There's Only Been You (2 page)

Sara poured her a cup of the aromatic, vanilla-flavored Icing on the Cake, snapped on a plastic lid, then slid one of the gooey cinnamon rolls into a bag. The usual rush of pride swelled her chest when she read the words
Sara's Bakery
in dark pink print on the front of the bag.

"Your cake's in the big cooler; I'll be right back.” When she returned, she set the square white box on the counter and proudly flipped open the lid.

"Holy Strawberry Shortcake, Sara, it's perfect!” Nancy declared. “I can't believe you drew her from memory.” She dug out her wallet. “So how much do I owe you? And don't say ‘nothing'; we've already been over that."

"Twenty-four fifty.” Sara reluctantly accepted the two twenties Nancy handed her and counted out her change.

"I can't wait to show Shelly.” Nancy slung her purse over her shoulder and picked up her goodies. “Her eyes are going to light up like sparklers."

"If she's even half as excited as you, I'll be thrilled. See you at the party."

As Nancy walked out the door, three more cars pull into the parking lot, one of them Teresa McKay's. Sara struck gold the day Teresa walked into the shop looking for a job. She was professional, friendly, and an absolute favorite with the customers. Jay Rogers, Sara's only other full-time employee, had been with Sara since day one. He came in six nights a week, working until the sun came up frying donuts, baking cinnamon rolls, muffins and other pastries.

In the beginning, she'd worked side by side with Jay, baking all night, then working half a day behind the counter. Thank God for her brothers and uncle who'd taken good care of Ethan while she'd been busy getting her business off the ground. Now
Sara's Bakery
was a thriving success, and she no longer had to spend so much time away from her son.

Life was almost perfect.

Almost.

The fact that she hadn't been on a date in more than a year was a bit depressing. She'd always insisted her lack of a social life was no big deal. She had her son, her family—all she needed for life to be complete.

Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that.

Truth was she'd been ready for some time now. Ready to find a good man she could fall in love and settle down with. A man who would love Ethan almost as much as she did.

Her thoughts unwittingly returned to the news of Mike's father's death. She tried not to let her nerves get the better of her, but it was hard. Although she'd never have admitted it to Garrett, a small thrill had shot through her at the thought of seeing Mike again. Then she'd given herself a mental head slap. Mike Andrews deserved her contempt, nothing more.

With Herculean effort, she managed to drag her thoughts back to business.

By two o'clock, Sara had all her cake orders filled and everything packaged except a few pies that had just come out of the oven. She tried to get some paperwork done, but found it impossible to concentrate, so she told Teresa she had personal business to take care of and had to leave for the day. She gave Garrett a call from her cell phone as she packed up a few bakery boxes to take home.

Half a block from the house she saw Garrett's squad car pull into the driveway. God, she couldn't wait to hold her son. Of course he'd squirm and protest, but he'd simply have to deal with it, she thought with a motherly smile. She'd give him the squeeze of his life, order his favorite pizza, and all would be forgiven.

She parked on the street and made her way up the walk as Garrett unlocked the front door. Ethan ran inside with a quick wave in her direction, but Garrett waited, holding the door.

"Thanks again for picking him up. I wish I'd been ten minutes earlier, I could've saved you the trip.” She walked into the kitchen and set the bakery boxes on the table.

He waved that off. “No problem, don't worry about it.” He followed her to the table and started rummaging through the boxes. His eyes lit up when he came across the chocolate chip cookies. Sara grinned as he dug a couple out.

When Ethan ran through the kitchen, Sara caught him around the waist and pulled him against her in a ferocious hug. He squirmed, just as she knew he would, and when she reached down to kiss his cheek, he whined, “Come on, Mom, leggo! Yu-Gi-Oh's about to start!"

With a wistful smile, she released him.

Garrett ruffled Ethan's nearly black hair as he ran past. “Hey, don't let it get to you. Boys that age don't like their mothers to cling. That's just the way it is."

"I know."

Garrett searched her face. “You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, really.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Now get your butt back to the station before someone puts out an APB on you."

Sara set the coffee carafe on the kitchen table. “Anyone ready for dessert? I have apple or coconut custard pie."

Her younger brother, Danny, leaned back in his chair and blew out a heavy breath. “I'm stuffed."

"Me too,” Nicky, the second oldest, chimed in.

Uncle Luke poured himself a cup of coffee. “None for me, thanks."

"I'll take a pass as well,” Garrett said. He took a sip of his coffee and met her gaze across the table, as if sending her a silent message.

Sara understood, and he was right. With Ethan downstairs playing video games, now was as good a time as any to tell them about Mike. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then explained the situation.

Uncle Luke reached over and grasped Sara's hand, his gaze full of concern.

"Holy shit.” Danny looked back and forth between her and Garrett. “You don't think he'd show up here, do you?"

Danny echoed the question that had been running through Sara's mind all day, keeping her stomach tied in such knots she'd barely been able to eat her supper. Would Mike have the nerve to show his face here? The thought frightened her as much as it excited her, and she hated herself for such weakness.

Garrett said, “I think the threat of getting the shit kicked out of him will probably keep him away, but we can't take any chances. Especially for Ethan's sake."

Sara decided it was time she spoke up. “Look, I appreciate all your concern. But I'm a grown woman and more than capable of taking care of myself.
And
my son."

All four men exchanged glances.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. God, how she hated when they did that—made her feel like a little girl who needed to be taken care of. She knew they all loved her dearly and only wanted to protect her and Ethan, but sometimes they could be a bit overbearing.

Like right now.

"Sara, we all know how capable you are.” Garrett's tone was annoyingly placating. “But what would you do if Mike showed up on our doorstep and got a good look at Ethan? Hell, even a blind man could see the resemblance."

She swallowed hard, not wanting to even
think
about what could happen if Mike and Ethan came face to face. “You don't need to worry. I'll be careful."

With a heavy sigh, Garrett rose to his feet. “Listen, I've got to go meet up with Hamilton and Dreyer. We'll talk later.” He swiped his keys off the counter and headed for the front door.

Sara watched him leave with a bad feeling in her gut. She should've tried to talk him into staying home tonight. With that notorious temper of his, Garrett had never been able to hide from trouble. Somehow, someway, it always found him.

Mike Andrews felt sick to his damn stomach. As he stood in the doorway of his childhood home, memories assaulted him like a swarm of bees, stinging him with their painful reminders.

The old man's dead.

He stepped into the living room and pushed the front door shut behind him. His nostrils flared in disgust. The house smelled the same as it always had. The stench of stale beer mingled with the faint smell of cooked onions and the musty odor emanating from the basement.

His gaze settled on the old recliner that sat directly across from the twenty-five-inch console television his parents had received as a wedding present. The chair, originally smoke blue, was now a dullish-gray, the upholstery worn and tattered, the seat cushion permanently stained with piss. The old man had passed out drunk in that chair almost every night since the day it was delivered to the house.

And, according to the officer Mike had spoken to last night, he'd died in that chair. Suffered a massive heart attack while watching TV and sucking down a beer. A truly fitting end, if you asked Mike. The old man deserved nothing better than to have died alone.

Bitterness welled up like bile in Mike's throat.

He moved into the kitchen, and the smell was even worse in there. Christ, what he wouldn't do for a can of Lysol. Hard to believe this room had been his sanctuary as a young boy. His mother had spent most of her time here, cooking and baking, the only two things that hadn't pissed his dad off.

Mike pulled a chair back from the table, flipped it around, and straddled it. His eyes drifted around the room and came to rest on the cookie jar he'd bought for his mother when he was ten years old, a huge ceramic strawberry that had usually been filled with chocolate chip cookies. His favorite. Although, every once in a while she'd make peanut butter and he'd loved those almost as much.

He laid his arms along the back of the chair, laced his fingers together, and rested his chin on them. His chest ached in a way it hadn't in years.

His mother had died of breast cancer two weeks before his thirteenth birthday. It had happened so fast that most people hadn't even known she was sick. His father had known, though, and hadn't much cared. Mike didn't have a single memory of the old man helping her in any way. It hadn't mattered how sick she was, dinner had to be on the table by six o'clock or he'd bitch and gripe all night. If she was lucky. If not, he'd backhand her, yank her around by the hair. Sometimes, he'd shove her so hard she'd fall to her knees.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could somehow block out the memories. But he knew he couldn't. He'd been trying to for years and had never been successful.

He rose to his feet, flipped the chair back around, and moved to stand next to the sink. Reclining back against the counter, he crossed his feet at the ankles and rubbed his eyes.

Damn, he hadn't been this tired in a long time. He'd gotten precious little sleep the night before and, since he'd already tossed his bags in the truck, he'd taken off straight from the station. The only stop he'd made was for a couple of burgers to eat on the way. Maneuvering through rush hour traffic while choking down a burger had been quite a trick, but once he'd gotten past Milwaukee, traffic had thinned out, so he'd turned on the radio and tried to relax. The drive from Chicago was a whole lot longer than he remembered.

Probably because he'd been so reluctant to make the trip.

Mike retrieved his bags from the truck and made his way down the hall to his old bedroom. He paused on the threshold, wondering if his father had cleared out his room after he'd left. No, he decided, the old man had been much too lazy to have bothered. Mike turned the knob and opened the door.

And felt like he'd been punched in the gut. The room looked as if it hadn't been touched at all. Rock posters covered the wall to his left, bubbled and faded. His Little League trophies still sat on the shelf above his dresser, each sporting half an inch of dust. Some of his old clothes were strewn across the room, most of them from the last time he'd been here and packed up his belongings in a rage.
Hell, there's even a glass still sitting on the nightstand
.

He set his bags on the floor, walked over to the bed, and yanked off the comforter and sheets in one quick pull. After stripping the pillows, he gathered all the bedding and strode down the hall to the laundry room. He stuffed everything inside the washing machine, pressed the start button, and poured a stream of detergent in a circle over the bedding. A quick search turned up no fabric softener, but hey, beggars couldn't be choosers.

Mike returned to his room and sat down on the edge of the mattress. His eyes settled on the framed picture sitting on his dresser.
Sara.
So damn beautiful it hurt just to look at her. She'd turned sixteen shortly before that picture had been taken, and he remembered the day like it was yesterday.

A few friends had talked them into taking a ride down to Six Flags Great America, not far over the border into Illinois. They'd had a blast, too, riding every roller coaster in the park, plus the water ride and double-decker merry-go-round. Her idea, not his, he remembered with a reluctant grin.

He leaned forward, snatched the photo off the dresser, and swiped the dust away with his thumb. Staring hard at the face that had haunted his dreams for the past eight years, he wondered what she looked like now. The vindictive part of him hoped the years hadn't been kind, although somehow he knew that wouldn't be the case.

She'd been a tiny slip of a thing, standing five-feet-two, a hundred and five pounds, if that. Her long, thick hair, the color of a shiny penny—not red, but a rich copper—had glowed like fire under the sun. Her eyes, Sara's best feature in his opinion, were chocolate brown and huge, turning up slightly at the corners. He remembered the first time he'd met her, how all he could do was stare into those beautiful eyes.

Mike tossed her picture back on the dresser and snatched his old clothes up off the floor. His thoughts drifted to Sara's brother, Nicky. He'd missed his old friend and had wanted to call him many times over the years. But there was no way in hell Nicky would've sided with anyone—even him—over his own family.

Which was exactly why he'd been so drawn to the Jamisons in the first place. They were a close-knit bunch who loved one another fiercely. Eventually, he'd started to consider himself one of the family, imagining he and Sara would marry one day, have kids of their own.

Cursing, Mike carried his old clothes into the laundry room and tossed them into the cracked, plastic yellow basket in the corner. He'd wash them and put them in a bag for Goodwill. The load of bedding hadn't reached the rinse cycle yet, so he decided to head out for something to eat. He was starving and knew he'd never get anything done tonight if he didn't put some food in his stomach.