Harlequin Heartwarming May 2016 Box Set (51 page)

“Still making it from scratch?”

“Finn
always
makes it from scratch. I'll get you a glass.”

Connor and Ciara sat at the table, talking about the weather while Finn opened cans of tomato paste, tomato sauce and diced tomatoes.

“I don't think I've ever seen you looking prettier,” he said as the butter melted in Finn's Dutch oven. And as she chopped the onion, he complimented her sister's fingernail polish.

“You painted all those tiny dots, all by yourself?”

“No, Finn did it for me. She does it every week.”

Finn added spices to the pot and told herself it was the onions, not Ciara's grateful little smile that made her eyes sting.

“I'm going to change into jeans,” Ciara said.

Connor followed as far as the kitchen door and stood for a long time, silent and staring and shaking his head.

“She's come a long way, hasn't she?”

The lid hit the pan with more force than she'd intended. “Ciara works hard, and it shows.”

“I think we both know who works hardest.” He returned to his chair. “That crack earlier, about wanting a beer... It was a dumb thing to say.”

For as long as she could remember, Connor had been saying things he didn't mean.

“I've been clean and sober for two months now.” He held his right hand in the air. “Honest.”

“You're back in AA, then?”

“Went to meetings every day...until I left to visit my best girls.”

“Speaking of leaving, how did you get here? I didn't see a car out back.”

“Hitchhiked, mostly, but I walked some, too. When I got to town, I looked up a pal. She fed me and...” Connor sipped his lemonade. “Then she dropped me off.”

It hurt, hearing that he'd stayed in touch with his
pal
but not her and Ciara.

He propped one boot heel on the rung of Ciara's chair. “Heard from Misty lately?”

Ciara returned in time to say, “She's in Atlanta. She—she got a job singing, and—and playing guitar in a hotel lounge.”

“Alone?”

“That's what I asked,” Ciara said, grinning, “and she said, ‘Just me and Gibson.'”

“Hard to believe she still has that beat-up old guitar.”

Finn emptied a bag of salad fixings into a bowl. “How long has it been since
you
talked with her?”

“Not since that gig in Mobile. Seemed dumb, both of us trying to survive on one paltry paycheck and sharing that crummy room management put us up in. So I called a buddy in Orlando, and he hooked me up.”

“How long were you in Florida?”

“Oh, I dunno, three months I guess, give or take a week.”

“And you never thought to call, tell us where you were?”

“You've got my cell number,” he said matter-of-factly. “So does Ciara. I figured if you needed me, you knew how to get in touch.”

“Last time I tried calling, some random guy said I had the wrong number.”

“Oh. Yeah. That must have been when I forgot to pay the bill.”

She could have pointed out that providers didn't reassign numbers after customers missed just one payment, but why put him in the position of telling yet another lie?

Ciara pulled a chair up close to Connor. “I'm so glad you're here, Dad. I really,
really
missed you!” She rested her head on his shoulder, and again, he kissed her temple.

“Missed you, too, Kee.”

Kee? That was
her
special nickname for Ciara. How dare he waltz in here after months and months without so much as a postcard, and behave as if he'd never left!

He held up his tumbler and shook it until the ice cubes rattled against the glass. “Why don't you get your old dad a refill, honey?” he told Ciara. “Everybody knows how much your sister hates to be interrupted when she's busy.”

“She—she does?” Ciara stopped halfway between the table and the fridge. “You do?”

She aimed a stern glare in her father's direction. “You, sweet girl,” she said, softening as she faced Ciara, “have never been an interruption.”

Ciara grabbed the lemonade pitcher. “I'm—I'm glad. I wouldn't want to be a bother.”

“A bother? Impossible! You're my best friend!”

“You're my best friend, too!” Beaming, she refilled Connor's glass. “There you—there you go, Dad.”

Did Connor ever feel guilty? Finn wondered, listening to Ciara's halting, repetitive speech, knowing it was
his
fault? She peeked over her shoulder. Evidently not, she thought, watching as he sat, one snakeskin boot resting on the opposite knee, nodding like a proud papa as his special-needs daughter accomplished the simple task.

Pete used to say Connor could charm the leaves from the trees. Would he fool Sam the way he'd fooled audiences from California to New York? Finn wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

She lowered the flame under the sauce pot and put the lid in place. “I'll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To change my clothes.”

Behind the safety of her closed bedroom door, Finn dialed Sam's number, thinking to take his advice and reschedule the visit. Why draw the innocent guy into Leary family drama? She got a busy signal and decided to try again after she'd swapped her dress for jeans and a T-shirt.

Finn had just finished lacing up her sneakers when Connor barged in, closed the door behind him and sat on her desk chair. “Can I talk to you for a minute, honey?”

Dread settled over her. What bad news would he deliver, and why had he felt it necessary to hide it from Ciara?

Finn folded her sundress, put it into the hamper and sat on its lid.

He ran a hand through salt-and-pepper hair. “I, ah, would it be all right if I crashed here with you girls for a while?”

“How long is a while?”

He shrugged. “Couple weeks, a month, maybe?”

“Okay, out with it. What happened in Orlando?”

Connor hung his head. “Lost my job.”

Connor speak for
fired.
“Why?” As if she didn't know.

“Showed up late a few times. More than a few, actually.”

Late, drunk and, if she had to guess, one too many creditors appearing, demanding to be paid. His story about attending AA meetings had been just that, Finn decided, and she was tired of his lies. Tired of his excuses. But he was her father, and like it or not, she couldn't very well turn him out into the street...even though he'd pretty much done the same to her and Ciara...

Finn got to her feet. “After supper, I'll make up the bed and clear some space in my closet and drawers for your things.”

“Aw, honey, I can't put you out of your own room. I'll bunk down on the couch.” He snickered nervously. “Believe me, it'll beat some of the places I've slept.”

She didn't doubt that for a minute. But there was a method to her so-called generosity: if Connor took the couch, he could sneak out for booze any time he pleased; if he slept in her room, she'd catch him at it.

“I'd feel better if you stayed in here until you get a job and a place of your own.”

“Speaking of jobs, I was kinda hopin' you'd find something for me at The Right Note.”

Last time he blew into town, he'd talked her into letting him run the cashier's stand, and the cash drawer had been nearly two hundred dollars short when he blew out again.

“I haven't even interviewed contractors yet. It could be a month before we're up and running again. And, come on, you hate not being busy.”

“Touché.” Grinning, he got to his feet. “So you're really okay with it? Me staying with you guys for a while, I mean?”

“On two conditions...”

He pocketed both hands and waited.

“One, you'll look for work.
Really
look. And two, you'll go to meetings. Every. Single. Day.”

“Well,” he drawled, “First, I'll need to find out where—”

“AA is exactly where it was last time you were in town, and the meeting schedule hasn't changed, either.” Finn knew, because every now and then, she attended an Al-Anon for-family-members gathering.

“Oh. Well. Good to know.”

“Is it?”

“Sure, sure. Beggars can't be choosers, they say.”

A glance at the alarm clock on her nightstand reminded her to try Sam again. Finn didn't leave a message this time, either. Just as well, because what could she say? Based on what little she'd heard about his family, he wasn't likely to forget
this
meal any time soon!

“I need to set the table and get the pasta water boiling. We're having company for supper.”

He opened the door and stood aside as she walked into the living room. “Anyone I know?”

“I don't think so.”

“Have you been seeing him long?”

“I only met him a few days ago. And I'm not
seeing him.
Sam and I are...friends.”

In the kitchen, she saw that while she and Connor had been talking, Ciara had set the table and finished the salad. She stood, wide-eyed and shoulders up, waiting for Finn's approval.

“Aw, Kee! Everything looks terrific!”

Finn didn't mention that she'd mixed up the silverware placement. Or that the lettuce chunks were three times larger than any human mouth. Ciara had understood what needed doing, and she'd done all on her own.

“I wanted to—wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you sure did!” Finn drew her into a hug. “Thank you for helping. Now I'll have time for a cup of tea before I start the pasta.”

Ciara pointed. “I filled the pot. Didn't turn it on, because I wasn't sure when to put in the noodles.”

“You're amazing,” Finn told her.

“Do you—do you think I did a good job, Dad?”

Finn realized he was about to point out Ciara's mistakes; she couldn't let him do that.

“Of course he does. She's something else, isn't she?”

Connor met her eyes, nodding as understanding dawned.

“Yup, you're something else, all right,” he said, winking. “I'm mighty proud of you.”

The doorbell chimed, halting any chance for him to say more and mess things up.

Finn turned Ciara toward the door. “Will you let Sam in and bring him to the kitchen?”

The minute she was out of earshot, Finn said, “Sometimes Ciara gets things backward. And sometimes she goofs them up entirely. But she tries real hard, so let's not point out her mistakes.”

“If we don't, how will she ever learn the right way to do things?”

Oh, great...lessons in doing things the “right” way, from the man who's done everything wrong!

“I've figured out how to teach her without embarrassing or frustrating her, without any help from anyone but her doctor. I know you mean well, but unless she's in danger, let me handle things, please?”

“There's no denying you've done a great job with her. Why, last time I was here, she wouldn't have attempted anything like this.”

Ciara, hand in hand with Sam, walked into the kitchen.

“This—this is Sam, Dad. He's our new friend. He's a firefighter, and, and he teaches
firefighters how to
be
firefighters. He took us to the zoo today. And isn't he handsome? He's a singer, just like you. And Rowdy says he's one of the bosses over at The—”

“Whoa, girl,” Sam said, “you're gonna give me a swelled head.”

Smart move, interrupting her
,
Finn thought. Because if Connor found out about The Meetinghouse partnership, he'd hit Sam up for a job, rob him blind and disappear. What would become of their friendship then?

“If I ever need a publicist, I'll know who to hire.” Sam winked at Ciara, then extended a hand to Connor. “Good to meet you, sir.”

“Good to meet you, too... Handsome Sam.”

He'd turned on the charm full bore, from the big friendly smile to the hearty handshake. She had no idea how long he'd been in town before his
pal
dropped him off earlier; it was entirely possible that Connor was already aware of Sam's involvement with the club.

“And, please, call me Connor.”

So it begins
, Finn thought.
Don't fall for it, Sam.
Please
don't fall for it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I
MADE
—I
MADE
the salad, Sam,” Ciara announced. “And I set the table, too.”

Winking, Sam gave her a thumbs-up. “Excellent work, kiddo. Excellent!”

“I did it to help Finn.” She looked toward the sink, where Finn was draining the pasta into a colander. “So she could have an important talk with—with Dad.” Hands clasped under her chin, Ciara squealed softly. “He's going to stay with us for a while. Right, Dad?” She beamed at Connor.

“Right, honey.”

Somewhere under that machine-made tan, Connor blushed. Sam made note of the guilt in his dark eyes, too. From everything he'd heard, the man had good reason to feel guilty.

“How long will you be in town, Mr. Leary?”

His daughters waited with wide-eyed expectation for his answer.

“Connor, remember? Mr. Leary was my dad.”

Ciara seemed disappointed by the nonanswer. And Finn? Finn rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove.

Connor propped his booted feet on a nearby chair and leaned back.

“Anything I can do?” Sam asked, joining Finn at the sink.

She leaned in close and whispered, “You can leave, save yourself from having to witness the Leary family drama.”

Yet again, her situation reminded him how lucky he was to have parents and a family like his.

“And miss out on that?” he asked, pointing at the saucepot. “Not a chance.”

“In that case, you could get the salad dressing out of the fridge.”

He opened the door and inspected the bottles lining a lower shelf. “Any particular flavor?”

Ciara waved her hand like a girl in school. “French for me, French for me!”

Connor chimed in with “Italian.”

Sam put their choices on the table. “And you, Finn?”

“Ranch, if there's any left.”

“A girl after my own heart. Where have you been all my life?”

“She's been right here,” Connor said. “Holding down the fort while her mom and I worked.”

Finn shook her head—if Sam had blinked, he would have missed the quick, silent gesture that said it all:
save it, Dad.

While Sam dropped ice into each glass, Connor bent at the waist and whispered to Ciara. “The forks belong on the left side of the plate, and the butter knives and spoons go on the right.” He moved the utensils into their proper positions.

Finn whirled around and branded him with a stern glare.

“Aw, I'm sorry, Finn,” Ciara said. “I thought, I thought, I thought the forks went—”

“You did a great job
,
Kee, and the table looks fine.”

“But I wanted to do it
right.
”

Finn wrapped her in a hug, then cupped her chin in a palm. “Would you pour the iced tea for me, sweetie?”

The distraction instantly changed Ciara's expression from hurt to delighted. Finn sure knew how to handle that girl, Sam thought.

“She'll be a wonderful, loving mother someday, don't you think?” Connor asked him, nodding at Finn.

If she gets the chance, with you and her mother putting up roadblocks.

He decided to change the subject. “I hear you're a songwriter?”

“That's right, Handsome Sam, and I hear
you're
a singer.”

He didn't want to start out on the wrong foot with Finn's father, but if the guy didn't drop the stupid nickname...

“You
look
like a singer.”

Now, how was he supposed to respond to
that
?

“You into sparkly suits and ten-gallon hats, or baseball caps and torn jeans?”

The other night in the diner, over pie and milk, Finn had underscored Mark's assertion that she didn't think much of musicians. Now that he'd met her father, Sam thought he understood why.

“I live by the KISS rule when I can,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

It was not.

“How long have you been at it?”

“Got my first guitar for my twelfth birthday.” Sam grinned slightly, remembering the wrapping paper with horses and cowboy hats—and the yards of blue ribbon—that his mom had used to cover the case.

“You play for pay, or just for fun?”

Finn was mixing sauce into the pasta, not nearly distracting enough to keep her from hearing his reply, so Sam chose his words carefully.

“I get onstage when I can...long as it doesn't interfere with my teaching.”

Connor leaned back as Finn plopped a thick pot holder onto the table.

“I just got in from a gig in Florida, myself. Needed a change of scenery.”

There was more to it than that. A whole lot more, if Finn's raised eyebrow was any indicator.

“So I thought, why not spend some time with my beautiful daughters while I wait for the next offer to roll in?”

Gut instinct warned Sam to exercise extreme caution when dealing with Connor Leary. He'd met the type before: good-looking, reasonably talented, likable enough to bluff his way through just about anything, with just about anyone.

Anyone but Finn, that was.

No sooner had she put the spaghetti pot in the center of the table than Connor grabbed the fork and served himself. “Hey, Kee, pass the Parmesan, will ya?”

The girl happily obliged as Sam filled her plate, then Finn's. And as she joined them at the table, he grasped the sisters' hands. “Mind if I say a quick blessing?”

“I think—I think that's a great idea, Sam!” Ciara gushed.

Finn answered with a happy, surprised smile.

As for Connor, at least he had the common sense to stop stuffing his face.

“We're thankful for this meal and the beautiful women who prepared it—” he gave Finn's fingertips a gentle squeeze “—and for friendship.”

Connor, not to be outdone, added, “And for a roof over our heads and clean sheets on our beds. Good food, good meat, good God, let's eat!”

Sam didn't think he'd ever met a more self-centered man. His daughters might have to treat him with deference, but
he
didn't.

“So you never got around to telling us how long you'll be in town, Connor.”

“That depends entirely on the generosity of my eldest daughter.” He patted Ciara's hand. “Right, Kee?”

With what Sam could only call complete clarity, Ciara said, “Finn always—always does what's right. Finn always does what's best. Because she loves everyone more than herself.” She looked at Connor to add, “It's what Pete said
all
the time.” She sent a loving glance to her sister. “And he was right.”

Finn's eyes welled with tears, and she smiled. “Sam, would you pass the ranch, please?”

When he handed it off, their fingers touched for a split second...long enough for a slight tremor to pass from her to him. The urge to pull her to her feet and gather her near washed over him like a tidal wave.

“Sam?”

He looked at Ciara. “Hmm?”

“Why are—why are you staring at Finn that way?”

Sam pretended to flick an eyelash from her cheek. “There. That's got it.” He picked up his glass, and as he drained it, he wished it was big enough to hide him from the three pairs of dark eyes watching him. Closely.

Connor snickered. “Why, I do believe Handsome Sam here is sweet on our Finn.”

“What does—what does that mean?”

“It means,” Sam said softly, “that Finn and I are friends. Good friends.”

Ciara's shoulders slumped.

“Aw, why do you look so sad, Kee?”

“Because, Dad, I was hoping they'd fall in love. And get married.”

Finn's big eyes locked on Sam's. “Oh, wow, I'm... I'm
so
sorry.”

“Me—me, too, Sam.”

He patted Ciara's hand, then turned to Finn. “So tell me, maker of the best spaghetti I've ever tasted, what's for dessert?”

He had a feeling he'd carry that wide-eyed, grateful look with him for days.

And nights.