A Crazy Kind of Love (24 page)

He went down the stairs, walked onto the damp grass, and stepped into the wind, enjoying the air moving over him. It made him feel
alive
. And after an afternoon of watching Justin die, he needed that simple, physical reassurance.

Mike climbed out of her truck and instantly the wind lifted her long, loose blond hair and flew it around her head like a banner announcing her presence. She slammed the truck door and then leaned against it as if she were too tired to take another step.

Not surprising. After no sleep the night before, she’d been running on pure adrenaline today. Bound to crash.

She turned her head slowly to look at him, then smiled and tipped her face into the wind. “God, it feels good out here.”

“It does.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Always liked the wind. Sam never did, though. Always worried about her hair.” She laughed quietly as her own hair flew like blond snakes. “Jo likes a good storm, too. Not surprising, I guess, considering how much alike our temperaments are.” She paused. “I wonder if Jack likes ’em.”

“You should ask him.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“So where is the little brother?”

She sighed and reached up to shove both hands through her hair, tangling it, lifting it until the wind was all around her. “Grace took Jack and his mother home to her place. She dropped me off at home so I could get my truck. Had to feed Bear, too—Papa’s dog. Then Jack and the dog became such good friends, Grace took him home, too.” She shook her head. “Poor old dog’s too old to have to put up with Grace’s goats.”

“Goats?”

“Long story.”

“Right.”

“Where’s
your
brother?” she asked.

“Upstairs.”
Dying
. But he didn’t say it aloud. There would be time enough to tell her about Justin.

She nodded and closed her eyes.

“God, I’m tired,” she whispered, her voice fading
into the sigh of the wind, becoming a part of it. “I feel like overcooked pasta.”

“Huh?”

“You know, all limp and tasteless?” She waved a hand. “It’s an Italian thing.”

Lucas sensed her exhaustion. Would’ve felt it, even if he hadn’t seen it etched into her features. Pulling his hands free of his pockets, he finally moved, walking toward her with long, slow steps. When he was close enough, he did what came naturally and opened his arms.

She fell into him, sighing again as his arms came around her, holding her tight. “You know, Rocket Man,” she said softly, “I could really get to like you.”

“Same goes,” he said and heard the stiffness in his voice. He wondered if she did. If she was as surprised by his admission as
he
was.

She snuggled her head against his chest as if trying to find a comfortable position on a pillow that was just too hard.

“Who knew, huh?” she asked, voice tired, slurred. “I mean, you sort of sneaked up on me.”

He knew exactly what she meant. But he didn’t say so.

He chuckled shortly. “You’re just saying that because I’m holding you up instead of letting you collapse into the dirt.”

“Well,” she said, tipping her head back and smiling.
“Yeah.”

Her eyes. A man could get so lost in those eyes that he’d never find his way out again. At the moment, he didn’t even think he’d mind.

“Where’s your stuff?” he asked.

“Back of the truck. Do we have to move now?”

“The bed’s more comfortable than the grass.”

“You just said the magic word,” she murmured.
“Bed.”

He laughed again. “Well, you’re easy.”

She looked up at him, all seriousness suddenly. “You know? I never was, before.”

“Mike . . .” He lifted one hand to touch her cheek, her jaw, to feel her skin sliding beneath his.

She reached up and caught his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze as she smiled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go all thoughtful and deep on you. It’s too late and I’m too tired to get introspective, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling down at her. “Who needs deep, anyway?”

She gave him a quick grin as a reward. “You know, there’s a lot to be said for shallow.”

“Puddles need love as much as the ocean,” he said, stepping past her to reach into the bed of the truck. He grabbed a huge navy blue duffel bag and hoisted it out. Carrying it in one tight fist, he draped his free arm around her shoulders and pulled her up close to him.

Less than twenty minutes later, Mike was showered, changed, and stretched out on his bed. She wore a tiny dark green tank top and boxer-style bottoms that rode low on her hips, allowing him glimpses of the diamond-topped gold bar piercing her navel.

He climbed into the bed beside her, turned off the light on the table, then reached for her, drawing her into the circle of his arms. She curled into him, snaking one
arm across his bare chest and tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder.

“I’m so tired,” she said softly, her breath dusting across his chest.

“Then sleep, Michaela,” he murmured, stroking one hand up and down her back, in long, rhythmic strokes. “Just forget about everything and sleep.”

“Mmm . . . sounded nice,” she said, her voice fading into the quiet of the room. “I like the way you said my name . . .”

“Michaela,” he said again, drawing the name out until it sounded like music.

She drifted into sleep, and long after her even, steady breathing told him she was dreaming, Lucas lay awake. Staring up into the darkness, he thought about what she’d said to him earlier. How he’d “sneaked up on her.” Well, she’d done the same to him.

He didn’t know quite how it had happened, but with Mike here in his arms, for the first time, this house really felt like
home
.

While Mike slept a few miles away, Jo sat in the darkened church and listened to thunder rolling through the sky outside. Rain fell in angry sheets and battered at the walls of St. Joseph’s with furious fists. The wind howled and swept through the gaps in the window casements to flicker the flames of the candles on the altar and at the feet of the statues of the saints.

Jo thought the raging storm was a fitting accompaniment to the emotions churning inside her. She sat in a pew in the middle of the old church and stared at the crucifix attached to the gray stone wall behind the altar. Her hands clenched tight in her lap, her eyes filled with tears she refused to allow to fall, she glared at the pain-filled image of Jesus’ face.

“You just keep piling it on, don’t you?” she muttered, her voice fading into the rush of wind and the crash of the rain. “People look up to you, ask for help, and you slam-dunk ’em. Is it any wonder I don’t spend more time here?”

She pushed off the pew, stood up, and walked to the wide center aisle.

When she was a kid, the Marconis were here in St. Joseph’s every Sunday. Mama never missed mass and wasn’t about to let her family miss it, either. Sylvia Marconi had probably spent a good half of her life on her knees in prayer. Said enough rosaries to wear her fingertips to the bone.

And blindly believed in a God who’d let her die anyway, despite the frantic prayers of her family.

Jo walked up the center aisle, listening to the quiet click of her boot heels against the stone floor. For years, she’d done everything right. She’d gone to mass, said her prayers, believed everything her parents had encouraged her to, and what was her big reward? Losing her innocence
and
her mother in the same year.

The closer she got to the altar, the angrier she became. Outside, thunder rolled, and through the stained-glass windows, lightning flashed, sending bursts of wildly colored light dancing through the shadows. Jo hardly noticed.

At the gleaming, mahogany altar rail, where she and her sisters had made their First Communion and their Confirmation, she stopped. Memories rushed through her mind. Mass with her family. Weddings. Baptisms.

And the night she’d made a confession—her darkest secret and shame rippling from her to the ears of a priest who could never repeat what he’d heard.

Jo closed her eyes tightly, banishing that memory as she tipped her head back, opened her eyes, and stared directly into the delicately carved eyes, of the Son of God. Rage bubbled up inside her, frothed through her veins, until it reached the pit of her stomach where it churned and roiled until she felt sick with it.

Inhaling sharply, deeply, she spoke and there was enough of the old-school Catholic inside her still to make her wince at the loudness of her own voice in this quiet place.

But it didn’t stop her.

“That’s it,” she said. “We’re finished, You and me.” Her voice broke on the strangle of tears clogging her throat. “I believed. All along, in spite of everything, I still believed. I tried to pretend I didn’t. Didn’t come to see You. Didn’t pray. Haven’t said a rosary in
years
. But I believed.”

She dropped her hands onto the altar rail, felt the cool, slick surface of the polished wood beneath her hands and held on as if it meant her life.

“Now, though, it’s too much. My father. The one man I trusted more than
anyone
.” She sucked in a trembling breath. “He’s not who I believed he was. So that tells me
nothing
I believe in is real. Which means, You’re not real.”

She laughed shortly and lifted one hand to clap over her mouth to keep that laughter from spiraling into hysterics. When she had control of herself, she let her hand drop to her side.

“Stupid, huh? I’m standing here, telling You that You’re not real—but if I’m talking to You, You
are
real. So let’s put it another way, okay? Even if You are . . . we’re done. I’m through being disappointed. I’m through hoping for the best and getting kicked in the teeth.” She let go of the rail, stood up and jammed both hands into her pockets. “You go Your way, I’ll go mine.”

For the first time in her life, she didn’t genuflect in front of the altar. Didn’t show that respect that had
been pounded into her brain from the time she was a child.

Tonight, she just turned and stomped out of the church, boots clomping in rhythm to the fury of the storm. And when she hit the double doors at the end of the aisle, she slapped them hard with both hands and kept right on walking.

“You should have let me say something.”

Monsignor Gable stared at the doors through which Josefina Marconi had disappeared for a long moment before turning his gaze back on Father Tim Holden, the young parish priest beside him.

“She was disrespectful and should have been stopped.”

Monsignor Gable, an old man, who knew exactly why Jo Marconi was so furious, only smiled. “Faith like that should be welcomed,” he said, “not hushed.”

“
Faith?
Didn’t you hear her?” The younger man still quivered in outrage.

“I heard her,” the old man said. “But I wonder if you really did.”

“What do you mean?”

St. Joseph’s pastor patted his young colleague’s shoulder patiently. “The fact that she felt comfortable enough with Our Lord to come in and give Him a dressing-down speaks to a deep faith. How many people believe in God enough to shout at Him when they’re hurt and angry?”

Father Tim looked stunned.

Monsignor Gable only smiled. “Even by telling God that she was through with Him, Jo made the connection to the faith that has seen her through some dark times.”
He frowned, remembering the confession she’d made so long ago. The one that had broken his heart. “She’ll be back.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’s who she is,” he said softly, then steered his young friend out the sacristy door, headed for the rectory and home. “Now, about the Forty-Niner game next Saturday. I’ll give you three-to-one odds . . .”

“You should’ve told me,” Mike said, facing Lucas down under the overhang of the front porch the next morning. “Could have
warned
me at least.”

Lucas sighed and shifted his gaze to the still stormy sky. All night it had poured as though the skies were trying to empty themselves. This morning, the rain was still falling, though with a little less gusto than the night before. Which pretty much described the situation between him and Mike, too.

She’d awakened early, gone downstairs to make coffee, and found both Bridget and Justin in the kitchen.

He’d been hearing about the awkwardness of the whole situation ever since.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “Not something you can just drop into conversation. ‘Oh, did I mention that the twin brother I haven’t spoken to in years is
dying
?’ ”

Mike, wearing a faded blue
MARCONI CONSTRUCTION
T-shirt and the worn, nearly threadbare jeans that clung to her legs, stared at him. He felt her gaze even though he still couldn’t quite meet it. “Did you know?” she asked. “Before he got here. Did you know?”

“No.”

“God, Lucas.”

He blew out a breath and stuck one hand out from under the porch to let the rain puddle in his palm. Then he pulled his hand back, shook it dry, and shoved it through his hair. “He tried to tell me. I wouldn’t listen. Didn’t want to hear him.”

“Are you listening
now
?”

He glanced at her, irritation flashing. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” she said and walked closer, perching one hip on the porch rail and tipping her head back to look at him. “But he’s inside and you’re outside. So basically, you’re still not answering his e-mails—even the ‘in person’ ones.”

He knew damn well what he was doing and didn’t need Mike pointing it out to him. Last night, falling asleep with her in his arms, he’d felt more relaxed—at peace—than he had in years. But this morning, the truth was, Mike didn’t know what had happened between him and his twin and he didn’t know if he wanted to tell her or not. Dredging it all up again wouldn’t help anything. Would only make him relive things he’d spent too much time trying to keep buried.

But wasn’t it all alive again now, anyway? With Justin here, Lucas couldn’t avoid the past. It continually slapped at him whether he wanted it to or not.

“Are you gonna talk?” Mike asked in an over-the-top movie-villain voice. “Or am I going to have to get nasty?”