The Sweetheart Bargain (A Sweetheart Sisters Novel) (13 page)

Luke’s hand traveled down the golden’s body, shifting his touch to a gentle one when he hit the shaved area along one flank. The bare skin startled him, and his hand followed it to the hard edges of a bandage and tape. “Been through a lot, haven’t you?”

The dog’s tail just kept on thumping against the back of Luke’s leg. Silent assent.

“You and me both.” In his other hand, Luke fingered the envelope. He thought of the bandages and wounds he had. Wounds he wasn’t sure would ever heal. All the while, the dog pressed against him, friendly, happy, as if he hadn’t been found half-starved and injured a few days earlier. Even now, ready to start over, to trust again, to open his heart to humans.

“All right,” Luke said, to the dog, to himself, to the envelope. “All right.” Then he made the journey down the driveway to the mailbox. The dog kept pace beside Luke, so close his tail tickled the skin of Luke’s calves. The dog dropped to his haunches, waiting while Luke opened the plastic door, slid the envelope in, and propped up the red flag.

“All right,” Luke said again, then lowered himself beside the dog and buried his face in the golden’s fur.

* * *

Greta loved her son, she really did, but there were days when she could see a viable case for throttling him. “How did I raise such a stubborn child?” she asked Edward.

He sat across from her in a corner booth at Suzy’s Family Dining. The breakfast crowd of snowbirds filled the cozy country-themed restaurant, strategically located a block away from Golden Years. Suzy herself often played hostess and pitched in to clear tables or carry orders. The scent of bacon and coffee filled the air, and the low hum of conversation rose and fell in waves.

Edward arched a brow. “You, of all people, are wondering where I got my stubborn gene from?”

Goodness, what was with people calling her stubborn lately? Didn’t they see she was just trying to do what was right for her grandson? That made her loving, not mulish. Well, maybe a little mulish. But for a good cause, so it didn’t count.

She and Edward visited this topic at least once a week, during their morning breakfasts. She always asked if he’d seen Luke lately, and Edward always had a reason why he hadn’t visited his only child. Too busy, too much travel . . . whatever. She’d gotten tired of the standoff game these two played and the wall between them that neither seemed interested in breaking down.

“I might be stubborn, but I’m also reasonable,” she said. “You aren’t being reasonable.”

Edward scowled. It was an expression Greta knew well because she often saw it on the other stubborn Winslow male—Luke. “I have tried to talk to my son, Mother, and he is not interested in talking with me. Besides, I’ve been traveling—”

“Excuses. Again.” Greta reached for the syrup, ignored Mr. Bossy Pants’s pointed disapproval, and sent her pancakes swimming in a maple pond. If it were up to Edward, Greta would be eating nothing but vegetables and salmon all day, and taking enough vitamins to choke a horse. She’d gotten to eighty-three without his help and by God, she was going to get to eighty-four the same way. Just to watch the constipated look on Edward’s face, Greta added a pat of butter to her pancakes, too. “Luke needs his family right now, more than ever.”

The waitress came by just then, saving Edward from answering. Greta sat back while the girl refilled their coffee mugs. The girl’s name flitted away from Greta’s brain, though Greta remembered the waitress was Merle Parker’s granddaughter, a little spit of a thing, barely out of high school, but fast on the refills and good with the order details. “Thank you,” Greta said.

“No problem, Mrs. Winslow.” She slid a piece of paper between the salt and pepper. “There’s your check, whenever you’re ready.”

Edward was already reaching for his wallet. Greta put up a hand to stop him. “Is your ass on fire?” she asked. “Because we’ve only been here ten minutes and you’re already getting ready to leave.”

“I have court in thirty minutes, Mother. I don’t have time—”

“You don’t want to talk about it, is what you’re really saying.” Greta shook her head. “I swear, if I hadn’t seen your birth, I’d question whether you had any of my DNA. Whether you see it or not, you’re a lot like your father, God rest his soul.”

Edward snorted. “Dad never had a serious conversation in his life.”

Her late husband, Edward senior, had been the only person who could always make her laugh but had also never been one for long talks or big arguments. He’d lived in a bubble that revolved around his law firm and his family and had left the heavy lifting to Greta. He was a good man but never really plugged into the family. Maybe that was where Edward got this distance from, because it sure hadn’t come from Greta. “In the end, your father always did what was right. And took care of his family.”

That scowl returned to Edward’s face. “I have taken care of my family, Mother. I’ve done nothing
but
do that since Lisa died. I worked seventy hours a week to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies and the tuition paid at Luke’s school. I was there for him.”

“You were there for him financially, yes, but he needed a father who gave him love, acceptance, support. Then and now.” Ever since the day her daughter-in-law had died in a car accident, leaving Edward a widowed, clueless single father, Greta had stepped in as surrogate mother to Luke. She’d hoped in time Edward would come around and do the job himself. Instead he’d worked. And worked. And worked. And his son had grown up without him hardly noticing. Now they were two adults who shared little more than the same blood type, and it hurt Greta’s heart to see it.

Edward shook his head, then slid a twenty in with the bill. “That’s where you’re wrong. He’s never needed any of those things from me.”

Greta watched him walk away. She pushed the pancakes to the side, her appetite gone. How she wanted her boys to bury the hatchet, before it was too late and she was gone. As much as she liked to think she was going to be around a long time, just to torture Harold Twohig, Greta could hear the ticking of Mother Nature’s clock. Every year, that witch seemed to speed up the second hand. Which meant Greta needed to take some drastic measures to get these two stubborn men to stop butting heads and instead start
thinking
with their heads.

Eight

Three days.

Olivia had dropped that little DNA connection bombshell in her sister’s lap, and then, after an awkward couple minutes of small talk, grabbed her purse and left. Diana’s office had called regularly with updates on Chance’s progress, but Diana herself hadn’t called. And when Olivia had gone in to pick up Chance yesterday, Diana hadn’t been there.

The dog had a ways to go in his recovery, but he had put on a few pounds in the days he’d been at the vet’s. His eyes seemed brighter, his coat shinier. He was up and moving around within an hour of Olivia bringing him home, all signs she took as good portents for the future.

For three days, Olivia went to work, came home, worked on the house, and called it therapy. She ripped down wallpaper, tore up carpet, and demolished walls, until she collapsed into bed at the end of the day, exhausted and sweaty. At night, Chance curled up on the floor by her bed, while Miss Sadie took the foot of the queen-sized bed, her little head hanging over the edge, watching the newcomer with wary interest.

Today was Saturday, which gave Olivia a full day of working on the house. More like destroying it, given how much trash she’d carted outside. Earlier this morning, Chance had wandered next door when Olivia let him out, something he’d done the day before, too. As far as Olivia could tell, Chance spent his time outside hanging out either under the shelter’s roof or in Luke’s yard. The dog really seemed to have taken a shine to Luke, whether Luke liked it or not. The thought made her smile. Miss Sadie stayed glued to Olivia’s heels, a bouncing bundle of energy, glad to have her mistress’s undivided attention.

With a huff, Olivia stuffed one more bag into the trash barrel, then tipped the brown plastic container on its wheels and hauled it down the driveway. The wheels groaned under the burden. Just as she set the barrel beside the boxes she’d hauled to the sidewalk earlier, Olivia saw Greta marching down the sidewalk, carrying a white plastic bag. Her bright blue sweater and pale gray pants offset the white curls on her head and the white sneakers she wore. She had on oversized sunglasses that nearly dwarfed her features.

She started waving the second she saw Olivia. “Olivia! Just the person I wanted to see!”

Olivia laughed. “You just did see me. Yesterday. At Golden Years. And I’ll be back there Monday.” She brushed the bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “But it’ll be nice to have some company. I’ve started having political debates with the dogs. Definitely a sign I’ve been working on this house too long and spending too much time by myself.”

Solitude had been the one by-product of moving to Rescue Bay that Olivia had underestimated. She was used to having friends nearby, relatives a quick T ride away. She talked to her mom almost every day, but outside her job at Golden Years, her social life was almost nonexistent. She missed the impromptu visits of friends and the last-minute nights on the town or trips to the mall and girls’ day at the beauty salon. Soon as she had the bulk of the repairs done on this house, she vowed to work on making some friends in Rescue Bay.

Then she thought of the ten-page to-do list she’d created, and realized she might be collecting social security before that happened.

“I bet you haven’t eaten a single healthy thing today,” Greta said, leaning in and giving Olivia an inquisitive eye, looking a lot like Olivia’s own grandmother when she did that. “Probably wolfed down one of those cardboard granola bars for breakfast and worked straight through lunch.”

Olivia chuckled. Greta knew her well. “Is that dietary criticism from the woman who throws out everything green on her plate?” Olivia wagged a finger at Greta. “Don’t think the kitchen staff at Golden Years hasn’t noticed you stuffing the broccoli into your napkin.”

Greta raised her chin. “I am old enough and wise enough to say no to vegetables. At my age, I should be allowed to eat cake all day.”

“I agree. Though I don’t think Doc Harper would.”

Greta waved off the mention of the internist. “That man thinks brussels sprouts are delicious. If you ask me, he isn’t right in the head.” She hoisted the bag in her hand. “That’s why I brought us some world-famous Rescue Bay deli turkey sandwiches.
If
your world is composed of downtown Rescue Bay, that is.” Greta rolled her eyes. “That Randy has illusions of grandeur. He always did like to exaggerate—just ask his ex-girlfriends.”

“Greta!”

“Hey, it’s a small town. People tell you way more than you want to know.” Greta made another face, her nose wrinkling. “And believe me, there are some things I know about people that would give a clown nightmares.”

What else do you know about Bridget Tuttle?

That question had lingered on Olivia’s tongue for days, ever since she’d told the women in the quilting club that she owned the house. But every time she got close to asking them for more information, Olivia changed her mind. The craving to know was quickly overpowered by her fear of what she’d find out. Would the answers be worse than the questions?

After all, her sister didn’t want anything to do with Olivia, and her biological mother had left Olivia nothing more than a huge headache of a renovation project. As far as Olivia could tell, Bridget hadn’t been very social or interested in anything other than the rescue shelter. Olivia had come all the way to Florida with a dream of a mother who had loved her, had left her some kind of letter or journal, or some kind of answers, and instead there’d been nothing. The connection she’d always craved turned out to be as whisper-thin as the clouds in the sky.

Greta pressed the bag of sandwiches into Olivia’s hands. “Here. Have lunch with an old lady. Then we can both tell Doc Harper we did one healthy thing today. The man will probably keel over with joy.”

Olivia readied an excuse, thinking of the work still left to do before the sun set today, but Greta was right. She had barely had time to do much more than gulp a cup of coffee and gnaw on a day-old bagel for breakfast. She accepted the bag with a grateful thanks and peeked inside. “There are three sandwiches in here.”