My Front Page Scandal (11 page)

The scolding didn’t help. Because it was a big deal, especially coming on top of losing her mother and learning a stranger was her sister.

She asked, “How did you survive?”

He stirred the simmering rice for a long while before answering. “I’m not sure that I did. David Carerra is someone separate from the kid I used to be.”

Her heart ached at the pain evident in his eyes. “You survived. Look at you now.”

He made a scoffing sound. “Yep. Look at me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t meant to rub salt in old wounds.” She blinked. “Hey, did you ever get your meeting with team management?”

“Tomorrow.” He didn’t seem too excited about it, as if he didn’t dare hope for the best. “Even if it goes well, reinstatement on the team won’t be my cure.”

“Then what do you need?”

“A couple of ladles of stock.”

“Right.” She dipped into the simmering pot.

He stirred. She waited, getting hungrier while she inhaled the smell of shallots, saffron and the simmering risotto. David was right. Cooking had returned some of the vitality to the Winfield house. Even when he was gone, she’d remember. She had to live here, not merely exist. Make it a home of her own.

But what if she no longer belonged?

With no answer to that wrenching question, she chose to confront what she could—David. “I want you to answer me,” she said directly. “What do you need?”

He looked at her. Me, she thought, suddenly realizing that that was what she wanted, her and David together, even if only for a brief while. And this time, the desire had nothing to do with trying to avoid her identity crisis. Please, David. Say that you need me.

He didn’t. Instead, he added more of the stock to the rice and continued stirring. “I’ve got to right my wrongs, I guess. Face up to my demons. Take whatever punishment I get.”

“You have demons?”

“Sure do. There are the ones that haunt me.” He gave her the crooked grin and a wink of one of his flawless emerald eyes. “And there are the ones that make me do bad things.”

She fingered the edge of her sweater. “I think I need to have a talk with those demons. They’re not coming through for me.”

“Feed them, and we’ll see.”

A hollow offer, she knew. The mood had been leached of its heat. Was that going to be the story of her life? An endless string of men who didn’t really get her, or if they did, didn’t want her once they got her? She’d broken up with Liam James after only four dates because it had already become clear that he’d never feel an all-consuming desire for her, but would be willing to have her play the role of his proper, blue-blooded wife.

Mrs. Young Bostonian, camera-ready for a fawning spread. The role for which she was destined, according to the fondest wishes of her family. Yechhh. She’d already avoided that fate once with Marcus Finch. How much longer could she hold out if her relationship with David also went nowhere?

David had taken the risotto off the heat and was stirring in more butter and stock. He grated Parmesan while she fetched plates, silverware and the bottle of wine. They ate at the island, keeping their conversation light as they dug into the midnight snack.

He told her about Marie Carerra’s Lord Have Mercy sweet-potato pie. She described the formal family dinners at her grandparents’ house, prepared by a cook and served by a maid, both nearly as old as Henry and Evelyn Winfield. They talked baseball and art, beets and the best farmers’ markets in Boston, then put the dishes into the dishwasher, the leftovers into the fridge and told each other goodnight.

Nothing more was said about the rendezvous until the next morning, when Brooke stepped out to retrieve her Sunday newspaper and Great Aunt Josephine stopped her to query about the motorcycle that had been parked in the driveway until the wee hours.

“It was a booty call,” Brooke answered without a quaver, then ducked inside before her aunt could ask for a definition.

“ROLL ME IN CLOVER!” Reba Koldowski crowed when she saw the table set for lunch.

“You’ve done it up fancy, Brooke. I feel just like the Queen of England.”

In an alternate reality, maybe, where the handbags, dowdy suits and grandma curls were replaced with fringed cowhide, a cleavage-baring red leather bustier and a yard of yellow cotton-candy hair. Reba was almost sixty, but strangers wouldn’t know it unless they saw her driver’s license, which she was apt to show off after she’d stumped a new acquaintance with her age. She liked to say that if she was going to spend hours on hair, makeup, wardrobe and her exercise bike every day, she wanted full credit.

“How are you doing, hon?” Reba asked as they hugged.

“I’m okay.”

That answer earned Brooke a tongue cluck. “You’re talking to Reba, sugar. Don’t put up a front for me.”

Brooke set down a bowl of salad and two plates of the leftover risotto. “The truth? It’s been rocky, especially lately.”

“But haven’t you girls been getting along with Lindsay real good?”

“We’ve been making some progress. But this isn’t about Lindsay. It’s about me.”

“Yep, I knew it’d happen. The breakup with that hunky millionaire is hitting you on delay.” A leaf and chunk of tomato dropped to the table as Reba transferred a portion onto her salad plate. She picked the strays up with her fingers and popped them in her mouth. “No girl wants to lose a guy to her baby sister.”

“I didn’t lose—” Brooke stopped herself. Technically, she and Liam had been over before he’d become interested in Katie. Brooke had even given her sister the go-ahead. That didn’t mean she might not still harbor a few irrational feelings of resentment and envy.

Brooke pushed those aside. Yes, she was happy for Katie. No, she didn’t want Liam.

She wanted a love of her own.

What she had with David was indefinable. Not really a one-night stand, but not a relationship, either. More like a fling that refused to stay flung, but kept coming back at her like a boomerang.

Brooke exhaled. “I have no regrets about Liam. We weren’t right for each other.”

“Pfft.” Reba shoveled two forkfuls of the risotto into her shellacked lips.

Although her table etiquette was lacking, she had a gusto for life that was so winning only a prig like Great Aunt Josephine could hold out in disapproval.

John Winfield had been dubious about Reba at times, especially when sniping family members got in his ear about the woman’s bad influence on his wife, but even he had learned to accept her as she came. Reba was always herself, one-hundred percent.

Brooke had once believed the same of her mother. No longer.

“You sound like a politician,” Reba said, still chewing. “Your la-de-da Great Aunt Jo might accept an answer like that, but don’t hand that rose over to Reba and expect her to say it smells like anything but bull crap.”

“I’m not pining for Liam. I swear.” Brooke dragged the tines of her utensil through the rice. “Maybe I do wish I had someone who’d love me the way he loves Katie, but that’s all.”

Reba remained skeptical. “Then what’s the problem, hon?”

“It’s Mom.”

“I get blue when I think about her, too. We’re all gonna miss her real bad for a long time.”

Brooke shook her head. “I wish I was only dealing with grief.” She slapped the snapshots onto the table. “We were going through some of Mom’s things and we found these. Take a look.”

A rare guile crept into Reba’s face. She picked up the photos, her eyes narrowing into black slits as she examined them. Brooke remembered how, after the funeral, she and her sisters had asked Reba what she knew about their mother’s rambling confessions during her final days. Reba had been less than forthcoming. In fact, she’d straight-up lied, denying all knowledge. After they’d found Lindsay, Reba had apologized for that. She’d claimed that the discovery of their sister had been something that Daisy had wanted them to make on their own.

Now she lingered over the shot of the Steve McQueen wannabe.

“Do you know him?” asked Brooke. She modulated her voice to filter the suspicion and accusation out. “Was he an old boyfriend of my mother’s?”

“He was someone who hung around.” Reba saw the date. “A long time ago.”

“You were sharing the apartment with my mother then, right?”

“I don’t remember exactly. There were always girls moving in and out. Models, starlets. You know, the glamorous type looking for their big break.” Reba toyed with her necklace, running the tiger’s-eye pendant up and down the chain. She evaded Brooke’s gaze. “Naturally, we attracted lots of men. Suave bachelor playboys. Sometimes not bachelors.” She snorted. “They call ‘em players nowadays.”

“Like this guy? Do you remember his name?”

“Nathan Sprecht.” Reba flung the photo aside. “He was nobody special.”

“Then why do you still remember him? He had to have been involved with my mother. She saved his picture.”

“Yeah, kid. They dated. Daisy was more serious than Nathan. She’d catch him with another woman and they’d break up, but then a few months later he’d come sniffing around again. She should’ve known better, but he had a smooth line that kept her bamboozled.”

Brooke nodded as stiffly as a bobblehead doll. “You saw the date stamp on the photo. It may have been taken only months before Mom and Dad were married.”

She stopped to swallow the lump that kept rising to her throat. Drum roll, please. “Was Daisy double-timing my father?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Reba reached across the table, charm bracelet jingling. She snagged Brooke’s hands and squeezed them. “It wasn’t like that. Nathan was a cad. He strung your mother along. She’d been out with John a few times, but they weren’t a steady thing yet, so when she found out—” Reba pulled away. She clamped her lips shut and vehemently shook her head, suddenly looking every year of her age.

“Please,” Brooke whispered. “Go on.”

“I s’pose she was still hoping that Nathan would come through for her. But he wasn’t a standup guy, not like your…” Reba’s voice trailed off. She looked at Brooke with pleading eyes.

Not a standup guy. Not like my father.

“Reba.” Brooke was hollow inside. “Are you saying that Nathan Sprecht got my mother pregnant? That she married Dad only because my real father let her down?”

Brooke closed her eyes for a moment, knowing that she already had her answer.

“I’m sorry, but you have to. You’re the only one who can.”

“Why can’t you leave your mother’s memory as it is?” Reba dug through her purse.

“Gawd, I need a cigarette.” She pulled out a blister pack of nicotine gum and popped two into her mouth.

Brooke stood and brought her plate to the kitchen. Her hand shook as she scraped it into the sink and ran the garbage disposal. Down the drain. Just like her history.

Who would she be if she didn’t have her father or her place in the family?

“Brooke,” Reba said. “You’re so pale. You’re scaring me.”

“Just tell me. Please.”

“All right.” Reba heaved a sigh. “It’s true. Nathan was your father.”

Her father? Brooke pressed her lips together. No, he wasn’t. He was only a…sperm donor.

“And did he know?” Brooke asked. Her heart ached. Not only for herself, but for her mother. She imagined Daisy as she’d never known her, young and desperately in love with a man who’d done her wrong at every turn.

“She told him.” Reba chewed vigorously. “That was the final straw for Nathan.

Daisy never saw him again. Like I said, he was a cad.”

“And so she turned to my—to John Winfield.” That made sense to Brooke. Maybe the only thing that did. Her father had been such a strong man with definite opinions, his word as good as gold. He was someone a woman could rely on.

“John loved Daisy. He was about ten years older, set in life.” Reba’s eyes followed Brooke as she paced back and forth. “We stayed up talking many nights, going over the options. One thing we knew for sure was that John would be a good husband and provider. Daisy was scared. She had already lost one daughter and had no intention of giving up another. But she needed that security. Don’t think bad of her, Brooke. She was thinking about you, her little baby.”

Brooke stopped, turned. “I get it.”

“You sound mad.”

“Well, yes. This is hard.” A hundred emotions had whirled through Brooke in the past few minutes, including anger. But the primary feeling remained a hurt bewilderment. She was lost. Lost like a little girl, alone and confused.

“Tell me one more thing,” she said, wrapping herself in her own arms for comfort.

Reba murmured.

“How did my mother feel about Dad? Was he only a convenient solution to her problem, or was he…?”

Reba smiled with relief. “This is where the story gets good, sweetie. See, she didn’t start out loving him, but it happened. Trust me on that. Daisy ended up just as much in love with John as he was with her. You girls must have known that. Even the Winfields came to accept that the marriage was a love match.”

Brooke nodded. There’d been plenty of love in their household. Even with the revelations that had come to light since her mother’s death, she’d never doubted that.

But that didn’t help much right now.

A trickle spilled from one eye. Then the other welled up and tears started running down her face. She shuddered, determined not to cry out loud, but Reba came over and put her arms around Brooke. “It’s okay, baby girl. You’ll feel better after you’ve cried it all out.”

Brooke held on to Reba as the grief and blame and confusion washed out of her in racking sobs. What would be left of her afterward, she had no idea.

IGNACIO LOPEZ CLAPPED David on the back as they exited the meeting with officials from the Red Sox head office. “Congratulations, man,” the sports agent said. “You’re in.”

“I have an invitation to spring training, not a free pass onto the team.” David stopped at the upper-deck windows of Fenway Park to survey the covered field and famed Green Monster, the massive outfield wall his home-run ball had sailed over in the seventh game.

One year later, he was starting over from scratch. For no damn good reason except that he was ashamed to own up to his past as J.D. Jackson, the boy who’d turned his own father over to the cops.

“You’ll make it, man. I know it.”

“Thanks for the support, Iggy. I plan on doing my best.”

The former ballplayer gave David a hearty man-hug. “Let me take you out to dinner. We’ll celebrate.”

David’s thoughts went straight to Brooke. He’d left a half-dozen messages on her cell since the aborted booty call, but she’d yet to call him back. “Sounds good,” he told Ignacio. “Why don’t you invite your wife, too? Maybe Rick and Emily can join us.”

Ignacio stroked his shiny silk tie. He dressed far better as an agent than he had as a Triple A shortstop whose idea of fine dining had been any meal that didn’t come in a bucket, basket or bag. “I thought you’d want to make it a guys’ night out, like the good old days.” He nudged David’s midsection. “Or you got a chica already on the hook, heh? Looking to impress her, my man?”

David shrugged. “You call Rick. I’ll check my messages.”

They separated and pulled out their cells. David still hadn’t heard word from Brooke. Where the hell was she?

He’d gone over their last night together word by word and kiss by kiss, and hadn’t been able to figure out what might have put her off. She wasn’t the kind of woman to dump a guy without reason—unless all she’d really wanted from him was a notch on her bedpost. But she wasn’t that kind of woman, either.

Without much hope, he rang her cell.

She answered, sounding subdued. “Hello, David.”

“Jeez, Brooke. Where’ve you been?”

“Busy, I guess. There’s a lot going on here.”

“At the store?”

“That, too. Hold on.” He heard her murmuring to someone, asking for a salad with blue-cheese dressing. “I missed my lunch break,” she explained. “We’re busy with the Christmas displays.”

“Christmas is two months away.”

“The displays go up the end of this month. Then the windows in November. They take a lot of planning.”

“Sure, I get it.” Her emotional distance was evident even on a cell. “This is a brush-off.”

“No,” she said. He could hear the frown in her voice. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it? You haven’t returned any of my messages.” He walked farther away from Ignacio, lowering his voice as a bright-eyed secretary passed him in the mezzanine for the second time.

“I apologize. It’s just not a good time for me. Family issues.”

“Something to do with the photographs?”

“Mm-hmm.” She sighed. “I have a lot to deal with right now and I don’t even know how to start. My father—” Her voice broke. After a minute of silence, she went on. “My mother’s friend, Reba, confirmed that my mother was pregnant by another man when she married my dad.”

“Brooke. Damn. That’s a shock.”

“Yeah. Scandalous.” She was trying to sound sarcastic but he could hear the devastation in her voice. “Who would have thought that the esteemed Winfields’ closets would be so full of skeletons?”

“Right. That’s usually left up to us trailer trash.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“I know. And I can guess how you’re feeling.” He leaned an arm on the glass and stared across the tarp-covered field with unseeing eyes. “Let me take you to dinner tonight. Just us.” Iggy and Rick would understand.

Brooke snuffled, then blew her nose with a discreet honk. “I can’t. I have a Martinis and Bikinis meeting at Chassy.” She hesitated before proceeding in a rush of words, as if she couldn’t hold anything back. “They’re usually scheduled for the first Thursday of the month, but there was a special meeting, so the regular one was put off, and I stupidly shot off my mouth to Sherry and said I’d take a dare—oh, God. Why am I telling you this?”

Martinis? Bikinis? Dares?

“Damn. I’ve officially lost it.” A thumping sound came from her end. “Please forget what I just said.”

No way. “What was that about bikinis?”

“Never mind. It’s too silly for words.”

“Chassy? Is that some kind of restaurant or bar? Maybe we can meet for a drink beforehand.”

“No! Absolutely not.”

Martinis, bikinis and dares, oh my.

“What about tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She seemed so relieved he’d let her off the hook that she’d probably agree to anything, but he wasn’t about to take advantage. At least, not that way.

“I’ll call you,” he said, then added for the sake of levity, “A call of the wild.”

Even her chuckle was a little bit sad. “That’s one call I’m willing to answer.”

CHASSY HAD BEEN EASY to find. He’d asked at the front desk of the hotel and they’d recognized the name immediately as one of south Boston’s up-and-coming night spots. He’d showered, shaved, put on cologne and a nice shirt and pants.

Whole hog.

He’d been at the bar for an hour already, nursing his second beer and watching the crowd for women in bikinis. They wore just about everything else—skimpy tops, belly-baring jeans, fancy cocktail dresses, football jerseys and hot pants. He’d looked down enough plunging necklines to give himself vertigo.

He signaled to the bartender, a young dude who spun bottles and set drinks aflame for an appreciative audience. “When do the bikini women show up?”

“Nine. They meet in the back room.” The bartender winked. “Good pickings there.”

David checked his watch. If Brooke arrived early, they’d have time for a very fast drink. A few words, at least. He was as bad as a teenager waiting in the hallway so he could “accidentally” bump into his crush as she left class. As bad as a teenager planning his first kiss. He had no good reason for doing this, pushing his way in when she’d said no, except for an instinct that she might actually need him.

A couple left the bar and two women grabbed the vacated stools with a swish of hair and wafting perfume. The tall, slim brunette looked a little like Brooke when he’d first met her, in a short, tight dress and heels. Her companion called her Lauren. As in, “You’ve got to try one of the Caramel Appletinis, Lauren.

They’re yummilicious.”

David watched as the women were served two martinis with caramel candies sunk at the bottom of the glass. He leaned toward Lauren and pointed with his chin.

“What did you call that drink?”

“It’s the special Bikinitini for the month. Caramel Apple.” She looked at him flirtatiously as she sipped. “Would you like one? My treat.”

He lifted his beer. “No, thanks.”

Her gaze stayed on his face a few beats too long. “Do I know you?”

“Nope.”

The second woman, a plump, giggly redhead, craned her neck to get a gander at him. “I know who you are. You’re the baseball player who quit the team. The one who hit the home run.”

He tried not to frown at his moment of infamy being listed before the glory.

“Your name is…is…wait, don’t tell me…”

“David Carerra,” said the brunette.

“That’s right!” The other one giggled. “I’m Tanya, and this is Lauren. We’re here for the Martinis and Bikinis meeting.”

If he’d been a bloodhound, his nose would’ve wiggled. “Martinis and Bikinis, huh? What is that?”

“It’s a private social club.” Lauren’s smoky eyes turned aloof. “Women only.”

“Unless you’re willing to jump naked out of a cake,” Tanya said. They laughed.

“Hey, that’s a good idea. You are out of a job, am I right?”

He smiled, somewhat grimly, straining to hear over the bar noise. “Why don’t you tell me more about this group?”

“Gosh, it’s loads of fun,” Tanya burbled. With relish, she tilted back her martini. “We take dares. Svetlana is doing one tonight and Sherry said she snared one of our new members, Lindsay’s half sister.”

Lauren looked surprised. “Which one?”

“Brooke.”

David leaned even closer. “Brooke Winfield?”

Tanya licked her lips. “That’s the one.”

“What kind of dare—”

Lauren cut him off. “We have to go.” She slipped off the stool and took her glass and a small studded purse off the bar. “Nice to meet you, David.”

Tanya followed, after squeezing David’s arm. “Tell Lindsay if you want to jump out of that cake.”

“Which one is she?”

The redhead pointed across the bar to a tall, poised blonde who stood near a curtained doorway, welcoming club members as they streamed into the back room.

“Lindsay Beckham. Owner of Chassy and the president of M and B.”

He stood with one boot on the rung of the stool and gave Lindsay a long once-over. Interesting. There was a noticeable resemblance to Brooke, in the shape of her face and the high cheekbones, the long, lean body. Even while she smiled at the women, there was a reserve about her. Not like Brooke’s. Her’s sprang from shyness. Lindsay was armored.

What kind of club was Brooke involved in, anyway? He wondered if she’d looked into this Lindsay woman’s background, or had taken her on faith. And what about the talk of dares?

If there was any daring to be done, he wanted it to be with him.

Suddenly he caught sight of her, chatting to a couple of other women while she removed a tailored jacket. Underneath she wore some kind of top that wrapped across her breasts. A knee-length navy skirt hugged her hips. Conservative but sexy. Looking at her was like taking a fastball to the noggin.