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A woman got out of the car. Huh, the florist. Jack patted his back pocket. Nope, he hadn’t left his wallet in the store.
She walked up the path, her stride purposeful, her hips swinging. From this distance, he got perspective on her figure, which really was great.
“Uh, Mom…” He gestured toward the window.
“There she is,” Brenda said, pleased.
The florist hadn’t been kidding when she said she knew his mom well. So well that she walked in the front door without knocking or waiting to be admitted. Everyone in the room greeted her with familiarity, a ragged succession of heys and hellos.
“Sweetie, you did a wonderful job with these flowers.” It took Jack a second to realize that his mom was talking to the woman, not him. Her use of the family endearment “sweetie” niggled, no matter that in his younger years he’d derided it.
“I was looking at some old photos the other day,” Brenda said to Jack, “and I couldn’t believe how Callie has changed. I’m amazed you recognized her.”
Who would have guessed Jack had a degree from Harvard Medical School and postgraduate qualifications from Oxford University, when it took him five long seconds to realize what should have been glaringly obvious the moment he’d stepped into that damn shop?
The woman standing six feet away from him, lips curved in a smile but blue eyes sparking with an emotion that was far from friendly, was Callie. Callista Jane Summers. The woman he’d married.
“Actually, Brenda, he didn’t recognize me,” she said. “And I’m afraid I was naughty. I didn’t tell him.”
Jack knew from that flash in her eyes there’d been more than mischief behind her omission. What the heck was going on?
Brenda laughed, delighted. “That’s just gorgeous. Jack, did you really have no idea?”
Without taking his eyes off Callie, he said to his mom, “You never told me she’s a florist. I thought she renovates houses.”
“I buy houses and do them up in my spare time so I can sell them again.” Callie met his gaze full on. She didn’t need to tell him that, dammit; she’d been using his money to fund her little DIY venture. “But I trained as a florist, and I’ve had my own store nearly a year.”
“Now that you know who she is—” Brenda patted his arm “—you can greet her properly.”
His head snapped around. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Callie’s do the same. Surely Mom didn’t mean…
“Give her a kiss,” Brenda urged, just as she used to make him kiss his sister, Lucy, on her birthday.
He looked at Callie, saw in her eyes the acknowledgment that any refusal would cause more trouble than either of them needed. He moved toward her, just as she took a halting step in his direction.
She offered him her right cheek. He brushed it with his lips, and though the contact lasted only a fraction of a second, it was long enough to feel the contrast between the satiny smoothness of her skin and the dry hardness of his lips. Long enough to pick up the scent of jasmine and roses and something else uniquely floral. She’s a florist, so of course she smells like a garden.
She pulled away fast, leaving Jack feeling as if his lips were stranded on a street corner. Brenda murmured her approval.
Callie clasped her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t rub her cheek where Jack had kissed it. Her brain faltered and she found herself saying, “So, how long are you in town?”
She knew, of course. She was the one who’d told him he needed to be resident in the county for thirty days before they could file for a no-fault divorce. The quizzical furrow in his brow confirmed that not only did he distrust her thanks to her “joke,” he now doubted her mental capacity.
“He’s here for a month,” Brenda said happily. “Such a treat for us that he was able to convince the hospital to let him go that long.”
“Lucky us,” Callie said.
“I can’t wait to reintroduce him around town,” his mother said. “I’m thinking a walk in the park on Monday, the school board meeting on Tuesday—”
“Just leave him some time to come by the store,” Dan interrupted.
“I hope to also get up to Memphis to visit the neurological team at Northcross Hospital,” Jack said. He glanced at his watch, as if counting the hours and minutes until he could board a 747 and raise a champagne glass in a toast to his escape.
You’re not going anywhere, Callie told him silently. “If you’re looking for a medical fix, you can always check out the new geriatric ward at Parkvale Hospital,” she said. “They say it’s state-of-the-art for a facility of its size.”
Brenda had asked Callie to make the suggestion. “You do it, sweetie. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m pressuring him to move back here,” she’d said, as she polished the silverware for today’s lunch for the third time.
Jack’s shoulders were rigid, but his expression neutral, as he said, “I’m a pediatric neurosurgeon, specializing in vascular malformations of the brain. I have no interest in geriatrics.” He’d reverted to that calm tone he’d used in her shop. He definitely thought Callie wasn’t the sharpest thorn on the rose.
“You mean, other than your parents.” Callie grinned at Brenda to show she didn’t seriously consider the woman a geriatric. Then she directed a squinty-eyed glare at Jack, a warning that she wasn’t about to tolerate his lack of interest in his family.
“If you have something in your eye, I could take a look,” he said helpfully.
Any thought that he’d misunderstood vanished when Callie read the return message in his hard gaze: my relationship with my parents is none of your business.
You made it my business, Dr. Selfish. There was one good thing about the way he was living down to her expectations; she no longer felt bad about that little lie she’d told him. She composed her features, declined his offer of medical assistance and removed the kid gloves. “If you want to know what’s been happening the past eight years, I’ll be happy to fill you in.”
Surprise flickered across his face, as if he wasn’t used to people disobeying even his unspoken orders.
“Thanks, but Mom sends me regular updates. You’re still living with my folks?”
Only Callie heard the slight emphasis on the my. Only she recognized his question for what it was: a reminder that she’d benefited from their marriage, too. It had extricated her from an unpleasant custody battle and allowed her to continue living with Brenda and Dan.
“Not at the moment.” Callie grabbed a flowershaped bowl of peanuts from the sideboard. If she didn’t have something to do with her hands, she might slug Jack. “I move in and out, depending on the stage of my latest renovation project.” She offered the nuts around.
“My rule is that if the house she’s working on doesn’t have a functioning kitchen and bathroom, she has to live here.” Dan helped himself to the peanuts, then settled into his recliner.
“Why don’t you kids sit down so you can have a good chat?” Brenda tried to usher Callie and Jack toward the two-seater couch. Jack didn’t move. Neither did Callie. She had the crazy thought that whoever sat first would lose this battle. Unwilling to ignore Brenda, she leaned against the sideboard.
“Handy for you,” Jack commented, “having this place to come back to when you need it.”
She bristled. Was he forgetting their secret wedding had freed him to go back to his illustrious career?
She hadn’t seen it that way at the time, and she liked to think he hadn’t, either. She’d barely known Jack. He’d been working in Boston even before she moved in with the Mitchells—but she’d figured him for a decent guy whose instinct was to protect his parents from further hurt. With her mother’s encouragement, Callie had accepted that protection for herself, too.
She hadn’t had a choice.
“We love having Callie around,” Brenda said. “The house seems so empty when she’s not here—” she waved a hand at the packed-to-the-gills living room “—but at least we know she’ll always come back.”
Callie knew any reference to Jack’s prolonged absence was unintentional. But his mouth tightened.
“Quite a lovefest you have going with my parents,” he murmured.
Whose fault was that? she wanted to ask. Somewhere along the line, their marriage had become a means for Jack to abdicate his family responsibilities to her.
“Callie is family,” Dan said, almost sharply. “She’s been a daughter to us ever since…”
No one needed him to complete the sentence. Ever since Lucy died.
Callie saw the flicker of pain on Brenda’s features. Darn it, Callie still missed Lucy, too, especially at this time of year. Jack needed to confront the reality of being his parents’ only surviving child. Before his month here was up, she wanted his commitment to helping his mom and to being an active part of his parents’ lives as they aged. He didn’t have to live in Parkvale—that might bore him into an early grave and defeat the purpose—but she did expect him to act like a son. To improve his current performance a zillion percent.
“Much as I love you guys—” she kept her tone light, not wanting thoughts of Lucy to dampen Brenda’s joy in the day “—Jack’s your family more than I’ll ever be.” She beamed at the prodigal son, raised her voice and threw down the gauntlet. “Welcome home, Jack. May this be the first of many visits.”
Aunt Nancy clapped in agreement, and a couple of the cousins cheered. Brenda hugged her son.
“Thanks, Callie,” he said, his jaw tight, as if he’d bitten into a bad apple but was too polite to spit it out.
Callie saw in his eyes the intention to perform a medical misadventure on her if she didn’t drop the subject. She straightened her spine, forced her smile wider, sunnier. Standing this close, he looked taller than he had at the shop. Broader than he had eight years ago. And less friendly. Jack Mitchell was no doting but forgetful son in need of a gentle nudge. He was too self-centered, too famous, and he’d grown too big for his small-town roots.
Brenda moved to the doorway, called for attention. “Time for lunch, folks.”
Just as Jack suspected, in the dining room, the 1970s rosewood-veneered table was laden with so much food, he could scarcely see Brenda’s best lace tablecloth. His ever-considerate relatives each stood back and waited for the others to serve themselves potato salad, assorted roast vegetables, thick slices of beef sirloin and dollops of Parkvale Curried Chicken Salad.
If Jack hadn’t started the ball rolling, they’d have still been there at four o’clock, saying “You first” and “No, after you.”
The dining table only sat six people, so they dispersed back to the living room to eat. Between mouthfuls of superbly tender beef—he did miss his mom’s cooking—Jack chatted with his parents, all the time aware of Callie talking to Uncle Frank over by the window. She laughed at something Frank said, and the sound was musical, with none of the faux friendliness she’d used on Jack.
Sensing his scrutiny, she looked across at him.
He had two abiding memories of their wedding. One was the dumb joke she’d made—out of nerves, he knew, so he’d struggled to hide his irritation. The other was of Callie’s glance sliding away from his. The floor, her bitten fingernails, the air above his head, everything had been easier to look at than Jack.
Now, he felt as if she’d been examining him since the moment he walked into her shop. Her eyes were the brilliant blue found in some Renaissance paintings he’d admired at the Louvre. And like the Mona Lisa’s, they seemed to follow him everywhere. Unlike the Mona Lisa, there was nothing mysterious about Callie’s expression. Jack knew anger when he saw it.
The room suddenly felt stifling, although outside it was only in the mid-seventies.
He glanced away. Callie was like a kid sister. Which meant he wasn’t about to go noticing her eyes or her figure or anything else about her. She probably thought it was her job in life to bug him.
Unfortunately for her, getting riled wasn’t on his agenda. He was here to see his parents and to end his marriage. Simple.
He set his plate down on the sideboard. “Mom, I’ll get my bag out of the car. Am I in my old room?”
His mother’s brow creased. “I guess…if you don’t mind the color.”
It had always been navy blue.
“I moved into your room five years ago,” Callie explained, breaking off her chat with Frank. She was obviously listening in to Jack’s conversations, as well as watching his every move. “I painted it lilac and stenciled a floral border in carmine and magenta.”
What the hell colors were carmine and magenta? Ones Jack wouldn’t like, going by her smirk.
Jack’s sense of grievance swelled. First there’d been her failure to tell him who she was, then her subtle sniping. And now, her unmistakable pleasure in forcing him to sleep in a room whose color scheme would have him talking an octave higher by morning.
Jack wondered if any of Parkvale’s lawyers worked weekends.
Chapter Two
“BEND FORWARD, dear.” Aunt Nancy’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of pins.
Obediently, Callie leaned over. The scooped bodice of the champagne-colored bridesmaid’s dress gaped open.
“Goodness,” Nancy said, “that’s just about indecent.”
“Pretty, though,” Brenda said.
When Callie would have straightened, Nancy tapped her on the arm. “Let me pin it first, dear.”
“Mom, if you think Callie’s dress is indecent, wait till you see mine,” the bride called from the dressing room attached to Nancy’s basement sewing studio. Nancy was semiretired from her dressmaking business, but the studio had seen a lot of action since Sarah announced her engagement.
“I had a neckline up to here when I got married.” Nancy touched her chin, ignoring the fact that her daughter couldn’t see. “I don’t understand why you girls want to flaunt it all in church.”
She finished pinning the seam on one side of the dress, so Callie was now flaunting lopsided. Nancy moved around to her left.
The door to the studio opened. “Sweetie,” Brenda said, “I haven’t seen the bride yet. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”
“No problem.” Jack’s voice.
Callie straightened up fast, tugging the gaping side of her bodice close to her chest. He strolled into the room, all lean-hipped masculinity, enhanced by jeans that had been worn often enough to fit exactly how they should, and an open-necked shirt that was the perfect blend of tailored and casual.
“Doesn’t Callie look beautiful?” Brenda prompted him.
He nodded at Callie, neither friendly nor hostile. “Seems like you’re doing a great job with the dresses, Aunt Nancy.”
His mouth curved into that smile that should come with a hazard warning. Callie added too handsome to the list of Jack Mitchell’s failings. Even if Brenda got over her scruples about pressuring him to move closer to home, he would melt any objection with that smile.
Nancy beamed. “You’re so sweet, Jack, I feel better just for seeing you.”
Oh, please. As if he didn’t already have a big enough opinion of his doctoring abilities.
“I don’t know if I can take much credit for how good this dress looks on Callie,” Nancy continued. “The color is gorgeous on her. All I need to do is fix this.”
This turned out to be Callie’s left breast; to her mortification, Nancy patted it. Jack followed the movement with interest.
“She means the dress needs adjusting there,” Callie muttered.
“I wish your mom could be here to see how pretty you grew up,” Brenda said, her voice shaky.
Instantly, Callie’s throat clogged. She nodded, blinking hard.
Her mom, Jenny, had been best friends with Brenda in high school right here in Parkvale, until Jenny hitched a ride out of town after graduation. Years later, when leukemia forced her to give up wandering, Brenda had taken her and Callie into their home. There’d been an added bonus—Callie had clicked with Lucy Mitchell from the first minute and they’d become best friends, just like their moms. Peas in a pod, Brenda called them.
“Mom’s right,” Jack said quietly. “Jenny would be proud of you. On all counts.” He touched Callie’s arm, a gesture of understanding she hadn’t expected. Her skin felt warm where his hand had made contact. He smiled again, a more intimate smile this time, that gave her just a glimpse of his perfect teeth.
Callie ran her tongue over her own now-perfect teeth. A couple of days after their wedding her mother had suggested she see an orthodontist. Her mom had liked Jack’s teeth; she’d liked everything about him.
Maybe, on the inside, Jack was still that same decent guy. Callie’s conviction that she’d been justified in lying to him ahead of his return to Parkvale wavered, and not just because he would soon discover her deception.
She shook off the twinge of guilt. Okay, Jack had displayed a moment’s sensitivity. But that was far out-weighed by eight years of his money-is-no-object-just-don’t-ask-for-my-time philosophy. He sent expensive gifts from England at the right times, yet it seemed it was always the wrong time to pick up the phone.
“I’m coming out,” Sarah announced from behind the curtain.
