A Time to Surrender (4 page)
Cade rose to his feet, and the spell was broken. “There’s a group of us going to dinner. Why don’t you join us?”
She cleared her throat. “Uh, thanks, but I’ve got plans. A family thing.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Maybe.” She cocked her head. “What do you mean you can’t call him? You are so not a help, Edmunds.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He put his hands on his hips. “I want you to carefully consider taking tomorrow off.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
“I don’t want to find you in here again cursing at your computer.”
“I wasn’t cursing—” She saw the glint in his eyes and relaxed. “I’m serious too. This helped. I mean, us talking. So thank you.”
A rare grin lit up Mr. Ice Guy’s face. “You’re welcome.”
T
he late afternoon sun still felt warm on Jenna’s face as she stood outside her apartment building. She waited for her brother and his girlfriend to pick her up.
The family thing she’d mentioned to Cade was dinner at the Hacienda Hideaway, the retreat center her parents and grandparents were reopening. It was located up in the hills at least—depending on traffic—a fifty-minute drive from her place. She’d welcomed the ride offer.
A black SUV pulled into the parking lot. Jenna steeled herself. Family gatherings so magnified Kevin’s absence.
But then, what didn’t? A yawning void filled the apartment, the car, the school, the empty e-mail box. An evening out with coworkers or other friends they shared in common would not exactly be a respite. Anger would bubble and then, like what happened earlier with Cade, fear would take over.
The car braked near her, and the passenger door opened. Her older brother, Erik, slid out. “What’s wrong?”
“Besides my entire life?” She returned his brief hug.
“Yeah, besides that.” He looked down at her, his poker face a sure sign he was in playful mode. “I mean, you’re standing outside your apartment building. I don’t have to call you to say we’re downstairs.” He held up a hand. “Okay, just give me a moment here. This is quite difficult to fathom. The princess is actually waiting for us, actually ready to go?”
“Shut up.” Jenna turned to Erik’s girlfriend, who moved in for a hug.
Rosie said, “Don’t mind him. The prince is feeling a little feisty. He actually worked today.”
“He worked? Really?”
Erik said, “Ha, ha.”
Rosie smiled at him. His own grin lit up his face, a sight that reminded Jenna of him as a kid.
Erik Beaumont and Rosa Delgado were such an unlikely couple. Her brother, a former TV newscaster, would never have dated the Latina policewoman if he hadn’t checked into rehab and gotten over himself. Rosie never would have dated the snob—her own word—if she hadn’t nearly killed him.
“Jenna,” Rosie said. In spite of her pretty summer dress and her loose, wavy hair, she resembled a cop. It came across in her major-gym- time body and those sunglasses. “Seriously, how are things this week?”
When they first met, Jenna hadn’t cared much for Rosie. Why any woman wanted to do a man’s job was incomprehensible. She was pushy, intimidating, and outspoken. She honestly did believe the Beaumont siblings were royalty, in the negative sense of being spoiled. Not to mention the fact that she
shot
Erik.
But over the months, Jenna grew to trust and admire Rosie. No question about it, the woman loved Erik. Without her influence on him, Jenna’s older brother could easily have become by now a hopeless drunk lying somewhere in a gutter. Yes, Jenna could talk honestly with Rosie.
Jenna exhaled loudly. “The first couple days of school are always nerve-racking. Edmunds stuck me with this totally off-the-wall group for sixth-hour lit. I swear every last one of them will be suspended by next Friday. Which, come to think of it, will give me an extra prep period. Hmm. Maybe I won’t complain.”
Rosie took off her sunglasses, revealing a deadly combination of terrorist-level interrogation glare and grandma-level tenderness. “When did you last hear from him?”
Jenna twisted the strap of her shoulder bag and tried to smile. “You know, you’d make a great cop.”
Rosie touched Jenna’s arm. “I’ll pray.”
That was the other thing that used to bug her about Rosie—how she wore her faith like a scarlet
C
on her chest.
“Everyone take notice. I am a Christian.”
But that was before Kevin’s absence had hollowed out Jenna’s insides. It was before the void had begun to haunt.
She put her hand on Rosie’s and squeezed. “I could use that. Thanks.”
Y
ou don’t look like an ax murderer.”
Skylar ignored the voice behind her. She was busy studying two pans of baking lasagna at the open door of one of the magnificent Decor wall ovens. Claire had declared the kitchen the family’s private residence and off-limits to guests, even for tonight’s make-believe guests. Whoever was clearing his throat could wait.
Making a mental note of twenty minutes, she slid the oven rack back into place, shut its door, and turned.
A curly-haired guy approached, his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. A pinched expression on his narrow face defeated the easygoing posture.
“Well,” Skylar said, “you don’t look like an ax murderer either.”
The flit of a smile might have been a figment of her imagination.
He put out his hand. “Danny Beaumont.”
Not bothering to remove her oven mitt, she shook it. “Skylar Pierson.”
“Skylar with an
a
.” His hand slid into the pocket again. “I heard. What about Pierson? With an
e
,
a
, and
o
?”
“
I
,
e
,
o
.”
He blinked.
Skylar sighed to herself. The guy had to be Max’s son. It was clear from his dark eyes to his slender build to his uptight manner.
She said, “P-I-E-R-S-O-N.”
“I got it. I just don’t get why you’re here.”
“Um.” She shrugged and rolled out her lower lip. “Ad, cook, right place at the right time, kismet, God. Your grandma prayed.”
“I don’t doubt Nana’s prayers. But you have to admit it’s all pretty bizarre.”
“Yeah.” She glanced behind her shoulder, looked at him again, and lowered her voice. “I’m not supposed to reveal this, but I’m really an angel from God, sent to cook lasagna.”
“I see. Where did you last work?”
“A coffee shop in Seattle. I’ll get references.”
His forehead imitated an accordion. He rocked on his heels. Although he must be at least her age, his boyish face resembled one of those cutesy nice guys from an old TV show. Somebody like Wally Cleaver, Beaver’s brother. Any mother worth her weight in apple pie would easily approve of him.
He said, “It just seems prudent, for everyone’s sake, that we take the traditional route. Application, reference check, so on and so forth.”
“You mean drug test.”
He moved his head in an odd turtle fashion, in and out. “That’s not unreasonable these days. On the flipside, you’ll want to know about us, too, I imagine.”
“Oh, definitely.” She took off the oven mitts and tossed them onto the nearest counter. “First order of business is to give your grandma a drug test.”
The nonsmile darted across his mouth again. “I should have prefaced all this by saying my parents and grandparents have been through a lot this past year. They’ve peaked on the stress charts. I’m just trying to help them cover all the bases. They—”
“Yo!” The shout came from a tall guy in the doorway. “Wow!” Chewing in an exaggerated way, he flung his arms upward, touchdown style, and shut his eyes. “This dip! Spinach, artichokes, garlic, cream cheese.
Magnifico!
”
Skylar smiled, relieved at the interruption and pleased at the reaction to her hors d’oeuvres.
The guy swallowed and opened his eyes. “I repeat: mm-mm. That was beyond incredible. Absolutely exquisite. Are you Skylar?” He strode to her, his hand extended.
“Yeah. I’m glad you liked it.”
Instead of shaking her hand, he lowered his head and kissed it. “Promise me you will never leave this place unless it’s to marry me and cook in my kitchen,” he implored, locking eyes with her.
She laughed. “Who are you?”
“Erik, eldest of the offspring. I work with a production company that makes documentaries.” He straightened and let go of her hand.
“How many are there of you, anyway?" Skylar asked.
“Of siblings?” Erik paused. “Four. Myself, Danny here, Lexi his twin, and Jenna. Jen is the one with dark hair like mine and a snobbish look, which is really just a cover-up for being at her wit’s end because her husband is a Marine serving overseas. Lexi is the fragile-looking one making eyes at Nathan. Then there’s Tuyen, our orphaned cousin whose mother was Vietnamese and her father was killed in Vietnam. Her English is, uh, shall we say, improving.”
Skyler hoped she could keep them all straight. Four kids and an orphaned cousin. Parents who could pass for June and Ward Cleaver. And a grandmother who was some kind of Native American squaw with a direct line to God.
Erik said, “I’m so happy to meet you. I’m so happy you’re here. By any chance, is there more spinach-artichoke dip?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
He exhaled, clearly disappointed. Taller than both Danny and Max, he had startling good looks. Pierce Brosnan came to mind, aka a young James Bond.
“Dan,” Erik said, “did you taste it? The spinach-artichoke dip?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, you missed out. It’s gone now. I guess?” He turned a hopeful expression toward her.
She nodded. “But dinner is almost ready.”
“Are you allowed to divulge the menu?”
“Caesar salad—”
“With anchovies?”
She hesitated. Claire had not ordered anchovies because so few liked them, she said. But the delivery man from the market had a jar in his truck and Skylar trusted the subtle tweak their flavor would add.
Erik tilted his head. “Really?” He must have read something on her face. “You added anchovies?”
“Um, yeah, really.”
“Bless you, dear! What else can we expect?”
“Garlic bread and lasagnas.”
“Lasagnas? Plural?”
“One with sausage, the other with veggies.”
The brothers said in unison, “
Veggie
lasagna?”
“Yeah. Tofu and soy cheese. The thing is, there were these extra noodles and I thought, hmm, maybe we should practice for vegetarian guests.”
Danny said, “Does Mom know?”
“No.” Skylar dug in her self-defensive heels. “She’s been busy elsewhere.”
“Mom’s all for experimenting with gourmet, but she agreed with Nana about vegetarian. They wouldn’t bother unless specifically asked to do so.”
“Well, I figured the kitchen is my domain tonight. And since I have to pass inspection, I thought I better strut my best stuff.”
Erik grinned. “Don’t tell our grandfather what he’s eating and you’ll pass with flying colors.”
“But the kitchen is Nana’s domain.” Danny protested. “She has experience and definite ideas about what to serve.”
“Daniel.” Erik’s voice lowered. “Give the Boy Scout routine a rest. Life is not all black and white. Nana can’t do this, and Mom was counting on her.”
By now, both of them had their arms crossed, jaws set, eyebrows bunched.
Danny said, “You weren’t here the other night. It was the worst yet. Mom and Dad came unglued, over-the-top.”
“And they will again before one of two things happens: either they get a handle on running a center or they give it up. Nana agreed to help but she’s close to eighty years old, and she always had help. Papa totally quit being involved months ago. Which leaves Mom and Dad. This is a nutso project they’ve taken on, but it’s their nutso project, not ours.”
Skylar did not want to hear about family issues. “Hey, guys. Excuse me.”
They looked at her.
“As far as I know, I still have this job, which I need to get back to right now.” She made a scooping motion. “Shoo.”
Erik turned to Danny. “She’s kicking us out. Which, technically speaking, is within the boundaries of her domain. We ‘guests’ were told not to come in here tonight.”
The younger brother twisted his lips. He clearly wasn’t buying it.
And Skylar clearly wanted to stomp on his foot. Until he had walked into the room, she had a good gig going. She liked Max and Claire. And there was something special—serene, even—about Indio. The older brother seemed like a good guy too. But this hotshot Danny, he was really getting on her nerves. If he spouted off one more disapproving comment, she’d blow it by telling him exactly what she thought of his bullheaded attitude.
But she didn’t want to blow it. She didn’t want to leave this newfound oasis. Not already. She reminded herself of something she’d read in a magazine back when she thought such boy-girl advice made a difference. Because of her interest in cooking, this tidbit had stuck with her:
“Stop swinging the red cape. Just feed the bull and he’ll calm down.”
She stepped up close to the younger brother, her face within inches of his, and let the red cape of her attitude flutter to the floor. “Your mother gave me permission to create a feast.” She spoke softly. “Trust the feast, Danny. Just trust the feast.”
He did not back away or break eye contact. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes, pronounced by a California tan that suggested he spent a lot of time outdoors.
At last he said, “The proof is in the pudding?”
“Exactly.” She smiled.
He gave a half nod and walked away.
Erik followed, giving Skylar a thumbs-up on his way out the door.
C
laire removed the fork from her mouth. Her taste buds went on full alert.
Portabellas. Yellow peppers. Oregano, basil, thyme. Tofu.
Vegetable lasagna?
“Oh, my.” She sighed the words to herself.
Across the table, in the midst of several simultaneous conversations among family members, her son Erik caught her eye. He smiled and winked.
She raised her brows, took another bite, and wondered how much they could afford to pay Skylar.
With each passing hour, Claire’s appreciation for the young woman expanded. God hadn’t answered Indio’s prayer by sending a proficient cook. Instead, He sent a self-assured, accomplished chef.
