Maria Maldonado didn’t cry. Ever. To see her come undone messed him up.
He took a step back, then forward, but what could he do? They hadn’t comforted one another for a very long time.
He stood absolutely still as her tears flowed. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny longing to help ignited.
He extinguished it quickly. He’d learned how to protect himself decades ago. He’d steeled himself to pretend her indifference didn’t matter. He pretended he didn’t care.
She swiped the back of her hand to her face, turned around and walked back inside. The door closed behind her, and the click of the lock slipped into place.
So be it. She didn’t need him. He didn’t need her. But those two children needed something more than to be made wards of the court and deported.
He strode back to his car, got in and drove away to find a hotel room. It took him less than an hour to realize the entire town was booked solid.
Of course everything was taken—it was midsummer at one of the most beautiful lakeside recreation spots in Central New York, the heart of the Finger Lakes.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ten hours ago he’d been gearing up to oversee the takeover of a small dot-com company. That single acquisition was going to make their firm millions.
But he wasn’t on Liberty Street, signing the final papers. He’d left that to others. He was here in Grace Haven, a place he’d vowed to never see again.
He got into the car, hit a phone app and came up with no vacancies surrounding the lake. So where could he stay?
Hello, Captain Obvious. Your mother’s got room. Plenty of room. Why don’t you pretend to be a peacemaker and go back there?
He’d sleep in the car first. And that’s exactly what he intended to do, except then his phone rang with a call from Drew Slade.
“Cruz, it’s Drew. I just realized you might not be comfortable staying at Casa Blanca...”
That meant his reaction to his mother showed, and Cruz never let reactions show. It was this stupid town, and these throwback circumstances undermining his skills as a stone-faced negotiator. “My wife and I just vacated a nice little garage apartment at the Gallaghers’.”
“Is that an inn?”
“No, the Gallagher family. At Chief Gallagher’s house. I married his oldest daughter, Kimberly.”
“The Gallaghers, as in the holier-than-thou schoolteacher I just met?”
“That’s Rory.” Drew sounded almost cheerful about it. “Anyway, Kimberly and I are in our new house, the apartment is in great shape, and if you really don’t want to stay with your mother, this could give you some peace of mind and a clean pillow. I know the town is booked up. Summer is a crazy-busy vacation time here.”
It was vacation time in New York City, too, which was the only reason he was able to be here, and not in the city. His boss would no doubt go ballistic when he returned from his three-week European vacation and found Cruz still in Grace Haven. But with Rodney Randolph, ballistic was often the status quo. He’d deal with that as needed. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience to anyone, Drew.”
“The place is empty, you’re inconveniencing no one, and if you and Rory are sharing kid duty until we figure things out, you might as well be geographically close.”
That part made sense, and was about the only thing in this convoluted mess that did.
“Were you able to find a room for tonight?”
Cruz couldn’t lie. “No.”
“Then use it, man. One forty-seven Creighton Landing, just beyond the turnoff for The Square, in walking distance of everything. Just like Manhattan.” Drew laughed, and Cruz was glad someone found humor in this situation, because he hadn’t stopped frowning since the reverend’s phone call that morning.
“You sure no one will mind?”
“Positive. I’ll call Rory and let her know so you don’t surprise her or the kids. Or Mags.”
“Is Mags one of the sisters?” Somewhere in his brain he remembered several Gallagher sisters.
“She’s a member of the family, all right,” Drew finished cryptically. “The key is hanging inside the carriage house, to the left of the door when you walk in. The apartment is the second floor.”
Cruz hesitated, then accepted. “Thanks, man. I was ready to sleep in the car.”
“Glad to help. I’m hoping this all looks better in the morning.”
“It couldn’t look any worse.”
* * *
Wrong again.
He’d driven to Creighton Landing, found the key like Drew said and thrown open a couple of windows in hopes of a lake breeze.
Nope.
Too tired to care, he’d fallen into bed, then got up crazy early like he always did and set up his laptop in the steamy apartment.
No air-conditioning.
No Wi-Fi.
He stared at the screen, searched for networks and didn’t find any. He pulled out his smartphone to set up a hot spot to relay internet service.
It didn’t work. His phone indicated internet service in the area, but couldn’t command a strong enough signal to relay Wi-Fi to the laptop.
He needed to punch someone. And find coffee.
Coffee. A coffee shop with Wi-Fi. Perfect.
He stepped outside with his small laptop bag. The town lay before him, and the lake spread out to his left, just beyond Route 20.
He’d be silly to drive because he was already in town, so he crossed the yard and circled The Square, a local old-time shopping area that looked much more upscale than he remembered, and hunted for coffee.
Nothing was open.
He glared at his phone. It was 6:05 a.m. on a Tuesday. He’d passed two coffee shops, neither of which opened for nearly an hour. In Manhattan, he’d have been connected and working already. Here?
Nothing.
He was about to retrace his steps, get into the car and head toward the thruway, when lights flickered on at the diner just ahead. “You lookin’ for coffee?” A copper-skinned, middle-aged woman with dark hair in a bun poked her head around the corner of the stoop.
“Hunting would be more apt,” he told her as he strode forward. “And Wi-Fi. Do you have that, too?”
She laughed and swung the door wide. “We’re connected, though I’m not sure it was a good idea. Come on in. You looked like a wanderin’ pup out there. It’s always the same with big-city types. It takes a day or two of bein’ in Grace Haven to realize it’s okay to relax. To let go and let God shape the days.”
“Well, I’m in town for a while, but I’m not sure relaxing enters into the equation.”
“Never does at first,” she called back as she bustled around the counter. “But we get to it, eventual-like. If we stay ’round long enough.” She set a second pot brewing, then toted four mugs and a glass coffee carafe to his table. “Here you go.” She filled his cup, then paused. “Room for cream and sugar?”
“Nope. Black.”
She sighed as if she expected him to say that, then plunked the other three mugs down on a table kitty-corner from him. She filled the mugs, added a little aluminum pot of cream to the table and strode behind the old-style counter just as three older gentlemen walked in.
“Mornin’, Sadie!” crowed the first one in the door.
The