recliner.
“Why don’t you kids sit down so you can have a good chat?” Brenda tried to usher Callie and Jack toward the two-seater couch. Jack didn’t move. Neither did Callie. She had the crazy thought that whoever sat first would lose this battle. Unwilling to ignore Brenda, she leaned against the sideboard.
“Handy for you,” Jack commented, “having this place to come back to when you need it.”
She bristled. Was he forgetting their secret wedding had freed him to go back to his illustrious career?
She hadn’t seen it that way at the time, and she liked to think he hadn’t, either. She’d barely known Jack. He’d been working in Boston even before she moved in with the Mitchells—but she’d figured him for a decent guy whose instinct was to protect his parents from further hurt. With her mother’s encouragement, Callie had accepted that protection for herself, too.
She hadn’t had a choice.
“We love having Callie around,” Brenda said. “The house seems so empty when she’s not here—” she waved a hand at the packed-to-the-gills living room “—but at least we know she’ll always come back.”
Callie knew any reference to Jack’s prolonged absence was unintentional. But his mouth tightened.
“Quite a lovefest you have going with my parents,” he murmured.
Whose fault was that? she wanted to ask. Somewhere along the line, their marriage had become a means for Jack to abdicate his family responsibilities to her.
“Callie is family,” Dan said, almost sharply. “She’s been a daughter to us ever since…”
No one needed him to complete the sentence. Ever since Lucy died.
Callie saw the flicker of pain on Brenda’s features. Darn it, Callie still missed Lucy, too, especially at this time of year. Jack needed to confront the reality of being his parents’ only surviving child. Before his month here was up, she wanted his commitment to helping his mom and to being an active part of his parents’ lives as they aged. He didn’t have to live in Parkvale—that might bore him into an early grave and defeat the purpose—but she did expect him to act like a son. To improve his current performance a zillion percent.
“Much as I love you guys—” she kept her tone light, not wanting thoughts of Lucy to dampen Brenda’s joy in the day “—Jack’s your family more than I’ll ever be.” She beamed at the prodigal son, raised her voice and threw down the gauntlet. “Welcome home, Jack. May this be the first of many visits.”
Aunt Nancy clapped in agreement, and a couple of the cousins cheered. Brenda hugged her son.
“Thanks, Callie,” he said, his jaw tight, as if he’d bitten into a bad apple but was too polite to spit it out.
Callie saw in his eyes the intention to perform a medical misadventure on her if she didn’t drop the subject. She straightened her spine, forced her smile wider, sunnier. Standing this close, he looked taller than he had at the shop. Broader than he had eight years ago. And less friendly. Jack Mitchell was no doting but forgetful son in need of a gentle nudge. He was too self-centered, too famous, and he’d grown too big for his small-town roots.
Brenda moved to the doorway, called for attention. “Time for lunch, folks.”
Just as Jack suspected, in the dining room, the 1970s rosewood-veneered table was laden with so much food, he could scarcely see Brenda’s best lace tablecloth. His ever-considerate relatives each stood back and waited for the others to serve themselves potato salad, assorted roast vegetables, thick slices of beef sirloin and dollops of Parkvale Curried Chicken Salad.
If Jack hadn’t started the ball rolling, they’d have still been there at four o’clock, saying “You first” and “No, after you.”
The dining table only sat six people, so they dispersed back to the living room to eat. Between mouthfuls of superbly tender beef—he did miss his mom’s cooking—Jack chatted with his parents, all the time aware of Callie talking to Uncle Frank over by the window. She laughed at something Frank said, and the sound was musical, with none of the faux friendliness she’d used on Jack.
Sensing his scrutiny, she looked across at him.
He had two abiding memories of their wedding. One was the dumb joke she’d made—out of nerves, he knew, so he’d struggled to hide his irritation. The other was of Callie’s glance sliding away from his. The floor, her bitten fingernails, the air above his head, everything had been easier to look at than Jack.
Now, he felt as if she’d been examining him since the moment he walked into her shop. Her eyes were the brilliant blue found in some Renaissance paintings he’d admired at the Louvre. And like the Mona Lisa’s, they seemed to follow him everywhere. Unlike the Mona Lisa, there was nothing mysterious about Callie’s expression. Jack knew anger when he saw it.
The room suddenly felt stifling, although outside it was only in the mid-seventies.
He glanced away. Callie was like a kid sister. Which meant he wasn’t about to go noticing her eyes or her figure or anything else about her. She probably thought it was her job in life to bug him.
Unfortunately for her, getting riled wasn’t on his agenda. He was here to see his parents and to end his marriage. Simple.
He set his plate down on the sideboard. “Mom, I’ll get my bag out of the car. Am I in my old room?”
His mother’s brow creased. “I guess…if you don’t mind the color.”
It had always been navy blue.
“I moved into your room five years ago,” Callie explained, breaking off her chat with Frank. She was obviously listening in to Jack’s conversations, as well as watching his every move. “I painted it lilac and stenciled a floral border in carmine and magenta.”
What the hell colors were carmine and magenta? Ones Jack wouldn’t like, going by her smirk.
Jack’s sense of grievance swelled. First there’d been her failure to tell him who she was, then her subtle sniping. And now, her unmistakable pleasure in forcing him to sleep in a room whose color scheme would have him talking an octave higher by morning.
Jack wondered if any of Parkvale’s lawyers worked weekends.
Chapter Two
“BEND FORWARD, dear.” Aunt Nancy’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of pins.
Obediently, Callie leaned over. The scooped bodice of the champagne-colored bridesmaid’s dress gaped open.
“Goodness,” Nancy said, “that’s just about indecent.”
“Pretty, though,” Brenda said.
When Callie would have straightened, Nancy tapped her on the arm. “Let me pin it first, dear.”
“Mom, if you think Callie’s dress is indecent, wait till you see mine,” the bride called from the dressing room attached to Nancy’s basement sewing studio. Nancy was semiretired from her dressmaking business, but the studio had seen a lot of action since Sarah announced her engagement.
“I had a neckline up to here when I got married.” Nancy touched her chin, ignoring the fact that her daughter couldn’t see. “I don’t understand why you girls want to flaunt it all in church.”
She finished pinning the seam on one side of the dress, so Callie was now flaunting lopsided. Nancy moved around to her left.
The door to the studio opened. “Sweetie,” Brenda said, “I haven’t seen the bride yet. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”
“No problem.” Jack’s voice.
Callie straightened up fast, tugging the gaping side of her bodice close to her chest. He strolled into