Now You See Me (8 page)

“Hard enough to cramp his style, at least. It’s tough to totally wear out a kid that age.”

“Why?”

He had half a dozen answers, most of which were so ill-formed and illogical that he couldn’t speak them aloud. How to tell her he wanted to ease some of her burden, smooth the worry lines from around her eyes?

He settled for the one reason that made sense, the one that had hit home when he saw Ben’s room. “He reminds me of myself.”

Too late, he realized that might not be considered a compliment in certain circles. Luckily, Lydia didn’t seem to care—at least if the way she almost bounced out of the chair was any indication.

“I honestly don’t know how to thank you. That’s so generous, I—”

“It’s pure selfishness. I’m getting too old to keep bending over, picking up dropped nails.”

“It’s a lot more than that to me. And Ben.” She gave a short laugh, as if in disbelief. “Give me a minute to catch up. Um, when do you want him to start? What exactly would he be doing? Oh, and he’ll be gone for three weeks later in the summer, is that a problem?”

“I can work around it. Maybe we’ll be finished with the cottages and ready for something else by then. Where’s he going?”

“Science camp in Toronto. It’s his big summer adventure. Sara went to Vancouver, he gets to be a total geek for three weeks and Tish is going to—”

She stopped abruptly.

“Let me guess. Tish will be going to spy school and you forgot that you weren’t supposed to tell.”

“What?” Again she laughed, higher this time, almost nervously. What had caused that? “No, no, she’s going to Disney with Ruth. I just... I’m sorry, I just realized something for the first time. Anyway. Ben. Thank you.” She leaned forward, placed a warm palm on his forearm as if to pat it, then pulled back abruptly. Damn. He’d been looking forward to a couple more seconds.

“Um, J.T., since you’re here and we’re talking about unpleasant things already, I have to tell you. There’s a problem with the sale.”

Crap.
“What is it?”

“My loan request was turned down.”

Jillian.
“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“Did they give you a reason?”

Her laugh was bitter. “Oh, yeah. Ted said—”

“Hang on,” he said, all vengeful thoughts of the mayor momentarily knocked aside. “Ted McFarlane?”

“Mmm-hmm. He’s the manager down at the bank.”

“
Ted
is a bank manager? Do you know how many times he had to take grade nine math?”

Her laugh was far too short. “To his credit—well, maybe not—anyway, I don’t think he’s the one really responsible for turning me down.”

“Of course not. It’s Jillian. She wants some potato-chip guy to get the buildings. She can’t get it through her head that she has no say in who buys my property.”

“Bingo. She believes she’s doing what’s best for the town, and if that means I have to move, she’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that happens.”

“She always was a determined one.” And no way in hell was he going to let her do this.

“Yeah, well, so am I. I’ll apply to another bank. It’s going to slow things down, I’m sorry, but—”

“Do you want to move?”

“No.”

“Even though you know that you’re going to end up on Jillian’s naughty list?”

“At the moment, I couldn’t care less.” She stared into the night, the tight curl of her toes negating her casual air. “Well, yes. I do care. But I’m not giving up. Not that easily.”

“What would you think of me holding the mortgage?”

Her feet thunked to the floor as she twisted to face him. Surprise widened her eyes, brought a joyful light to them for a fraction of a second before something shuttered them down.

“No.”

“No? Lydia, I’m offering you the perfect way out of this. You can tell Ted and the rest of the town to do whatever they want. If you want to buy the properties, they’re yours.”

“I said no.”

“Are you—”

“Damn it, J.T., no!”

Well, hell.
He could understand it if she’d said she didn’t want to have to deal with the fallout. Or that she wanted a regular mortgage, or had changed her mind about the whole thing. But this made no sense. She acted like she was pissed as hell, and it was directed at him. “Can I ask why not?”

“I don’t trust your motives.”

Crap.

He took a deep breath and leaned forward, giving himself time to get the words right. “Okay, look. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t find you attractive. I like you, Lydia. But if you think I’m offering this to try to get you to—hell, you don’t think I’m that much of a jerk, do you?”

For a second she did nothing but stare at him with her mouth slightly open. Then she went very, very red.

Crap squared.

“Oh, my God. That’s not what I—oh, geez, I messed that up so badly, I...” She buried her face in her hands and kind of shook for a moment. He had the awful feeling she was crying. He hated watching women cry.

But when she raised her face to look at him, he saw no tears glinting in the porch light—just total mortification.

“Um...J.T., I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

Great. He’d just admitted an attraction to a woman who didn’t think of him that way at all.

“Well, this is awkward.”

She leaned back in the chair—probably so she wouldn’t have to look at him—and stared up at the sky as she spoke.

“I don’t think you’re a jerk. Okay, maybe a little that first day when you came strutting in doing your king-of-the-castle thing. But since then, no. You’re on my side and listened and you’re helping with my kid and you...well, you’ve done everything right. But it’s too much. I can’t accept anything else.”

“Lydia—”

“Lyddie. Please. Only my mother-in-law calls me Lydia.”

“Okay, Lyddie. Everything I’ve done has worked to my advantage, too. Selling to you is easier than to someone else. Having Ben help will get me through my work faster. Holding the mortgage is financially good for me, since I’ll be getting the interest.”

“Those are fringe benefits. You know that’s not why you’re doing any of this.”

“And you have a window to my mind that lets you see my thoughts? Even those that I seem to be missing?”

“I don’t need a window.” Her voice hardened. “I’m living it. And it’s getting to me.”

“You want to tell me what I’m doing so wrong, since I’m clueless?”

“You bought in to the guilt.”

Glenn. She had to be talking about Glenn.

“You think I’m doing these things because I feel sorry for you.”

She seemed to pull deeper into her chair, as if withdrawing from his words. “Essentially.”

Oh, shit.
How was he supposed to answer that one?

Did he feel sorry for her? Well, yeah. He didn’t belong to the cult that practically worshiped Glenn—after all, the guy was another of the ones who had left him to face the fire all alone—but still, he hadn’t deserved what had happened to him. Neither did Lyddie.

So when did it become wrong to give a helping hand to someone who could use it?

“And if that was my sole reason—which it’s not—why would that be a bad thing?”

“Because...well... Do you have any idea how people talk about me here? Poor Lydia Brewster. She’s so brave. Carrying on after her husband died making sure we were all safe. She’s so noble, so strong, we owe her so much—”

She erupted from the chair, holding her arms rigidly across her chest as if she were afraid she would explode. “I’m so sick of it. So damned tired of being put up on a pedestal like some unfeeling statue. I’m real and human and I’m afraid if it keeps up I’ll—”

Again she stopped. This time, though, he got the feeling she wasn’t about to say more. This time he was pretty sure she thought she’d said way too much.

What she didn’t know was that she’d spilled her guts to one of the few people in town who could understand.

“You’re afraid that if you keep living with that reputation, you’ll start believing it yourself.”

She plopped back into the chair like a marionette whose strings had just been severed. “How did—”

“Been there, done that.”

She opened her mouth then closed it again, fast, before looking away. Embarrassed, most likely.

“Look, Lyddie. Here’s the truth. Yes, I want to give you a hand. Not because I think you’re some kind of martyr,” he said quickly when she started to bristle. “But I meant what I said. It makes sense. It’s the easiest course of action. Yeah, I think you got a raw deal, but since it helps me to help you, I don’t see the point in not doing what’s best for both of us.”

She started to say something, then stopped and pulled her knee up, hugging it close to her chest.

“You might call that pity,” he said softly when it became apparent that she was thinking over his answer. “But in my book, wanting to help someone I like sounds more like friendship.”

“Friends?”

She seemed to appreciate that idea. For a moment he debated telling her the truth about Glenn. Would it help? She’d said in the cemetery that she wanted her kids to know who he’d really been, and hell, learning that he’d been one of the fire gang would sure twist his image around.

But she’d said nothing about Glenn himself tonight, just about her and what she was living. And there was a world of difference between hearing that someone had almost accidentally poisoned the science teacher and learning that even a hero had once been guilty of cowardice.

After all, the last thing people want to change is their minds.

So he pushed thoughts of Glenn aside and nodded. “Friends who can help each other. Can you handle that?”

“Promise you’ll never say I’m being brave?”

“Promise.”

She chewed on her lip for a second before nodding. “Okay. I’ll call my lawyer tomorrow.”

“Me, too.”

Her sudden grin all but made her face shine in the night. “Should we swear a blood oath, or is a handshake enough?”

“I’ll pass on the blood, thanks.” But the thought of one more touch was too tempting to resist. He swiveled to face her and crooked his little finger in her direction. “Forget the handshake. There’s no contract more binding than a pinky swear.”

She laughed, a wave of delight that made him tilt a little closer to her. She slipped forward on the edge of her chair and linked her finger through his—and then the laughter erupted for real.

“What’s so funny?”

“This is silly.”

“I disagree. Pinky swears are sacred.”

She shook her head. “So, do we say some special words, or what?”

“I think...” But that was as far as he got. She was so close. Their knees were just millimeters apart, their fingers entwined in a tease of contact. The vanilla scent that clung to her reached out to him, drawing him even nearer. The precise steps of a pinky swear were long lost in his memory, but he suddenly knew exactly what he wanted to do next.

He wanted to kiss Lydia Brewster. Wanted to taste her, to touch her, to pull her close and feel her softness against him.

And from the way her breath had started coming faster, he’d bet she wanted it, too.

Her lips parted.

His hand twisted to make full contact with hers, palm-to-palm, skin-to-skin, heat-to-heat.

Her eyes opened wide. Not with fear or dread, but with something that looked like anticipation.

His knee brushed hers. They both jumped, but neither pulled back....

Until he remembered what they were doing.

This was a business deal. They were forging an agreement that would benefit both of them, true, but it was still business. If he kissed her now she would never believe what he’d said about not wanting to help her just to score points.

If he gave in and kissed her now, he would kick himself forever. He didn’t want to pair a first kiss with a mortgage.

He was going to kiss her someday. But it was going to wait for its own time, with no talk of mortgages and deeds to complicate the issue.

So he let his hand slide a bit more against hers before closing the grasp and turning the touch into a quick handshake.

“Well, then.” He was still holding her hand when he stood, but he let go as quickly as he could. “Right. I’ll be in touch. Soon.”

She rose more slowly, moving like she was shaking off a particularly strong anesthetic.

“Okay. Um, J.T.?”

He halted midway to the steps, hoping she wasn’t going to slow his flight. If he didn’t leave now he didn’t know how much longer he could maintain his honorable intentions. He had his limits.

“Do you... Would you like...?”

Yes, he did. And hell, yeah, he sure would.

She inhaled sharply and squared her shoulders. “What time should I get Ben to you tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about it. I have to go past here to get to the cottages, anyway. I’ll pick him up, say, around eight-thirty.” He dredged up a slightly rakish grin. “Warn your mother-in-law.”

“I will. Thanks. Again.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and realized those were probably the truest words he’d spoken since he walked back into town.

CHAPTER SIX

W
HACK
!

Around half-past dawn the next morning, Lyddie wrestled the ax from the fire-softened wood of the stubborn old stump and hauled it over her head once again.

Lift, aim,
whack!

She hadn’t expected to sleep. Once J.T. vaulted off the porch and drove away, she fully expected to spend the night counting ceiling tiles in a futile attempt at calming herself enough to doze off. But to her amazement she’d fallen into a swift, deep sleep. No dreams she could remember—though depending on the subject, she might have welcomed them—but she slept so soundly that when she woke abruptly around four-thirty, she was up for the day. Wide-awake, jumpy and buzzed enough even without caffeine that she could put herself out of business.

Then, of course, the memories flooded in. Memories...and more. Because she couldn’t keep herself from imagining what might have happened if J.T. had leaned forward instead of jerking back.

As soon as it was light enough to see, she’d pulled on shorts and an old T-shirt and headed out to the yard to work off some of the restlessness. Tish’s and Ben’s bedrooms faced the backyard, and Ruth had been known to sleep through children shrieking right outside her door, so Lyddie felt safe in taking out this strange mood on the stump.

Whack!

She would never want to return to the days when chopping wood was a necessity, but there was something soothing in the work. You lifted the ax, you swung, it hit. Sometimes it bounced a bit, sometimes a chip flew a bit too close, but as long as you were careful, that was as exciting as it got. It was predictable. It warmed the muscles and calmed the spirit.

It was nothing like J.T.

The first time she met him, he’d seemed so badass, skating into the shop and making it obvious that he wasn’t there to court favor with anyone. Yet here he was doing everything he could to make sure she could stay in the building.

She should have been grateful. She
was
grateful. Except...

She stopped, breathing heavily, and wiped sweat from her forehead. Except, she admitted, she was afraid that despite his assurances otherwise, he’d fallen into the Young-Widow-Brewster mentality. That he was cutting her a break, not because of her, but because of Glenn and all that had happened. That he pitied her.

God, she hated pity.

And the thought of being pitied by J.T. was worst of all. She didn’t want the widow card to factor in to her interactions with him. She wanted the building, welcomed his assistance, but only for the right reasons. Like, he respected her business ability. Or for the reason he stated, that he understood her desire to keep this connection to Glenn for the kids. Or—if she were being honest, since it was damned hard to lie to herself at dark-thirty in the morning—because he was hot for her bod.

Whack!

Okay, it was probably better that something had made him back off. Necking on the porch like a teenager wouldn’t have been a great idea, especially with Ruth due home at any moment. But still—she hauled the ax up again—still, it had been four years since she’d felt anything resembling interest in a man. Now she’d felt it twice in a month, both times with him. It had been kind of nice to experience that reawakening.

Maybe she should have a fling with him. Partway through the discussion last night it had hit her that everyone was going to be gone for a couple of weeks. She was going to be alone. All day, and all through those hot summer nights. What better way to pass the time than playing Sleeping Beauty to J.T.’s Prince with a Crooked Crown?

That would make folks stop thinking about her as the Young Widow Brewster, for sure.

Of course, it would be even more difficult to shake off a label like town tramp, but at least it would be a hell of a lot more fun.

She snickered aloud at the thought—Lydia Brewster having a wanton fling—and raised the ax for one final blow. She’d made progress on the stump and made good use of the nervous energy. Not as good as if she had J.T. here, of course, but—

“Lydia!”

The sound of Ruth calling her name interrupted Lyddie’s wayward thoughts, replacing them immediately with worry. Her mother-in-law, wrapped in a red plaid flannel robe, hurried toward her.

“Ruth? What’s wrong? Is it one of the kids?”

“No, no.” Ruth shook her head, dislodging one of the fat pink curlers she wore every night. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the phone. “You have a call. Zoë.”

“The baby?”

Ruth’s smile was tired but indulgent. “Talk to her and see.”

Lyddie pulled the phone to her ear. “Zo?”

“Congratulations, auntie. You finally have a niece.”

Zoë sounded tired but happy as she relayed the details of little Emily Suzanne’s arrival. Lyddie walked slowly to the house as she listened, not at all surprised to learn that her sudden awakening had happened right about the time Zoë started pushing. She and Zo had always had a special bond that alerted them when something was up with the other.

And it was a lot more comforting than thinking she had jolted awake merely because of the memory of J.T.

“How’s my Sara?” she asked when she reached the garage. She twisted to hang the ax on its hooks without losing grip on the phone.

“Having a blast. And she’s so good with the boys, a real godsend. I’m going to hate to lose her in the fall.”

Lyddie winced. “Zo, this isn’t like when you borrowed my favorite jeans back in school. You have your own daughter now. You can’t have mine, too.”

“I know, I know. But she’s a great kid. Oh, and the clarinet teacher said she’s one of the most gifted she’s ever seen. She’s hunting for someone closer to you who can keep teaching Sara, even just once or twice a month.”

The words brought both pride and pain. Of course Lyddie wanted Sara to excel, wanted to know that her daughter could do well at something she loved so dearly. But could she, Lyddie, nurture that gift the way it required? Especially here in Comeback Cove?

“Oops, I have to go. Kevin just got back from the cafeteria and, God love him, he found me a cheeseburger! Call you later.”

Lyddie hung up and hurried back to the house. She was going to be late unless she got moving.

Ruth sat in the kitchen, hunched over a cup of tea. She looked up when Lyddie entered.

“Is everything all right?”

“Wonderful. A girl. Seven pounds twelve ounces. Emily Suzanne.”

“What a lovely, old-fashioned name.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Lyddie considered heading straight to the shower but decided she needed a bite first. She opened the fridge and rooted among the leftovers.

“Sorry she woke you,” she called over her shoulder. “Zoë knew I’d be up already and wanted to catch me before work. She figured I’d get it before it disturbed anyone.”

Ruth waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that. I never minded losing sleep for a baby. But I did get a bit of a start when you weren’t in the house.”

“Of all the mornings, huh?” Lyddie grabbed a bowl of leftover mac and cheese. She decided against mentioning her bond with Zoë. Ruth would find it too woo-woo for words.

Besides, there was another matter to discuss.

“Ben had a little excitement last night.” She gave Ruth an abbreviated version of the evening’s activities, focusing on stabbing her macaroni whenever she had to mention J.T. She ended by saying, “So anyway, J.T. will swing by around eight-thirty to pick him up.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

Lyddie had an idea what was coming. “It seems like an ideal solution to me.”

“Lydia, if you want the boy to stay
out
of trouble, I hardly think J. T. Delaney is the man for the job.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’ll be able to anticipate what Ben might do and head him off at the pass. You know, that whole past-experience thing?”

“This is hardly a joking matter. Surely you don’t want that man having an influence on Glenn’s son?”

He’s my son, too.
Lyddie smothered the thought beneath a mouthful of pasta. This was an old bone between her and Ruth, and she had neither the time nor the desire to get into it again.

She bought herself a few seconds to cool down as she chewed and swallowed. Then she said, “You know, everyone talks about him like he’s the devil incarnate, but he seems pretty normal to me.” Maybe as
hot
as the devil when he wore those tight shirts, but was that such a sin?

Ruth compressed her lips into a thin, very straight line. “You weren’t here back then. You have no idea what he did to this town.”

“Actually, I do. And I agree, it was pretty awful. But you know, he was never charged, which makes me think there was no proof other than his reputation. And—” she pointed her fork in Ruth’s direction “—it’s been twenty-five years. He was just a kid. Didn’t anyone else in this town ever do something stupid or crazy?”

Two spots of red appeared in Ruth’s cheeks. She stared at the table. “Not like he did.”

“He’s an adult now. He could have changed.”

“He
could
have.” But there was no doubt that Ruth considered that about as likely as snow in August.

She was tempted—so tempted—to tell Ruth about the building, and the mortgage. But until she and J.T. ironed out the details, she didn’t feel right discussing it with anyone else. “Well, all I know is he’s being very generous to me and Ben. And now I’m going to shower and check on that ankle before letting our resident delinquent know that he gets to do an honest day’s work today.”

Ruth sniffed the way she did when she wanted to say something but was forcing herself to stay silent. For her part, Lyddie fought down a most inappropriate grin—but only until she cleared the kitchen. Then, she grabbed the lowest railing on the hall banister and swung herself onto the bottom step, arms outstretched like a dancer.

She had a niece. Ben was heading off to his first job. She was going to buy the building.

And J. T. Delaney had been
this close
to kissing her.

If ever there were a day to start making changes, this was it. She refused to spend the rest of her life trapped in an outdated reputation like J.T. had been forced to do. He would be leaving at the end of the summer. She wouldn’t. So from here on in, she was letting the town know that there was more to her than just what they wanted to see. Goodbye, Young Widow Brewster.

Of course, once people found out that J.T. was holding the mortgage—and since this was Comeback Cove, that would be common knowledge before the end of the week—she might not have to worry. There would be more than one tongue insisting she was sleeping with the enemy, and not just in the metaphorical sense.

She could only be so lucky.

* * *

E
AGER
TO
START
the transformation she had decided she needed, Lyddie took the opening steps right away. She raced through a shower and was about to pull on her usual wardrobe of capri pants and a polo shirt when she stopped. Why not wear something different? Sure, it was a cliché, but if she wanted people to stop thinking of her as a dowdy aging widow, she would have to stop dressing the part.

She knew she’d succeeded when she walked into the shop and jolted Nadine out of her early-morning stupor.

“Whoa. What are you all dolled up for?”

Lyddie brushed the crinkly turquoise skirt and tugged at the matching tie-dyed T-shirt. It had been one of Glenn’s favorite outfits. “Nothing. I just felt like doing something different.”

“Different. Right.” Nadine smirked behind the rim of her mug. “What time’s your hair appointment?”

“I haven’t made one.”

“Yet?”

Lyddie conceded defeat. “Okay. I left a message on Marsha’s machine begging her to work me in this afternoon. How did you guess?”

“You’ve been acting jittery lately. I figured you were either bored or planning to spike Jillian’s morning coffee.”

Lovely. She put her soul on her sleeve and it was dismissed as homicidal. “Strawberry muffins today.” Lyddie reached into her supersize purse and brought out the pack of pinecone-shaped candles Sara had given to her on her last birthday. Nadine snickered.

“You changing the music, too, boss?”

“Honestly. You think I’m so predictable.” Lyddie closed the bag before Nadine could spot the handful of CDs she’d grabbed from the car. “For your information, I’m celebrating. My new niece was born this morning.”

“Congratulations. Does she know her aunt is a nutcase?”

“Her aunt is not a nutcase. Her aunt is just...well...tired of people looking at her and thinking ‘Glenn’s widow’ when they should be thinking just ‘Lyddie.’”

Nadine set the tray back on the butcher-block table and came around to where Lyddie stood, running her finger around and around the rim of a sugar bowl. Lyddie braced for one of Nadine’s infamous grab-’em-by-the-shoulders-and-shake-some-sense-into-’em lectures. To her surprise, the older woman pulled her into a long, hard embrace.

“Well, it’s about time,” Nadine said softly.

“What’s that mean?”

“You’ve been here, working in Bud’s place, living with Ruth, for four years now. That’s more than anyone should have to handle.” Two hard thumps to her back brought tears to Lyddie’s eyes. “We’ll miss you, but it’s better for you.”

“What?” Lyddie pulled herself from the hug that was suddenly a lot less comforting. “What are you talking about? I’m not leaving, I just want to change the way people think of me.”

“Then you’re gonna have to leave. Once this town has you pegged, that’s it.”

“No way.”

“You see anyone cutting J.T. any slack? That boy went out and made something of himself. Iris says he’s a teacher now, a respectable man, but does anyone ever mention that?”

“That’s different. I haven’t done anything to live down. I just want people to see there’s more to me.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I’m committed to spending the rest of my life here. I need to make sure I don’t go crazy in the process.”

“You sure? Insanity makes the winters a hell of a lot easier.”

“Nadine...”