Just Desserts (11 page)

She ducked her head, then looked out toward the ocean. “I hate that you've done this before. I wish this were your first time too.”

“You wouldn't if you had seen me when Sherri was expecting. I was clueless.”

“Don't make a joke, Tommy. I'm serious.”

“I know.” He held her closer. “I'm older than you are, Wil. We can't change that.” He didn't want to change it.

“Sometimes—” She stopped then shook her head.

“Sometimes what?”

She aimed the full force of her beauty in his direction. A younger man would've been knocked flat. He was only temporarily staggered. “Sometimes I wish it could be just the two of us.” She placed her hands on her still-flat belly. “And the baby.”

“It is what it is, Wil. I have children.”

“Lots of children,” she corrected him. “And they all hate me.”

Shit. Anything but this.

“They don't hate you, Wil. They don't even know you.”

“They hate me. They think I'm going to take away all their money.”

“They don't think like that. They've seen a lot of women come and go. They worry. That's all.”

“I don't want your money,” she said fiercely. “Do they know my hourly rate? Do they know how many covers I did last year? I can make my own money.”

The best thing to do was keep his mouth shut. He nodded sympathetically and waited for the other shoe to drop.

“I don't know why you're making this so hard, Tommy. We should sign the prenup and put it all behind us. Maybe then your family will believe you're serious.”

“That's why we have lawyers,” he said in an attempt at tension-busting humor. “Let them do their thing.”

Tears welled in her enormous cornflower-blue eyes. “Wait until our baby is born,” she said. “We'll have our own family. Things will be different when it's just the three of us.”

Except it would never be just the three of them. Like it or not, Tommy Stiles was a package deal.

Lakeside, New Jersey—the Next Day

Hayley was working on the framework for the drum set the following afternoon when Lakeisha, another one of her high school interns, popped into the kitchen. “Mrs. G., there's a courier out front with a package. He says you have to sign for it.”

“It's probably the fondant shipment. You can sign, Keish.”

“No,” the young girl said with a shake of her head. “He says it has to be you.”

Hayley groaned out loud and put down her soldering iron. “Is he UPS or FedEx?”

“Nope.”

“Airborne? DHL?”

“Uh-uh.”

“What's he wearing?”

Lakeisha thought for a second. “I don't know. Dark pants and a shirt?”

Exactly the kind of sneaky outfit a process server would wear.

She brushed her hands off and led the way up front. Sometimes it seemed like her ex was the gift that kept on giving. He had been in Florida now for over two years. Shouldn't he be South Beach's problem?

A handsome young man in black trousers and a freshly-pressed white shirt stepped forward from the knot of middle-schoolers in line for their daily cookie fix.

“I have a delivery for Hayley Maitland Goldstein.”

Uh-oh. One of those brightly colored cardboard envelopes perfect for delivering legal documents was tucked under his arm.

“I need to sign something?”

He handed her one of those handheld electronic thingies and a stylus.

She scribbled her name on the screen, then went back into the kitchen and dropped the envelope onto the counter near the phone.

“What's that?” Lizzie was leaning against the sink, eating the heel from a loaf of day-old rye bread.

“I thought you had debate team practice today.”

“At four,” Lizzie said. “We're out of milk upstairs.”

“Then run down to the corner and get some. I have to work on the drum set.”

Lizzie gestured toward the envelope with her piece of bread. “Aren't you going to open it?”

“Not right now.”

“Maybe he sent an autographed photo,” Lizzie said. “I checked on eBay. We could put it up for one hundred fifty dollars to start. The last one sold for two hundred seventy-five dollars. Of course, it was framed and matted, but still…”

She picked up her soldering iron. “What on earth are you talking about, Lizzie?”

“Tommy Stiles. He said he was going to send us backstage passes for his concert next week.”

She'd completely forgotten. That was the thing about waiting for the other shoe to drop. You were so busy listening for the sound that you missed everything else going on around you.

“Don't look at me that way,” she said as she pulled opened the envelope and pulled out two passes marked
ALL ACCESS
. “That's a school night. You can't go out on a school night.”

“You don't mind if I go to Aunt Michie's for dinner and taxes on a school night.”

“That's different.”

“How?”

“You're six blocks away and with family, that's how.”

“But it's still a school night.”

She slipped the passes back into the envelope and tossed the entire package onto the counter. “I'm not having this discussion, Elizabeth.”

“I'm glad I'm not all right-brained like you are,” Lizzie observed. “I believe in a logical progression of ideas.”

“You're fourteen. There is no logical progression of ideas when you're fourteen.”

“I'm all about logic!” Lizzie burst into unexpected tears. “I can't believe you don't know that about me!”

With that her very logical daughter raced back upstairs and slammed her bedroom door so hard the house rocked.

Her heart sank. Poor Lizzie was about to see her beloved logic go head-to-head with her hormones and there was nothing Hayley could do to prevent the collision.

These passionate outbursts were happening more and more often lately. One second she was the Lizzie of old and then in the blink of an eye she turned into a stranger Hayley didn't recognize, much less know how to deal with.

It happened to the best of them and the only thing a parent could do was be there to catch them when they fall.

If only Stiles had sent her all-access passes to a convent school…

Lizzie still wasn't speaking to Hayley the next morning. Even if it was nothing more than an apple and a glass of milk, they sat down together at the kitchen table every day for breakfast. Illness was the only acceptable excuse. Aunt Fiona had done that for her when she was growing up and even though Hayley had done her share of grumbling about it, she realized now the value of family time even if the family in question didn't fit the TV Land model.

She could put up with the silent treatment as long as they were together.

“Do you have band practice this afternoon?” she asked as her daughter gathered up her books.

“Yes.”

“The usual time?”

“Yes.”

So it was going to be Monosyllabic Friday. She could handle that too. “I'll pick you up at the side door at six sharp.”

“I can walk home.”

“We're having supper with Aunt Fiona tonight.”

Lizzie nodded and headed for the back stairs.

“Not so fast,” Hayley said. “You don't have to like me right now, but we don't leave without saying good-bye.”

Lizzie brushed an air kiss in the vicinity of her cheek. An odd feeling of time passing washed over Hayley and she pulled her moody young daughter into a hug.

“I don't know why we can't use those passes next week,” Lizzie said when Hayley finally let go. “I mean, this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

“I'm afraid it's going to stay a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

“You always tell me how experience is more important than money. Being backstage at a rock concert is a major experience, Mom. I don't see how we can not take advantage of the opportunity.”

Overnight the levelheaded budding scientist who took after her grandmother was showing definite signs of being her mother's daughter.

Hayley laughed despite herself. “You didn't even know who Tommy Stiles was until this whole thing started.”

“I used Google. He's old but really major.”

“I told you that.”

“I mean, one day I could tell your grandchildren about it. It would become a family legend.”

“My grandchildren?”

“This could be huge. It's like seeing the Beatles in person.”

“The Beatles broke up before I was born.”

“You know what I mean.”

“The answer is still no. You're not going to the concert.” She took a good long look at her daughter. “You don't care one bit about seeing Tommy Stiles perform, do you?”

“Sure I do.”

“Out with it,” Hayley demanded. “Why are you really so interested in going?”

“I need a reason?”

“Lizzie.”

Resentment poured off her sweet-natured daughter in almost visible waves. “Amanda's father said he'd pay me five hundred dollars if I could get Tommy Stiles to sign an album for him.”

“Meaning a real-life record album, not a CD.”

“I know what an album is, Mom.”

“You would actually charge Phil Morasco five hundred dollars for a signature on his own record album?”

“It was his idea.”

“Just because he's foolish enough to offer doesn't mean we have to be greedy enough to take him up on it.”
Please, God, don't let her start thinking like her father.
How many times had she prayed that only the best of Michael Goldstein showed up in his only child and left her innocence and generosity intact?

“I still think we should go backstage.”

“We don't know these people, honey, and we don't know who knows them. You've done setups with me before. You know what it's like. I'd love to watch a rock concert from backstage but I can't, and if I can't be there to make sure you're safe, then you're not going to be there either. Case closed.”

Lizzie got it. She didn't want to get it, but Hayley could see the beginnings of acceptance in her daughter's big blue-green eyes.

“I've gotta go,” Lizzie said. “I hear the bus.”

“Six o'clock,” Hayley reminded her once more as she darted out the door. “Don't forget!”

But Lizzie wasn't listening. She was already gone.

“Wow!” Michie circled the workbench a few hours later and nodded her head. “I don't know how you managed but you nailed it!”

“The balance is a little off on the snare drum but I'm on the right track.” Hayley had raided her stash of foam core and foam, then used her handy-dandy utility knife to cut them into the proportions she needed for the drum set. A layer of fondant, some basic decorating, and the prototype was born.

“What kind of cookies are you thinking?”

“Spice,” she said. “Somewhere between chewy and crisp. They travel better.”

“You don't think they'll break on the way to A.C.?”

“I'm going to back them with fondant-wrapped supports.”

“So why not just make the drum set from foam and foam core and decorate it?”

“Because I promised an edible drum set and an edible drum set I'm going to deliver.”

“What about the cakes?”

“Five yellow with raspberry filling, three lemon with lemon filling, two chocolate with almond butter cream.”

Michie sighed loudly. “I can't believe you're not going to use those passes.”

“I'll be busy setting up for the after-party, Mich.”

“That's why you have people. Let them do the setting up.”

“This is too important.”

“At least you're going to show up for the party,” Michie said. “You had me worried there for a while.”

“I guess I'd be crazy not to.”

“Good thinking.”

“Lizzie says I should wear the white baker's jacket and pull my hair back.”

“Minimalist in a sea of excess. A professional woman in a sea of groupies and supermodels.” Michie nodded. “Our girl has good instincts.” She cast a critical eye over Hayley.

“What's with that look?”

“Minimalism has its place but when you're over thirty-five you can't take it too far. I'm thinking liner, shadow, and maybe a few individual lashes.”

“I'll be working,” she reminded her former sister-in-law. “Schlepping cakes. Sweating over the installation.”

“So you'll do some touch-ups before the party.”

“I'll be touching up the cakes.”

“Don't fight me on this,” Michie warned. “You know cakes, but I know cosmetics and this is one battle I'm going to win.”

“This whole thing is getting way out of hand. The cakes are the star of this show, not the cake baker.”

“Who cares about the cakes! We're doing this for the guy.”

“Stiles?” Hayley was horrified. “He's old enough to be my father.”

“Not Stiles, the lawyer.”

“Not my type.” She should have thought for a second before she answered. Michie's antennae were practically doing the conga.

“Since when is tall, dark, and gorgeous not a woman's type?”

“I don't recall saying anything about him being tall or dark or gorgeous.”

“Lizzie told me.” Michie grinned. “So did Trish and Rachel. Even Lou next door said he was pretty cute.”

“He's a lawyer, Mich. He wears a suit and lace-up shoes.”

“Last I heard that's not a criminal offense.”

“It should be.”

“You know there's nothing wrong with liking a guy in a suit. Maybe it could work with this one.”

“And I suppose you heard that from Lizzie too?”

Michie's smile widened. “She said there were sparks.”

“Trust me. There were no sparks. He's a nice guy. He's fun to talk to. That's it.” Okay, so it was a bit of a lie but this was nobody's business but hers.

“Even better,” Michie said. “If there's nothing at stake, you can consider him a refresher course.”

“Okay, now you're starting to scare me.”

“When was the last time you flirted with a guy?”

“I don't know.” Hayley pondered. “Around 1993?”

“Then you're overdue. Think about it: you drop off the cakes, see a rock concert from backstage, and flirt with the kind of guy we don't usually see down here in Lakeside. And just when you think it can't get any better, he pays you for it! I mean, how great is that?”

“You make me sound like a hooker.”

“Don't twist my words. You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

The sad part was Hayley actually did. Before she married Michael she had been a world-class flirt. She loved that fizzy, frothy feeling when the chemistry between a man and woman was right. The repartee. The laughter. The champagne bubble of joy when everything was possible and nothing seemed beyond reach.

Kind of like the way she had felt every single time she spoke to Finn Rafferty.

“What's wrong?” Michie peered closely at her face. “You look weird.”

She felt weird. Light-headed, giddy, younger than she had felt in a very long time. Could this possibly have anything to do with Rafferty? She wasn't a stupid woman and she was far from naïve. How could she have missed the signs when it seemed everyone around her had seen them glowing like neon over the Vegas Strip.

“Sorry,” she said, lying through her teeth. “I was thinking about Lizzie.”

God bless old friends for understanding.

“Actually I wanted to talk to you about her,” Michie said, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I talked to Ma and she said Lizzie's been calling and e-mailing every day, trying to find Michael.”

“I thought he was staying down there with Connie.” At least that was what her ex-mother-in-law had been telling her.

“Yes and no. He comes by when he needs money and to pick up his mail. Mostly I think he's doing something we don't want to know about in the Bahamas. Somebody showed up looking for him last week and almost scared Ma into intensive care.”

“If I had my way, I'd—” Hayley stopped. “Sorry. I keep forgetting he's your brother.”

“Listen, I don't know how you stayed with him as long as you did. I would've kicked him to the curb a whole lot sooner.”

So would Hayley if it hadn't been for her beloved daughter. “She misses him so much, Michie, and there isn't anything I can do to help her.”

“She's spending part of July with Ma, isn't she?”

“And she's counting on Michael being there too.”

“Better she knows the truth. That's probably not going to happen. Besides, do you really want Lizzie in the middle of whatever he's up to? I'm not a worrier like you are, but even I'd think twice.”

Hayley had already thought about that same thing two, three, and more times than she could count. The terms of the settlement were clear. Michael had the right to spend time with Lizzie. The fact that he rarely exercised that right didn't change that, even if it did make her feel downright homicidal. Neither did the fact that his circle of acquaintances made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“I can't keep her from her grandmother, Michie. That's not fair.”

“Postpone until August when Johnny and I drive down. She can go with us.”

“Connie's sending tickets. She said she has all kinds of plans.”

Michie sighed. “Well, the good news is those plans probably won't include my brother.”

“The bad news is that Lizzie will be heartbroken.” Again.

“She's a smart girl,” Michie reminded her. “I'm sure she knows the score.”

“Not when it comes to Michael she doesn't. No matter how hard I try to prepare her, Lizzie's going to be heartbroken.”

Michie's response was unprintable. “He didn't deserve you and he doesn't deserve Lizzie.”

“I was old enough to know better,” Hayley said. “Lizzie isn't.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. You were in love.”

“Was I?” Hayley countered. “I'm not so sure.”

“I was there. I remember how it was.”

“Sometimes I think I was more in love with your family than I ever was with Michael.” After years of following Jane around the globe, she had craved the stability the Goldstein clan offered her. The fact that Michael was sexy, cute, and more than a little dangerous had only been icing on a very delicious cake.

“What I'm saying is that Michael had nothing to do with the way she turned out. It's you, Hayley. We all know that.” She paused for effect. “Even Ma knows it.”

She brushed away the compliment. “I try to understand how Lizzie feels, but I grew up without a father and never felt the loss. It's hard to really grasp what's going on inside her head.”

“You know Daddy loved you like a daughter, don't you?”

She smiled at Michie. “I know and I loved him too. It's just this connection Lizzie has with her dad is something I'll never fully get and it makes it hard to know what to say.”

“She told Ma that she can't wait until she's old enough to get her license. Then she can drive down there anytime she wants.”

Hayley shivered. “Something new to add to the worry list. Thanks, pal.”

“I'm just saying.”

“I know.” And she did. “I've tried to be both mother and father to her, but I'm not even sure what a father is supposed to do.” Her father-in-law Stan had served as her role model but even his good example lost something in the translation. “All I know is that Michael has to be in Florida when she visits, Michie. He
will
be there.”

“Don't bet on it,” Michie said. “And if you're smart, you'll make sure our Lizzie doesn't bet on it either.”

 

“This is Finn Rafferty. Leave a message.”

“Your machine didn't beep. Oh, wait! This isn't a machine, is it? This is your cell number so it's probably voice mail. I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry. Anyway, this is Hayley Goldstein. It's Friday afternoon around four. I wanted to thank Mr. Stiles for the backstage passes but I don't have a number for him so if you could tell him that—see? I'm rambling again. The thing is, I'd love to watch the show backstage but I'm going to be busy setting up for the after-party, so I was wondering if it would be okay if Lizzie and her aunt Michelle use them instead. No offense meant to Mr. Stiles because, trust me, I'd love the chance to be there myself but—”

She didn't run out of breath. She ran out of time.

“This is Finn Rafferty. Leave a message.”

“Sorry. I know I'm starting to sound like a phone stalker but I got cut off. Well, I didn't really get cut off, not in the disconnected sense of getting cut off, the machine—Anyway, I'd really love to be there and see the concert from backstage but there's a lot of work surrounding the setup for the party so I really need to concentrate on that. Let me know if Lizzie and Michelle can use the passes and please, please tell Mr. Stiles how much I appreciate that he thought of us and—”

She was single-handedly filling up his voice mailbox.

Call Finn Rafferty a third time in as many minutes? Absolutely, positively not. Not even for her beloved daughter. She would send him a telegram first.

“This is Finn Rafferty. Leave a message.”

“Okay. It's Hayley. I promise you this is my last phone call. No matter what. Really. Thanks again to Tommy. I mean, Mr. Stiles. Call me and let me know about the passes. I'm going to lose your number now.”

That should do it.

Long Island—Near the Queens/Nassau County Border

“What's with that phone?” Zach asked as they climbed back into the Escalade in front of the Great Neck police station. “It never stops ringing.”

“It's not ringing, stupid,” his brother Winston pointed out. “It's vibrating.”

The bigger question, Finn thought, was why the mention of words like “vibrate” turned them into snickering blobs of testosterone.

“I'm letting the calls roll straight into voice mail,” he said pointedly, more to Tommy than to the boys. Sloan, Willow's lawyer, had been phoning on the hour for an update on the Hayley Goldstein situation, which wasn't a topic he wanted to discuss in front of Zach and Winston.

“Finn's an attorney,” Tommy reminded his errant sons, who were looking a little suspicious. “He gets a lot of calls.” His voice lowered into the pissed-off-father register. “Like the call he got earlier about your dumb-ass stunt.”

The snickers and smirks disappeared, replaced by that blank mask of put-upon teen angst.

“We borrowed the car,” Winston mumbled. “What's the big deal.”

Tommy began listing the transgressions starting with taking the car without permission and ending with driving without license or registration. “I expect better from you. I'm disappointed.”

He had seen Tommy yell at his kids, ground them, take away their allowances. He had witnessed time-outs, serious negotiations, and flat-out warfare and every single time he had come away thinking he had wasted his time at law school. Want to learn the fine art of successful negotiation? Spend five minutes with the parent of teenagers and you'd learn all you would ever need to know.