringing the winery back to life was teaching them each other’s strenghts and weaknesses and deepening their relationships.
No bond, Mike thought, was quite as strong as the one forged by shared grief and adversity. It made the gift of a brother or a friend invaluable.
He clapped Tate on the shoulder. “I wish you happiness. It’s too bad your girls can’t come.”
Tate nodded. “We talked it over, and they decided they’d rather be here for Christmas. Susan and Sarah are taking special language classes this summer, and that’s important if they’re going to be living in France.”
“But you’re still going to have two kids with you on your honeymoon. You’re sure about that?”
“Yeah.” Megan and Katie, Colette’s two daughters, were seven and eight. “They’re pretty excited about getting a father. I’d hate for my first official act as their dad to be to leave them behind to take off with their mother. You guys still okay with Armand taking over my old room when we come back from Banff?”
“Of course. Shea and I both like Armand.”
“Good. I didn’t want him to move, but he insisted.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine with us. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Tate grew serious. “You willing to live with the day care thing?”
No, he wasn’t. It was going to prey on his mind until the children showed up, and then would probably cause him sleepless nights. But Tate had given up so much to get the winery going—and not just as an investment in his own future, but in Mike’s and Shea’s as well. Right now Mike didn’t want Tate to worry about anything.
“Sure. I’ll adjust. And I should probably start by apologizing to Sister Mary Trouble.”
“I really think this is a good idea.”
“Sure.” Mike said the word with convincing sincerity as he started down the stairs. But in his heart, he knew there wasn’t a chance of that happening. Veronica Callahan represented the two things he’d sworn he’d never be involved with again: women and children.
CHAPTER TWO
VERONICA BIT INTO a buttery cream cheese pastry and moaned her approval.
Colette put down her coffee cup and indicated the few crumbs on her paper plate. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve probably gained ten pounds since Shea started testing recipes for the tasting room and the restaurant.”
Veronica chewed and swallowed, thinking that no one could look better at 7:00 a.m. than Colette did—and there was no evidence of an extra ten pounds on her. She had bright, curly red hair that framed a finefeatured face and lively gray eyes. Her warmth had appealed to Veronica the moment they’d first met, and had gone a long way toward diminishing her loneliness. During their several lunches in Portland, a friendship had been born.
“You must burn it all off working on the vineyard. Is Shea going to cook for the B-and-B, too?”
“No, Rachel’s going to do that. Shea’s swamped with last-minute preparations. The restaurant opens when Tate and I—and the girls—get back from our honeymoon.”
“There’s so much happening here.”
Colette smiled thoughtfully. “When Tate and his brothers first inherited the winery, I knew everything was going to be different. The Delancey brothers have so much energy and enthusiasm, and I expected to hate seeing things changed and tourists swarming the place.” Veronica could sense the moment when Colette’s thoughts began to focus on Tate, because she heaved a deep sigh that was all contentment and anticipation. “But now I feel as though my life’s been recharged. As though...” She paused, presumably to grope for words, then apparently decided the thought was too big for them. She smiled at Veronica. “Anyway, it’s wonderful here. I know you’ll be happy. And don’t worry about Mike. He’s really a wonderful man.”
Veronica wasn’t so sure about that. “I understand why he was suspicious of me,” she said, reaching for her coffee. “But I hope he’s not going to act that way around the kids.”
“He’s good with children,” Colette assured her. “My girls love him. I think his reluctance to have a day care center here has something to do with his days as a cop.”
Veronica waited, interested.
Colette looked grim. “He was a hostage negotiator. I don’t know all the details, but this druggie killed his wife and children while Mike was trying to talk him out of it. Mike knows it wasn’t his fault, but he still blames himself.”
Veronica could only imagine the horror of that experience. Watching children suffer when you couldn’t do anything to help them must be unbearable. “How awful,” she said.
“Yeah.” Colette pushed away from the table. “He’s trying hard to move forward, but it’s got to be difficult Come on. Let’s go look at the barn again.”
THE BARN WAS HUGE but somehow friendly. Veronica loved knowing that it had been built more than a hundred years ago, that animals had been cared for here, that someone had sat here on frosty mornings and milked a cow, or groomed a horse. Her own life had been a very urban experience, but a part of her had always longed for life in the country.
She smiled. Almost every little girl wanted to own a horse or play in a barn, but she guessed few had embraced those dreams for the same reasons she had. At least, she hoped not.
“I told Tate about the partitioning you’d like in here, and he’s sketching out a plan.” Colette walked across the concrete floor, looking up at the loft. “If you approve it, the work can probably be done by the wedding.”
“You did explain that I’m coming to this with extremely little capital?” Veronica tore her mind from the dreams she had for the space and back to reality. “I can’t afford architects from Boston.”
Colette dismissed that with a curve of her lips. “He wanted to use the barn for something, and I think he’s happy to have another project.” She walked to the right side of the building and stretched her arms out to indicate the area. “I told him you wanted to be able to bring the playground equipment inside during the winter.”
Veronica followed her. “Right.” Then she pointed to the other side. “And a big room for general play, then two smaller rooms for naps.”
“Right.”
Colette gestured toward the loft. “I wondered if you might want to turn that into an apartment for yourself? Then if parents run late or want to come in early, you won’t have to worry about the commute. I know you just got your apartment, and it’s not far—but fifteen minutes is fifteen minutes. What do you think?”
No travel and being able to look at the view of the vineyard anytime she wanted? Veronica was touched by Colette’s thoughtfulness. “I’d love it, of course,” she said, “but you don’t think everyone else will think I’m...intruding?”
Colette laughed lightly. “We’re all ‘intruders.’ Rachel lives here because her husband was a friend of Jack’s. He invited her to stay after her husband died and left her broke. I came when my husband passed away so my father could help me with the girls, and I could work with the grapes. And Tate and his brothers are here because Jack disappeared and they finally inherited the place.” She paused. “The crew can do your apartment first so you can be here to watch over the rest of it.”
“I’d love that,” Veronica admitted unashamedly.
“Great. And we’ll carpet for you, too. Something tweedy that won’t show every little spot but will be easy to clean and still protect the little darlings when they fall.”
Veronica eyed the floor. “That’ll cost a bundle.”
“Tate has connections. You still want to do the painting yourself?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay.”
The arrangement was far better than okay. She gave Colette a big hug. “I don’t know how I blundered into such good deal, but I’m so grateful. I had a feeling the day I met you that you were going to become an important part of my life.”
Colette held her in the hug a moment longer. “So was I. I didn’t know then that you’d left the convent so recently, but I thought I recognized a kindred spirit. I’ve had to start over against difficult odds, but I had my girls and my father. You’re all alone.”
Veronica drew back and smiled. “I don’t feel all alone anymore. Thanks for caring so much.”
Colette looped an arm through hers and started toward the door. “Actually, I have a ulterior motive. I need a favor from you.”
“Anything.”
“Will you stand up for me at my wedding?”
Veronica stopped several yards from the door. Sun beamed in on them from grimy windows. “Are you teasing?”
“Of course not.” Colette shrugged as she prepared to explain. “I moved here two and half years ago, but for most of that time, I’ve worked long hours. I’ve made acquaintances in town, but no real friends. I feel as though I know you as well as anyone. Will you? We’re getting married on July third.”
Veronica felt joy bubbling through her. She was getting a life! “Of course. I’d be honored to.”
“Good. Do you have plans for this afternoon?”
“Nothing critical. I was just going to get paint and wallpaper samples.”
“How about if the girls and I meet you in town for lunch and we go dress shopping? No taffeta or chiffon, but something practical we can all wear again.”
Dress shopping with other women. That was something she’d never gotten to do in the convent. Or before. She agreed calmly as they walked out into the compound, knowing Colette probably wouldn’t understand a leap into the air and a click of her heels. The simple pleasure of shopping would be no big deal to anyone else.
“Where’s your car?” Colette asked.
Veronica pointed to the B-and-B. “I parked on the other side. I guess that’s why Mike didn’t see it when he went into the house.”
Colette put an arm around her shoulders. “That was good for him. Men are so sure of what they know. I think they need to be shocked every once in a while. I’ve got to get to work. See you this afternoon.”
Veronica walked across the sunny compound with a spring in her step. She did a full circuit of the fountain that stood in the middle surrounded by colorful pansies, then continued on her way, excited by ideas for the day care center. This was what she’d wanted for so long. She couldn’t believe it was actually happening.
Then, before she could feel too secure about her future, she spotted a tall, lean man propped against the trunk of her old, light blue compact, arms folded, ankles crossed. Mike.
She resumed her purposeful stride, unwilling to let him see he made her anxious. First, he was a man, and as a nun she’d had very little experience with them. She’d known priests, of course, as well as fathers of students and repairmen, but she hadn’t known men on an equal footing. Her veil had placed her on an untouchable level. Still, she’d experienced an attraction to him that was unlike anything she’d felt before. She’d found it both exciting and unsettling.
Second, she knew he didn’t want her here, and that was a major threat to her burgeoning self-confidence. And to the new life she was trying. to establish for herself. The life that might one day—if she was really lucky and determined—banish the loneliness forever.
He straightened away from the car as she approached, and she noticed things about him that her previous life had conditioned her to ignore. Broad shoulders stretching his Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, formidable biceps, long, strong legs in old jeans. She remembered in vivid detail what it had felt like to be sprawled on top of him. Despite her inexperience, she hadn’t felt endangered—at least not physically.
“Hi,” she said. “I thought you were out of the business of giving parking tickets.”
He met her gaze, but didn’t smile. “I am,” he said finally. “I’m here to apologize.”
“That isn’t necessary. Your suspicions were understandable.”
He agreed with one perfunctory nod. “But I didn’t realize that you...”
She looked into his eyes and knew what had brought about this sudden and careful remoteness. Someone had told him about her. Though his apology was chivalrous, she regretted that it placed even more distance between them.
She went past him to put her key in the lock. “Well, it was either let me land on you or let me fall on my backside. I’m glad you chose the former.”
He held the door for her while she tossed her purse in. “I’m sorry I was rude.”
She was determined to put an end to this now. “There’s no need to keep apologizing. I was a nun, but I’m not that delicate.” She spread her arms, forcing him to look at her. “I’ve survived. If we’re going to be crossing paths, you’ll have to stop envisioning me in a black dress and a veil. All right?”
If she’d surprised him, it didn’t show. She guessed there probably wasn’t much that surprised a former cop.
“All right,” he said finally. “When does your day care open?”
“In about a month. Tate’s going to have some partitions put up, and the floor carpeted. Colette thought they’d be finished with that by the wedding. Then I have to paint and paper and move in some furniture.”
“You know, with Tate gone, I’ll be too busy to help you. Will you be able to manage on your own?”
She gave him smile that had nothing to do with mirth. “That’s my specialty. Anything else?”
“Get in,” he said. “I’ll close your door.”
Veronica couldn’t decide if that was courtesy on his part, or an eagerness to get rid of her. In any case, she reversed expertly into the compound, then drove away without a backward glance.
Except one in her rearview mirror, where Mike Delancey was nicely framed, a tall figure standing in front of the beautiful Victorian-style home.
He was not at all what her nicely developing future needed.
“TUXEDOS?” MIKE LOOKED at the sign above the rental shop as Tate, Shea and Armand walked in. “I thought we were wearing suits.”
Tate beckoned him inside. “Changed my mind. Colette was talking about her, Veronica, Rachel and the girls getting dresses they could wear again, and I decided we were being too casual about this. A wedding should be special—particularly a second one, where you get to apply all the lessons you learned during the first. So the ceremony should be bigger, better.”
Shea frowned over a pink cummerbund on a mannequin torso placed on a glass counter. “But there were eight hundred people at your first wedding. This is little country church.”
Tate gave Shea an impatient look.
“He means bigger and better in spirit,” Armand explained, paternally cuffing his shoulder. “In the approach to it.” Then he grinned at Tate. “A man after my own heart. It’s good to astonish women with your sensitivity once in a while. It prevents them from thinking they have the upper hand.”
Shea raised an eyebrow at Mike, as though asking if he understood what Armand was talking about. But Mike returned his attention to something else Tate had said. “Colette talked about her and Veronica getting dresses?”
Tate leaned over the counter, looking at the ties and ascots displayed inside. “Yeah,” he said absently. “Veronica’s her maid of honor.”
As Tate’s best man, Mike was less than delighted with that news. There seemed to be no escape from the woman he was certain would be a problem.
“I didn’t realize she knew her that well.”
“They’ve become good friends in a short time. She’s moving into the loft in the barn.”
Before Mike could comment, a small round man with a tape measure around his neck appeared from behind a curtain at the back of the shop. He eyed the four of them in a clinical way. “No pink or lavender accessories, and no ruffles, am I right?”
“You’re right,” Tate said, shaking his hand. “We’re after morning coats.”
“Fashionable choice. Let me get some measurements.”
Forty-five minutes later, the four men walked across French River’s main street.
“Now where?” Shea asked.
“We’re meeting the girls for coffee. We’re supposed to pick them up at the dress shop by the bank.”
“Don’t call them ‘girls,’” Shea advised him. “They don’t like that.”
“Megan and Katie are girls,” Tate disputed.
“Yeah, but don’t lump the women in with the girls. It gets you in trouble every time.”
Tate and Mike stopped short. Shea’s observation was clearly a commentary on the woman in San Francisco he consistently refused to talk about. “And how do you know this?” Tate asked.
“Experience.”
“With whom?”
“Doesn’t matter, just trust me.”
Tate met Mike’s eyes with a grin. “Thought I had him that time.”
Mike slapped Shea on the shoulder. “Someday she’s going to come looking for him, and we’ll see her for ourselves.”
Shea laughed scornfully. “Her last words to me consigned me to hell. I don’t think she’ll be dropping by any time soon.”
VERONICA STARED at her reflection in astonishment. She could hear giggles and playful banter as Colette helped her daughters into matching yellow organdy dresses in one dressing room. In another, Rachel, who’d been declared mother-of-the-bride for the occasion, was trying on a soft green chiffon with pleats.
But in this narrow cubicle with a mirror and an empty hanger dangling on a hook, Veronica looked at a total stranger—herself.
For twelve years, she’d worn the simple blue jumper, white shirt and blue veil of the Sisters of Faith and Charity. Then in the six months she’d been out of the convent, she’d taught an English-as-a-second-language class in two very plain suits, both navy blue, that had been given to her by the St. Vincent de Paul Society. When she’d moved to French River, she’d bought a few functional clothes at the thrift shop.
It was exciting to see herself in yellow. The dress was the chiffon Colette had insisted they didn’t want, until Tate had changed her mind for her. It had a simple round neck, a short, flirty, three-layered sleeve, a.nipped-in waist emphasized by appliqued flowers with seed-pearl centers and a full tea-length skirt.
The style flattered her tall, slender figure. And the color lent an apricot glow to her completion and a sparkle to her brown eyes.
But something had to be done about her hair. She tugged at the short do that skimmed her eyebrows and her earlobes, then lay in a simple, masculine cut in the back. Under a veil it had never mattered, but now she thought it shattered her fragile aura of femininity.
She heard Colette and the girls leave the dressing room and go into the shop to look in the big mirrors.
“How’re you doing, Rachel?” Colette called.
“I’m coming,” Rachel replied. “Looking like a very large grape leaf, but I’m coming.”
Veronica continued to stare at herself. It wasn’t vanity, but a sort of fascination. Not that she’d be wearing yellow chiffon every day, but this was the woman she could be when the occasion warranted. It amazed her.
“Vee?” Colette again.
“Coming,” she called back, fluffing her skirt and combing her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to give it a little height.
The first people she noticed when she walked into the shop were Colette’s daughters, standing together in front of the large mirror, looking like an Anne Geddes photograph. Their flat little torsos emerged from bouffant yellow skirts like the pistils in a lily. Megan, the eight-year-old, had rumpled braids, and Katie, seven, had a disheveled ponytail, though Veronica had been there half an hour ago when Colette had brushed it.
Veronica rushed forward to wrap her arms around them. Even when she’d finally realized she’d entered the convent for all the wrong reasons, she’d stayed because of the children constantly crowded around her.
“You are so beautiful!” she told the girls. “Oh, and you, too, Aunt Rachel.” Rachel stood to the side, fussing with the sash at her hips. She looked lovely, the dropped waist concealing her slight plumpness.
“But look at Mommy!” Megan said, pointing to the other side, where Colette stood.
She’d chosen a simple, fitted dress with a straight skirt of ecru lace. It was set off by a veiled pillbox hat perched atop her red hair, which was coiled into an elegant twist.
“You look like a magazine cover!” Veronica said.
“Well, look at you!” Colette exclaimed, then said to someone behind Veronica, “Isn’t this color perfect for her?”
Veronica turned, expecting to see the clerk who’d helped them make their selections. Instead she faced four watchful males, studying her with varying levels of interest.
Armand smiled at her with fatherly indulgence. “The bride will have competition for everyone’s attention,” he said with Old World gallantry.
Tate’s expression was fraternal as he moved across the room to put an arm around Colette. “If I didn’t have eyes only for this woman, I’d find out what you were doing after the wedding.”
The other man, who must be Shea, seemed stricken. “I know a woman who wore that color all the time.” He sighed, then seemed to pull himself together. “It looks even more wonderful on a brunette.”
Mike heard Tate say, “Aha! Now we know you’re carrying that torch for a blonde or a redhead.” But he was too distracted to join in the banter that followed.
The only thing on his mind was how much more difficult his life was going to be with Veronica around. She was beautiful. And though he’d briefly held that trim body in his arms, he hadn’t realized just how perfect it was.
Feelings he’d thought long dead weren’t dead at all. They were asleep. And waking up.
It wasn’t simply lust. That would be easy enough to deal with. This was interest...longing. Lust with depth and complications. He wanted to touch her, but he wanted to know her, too. What had sent her into a convent? What had brought her out again?
She’d been a nun. He’d seen things she probably couldn’t even imagine in her worst nightmares.
No. If he got to know her, she’d get to know him, and that might not be a good experience. It had certainly sent Lita, the last woman in his life, running in the opposite direction.
Anyway, he didn’t want anyone that close right now. He wasn’t ready. He might never be ready.
Katie came to take his hand, and smiled up at him, all freckles and sparkle. “Don’t you think she’s pretty, Uncle Mike?”
He couldn’t lie to a child or to a former woman of the cloth. “I think she’s beautiful, Katie,” he admitted, smoothing her hair.
The men decided to wait outside while the women changed. Mike couldn’t remember ever being so desperate for a breath of fresh air.
THE WEDDING PARTY FILLED the small coffee bar with laughter and loud conversation. Veronica sat in the midst of the din and thought how wonderful it was to be surrounded by such joyful noise.
Katie sat in Tate’s lap, Megan talked nonstop to Mike, and Shea, his moroseness banished, was having a serious discussion with Rachel about breakfast menus for the B-and-B.
Colette grinned at Veronica. “Those three are always charming the men,” she said with a jut of her chin in the direction of her daughters and Rachel. “We don’t stand a chance of getting any real attention.”
That was fine with Veronica. She just enjoyed watching the happy group.
She noticed the rapt attention Mike paid to Megan, and the little girl’s complete confidence that she had his interest. He might not want other children around the compound, but he certainly seemed to treasure Colette’s daughters.
“We’re starting on your loft tomorrow, Veronica,” Tate said from the far end of the table. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. “This is what I had in mind to make best use of the space. Will that work for you?”
Colette leaned toward Veronica as she unfolded the sheet and studied the rough blueprint for her new home. A bath and bedroom were side by side at the far end of the oblong space, a U-shaped kitchen took up the middle and a breakfast bar separated it from the living room at the front.
She noticed a narrow space that ran along the very edge of the loft. “What’s that?” she asked, holding up the sheet and pointing to the strip.
“It’s the gallery,” Katie answered. “For keeping books and plants and things. And it’s gonna have windows so you can see down into the day care.”
Colette looked startled. “You didn’t even tell me that,” she complained to Tate.
He shrugged. “You weren’t sitting in my lap when I did it.”
Colette poked a playful finger at her daughter. “That’s because someone else is always in it.”
Katie giggled and leaned back into Tate’s chest, apparently not feeling repentant.
“I think it’s wonderful!” Veronica folded the sheet and handed it back. “I appreciate all the trouble you’re going to for me.”
“We’re happy to have someone in the space. It’ll make the compound completely operational.”
“I can help you with a nutritional menu for the kids’ snacks and meals,” Shea offered. “And we can order your food with ours to make it more economical.”
“Shea’s the sweet one,” Colette said to Veronica in a stage whisper.
Shea pretended modesty.
There was simultaneous grousing from Tate and Mike.
“She plays up to him for his white-chocolatemacadamia-nut brownies,” Tate accused. “I’m the sweet one.”
“No, you’re the orderly one,” Shea corrected. “The detail-obsessed slave driver who never gives any of us a moment’s peace.”
Tate opened his mouth to dispute the point.
“Save it,” Mike advised before Tate could speak. “That was more on target than a smart bomb.”
“I think Mike’s the sweet one.” Rachel, seated between Mike and Shea, patted Mike’s arm. “He takes me shopping once week, and he even had a step installed on the Blazer to make it easier for me to get in.”
Mike spread his hands wide—the seated equivalent of taking a bow.
Then Rachel added with a taunting grin, “You just don’t think of him as sweet because he always looks as though he’s going to arrest you.” She elbowed him affectionately. “You do have to lighten up, dear.”
Veronica watched Mike take the resultant laughter and ribbing with good-natured aplomb. This man was not at all what she expected.
CHAPTER THREE
VERONICA WATCHED THE CREW at work and wondered if this was what an old-fashioned barn raising looked like. Except that in this case, the barn had been put up a hundred years ago and now its innards were being renovated.
Half a dozen men swarmed over the barn, cutting holes for large, modern windows, and building walls both downstairs and up in the loft, according to Tate’s specifications. A full kitchen was installed in the day care, as well as a small, efficient one in her apartment.
Then the carpet came, a mottled hunter green that was vibrant and patterned to conceal dust and spills. Veronica walked across it one evening when the workmen had gone and found it wonderfully springy underfoot.
She sat down in the middle of it, drew up her knees and looked around. Except for light fixtures, which would be installed tomorrow, the structural work was done. Now it was her turn to paint and paper—and get ready for business.
She blessed the impulse that had made her come to Delancey vineyards for a tour three weeks ago. When she’d left the convent, a relative of one of the sisters had gotten her the ESL job in Portland. While she’d been grateful for it, she’d known immediately that she didn’t want to stay there. The small parks throughout the city were beautiful, and Portland was a wonderful city, but for the first time she was able to choose where she would make her home, and she wanted to live in the country.
She’d wanted it since she’d been a girl. From the moment she’d become aware of the ugly world surrounding the filthy tenement rooms that were all they could afford after her mother had spent her welfare checks on drugs and alcohol, Veronica had dreamed of living where there were grass and trees, and animals that didn’t come out of the walls at night to fight you for your food.
Once, when her mother had been in rehab, Veronica had stayed in a foster home with a TV. She’d watched reruns of Green Acres and enjoyed the antics of the characters. But mostly she’d thought the setting marvelous. She’d decided that when she grew up, she’d live in the country where there’d be no neighbors screaming on the other side of the wall, no dark alleys...no loneliness. Country people always looked so well-fed and cheerful—and they always stuck together.
Veronica lay back on the carpet, closed her eyes and said a prayer of gratitude. Tomorrow, Tate and his brothers were moving unneeded furniture from their house into her loft She would bring her few possessions from the apartment and stay overnight for the first time.
She had accomplished so much more than she’d expected to—and so quickly. Good. Step Two of the plan—finding an apartment convenient to her business—almost completed.
MIKE’S GAZE FELL to the newly laid carpet as he pushed on the half-open door of the barn. He was here with a message for Veronica from Colette, but he forgot it temporarily as he admired the renovations.
The walls looked neat and sound, and the upstairs had been completed, though not yet painted, windows looking down on the playroom below.
And it was as his eyes swept the rest of the area that he saw Veronica lying on the floor. His heart lurched. What had she fallen from? Or had she just collapsed? Earlier he’d watched her helping the workmen put up wallboard, then roll out the carpet padding. She’d probably overdone it—
He was halfway toward her, his concern mounting, when she sat up, looking perfectly sound, and blinked at him in bemusement. He stopped in his tracks, relieved and exasperated. He drew a steadying breath. “If you’re going to take a nap,” he said, “don’t sprawl out on the floor that way. I’m liable to draw a chalk outline around you.”
He almost expected her to be annoyed with him, but she laughed instead.
“Sorry.” She got lightly to her feet. “As you can see, there’s nothing to lie on but the carpet. I was just relaxing. Did you need something?”
She wore a pair of baggy, dark blue sweats, splattered with paint. The pants hung on her, yet failed to detract from whatever there was about her that he always noticed.
She smoothed the sweats self-consciously, probably thinking he’d been studying her with criticism rather than admiration. “I got my wardrobe,” she said, “from the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the thrift shop when I left the convent. You won’t find it at Bloomingdale’s.”
He looked down at his own winery “uniform” of jeans and sweatshirt. “I, on the other hand, am outfitted by JCPenney’s...” He indicated his jeans, then plucked at his sweatshirt with its Dallas Boys’ Club logo. “And the fund-raising efforts of a friend of mine.”
“You worked with a boys’ club?”
“No. My old partner did, and I often got roped into helping out. The shirt sale was to raise money for gym equipment...” That was all he wanted her to know right now. It wasn’t like him to talk about himself, even in a general way. But she’d looked embarrassed about her clothes.... “Colette wondered if you needed the winery’s truck to move your things.”
“I’ve ridden in that beast with Colette. It’s pretty temperamental, and I can’t drive a stick. But tell her thanks. I’ll just make a couple of trips in my car.”
“Actually, she was offering you the truck and an assistant with stick experience.”
She raised an eyebrow warily. “You?”
He tried not to be annoyed by her obvious reluctance. “Me. Tate’s picking up some friends who are coming out for the wedding. And Shea’s busy cooking for the reception.”
“It’s not that I’d prefer someone else’s help.” She seemed impatient that he thought so. “It’s just you’ve made it clear you don’t want me here, so I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing.”
That was frank. He responded with equal honesty. “That’s not entirely accurate. I don’t think the day care center should be here. It has nothing to do with you personally.”
“You’re sure?” She smiled suddenly. “You’re convinced I’m not a B-and-E artist, but you always look as though I worry you. Are you afraid I’ll force you to pray or light candles or something?”
He didn’t think he’d ever known a woman who’d kept him so off balance—and he’d known a few who had loved to try. But this one didn’t seem to be playing at anything, and that was somehow harder to deal with.
“B-and-E artist?” he asked, trying to unsettle her. “You talk more like a cop than an ex-nun.”
She shrugged and folded her arms, her stance becoming just a little aggressive. “My mother did time in every prison east of the Mississippi, several times for breaking and entering. But mostly for drugs and prostitution.”
He had to concede that round. He was pitched a little further off balance, while she seemed to root herself in place, as if she’d taught herself to stand firm under the assault of childhood memories.
“I’m sorry,” he said with quiet sincerity, his earlier annoyance with her evaporating.
She shrugged again. “Everybody has something ugly to live with. But that’s beside the point. I can move my things over tomorrow, a little bit at a time. Thanks, though, for the offer.”
He knew it was chauvinistic of him, but he’d never be the kind of man who could happily let a woman tell him what to do. He’d be the first one to admit they were equally intelligent and capable, but upbringing and instinct made him feel responsible.
A policeman protected the small and the weak and anyone else who asked for help, and although he was off the force, at the core, he’d always be a cop.
“I’ll be at your apartment at nine,” he said, ignoring her attempt to interrupt him. “It’d help if you had boxes packed already. We have the wedding rehearsal early in the evening.”
She followed him to the door, still objecting, but he turned only to remind her, “9:00 a.m.,” then walked away.
EVERYTHING VERONICA OWNED was in the bed of the truck in less than an hour.
Mike looked at the dozen or so boxes, and the clothing on plastic-wrapped hangers held together by a rubber band, and asked in surprise, “This is it?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“No furniture?”
“No.” She reached into the truck to secure the flaps on a box. “I took a vow of poverty, remember?”
He frowned and closed the tailgate, then walked around to open the passenger door for her. “I guess I didn’t realize that was meant literally.”
She dropped her purse on the floor and climbed in. “It was a promise,” she said as he handed her the end of her seat belt. “You took all your oaths as a cop literally, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. But they didn’t require that I face the world with only twelve cardboard boxes.”
“They required you to risk your life.” It amused her that he was less horrified by that. “Poverty’s easier.”
Mike looked uncomfortable, and shifted the conversation.
“We scrounged you a table and chair and a couple of other things from the house, but you have no bed, no sofa, no television.” His message of doom delivered, he closed her door and walked around to climb in beside her. “You’re going to have to spend your life standing up.”
“I’ll sleep in the bathtub.”
“People only do that in the movies.”
She shook her head as he backed the truck out of the driveway. “That isn’t true. I slept in a bathtub in New York for several months when I was about nine. I even had to keep the plug in so nothing climbed out of the drain.”
He stopped before joining the mid-morning traffic to focus on her. “You’re kidding.”
“No. It was quite comfortable.” Veronica always made references to her past with a smile. It masked the ache the memory brought. “So, don’t worry because I don’t have a sofa. I’ve dealt with worse deprivation. And if I’m in the tub, you won’t be tempted to draw a chalk outline around me.”
He waited for a mail truck to pass, then drove half a block and stopped at a red light. He turned toward her, as though trying to see how she really felt.
“Your mother was in or out of jail at the time?”
“Out. She...you know...worked in the bed.”
He said something under his breath that was seldom heard in a convent. “Where the hell was Children’s Services? You must have been in foster care when she went to jail. Didn’t anybody notice it was happening a lot?”
Veronica wondered why she’d made the tub remark. She had only talked about her past to a couple of priests, and once to another nun. It would have been much easier to let his casual remark about her lack of a bed lie unchallenged.
She didn’t think she needed to talk about it. She’d made her peace with the past long ago—the day she walked into the motherhouse of the Sisters of Faith and Charity and offered them her future.
But she’d reneged on that offer twelve years later because she knew she didn’t have a true calling. Did that mean she hadn’t adjusted, after all? It was a sobering thought.
“I was finally taken away when I was twelve and went to live with the Porters, an older couple in Philadelphia who took in foster kids. My mother ODed in prison, and I stayed with them until I graduated from high school and joined the convent.”
He studied her face for a moment, the said with a conviction that was unexpected, “You’ve made it your life’s work not to be angry about your childhood, haven’t you?”
“I’m not angry.” She looked out at the sunlight gleaming off store windows and windshields and chrome. “My foster parents were loving and protective and taught me that your life is your life. You take what you get. And if you’re in a bad situation, you do your best to make something good out of it.”
“Are they still around?”
“No. They died within months of each other shortly after I went into the convent.”
“Is that why you joined?”
She turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Another red light. He stopped the truck, then faced her again, his eyes gentle. “To make something good out of your situation? To atone for your mother? Or for yourself? For all the horrors you saw and endured and couldn’t do anything about?”
It was an astute observation, but not quite on target. At least, she didn’t think so. “I entered because I was lonely. I wanted people in my life who would be there, who would be dependable. My mother obviously wasn’t that. She always wanted me back when she got out of jail, but I was never sure why. And in the foster homes, kids came and went—nothing ever stayed the same. Val and Henry—my foster parents—tried, but they had other foster children, too. I never dated until my senior year. My past was so different from everybody else’s, I didn’t know what to talk about. And I didn’t want anyone to know.”
She rolled down her window and breathed deeply. “I’d been in the convent a couple of years, though, before I realized that. I started to wonder why I still wasn’t happy, I examined my motives and decided I’d been looking for a big family, not necessarily for God.”
“Tate said you were part of the order for twelve years.”
“Yes. I’d started helping in the classrooms while I went to school myself, and I was enjoying the children so much, I couldn’t leave.”
“But you could have taught outside the convent.”
“I didn’t have my degree yet, and I couldn’t afford to go to school and set up an apartment, buy a car and all the things working people need. And I was still somewhat confused, so I stayed in. And the longer I was there, the harder it got to think about leaving. I wasn’t happy, but I was...safe.”
“Safe.” He repeated her word as though considering what it meant. “From what you went through as a child?”
“Yes, definitely that.” They left French River and followed the winding, tree-lined road to the winery. “About eight months ago, I went on a retreat. I did some serious soul-searching and realized I was using the convent not only to protect me from the past, but as a buffer against the future. Convent walls were a fortress between me and what might be expected of me on the outside. I was hiding.”
“What brought you to French River?”
She explained about teaching in Portland but longing for the country, and the sudden impulse to take the winery tour. “I was standing behind the B-and-B, admiring the view, and Colette approached me. We got talking...and we’ve been friends ever since. Then a parishioner I used to help in Portland heard about my wanting to open a day care and sent me a generous check for supplies. So I called Colette and asked if I could rent the barn.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “I am sorry you disapprove, but I promise the children won’t get in your way.”
“Children get in the way anywhere. It’s how they learn,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Mike helped her carry her belongings to the loft, then looked around at the still considerable emptiness.
“What are you going to sleep on tonight?” he asked. “And please don’t tell me you’re curling up in the bathtub.”
She pointed to the stack of boxes. “I have a sleeping bag in one of those. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t seem to think that was possible. “I’ll bring the table and chair over right away, so you can at least sit down.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
As he loped down the stairs, Veronica put her meager groceries into the cupboards she’d washed and lined with paper yesterday. She had oatmeal, mesh bags of onions and potatoes, a string of garlic, a can of chili, a small bottle of olive oil, pasta, herbs and spices, a box of tea and a shaker of Parmesan cheese.
She would have to go shopping at the first opportunity. But tonight was the rehearsal, and tomorrow was the wedding.
She put two towels and two facecloths in the small cupboard under the bathroom sink, a hairbrush in the drawer and a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet.
Then she hung her clothes in a closet with sliding doors, stopping to admire the shelf that ran along the top and the pigeonhole divisions on the bottom for shoes. She smiled wryly because she had very little to put into it.
She’d put two boxes of school and art supplies in the center, leaving one final box to unpack. She unrolled her sleeping bag and placed a thin pillow on top, then leaned a crucifix against the window.
Mike returned with a rocking chair, a battered coffee table, and gray metal shelving. “I know this is really ugly,” he said as he put it, under her direction, against the living room wall, “but it might be useful until you can get something better. In the truck I’ve also got two small file cabinets. With a board or a door across them, you’ll have a desk.”
He brought those up, one by one, then gave her a picnic basket “Shea sent you some lunch and a few things for the kitchen.”
“Oh!” Veronica delved into it excitedly, finding two sandwiches, a small casserole bowl of pasta salad, two apples, and two cans of pop. She smiled at Mike, warming to the idea of sharing her lunch with him. “It looks as if I’m supposed to invite you to join me.”
He didn’t even take time to think about it. “Thanks, but I’ve got a million things to do.”
She nodded and moved to put the sandwiches and salad in the small refrigerator so he wouldn’t see her disappointment. When she turned back to him, she had a bright smile in place and a hand extended.
“Thank you for your help.” He took her hand in his, and she noticed its considerable size and strength. And its warmth. She drew hers away and folded her arms as she walked him down the stairs. “I appreciate your giving up your morning to help me.”
“Sure.”
The situation had become awkward, a circumstance fairly foreign to Veronica. She was good with people, and they usually warmed to her. But dealing with single men her own age was different. She felt awkward because he’d turned down her invitation, but he seemed equally uncomfortable. Because he’d rejected her? she wondered. But she was doing her best to pretend it didn’t matter.
Either she wasn’t as good an actress as she’d thought, or she still had a lot to learn as a woman.
“Do you need a ride to rehearsal?” he asked when they reached his truck.
She stood aside as he opened his door. “No, thanks. Colette and I are going to town to pick up my car this afternoon.”
“All right. See you in church, then.”
That, at least, was comfortable territory.
AFTER THE REHEARSAL, Veronica met Bill Markham and Gina Free, Tate’s former partners in the architectural firm he’d left to come to French River. Their two-year-old, Jacob, was passed from lap to lap and fussed over particularly by Megan and Katie.
The couple had also brought with them Tate’s former secretary, Cece Phips. The girl was blond with a buzz cut, an eccentric taste in clothes and a sweet, extremely enthusiastic nature.
Over appetizers at the Chinese restaurant where they’d all convened after leaving the church, Cece couldn’t stop talking about Oregon.
“I didn’t expect it to be so beautiful, you know?” She dipped fried wonton in duck sauce. “I mean, all everybody talks about is how green it is because it rains so much, but, I mean, there must be a million shades of green, and those yellow flowers along the road—what do you call them?”
Veronica knew the answer because she’d noticed them, too, and had asked Colette. “Scotch broom,” she replied. “A real problem, I’ve been told, if you have allergies.”
“I’m strong as an elephant,” Cece boasted after a bite of the crispy appetizer. “Had all the childhood diseases, but now I never catch anything. No allergies, no sensitivity to food.” She smiled wryly. “A few phobias, though. And sometimes I go at things too anxiously and I screw up. I want to do it perfectly, but I sort of go into overdrive.” The smile became rueful. “Guys don’t like that. You either have to be helpless or totally together. But if you’re sort of competent, but not entirely, then they’re tempted to get involved but don’t like it that you mess up, so they kind of come and go—you know what I mean?”
Veronica was tempted to explain that she’d just come out of the convent and really didn’t know at all. But it seemed like the wrong time to get started on that. So she ignored it altogether. “Maybe you’re just meeting the wrong men.”
Cece nodded as though that was a possibility. “I go to school part-time. I’m a Psych major. College guys are either party, party, or they’re totally intense! And the clients at Markham, Free, and McCann are so into their building plans, they don’t even see me.”
“That could change tomorrow.” Veronica passed her the mustard for the barbecue pork. “Some wonderful man who’s looking for all the qualities you possess could walk right into your office, or your lecture hall, and you’ll be the first one he notices because he’s ready to find you, and you’re watching for him.”
Cece considered her words wistfully. “You think?”
“Sure.”
“Are you married?”
“No.” Veronica saw Cece’s faith in her prediction shrivel, forcing her to explain anyway. “But I’ve been a nun since I graduated from high school. I just left the convent a couple of months ago.”
Cece’s eyes widened. “A nun! How cool! So you must, like, understand everything. Life, purpose...”
“Actually, no. We struggle along the way everybody else does. We simply have more time to pray about it.”
“Wow.”
Tate interrupted, pushing a tall, lanky young man into the chair on the other side of Cece. “Cece, I’d like you to meet Tony Fiorentino. Tony, Cece Phips with Markham, Free, and McCann. She came for the wedding. Tony’s spending the summer out here and is working with the crew that’s doing the renovations around the winery. I spotted him in the lounge and knew you had to meet him.”
Tony had a gold hoop earring, curly dark hair, a beautiful beaky nose, and a smile that was all for Cece.
“You’ll never believe where Tony goes to school,” Tate teased.
“Where?”
Tony was obviously pleased to tell her. “I’m a Psych major at Southern Massachusetts University.”
“You’re kidding!” Cece squealed.
Veronica turned away discreetly as the conversation between Tony and Cece took off. Mike had slipped into the chair on her other side, and she felt an instant resurgence of that uncomfortable feeling she’d experienced when he’d turned down her invitation to lunch.
She decided to fight it “Did you get your million things done?” she asked with a smile, then tacked on, as if the answer didn’t matter, “Did you get some of this pork? It’s wonderful.”
“Only 999 thousand of them,” he said, helping himself to a piece. “The rest will have to wait until after the wedding. Did you eat both sandwiches and both apples?”
“Yes,” she lied, “and all the salad. I did save you a pop for another time, though.”
She was sure he knew she was teasing, just as he was teasing her. It seemed to be a way to skate over the strangeness of their relationship. Or their acquaintanceship, she mentally corrected—it could hardly be called a relationship. And she liked being able to challenge him about his rejection of her invitation by telling him there was nothing of significance left anyway.
He acknowledged her comment with a small nod. Then he reached into the pocket of his chambray shirt and handed her a business card. “Got you two candidates for your day care center.”
She blinked as she took the card. “You did?”
“I ran into someone I know from the Rotary Club—Tate and Shea and I each belong to a service organization so we’ll be involved in the community. Anyway, this guy has a girl and a boy, five-year-old twins. His wife’s a teacher, and he happened to mention that she’s taken a group of high school kids to Europe for the summer. Right now his twins are at their grandparents’ until the middle of July, but he was wondering what to do with them when they come back. So I suggested you.”
“Well—” Gratitude warred with guilt over teasing him. “Thank you. But, why? I thought you didn’t want a day care here.”
Mike didn’t actually know why. Some do-gooder need to make peace for having opposed her presence after she’d had such difficult odds to fight? He didn’t necessarily understand her, but he could relate to her uphill climb.
He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Everything doesn’t always have to make sense, does it? Like sliding down a banister.”
She giggled. The sound was ingenuous and surprising, and warmed him deep inside.
“You’re right,” she said. She touched his arm, and he felt it in his fingertips. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it”
“Sure. You can reach him at that number from 9:00 to 5:30, then at the number he wrote on the back in the evenings.”
Veronica read the information on the card: Bob Burgess Furniture and Appliances. The address was on Front Street in French River.
“He doesn’t mind driving out here?”
Mike shook his head. “He lives a mile beyond us. It’ll be convenient for him.”
She grinned with the excitement of having her first two clients. “Told ya,” she said.
He grinned, too, but shook his head at her. “Nice of you not to gloat.”
She touched him again. “Thank you, Mike. Honestly.”
He moved, intending to cover her hand with his, then caught a fried shrimp with it instead. “You’re welcome,” he replied, then excused himself to resume his place farther down the table, just as a team of waitresses wheeled in carts loaded with food. He could take Veronica’s touch only in small doses.
Tony Fiorentino had apparently also excused himself because Cece claimed Veronica’s attention, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.
“What was that you were saying about the right guy walking into my life at any moment?” As she piled food onto her plate, she went on to report everything she’d learned about Tony.
VERONICA LET HERSELF into the building, which was now outfitted with a dead bolt, and flipped on the light. She stood in the middle of the large space, admiring the beginnings of Green Acres Day Care.
It wasn’t much now, but in a few weeks it would be the brightest, most cheerful place for miles. It was going to require a lot of work and energy, and she looked forward to every moment of it.
She went up to the loft, turning on more lights as she went through the living room and the kitchen.
What she was most anxious to be rid of, she thought as she placed her purse on the counter and put on the kettle, was the silence. When it closed in on her—as it did now after a busy day filled with people—it reminded her of how alone she was.
When this place is filled with children all day, she told herself, you’ll be very grateful for this silence.
But that was little comfort. Silence after a day spent with children was very different from the silence that lived with you day after day when you had no one else. And the few hours spent in the noisy company of the Delanceys brought that home sharply.
She should be grateful she hadn’t had a sibling who’d had to endure what she’d been through as a child. But selfishly, she’d often wished she’d had the company. It would be nice, now that she could come and go as she pleased, to have someone to visit, to make plans and talk over problems with.
She’d had good friends within the order, but she’d left that life behind. She corresponded with some of them, but it wasn’t the same as having them nearby. And Colette, her first friend in French River, would leave tomorrow night for several weeks in Canada.
She grabbed one of her two mugs, found a tea bag and waited for the water to boil. She went to the window that looked down on the slope behind the barn, and saw herself reflected back.
She told herself she would be fine. She’d been alone in one way or another for much of her thirty years, and she’d survived. She just didn’t like it. But life was about learning to cope with what you got, not about getting what you wanted. And pretty soon her life was going to be filled with children. Step Three—friends—was accomplished, and she’d only been in French River a couple of weeks. What more could she want?
She smiled at her reflection, but chose not to think about it. She didn’t want to be greedy.
The kettle whistled, and she filled the waiting mug with hot water. Then she turned off the light, walked into the bedroom—and stopped in the doorway.
Someone had tossed her sleeping bag and pillow onto a double bed already covered with a pink-and-green flowered bedspread. It was a four-poster with large, rounded knobs in a light mush—pine, she guessed.
She approached it slowly, shocked, wondering where it had come from. Colette? But why? She’d done so much for Veronica already.
And then a memory from earlier in the evening struck her like a sledgehammer, and she delved into her pocket for the business card Mike had given her.
“Bob Burgess Furniture and Appliances,” she read aloud into the ringing silence.
After staring at the bed another moment, she climbed into the middle of it and sat down. The mattress was soft and cupped her body. With a sigh of pleasure, she let her head fall back against equally soft pillows.
Every muscle in her body seemed to loosen. But every nerve ending fluttered in confusion.
Mike Delancey had bought her...a bed?
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE VESTIBULE of the church, Veronica adjusted Colette’s hat to a jaunty angle and stepped back to study the effect. “What do you think?” she asked Megan and Katie, who pressed close, little baskets of daisies and ivy in hand.
“I think she’s the prettiest mother in the whole world.” Katie said.
“I must agree with that.” Armand came from the men’s dressing room, fussing with the unfamiliar tie. His wiry gray hair was combed into order, and the morning coat gave him a handsome elegance.
Colette handed Veronica her bouquet of roses and orchids and reached up to adjust his tie for him.
Katie and Megan trembled with excitement, taking every opportunity to swish the long skirts of their yellow dresses and to look for their reflections in the glass doors of the church. Their beautifully curled and upswept hair made them look like an ad for a children’s shampoo.
Colette wrapped her arms around them, then urged them into position as Shea arrived to walk Rachel up the aisle.
“You ready?” Colette whispered to Veronica. She looked absolutely beautiful and remarkably serene, considering she was about to make a life-altering vow.
“Yes.” Veronica moved to stand behind Megan.
She put a hand to her fluttering stomach, thinking she was probably more nervous than Colette. Being in a church was certainly familiar and comfortable, but she’d never worn a dress like this to a house of worship before.
She felt as though something life-altering was about to happen to her.
She turned to Colette, who was now behind her, her arm tucked into Armand’s. “Did you give me a bed?” she asked quietly.
Colette looked at her through her chin-length veil. “Pardon me?”
“A bed.” Veronica kept her eye on the front of the church, where Shea was just seating Rachel in the first pew. Then she glanced quickly at Colette. “When I got home last night, there was a bed in my bedroom.”
Armand raised an eyebrow. “And that is odd?”
Colette nodded. “Yes, Dad. She didn’t have one.” Then to Veronica, she replied, “No, I didn’t give you a bed. You mean, a new one?”
“Yes. The mattress and box spring are still wrapped in plastic, and there was a bedspread thrown over them.”
Colette giggled. “Did you pray for one? With your connections—”
The opening bars of the wedding processional began with loud, commanding drama, effectively putting an end to conversation. Colette shrugged, then winked.
Veronica faced forward as Katie, well coached on when to start, set off at a stately pace. Megan followed, the length of seven pews left between her and Katie.
Veronica counted pews and decided she was not going to walk up the aisle thinking about the bed. This was her friend’s wedding and it required her full attention.
When Megan reached the seventh pew, Veronica followed, focusing on the front of the church where the minister and the Delancey brothers waited.
Despite her promise to herself, she was temporarily distracted by the handsome picture the brothers made, shoulder to shoulder, family resemblance evident though three distinct personalities were also visible—elegant Tate, tough Mike, witty Shea.
“Tough Mike” who’d helped her move, found her first two clients and bought her a bed.
Veronica returned the smiles of the small group of wedding guests as she continued walking toward the altar, wondering if they could detect her scattered thoughts.
Mike was watching her, a frown line on his forehead that made him look as if he regretted everything he’d done for her.
She didn’t care. There’d been a time in her life when kindnesses had been few and far between, and she’d learned to be grateful for any she received.
She’d also learned to return them.
If anyone deserved kindness, it was a man trapped in a cage of self-imposed guilt and painful memories.
Veronica smiled to herself as she realized that her previous career as a soul-saver made it impossible for her to do what others would probably do in these circumstances—let him work out his problems by himself and keep an understanding distance.
But she couldn’t believe that a man who bemoaned her presence, yet continued to do things for her, didn’t want, deep down, to be her friend.
As she reached the minister, she couldn’t help giving Mike a meaningful glance before turning to take her place beside Megan.
MIKE STOOD BESIDE Tate as he repeated his vows, then handed him the ring that would seal this ancient ritual. This time, he wanted Tate to get back from the marriage all he gave. He’d always thought his brother remarkable in that respect. Even personally beset with problems, Tate could find something to give to someone who needed him.
Mike had seen that firsthand when he’d been placed on leave after the fatal hostage incident. He hadn’t know it then, but when Tate had flown to Dallas to spend time with Mike, his marriage had already ended.
They hadn’t done much—sat around, drank coffee, talked about other things. Then Mike had fallen asleep on the sofa one afternoon, and dreamed the entire incident in detail, except that in his dream he’d been in the room with the victims when it all went bad, instead of outside watching. He’d awakened screaming—and Tate had been there to wrap a blanket around him and hold him while he wept with impotent rage.
That debt was hard to pay back. The small financial stake he’d been able to contribute to the winery hadn’t meant much in view of what Tate had given. For now, the best Mike could do was see to it that everything went smoothly while Tate was honeymooning with Colette and the girls.
Mike was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to send Veronica Callahan away, too, so that he’d be able to concentrate. He’d thought about her half the night, and now he was going to have to live with the image of her floating up the aisle in that sunbeam of a dress.
He’d always thought he preferred women like Lita—curvy women with flowing hair. But this slender little reed with hair not much longer than his was beginning to haunt his thoughts.
He knew what the problem was: he’d been too long without a woman. He looked around surreptitiously as the ceremony continued, half expecting to be struck by ecclesiastical lightning. Thoughts of sex were probably not appropriate for church. Particularly when those thoughts involved an ex-nun.
It didn’t help that when they paired up to leave the church, Veronica gave him a sweet smile and squeezed his arm.
She stood on tiptoe as they reached the vestibule door and whispered in his ear, “Thank you.”
He gave her his best What-are-you-talking-about? expression. It had worked during hostage situations when he’d been accused of slowing proceedings to allow other cops to get in position, and on convicted felons who’d tried to tell him someone else had promised them a deal.
But it didn’t work on Veronica. “You gave me a bed,” she said as they took their places beside Tate and Colette in a line on the church porch.
“Maybe Colette—”
“No. I asked her. You gave me the bed. And you have to let me thank you properly.”
Her dark eyes were so frank that it seemed futile to pretend. “Okay. But stop saying that.” He’d begun to regret having given her such a gift, concerned about how it might look to someone else, or how she might misunderstand his intentions. He—a single man—had given her-an ex-nun-a bed.
Though he did think about her a lot, sex had been far from his mind when he’d walked into the furniture store.
He couldn’t imagine her doing all the work required to get the day care center ready, then getting into a sleeping bag set on a wooden floor-or in a bathtub. He’d seen her possessions. He knew how little she had. He’d had to do something.
She rolled her eyes, apparently never giving a second thought to his intentions.
“Don’t pretend you had evil motives,” she scoffed lightly, smiling and shaking hands with the owners of another local winery as they offered cheerful greetings. “You were probably the kind of cop who gave homeless people shoes, and lost children ice cream.”
He frowned at her. Every cop spent time developing a stern, hard attitude. It irritated him that she could peel it away with a few words.
“Tate thinks we should furnish your apartment as we get things for other parts of the compound. That’s all that was.”
He was grateful to see Felicia Ferryman approaching—probably the first time he’d felt that way since he’d met her. French River’s mayor wore a short, silky dress in a pale shade of lavender that accentuated her delicate features. Her blond hair had been swept up under a broad-brimmed hat that matched the dress.
Mike watched Veronica offer her hand with a warm smile. Felicia took it, her smile more predatory than friendly. When he and his brothers had first moved to the winery, Felicia had set her cap for Tate. When Tate had proposed to Colette, Mike became the object of Felicia’s machinations. He usually dodged her whenever possible. But now he was happy to have an excuse to stop talking about the bed.
“And who are you?” Felicia asked Veronica, shaking her hand. She’d come with Henry Warren, a city councilman who owned a sporting goods store.
“I’m Veronica Callahan,” replied Veronica, innocent and unsuspecting. “I’ve just arrived at the winery.”
Felicia looked her up and down and reacted as she usually did to competition. She stiffened visibly. “Really. In what capacity?”
Mike saw an easy and instant solution to the problem of Felicia. He didn’t stop to think about it twice. “She’s the love of my life,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and leaning closer. “Veronica, this is Felicia Ferryman, our mayor.”
Veronica gazed at him for several seconds, clearly trying to figure out what he was doing. He waited for her to denounce him as a liar.
She turned to Felicia instead. “Hello,” she said mercifully. “It’s, uh, so nice to meet you.”
Felicia intently scanned Mike’s face, then Veronica’s. “You hardly ever leave the winery,” she challenged suspiciously. “Where on earth did you meet?”
“We—met before he came here,” Veronica said, turning to him for corroboration, a flicker of panic in her dark eyes. “I’m from...Los Angeles and... around there.” Her voice fell a little as she named the city, as though afraid it wouldn’t work into whatever Felicia already knew about him.
Felicia pounced. “I thought you came here from Dallas.”
Mike nodded. “I did. We met when she was visiting a friend.” That, at least, was true. She’d been in the B-and-B to have tea with Colette. If Felicia presumed that friend had been in Dallas, that wasn’t his fault....
Felicia looked hurt, but he’d have bet his stake in Delancey Vineyards that it was disappointment rather than pain. She took Veronica’s hand and tapped her naked third finger. “No diamond,” she commented. Then she freed Veronica’s hand and focused on her eyes. “So, you followed him here?”
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Muriel Jensen
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The DELANCEY BROTHERSThree very different brothers. Three very different lives. One great opportunity.What′s a tough cop doing in a place like this?Mike Delancey was one of the best hostage negotiators in Texas. But he′s left that behind to work in the winery he and his brothers inherited.He was ready for a change, but nothing could have prepared him for Veronica Callahan. Because Veronica and her day-care center represent the two things he swore he′d never have anything to do with again–women and children.Veronica′s a woman with a very interesting past–and a detailed plan for the future. Coming to Delancey Vineyards and starting a day-care center fulfills the first part of the plan. The bad news for the extremely reluctant Mike Delancey is: The second part–marriage and a family–involves him!