Coming Home to Love (Lakeside Porch Series Book 2) (3 page)

She stood at the crown of his head and made tiny circles with her fingers on his forehead, working toward his temples.

He murmured something before he slipped into a deep sleep.

When Justin awoke, he found the room dark. The nagging tension and bone-deep aches that had plagued him for months were gone. The naked fear remained, but on its heels came the knowledge that Gianessa had overcome the same symptoms.
I will, too
.

As soon as he sat up, his head pounded. He had just swung his legs over the edge of the table when a quiet knock sounded at the door. He realized he’d heard it a minute earlier, too.
Probably woke me up
. “Come in,” he croaked.

Gianessa carried a liter bottle of water and a short plastic cup with two round pills.

He cracked a smile. “I thought you said no drugs?”

“Tylenol, in case you have a headache.”

“You know I do.”

“You’ll need plenty of water for the rest of the day.”

He took the pills without comment and drank a few inches of water in noisy gulps.

“Take it easy,” she advised.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. “How long was I out?”

“You’ve slept about two hours.”

“Thank you, I needed it,” he acknowledged. “It’s fortunate this room wasn’t scheduled.”

“Tell me what tests you’ve had.” She leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her breasts.

“Every test money can buy.”

“Was there any time this past year when you did not have the symptoms?

He thought for a moment, and his eyebrows shot up with surprise. “Indonesia. I was there for nearly three months last spring, and I felt much better, almost instantly, and for the duration of my time there.”

“You had none of the symptoms while you were in Indonesia?” She smiled widely.

“Some took time to dissipate, but eventually they were gone.” His voice took on new energy. “I even got my appetite back and some strength, though I didn’t put on any weight.”

“That’s very encouraging. Tell me everything you ate while you were in Indonesia.”

Justin thought back and slowly gave her the list. “Rice. Fish. Chicken. Lots of vegetables, all kinds of vegetables. Spices. Delicious fruits. That’s all.”

“Sweets? Desserts? Alcohol?”

“I don’t drink alcohol any more. Haven’t for years. For sweets, we had ices—fruit ices, sorbets.”

“Breads, rolls, biscuits of any kind?”

He shook his head. “None.”

“No pastries, cookies, cakes, tarts, tortes, scones, muffins?”

“None.”

“My guess is the sensitivity is to a combination of grains used in abundance in the West but not in Indonesia. Almost certainly wheat, and probably the gluten in wheat, barley, rye, and a few other grains. But remember I’m just speaking from my own experience. I’m a Doctor of Physical Therapy, not an M.D.”

“What should be my next move?” Justin narrowed his eyes, expecting some kind of con—purchase twenty massages, or some such.

“I think the next right move is to be tested for food allergies, followed by some trial eliminations to identify your intolerances. I would recommend starting with gluten, and I wouldn’t put it off. Your symptoms are unrelenting. You’re losing weight for no reason; your muscle mass is being depleted because you are not getting nutrients from the food you’re eating. You must stop what you’re doing and focus on recovery.”

He nodded, bringing himself up to his full, seated height, and snatched the sheet as it slid away from him. He threw one end over his shoulder like a royal sash and then chuckled when he saw her smile.

“I feel like a damn fool. I’ve spent a fortune on tests at the best hospitals and come up empty.”

“In other words, your high-priced doctors eliminated the stress-related and most-dreaded illnesses, starting with garden-variety ulcers and running the gamut to parasites and exotic cancers?”

Justin let his silence confirm it.

“Those are the test results I’d want,” she told him with a smile.

His eyes twinkled. “Thank you for putting a positive spin on it.”

“I can recommend someone at Clifton Springs who will do a blood test for gluten and a needle biopsy of the intestine. She is very familiar with celiacs and with food intolerances. You might want to be tested for additional food allergies, if you can stand a dozen or so needle pricks.”

He shuddered at the sound of that.

“Then”—she lightened her voice, and he took hope that the rest might be more palatable—“I recommend that you try a gluten-free food plan for two weeks, starting after the tests. I’m betting it will help, just as it did when you were in Indonesia.”

She added a smile, and it was the first time he’d seen the dimples. Surely the best was yet to come.

“You were obviously in great shape before this happened, and you can be again. In fact, you should plan on it and work toward it, as your energy returns.”

The little sparkle in her eye made his body respond in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. He glanced down to be sure the sheet was in place.

“That’s my advice to you. I’ll let you get dressed now.” Gianessa turned to leave.

“Wait.” Justin grabbed her arm, and she turned back to face him.

Her amethyst eyes looked deep inside him. He imagined himself unfastening her necklace and freeing her honey hair from its braid. He started when the amethyst at her throat winked at him. Then he realized she had simply blinked her eyes. He shook off the whim.

“You wanted to ask me something?”

“Ah, yes.” He recovered his sanity. “Can you tell me how to know what has gluten and what doesn’t? And what to eat to rebuild my body?”

“When you’re dressed, I’ll meet you back at the desk with an information sheet about eating gluten-free, plus menu suggestions and the physician’s name.” She gave him a slow, sexy smile. “I can give you cooking lessons, if you’re interested.”

Before he could pursue the offer, her cheeks flushed. She lowered her eyes, put her professional face back in place and slipped out of the tiny massage room.

She can’t possibly be interested in an old wreck like me
. He made a mental note to ask Joel about her.

When he arrived at the reception desk, Gianessa handed him half a dozen sheets of paper and gave him a friendly wave. “Call anytime for an appointment, Mr. Cushman,” she sang out.

He laughed heartily at the artful rebuke for his rude imposition on them.

“Justin,” he corrected her. “Since we’re going to be cooking together, let’s be on a first-name basis.”

Grace’s head swiveled toward them.

Justin winked at Grace and scribbled his cell number on the back of a business card for Gianessa. “Let me know if Sunday afternoons work for you. We can use Joel’s kitchen.”

Chapter 2

Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Gianessa punctuated her words with sharp raps of the wooden spoon on the edge of the counter. Whatever had possessed her to flirt with Justin Cushman? He probably liked wealthy, sexy, sophisticated women, and she was none of those. Throwing in those hip swivels,
what was I thinking?

I do not want a relationship.
The spoon rapped against an empty wooden salad bowl.
I want to be a professional.
And if she had to be unprofessional, why hadn’t she asked him where to sell the amethyst necklace?

Gianessa squinted at the kitchen timer, willing the strata to be done.
Just enough time to make the salad
. She grabbed the head of romaine lettuce from the colander, threw it on the cutting board and whacked it into bite-sized pieces.

As she mounded the lettuce in two salad bowls, her mind went to Joel in the hospital. Where exactly had Uncle Justin been for the two weeks after Joel’s accident? Evidently, his business took precedence.

She pitched six olives, one at a time, onto each mound of romaine. Why had he left it to Joel’s sweet girlfriend to bear the responsibility of visiting Joel in intensive care? The poor girl had been worn to a frazzle when she indulged herself in a spa day last week, finally able to breathe after Joel regained consciousness.
What’s her name? Amelia, Amanda, something like that. Sara will know.

Gianessa sprinkled on sunflower seeds, then added figs and bright green scallions. She squeezed fresh lemon into a glass dish with olive oil, vinegar and herbs, whisked it all together and drizzled it over their salads.

What delayed Justin’s arrival?

“Aha!” she realized just as the timer buzzed.

“Food,” Sara chortled. She pounded down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. “What are you aha-ing about?”

“Food’s ready.” Gianessa evaded the question with a bright smile. “Make way, this is hot.” She carried the steaming glass baking dish to a trivet on the dining room table and returned to the kitchen.

“Another amazing meal.” Sara lounged against the counter. “What can I do?”

“You’re letting me live here rent-free. The least I can do is keep us in good meals.”

“My clothes fit way better since you came. I’m so glad you’re not a pig.”

Gianessa let out a laugh. “I’ve never resembled a pig.”

“You’re more the gazelle type,” Sara said with a dramatic undulation of her arm. She bumped a jar filled with cooking utensils, which, mercifully, came to rest on a stack of towels. “Or is it the springbok that leaps effortlessly and is delicately beautiful?”

Gianessa chuckled as she righted the jar and picked out what she needed to serve the strata. “You take the salads, I’ll bring the water. That’s everything.”

Sara grabbed their overflowing salad bowls, made it to the table without a spill, and set them carefully next to each plate. “So, ‘Aha!’ What?”

“You said it. Aha, time to eat.” Gianessa put on her Mona Lisa smile. It always worked with Sara.

“Are you really only twenty-nine?”

“Please tell me I don’t look thirty.” Gianessa speared a forkful of salad.

“Of course not, you’re beautiful. It’s just that you know so much about cooking and nutrition. And check out this table. It’s like living with that
Everyday Italian
person—what’s her name?—Giada.” She waved her loaded fork to make her point, and the piece of strata wobbled. “Oops. Almost trashed your linen tablecloth.”

“It’s your linen tablecloth.”

“Really? Who knew? My mom must have snuck it into a drawer last time she came.” Sara savored another bite. “This is to die for. What is this?”

“Strata. Fresh eggs, roma tomatoes, low-fat ricotta, and eggplant. It puffed up just the way it’s supposed to.” Gianessa smiled with pride.

“It would go really good with Italian bread, wouldn’t it? We should have some next time.”

“You’re welcome to it, and I’ll be glad to put it on the grocery list.”

“Oh, come on. I know you eat healthy, but what’s wrong with Italian bread?”

“I can’t eat wheat.”

Sara’s fork stopped in mid-air. “That’s tragic. How do you live without bread?”

“Lots of people can’t tolerate the gluten in wheat.” She was not going to divulge Justin’s problems to gossip-queen Sara. “Haven’t you noticed all the ‘gluten free’ food in Wegmans?”

“You’re serious? I thought that was just the latest buzzword, like ‘low-carb’ used to be.”

Gianessa shook her head and gave her a one-minute spiel about gluten intolerance and celiac disease. “I have celiac disease.”

“Tragic,” Sara said again. “No wonder you eat so healthy and stay so thin.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Gianessa’s thoughts wandered back to her conversation with Justin.

“So, spill, what’s Mr. Cushman like?” Sara watched her with an eagle eye.

“He’s actually a smart, funny guy.”

“Grace told us you had him naked in the closet.”

Gianessa burst out laughing and rescued the olive that flew from her mouth. “There was no treatment room available and he was not going to go away.” She took a sip of water and said with dignity, “So we used the closet. I really don’t understand why we don’t schedule that room, especially this time of year when we’re so busy.”

“Everyone else hates it. Was he naked?”

“Don’t be silly.” Justin hadn’t had to disrobe completely for his massage, but he had chosen to. Gianessa fought down a flare of heat at the memory of that thin sheet draped carelessly over his cute butt. She needed a distraction. “His name’s Justin, by the way.”

“Justin and Gianessa. Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

“Stop, he’s almost old enough to be my father,” Gianessa protested.

“How old do you think he is really?”

“I don’t know. Probably forty-five.”

“That’s not too old for you.”

“I’m not in the market for a man right now.” Gianessa wanted to clang her fork on the side of the plate to emphasize the point, but she kept her voice calm. “You know that.” She needed to distract Sara. Inspiration struck. “And I would never get involved with anyone I work with.” She stole a look across the table.

Sara paled. “You think he’s going to be our boss while Joel’s out, don’t you?”

Beautiful
. “Possibly.”

“What do you know? Grace was, like, totally freaked today.”

Gianessa shrugged. “You know the rumors. Justin’s probably just home to support Joel until his recovery is well under way, and then he’ll go back to his world-traveling, high-finance life. End of story.”
Why does that make me sad
? “I’m looking for a career, not a man.

“So, is he cute?”

Gianessa squelched her first thought: Justin Cushman was a handsome man, and, if she had her way, he would be buff again in the coming year, leaner than before. If this weren’t Sara she was talking to, she might open up a little about Justin, so she could get him out of her head.

She concentrated on her food while she decided how to answer. “Justin’s cuter than Joel, in a mature sort of way,” she conceded, “and if you tell anyone I said so, I’ll cook you Brussels sprouts and liver for a week.”

“Oh barf!” Sara made a show of pushing her plate away. “You’re disgusting. I don’t know why I asked you to room with me.”

“Because you’re lonely.” Gianessa gestured at the spacious living-dining room. “I’d have gone crazy by myself in this huge townhouse.”

“It’s not my fault my parents own it and want me to live here and take care of the place.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I? It’s too big for you. And you were lonely by yourself?”

“I could have gotten a cat.”

“Cats can’t cook.” She pushed Sara’s plate back to her. “Finish that while I get the dishes started.”

“Yes, Mom,” Sara said with a smirk.

Glad for a break from a conversation that centered on Justin Cushman, Gianessa hummed along with Adele on the radio while she put leftovers in the fridge and scrubbed the baking dish.

A glance at the clock told her it was time to leave for the AA meeting.

Sara slid her dishes into the soapy water. “I’ll do the rest later, roomie. I’m going to watch TV.”

“Enjoy.”

She wanted to borrow a coat, but she knew if she asked, Sara’s response would be, “Oh, are you meeting Justin?” A sweatshirt under the pashmina would have to do.

Justin stood at the door to Joel’s hospital room and watched his nephew. The pain showed on Joel’s face as he slept. That was what he got for refusing narcotics to ease the discomfort of a skull fracture and broken bones. As a sober alcoholic, Joel was determined to use as few drugs as possible through this recovery.

Maybe Joel wasn’t asleep; maybe he was just doing one of those Celtic meditations he was so fond of. Justin rather hoped so, hoped Joel felt relief from the pain when he slept.

Joel’s devotion to all things Celtic came from his grandmother Bridey. Looks aside, Joel had little in common with the Tompkins or the Cushmans. Unlike his WASP ancestors on both sides, Joel Tompkins Cushman seemed to be ninety-percent good Irish stock, as resilient as the best of them, with the warmest of hearts.

“Is that your stealth mode?” Joel asked, his eyes still closed. Justin stood smiling until Joel caved, opened his eyes and said, “Good to see you, Uncle.”

“Back at you.”

“Found any women yet?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“It took you three days longer than I thought. No, you can’t have her.”

“Have who?”

“Gianessa.”

“We’ll talk,” Justin demurred.

“We won’t. It’s not negotiable.”

Is Joel interested in her? Involved with her?
He shook off the thought, certain that Joel was devoted to his fiancée, Manda.

“What else is on your agenda, Justin?”

“Why do you think I have an agenda?”

“Because you’re in stealth mode,” Joel answered with a chuckle. “You stood at the door a long time, studying me, sizing me up for something.”

“I was standing respectfully.” Justin blustered comically. “Merely debating whether to wake you or go downstairs for a cuppa.”

“Stop, it hurts.” Joel laughed, holding his ribs with his good hand.

Justin pulled up a chair and placed his hand on Joel’s good arm. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. What can I do? What can I get you?”

Joel’s gaze was fixed on Justin’s hand on his arm. “That’s all I need. I’m so relieved you’re here. Tell me you weren’t joking about staying in Tompkins Falls for a decade or so.”

“Well, no, I wasn’t joking, but I’m finding it damned disorienting. That’s my agenda, in fact. I don’t seem to know who I am here.”

Justin studied his nephew’s face, so much like his own.

“It was like that for me when I came back to town eight years ago. Do you remember how much I whined about living down my old reputation as a wild child?”

“I don’t recall you whining. I was very proud that you opened the inn and furious that you got engaged to that frigid rich bitch Lorraine.”

“Now, now,” Joel said, his voice playful, “Lorraine was not frigid.”

“But you’re not denying the rest, are you?” Justin laughed.

“She had her moments.”

“She had you wrapped around her finger, the one with the three carat diamond on it.”

“She did.”

“So I was right to protest your engagement?”

“You were right. Are you going to tell me not to marry Manda?”

“Nothing of the kind. I’d make her mine if she weren’t already betrothed to the best friend I have in the world.”

Joel beamed. “So what’s my best friend doing about getting the sapphire ring into my hand so I can put it on her finger?”

Justin stood up and patted his pockets. All of them. Several times. Joel smiled indulgently at the little drama.

“Ah!” Justin said at last and drew out the blue Tiffany box with the white ribbon. He fussed with the squashed bow, making it perky again. “It’s a mystery to me why she accepted your proposal without a ring.”

“It was the world’s worst proposal, believe me. I owe her a much better one. This will go a long way.” Joel took the box Justin offered, set it on his chest and shook Justin’s hand. “Thank you. And when I can shake with my right hand, I’ll do that again.”

“Just see that you’re good to the lass.” Justin heard his British accent come out.

“I plan to be.”

“Bridey would have loved her.” Justin’s voice caught. “Having Manda in our lives is a little like having Bridey back with us.”

“I believe you mean that.” Joel studied his face.

“Indeed, I do.”

“There’s that accent again. Do you even know when you’re doing that?”

Justin had lived in London several times, but the accent came and went randomly. He barked a laugh, “Some psychologist would love to analyze it, I dare say.”

“Seriously, what is this illness that kept you away while I was in the coma?” Joel’s voice was light, but Justin saw the worry lines in his forehead.

“Funny thing. Not one of my doctors has offered a believable diagnosis, but our goddess Gianessa believes it’s a food intolerance. Wheat or gluten. She’s given me two pages of instructions, plus menus, a list of cookbooks, and an offer of cooking lessons. She wants me to have some awful tests at Clifton Springs.” He shuddered for effect.