Hold on to Me (16 page)

Maybe he didn’t really know her either. At one time, he’d thought he knew everything about her. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Where did the necessity for all those walls of hers come from?

He slung an arm along the back of the seat, brushing her shoulder, the fine cotton of her blouse smooth under his fingertips. “You come from a big family, too, don’t you?”

Her posture tightened. “My father was one of seven children. I have Falconetti cousins scattered all over. My mother was an only child, so no Cavanaugh cousins. Just me and Vince.”

“Was?” His forefinger stroked down her arm.

She shrugged, dislodging the easy contact. “She died when I was six. Father when I was sixteen.”

Concern tempered his slight hurt that she didn’t seem to want him touching her. Even sixteen years after his father’s murder, grief still knifed through him at the most unexpected times. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I barely remember Mother because she was not well when I was small, and Father and I weren’t exactly close.” She sounded disconnected, as if speaking of someone else’s life. Something indefinable, beyond ice, tainted the word
Father
when she said it and sent unease skittering down his back.

“Why not?” Had she meant it when she told Cookie her father was a narcissist? And what kind of unseen scars did that leave on a child? Still looking out the window, she appeared unaffected by the conversation.

“He didn’t want a relationship with me beyond paternal responsibility and daughterly obedience. He didn’t want me, period.” One shoulder lifted in another elegant shrug. “I never could please him. First, I had the audacity to be born. Second, I had the nerve to be a girl. From what I’ve been told, I wasn’t the easiest child to live with, especially after Mother died, so that probably didn’t help. He liked an orderly household.”

So did his mother, but she also understood children. An image of Caitlin as a small, motherless child in a magazine-perfect home flickered through his mind, and he swallowed hard. “You had your brother, right?”

She shook her head. “Military school for him, boarding school for me. That’s where he knows your buddy Hardison from.” A bittersweet smile tempered by true affection tilted the corners of her mouth. “He was at West Point when Father died and I went to live with Troupe and Grandmother. When he was around, he was always trying to make sure I was protected and virginal. A lot like you and Tori.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a guy looking out for his sister.”

“There is when he tries to change her to do it.” An edge entered her voice.

“I don’t try to change Tori.”

She laughed. “I didn’t say you did. I love Vince, I do. Lots of hero worship there on my part, but I never got to really be myself with him. Like my father, it was all about meeting expectations.”

Not sure what to say to that, he turned into his mother’s neat gravel drive. An assortment of vehicles fanned out along the front of the sprawling red brick two-story. The sensible white sedan caught his attention and he groaned.

Caitlin glanced up from studying her nails. “What’s wrong?”

Easing the truck into the spot next to Tori’s little silver car, he killed the engine. He clenched the steering wheel, relaxed his fingers, flexed them once more. “Jeff’s here.”

“That’s a problem?”

“It could be.”

“He’s dating Tori, right? Maybe he’s with her.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. She’s never brought a guy home for Sunday dinner before.” He pushed the door open and walked to the passenger side to help Caitlin down. He made an effort to unwind, wishing his mother would let him smoke in her presence. “Come on.”

The excited laughter and squeals of his nieces and nephews drifted from the backyard. He led Caitlin around to the side door, remembering at the last moment not to let the screen door slam behind him. The interior of the house was cool, spotless and filled with the enticing aromas of his mother’s traditional Sunday dinner—fried chicken, garden-fresh vegetables and hot, homemade biscuits.

The familiarity calmed his jangling nerves somewhat. The dining-room table was already set with his mother’s good china, another Sunday tradition. He knew the kitchen table would be arranged for the children. With his hand at the small of Caitlin’s back, they crossed the hall and the family room, entering the huge kitchen, which overflowed with activity.

“Lamar! You’re early.” His mother’s pleasure settled his emotions further. It was damned hard to be upset in her calm presence.

“Hey, Mama.” He wrapped her in a swift, hard hug. The sharp scent of V05 hairdressing clung to her, mixing with the rose lotion she’d used for years, and awakening sensory memories from his childhood. He inhaled and held on a moment longer. “You remember Caitlin?”

“Of course!” Caitlin received a quick embrace as well. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“Thank you.” Caitlin smiled, a pretty, genuine curve of her lips, and Tick was glad to see her customary reserve didn’t extend to his mother. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Maybe in a minute.” His mother waved the offer away. “Everything’s almost ready. Tori will get you some tea and we can get to know each other better. Lamar, Jeff and your brothers are in the backyard with the children.”

That was a definite dismissal from his mother’s female domain. Any other time, he’d have taken Caitlin with him, but he knew what “getting to know each other better” meant—his mother was going to subject Caitlin to an interrogation unlike anything the Federal Bureau of Investigation could produce. He grinned on his way out the door. Caitlin thought he was pushy?

He almost felt sorry for her.

Besides a master interrogator, Lenora Calvert was also ninety-percent drill sergeant. After fifteen minutes in which she ended up divulging details of her early life, her college years and her career at the FBI, Caitlin watched, amused, as the petite woman organized the women in her kitchen, getting a meal large enough to feed a small army to the long, cherry-wood dining table. Even Deanne, looking more rested than she had Friday night, pitched in while her newborn dozed in a padded infant carrier.

“How about buttering these for me?” Lenora pressed a butter container into Caitlin’s hands.

“Of course.” She smiled, warmed at being included. Standing at the long counter near the back door, she brushed butter on the hot, flaky biscuits. Happy chatter and affectionate teasing wrapped around the room, and a lump settled in her throat. Being a part of this family would be such a sweet blessing.

The baby, named Charles Carter after all, stirred, and Tori swooped down, lifting him into her arms. She nuzzled his cheek. “I still wish you had named him Lamar, Dee. I’m sorry, but he looks more like Tick than he does Chuck.”

“Don’t let Chuck hear you say that. He’s convinced this is his spitting image. But you’re right. I was looking through your mom’s baby photos earlier, and he does look a lot like Tick as a baby. But Tick is the junior, he should get to have Lamar Eugene III.”

Tori sighed. “He’d probably call him Trey or something. And if he doesn’t hurry up and do something, there won’t be a Lamar Eugene III.”

Intensely uncomfortable, Caitlin stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and wondered how she could make a graceful exit.

“What do you think, Cait?” Tori asked, settling the baby into Caitlin’s startled hold. “Does he look like grumpy old Tick?”

The last words were emphasized with loving baby talk. Carter yawned, his eyes drifting shut.

Caitlin stood, frozen by the sweet barely-there weight of the infant in her arms. Hardly breathing, she dared to glance down. His tiny mouth pursed as he turned his head toward her with little snuffling sounds. Minuscule fingers curled and uncurled against the curve of his face. Long, dark lashes brushed his cheeks, matching the soft wisps of dark hair that covered his head. He showed the beginnings of what would be a strong jaw and stubborn chin.

Oh, dear God, he did look like Tick.

Is this what their son would have looked like, if he’d been born?

The crushing agony pounded at her, a sob pushing at her throat. She swallowed it with difficulty, holding the baby close and hurting.

Pretending would come so easily—fooling herself for only a moment that this was her baby and Tick’s, and any minute he would come strolling through that door with his long, lazy stride and call her precious. Letting herself believe for a moment that Fuller had never existed, that she’d been allowed a chance to hold her baby.

This should have been real, could have been real. She should be here under different circumstances, holding a dark-haired boy only months older than the one in her arms. Tick should have had the opportunity to cradle that baby with joy and pride, to count those little fingers and toes. So many should-haves and what-ifs that she wanted to scream until the pain and loss was spent.

“You look sick,” Tori said with characteristic bluntness.

“I think I’m just not used to the heat.” She handed Carter back to his mother and fanned herself with a hand, small beads of icy perspiration breaking on her upper lip. Nausea churned in her stomach. “I’m fine.”

Tori scrutinized her face. “Maybe you need some air.”

Lenora waved them toward the door. “Tori, take her out and show her the rose garden. We’ve got a few minutes before dinner.”

Relief coursed through Caitlin as she followed Tori to the front door. The rose garden took up most of the front yard, with wrought iron benches scattered among the fragrant shrubs. Oak trees curved overhead, providing pockets of cooling shade. The shouts and giggles of children flowed from the backyard, interspersed with the low hum of a male conversation. A deep voice murmured and Tick’s rich laugh carried to her.

She wrapped her arms around her midriff, trying to staunch the tide of loss sweeping her.

“What happened in there?”

“Nothing.” Caitlin sank onto a bench. “I just felt ill for a moment.”

“I know ill, Cait. That wasn’t ill. That was a nervous reaction.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have a serious case of denial if you think that.”

Caitlin tossed her an infuriated look. “You don’t quit, do you? Just like—”

She bit the sentence off.

But Tori picked up as though Caitlin had finished the thought. “Just like Tick? He cares about you. He spends a lot of time worrying about the people he loves and—”

“Loves?” A low, dull throbbing started at her temples. No, she didn’t want to think about that, not right now. “You are so deluded.”

“What?” Tori demanded, a hint of anger nudging at her voice. “So I said it out loud. My brother loves you, is so in love with you that everyone but the two of you can see it. And you know what I think? I think you could love him, too, if you’d just let yourself.”

“You’re wrong.” The words emerged deadly quiet, devoid of emotion. Even as she uttered them, she knew them for the obvious lie they were. Yes, he was in love with her, but he didn’t have all the facts, either. How long would he love her if she told him the whole truth?

If she told him he had been a father, that Fuller’s attack had stolen that from them both? That more than not being able to protect herself, she’d failed to keep their baby safe?

Tori folded her arms over her chest, chin tilted at a defiant angle. “So, say it. Say, ‘I am not interested in Tick Calvert’.”

“Damn it, I am not interested in
anyone
!” The ache became a grim pounding. “I’m not interested in love, or in marriage and babies, or any of the other fairy tales you’re cooking up. Got that?”

Tori stared at her for a several long moments, sympathy and concern glowing in her eyes. “Sure. I got it.”

“So the conversation is closed.”

“Whatever you want.”

Yeah, right. Whatever she wanted. She wished that were so, because she could still feel the baby in her embrace and Tick’s arms around her from the night before.

She deserved an Oscar for her performance at dinner. Caitlin smiled and made polite conversation, answering questions and complimenting Lenora on food she never tasted. Tick sat at the head of the table, Caitlin to his right. His three-year-old niece Charlie insisted on sitting on his knee, and he ate with his right hand, steadying Charlie’s still-shaky fork with his left.

Caitlin avoided looking at him and instead studied her barely touched plate. Surely this meal couldn’t drag out all day.

“Tori, what did you do last night?” Deanne passed Tick an extra napkin for her daughter.

“Jeff and I went to Mikata’s.” Tori grinned up at Schaefer, nudging his arm with hers. “And we saw that new romantic comedy everyone’s raving about. Save your money and rent the video.”

Deanne laughed. “Honey, we always rent the video.”

A cell phone jingled, and Schaefer slid his chair back from the table. “I’m sorry.” He pulled the phone from his belt and checked the display. “I need to take this. Would you excuse me a minute?”

Lenora smiled. “Of course.”

He left the room, and seconds later the kitchen door shut with a click. Tori leaned back in her chair and glared at Tick. “There’s that look again.”

He set his fork down, his face impassive. “What look?”