Beneath the Patchwork Moon (Hope Springs, #2) (27 page)

His father returned to the table, planted both palms on the surface, and leaned forward, an angry bull bellowing. “Where’s the baby? Does that damn Merrilee Gatlin have our grandchild?”

“Angelo,” his mother pleaded. “Tell me what happened. Where’s my baby’s child?”

“Listen to me, please,” he said, reaching for the photo where it had fallen and dusting it off. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t think you know what you can’t. I get that this is hard to hear, but the Gatlins didn’t know about any of this until recently. Only one person knew.”

“One person?” his father asked, slowly straightening. “One person? The person you brought here with you? Luna Meadows knew all this time, and you brought her here with you? How dare—”

Angelo pushed to his feet, steaming, holding his father’s gaze. “No. This isn’t on Luna.”

“Of course it’s on Luna,” the older man said, and gestured wildly. “She saw the accident. She spent that weekend with Sierra. Is that when she had her baby? That weekend?”

He nodded. “They arranged the adoption through an attorney. All of Sierra’s medical bills were paid. She was well cared for.”

“How did we not know she was pregnant?” This from his father. “How did she hide that from us?”

And this—“No one knew? But you? And Luna? And Oscar? She told no one else?”—from his mother.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” His father again. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know about the adoption until recently. Until Luna told me,” he said, feeling battered by their questions because the answers they wanted had gone to the grave with his sister.

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

He scrubbed both hands back over his head, holding his hair from his face, listening to his father’s words echo. “Sierra called me near the end of her junior year. She asked me to come home and be with her while she told you.”

“You didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

He answered his father with a shake of his head, shame and guilt both weighty.

“Please, Angelo. You’re the only one who gets me. And you know what this will do to them.”

“You should’ve thought about that sooner.”

“I should have. You’re right. But I can’t go back, and I need you now.”

“I can’t. Not this weekend. I have plans.”

“Next weekend then? Can you come next weekend?”

“No. I’ve got plans then, too.”

“Plans not to come home at all?”

“Something like that.”

“I was selfish. And stupid. I was getting ready to go to Rome. I was wrapped up in my own life.” He’d been a jerk, and worse, not much of a brother.

“We could’ve taken the baby,” his mother said, her voice rising, her fingers knotted together, her knuckles chapped and red. “We could’ve helped her while she finished high school. She didn’t have to give away our grandchild! Now we have nothing left of her. Nothing! Do you understand?”

He understood more than they could know. “I thought she would tell you. I never thought otherwise.”

But his mother was crying now, hearing nothing he said. “Oh, my baby. My Sierra. Why didn’t she tell us?”

His father walked around the table to where Angelo was standing. “Do you know why she changed her mind?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, his hands going to his hips. “I think so, only I just found out.”

“From Luna.”

“From Sierra. From the letter she wrote to Luna. She and Oscar were going to New York for their senior year”—though he didn’t tell them the part they’d played in Sierra’s decision—“and then to study music. She wanted her baby to have a full-time mother, not a nanny, or a series of sitters, or to grow up in day care. And she knew how important it was to the family that she succeed. But she also knew how much of a struggle you had with your four still at home. She and Oscar decided the baby would have a better life with parents who could give her what they couldn’t.”

“Or that damn Oscar Gatlin decided that.”

“No, Dad. They decided it together. It’s in the letters Sierra wrote.”

“Her?” his mother said, looking up. “Our grandbaby… She’s a girl?”

“Lily. They named her Lily,” he said, and that was when his mother broke.

Her sobs rent through him, tightening his chest, a boa constrictor choking him. He turned to his father, who was shaking his head, grief wet on his cheeks, but silent. “Dad—”

It was all he managed to say before his father was pointing toward the door. “Get out. Just go. Leave the box.”

“I’ll leave your letter. And I’ll make you a copy of the CD and the photo. But I’ll be back for the box.” He hadn’t talked about this to Luna, but the box belonged to the Caffey-Gatlin Academy, locked inside a glass display case, the contents hidden, the lid closed.

“Fine. But come alone. I don’t want that woman in my house.”

“Luna is with me.”

“I don’t care—”

But Angelo damn well did. “I love her.”

“After what she did—”

Enough
. He returned the rings and the photo to the box with the CD before closing it with the booties still inside. “Nothing Luna did would’ve changed what happened. Sierra chose to marry Oscar. She chose to study music. She and Oscar chose to give their child to a family desperate for one of their own. Luna knew about the baby, yes, and thank God she did, because she helped Sierra through all of it. The morning sickness, everything. But she’s not to blame for any of this. And you know that.”

Angelo exited the house the way he’d come in, but found the living room empty. His heart jumped as he pushed through the front door. Luna stood in the yard, behind the car, facing away.

He couldn’t get to her fast enough. “What are you doing out here?”

“Thinking. Breathing. Nothing.” She crossed her arms as if hugging herself. “Giving you time with your parents. Trying to pretend I didn’t hear them yelling about me.”

Ignoring the latter, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her, bringing her close to his body and letting her settle there, letting her stay. How had he ever thought he hated her? How had he ever thought she hadn’t been his whole life since the first time he’d seen her?

“Those are all good things. Especially the breathing part. I’d hate for you not to do that.”

She leaned her head against him, rubbing so that her short, spiky hair scratched his shirt. He missed her long hair. He loved her short hair, but he missed threading his fingers through the waist-length strands and watching them flow. He’d done it so often years ago. He hadn’t done it enough since being back.

“How’re you doing?” she asked, nuzzling again.

“Your head’s on my heart. I can’t imagine being better than this.”

“I mean with your parents,” she said, though he felt her smile where her cheek rested on his chest. “I can’t even imagine having to deal with such news after all this time.”

“It’s going to be rough for a while. And not just on them,” he said, letting that sink in before he looked down.

She looked up, searching his gaze. “On me, you mean. Because of the secrets I kept.”

“Yeah.”

“And even more on you.”

“That too.”

She nodded, swallowed. Tears welled, and she blinked them away. “Do we need to leave now? Do you want to put
me on a plane so you can stay a few more days? I know they don’t want me here.”

This woman. “No. I’m not going to put you on a plane. If we need to leave now, we’ll do it together.”

“Angel, this is your family. You haven’t seen them in ages. They haven’t seen you. I’m not going to get in the way of that, especially with the news you brought. They need time to process that. I need to go. At least find me a room somewhere. A motel. A hostel. I’ll be fine.”

She might, but he wouldn’t. He needed her with him. Her mind. Her body. All of her. “We’ll drive into town, give them some time. We’ll test the waters when we get back.”

“I’m so sorry about all of this,” she said, catching back a sob. “About everything.”

His own chest tightened, and he had to force out the words. “Luna, I love you. You’re my life now. Even if my parents never come to understand what you did, I do—”

“But you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

“I don’t know what I would’ve done. But I did enough. Or I didn’t do enough, not coming home when Sierra asked me to.” The knife of his guilt sliced impenetrably deep.

“It helps, you know. Knowing you love me.”

“I’ll always love you,” he said and pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. “I’ll forever love you.”

“That helps most of all.”

“C’mon,” he said, guiding her toward her car. “Let’s go find a bed.”

“Angelo!”

“Uh-uh. Tonight you call me Angel.”

D
AY
F
IVE

SATURDAY

The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.

—Abraham Lincoln

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
his morning’s arrival at the Caffey house a mirror of last night’s, Luna and Angelo slammed their doors in quick succession, then walked toward the house. Luna, however, stopped at the front of the car to lean against the hood. Angelo, reaching the porch steps alone, frowned and came back to where she waited. “You’re not coming in?”

She shook her head, crossing her arms to keep from pulling him to her, holding him, rubbing her cheek to his that was bristled with the whiskers he hadn’t had a razor to shave. She’d loved his parents dearly, but she was an outsider now, unwelcome, unwanted. Unwilling to put herself through their rejection again. “I came in last night.”

“That was last night,” he said, but the smile he gave her was sadly knowing.

“I can’t imagine if I come in now things will be any different. Any… better.” She shrugged as she added the latter, her chest tight as she did.

He lifted a hand, tucked the short strands of her hair behind her ear. “I won’t be long.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t go right away. He stood in front of her, his fingers trailing from her ear to her jaw, his gaze following his
hand as if creating a visual as well as a tactile memory. Or maybe she had it all wrong. Maybe he didn’t want to go in either, but wanted to stay with her. Maybe he needed her with him.

Maybe she was being selfish, when what she’d wanted to do was give him this time.

Before she could move, however, the door opened, and the screen followed, squeaking on its hinges as all screens seemed to do. Angelo dropped his hand and hung his head, shaking it while breathing deep.

“I love you,” she whispered, and he gave a nod before turning, his long stride carrying him to where his father waited. He shook the other man’s hand, and the two talked quietly, Mike Caffey’s fists shoved in his pockets, Angelo’s shoved in his, too.

Angelo was shaking his head, his gaze cast down, while his father seemed intent on holding his attention, and being three inches shorter, ducked his head to get in his son’s face, as if making demands, as if lecturing. As if making sure Angelo understood what he had to say.

Moments later, his mother came out, hugging Sierra’s box to her chest. Then, as if he were in her way, she stepped in front of her husband to get to her son. She wrapped one arm around Angelo’s neck and kissed his cheek, tears like tattoos of her sorrow marking her face. It broke Luna’s heart to see Carlita Caffey so tormented, and her own tears burned like black tar.

But Angelo insisted on taking a stand. He understood the why of what Luna had done—understood, too, his parents’ feelings about Luna keeping Sierra’s secrets for so long. But he needed them to know he’d forgiven her, and that he wasn’t blameless in all that had come to pass.

Sierra had chosen her path. No one knew what had caused Oscar to lose control of the car. It had been an accident. A tragic, senseless accident. But that was all. Luna had suffered enough at their hands, and the ostracism had to stop. Angelo had chosen to be with her, and she hoped they accepted that she was a very important part of his life.

That, more than anything, was why Luna knew they would weather this particular storm. She and Angelo had both made questionable choices, and recognized doing so. But neither blamed the other anymore, and slowly they were coming to forgive themselves for their lapses in judgment, their terrible mistakes.

They were coming, too, to understand what the other had done, and why. The reasons meant everything. Whether good or bad, those motives could not be ignored. They came from the root of who she was, what she believed about friendship and loyalty, and from the core of what had made her fall in love with Angelo so many years ago.

And what had her loving him more than she’d thought possible today, especially after last night…

They’d spent the night in a tiny little motel, their bungalow so small it would’ve fit in her loft a half dozen times with, she was pretty sure, room to spare. There’d been a wonderfully plush full mattress, the perfect size to ensure they touched while they slept. Angelo had wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into his body. At some point he’d turned over, and she’d spooned the same way against his back, her nose to his nape, breathing him in, her fingers threading through his chest hair, tugging, toying with his nipples until he groaned.

They hadn’t lasted long like that, need rising between them until neither could breathe without spilling ragged
sounds into the room. She’d pulled him toward her, or he’d rolled over her, she couldn’t be sure, and it hadn’t mattered because they wanted the same thing at the same time, and the act transcended what she’d known in the past, even what she and Angel had shared in the hours before.

He was rough in his gentleness, demanding as he asked, thorough while skimming over her body with his fingertips and his mouth. The night had been all about learning, and longing, the physical desperation of a relationship that had endured the emotional wringer’s fierce battering. Neither of them had slept much at all. They’d dozed, drifted, talked in shorthand snippets, questioned, shared.