Knowing You (21 page)

“Don't they?” she retorted. “When Nick called, you turned into a stone statue. If it didn't matter, why didn't you just tell him I was here?”

“He's having a hard time right now and—”

“See?” she whispered. “Not so easy after all, is it?”

“Guess not,” he conceded, after a long tension-filled minute. “But we don't have to let them matter here. All I'm saying is, why don't we just enjoy what we have together?”

“And what is that, exactly?”

He shoved one hand through his hair and Stevie saw his frustration mount in the unconscious motion.

“Something more than we had a couple weeks ago.”

“And less than we should have.”

“There are rules, then?” he asked. “Things we
should
have before going any further? Like two hundred dollars for passing Go?”

“So clever. An answer for everything.” Stevie stepped around him and stomped to the other side of the bed. It wasn't easy to stomp when barefoot, but she made the extra effort. Snatching up her clothes, she threw him a furious glance before tugging her jeans on. “I don't know about the astronauts and the scientists you usually sleep with … but this simple little coffee shop owner needs to know what's going on in her own life.”

“Simple? Yeah,” he muttered. “You're as simple as quantum physics.”

“That's not the point.”

“What is the point?” he demanded, grabbing the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around his waist like a half-assed toga. “What's missing here? Flowers? June weddings? Eternal love?”

“Ha!” She zipped her jeans, grabbed her bra, and put it on. As she pulled her sweatshirt over her head, she kept talking, her voice sounding muffled. “Right. With a mother like mine, I'm looking for eternal love. In my family, eternal lasts as long as it takes to find a decent divorce lawyer.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?” she asked as her head popped free of the sweatshirt.

“You heard me. That's bullshit, comparing yourself to Joanna. You're nothing like her and you damn well know it.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, feeling a swell of relief that at least Paul didn't see her as being the same kind of woman as her mother. “But we don't know that for sure. Maybe if I were to get married, it'd turn out to be the same kind of roller-coaster ride Joanna's always on.”

“I don't believe it.”

“I don't want to, either. But the threat's always there. In the back of my mind.”

“You would never have forgotten about Debbie. You don't dismiss people from your life, Stevie.”

She pushed her hair back from her face and stared at him. This had all gotten so confusing. It had spiraled into a world of its own, and she didn't know the laws, the rules, here. What she felt for Paul had changed. Shifted. Into something that she couldn't—or wouldn't—admit even to herself. Because once she did, there would be no going back. There would be no friendship. No nothing.

And she didn't think she'd be able to bear that.

This was driving her insane. She didn't have a clue what she wanted from Paul. All she was completely sure of was, she didn't want to do anything that would risk her connection to the Candellano family. Stevie's relationship with Mama had survived her breakup with Nick. But if she and Paul were to try making something together and
it
was to fail, too … what were the odds that she'd still be welcome at Mama's house?

Then she'd have lost everything.

No. Couldn't do it. Couldn't risk it.

And really couldn't stand here talking about it anymore. She headed for the staircase.

“I gotta go.”

“Just like that?” He sounded amazed. “In the middle of an argument?”

Stevie sighed and paused, one hand on the richly carved banister. Her thumb smoothed over the intricate design work etched into the oak. “The argument's over, Paul. And so are we.”

“Over?” he shouted as she started down the stairs, her footsteps thumping loudly. “We're over? When did we start?”

Stevie winced at that direct hit, then stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back up at him. In the moonlight pouring through the glass in the roof, Paul looked … amazing. In that sheet, he could have been some ancient Greek prince or a Roman warrior or any number of women's fantasies. With his hair all mussed and his bare chest still gleaming with sweat from their latest romp in the sheets, he was enough to weaken stronger women than her.

Which probably explained why she spent nearly every moment with him
naked
.

God. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. There was something here. Something that could have been … might have been …

Shaking her head, she said softly, “That's the whole point, Paul. We never really started anything. So let's walk away before ending it ends our friendship, too.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Stevie spent two hours on the phone. She called everyone from her mother—who didn't answer, big surprise—to her lawyer, to finally, the people who ran the Reach for the Stars foundation. When they wouldn't budge on refusing to give out
information on Debbie Harris, Stevie called her lawyer again and sicced him on them.

It hadn't taken long for them to cave.

And now here she was, sitting in her car outside a small, well-tended Spanish-style house just off Van Buren. The street was tree-lined and quiet. Sunlight dappled the street as it poured through the trees from a clear sky overhead. A soft wind sighed in off the ocean, carrying the scent of the sea along with that of a nearby fireplace.

“Well, you were worried about nothing,” she muttered as her gaze slid back to the house where her sister lived. There was nothing Charles Dickensy about the place. Tidy, the front of the house was lined with neatly clipped hedges and two bright yellow chrysanthemum plants that looked ready to take over the world. A U.S. flag flew from the flagmount on the long, deep porch, and potted flowers sat on the edges of the steps leading to the front door.

It looked … nice.

Stevie climbed out of the car, swallowed back the ball of nerves crowding the base of her throat, and started for the door. A group of kids on skateboards whizzed past and Stevie stepped quickly, getting out of the line of fire. When one of the boys yelled back, “Watch out for the retards,” though, Stevie wanted to chase the little bastard down. But in heels, she'd never catch him.

Heels. She shouldn't have dressed up. She wasn't going to meet the queen. She should have been casual. Friendly.

Retards
.

She threw another furious look at the receding kids and bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from shouting after them. Fine. So Debbie lived in a nice house on a nice street in a nice part of town.

But the
people
weren't nice.

At least, not that little bunch of shits. Nerves battled with outrage in the pit of her stomach, and righteous indignation came out the winner. Her instinct to protect a sister she'd never met was damn near overwhelming. How dare they pick on Debbie? Was there anything in the world meaner than a kid?

Her heart ached for how much Debbie must be hurt by thoughtless people and cruel children. How many times over the years had she cried and had no one to share the pain with? Had Debbie ever longed for family, as Stevie had? Had she ever wished she had someone standing beside her to defend her?

Still grumbling and staring after those kids, Stevie told herself she should have brought Paul with her. He would have been able to catch that damn—no. She turned off that line of thought, fast. Paul wasn't a part of this. Paul was her friend. And that's all. That's it.

If regret stung a little with that admission, it was just something she'd have to learn to live with.

Her fingers curled around her purse's leather strap as she slung it over her left shoulder. She walked carefully up the brick walkway, her confident steps slowing just a little the nearer she got to the house.

What was she doing?

What if Debbie didn't want to see her?

What if she blamed Stevie for never coming before?

Stevie stopped dead. What if she only made things worse by coming here?

The front door flew open before she had time to obsess on any more questions. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a wide smile stepped onto the porch. Her graying blond hair was pulled into a pony-tail and she wore blue jeans and a red long-sleeved shirt. “Hi,” she said, coming down the steps quickly in her Keds. She held out her right hand and said, “I'm Margaret—call me Margie. You must be Stevie. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” she said, feeling more foolish than ever for wearing her black skirt and deep lavender silk blouse. But she supposed some lessons from Mother were too deeply ingrained to ever completely get rid of. And the one thing Joanna had
always
insisted on was a good first impression.

Yeah. Joanna. Queen of etiquette. The woman who'd dumped her less than normal child in a home and never looked back. There's one to emulate.

“Hi, it's nice to meet you.”

“I'm so glad you could come,” the woman said, already drawing Stevie up the steps. “Debbie will be so excited to meet you when she gets home.”

Disappointment rang out inside her. “She's not here?”

Margaret must have been able to read the expression on her face. “Don't worry; she won't be much longer. She's at work.”

“She works?” Oh God. Had she said something stupid?

“Sure,” Margaret, “call me Margie,” said, leading
her into a lovely living room. “All of my girls work. They're fiercely independent, which I admire.”

“Oh,” Stevie assured her, “me, too. Independence gets my vote.”

“Good.” Margie studied her for a long minute. “I see a resemblance between you and your sister.”

Stevie's heartbeat quickened. It was the first time anyone had said that phrase to her.
You and your sister
. Funny how much impact a few little words could make when strung together. “You do?”

“Oh, yeah. In the eyes. Color of your hair.”

“Debbie's a blonde?”

“
California
blonde, she'll tell you,” Margie said as she sat down in an overstuffed chair and waved Stevie into another one. “Sit. Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“No, thanks.” Stevie was too nervous to sit. All kinds of pent-up energy kept her walking around the room, looking at knickknacks, studying framed, childishly done artwork. “I'm good.”

Crossing her legs, Margie steepled her fingers together and said, “I didn't have a chance to warn Debbie about your visit. She'd already left for work when I got the call from your lawyer.”

“Warn her?”

Margie smiled and gave her a little shrug. “Probably not the right word, but close enough. You know, the kids get really emotional sometimes, so you might want to prepare for that. Debbie may be almost eighteen, but emotionally, she's much younger.”

“It's okay,” Stevie said, suddenly feeling the need to defend her sister again. This time to the woman who
knew Debbie far better than Stevie did. “I'm pretty emotional myself.”

The woman gave her an understanding smile as she said, “Good. Then how about I give you a tour of the house while we wait?”

“I'd like that.”

It was a lot bigger than it looked from the street. The house was built on a shotgun pattern. Straight back with rooms jutting out from a main hall every few feet. It was old, but in excellent condition, and every square inch had been lovingly decorated.

There were four girls living here with their house-mother. Two of them were home, and the other girl, like Debbie, was off at her job.

But meeting Marybeth and Stacy in the kitchen helped Stevie relax and prepare for meeting her sister.

“I'm making lunch,” Marybeth announced as she stirred a pot of macaroni and cheese.

“Smells good,” Stevie told her.

“And I'm gonna eat it,” Stacy said from her spot at the kitchen table. The youngest of the four girls, Stacy couldn't have been more than fifteen. Her wide brown eyes sparkled and she leaned into Margie for a hug as the woman passed behind her chair.

Stevie felt that lump in her throat again. They were a unit, the people here. Margie and the girls had created a home. And made themselves into a family. She couldn't help wondering if Debbie would have room for her in her life. Here … there was love and laughter and, once again, Stevie felt as though she was on the outside, looking in.

The front door slammed open and echoed down the
long hallway, followed by a girl shouting, “Margie, I'm ho-ome!” in a singsong note children had probably been using for centuries.

Stevie's glance shot to Margie. The woman smiled and nodded and Stevie turned back to look at the kitchen door. Nerves jumped. Her mouth went dry. She could actually
hear
her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Then she was there.

In the doorway.

No taller than Stevie, Debbie stopped dead on the threshold, to stare openly at the stranger in her kitchen. Debbie's blond hair was pulled back from her wide face into a ponytail. Her big, heavy-lidded blue eyes were filled with curiosity and her mouth curved in a hesitant smile. She wore a blue T-shirt with the aquarium's logo across the front and a name tag that read:
DEBBIE
.

“Hi,” Stevie said.

“Hi,” the girl answered, her grin spreading. “Who are you?”

“My name's Stevie.”

Debbie lifted one hand to her mouth, laughed, and shook her head. “That's a boy name.”

Laughing herself, Stevie said, “Yeah, I guess it is. My real name is Stephanie, but I don't like it much.”

“Oh. Like my name is Deb-o-rah, but I don't like that, either?”

“Yeah. Like that.”