Summer at Seaside Cove (39 page)

“Actually, I am.” He gently squeezed her hands. “I missed you.” He hadn't necessarily meant to say that, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. He pressed his lips together before anything else could fall out. Like
I thought about you constantly.
Or
I want you so badly right now I'm ready to just pick you up, carry you off, and to hell with all those people in there.

She flicked another glance toward the open door. Then her gaze searched his. “You were gone longer than just a few days.”

He clearly saw the questions in her eyes. And the confusion. And, unless he was mistaken, a hint of hurt. “There was more to handle at Kevin's than I thought.” True—although far from the whole truth. “But now I'm back. And I'm here.” He raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss to her soft palm. “And I'm hoping that's okay.”

When she didn't immediately answer, an unpleasant sensation that felt like an all-over body cramp seized him. She was still looking at him in silence when headlight beams arced over them. She squinted in the sudden brightness and turned her head toward the street.

Nick looked as well. A yellow taxi stopped in front of Paradise Lost in the circle of light cast by the street lamp. The back door opened and a bright red high heel with a matching sole emerged, followed by a long, slim feminine leg encased in expensive-looking denim. The other leg followed, and seconds later a tall, willowy blonde stood next to the curb alongside a huge suitcase while the driver unloaded several more bags from the trunk.

“Oh. My. God.”

Jamie's horrified whisper had him turning quickly toward her. Her hands were fisted and pressed to her midsection and her face looked ghostly pale as she stared at the woman who was now pulling one of her rolled suitcases toward the driveway.

He stepped in front of her and grabbed her by the shoulders. Concern filled him when he felt a tremor rack her entire body. “What's wrong? Who is that?” he asked, although he had a sinking feeling he knew.

“That,” she said, sounding as if she spit the word, “is Laurel. My
loving
sister.”

W
ith her heart beating in hard, painful thumps and feeling as if she were slogging through thick, invisible Jell-O, Jamie moved on leaden feet toward the open sliding door. She stepped into the living area. And halted. At the sight of Laurel entering her kitchen.

As always, her sister looked stunning. Tall, slim, and casually elegant in her dark skinny jeans and crisp white sleeveless top, her thick, straight, glossy golden blond hair brushing her shoulders, not suffering a bit of frizz in the humid summer heat. Her designer platform pumps added a good five inches to her already enviable height, made her legs look like they reached the ceiling, and undoubtedly cost more than all the shoes in Jamie's closet combined. Jamie wasn't up on the latest hot designer handbag, but she was certain the gorgeous mahogany leather purse hanging in the crook of Laurel's arm was one with a waiting list. She exuded wealth and status, and wore the Upper East Side mantle she'd been given at the age of nine by her stepfather as if she were to the manor born. Rich, gorgeous, tall, skinny . . . if Jamie hadn't loved her, it would have been soooo easy to hate her.

But Laurel's betrayal had irrevocably changed and damaged that love.

And now she was here. Invading the sanctuary Jamie had tried to create for herself. Bringing with her the drama she'd traveled seven hundred miles to escape. Resentment and anger bubbled inside her until she felt like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

Jamie pulled in an unsteady breath. She felt Nick come to stand behind her. He rested a hand on her shoulder in a silent show of support she appreciated and desperately needed. She did not want to lose her composure, but God, she was teetering on the edge of screaming. Of striding across the room and ordering her sister to get the hell out. If not for Heather's presence, that's exactly what she would have done. She could only pray that her love for Heather would win out over her anger toward Laurel.

It was going to be a very, very close fight.

As Jamie walked toward the kitchen, she took in the tableau before her. Her mom—face pale, frozen in place, glaring at Laurel with the look of a mother bear protecting its cub. Alex—his arm around her mother's shoulders, looking both concerned and uncomfortable. Heather—wrapped in her mother's embrace, her expression a dumbfounded, vulnerable combination of
Wow, I can't believe you're here!
and
Oh, God, why on earth are you here?
that twisted Jamie's heart. And finally Laurel, standing in Jamie's kitchen, hugging Heather as if she had every right to be there.

In an effort to locate her voice, Jamie cleared her throat. At the sound, Laurel released Heather, and her gaze collided with Jamie's.

Anger and hurt exploded in Jamie's chest. She fisted her hands in an effort to keep her voice calm. “What are you doing here?”

The words were indeed calm, but there was no missing the icy chill in her tone. The question hovered in the air between them for several seconds, then Laurel offered a half smile that appeared uncharacteristically uncertain. “Hi. I'm here for Heather's birthday.” Her blue-eyed gaze remained steady on Jamie's, filled with an imploring expression Jamie had never seen from her sister before. “I know you weren't expecting me, but I hope it's okay that I came. I didn't want to miss Heather's special day.”

Jamie barely swallowed the bitter
No, it's not okay
that rushed into her throat. And forced herself to remember what was really important. Heather. “Whatever makes Heather happy.”

There was no mistaking the gratitude in Laurel's eyes—or the surprise that rippled through Jamie at seeing it there.

“Thank you,” said Laurel. She turned to Jamie's mom. “Hi, Maggie.” After a brief hesitation, she walked to where Jamie's mom stood like a statue and gave her a quick, awkward hug—one that wasn't returned. Laurel stepped quickly back and slid her hands into her jean pockets. “How are you? Patrick mentioned you'd come to visit Jamie. I hope you're enjoying your stay.”

“I'm fine, thank you,” Jamie's mom answered, her words clipped and frosty. “And yes, I'm enjoying my stay.”

Silence swelled, broken only by the muted sounds of the baseball game. Laurel's smile faltered and her gaze shifted to Alex. Recognition, followed by surprise, dawned on her face. “Alex? Alex Wharton? You did the kitchen renovations at Newman's.”

Alex nodded. The fact that he didn't appear confused at the thick tension permeating the air made it clear her mother had told him about Jamie and Laurel's strained relationship. “Hello, Miss Newman.”

Laurel held out her hand. “Please, call me Laurel.” After Alex shook her hand, Laurel asked, “What brings you to Seaside Cove?”

“He's Maggie's boyfriend,” Heather said, charging into the electric silence. “And that's Nick,” she added, pointing to where he'd moved to stand next to Jamie. His shoulder touched hers and his big palm rested on the small of her back, a firm, steadying heat Jamie greatly appreciated. “He lives next door.”

Laurel approached Jamie and Nick, her gaze flicking down to take in his hand resting on her back. Something Jamie couldn't decipher flashed in her eyes—surprise, maybe. Then she offered him a friendly smile and extended her hand. Jamie stiffened, fighting the urge to slap away those perfectly manicured fingers.

“Hi, Nick. Nice to meet you. I'm Laurel—Heather's mom and Jamie's sister. You own the beautiful chocolate lab. I saw the photos Heather posted on Facebook.”

Nick's left palm gave Jamie's back what she assumed was meant as a reassuring rub while he shook Laurel's proffered hand. “Hello. Yes, Godiva is my dog.”

Laurel laughed. “Great name for a chocolate lab.” Then a tiny frown burrowed between her brows and she tilted her head, studying him. “You look vaguely familiar. Have we ever met? Perhaps at Newman's?”

Nick shook his head. “I've never been.”

“At a charity event maybe? Or a gallery opening? Party in the Hamptons?”

“Nick doesn't attend the sort of events you do,” Jamie broke in, her tone just this side of icy.

Laurel shifted her attention to her. “My mistake,” she said softly. She hesitated, then reached out and gave Jamie a quick one-armed hug that Jamie barely managed to endure without wincing. When Laurel stepped back, she offered Jamie a shaky smile. “It's good to see you.”

Jamie greeted that remark with stony silence and a cold glare. Then she caught sight of Heather over Laurel's shoulder. Her niece's eyes were big and watchful behind her glasses, and once again recalling what was important, Jamie forced herself to say, “We were just about to have birthday cake.”

Without another word she stepped around Laurel and headed toward the kitchen. She offered Heather what she hoped passed for a genuine smile, then asked, “Shall I put on a pot of coffee?”

“I'm good with beer,” said Alex. “In fact, I think I'll have another one.” He turned to Nick. “You want one?”

“Sure. But coffee sounds good with the cake.”

“I'll stick with water,” said Jamie's mom.

“Coffee's fine for me,” said Laurel. She turned to Heather. “Milk for you?”

“I'm not a baby anymore, Mom. I can have coffee if I want,” Heather challenged.

“Another coffee it is,” Laurel said mildly.

Jamie busied herself with the coffee preparations and pretended her blood wasn't boiling. She scooped fragrant grounds into the filter, trying to concentrate on the task, but her attention was fixed on the conversation going on behind her.

“So what have you been up to, honey?”

From the corner of her eye, Jamie saw Heather shrug. “Just going to the beach and stuff.”

“I brought you a present.” Jamie turned and watched Laurel reach into her handbag. She withdrew a rectangular robin's egg blue box garnished with a white satin ribbon. The distinctive color of the box marked it as being from Tiffany's.

Twin spots of color stained Heather's cheeks. She took the box and frowned. “Thanks, Mom, but I don't need another bracelet.”

“I know. But I'm hoping you'll like this.”

Heather shrugged, then untied the satin ribbon and lifted the lid. And stared. “It's a . . . pen.” Jamie didn't think her niece could have sounded more stunned. She lifted the slim writing instrument that was the same iconic Tiffany's color as the box it came in and ran her finger over the glossy enamel surface.

“I know how much you enjoy writing,” Laurel said, skimming her hand over Heather's hair. “I wanted you to have a special pen. To write your special words. And since turquoise is your favorite color . . .”

Heather didn't say anything for several seconds. Then she very carefully put the pen back in its bed of satin and set the box on the counter. Then she leaned in and gave Laurel's cheek a quick kiss.

“Thanks, Mom. It's really cool.”

“You're welcome.” Laurel blinked back what looked to Jamie like tears, then smiled brightly. “Can I do anything to help?”

Jamie's brow shot upward. Anything to help?
Laurel?
Ha! Laurel who was accustomed to five-star service everywhere she went? Who lived in a ritzy Fifth Avenue apartment—the best her stepdad's money could buy? Jamie barely refrained from asking,
Okay, who the hell are you and what have you done with Laurel?

Instead she said, “Sure. We need plates, napkins, forks, and spoons. I'll take care of the coffee cups.”

Laurel's gaze flew to the shabby cabinets as if seeing them for the first time. “Okay. I, um, don't know where anything is.”

“I'll show you, Mom.”

Whether it was just to fill the silence or because she felt like sharing, Heather told Laurel about the clam festival and the float. Jamie took the opportunity to suck in some much-needed calming breaths. Keeping her back to the rest of the kitchen, she pulled three mugs from the mismatched collection in the cabinet above her head, then watched the last of the coffee brew. Just as the final drops plunked into the glass carafe, a warm hand landed on her shoulder.

“You okay?” Nick asked in a voice only she could hear.

She wasn't. She felt as if she were hanging on to her emotions by the thinnest of threads that was stretched to the breaking point. Her skin itched with the need to get the hell out of there. Out of the house that was supposed to be her getaway. But how could she get away when everything she'd tried to distance herself from was now here? Crowding her. Closing in on her. God, she felt as if she were trapped in a coffin upon which everyone around her was tossing shovelfuls of dirt.

She wanted to tell Nick she was fine, but knew she'd never pass that whopper off as even partially true. “I've been better.”

“You're doing great. Hang in there.”

Forcing a smile, Jamie poured the coffee. Stuck one of the emergency candles she'd found her first night at Paradise Lost in the cake. Lit the wick. Sang the traditional song. Ate cake. Tried to keep the conversation from lapsing into awkward silences by telling about her visit to Oy Vey Mama Mia and her introduction to the
negroni
. The minutes passed as if she were on autopilot—the words coming out of her mouth, but she didn't really know how.

“I like the sound of the
negroni
,” Laurel said, setting down her empty plate on the snack bar. She turned to Jamie. “Maybe we could take your friend's recipe and make it a drink special at Newman's.”

“We're not looking to add anything new to Newman's menu right now,” Jamie's mom said to Laurel in a cold, stiff voice before Jamie could reply. “And as for taking the recipe—haven't you taken enough things that don't belong to you?”