Born to Be Wild (12 page)

“I want to find my sister. I want to see her,” Max stated. “I don’t care what shape she’s in. If the woman in Phoenix is my sister, I want to know about it—even if you think I shouldn’t be told.”

“Don’t worry, Max. I’ll call you Tuesday night, no matter how bad the news might be.”

Max pressed his fingers to his temples after he hung up the phone. He’d spent a lot of years looking for his family and found only his mother, a woman who didn’t want to see him, a woman who had started a new life years before and didn’t want him to be a part of it. It was just as well, because he had no interest in her, either. All he’d wanted from Loretta Wilde was information about his brother and sister, but she’d blocked them from her mind as easily as she’d shut out Max.

“Are you okay?” Jamie asked, her small, soapy fingers lightly touching his hand.

Nodding, Max slid off the barstool and headed for the sink. He bent down, eye level with his lit
tle girl, and touched her face. “Have I ever told you how glad I am to have you and Ryan?”

“A time or two.” She bit her lower lip again, and he couldn’t miss the worried frown in her eyes. “Will you still want us when you find your sister?”

Max laughed. “I’ll always want you.”

“But you haven’t adopted us.”

He stood, lifting Jamie and setting her on the edge of the counter. He put his hands in the warm, soapy dishwasher, taking over the chore she hated. “You have a father,” he reminded her.

“He’s in jail. I don’t even remember him.”

“Well, he remembers you, and he doesn’t want to give you up.”

“Ryan thinks you should talk to our dad. He thinks you could talk him into giving us up.”

“What do you think?”

“That you’re the only dad I’ve ever really known.”

He dried off his hands and rested a hip on the counter next to her. “Does being adopted mean that much to you?”

Jamie nodded, and slipped her small hand into his much bigger one.

“For what it’s worth, it means a lot to me, too.” Ryan had come into the kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator. “Sometimes I think you don’t want to adopt us.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“Why?” Jamie asked. “Didn’t you want Philippe to adopt you?”

He tried to remember if he’d ever had any feelings one way or another about being adopted. Philippe Bernard had been a far better father than Max’s real dad had been, and that was enough for Max.

“We never discussed it,” Max said. “He was always there for me and I knew he loved me— even though he never said it in so many words. That seemed enough at the time.” He smiled at Ryan and Jamie. “You know that I love you, don’t you?”

Jamie nodded, but Ryan shrugged and stared at the floor. Displays of emotion weren’t that easy for him, not at fourteen. “Yeah... I suppose.”

Max had been fifteen when Philippe took him in. He’d been a tough kid who hadn’t needed or wanted anyone. He saw a lot of himself in Ryan. Jamie, however, was quiet, sensitive, and still a little girl—his little girl.

Two years ago when he’d brought Ryan home, he’d just turned twelve. He was angry at Max, angry at the world, and did little more than sit in a corner and glare. Max had managed to get nine-year-old Jamie a couple of months later, and the very first night she’d crawled into his lap. She’d looked at him
with her sweet, baby-blue eyes—eyes filled with tears—and said she hoped he wouldn’t get rid of her or Ryan too soon, because she was tired of moving from one foster home to another, tired of being separated from her brother, tired of learning new rules everywhere she went.

Max knew that feeling all too well.

That memory, and his need to comfort her, made him wrap his arm around Jamie and hold her close. Two years ago when Max had asked about the possibility of adoption, he was told that Ryan and Jamie’s dad refused to give them up, that he swore he’d get out of prison eventually and take care of his kids.

But their dad had never contacted them. He hadn’t made any attempt to cooperate with the system and was denied parole the last time around. Max had come to the conclusion the guy would be in jail for the rest of his life.

But what if he did get out? What if he took Jamie and Ryan away? What if he violated parole again? And what if he got drunk and this time the kids were in the car with him rather than their mother and a couple of friends? What if he had another head-on collision and Jamie and Ryan were his newest victims?

The thought tortured him, made him realize what a special gift he’d been given when Jamie and Ryan came into his life.

He pressed a kiss to Jamie’s forehead. “I’ll call an adoption attorney tomorrow.”

He felt Jamie’s arms tighten around him, while Ryan stared at the floor. Slowly Ryan raised his head and Max couldn’t miss th
e moisture welling up in the corners of the boy’s eyes. The words “I love you” were on the tip of Ryan’s tongue, but they remained unspoken. Sometimes words weren’t necessary—he knew that from his own relationship with Philippe.

Max reached out and pulled Ryan against him,
feeling a strong tug at his heart a moment before an uncharacteristic tear slid down his cheek.

Tomorrow he’d take steps to make sure he never lost Jamie and Ryan—to make sure that they never lost him. Because he knew all too well the pain of losing the ones he loved.

S
neaking down to the kitchen wasn’t a habit of Lauren’s, especially at midnight, but she couldn’t get the boxes of mini quiche she and Charles had purchased at Costco off her mind. She had no idea if frozen mini quiche would taste delicious or if it would taste like cardboard. The same torturous thoughts had also gone through her mind for the past three hours about the pre-sliced chocolate cheesecake, not to mention the platters of shrimp and something called tortilla roll-ups scheduled to be picked up from the deli bright and early Saturday morning. What would Betsy and Bunny Endicott think if they got wind that Lauren had purchased the reception delicacies at a price club?

How would they react when they learned that Lauren had chosen not to have waiters at the fancy affair, that instead the guests would have to walk from table to table if they wanted something to eat or drink?

This was all Max Wilde’s fault, of course. How dare he insinuate—no, he hadn’t insinuated, he’d blatantly accused her of being a snob. Then he’d walked—no, he’d stormed—away from the most lucrative, glamorous job of his life!

Well, she planned to show him and all of Palm Beach just how good a job she could do without the services of a professional caterer.

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Charles had stated in a proper British whisper as he’d pushed the extra-large cart up one Costco aisle and down another. Over and over he’d told her that she should call Max Wilde and beg him to reconsider, but she’d adamantly stated, “No!” Max Wilde was insensitive, insufferable, and he’d deserted her. The nerve of the man!

Flipping on the light, she entered Mrs. Fisk’s black and white kitchen. Clean, almost to the point of sterile, it was a place she’d sat in many times chatting with Charles and Mrs. Fisk about the happenings in Palm Beach and Newport, where they often retreated during the hot and humid Florida summers.

It never ceased to amaze Lauren that her butler and cook could tell her what was going on behind closed doors long before she heard exaggerated versions of the stories from her friends. Naturally
she listened to all their reports, dispelled rumors when she could, and made it a point never to pass on the information.

Listening to gossip was one thing. Spreading it was quite another. She’d long ago tired of the scandalous tales about her own escapades. Most everyone knew that the tabloids and rumor mill blew everything out of proportion, but all too often something vicious would strike out and hurt someone close—all too often herself.

Of course, people like her—rich society folk— were supposed to be insensitive to backstabbing and name calling. Max Wilde must have thought she was made of steel. Why else would he have treated her the way he did?

She didn’t want to think about Max, but it was hard to think of anyone or anything else at midnight, when the house was quiet and she had nothing better to do. Looking at the starkness of her kitchen made her think of his disorderly laundry room and his warm and inviting kitchen, and brought to mind the vivid differences between his life and hers.

She wondered if Max Wilde ever sat around his kitchen discussing the outrageous lives of his friends and neighbors. For some reason she couldn’t picture him doing such a thing. Instead, she envisioned him tossing a ball to Ryan while standing at the counter whipping up barbecued ribs, or explaining an algebra equation to Jamie while chopping an onion.

This kitchen had never had that homey feel. There were no pots and pans hanging around, no
baskets of tomatoes, bananas, and oranges. Mrs. Fisk kept the cookies tucked away in an air-tight box beneath one of the counters, while Max had a red and black motorcycle cookie jar sitting at one end of the bar. She’d liked this kitchen until she’d sat in Max’s.

Max
.
Why did his name and so many things about him and his life continually pop into her mind? She shouldn’t think of him at all, especially when she remembered his hot brown eyes staring at her across the kitchen counter as he laid down the law on what she had to do before he’d work for her.

What an impossible man! One she needed to put completely out of her thoughts, but she couldn’t.

He’d been rude to her, teased her, and that had kicked off a chain reaction that had them both zinging verbal jabs at each other. If truth be told, she’d been just as rude picking on his friends when he’d merely tried to help her out—and gone out of his way to do it. She wasn’t too sure what a ’29 Indian Scout was, but she had the feeling it was a motorcycle, one that he cherished, one that, undoubtedly, was worth a lot of money. And he’d offered it to Bear—all for her.

Maybe she should attempt another apology, but he’d already made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her.

Period.

Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, she opened one of the freezer doors, took out a package of mini quiche, and quickly scanned the
instructions, which were written in impossibly small letters on the side of the box.

Opening one cupboard after another, she finally found Mrs. Fisk’s baking sheets, then turned on the oven. Three hundred and seventy-five degrees for ten minutes seemed an incredibly long time. With nearly two hundred guests coming on Saturday, with dozens of trays that would need to be filled with tidbits for them to eat, the food would have to cook much quicker. With a flick of her wrist, she twisted the knob to five hundred degrees, carefully placed the quiche on the tray, and popped it into the oven.

She looked at her watch. Twelve-twenty-seven. At precisely twelve-thirty-two she’d check on the quiche.

She paced the floor for the longest time, took one look at her watch, but only fifteen seconds had gone by. Did chefs get bored? she wondered.

Taking one of Mrs. Fisk’s cookbooks from the bookshelf, she opened it on the counter and flipped through the pages, looking at all the enticing delicacies. Her stomach growled, and she checked her watch again, anxious to try the quiche.

One minute and thirty seconds had ticked away, leaving her three minutes and thirty seconds. Time enough for a quick phone call.

Grabbing the phone from the wall, she punched in her brother’s number. It was only ten-twenty-eight in Wyoming. Surely Jack and Sam would be awake and she could tell Sam about Betsy’s wedding and see if she had some advice. After all, becoming a wedding planner
had
been Sam’s idea.

The phone rang three times before Lauren heard the receiver bounce off something hard, before she heard Jack’s raspy “Hello.”

Oh, dear! Maybe he’d been asleep after all.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Lauren asked her brother.

She couldn’t mistake the grumbling at the other end of the phone. “It’s ten-thirty, Lauren. What’s wrong?”

“What a silly question to ask. Everything’s fine. Absolutely perfect. Is everything absolutely perfect with you?”

“Except for the fact that you woke me out of a sound sleep, except for the fact that Sam’s having trouble sleeping and you woke her up from the first good night she’s had in weeks, except for—”