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“Can’t we just…have it done?”
“By some fly-by-night lab that sends a kit in the mail? How dependable do you think those results are going to be—let alone how legally binding?”
As much as she hated to admit it, she knew he was right. Oh, what was her problem? What had possessed her to come storming over here? She’d gained nothing for Mia—and she’d given him a chance to say things about Sissy that she really didn’t want to hear.
Gently she shifted the baby to her other shoulder. She was stalling. Coming to grips with the fact that she had no choice now but to bust to the bald, ugly truth.
She made herself say it. “You know I can’t reach Sissy. I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left town last June. She didn’t leave me so much as a PO box number, let alone a phone number or an address.”
He studied her for moment and then he suggested, “Maybe there’s some friend of hers you could call? What about that aunt she went to live with after your parents died?”
Aunt Irma. Dear God. Anyone but her. “It’s…doubtful. But I’ll check around.”
He got up and poured himself some more coffee, turning when the mug was full to lean on the counter again. He sipped. “There’s another option.”
Why did she get the feeling she was going to hate what he said next? She regarded him sideways. “What option?”
“Call Child Protective Services. Tell them what’s happened, explain that your sister has claimed I’m the baby’s father. You might be able to get the state to authorize permission for the DNA sample.”
She cradled Mia closer. “Call CPS. Uh-uh. No way.”
It wasn’t right that he knew what she was thinking. But of course, he did. “This is a different situation than ten years ago. You’re not eighteen now. You’re a grown woman with a business, not to mention a respected and well-liked member of your community.”
“I was well liked then. And respected. We had the diner then, to support us. My aunt still managed to take Sissy away—and why are we talking about this?”
“I told you. Because it’s an option.”
“No. No, it’s not. I do not want to mess with Child Protective Services, and you, of all people, ought to know that. I will not give them any chance to take this baby. I am her aunt. She’s…visiting. That’s how I want it. You understand?”
“Charlene…”
God. Why had she come here? What a stupid, stupid move. Her throat had clutched up with tears of frustration—and fear. She gulped the tears down and commanded, “Don’t you dare call CPS on me, Brand Bravo.”
He set his mug on the counter and put up both hands, palms out. As if she had a gun on him or something. “Look. Totally your call. But you have to face that CPS might eventually enter the picture.”
She would never face such a thing. What had happened to Sissy was never happening to Sissy’s child. Carefully cradling the baby with a supporting hand around the back of her tender little head, she stood. “I see now I shouldn’t have…rushed over here. My mistake. I was very upset and not thinking clearly. I understand what I’m up against now, though. I see there’s no way but to hold off on the paternity test until Sissy’s available to sign all the papers.”
“Charlene.”
She bit her lip and shook her head at him. “Don’t.”
He hesitated, but in the end he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. “You’ve got to ask yourself. What if she’s never available?”
Charlene had no intention of asking herself that. Not ever. No matter what. She said firmly, “She will be available. She’ll come home. Eventually. When she does, be prepared to take that paternity test.”
Those muscular shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Fair enough.”
She wondered why anyone would ever say that. Fair enough? As if there was anything about any of this that was fair.
Oh, why had she come here, she asked herself again. She was a thousand different kinds of fool for even talking to Brand.
Was he Mia’s father? Had he seduced Sissy last year?
She was no closer to knowing the answer to those questions than she would have been if she’d gone about her business, taken things a little slower, held off on confronting him until she’d had time to think it over and understood the situation better.
She should have been more…reasonable about all this. Not come flying over here at seven in the morning waving poor little Mia in his face, dragging him from bed and hurling accusations at him.
He just…he did that to her. Made her crazy. Made her want to pitch a big, ugly fit.
Ten whole years since he’d ripped out her heart and stomped it flat. And she still hated him, still looked for any opportunity to blame him—for anything.
It wasn’t healthy. She had to get past her never-ending anger at him. Somehow.
Soon.
She picked up the note from the table, folded it back to a small square with one hand and stuck it in her pocket again. Then she turned for the door.
Chapter Three
Brand watched her walk out and said nothing. Not see you later. Not even goodbye.
He and Charlene were long past the point where they made polite noises at each other. He and Charlene were…enemies. Or something damn close.
It really bugged him, how much she despised him. He prided himself on being a likable guy.
Yeah. It was kind of a big thing for him, to get along with the people who lived in his town. He’d worked hard to build himself a good reputation. It hadn’t been easy. He was a Bravo, after all, one of the apparently numberless bastard sons of the infamous Blake Bravo, who’d been a real bad actor, a man who had kidnapped his own nephew for a fortune in diamonds, done murder at least once and lived on for more than thirty years after the world believed him dead.
Brand had a whole bunch of half brothers, sons of women like his mother, Chastity, who had fallen for Blake Bravo’s dangerous bad-guy charm. Chastity had four sons by Blake, two of whom grew up well-known for their wild antics and troublemaking ways. Brand and Brett, Chastity Bravo’s two middle sons, did their best to be different, to live normal, noncontroversial lives.
Now Brett was the town doctor, happily married with a new baby son. And Brand had gone into law, moving back to town a couple of years ago to join his retiring uncle Clovis’s legal practice.
Brand considered himself successful, a productive member of his community. He knew he shouldn’t be the least bothered by some long-ago girlfriend’s low opinion of him.
And the fact that he knew he shouldn’t be bothered, well, that only bugged him all the more.
But it wasn’t his problem. None of it. Not that poor abandoned baby, not Charlene. Not wild, messed-up, provocative Sissy.
And, yeah. That was one thing Charlene had been right about. He never should have hired Sissy to do filing and help out at Cook and Bravo, Attorneys at Law. It had been a blazingly stupid move.
Too bad. He’d hired Charlene’s wild little sister, and now he’d be paying the price.
Eventually, the whole mess was bound to sort itself out. He’d take the paternity test when and if Sissy ever showed her face in town again. But for now his part was to stay the hell out of it.
And get on with his own damn life.
Charlene was just pulling out of Brand’s driveway when she spotted two local residents, Redonda Beals and Emmy Ralens, out for a morning stroll. They waved as she passed them, and Charlene waved back, being careful to smile as broadly as possible and to look as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Redonda and Emmy were both in their midfifties and best pals, nice ladies who came into the diner often and always tipped generously. They weren’t real big on gossip or anything. But everyone in town knew that Charlene Cooper would never be caught dead visiting Brand Bravo—at that fine new house of his or anywhere else for that matter. So the two nice ladies couldn’t be blamed for looking slightly puzzled at the sight of Charlene emerging from Brand’s driveway.
On the short drive back to town she came to a decision. Instead of turning for home, she headed for the diner. Might as well get it over with, let folks have a look at her niece.
After all, this was the Flat. Everybody knew everything about everyone else. Seeing Redonda and Emmy back there by Brand’s house had brought it home to her that there was absolutely no sense in trying to keep the baby hidden away.
Uh-uh. Smarter to play the proud auntie. Let them all know she had absolutely nothing to hide. The building loomed up on her left, the big black-and-white sign with red lettering over the door proclaiming it Dixie’s Diner.
At seven-thirty, when Charlene entered with Mia in her arms, the counter was full and so were the booths. Lots of folks liked to come in early for breakfast, and Saturdays were no exception.
Teddy was flipping pancakes on the grill and Rita—the waitress who’d agreed to come in at the last minute—was taking an order from the Winkle family at the back booth. Nan and George Winkle had three boys: twelve, eight and six. They were a rambunctious crew and prone to talking over each other. The boys would order more than they could possibly eat, while Nan and George vetoed and bargained and eventually allowed them to get whatever they wanted.
George, Jr., who had something of a crush on Charlene, waved wildly at the sight of her. “Hey. Charlene. Hi!”
Stevie, the youngest, started bouncing up and down, announcing in a loud sing-song, “Charlene has got a baby, an itty-bitty baby…”
“Shh, now,” said Nan. “Just you settle down.”
Matt, the middle son, demanded, “I want OJ and hot chocolate. I’ll drink ’em both, promise. Swear it. Please, I want both. Please…”
“Son,” said George. “Settle down now…”
Rita turned. “Hey, Charlene.” By then everyone in the place seemed to be staring.
“What’s that you got there?” demanded Old Tony Dellazola from his usual seat at the counter, three stools up from the door.
Charlene put on her widest, friendliest, happiest smile. “This is my niece, Sissy’s little girl. Her name is Mia Scarlett and she’s going to be staying with me for a while.”
Did it work? Charlene asked herself that night, as she was putting the baby to bed in a nest of pillows. Had her bold move of waltzing into the diner and introducing Mia right up front like that thrown a wet blanket on the gossip mill?
She wished.
Uh-uh. It had, however, let them all know that Mia’s “visit” was Charlene’s story and she planned on sticking to it; that was all she was saying on the subject and they might as well get used to it.
But just because it was all that Charlene was saying, didn’t mean everyone else would keep their big mouths shut. In the Flat, people talked. About each other. A lot. If you lived there, you had to learn to accept gossip as a given.
And some people were simply more interesting as grist for the gossip mill than others. Troublemakers and victims of terrible tragedies topped the list of the gossipworthy.
Sissy and Charlene’s parents had died in a car accident when Sissy was only nine. She’d been sent away to live with an aunt and uncle in San Diego, though Charlene had sold the family home to finance her failed suit to get custody of her sister. That was the tragedy part. And when Sissy returned to town last year, she’d been nothing but trouble. She was a gossipmonger’s dream. Since she’d vanished last summer—no doubt with the contents of Brand’s petty cash drawer in her pocket—the talk about her had never died down.
It didn’t take a genius or a psychic to know what people would be saying. Charlene could just hear them…
“Sissy has a baby?”
“A baby poor Charlene never so much as mentioned until today, when she shows up at the diner with the sweet little thing in her arms…”
“Isn’t that just like that crazy girl, to drop off her baby with Charlene out of nowhere like that?”
“You’re right. Just like her.”
“And I can’t help but wonder, where has Sissy got off to now?”
“Yes. And the big question, the most important question, is who might that little one’s father be…?”
Enough, Charlene chided herself. No good would come from obsessing over all the hurtful things that people might say.
She needed to take action. She needed to find her sister. But how?
Charlene got out her address book. She had two San Diego phone numbers her sister had given her way back when Sissy was in junior high. Charlene dialed the first one, for a girl name Mindy: no longer in service.
The second was for a Randee Quail. A woman picked up after it rang three times. Maureen Quail, Randee’s mother. She remembered Sissy, vaguely, but said she thought that Randee and Sissy had drifted apart in high school. Randee was a freshman at UCLA now. Maureen gave Charlene her cell number.
Charlene reached Randee on the first try. She said she hadn’t spoken to Sissy since her sophomore year in high school and had no idea where she might be now.
Next, Charlene looked through the junk drawer in the kitchen and every nook and cranny of her desk in the living room. She found two phone numbers scrawled on sticky notes, no names attached, and she was feeling just desperate enough to try them both.
The first was a chimney-cleaning company. A machine greeted her and told her to leave a message. She didn’t.
When she dialed the second number, a man answered. “This is Bob Thewlis.”
“Uh. Hi. I’m Charlene Cooper and I wonder if—”
“Charlene. Yeah. At the diner up in New Bethlehem Flat. Well. Gave you my number how many months ago…?”
“Oh.” She vaguely remembered—or she thought she did. Now and then a guy would ask for her number. She’d always tell them, Why don’t you give me yours? “Well. Hi, Bob…”
He chuckled. “I thought you’d never call. Because you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
Bob reminded her that he lived in Nevada City and he asked her if she’d like to have dinner Friday night. She almost said yes, just because she was so embarrassed to have called him and not even known who he was.
But then Mia started crying from her makeshift bed of pillows. Charlene apologized and said she couldn’t and explained that she was trying to reach someone and had found his number on a sticky note…
“Bye, Charlene,” he said, and hung up before she was through making excuses for her bizarre behavior.
She changed Mia’s diaper and then sat in the rocker in the living room with her for a while, thinking bleak thoughts.
Not only had she totally misplaced her own sister, she also never had a date. Not lately, anyway. She used to date. She’d go out now and then when some guy would ask her.
But somehow, it just never went anywhere with anyone. A couple of dates and they’d stop calling—or she’d make excuses when they asked her out again.
There was just never a…fit. There was never that excitement, that special thing that happened when you met a guy who was the right guy. There was never the thrill she’d known all those years ago.
With Brand.
By Sunday afternoon Brand wanted to shoot someone. Or better yet, punch somebody’s lights out.
Shooting and brawling did not fit the image he’d so carefully cultivated over the years. But too damn bad. A man—even a levelheaded man—can only be pushed so far before he had to start pushing back.
He’d picked up his uncle Clovis—who was also the senior and soon-to-be fully retired partner in their two-man firm—at five that morning. They went down to play golf in Grass Valley. Brand wasn’t a great lover of golf. But it pleased his uncle if he played with him now and then.
