After hearing the devastating news of their deaths, Blake rushed home to find a neighbor cooking a truckload of vegetable casseroles in his parents’ kitchen and Jen hiding in her bedroom.
Blake pushed past the woman, then barreled into Jen’s bedroom, scooping up his sprite of a half sister and taking her outside. The Indian-summer sun had already warmed the late-morning air. Blake sought the old oak tree behind the farmhouse, and settled down on the sparse, brown, wild grass beneath the oak’s thick, spreading branches, with Jen in his lap.
Looking down, he saw Jen’s eyes tightly shut and her thumb planted firmly in her mouth. Rather than pull it out as he’d done on numerous other occasions, Blake allowed the little girl the luxury of whatever comfort she could claim. They sat together under that tree until the sun had set. Neither spoke for a long while. The only sound was the gentle smack of her lips against her thumb and the brush of cornstalks stroked by the wind.
“I’m never leaving you, Jenny Lou.” Blake never knew if it was the endearment that his mother used or if any words would have reached her, but Jennifer turned her small body into his and started to cry.
He’d been calling her Jenny Lou in times of upheaval ever since.
Now Jennifer flew down the stairs into Blake’s arms, practically knocking him over, chasing away the cobwebs of the past, making Blake wish this truce between them would last.
CHAPTER TWO
IGNORING THE NERVOUS flutter in her stomach, Cori entered the empty Messina dining room with Michael in tow. Would her grandfather welcome her back? Or order her to go? She squared her shoulders. There was no way she’d leave when Mama had asked her to come home.
Cori pulled Michael back as he extended a small hand toward an antique Japanese tea set on the sideboard. The last thing she needed on her first day home was one of Michael’s accidents.
The opulent room, with its dark, heavy wood furniture, deep burgundy and bronze decor and crystal chandelier felt familiar. Her mind panned through dinners with congressmen, winemakers and her family. Back then, her mother and grandfather were nearly always laughing at some story her brother had retold or some joke her grandfather had pulled on Cori.
Cori sighed. She’d lived here in another lifetime, one she couldn’t relate to now. The long, formal dining table sparkled with expensive china—a sharp contrast to the serviceable Chinette set they used in their little apartment in Los Angeles. A portrait of Cori’s grandmother gazed down upon them, the only warmth in an otherwise impersonal room.
The ornate grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the hour—seven o’clock. Late for dinner by Michael’s standards but early for the Messinas, who usually ate after a full day of work.
“There’s my favorite rug rat,” came a voice behind her.
Cori turned to greet Luke with a warm smile. Cori suspected her brother was wearing the same faded jeans, scuffed work boots and dark flannel shirt he’d worn the last time she’d been home. Five years her senior, Luke Sinclair was becoming a seasoned winemaker. Like Cori, he had the dark complexion and eyes of their Italian ancestors. But there the similarities between the siblings ended. Luke stood over six feet tall, with jet-black hair and a smile that dazzled women from birth to sixty.
“You didn’t dress for dinner?” Cori asked. Not that dinner in the household was a formal affair, but the only time jeans were ever allowed was during the fall harvest season. Cori still had her red dress on and had finally changed Michael’s shirt.
“I don’t do that anymore,” Luke responded cryptically.
Michael squealed with delight as Luke picked him up, then spun him around in a dizzying circle, sending grubby shoelaces flying like streamers around the room.
“Watch out,” Cori warned.
“We’re fine.” Smiling, Luke lowered Michael carefully to the thick oriental carpet, keeping a steadying hand on the boy until he stood without swaying.
“Have you seen Blake and Jen?” he asked.
Cori met her brother’s inquisitive gaze with a quick nod. All afternoon, she’d battled her emotions for Blake. She always knew she’d have to tell Blake he was a father. Except, if Blake couldn’t recognize his own son, did he deserve to know? Or was that just a coward’s excuse to not tell him?
Blake wasn’t making things easier for her. He’d been so sarcastic toward Cori when he’d first seen her, then he’d turned coolly distant, throwing her off balance. Just before she’d come downstairs, she’d watched Blake help her grandfather out of a car, noting his patience despite her grandfather’s gruffness. The gesture had melted her heart.
No matter what she decided, the attraction was still there. She’d lived with the memory of the man she’d fallen in love with for almost five years. That image was hard to tear down in just one afternoon.
Michael giggled and staggered dramatically, bringing Cori back to the present. Obviously, Luke’s charm didn’t end with women.
“Thanks for coming, Sis. Things have been incredibly difficult without you here.”
She blinked back tears at his admission, for her family rarely expressed feelings aloud. “I wish someone had told me earlier.”
“There was hope earlier.” Luke’s expression turned grim and he looked down at Michael, who tugged on his long leg as if looking for a wrestling match.
The sliver of hope Cori had been carrying for her mother was rapidly disintigrating. Even though a part of her knew this was the end, Cori refused to believe her mother couldn’t beat the cancer again.
“Michael, behave like a gentleman,” Cori admonished, making sure she caught her son’s attention before turning back to Luke. “How’ve you managed to spend time with Mama and keep up with your work?”
Luke scratched the back of his neck, not looking directly at Cori. “You know how it is around here. We’re going from first thing in the morning until dinner, sometimes later. But I stop by to visit her every night.” He shot a look toward the hallway, then back at Cori, a smile on his face. “We’ve got some catching up to do. I want to tell you about—”
Luke clamped his mouth shut as Salvatore Messina strode rigidly into the room wearing his usual dark wool suit, silencing further conversation. Hard, black eyes took in Cori’s short red dress with a frown. Cori wasn’t sure what would have been worse—dressing down like her brother or keeping the dress, her symbol of independence. With effort, Cori kept her hands from knotting nervously in front of her. This was the moment she’d been waiting for.
Salvatore’s frown deepened, showing lines etched more severely than she remembered. He finally broke the silence.
“So, Corinne. It takes death to bring you home. I wondered when you’d remember your obligations.”
Luke shook his head, shooting a look of disapproval at their grandfather.
Along with disappointment, guilt washed over Cori at her grandfather’s words. She’d been raised to believe the family came before any personal obligations or dreams she might have. It took her a moment to remind herself that she would’ve come home if she’d been allowed to do so on her terms.
Cori lifted her chin. She’d done nothing wrong. Her grandfather was the one who’d shut her out. But there were fences that needed to be mended, even if he wasn’t letting her come home to stay.
“Michael, this is your great-grandfather.” Cori bent to gently urge her son forward. “Shake his hand.”
Her pride and joy cast a glance at Luke, who smiled and nodded reassuringly. Raising his small hand solemnly, Michael hesitated, then stepped forward to meet Salvatore Messina.
Time hung on Michael’s extended arm. No one moved. No one spoke.
“Playing at royalty, are we?”