“Mine!” Maeve’s baby voice was irresistible to Winnie but annoyed Krista.
“No, these are mine.” Krista covered her plate with her hand and pointed with the other. “And those are yours, on your Fancy Nancy plate.”
“No!” Maeve screeched the word and her lower lip jutted out in warning.
“Krista, knock it off. We use our dinner manners now. Right, Maeve?” Winnie fought to keep from smiling as she stared at Maeve.
Maeve’s huge blue eyes reproached Winnie and, not for the first time, Winnie felt Max’s presence reach out through his daughter’s eyes.
You blew it today. You should’ve told him.
She had told him too much about her life—without telling him what she should have.
She tried to convince herself that she’d wanted to avoid his questions until he wasn’t so upset. That she thought it was better to wait.
That was all crapola and she knew it. Not only was she betraying Max, but each day she kept him from the truth, she kept Maeve from knowing her daddy.
Maeve.
Maeve needed her father, a father who wasn’t dead like Krista’s. He’d survived a war, for God’s sake, and was living and breathing just a drive up the road.
You are a class-A chicken.
“Maeve, don’t look at Mommy like that. You have to be a good girl and eat the food on your own plate, not Krista’s.”
Maeve’s expression reflected her inner-toddler struggle. Winnie knew she was hungry, and the cut-up chicken nuggets on her Fancy Nancy plate were just as tasty as her sister’s. But it was so much fun to annoy Krista and to get her attention. Tears shimmered in Maeve’s luminous eyes and her chin worked frantically to keep her lower lip in a pout.
No doubt due to Maeve’s hunger, sanity prevailed and she picked up a nugget from her own plate and shoved it carefully in her mouth.
Winnie expelled her breath. It’d been a long afternoon with both girls arriving home in cranky moods.
These days she was never sure who’d have the bigger fit after school—Maeve or Krista. At thirteen, Krista had started wearing a training bra this past summer and she’d shot up three inches since Christmas. She wore the same shoe size as Winnie, although Winnie didn’t think that would be for long. Krista was going to be long and lean, as Tom had been.
Maeve, however, was Winnie’s “mini-me,” except for the shape and color of her eyes and her mop of straight brown hair—clearly inherited from Max.
He’s going to know she’s his the minute he sees her.
“Krista, how much homework do you have tonight?” Her voice shook and she knew that her anxiety wasn’t going away. Not until she came clean with Max.
“I already told you when I came in, Mom. I finished it on the bus.”
“Good.” Krista probably had told her, but Winnie had been distracted since she walked through the door. Her thoughts had stayed in Dugualla Bay… .
The same sense of inevitability she’d had once she’d started labor with each of the girls filled her stomach with dread. Now, just like then, there was no escaping the pain to come. No going back. Then, it had meant the baby was on her way out; now it was the truth emerging.
With no guarantee of a happy outcome as far as Max was concerned.
Life doesn’t come with a warranty.
She’d betrayed Max, the one person who’d seen her at her best and her worst, from her and Tom’s life together, through the crash and then her short stint as a psycho-widow, when she’d tried to pick up an addiction. Any addiction—she hadn’t been fussy.
Drinking, men, shopping, whatever would take “hold” she’d tried to cling to. But Max had stepped in before anything could consume her and tear her from her life with Krista. His words to her the night he’d dragged her out of an Oak Harbor bar and dumped her back in her house had ended her quest for self-destruction.
“You can abuse yourself all you want—the hurt will still be there, and Tom won’t. He’s not coming back, Winnie. You have a daughter to raise. This isn’t the time to let Tom down.”
He’d left her alone in her empty house. Her parents had taken Krista for the weekend, which was the pattern for the first several months after Tom died, to give Winnie a break and Krista time with other family. Instead of using those free hours to heal, Winnie had been hell-bent on dousing the firestorm of pain.
Max had saved her. Ultimately, he’d saved Krista, too.
He’d never mentioned that time again. Wouldn’t comment on it if she brought it up, either.
Even today, when he was spitting angry at her stupid comment about his being a charity case, he hadn’t reminded her of when she’d been in need of charity.
Of all the people to deceive, she’d picked Max.
Crap on a cracker.
“Okay, Krista, could you play with your sister for a few minutes while I get the dishes done?”
“C’mon, Maeve, do you want to play kitchen?” Krista expertly unsnapped Maeve from her booster seat and lifted her down to the hardwood floor. Maeve took off with a squeal, her bare feet slapping the oak planks.
“Slow down, Maeve,” Winnie admonished while she cleared the table and took the plates to the sink. She looked through her garden window and sighed. The clouds were just as gray and the trees bent—almost as though they were doing yoga. The windstorm promised to continue all night.
The first time she heard a rapping out front, she thought it might be a branch. But the second time, Sam barked and she realized someone was at the door. She looked at the clock. They weren’t used to visitors this late on a school night.
“Keep an eye on her, Krista.” She glanced at the scene of domestic tranquility. Krista was helping Maeve make plastic pies and cakes in her toy microwave.
“I am, Mom.” Krista’s tone had changed overnight into that of a know-it-all teenager, and Winnie didn’t like it one bit. She missed her easygoing daughter, who’d delighted in the simple things like baking cookies and fitting a jigsaw puzzle together.
Sam trotted to the door with her, but instead of his usual bark he stood still and wagged his tail. He gazed at the door with a look of expectation.
Winnie peered through the beveled glass and recognized the shape of a man. A man who immediately made her stomach tense.
She opened the door to a rush of wind—and Max.
“May I come in?” It wasn’t really a question, since he’d already walked into her foyer and shut the door behind him. He wore a hoodie, and his T-shirt underneath was sweat-stained. His hair was damp and his eyes—oh, his eyes.
“Sam.” She started to command Sam to remain in place but she didn’t have to. He’d sat down and waited patiently for Max to acknowledge him with a pat.
“Come on in, I’ll make us some tea.” Winnie spun on her heel and headed toward the kitchen in her stockinged feet. But Max was quicker.
His hand wrapped around her wrist. “Not yet. We need to talk.”
Winnie looked down at her arm, and at his hand. In spite of her heightened anxiety, his touch elicited a warm throb of excitement. She dared to look up at Max’s face.
His eyes blazed and his mouth was set in a straight line. The years seemed to fall away as she looked into his eyes.
“Of all people, you were one I thought I could trust.”
She eased her