Читать онлайн книгу «The Cost of Silence» автора Kathleen OBrien

The Cost of Silence
Kathleen O'Brien
Redmond "Red" Malone instantly agrees when his dying mentor asks him to deal with a situation discreetly. Yet convincing "the mistress" Allison York to sign a document keeping silent about the relationship leaves Red feeling…off. Allison is smart, honest and beautiful–not at all like the gold digger he'd assumed she'd be. Even more unsettling is that the single mom wants nothing to do with Red or any offer he has.Still, Red is persistent, and the more he's with Allison, the more he realizes he's found where he wants to be. He's found his home. But the silent secret between them threatens their happiness. And Red is faced with a dilemma: to keep his promise, or let the truth set them free.



“I’m not here because I’ve changed my mind.”
Allison took a deep breath before clarifying. “About the money or the contract.”
Red smiled. “What contract?”
She couldn’t help smiling back, but she gave it a wry twist, so that he would know she was onto slick guys like him. He’d promised he wouldn’t talk about the contract, and he wouldn’t—at least until he thought he had her softened up. He wasn’t a fool. But neither was she.
“But the truth is…I got the impression that you really cared about Victor, that the two of you were close. And that you might be sincerely concerned about the welfare of his family.”
He nodded. His expression was guarded, now, less slick but no less handsome. That great bone structure and that dramatic Black Irish coloring weren’t dependent on a twinkle or a grin. As she poured the thick cream into her cup of coffee she found herself wondering whether he was married, or engaged.
Then she told herself to stop wondering things like that.
Dear Reader,
One of my favorite quotes says, “If you don’t make mistakes, you don’t make anything.” I heard it long ago, at a time when I really needed it. I’m not much of a risk-taker, and that quote opened my eyes to a new way of looking at my life.
Even though taking risks is daunting, always playing it safe can be scary, too. Isn’t every important move forward a risk? Wouldn’t it be safer never to fall in love, have children, start a business, travel the world or even write a book? And yet…how boring utter safety would be! Think how much we’d miss!
Allison York has just made one of the biggest mistakes of her life, and she wants only to hunker down and protect her infant son—and her heart. No more risks. No more blunders.
But then sexy, charismatic Redmond Malone enters her world—the one man who poses a threat to everything she holds dear. Letting him in might well be the ultimate mistake…but does she have the strength to send him away?
I hope you enjoy their story. And I hope that, as you go through life, all the mistakes you make turn out to be blessings in disguise!
Warmest wishes,
Kathleen O’Brien
P.S.—I love to hear from readers! Visit me at KOBrienonline.com, on Facebook or Twitter, or email me at KOBrien@aol.com.

The Cost of Silence
Kathleen O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathleen O’Brien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which could be done at home. A born sentimentalist, she believes a person can never have too many old friends, sad movies, spoiled pets or corny songs. She’s never met a book about a baby that she didn’t love.
To Ann Evans.
Your friendship, your generosity and your talent
have made all the difference.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE
REDMOND MALONE HAD BEEN PARKED in front of the Windsor Beach Peacock Café for a full five minutes. He kept going back and forth, one minute gazing at the ocean—which glittered invitingly between the buildings—and the next minute glaring at the restaurant, with the blue-and-green-striped awnings and kitschy matching outdoor umbrellas.
So what was it going to be? Hit the gas, find a beach shop that sold surfboards and trunks, and wash his cares away in the Pacific? Or open that shadowy café door and scope out the mysterious, adulterous Allison York?
Yeah, right. As if he had any choice.
With a heartfelt, under-the-breath curse, he met his own eyes in the rearview mirror. Note for next time: don’t make deathbed promises. First, obviously everyone’s too emotional to think straight when a good friend is dying. And second, promises like that are set in stone. Impossible to renegotiate them when you wake up and realize you’ve stepped in a big pile of—
The thought broke off as, without warning, his parked car lurched forward sharply. Simultaneously, he heard a grating, metallic sound. Harsh, piercing, up close and personal…
Aw, hell. He swiveled to look out the back window. Some jackass in a fat black Rolls Royce just rear-ended him.
God, could this damned errand get any worse? He yanked the keys from the ignition, shoved open the door and climbed out. Luckily for the blind fool in the Rolls, Red wasn’t the yelling, punching kind, or the “ouch, my neck” kind. But the fool had better have insurance.
The other driver was slower to emerge, so Red was almost at the door of the Rolls when it opened. Great. The guy must have been eighty, easy. Suit, tie, pocket kerchief…definitely overdressed for early-morning pancakes, so maybe he hadn’t been headed to the Peacock Café. Maybe the bank down the street.
“You all right, son?” The man’s long, seamed face looked worried. He reminded Red of a wood carving of an ancient Chinese philosopher.
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“Nothing broken.” The old guy slowly eased out his legs, as if he balanced raw eggs on his knees. Where his hand gripped the door, his fingers trembled on the shiny black paint like long, pale flower petals.
He tilted his chin to see over the huge hood of his own car, all the way down to Red’s low-slung Mercedes.
“Oh, dear. That is a shame. I am sorry, young man. I didn’t see your little automobile until it was far, far too late.”
On a normal day, Red might have been amused by the old-world style. Unfortunately, he, too, had gotten a good look at the rear panel of his SLK 300, which he’d bought only three months ago and still liked better than any woman he’d ever dated. So, yeah. Not amused.
The old man tottered over to the sidewalk and gingerly mounted the curb, balancing himself on the parking meter. Apparently drawn by the sound of the collision, people had started to gather in front of the café. A couple of men grimaced when they saw Red’s car, but most of the onlookers clustered around the old guy, clucking sympathetically, as if he were the victim.
“Are you okay, Bill? Did you hit your head? Does anything hurt?”
Red might as well have been invisible. Which suited him fine. He dialed the operator on his cell phone. “Windsor Beach Police Department,” he said, propping his phone between his shoulder and his ear so that he could search for his insurance card and registration. “Nonemergency.”
“No, wait!” A female voice raised itself above the general hubbub of curious gawkers. “Wait. Don’t call the police.”
He glanced up from his wallet. A young woman had emerged from the crowd and was heading toward him. She wore a blue-and-green-striped uniform, so he assumed she worked at the café. She waved her hand vigorously, as if to demonstrate that he absolutely must hang up.
Yeah? He didn’t think so.
When he didn’t lower the phone, she frowned and moved faster. She reached him two seconds later, while the unanswered call was still ringing against his ear. And ringing. And ringing. For the Windsor Beach police, apparently nonemergency meant no response.
“Please,” she said, slightly breathless. She was cute. Mid-twenties, with a chin-length brown bob, freckles and an imploring smile. “Please, hang up. There’s no need to involve the police, really.” She glanced back toward the sidewalk. “The man who hit you…that’s Bill Longmire.”
“Okay.” Red smiled, too. He nodded toward his car. “And that’s an eight-thousand-dollar repair.”
She gave the Mercedes a cursory look, but Red could tell she didn’t think his car was the important point here. Maybe it wasn’t, to her. Maybe the old guy was her grandfather, or the grand pooh-bah of Windsor Beach. Red didn’t care. The man shouldn’t be behind a wheel.
He glanced at her name tag.
Without really thinking, he lowered the phone from his ear. Oh, great.
He’d been so riled by the accident he’d almost lost track of why he was here in the first place. He’d almost forgotten he was on a ridiculous spy mission, trying to find out everything he could about a waitress named Allison York.
Well, James Bond. Meet Allison York.
In his defense, he’d been expecting a home-wrecking sexpot. He had only a few facts about her. She was twenty-seven. She was divorced. And last year she’d given birth to his best friend’s baby.
His married best friend.
The one who had died of cancer two months ago. The one who had, even on his deathbed, been terrified that his big mistake—that would be Allison York—would somehow find a way to destroy the loved ones he was leaving behind.
This woman was pretty, but no sexpot. She looked more like the one who would get cast as the sexpot’s worried best friend. Skinny, with no-fuss, healthy hair. A little pale for a California gal. The kind of long neck he always associated with ballet lessons and overprotective mothers.
Something was buzzing. He glanced down at his phone, strangely off balance. It was still ringing.
“Please,” she said again. “I can explain.”
He clicked the end button.
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Bill… Well, Bill is a good friend of mine. He knows he isn’t supposed to drive. He has someone who does that for him. But something must have happened—”
“Steve didn’t show up, that’s what happened.” While Red had been gathering his wits, Bill Longmire had apparently decided to join them in the street, his entourage of well-wishers behind him.
Allison slipped her hand under the old man’s elbow. “But when Steve is late, you’re supposed to wait.” She shook his arm gently. “You know that, Bill. Someone could have been hurt.”
“Well, no one was.” Bill winked one rheumy eye, then reached out his long finger to tap Allison’s nose. “Besides, sweetheart, I couldn’t wait. You only work until ten today, and no one else ever gets my omelet right.”
Red frowned. Was that bony antique actually flirting with this woman who was only a third of his age? His jaw tightened, but Allison didn’t seem to find it disgusting. She grinned and, sighing, let her head briefly rest on the old man’s shoulder.
“Darn it, Bill,” she said with affectionate exasperation. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be eating your eggs off a hospital tray.”
“Allie’s right, Bill,” someone from the crowd said. A murmur of agreement rumbled through the rest of them.
Red felt his fingers close hard around his cell phone, and he realized he was seriously annoyed. Hooray that Bill Longmire, whoever he was, hadn’t killed himself today. But what about Red’s car? What about the whip-lash he hadn’t gotten, but might have?
“Still,” he broke in flatly. “We need to call the police. We’ll need to report this to our insurance companies.”
Allison frowned. Though she lifted her head, she didn’t let go of Bill’s elbow, as if she were afraid he would topple over without her support. “Surely you two can work out—”
“Of course we can,” Bill broke in. He extricated his arm, then dug around in his pants pocket. “I don’t know how much money I’m carrying.” He found a battered old leather wallet. “Let’s see—”
Great. The guy probably still calculated in 1930s prices, and was going to try to placate him with a pair of limp twenty-dollar bills.
“I’m sorry,” Red said, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to get an estimate—”
As if Red hadn’t said a word, Bill extended a fat wad of cash. “I’ve only got about five thousand on me, but if you’ll take a check—”
“Bill!” Allison batted his hand down. “What are you doing, walking around with that kind of cash?”
“I’m paying the man for the damage.” Bill turned his elegant smile Red’s way. “I suspect the final costs will be at least twice this,” he said. “Mercedes parts don’t come cheap. But if you’ll accept this as a down payment, Mr….”
The sentence trailed off as he waited for Red to supply his name.
Red thought a minute, then decided it didn’t matter. Allison wouldn’t connect his name with Victor Wigham.
“Malone. Redmond Malone.”
The old man nodded. “Mr. Malone. Delighted to meet you. You’re not from Windsor Beach, I take it?”
Red shook his head. “San Francisco.”
“Oh, yes. Lovely city.” Bill extended the money again. “So, as I was saying. You can take this as a down payment, and I will write you a check for another five thousand to cover the rest.”
“That’s very generous, Mr. Longmire, but I’m afraid—”
“Hey, give the guy a break, why don’t you?” Two burly men separated from the crowd and flanked Allison, one at each shoulder as if they were hired bodyguards. One spoke through a tight jaw. “He said he’d pay for the damages. Why do you gotta bring in the police?”
Another murmur of agreement moved through the crowd, which clearly had only one mind among them. They inched forward, closing ranks. For a minute, Red felt like the hapless stranger in a horror film who stumbles into Looneyville and spends the rest of the movie running from its spooky townsfolk.
Or…maybe he was in the middle of a very strange dream. A dream—yeah, that would be nice. Maybe he wasn’t really standing here at all, negotiating with this old man, who was probably insane. Maybe Victor wasn’t really dead. Maybe there was no Allison York, no baby, no danger to Victor’s grieving family.
“Mr. Malone?” Allison turned her eyes toward him, wordlessly asking for his help. More crazy dream material. Those big bedroom eyes didn’t begin to match that girl-next-door face. They were gorgeous—round, dewy, lash-fringed. A clear dark honey-brown that looked strangely bottomless.
He almost found himself saying okay. Okay, we’ll do this your way.
But that would make him crazier than the old man.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He lifted his phone again, ignoring her disappointed frown, as well as the army of Windsor Beach zombies lined up behind her. “I’m afraid I’m still going to have to call the police.”

BY THAT AFTERNOON, the story had grown even better in the retelling.
Red was pretty good with impersonations, and by the time he’d finished describing the scene to his older brother Colby, both men were laughing. Red could even picture the accordion-folded rear end on his poor Mercedes without cringing.
The best part? The Windsor Beach policeman everyone had been so afraid to call turned out to be Bill Longmire’s pimple-faced great-nephew Larry, who was clearly terrified of the old man. Equally clearly, the kid also had a crush on Allison York and would have flushed his own badge down the toilet if she’d asked him to. For a minute there, Red thought he might end up getting a ticket for upsetting her.
“Hell, Red, this town sounds nuts.” Colby glanced around the small store space they’d been inspecting. “Are you sure we want to open a Diamante here?”
Red shrugged. “Crazy people eat pizza, too, don’t they?”
This trip to Windsor Beach was doing double duty. He’d set aside the morning to get a glimpse of Allison York, and now he could devote the afternoon to checking out the single storefront that had become available. Scouting new locations for Diamante take-out stores was Red’s piece of the family business, and he’d had his eye on swanky, touristy Windsor Beach for months.
He’d been waiting to find the right spot. He thought this might be it. The strip mall was fully occupied—this vacancy was rare. He’d only found out about it because he had a friend who had a friend. The building had easy access, ample parking and about a thousand bored, hungry rich people within a three-mile radius.
“And the price is right,” he said, opening the door to the storage closet. He recoiled as a cloud of vanilla-scented air wafted over him. The Bath Goddess had moved out of the space yesterday. “Damn, we’ll have to do something about the stink, though.”
Colby, who was the company lawyer and therefore wouldn’t get really interested until he got his hands on the lease, had already wandered over to the windows, where sunset-pink was seeping into the western sky.
“Stink?” He tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Oh. I thought that was you.”
Red ignored him. As the youngest of three brothers, he was used to being insulted. He poked around some more, though he’d already decided to take the store. He’d put out an SOS to Colby because, after the assault on the Mercedes, he needed a ride home. Not because he needed permission to rent this place.
It had taken him a while to find out where he fit into Diamante, but he had finally carved out his own niche. Nana Lina had long since taken the training wheels off, allowing him to make these acquisition decisions more or less alone. Turned out he had great instincts about real estate.
And he owed it all to his mentor. Victor Wigham.
Which brought him full circle to Allison York. Irritably he kicked a small net full of rose petals into the corner that was functioning as a trash can. What was he supposed to do now? What on earth was he supposed to do about Allison, the waitress with freckled cheeks, a snub nose, and Scheherazade eyes?
He’d been so sure that, once he met her, he’d be able to size her up easily. He assumed he could calculate what it would take to buy her silence, just as he could look at a property and sense what he would have to pay to acquire it, almost to the dollar.
But this situation hadn’t worked that way. Instead of being a simple, money-grubbing “mistress” type, she’d turned out to be a stew of contradictions. Part kid, part sorceress. She was an unwed mother, a waitress living on tips who needed a new pair of shoes. But somehow he could sense she was also a force to be reckoned with. She could coldheartedly betray Victor’s wife and kids, but she was a marshmallow for an eighty-year-old nut job.
She didn’t break down into logical, predictable elements. And yet somehow he had to fix this. What a mess.
“You know—” He turned and saw Colby watching him with a worried big-brother expression in his eyes. Red straightened, scowling. “What?”
“Don’t pretend with me,” Colby said. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The holy shit look. You’re thinking about Allison York. You’re regretting it already, aren’t you?”
For a minute, Red wanted to deny it. Right from the start, Colby had told him he was a fool for agreeing to “take care of” Allison. “God, Red,” he’d said. “If Victor had asked you to rope-swing naked into a snake pit, would you have promised to do that, too?”
But Red put aside his instinctive defensiveness. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was thirty-two years old, and, though Colby might occasionally revert to using a paternal tone, the three years between them hadn’t really mattered for a long time.
Besides, Colby might rib him, but ultimately he had Red’s back, no matter what. And, as a lawyer, he might have some good advice. Red decided to come clean. He wiped his hands on a piece of sparkling tissue paper left over from some Bath Goddess purchase, then joined Colby at the window.
“Yeah, I am. Well, not regretting it, exactly. Just not sure what to do next.”
“Can’t you do what you said you would do? Present the deal, and hope she takes it?”
Red took a deep breath, though it made him inhale so much potpourri he nearly choked. “It’s not that simple. If it was, Victor would’ve sent Lewis.”
“He should have.”
“Yeah, maybe, but you know Lewis is bullheaded. No subtlety. I’ve noticed lawyers tend to be like that.”
Colby couldn’t have missed the joke, but he didn’t allow himself to be diverted. “We’re bullheaded because we know how tricky the law is. I’ve warned you about this before, but it’s worth repeating. Private settlement agreements with confidentiality provisions are not only tricky…they’re begging for trouble. You get even a hint of coercion, exploitation, improper influence—”
“There’s no improper influence, damn it.” Red felt his pulse quicken. “He simply wants to give her some money to help with the baby. In return, he wants her to promise she won’t drive to Russian Hill and toss a bomb into what’s left of his family. If she says no, she says no. No one’s going to threaten to break her knees.”
Colby shrugged. He wasn’t the nagging type. He’d said his piece—said it twice, in fact, which was rare enough—and Red knew that he would back off now.
“So, anyhow, Victor didn’t think Lewis could handle it. That means she’s prickly?” Colby’s voice was carefully neutral. “She needs to be charmed, and he thought that, as a Malone, you could charm her?”
Red turned away. The sunset was a hell of a lot easier to look at right now than Colby’s face. “Charm? I don’t know. Obviously he doesn’t mean I should order roses and candlelit dinners. I think he hoped I could…you know…finesse the presentation. The last thing Victor needs is to antagonize her.”
“Well, I guess today put paid to that. You got her favorite old geezer arrested. I assume you’ll be handing this off to Lewis now after all?”
Red shook his head. “Victor doesn’t want Lewis involved.”
An awkward silence hung between them. It seemed to stretch, though it probably wasn’t more than a few seconds.
“Red.” Colby’s voice dipped low. “You know you keep talking about Victor in the present tense.”
Present tense. Of course. As opposed to past tense. Dead tense.
For a horrible second, Red wasn’t sure he could answer. His throat closed up, as hot and painful as if he’d swallowed broken glass.
He clenched his jaw until it burned. He hadn’t cried since he was a kid, not even when he sat in Victor’s shadowed bedroom and watched him drift between the sweating clarity of pain and the terrifying morphine hallucinations.
But how the hell could he accept the fact that Victor was dead? The man had been only fifty-two, at the top of his career. So completely alive.
Victor was the closest thing to a father Red had ever known. He’d literally saved Red’s life fifteen years ago, when he happened to be in the right part of the Pacific to drag a stupid, unconscious teenager and his surfboard to safety. But he’d also saved Red’s life again, metaphorically, five years later, when he showed him the way to a career.
Victor’s wife, Marianne, was too young to be a mother figure, but she was a good and loyal friend. And, by God, Red would do whatever was necessary to protect her.
Whether Colby approved or not.
Red might not have gotten off on the right foot with Allison York today. But today had been merely the first skirmish in a much longer campaign. Colby was right. Victor had obviously picked him for this mission because of the Malone charm. That charm might be diluted a bit, sifting its way down to him, the youngest brother. But surely he’d inherited at least enough to get the job done.
The sun had almost dipped down to the horizon, and the buildings across the street lurked in deep shadow. The electricity was still on here in the empty shop, but the fixtures had been removed, and the bare-bulb glare was depressing.
They should be getting home. The brothers always went to Nana Lina’s Belvedere Cove waterfront house for dinner on Fridays, and if they didn’t hurry they’d be late. It was an hour back to San Francisco, though luckily on a Friday afternoon most of the traffic would be headed into Windsor Beach, not away from it.
“Shall we hit the road?” Colby put his hand in his pocket and extracted his keys.
Red shook his head, his decision suddenly made.
“You go,” he said. “I think I’ll get a rental car and stay here a couple of days.”

CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS 3:00 A.M., and Allison had walked at least a hundred miles. She must have worn a groove in the peach-and-green braided rug that covered the small living room. When she moved out, she’d probably have to pay her landlord a fortune to fix it.
Not that she had any hope of moving out anytime soon.
With only a full moon and the distant rays of the corner streetlight to guide her, she kept circling, humming an old Beatles song while she walked. A hundred and one. Her eyes drooped and her arms ached. So few hours between now and 8:00 a.m., when she’d have to meet the real-estate agent.
But still Eddie wouldn’t go back to sleep.
With a suddenness that startled both of them, Eddie sneezed that little snicking sound of his. It was hardly a noise at all, but it was enough to jolt him awake. He widened his eyes, as if someone had insulted him. Then he arched his back, straining away from her, and let loose a furious wail.
“Shh, shh, honey, hush.” She bounced him softly, holding the back of his head in her palm. He sneezed a second time, and she listened for wheezing in his lungs. If he was getting pneumonia again…
Nothing. The tension in her chest eased. So far, so good.
“Hey. Keep it down, why don’t you, kid? People are trying to sleep in here.”
Allison looked up to see Jimbo Stipple, her roommate, housekeeper, babysitter and best friend, standing in the hallway. He never wore a shirt to bed, and his sweatpants had so many holes in them he was barely decent. But Jimbo had lived on a navy sub for the better part of four years, and he wasn’t exactly the self-conscious type.
“Do you know what time it is?” He tried to sound annoyed, but his yawn got in the way. He leaned toward the kitchen to see the stove’s digital clock. “Oh. Shit. It’s three in the morning.”
Allison raised her eyebrows. They’d had a deal. As soon as the baby was born, Jimbo had to stop cursing.
“What?” He twisted his arm over his shoulder to scratch at the Rubik’s Cube tattoo on his back. “Come on. The kid’s only three months old. He doesn’t know that s-h-i-t is a cuss word. He thinks it’s an entertainment choice.”
Allison managed not to laugh. Life with Jimbo had its challenges, but it was never boring.
“Sorry,” she said. “His nose is stuffed up again. He can’t settle.”
Jimbo frowned. “Does he have a fever?” He crossed the room in three strides and put his hand gently on Eddie’s forehead. Against the flawless powder-pink of the baby skin, it was almost a shock to see the knuckles tattooed with black block letters.
B-A-C-K, this hand said. The tattoos on the other hand completed the threat. O-F-F-!
He let his fingers absorb the warmth for about three seconds. Then his features relaxed. “He feels okay.” He bent toward Eddie’s red, fussy face. “Don’t scare me like that, buddy.”
Eddie snuffled. Then, as he always did when he stared into Jimbo’s face, he broke out in a grin. He reached out to grab a fistful of the man’s spiky blond hair.
“Ouch!” Jimbo complained in a cartoon voice. All drama, designed to delight Eddie, which it did. The baby giggled and pulled even harder, his discomfort forgotten for the moment.
A rush of warmth moved through Allison. Jimbo was such a good, good man. She was so lucky to have him in her life. Maybe Eddie’s biological father had been a lying, cheating bastard who wasn’t interested in helping walk the floor at night, but thanks to Jimbo she wasn’t in this alone.
“How about I take him, and you get back to bed?” Jimbo glanced at her, his head cocked at a forty-five-degree angle so that Eddie could hold on. “You’ve got the closing with the agent at the crack of dawn, right?”
“Close enough. Eight.”
Jimbo groaned. “Any chance you could reschedule?”
“No way.” She shook her head emphatically. “I’ve waited too long for this day.”
He nodded. She didn’t have to say any more. He’d known her since she was four, lived with her since she was six. He was as close to a brother as anyone could ever be without sharing DNA. In her senior year of high school, he’d fixed her favorite tomato bisque soup while she wept over a cheating boyfriend. Five years later, he’d fixed up another big pot the day she signed her divorce papers and swore off men forever.
When her father died, even Jimbo’s food couldn’t help. But his tattooed hand had held on tight and somehow kept her from being swept away on a river of grief.
So he knew how much owning her own restaurant would mean to her—the security, the independence, the focus. The dream that had already been deferred three times. Almost ten years of disappointment could come to an end tomorrow.
As long as she didn’t sleep through the appointment.
He touched the side of her face. “Okay. Then let me wrestle with the little demon here, and you get some sleep.”
So tempting. But guilt nipped at her. Jimbo was tired, too. Eddie was her responsibility. But when Jimbo held out his hands, Eddie practically leaped out of her arms trying to get to his big, silly friend.
Laughing, she relinquished him. Her arms burned from the sudden release. “If he starts to wheeze—”
“He won’t.” Jimbo propped Eddie against his shoulder with the practiced skill of a true parent. He put his hand against Allison’s back and steered her toward the hall. “Nobody wheezes on my watch.”
She smiled. The truth was, if Eddie had trouble breathing, Jimbo would give the air out of his own lungs, literally, to help him. The forty-year-old chef/babysitter spoke three languages and quoted Greek playwrights like pop songs. He knew CPR and first aid, the doctor’s number, and most of the Merck Manual by heart. He could have been a surgeon, a stockbroker, a CEO—anything he wanted.
But by some miracle he wanted to be her guardian angel. And Eddie’s.
She surrendered, and, after planting a grateful kiss on his cheek, she headed down the small hall. At her doorway, she yawned and glanced once toward the living room. Jimbo stood near the window, where the streetlight shone just bright enough to let him read his new cookbook.
And Eddie the Demon was asleep.

“OHMIGOD.” Allison’s best waitress friend, Sue, paused with a set of silverware half-rolled in a napkin and inhaled sharply. “Look! There he is.”
Allison, who was really too busy to care, glanced toward the door, which had jingled its incoming-customer melody of joy. But it was lunchtime on a sunny spring Saturday, and at least a dozen people crowded around Moira’s hostess station. Allison couldn’t make them all out clearly.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name. Look. Can’t you see him? Tall, dark and handsome from yesterday. The one with the mangled Mercedes.”
Oh. Allison felt her own breath swoop in, and she nearly dropped the order of coconut prawns she needed to deliver to table eleven, which would have been a shame, since they were regulars and big tippers.
But Sue was right. There he was. Redmond Malone. Yeah, she didn’t kid herself—she remembered his name. Even here in this upscale tourist town, she didn’t see many guys that sexy. A couple of inches taller than tall. Dark, wavy hair. Blue eyes so intense they looked Photoshopped.
Loose jeans and a black T-shirt that resembled the ones she bought at the superstore but probably cost more than she’d made in tips all week. Definitely an understated style. No obvious come-ons—nothing form-fitting to show off assets, either God-given or gym-acquired. No gold trinkets, no hair gel, no Armani. Actually, he looked as if the thrill of being a stud might have worn off somewhere between twenty and thirty, and he was tired of having to bat females away like flies.
Still, he had an industrial-strength level of self-confidence, and was in love with his boy-toy car. Definitely not her type.
Not that she had a type anymore. Except maybe the type that wore diapers.
Still, she wondered what he was doing here. She hoped it didn’t mean more trouble for Bill. Ordinarily, Bill would have been at table eleven, with his friends. They called themselves the Old Coots Club, and they rarely missed a Saturday. But Bill was at home, pouting about yesterday’s accident.
“He’s looking at you,” Sue said with a low growl. “Damn it. Why aren’t the sexy ones ever looking at me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Allison grabbed the Ultimate Club that Sven slid onto the shelf, added it to her tray with the coconut prawns, and headed over to eleven. She tried to give Moira the dark eye, warning her not to put Mr. Mercedes in her section. But Moira just shrugged. She really didn’t have much choice. Flip, the owner, ran The Peacock Café like a military operation, and it was Allison’s turn to get a table.
Oh, well. The closing on the new restaurant property had gone smoothly this morning, and nothing was going to spoil her good mood. Not even this Redmond Malone guy, who had insisted on reporting Bill’s accident.
Bill already had acquired so many points that another ticket might tip the balance. They might take his license away. And though all Bill’s friends worked hard to keep him from getting behind the wheel, they knew losing the license would badly damage his self-esteem. His wife’s death last Christmas had hit him hard, and he desperately needed to pretend he was still completely independent.
But what was done was done. She couldn’t undo it by being rude to Redmond Malone. Yesterday, he’d been the problem. Today, he was merely another customer.
As she approached eleven, Sarge Barker was returning from the restroom, whistling. She’d heard him announce earlier that he’d won the Fantasy Five last night. A whopping six bucks, but money didn’t mean much to a millionaire. He simply liked winning.
She had barely set the tray down when the old man scooped her into his arms and danced her around the table.
“Sarge!” she protested, laughing, but he was almost as burly now as when he’d been in the army fifty years ago, a fact he broadcasted proudly while he loosened his belt after every meal. She couldn’t pull away without making a scene. “You’re going to get me fired.”
“So, what? You’re too good for this place.” Sarge tried to get a quickstep going, but he had two left feet and it ended up a terrible galumphing mess. They barely avoided crashing into the chairs. “Marry me, and we’ll dance into the sunset together.”
“Sarge…”
But the rest of the Old Coot Club were clapping now, egging him on. Damn it. It had probably gone on only fifteen seconds, but that was an eternity for something this inappropriate. She was going to have to get tough.
Hoping she didn’t throw off Sarge, who had an impressive spare tire that clearly redistributed his center of gravity, she suddenly ducked under his arms and moved backward fast to free herself.
He must have thought she was falling, because he reached out and tried to grab her shoulder. His hand caught her left breast instead. He yanked it back as if he’d touched a hot stove, and immediately lost his footing, plopping onto the table, scarcely missing the tines of a fork.
Equally startled, she took two more awkward steps backward, tangling her feet. Her rear end hit the small folding table on which she’d rested the tray, and before she could even think about righting herself, everything toppled over with a crash.
She landed in the prawns, with a broken glass of iced tea pooling in her lap, freezing her thighs. Sarge cried out, and, in a very stupid move, decided to rush over to help. He slipped on something, maybe a piece of bread slathered in mayonnaise, and landed in a heap at her feet.
Well, of course. Nothing by half measures.
Though her tailbone hurt, her hand was stinging, her dress was soaked and she was downright mortified, she suddenly had the strangest urge to laugh. Apparently, if you went far enough beyond awful, you reached ridiculous.
“Are you all right?”
She looked up. Redmond Malone squatted beside her, looking her over with an expression she couldn’t quite interpret. She wondered whether he, too, might be trying not to laugh.
“I’m fine,” she said, hoping she didn’t have any parsley in her hair. She plucked ice off her skirt and plunked it into one of the unbroken glasses. “We’ve almost got it, don’t you think? Next stop…Dancing with the Stars.”
“Well.” He gathered the largest chunks of glass and set them on the tray carefully. “You might want to work on the dismount.”
“Allie! I’m so sorry, honey.” The others had helped Sarge to his feet, and he held out a hand to help Allison up. Unfortunately, it was covered in mayonnaise. “Bring Flip out here. I’ll explain that it wasn’t your fault.”
She didn’t want to hurt the old guy’s feelings, but if she took Sarge’s slippery hand, she’d end up right back on her rear end. She glanced around for something more stable to hold on to.
Redmond, who still squatted only inches away, didn’t waste any time. He placed the last shard of glass in a safe place, then turned to her and held out both his hands. She glanced at those shoulders, then down at the lean, strong thighs. He could definitely support her. She put her hands in his.
She didn’t even have to use her own strength. In one fluid motion she was on her feet, tilting ever so slightly toward that soft black T-shirt. She got close enough to tell that he didn’t wear cologne and smelled only of fresh cotton and soap and something they ought to bottle and call Raw Sex Appeal.
Then, because she had a highly evolved sense of self-preservation, she held her breath and angled her head away from him. What the hell was she doing smelling this stranger’s T-shirt?
For that matter, why was she standing here at all, staring into his electric blue eyes, like a deer frozen before an oncoming car? She had things to do. She had to get a redo on that order into the kitchen, stat. She had to get the floor cleaned up, new drinks delivered.
She glanced down, and to her horror she realized she was still holding the man’s hands, as if she still hadn’t quite found her equilibrium. She pulled her fingers free and rubbed them nervously on her damp skirt. “Thanks,” she said. “I—”
“Gotcha covered, girlfriend.” Sue winked as she and Moira joined the crowd. Within seconds the two of them had efficiently cleared the food off the floor and carted it away. Teddy, the busboy, headed toward them with a mop.
The Old Coots Club had mobilized, too, and brought their silverware and salad plates to order. They clustered around her, fussing over her wet skirt, making sure the broken shards hadn’t cut her hand.
“I’ll make it right, Allie.” Sarge had washed his hands somehow, probably in his water glass. He put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll talk to Flip and make sure he doesn’t dock you for the food. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried,” she said honestly. Flip wasn’t here today, but he’d believe her version of the story. He knew what the Old Coots were like. Now and then, they’d break into a barbershop quartet version of some sad old song, like “Apple Blossom Time,” or “Sixteen Tons,” which would enchant the other customers, at least until Dickey O’Connor started crying. And last week Bill and Stuart Phipps had brawled up one end of the café and down the other, all because Bill had insulted Elizabeth Taylor.
Flip said they were like a free floor show. Plus, they were great customers. Every one of them an eccentric, well-to-do widower who hated eating alone at home. Mostly, though, Flip put up with them because, like everyone else who lived year-round in Windsor Beach, he loved the goofy old guys.
“Hey. Allie. Over here.” For some reason, Dickey O’Connor was talking out of one side of his mouth. Only five feet tall, and a hundred pounds soaking wet, he was a wonderful storyteller, but he was a little too fond of drama. He frequently created cloak-and-dagger mysteries out of thin air.
Maybe he was going to warn her that her fall had been orchestrated by the evil conspirators of Shadowland. But she’d play along. Dickey was probably the closest of all the Old Coots to a nursing home, though it broke her heart to think of it.
“Psst. Allie.”
She glanced once at Redmond, who seemed to be watching the whole thing with a strangely analytical interest, as if he were an anthropologist studying some indigenous tribe. Then she joined Dickey at the side of the table.
“Here, honey,” he said under his breath, sounding more like a gangster than the honest, retired Irish boat-builder he was. He had something hidden in his hand, which he held stiffly at his side. He gestured jerkily, trying to get her attention. “Here.”
She put her own hand out, low and sneaky, as obviously was required.
He nodded, satisfied. “You don’t need anything from Sarge,” he said. “This’ll make it right.” He flicked his hand and dropped something in hers. Then, laying one finger aside his nose, he glided smoothly away, pretending it hadn’t happened.
She turned her back to him, and opened her hand. Glittering against her palm was a very large, very beautiful, but very fake diamond. Oh, Dickey.
Sighing hard, she clamped her fingers shut over her palm, then slid the diamond into her pocket. As if she didn’t have enough to do…
She felt suddenly prickly, as though someone were staring at her. She glanced up. Redmond was only a few feet away, watching her intently. The expression on his face had changed dramatically in the past few minutes.
His eyes were cold. His mouth, which had looked quite nice in a smile, was tight, utterly unyielding. He flicked a glance at her pocket, then returned his gaze to her face without blinking.
She tilted her head, confused.
In response, he casually tossed some bills on the table. “Sorry,” he said. He smiled, but his voice was cool under the surface friendliness. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay after all.”
Then he turned and walked away. Within seconds he had simply exited the restaurant without ordering a single thing.
What on earth?
For a minute, the strange attitude stung her. She stared stupidly at the door. Had he received a call…some emergency? No…his attitude had felt almost hostile. And oddly personal.
Had he watched the weird interlude with Dickey? Did he think she was doing something criminal? Or was simply greedy? Her cheeks flushed. Was he daring to pass judgment on her for accepting the diamond?
What the hell did he know about Dickey, about her…about anything?
Then she forced herself to turn away, brushing the feeling aside. Redmond Malone was nothing to her. A total stranger. A stranger she didn’t even like very much. The fact that he had an overabundance of sex appeal only made him that much less desirable, at least in her life.
So good riddance, Mr. Mercedes. She wouldn’t waste another minute worrying about it. As a single mother, she’d fought too long and too hard to get where she was today. She’d had to eliminate old, deeply ingrained patterns. To keep herself focused, she’d created a both a Do list and a Don’t list.
The Do list included saving money, working hard, keeping a positive attitude, opening her restaurant. Creating a good, secure life for her little boy.
The Don’t list was simpler still.
Men.

CHAPTER THREE
RED KNEW HER HOME ADDRESS, of course. Lewis had provided it in the packet of contracts and other legal odds and ends. It was a small second-floor apartment in a white concrete block building. Nice porch from which you might, if you were about ten feet tall, catch a postage stamp–size glimpse of the Pacific in the distance.
The landlord didn’t exactly kill himself with the yard care, letting a few rock gardens and one stringy hibiscus suffice as landscaping. But he seemed to keep up with the paint and repairs pretty well, which helped.
It wasn’t a crummy address, but of course it was on the “wrong” side of town, which meant not on the water. Windsor was a small pocket beach about an hour south of San Francisco, one of the few little towns that didn’t even try to be artsy. The low bluffs, sandy beach and warm water had originally attracted the retirees who wanted to be left alone, and now the old guys were constantly at war with the Chamber of Commerce, which wanted to attract more paying tourists.
Two categories of people lived in Windsor Beach year-round. One—those retired, relaxed rich people. And two—the housekeepers, waiters, shop owners and repairmen who facilitated their cushy existence. About twenty-five hundred people, all told.
Red had been waiting across the street for the past hour. He hoped Bill Longmire wouldn’t be stopping by tonight, but he’d bought all the extra coverage the rental agency offered, in case.
The western sky had taken on a deep pink tinge before Allison finally drove up in her Honda. As soon as she parked on the tiny asphalt driveway, he opened his own door and called her name.
She didn’t seem to hear him. She got out slowly, stuffing her sneakers into her purse and taking a minute to rub and flex her arches. She still had on her striped uniform. She must have worked all day. No wonder her feet hurt.
She put her purse on the hood, then crossed to the passenger side of the backseat and leaned in. Oh. Right. He really wasn’t thinking very clearly about this whole thing, was he? He’d forgotten she probably would have the baby with her.
Victor’s son. The birth certificate listed the baby’s name as Edward James York. Mother, Allison Rowena York. Father, a blank line.
As she pulled the lumpy bundle out of its car seat, Red steeled himself not to react. He’d been around enough kids to know it wasn’t likely he’d recognize Victor’s features in the face of a three-month-old. His brother Matt’s little girl was the spitting image of her mom, Belle. But that hadn’t happened until she was…maybe two. His friend David Gerard’s son, same thing. At three months, babies all still looked as if they’d been hastily molded out of Play-Doh.
He called her name again, and she turned, tucking the baby’s blanket under her chin so that she could see. What was left of the fading light was right behind him, and she squinted, trying to make him out.
After a fraction of a second, she stiffened. He’d expected that. If he had asked for her phone number while she was serving him a sandwich at the café, she might have refused to give it, but she wouldn’t have been freaked out. Probably happened to her all the time.
But a customer showing up out of nowhere, clearly having tracked her to her home…that was stalker territory. He had decided to risk it because he suspected she wouldn’t agree to talk to him if she knew who he was. Still, he hoped she didn’t have pepper spray and an impulsive trigger finger.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you privately. I’m Red Malone. I’m the guy who—”
“I know who you are.” Frowning, she pressed the bundle of baby closer to her chest. The kid whimpered, as if she held on too tightly. “What do you want? Is it about Bill?”
“No.” He smiled. “No, our insurance companies are handling that fine. My car’s already been towed to San Francisco and put on the lift. I’m actually here about something else.”
“Really?” She still looked suspicious. “What?”
He glanced around. The street wasn’t exactly crowded, but the April weather was balmy, the kind that made people open all the windows to let the breeze blow through. Anyone could be listening. “It is personal. Is there somewhere we might talk privately?”
Her eyebrows drove together, and she took a step backward. She clearly thought that was pushy as hell.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Malone. I’m not sure how you got my address, or what you think we have to talk about. But I don’t know you. I certainly am not going to invite you into my home.”
“Please, call me Red,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it seems strange, but I promise you I’m not some creep who followed you home from the café. I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend. It’s important.”
At that her eyes widened. The setting sun lit their honey-brown depths. It also pinked her freckled cheeks and full lips. The effect was amazing, and he felt a purely male reaction that he clamped down on instantly. Panting like a pervert wouldn’t be at all helpful in the I-am-not-a-creep department.
“A mutual friend?” Her voice sounded tight, as if her breathing had accelerated. Her nostrils flared subtly. It looked a little like anger. He wondered who she thought he meant. Was it possible she’d already begun to suspect the truth?
The baby began to fuss and wriggle, as if he reacted to his mother’s emotions. She dropped a kiss on top of the blanket to soothe him, then looked at Red. “What are you talking about? What mutual friend?”
Okay, moment of truth. He met her gaze squarely. “Victor Wigham.”
She lifted her chin, but not before he saw the contempt that flickered behind her eyes. “Victor Wigham is not my friend.”
“Okay. That might be the wrong word.” Red tried to remember that he’d been chosen for this task because he supposedly understood how to be diplomatic. “But, as I understand it, he was the father of your child.”
She didn’t even blink. “And since that fact doesn’t seem to interest Victor in the least, I’m afraid I don’t see how it could possibly interest you, either, Mr. Malone.”
Red hesitated. She was using present tense when she mentioned Victor, just as he sometimes found himself doing. But why? He was struggling with grief, but clearly she had no affection for the man who had fathered her child.
Which had to mean…she didn’t realize Victor had died.
Hell. That complicated things. For some reason, he’d taken it for granted that she knew. But how? The Wighams owned a vacation house here in Windsor Beach, but they kept it rented out, so they wouldn’t be considered locals. His obituary wouldn’t even have made it into the back pages of the Windsor Beach Bulletin.
And obviously the “other woman” wasn’t likely to be mentioned in the will. So unless she kept tabs on him via the internet, how would she have found out?
The baby sneezed. She pulled the blanket up, covering the last inch of downy forehead that had still been visible. “I’m afraid I need to get Eddie inside. It’s too chilly for him. So if you don’t mind—”
“Allison.” He decided to say it. “Victor died two months ago.”
Her body froze in place, but a dozen different micro-expressions swept across her face. Surprise, definitely. And…could that have been fear? Anger? Something negative…but it all happened too fast. He would have loved to capture the display in slow motion, so that he could decipher even half of them.
When the baby began to cry, she blinked, and all visible emotions disappeared.
“I see,” she said. She picked up her purse with her free hand and gestured toward the stairs. “Then I guess you’d better come in.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Allison still hadn’t recovered from the shock. She had gone through the motions of playing hostess, getting Red a cup of coffee—two sugars, no cream—and inviting him to sit while she changed Eddie and put him in bed.
Thankfully, Eddie was exhausted and fell right asleep. Afterward, she stood at her bedroom door for a couple of frozen seconds, still numb and reluctant to emerge. Her mind wasn’t working. She couldn’t think where to begin.
She wasn’t sure why the idea of Victor’s death bothered her in the first place. She’d long since accepted that he wouldn’t be a father to Eddie. But obviously somewhere, buried very deep, the hope had lingered that someday he might wonder what he’d missed. That he might find his son and try to make up for lost time.
But now her son truly did not have a father. And never would.
She had to go out there. She could see enough of the living room to know that Red had picked up a magazine. He leaned back, comfortable and relaxed on the scratchy plaid sofa.
That kind—the completely confident kind—always claimed their personal space with ease. Victor had looked equally at home on that sofa. Fat lot that had meant, in the end.
She couldn’t stall forever, though. So she straightened her spine and walked down the hall.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem.” He half stood, maybe because his mom had raised him right, and maybe only to set down the magazine on the coffee table. “I learned a lot about fat-free casseroles.”
She bought some time by circling the living room, turning on the lights to banish the twilight gloom. Then she sat on the opposite sofa and folded her hands in her lap.
“So, what happened?” she asked. “To Victor.”
Red leaned forward, his hands dangling near his knees. He looked sober, but under complete control. She couldn’t tell from his manner how close he and Victor might have been.
“Throat cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, more or less. He didn’t tell any of us until about six months ago.” He seemed to be watching her closely. “I take it he didn’t tell you, either?”
“Victor and I haven’t spoken for at least that long,” she said. “But, no. He didn’t tell me he was sick.”
She worked to keep her expression neutral, too. They were like two poker players, neither willing to give the other an iota of advantage.
But her mind was racing. About a year ago…that would have been close to the time she met Victor. He’d been a regular at her dad’s restaurant. He’d clearly been sad—a bad divorce, he’d told her. And she had been keeping a death vigil on the restaurant. On the night she closed the restaurant doors for good, she and Victor had finally made love.
She wondered whether he had known about the cancer then. She wondered whether his sickness had anything to do with his leaving her.
Not that it was an excuse. Sick or not, he shouldn’t have walked away without a word. Their relationship had lasted about five weeks. They hadn’t been in love—they’d both known that. They were good friends who had helped each other through some tough times.
But you’re never too sick to call and tell a friend goodbye.
Besides, he’d sounded fine four months later, when she called to tell him about the baby. He’d sounded quite normal as he explained that he hadn’t been entirely truthful with her.
Not entirely truthful? Yeah. You might say that.
He was a married man with two children.
He’d apologized, of course. And he’d instructed his lawyer to send her a check. Not a huge one—enough to pay for the abortion he’d earnestly advised her to seek, and then a little cushion for “emotional distress.”
She’d torn up the check the day Eddie was born. And then she’d done the one thing she was truly ashamed of in this whole mess. She’d found Victor’s address and mailed the pieces back to him, along with a picture of Eddie. No note.
She’d never heard from him again.
So what was his emissary doing here now?
She was suddenly exhausted. She’d been up since six, after only three hours sleep. And Eddie had been waking up every couple of hours lately, as if he still didn’t feel quite right.
So whatever Red Malone wanted, he needed to get to the point.
“Victor made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with me, or with Eddie,” she said. “So I have to admit I’m a little confused. Why are you here?”
He moved forward. The light from the end-table lamp tilted the shadows, hiding one side of his face. “Because he asked me to come. He was—” He seemed to search for the correct word. “He was worried about you. He wanted me to give you something.”
“What?”
“This.” Red had been wearing a windbreaker, which he’d folded beside him on the sofa. He reached into the front breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin brown envelope. He opened it and pulled out a small, rectangular piece of paper.
“It’s a check,” he said unnecessarily, holding it out for her to take. “For you and your son.”
She accepted it without comment and took a moment to look it over. The amount surprised her. Twenty-five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money. Five times what he’d offered her to get rid of Eddie in the first place. But Victor’s name was nowhere on it.
“This is your check,” she said, holding it out for Red to reclaim. “Not Victor’s.”
He held up his hand, forestalling her. “It’s Victor’s money, though. He gave it to me with the understanding that I would give it to you.”
She smiled, though she could feel her pulse beating in her throat. “So you laundered it for him. How sweet. The two of you must have been very close.”
He understood how she felt now, she could see that. His eyebrows lowered over his blue eyes. “Yes,” he said. “It would be difficult to overstate Victor’s importance in my life. I’m close to his family, as well. His wife. His son and daughter.”
He waited a minute, as if to let that sink in, as if she might not have realized Victor had another family.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Cherry and Dylan.”
Red’s eyebrows went up. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Victor had told her their names, the day she called about the baby. He’d told her all about them. Cherry was much older, beautiful, ambitious and good at math. Dylan, who was starting to play soccer, was going through a difficult phase. Victor had wanted to make Allison understand. He’d been so sure she would see that his beloved legitimate children were far more important than any bastard child she might be carrying.
“Yes, Cherry and Dylan,” Red repeated. “They’re grieving right now. Obviously Victor didn’t want them to be hurt further by any…disturbing revelations. But he also wanted you and your son to be remembered. So yes, I was happy to help make sure no one got hurt unnecessarily.”
Clearly he wasn’t going to take the check back from her. She laid it gently on the coffee table between them. Then she folded her hands in her lap. She clenched them so tightly her knuckles went white.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” he said coolly, still watching her with that appraising look. “And yet, you don’t seem particularly impressed.”
“I’m not.”
He waited, apparently unfazed. She tried not to reach across the table and slap that smug arrogance from his face. He was so sure, wasn’t he? So sure he had her number. And that number, he assumed, was twenty-five thousand.
“Apparently you haven’t ever looked up the average cost of raising a child from birth to age eighteen, Mr. Malone. I have. Would you like to know what it is?”
He smiled. “About ten times that.”
“Exactly.” She sat back in her chair, though she didn’t allow her spine to touch the fabric. “So you’re correct. I’m unimpressed.”
He raised one brow. “You want more?”
“No, actually. I want less.” With effort, she kept her voice down, so that she wouldn’t wake Eddie. But God, she was mad. She was so hot, blazing angry. “I want less ingratiating B.S. I want less of your insulting, patronizing arrogance. This check isn’t a bequest, or a gift. This is a payment.”
“A payment?”
“Yes. Or rather, a payoff. I’m not an idiot, Mr. Malone. Victor never felt the urge to toss this kind of money my way before. Why now? What does he want? I’d be willing to bet the answer is in that nice envelope you’re holding. So why don’t you show me?”
The look he gave her now was odd—part contempt and part grudging admiration, as if she’d turned out to be a worthier opponent than he’d expected. She could feel his scorn, but in a strange way she was glad the poker faces were gone. The cards were on the table now, and the game was almost done.
With a cool smile, he opened the envelope and unfolded a sheaf of papers. He flattened them so that they could be more easily read, then extended them to her.
“It’s a confidentiality agreement. In a nutshell, he would like you to agree that you will not disclose to anyone that he is the father of your child. If you sign, you’ll also be agreeing to renounce any interest in the estate and relinquish any claim you may have to it.”
She took it. She gave it a cursory look, though the black squiggles didn’t even seem to form words in front of her fury-glazed stare.
Then she leaned over and picked up the check. She folded the check inside the papers, neatly. With an almost tender care.
And then she tore it all into pieces.
“Ms. York, I think you might want—”
As if it had been rehearsed, Jimbo chose that moment to come home.
He opened the door with his own key and blundered in, singing. His gorgeous, toned body was barely covered by his yoga pants, which rode low on his hips. He wore no shirt at all, displaying his colorful tattoos. At chest level, he held a pile of take-out boxes so high that only the spiky blond tips of his hair could be seen above the cartons.
“Hey, sugar lips. Lookee what Daddy brought home from Mamma Loo’s!”
Red Malone stared for a split second, and then, running his fingers through his hair, he began to chuckle darkly. “I see. The new meal ticket, I presume?”
“Hey.” Jimbo cocked his head around the food. He clearly didn’t like the tone. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m nobody. I’m gone.” Still smiling, Red stood. “No. Really.” He put his hand out to prevent Allison from rising. “Don’t bother. I can find my own way out.”

CHAPTER FOUR
ATTORNEY LEWIS PORTERFIELD, who usually ate his lunch in lonely, Gothic splendor, obviously wasn’t happy to have Red as his guest today.
Well, too bad. Red wouldn’t say he was having the time of his life, either. The firm’s impressive, mahogany-walled conference room had obviously been decorated by a mortician. The lighting was as dim as what you’d get from candle sconces in an underground tomb.
Room was cold as a crypt, too, though that sensation might have been coming from Lewis.
The lawyer’s small, pasty form was almost invisible in the high-backed armchair at the head of the table. He could be located primarily by watching the ghostly glisten of his boiled calamari as he rhythmically lifted one forkful after another to his lips.
Red had often wondered why on earth Victor used this guy. Sure, Lewis could write a contract so tight even Houdini couldn’t wriggle out of it. But so could Colby, and probably a thousand other lawyers in the San Francisco Bay area alone. And they could do it without giving everyone the dead-eye creeps.
“So, tell me again.” Lewis took a sip of water, the only beverage Red had ever seen him drink. “In your estimation, is Ms. York saying no because she means no? Or because she is holding out for a larger payment?”
“I can’t be sure.” Red had said this five times now, but apparently Lewis planned to keep asking until he got an answer he liked. “I got the impression she really meant it. But it’s hard to be sure. She’s…complicated.”
The calamari hovered a few inches from Lewis’s lips. “Complicated how?”
Red shrugged. “I don’t know. She looks like the girl next door. And she lives simply, almost…” He thought of the squeaky clean, threadbare apartment. “Well, let’s just say that if she’s a gold digger, she’s not a very good one. Plus, you can’t help sensing that there’s this sweet quality in her personality, in spite of the situation. But she’s got a backbone. She’s far from weak.”
He wondered suddenly what Nana Lina would think about Allison. His grandmother was the shrewdest judge of character Red had ever met. She liked women who had what she called “starch.”
Lewis tapped his cloth napkin to his lips, three times, as always. “Is she beautiful?”
Beautiful? With that short nose and those freckled cheeks? All skin and bones, and wash-and-dry hair? Hardly.
But Red had hesitated a moment too long. Victor set down his fork with a ring of sterling against fine china. “Ah. She is, then. Is that why she’s complicated? Your mind can’t process her properly because she’s simultaneously a beauty and a tramp?”
Red’s shoulders twitched. God, what a judgmental— He knew this was merely how Lewis talked, but still. Red needed to get out of this room. He needed to breathe fresh air and eat something that didn’t look like boiled slime.
A whole hour of this crazy Victorian scenario was too much. Red sometimes wondered whether Lewis put it all on, for fun. Maybe at home Lewis wore a Giants cap and Nikes and burped up his beer while he watched American Idol.
Hell, the guy was only about fifty, Victor’s age. Maybe Lewis had a girlfriend, too. One who—
But no. That was taking even a comedic fantasy too far. If there was a female out there who would date Lewis Porterfield, Red didn’t want to meet her. “I think tramp might be a little extreme, don’t you?” Red was proud of his restraint. “For all we know, she was deeply in love with Victor.”
Lewis raised one eyebrow. “There’s already a new man in her house. Besides, you said she hated Victor.”
“Love can turn to hate pretty quickly.” Red tapped the table irritably. “But I’m not saying she did love him. I’m only saying we don’t know.”
Pause. Then Lewis’s mouth twisted in something that might have been a smile. “And, of course, there’s the fact that she’s…complicated.”
Oh, great. Sarcasm. That was the annoying part about Lewis. He might look like a caricature of a Victorian lawyer, but his brain was sharp and relentless.
Red shoved his plate of calamari away, untouched. “Okay, look. If I had to commit one way or another, I’d say she’s not going to take Victor’s money, no matter how high the offer goes. She needs it, but there was a kind of, I don’t know, steel behind her eyes. She said no, and I think she meant it.”
“Very well. Unfortunately, it doesn’t really matter because we have to follow Victor’s wishes, in any case.”
“What do you mean? I thought Victor’s wishes were for me to make that offer, and—”
“That was plan A.”
Oh, hell. “And what is plan B?”
“We wait a week. If she hasn’t accepted the offer by then, we go back, and we’ll offer her fifty thousand.”
“No.” Red shook his head. “That’s the worst thing you could do. Victor’s main concern was that Marianne and the kids wouldn’t have to find out. I’m telling you, Allison York doesn’t seem like the tattling type. I’d bet my life that, unless we antagonize her, she’ll leave well enough alone.”
Lewis stared at Red a long time before answering. Finally, after another sip of water and three more taps with the napkin, he cleared his throat. “But it isn’t your life that’s in jeopardy here, is it? It isn’t your family. It isn’t your legacy.”
“No, but—”
“We cannot substitute our judgment for Victor’s. He said he wanted us to wait a week, then double the offer. That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
“Big mistake. She’s offended by the idea that we want to buy her silence. Besides, the offer itself is offensive. It’s too low, Lewis, even if it’s doubled. Tripled. Given what she’s up against—”
“What she’s up against?” Lewis tilted his head, which, with his hooked nose, made him look oddly like a vulture. The plate of glistening, wormy squiggles in front of him didn’t help. “Sounds as if you feel sorry for the woman.”
“Not really. I simply see the reality of her situation. Being a single mother can’t be easy.”
“Immoral behavior leads to difficult situations.” Lewis sniffed. “She should have thought of that.”
Red’s shoulders tensed. “God, Porterfield. I was thinking this room looked a little Victorian. An attitude like that fits right in.”
Lewis smiled again. “Are you defending her? Interesting. I’m curious about this excess of sympathy. In fact, Redmond, I’m wondering if you might be a touch compromised here.”
“Really? Well, I’m wondering if you might be a touch reptilian. Putting basic human sympathy off-limits is a little cold-blooded, don’t you think?”
Lewis steepled his fingers and stared at Red over the tips. He spoke in a contemplative voice, almost as if he were alone, mulling over a thorny point of law. “Actually, I am not particularly surprised. I told Victor it was risky, sending a man like you to do a job like this.”
Red’s jaw felt tight. “A man like me?”
“Yes. A man with a…shall we say a fondness for a certain kind of young woman? Shall we say a certain vulnerability to their charms?”
Without realizing how it happened, Red was suddenly on his feet. “Shall we say bullcrap?”
Though Red was three times Lewis’s size, the lawyer didn’t show a hint of fear. He lifted one pointed shoulder. “You may call it whatever you want, but I call it a problem. I think perhaps I’d better be the one to deliver the next offer.”
“No.”
“No? Why?”
“Because—” Red caught himself right before he could say the words, because you’re an arrogant jackass, and you’ll piss her off so much she’ll tell Marianne everything just to spit in your eye.
That was what the whole ugly mess always boiled down to, of course. Protecting Marianne. And Dylan. At twenty-eight, Cherry was probably mature enough, and far enough outside the fray, to handle the truth, but Dylan was already messed up as hell. He and Marianne needed some peace. They needed time to heal.
And Red had promised to help make sure they got it.
“Because I’m the fool who vowed to fix this,” he said, pushing his chair in and preparing to get out of this oppressive room. “And I’m going to do exactly that.”

THE MEETING WITH Lewis had left a bad taste in his mouth—and it wasn’t only the thought of that revolting calamari, either. Red went to the Diamante office, hoping to lose himself in some paperwork. The city council had sent over traffic figures for three of the new locations he was considering. They looked good, but he wanted to analyze them carefully.
For once, though, work didn’t help. The numbers ended up running together, like crazy hieroglyphics on the computer screen. So by three o’clock he turned off the computer and decided to leave early.
The Malone brothers hadn’t ever been brooders. Nana Lina had always said there was no case of the blues that a good sweat wouldn’t cure. Consequently, they worked hard and they played hard, and that didn’t leave time for the sulks.
Work had failed. Time to try play.
Matt and Belle were out of town on their sixth honeymoon in four years, so he was no help. On the way out, Red checked Colby’s office. A good heated game of handball would be perfect, and Colby was ahead in their lifetime stats.
His brother wasn’t there, but Nana Lina had commandeered his desk. When she saw Red, she smiled and motioned him in.
He plopped in the chair opposite her and got comfortable. A dose of Nana Lina was always good for what ailed you.
“So, did you finally get wise and fire Colby?” He grinned. “I always said the guy was overrated.”
Nana Lina never bothered to laugh at stupid jokes. If they got lucky and said something genuinely witty, her eyes could twinkle with true appreciation, but after living around three boys so long, she was immune to the daily exchange of cheap sarcasm.
She looked at a spreadsheet she apparently had been studying. “He’s out at Half Moon Bay, number three. We got word that the drawer’s not right again. Sixth time this week.”
Red frowned. “Since when did the company attorney have to count the pennies in the cash register? Don’t we have a decent manager out there?”
“You know Colby.” Nana Lina raised one graceful pewter eyebrow, as if mildly amused. “They think it’s the Mathison kid they hired last month.”
Red groaned, finally understanding. Colby took these things so hard. The oldest Malone brother, Colby talked tough, but he was a hopeless idealist at heart. He never could quite believe that, when they gave summer jobs to the sons of their friends, the kids would rob them blind.
“What is it about rich kids?” He laced his fingers behind his head, stretched and yawned. “No work ethic. Not paragons of industry and virtue like me.”
Nana Lina made a disapproving sound between her teeth. Then, finally, she smiled. “If you boys were half as useless as you pretend to be, I’d have to get out the switch.”
“Ooh. The switch.” This had been Grandpa Colm’s running joke. No one, neither their parents nor their grandparents, had ever laid a violent finger on any of them, but Grandpa Colm had loved to refer to the mythical switch as if he beat them daily.
Every now and then, when she was feeling particularly affectionate, Nana Lina would borrow the jest. It gave Red a warm feeling now, remembering his vibrant grandfather and the musical Irish lilt he’d never dropped, no matter how many years he’d been in the United States.
No, no one had ever whipped the Malone boys. No one had needed to. Their parents had been intelligent, calm, loving. And the three brothers had never been bad kids, though of course they’d had their defiant moments. Red had been slap in the middle of his worst adolescent prickliness when their parents died.
But after the accident—one of those freak automobile catastrophes that happened a few miles from their own home—the rebellious attitude dropped from the boys like magic. Once they got a glimpse of true tragedy, they never again confused it with the little annoyances, like curfew or chores. No more mountains out of molehills.
“I wish Dylan Wigham had someone like you to turn to right now,” Red said thoughtfully. “He’s been having a rough time since Victor died.”
Nana Lina nodded. She knew the family well, as they all did. Victor hadn’t been her favorite person, but they were in the same social set and ended up at many of the same functions. And, of course, Red’s friendship with the Wighams meant that they got invited to most of the Malone/Diamante events.
She might not know all the details of Dylan’s struggles, but she knew that the boy had been in a rehab clinic for the past several weeks. “When is he getting out?”
“I’m not sure. Soon, I hope. Marianne needs him at home, I think. She’s pretty lonely.”
“Yes,” Nana Lina agreed, though her voice remained crisp. She wasn’t a fan of extravagant mourning. Though Red knew she missed Grandpa Colm every day of her life, she had turned to work to give her life meaning. Work and her grandsons.
Predictably, she thought everyone should do the same.
She gave Red a straight look. “I hope you’re not planning to try to fill that void yourself.”
“I spend as much time with her as I can,” he said. “But if you’re asking whether I’m romancing her, the answer is no. Of course. Victor’s only been gone two months, but even if it had been two years, Marianne and I are just friends.”
“Good.” Nana Lina never leaned back in her chair, but Red thought he saw a slight relaxation in her shoulders. “She’s not right for you.”
He laughed. “She hasn’t got enough starch?”
Nana Lina had said this about the brothers’ girlfriends so often it had become the code word for her disapproval. Conversely, when she said a woman did have starch, they knew it meant a world of respect. The first time they’d heard her say it, she’d been talking about their own mother. For in-laws, those two women had had an amazingly solid and close relationship.
“No, actually, she hasn’t,” Nana Lina said tartly. “She was probably born with starch. You can glimpse it, sometimes, underneath the silliness and the insecurity. But marrying Victor was probably the worst thing she could do. He valued her looks, but he didn’t value the qualities she possessed that were far more worthwhile. Consequently, she lost respect for them, too. So all she’s left with is a pretty face, which won’t hold anyone up in a crisis.”
Actually, Red thought that was a perceptive evaluation. And Nana Lina should know. She was still one of the most beautiful women he knew, with her silky waves of gorgeous silver hair and her lively, intelligent blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face. In pictures, he’d seen what a stunner she’d been as a young woman.
But she’d never let vanity control her. She worked as hard as any of the Malones, male or female, young or old. He’d seen her mussed and covered in flour, pulling all-nighters in the kitchen before Diamante took off enough to pay someone else to do all that. He’d seen her sweating and splashed with paint, or potting soil or sawdust. And she always looked amazing, vibrant and intelligent and in love with her life.
“I wish you could adopt Marianne,” he said. “I bet you could straighten her out in no time.”
Nana Lina laughed. “I’ve got my hands full, I’m afraid. But you don’t need me. You know how to help her. Tell her to spend less time picking out earrings and more time being genuinely productive. Get a job. Or, if that’s beneath a Wigham, she should do a Google search on the word volunteer. Or charity.”
To Red’s surprise, Nana Lina’s voice sounded sharper than usual. He gave her a more careful look. Was she a little pale? Just the other day, Colby had said he thought she looked tired.
“Okay. I’ll do that.” He tried to sound casual. “So, enough about Marianne. How are things going for you? Everything okay?”
She frowned and shook her head. “Everything is fine,” she said, “except that people keep coming in and distracting me, so that I’m never going to get this report analyzed. Don’t you have somewhere to be? Some property to buy, some widow to console?”
He stood, smiling. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. But he made a mental note to ask Colby what he thought. No way they were going to let Nana Lina get sick, even if it meant they had to get out the switch.

WHEN RED GOT OUTSIDE, squinting against the bright sun after hours in the artificial light, he saw a rectangular piece of paper hooked under his windshield wiper, and his sour mood turned even nastier. God. A ticket?
But it wasn’t. When he yanked it out, the wiper bouncing, he saw that it was a flyer for the Splash Camp kickoff, which was being held today at Baker Country Day School in Russian Hill.
Marianne Wigham must have put it there. She was volunteering at the kickoff. Damn it. How could he have forgotten? This was the first time she’d done anything official or public since Victor’s death. And since by now everyone at the Baker School knew about her son’s problems, this was bound to be a stressful day.
In fact, though she hadn’t exactly asked Red to come, she’d made very sure he knew exactly what time her shift was, and which tent she’d be staffing. She clearly hoped he would show up for moral support.
Not a far-fetched hope. For the past two months, he’d stopped by at least three times a week. He’d brought flowers and food. He’d visited Dylan in rehab. He’d offered a shoulder to cry on, and a hand to hold.
And now, because of the mess with Allison York, he’d almost let Marianne down on this one.
He looked at his watch. Just three-fifteen. If he hurried, he’d be fine.
The traffic was with him, so he made it to the school with time to spare. He parked in a space left by some early departure, then climbed the emerald-green lawn toward the solid Normanesque buildings that housed the school.
Only the best of the best got into Baker. In spite of his crazy-high IQ and his good address, Dylan almost hadn’t made it. Victor’s family tree had the right kind of roots, but Marianne was officially a nobody. She’d been a nineteen-year-old cosmetics model when Victor married her, which made the older Baker moms shiver politely and made the younger ones jealous as hell.
She’d had an extra strike against her simply because she was not Erna, Victor’s beloved first wife, who had succumbed to a heart attack.
The grounds looked serene, daffodils swaying in the breeze and birds wheeling high in the blue sky. Most of the action was out back, where the Olympic-size swimming pool and field houses were found. But a few hospitality tents had been set up out front, and Marianne was in the one farthest west, out where the school grounds began to slope toward a thick, shadowy greensward.
It wasn’t an accident, of course, them putting her in the hinterlands. Red felt a surge of annoyance at the snobs who couldn’t see that she was better than all of them.
Or maybe they did see it. Maybe that was, in the end, Marianne’s unforgivable sin.
He found the tent easily. She was apparently dispensing water bottles, though hardly anyone had ventured out this far. Just a crying little kid who had clearly been brought out here for a time-out, and a couple of late-teens eyeing the woods as if they needed a few minutes alone.
“Hey, there,” he said as he got close enough to be heard. “Word is this booth has the best water in town.”
Fiddling with a cooler, she had her back to him and hadn’t seen him approach. She wore a crisp white dress that looked like a long shirt. It was belted around her tiny waist with some kind of turquoise cloth. Her hair lay on her shoulders like a yard of the most expensive gold satin. She always looked fantastic, though he could have told her she’d score more points if, just once, she showed up looking frumpy.
The minute she turned her face to him, he knew it had been a rough afternoon.
“Hi,” she said, and he heard the relief that made the syllable heavy and thick. Her round blue eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying. “I thought you might not be able to make it.”
“I almost didn’t,” he admitted, finding it impossible to lie to those eyes. “I’ve had a junky couple of days, and I almost forgot.”
“That’s okay,” she said hurriedly.
“No, it’s not,” he said. He touched her shoulder to stop the apologies he knew were coming. “But I’m here now. Tell me about it.”
She opened her mouth, that perfect rosebud that had sold a million tubes of lipstick. But then she shut it again and shook her head. “It’s nothing. Tell me about your junky days. What went wrong?”
Oh, no. That was one conversation he wasn’t going to have.
“Junky days are best forgotten,” he said. He came around the side of the booth and picked up the cooler of water bottles. He plopped it on the cloth-covered table and then propped open the lid. In the unlikely event that anyone showed up thirsty, they could help themselves.
“Come with me,” he said. “You need to get off your feet.”
He would have taken her hand, except that somewhere, no doubt, a snobby Baker School mother’s radar was twitching, and within seconds the grapevine would be humming with the gossip. No one cared that he and Marianne had been friends for fifteen years, or that the two of them had lost someone very dear.
Hell, even Nana Lina had wondered how far his stalwart-friend, shoulder-to-cry-on role might take him.
So he led her to a nearby bench. He swept a few leaves and strawberry crepe myrtle petals from its stony surface, and then they both sat.
For a few seconds, she twisted the fringed ends of her blue cloth belt in her lap and wouldn’t meet his gaze. She sniffed a couple of times, and he knew she was trying to pull herself together.
“So,” he observed mildly. “You look pretty done in. I hope you aren’t letting the snarling blue-blood bitches get you down.”
As he’d anticipated, the straightforward approach surprised her, and actually made her smile. “No,” she said. Then she shrugged. “Not much, anyhow. Maybe a little.”
He shook his head. That was the difference between the two of them. They both failed the sniff test when the social bloodhounds came around. Marianne cringed and tried to hide her background—the foster parents and the GED and the self-made career.
Red, on the other hand, was irrepressibly proud of being an immigrant’s grandson. In fact, sometimes, when he knew he was going to one of the snobs’ black-tie events, he’d hang out in the Diamante kitchens for a while so he would delicately stink of pepperoni. He loved watching the snobs flare their nostrils a bit, then try to pretend they hadn’t noticed.
“To hell with them,” he said. He glanced at the school. The late-afternoon sun was intense and pinkish-gold behind the columns, and the granite twinkled. Pretty, but he knew what went on in there.
“You know,” he said without thinking, “it might do Dylan a world of good to get out of this place. Go to a real school for a while. Meet real people, with real problems.”
“Don’t say that,” she said. “You know how important it was to Victor that Dylan get in.”
Red nodded. He hadn’t understood it, but he knew it was true.
“That’s part of what went wrong today, actually. When I arrived, Gwen Anderton told me the board had scheduled a hearing about the…the party. Dylan’s party.”
Crap. Red pulled out his BlackBerry. This was one date he wasn’t going to let himself forget. She couldn’t possibly face down these barracudas, not without Victor. She had tried so hard to make her husband proud, to fit in his world. But the hopeless struggle to live up to someone else’s superficial expectations had left her with a completely irrational sense of inferiority, as if these people had the right to pass judgment over her.
“When will it be?”
“I think she said next month. She said they sent a registered letter, so I guess that will be waiting for me when I get home.”
He put his arm around her shoulder. To hell with the gossips. “I’ll be there,” he said. “We’ll bring Colby, if you think we’ll need that kind of ammunition. It’ll be fine.”
“Will it, Red? Will it really be fine? Sometimes I think nothing will ever be fine again.” She lifted her face toward his, and her eyes were sparkling again, as if she were losing the fight to hold back the tears.
“It will. I promise.”
He hoped he was right. If the board had called a hearing, they were taking Dylan’s transgressions pretty seriously.
The boy, who had recently turned fifteen, had pulled a few pranks in his time—mostly innocent stuff, like spray painting the back fence of a cranky neighbor. Nothing his dad couldn’t buy him out of.
But his father’s death had hit him hard. Abnormally hard. He’d become uncommunicative, surly, difficult for Marianne to control. Red had spent a lot of time trying to help. He’d known Dylan since he was a baby, and Red seemed to be the only person the boy didn’t hate right now.
But apparently even “Uncle” Red wasn’t enough. About a month after Victor’s death, Dylan had been caught at a friend’s “pharm party,” half out of his mind on the concoction of prescription drugs the kids had gathered from their parents’ medicine cabinets. A neighbor had called the police, and all the teenagers had spent a few terrifying hours at the local jail. Several of them, like Dylan, had been taken straight to the hospital. By the time the dust settled, most of the kids had landed in high-priced, in-patient rehab.
At first Marianne had been horrified, dead set against the idea of rehab. She believed Dylan to be a good kid, underneath all the acting out. But after Red had visited the rehab center a couple of times and talked to Dylan privately, he’d understood it was necessary. This hadn’t been Dylan’s first pharm party, not by a long shot. The boy was lucky to be alive.
“He wasn’t the only Baker kid at that party,” Red reminded Marianne now. “If they kick them all out, how will the trustees pay their country-club dues next year?”
She smiled weakly, but she didn’t say anything, and he couldn’t tell whether she believed him. She bit her lower lip and tortured the ends of the belt some more.
Then, abruptly, she lifted her head and said, “Dylan comes home next week.”
The minute the words were out of her mouth, tears began to stream down her cheeks. With a small sound, she lifted her hands to her face as if she thought she could catch them.
His heart twisted. No wonder she was so fragile—ricocheting between her grief over her husband and her anxiety about her son. Damn it, Dylan. Why didn’t the boy see that his wasn’t the only broken heart in the family? Why didn’t he give his mom a little support, instead of becoming another burden?
But Red knew that wasn’t fair. At fifteen, you didn’t understand a single thing. The world confused the hell out of you. Red had been fifteen when his own parents died. If it hadn’t been for Grandpa Colm and Nana Lina, God only knew what would have become of him. Of course, he’d also been lucky enough to have two older brothers who had no intention of letting their obnoxious younger sibling sink, no matter how much of a pain in their ass he was.
Dylan hadn’t had all that. He had one half sister, Cherry, who was a solid ally and a delightfully spunky person. But Cherry had moved out years ago, and had a life in Los Angeles now. After Victor died, Dylan had been left with only one frightened, forlorn mother who loved him but didn’t have a clue how to handle him.
And he had Red. He would always have Red.
He tried to nudge a smile out of her now. “Come on, Mari. Don’t cry. Isn’t being released a good thing?”
“I guess so. Dr. Packard says he thinks Dylan will make more progress if he’s at home, where he won’t feel so isolated.”
“Well, then. That’s enough to convince me.” Red gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. “You know how strict Dr. Packard is. It’s not as if Dylan can wheedle him into believing he’s doing better than he really is.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sure Dr. Packard is right. If he says Dylan’s ready, he’s ready.” She turned her bloodshot gaze to Red. “But what about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…am I ready?”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m not so sure.” She forced her hands into her lap and braided them together. The knuckles were white with tension. “I feel so inadequate. He’s so angry…with me, with his father, with everyone. When I visit him, it’s as if we’re strangers. I don’t even feel as if I know him anymore. When he was little, we were so close. But lately…”
“That’s part of being a teenager,” Red assured her. “Adolescent boys are always trying on new attitudes. Deep inside, we’re still the same stupid little dweebs we always were.”
She smiled, a fleeting sunbeam of thanks for his attempt to cheer her. But he could see that it hadn’t really helped much. “Maybe. But…I’m such a mess myself. Half the time I forget what I was supposed to be doing. I’ll open the freezer to take the casserole out for dinner, and then I’ll realize I’ve stood there crying for twenty minutes, and everything is melting. How does a basket case like that take care of anyone? What if I do something wrong? What if I can’t protect him?”
“You’ll do fine. You’re not a basket case. You’re hurting. Give yourself a little slack, Marianne. It’s only been two months.”
“Fifty-seven days.” Her voice caught. “It’s so strange. Sometimes, when I wake up, it seems like Victor must surely be in the next room. I can almost hear him breathing. But then, other times, it seems like he’s been gone forever. Or as if he never really existed in the first place. As if he was only a dream I had.”
Red didn’t know what to say. Platitudes were useless here. Her grief was so real it shimmered darkly around her, like a terrible halo. He wondered what it must be like to love someone that much.
It must be terrifying.
They sat in silence a couple of minutes, watching the trees stretch olive shadows across the bright green grass. They heard children laughing and splashing in the distance, from behind the administration building. It must be nearly five. The breeze had cooled, and the streaky pink clouds hinted at gold to come.
“You know what I think sometimes?” Marianne’s sudden words were clear in the crisp air. “Sometimes I think Victor was taken away from us because I didn’t deserve him.”
“What?” He frowned, but she held up her hand quickly.
“I know how absurd that sounds. Even egotistical. Not even the cruelest fates would take a father away from his children to punish his wife, would they? No matter how unworthy she was.”
Though he’d vowed he would respect her feelings, whatever they were, Red couldn’t let this nonsense pass. “That comment certainly is absurd—on so many levels. For starters, what on earth would make you think you didn’t deserve him?”
She lifted one tired shoulder. “I didn’t.”
“Mari. That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not, though. At least for the past two years, I’ve been a crummy wife. Always nagging. Always complaining.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
She gazed at him, but with eyes slightly unfocused, as if she stood at a great distance and could hardly make out his details. “That’s because you are so easygoing, Red. You never demand too much of other people. I do, or at least I demanded too much of Victor. He was everything to me, but I was only one piece of his life. I resented how hard he worked. I resented that he wasn’t at home with us. I—”
He waited, and finally her limpid gaze fell. She stared at her hands, her cheeks reddening. “I wanted to have another child. When it didn’t happen, I was so disappointed. So angry. I blamed his work, especially, because it took him away so much. We fought all the time.”
Clearly she expected Red to be shocked.
And, until a couple of months ago, he would have been. Until Victor had told him about Allison and the secret baby, Red had considered the Wigham marriage to be idyllic. Everyone did. The elegant town house on Russian Hill had seemed to hum with peace and tranquility. He’d envied Victor his loving family. How lucky was a guy to find true love not once, but twice?
But under the serene veneer, apparently the same pain and confusion that complicated other lives had roiled at the Wigham house, too. Marianne had been dissatisfied, unhappy. Dylan had been escaping into recreational drugs. Victor had found himself in Windsor Beach, in the arms of a stranger.
What part had Marianne’s unhappiness played in all that?
But in all their discussions, Victor had never once blamed Marianne. To his credit, he’d never uttered the clichéd words she just didn’t understand me, never subtly hinted that his wife had been cold and critical, driving him into another woman’s arms. He had taken full responsibility for his adultery, had spoken of it as an unforgivable, selfish act. He had clearly been eaten up with shame.
Red could still feel the bone-cracking grip with which Victor had clutched his hand that last hour of his life. “She must never know,” he’d whispered. “Never. Promise me, Red. It would break her heart. She doesn’t deserve that.”
He glanced at Victor’s widow now. “I’m sure you weren’t as bad as—”
“I was.” She drew her eyebrows together, as if girding herself to remember everything. “By the time I found out he was sick, we were hardly speaking. Can you imagine how I felt? Dylan knew. He hated me for it. He probably hates me still, for driving his father away.”
“But you didn’t drive him away. Married couples fight. All of them. It doesn’t mean anything. If Dylan doesn’t see that now, he will see it eventually. You didn’t drive him away.”
She was hardly listening, he realized. She kept talking. “The disease claimed him so fast. We had so little time. A few months, that was all, to make it up. To make him know I had always loved him, no matter how terrible I acted.”
The tears were falling freely now, trailing silver down her cheeks and then disappearing over the roundness of her chin.
“Over and over, I ask myself whether he believed me. Whether he still loved me, even though I’d been so…” She swallowed hard. “His love was the best thing that ever happened to me, Red. If I killed it, how can I ever look our son in the eyes again? If I killed it—”
“You didn’t.” He put his hands on either side of her face. “You couldn’t. There aren’t many things I’m sure about in this crazy world, Marianne Wigham, but I’m completely sure about that.”
He had a momentary mental flash of a dark haired young waitress, a baby in her arms and her golden eyes fiery with fury. He pushed the vision away. He didn’t understand what had happened between Victor and Allison York. He probably never would understand.
But somehow he knew that, whatever it had been, it didn’t change what he was about to say now.
“From the moment he laid eyes on you, until the moment he took his last breath, your husband loved you with all his heart.”

CHAPTER FIVE
ALLISON YAWNED AS SHE PICKED up a sweet potato and perched it atop all the other vegetables in her canvas bag. The yawn came from deep in her soul and went on forever, too wide and heartfelt to hide behind her hand.
“Excuse me,” she said, laughing. She reached for another potato.
“No!” Jimbo barked from behind her. He reached into her bag and pulled the yam out again. “No, no, no. Too stringy. We want only the fat ones. I told you this was a bad idea. I saw that yawn. Apparently you’re too tired to know a decent vegetable from a runt.”
She was tired, definitely. But they’d had this battle, or one like it, every Saturday for months. She loved the farmer’s market, adored strolling through the sun-dappled dirt lot with Eddie nestled against her in his sling pouch.
Jimbo, however, would have preferred that she stay home. He was the kind of chef who liked to hand-pick every ingredient, trusting no one’s judgment but his own. Before they checked out, he always pawed through her choices and put half of them back.
The attitude made her laugh. The restaurant would be hers, at least on paper—which meant the payments would come out of her checkbook. But Jimbo’s heart was every bit as invested as hers. If Summer Moon failed, it wouldn’t be for lack of love.
It might, however, be for lack of money. She had spent a couple of hours this morning with a rep from the food distributor, and his estimate had taken her breath away. A quarter higher, at least, than she’d planned for.
Against her will, her thoughts darted to Red Malone’s check, the one he’d dangled in front of her the other day, the same way she might shake a ring of plastic keys in front of Eddie to distract and amuse him. The arrogant bastard. Red had so clearly sized up her apartment and concluded that she’d be easy to buy off. She needed the money too much to afford the luxury of pride.

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