Knowing You (22 page)

“Debbie,” Margie said as the two other girls in the room turned to watch. “Stevie came to see you to give you a surprise.”

“Really?” Debbie practically hummed in expectation. “I like surprises.”

“I'm glad,” Stevie said. “Because the surprise is, I'm your sister.”

A brief spark of disbelief lit Debbie's eyes, then was gone again in a heartbeat. And in its place was pure, unmistakable
joy
. As simply as that, she'd accepted Stevie's presence as she would a beautifully wrapped Christmas present. “My sister?”

“Uh-huh,” Stevie said, because she couldn't talk around the knot in her throat that simply refused to dissolve.

“But I didn't used to have a sister.”

“I know,” Stevie managed to say. “I didn't find out about you until yesterday. I came as soon as I could.”

Debbie ran up, threw her arms around Stevie's waist, and hugged her tight. Stevie held on to the younger, stronger girl and swayed with the surge of emotion pouring from Debbie straight into her heart.

“I always wanted a sister,” Debbie said, her voice coming muffled against Stevie's chest.

“Me, too, sweetie,” Stevie assured her, and ran one hand down the soft blond hair, so much like her own. “Oh, me, too.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A
FTER A SHARED LUNCH
of macaroni and cheese, Debbie took Stevie to her room.

“I made this,” the girl announced, picking up a clumsily painted vase.

“It's very pretty.”

“Yes.” Debbie nodded and carefully set her ceramic vase down on top of a small dresser. “I'm good at painting, Margie says, so maybe I'm gonna be a artist.”

“Why not?” Stevie watched the girl move around the room, pausing every now and then to hold up a treasure to be admired. Everything was going so much better than she'd dared to hope. Debbie was wonderful. Trusting, sweet, and yet fiercely independent. They seemed to get along so well already—as if Fate had planned for them to meet like this all along. Her heart singing, Stevie mentally started making plans.

The house was great, the people who lived here were very nice, but Debbie was her
sister
. And families belonged together. She could almost see the two of
them, working side by side at the Leaf and Bean. She would introduce Debbie to Chandler, and everyone in town would love her. There wouldn't be any name-calling there. Stevie would make sure of it.

A Down's syndrome child had enough to put up with without having to deal with other people's ignorance. In Chandler, Debbie would be protected. Loved.

“And we're gonna go to her concert next time they come here,” Debbie was saying, and Stevie listened up.

“A concert?”

“Uh-huh.” Debbie stared up at a poster of Britney Spears and Stevie almost chuckled. Down's syndrome or not, some teenage things remained a constant.

“You like Britney, huh?”

“Yeah,” Debbie said, throwing her a fast smile. “She's pretty and she sings really nice. I can almost dance like her, too. Me an' Marybeth practice sometimes and Margie says we're really good.”

“I bet you are,” Stevie said, and sat down on the edge of Debbie's single bed. The room looked like it could have belonged to
any
teenage girl. It was a little small, but the fact that it was crowded with
stuff
probably added to the illusion. Clothes were strewn on the floor, posters of not only Britney but also 'N Sync and Han Solo decorated the walls. Stuffed animals crowded bookshelves already overflowing with papers and books of every size. There was a small stereo sitting atop an oak chest of drawers, with a scattered pile of CDs lying beside it and a closet that looked packed to the rafters.

For the first time since stepping into the house, Stevie felt a moment's worry. Debbie was settled. Happy.
She'd led a full life that Stevie knew nothing about. Maybe she wouldn't want to move to Chandler. But the moment that thought hit, Stevie discounted it. Of course she would. She'd want to be with her family, too. Hadn't the girl been as excited as Stevie to discover a sister? Debbie could be just as settled, just as happy, in Chandler. With her sister.

Besides, realizing how much time they'd missed together only made Stevie more determined than ever to not miss any more.

“Do we have more sisters?”

Stevie looked at Debbie as the girl took a seat beside her. “Nope. It's just us.” Well, as far as she knew. But up until a day ago, she would have sworn she was an only child. So until Stevie had a chance to talk to Mommy Dearest, she wouldn't put money on anything.

“That's okay. I like us.”

“Me, too,” Stevie said, chuckling.

“I hafta do chores soon,” Debbie said. “Then we get to go to the movies tonight.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“We go all the time,” the girl said, grinning. “Margie really likes movies and we do, too. So we go and then we get pizza and that's really good, too. And sometimes when we walk home, we sing songs.”

Pleasure shone in Debbie's eyes and Stevie tried very hard to be pleased for her. Clearly, her little sister was more than well taken care of. She was happy. She was loved. She didn't
need
Stevie.

And that stung.

Heck,
no one
needed her. She'd hoped—well, not that Debbie had been suffering in any way, but that
somehow she would need Stevie as much as Stevie needed to be needed.

Oh, good God, she was beginning to confuse
herself
.

But the point was, Debbie hadn't needed her because the girl hadn't even been aware of Stevie's existence until an hour ago. Now that she did know, things would be different.

“You can come if you wanna.” Debbie's offer came hesitantly, as if she half-expected to be turned down.

But with the Leaf and Bean officially closed for the day, Stevie didn't have to rush back. And truthfully, she wouldn't have rushed back to her empty apartment anyway. Not while she had the chance to discover even more about this sister … this piece of her heart she'd only just found.

“I'd love to.”

*   *   *

Paul wandered through his house and told himself he should have gone to work. At least then, even if he didn't accomplish something, he would have felt as though he'd tried. As it was, he'd taken the day off only to move through his own house like some sort of displaced spirit, looking for a new place to haunt.

But with his brain racing at top speed, he couldn't sit still. Ever since the night before, when Stevie had stormed out of his house filled with righteous indignation, he'd been thinking. And thinking. And thinking.

He hadn't come up with a damn thing.

Plopping down at his desk in the corner of the main room, Paul lifted the lid of his laptop and waited what felt like an eternity for the screen to disengage from standby.

Bracing one elbow on the desktop, he scrubbed his face, scratching at the whiskers he hadn't bothered to shave that morning. His eyes felt gritty, like they'd been rolling in sand. “No sleep'll do that to you,” he grumbled as the screen flickered to life in starts and sputters.

When it cleared, he stared at the document he'd been looking at off and on all night. He'd made it a couple of weeks ago … back when he could still think straight.

The List.

Very scientific.

Very logical.

Everything spelled out in black and white.

Scowling at the screen, Paul stared at the spreadsheet he'd prepared on the pros and cons of loving Stevie. Each side boasted a few points. He read them again now, though he didn't need to. After these last couple of weeks, he knew them by heart in no particular order.

“‘She might still be half in love with Nick.'” He winced. “Okay, that's a big one—however unlikely.” Remembering her in his arms, her eagerness, her touch, her warmth, he couldn't bring himself to believe she was still in love with his brother—even partly. But he had to consider everything if he was going to do this logically.

“‘Stubborn.'” He snorted a laugh. “Now there's an understatement.” Continuing, he read off, ‘Always trying to save everyone and everything.'” There were a couple more, but nothing really important.

He ticked off the points from the Pro side just as
quickly. “‘Stubborn.'” He liked a woman with a mind of her own who wasn't afraid to take a stand. “‘Always trying to save everyone and everything.'” Who wouldn't admire a woman so dedicated to rounding up the hurt ones, the lost ones? And then there was the last point. The one reason that outweighed all the rest on either side.

Paul leaned back in his chair and pushed one hand through his hair, scooping it back from his face as he stared at that one last point.

“‘Pro: She's Stevie.'”

And that pretty much said it all.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” he muttered. “Like it or not, this problem is
not
going to be solved logically, or scientifically.” Disgusted with himself, he slammed the lid down again, putting the computer back on standby. Standing up, he stalked across the room, pulling his white T-shirt off and shoving it into a back pocket of his jeans as he went. He hit the back door, threw it open, and stomped outside. Taking the back porch steps two at a time, he stepped down barefoot onto the sun-warmed grass and kept walking.

The stand of trees behind his house rustled in the ocean wind that dusted through his hair and eased the heat of the afternoon sun pouring down against his back. Paul glanced around, barely noticing the familiar landscape, then moved toward the chopping block at the back of the house.

Thoughts of Stevie stayed with him, and the tension coiled in the pit of his stomach seemed to snap, sending vicious jabs of regret and anger and confusion to every cell in his body. Gritting his teeth, he walked
straight to the gnarled old stump of a lightning-struck tree, his gaze locked on the ax jutting up from it. He grabbed the smooth wooden stock of the ax and worked it up and down until the sharp blade came free.

Paul tested the blade with his thumb and nodded to himself as he picked up a small log and set it on end atop the stump. He liked coming out here. Chopping wood gave him a chance to work off whatever frustrations were chasing him and, at the same time, build a store of firewood for winter.

Swinging the ax high, he brought it down with a crash, and the sharp blade sliced that log neatly in two. He propped one of the halves on end again and split it into quarters. Then he did the same, over and over again. His shoulders ached, his arms stung, every time the hum of contact sang along the ax blade and up the stock. Sweat ran down his back and chest, streamed into his eyes, but he kept going, slamming that ax into the logs.

His mind blanked and that's just what he'd been aiming for. The steady thunk of the ax blade digging into wood sounded out like a bass drum in the afternoon quiet.

Stevie.

Risking her. Risking their friendship.

Getting over her.

“Ha!” He picked up another log. “Not happening,” he told himself. Then he tried to push her out of his mind again, but she kept creeping back in. Her eyes. Her smile. Her sighs. She was there. Everywhere. Surrounding him and there was no escape.

And truthfully, he didn't want one.

Somewhere along the line, things had changed. He wasn't so much interested in getting
over
her as he was in getting her
under
him.

So if he wasn't trying to forget about her, what was he aiming for? He wanted her in his life. But did that mean love? And if it did, what if she wasn't interested? That'd be a just punishment, wouldn't it? He finally decides that yes, he loves her, only to be told,
No thanks?
Yeah, that'd be perfect.

He slammed the blade down hard into the stump, grabbed his T-shirt out of his back pocket, and wiped the sweat from his face. Tossing the T-shirt aside, he grabbed the ax handle again.

“Hey.”

Turning, Paul watched as Nick crossed the grass toward him. Guilt reared up inside him, but he pushed it down. What the hell did he have to feel guilty about? That his life
wasn't
in the toilet? Well, Nick's wasn't exactly
in
it, anyway. Circling the rim, maybe. “Hi.”

Nick pushed his Oakleys up until they were sitting at the top of his head. He glanced at the growing pile of kindling and fire-ready logs, then back at his brother. “Working something out, are you?”

“Thought I was,” Paul said, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Nothing had been solved. He hadn't come up with a solution to the circus his life had become. All he'd gotten for his trouble were blisters on his palms. “Turns out, all I was doing was making kindling.”

“At least you accomplished something,” Nick said, and started walking around the yard. Kicking stray
pieces of wood back toward the pile, he shook his head. “You know, I don't have a damn thing to do?”

“Find something,” Paul said, and tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. Hell, it wasn't Nick's fault that Paul felt like tearing something in two.

“I don't know what to do.”

“You've got that interview.”

“That's not a sure thing,” Nick argued. “That's the problem.”

“Yeah, that's a real problem, all right.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Paul sighed. “It
means
, there are tons of people who'd kill to have your problems. Poor you. Too much money and nothing to occupy your time.”

“Thanks for your support.”

Shaking his head, Paul said, “No way are you pulling that on me. I've backed you. Always. Now it's time for you to do it yourself.”

“Easy enough for you to say. You haven't lost anything that's important to you.”

Hadn't he?
With the way Stevie had rushed out of his house the night before, Paul had the distinct feeling he'd lost something there was no replacing.