Читать книгу From Here To Paternity - Christine Rimmer - Страница 8

Brand watched her walk out and said nothing. Not see you later. Not even goodbye.

He and Charlene were long past the point where they made polite noises at each other. He and Charlene were…enemies. Or something damn close.

It really bugged him, how much she despised him. He prided himself on being a likable guy.

Yeah. It was kind of a big thing for him, to get along with the people who lived in his town. He’d worked hard to build himself a good reputation. It hadn’t been easy. He was a Bravo, after all, one of the apparently numberless bastard sons of the infamous Blake Bravo, who’d been a real bad actor, a man who had kidnapped his own nephew for a fortune in diamonds, done murder at least once and lived on for more than thirty years after the world believed him dead.

Brand had a whole bunch of half brothers, sons of women like his mother, Chastity, who had fallen for Blake Bravo’s dangerous bad-guy charm. Chastity had four sons by Blake, two of whom grew up well-known for their wild antics and troublemaking ways. Brand and Brett, Chastity Bravo’s two middle sons, did their best to be different, to live normal, noncontroversial lives.

Now Brett was the town doctor, happily married with a new baby son. And Brand had gone into law, moving back to town a couple of years ago to join his retiring uncle Clovis’s legal practice.

Brand considered himself successful, a productive member of his community. He knew he shouldn’t be the least bothered by some long-ago girlfriend’s low opinion of him.

And the fact that he knew he shouldn’t be bothered, well, that only bugged him all the more.

But it wasn’t his problem. None of it. Not that poor abandoned baby, not Charlene. Not wild, messed-up, provocative Sissy.

And, yeah. That was one thing Charlene had been right about. He never should have hired Sissy to do filing and help out at Cook and Bravo, Attorneys at Law. It had been a blazingly stupid move.

Too bad. He’d hired Charlene’s wild little sister, and now he’d be paying the price.

Eventually, the whole mess was bound to sort itself out. He’d take the paternity test when and if Sissy ever showed her face in town again. But for now his part was to stay the hell out of it.

And get on with his own damn life.

Charlene was just pulling out of Brand’s driveway when she spotted two local residents, Redonda Beals and Emmy Ralens, out for a morning stroll. They waved as she passed them, and Charlene waved back, being careful to smile as broadly as possible and to look as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Redonda and Emmy were both in their midfifties and best pals, nice ladies who came into the diner often and always tipped generously. They weren’t real big on gossip or anything. But everyone in town knew that Charlene Cooper would never be caught dead visiting Brand Bravo—at that fine new house of his or anywhere else for that matter. So the two nice ladies couldn’t be blamed for looking slightly puzzled at the sight of Charlene emerging from Brand’s driveway.

On the short drive back to town she came to a decision. Instead of turning for home, she headed for the diner. Might as well get it over with, let folks have a look at her niece.

After all, this was the Flat. Everybody knew everything about everyone else. Seeing Redonda and Emmy back there by Brand’s house had brought it home to her that there was absolutely no sense in trying to keep the baby hidden away.

Uh-uh. Smarter to play the proud auntie. Let them all know she had absolutely nothing to hide. The building loomed up on her left, the big black-and-white sign with red lettering over the door proclaiming it Dixie’s Diner.

At seven-thirty, when Charlene entered with Mia in her arms, the counter was full and so were the booths. Lots of folks liked to come in early for breakfast, and Saturdays were no exception.

Teddy was flipping pancakes on the grill and Rita—the waitress who’d agreed to come in at the last minute—was taking an order from the Winkle family at the back booth. Nan and George Winkle had three boys: twelve, eight and six. They were a rambunctious crew and prone to talking over each other. The boys would order more than they could possibly eat, while Nan and George vetoed and bargained and eventually allowed them to get whatever they wanted.

George, Jr., who had something of a crush on Charlene, waved wildly at the sight of her. “Hey. Charlene. Hi!”

Stevie, the youngest, started bouncing up and down, announcing in a loud sing-song, “Charlene has got a baby, an itty-bitty baby…”

“Shh, now,” said Nan. “Just you settle down.”

Matt, the middle son, demanded, “I want OJ and hot chocolate. I’ll drink ’em both, promise. Swear it. Please, I want both. Please…”

“Son,” said George. “Settle down now…”

Rita turned. “Hey, Charlene.” By then everyone in the place seemed to be staring.

“What’s that you got there?” demanded Old Tony Dellazola from his usual seat at the counter, three stools up from the door.

Charlene put on her widest, friendliest, happiest smile. “This is my niece, Sissy’s little girl. Her name is Mia Scarlett and she’s going to be staying with me for a while.”

Did it work? Charlene asked herself that night, as she was putting the baby to bed in a nest of pillows. Had her bold move of waltzing into the diner and introducing Mia right up front like that thrown a wet blanket on the gossip mill?

She wished.

Uh-uh. It had, however, let them all know that Mia’s “visit” was Charlene’s story and she planned on sticking to it; that was all she was saying on the subject and they might as well get used to it.

But just because it was all that Charlene was saying, didn’t mean everyone else would keep their big mouths shut. In the Flat, people talked. About each other. A lot. If you lived there, you had to learn to accept gossip as a given.

And some people were simply more interesting as grist for the gossip mill than others. Troublemakers and victims of terrible tragedies topped the list of the gossipworthy.

Sissy and Charlene’s parents had died in a car accident when Sissy was only nine. She’d been sent away to live with an aunt and uncle in San Diego, though Charlene had sold the family home to finance her failed suit to get custody of her sister. That was the tragedy part. And when Sissy returned to town last year, she’d been nothing but trouble. She was a gossipmonger’s dream. Since she’d vanished last summer—no doubt with the contents of Brand’s petty cash drawer in her pocket—the talk about her had never died down.

It didn’t take a genius or a psychic to know what people would be saying. Charlene could just hear them…

“Sissy has a baby?”

“A baby poor Charlene never so much as mentioned until today, when she shows up at the diner with the sweet little thing in her arms…”

“Isn’t that just like that crazy girl, to drop off her baby with Charlene out of nowhere like that?”

“You’re right. Just like her.”

“And I can’t help but wonder, where has Sissy got off to now?”

“Yes. And the big question, the most important question, is who might that little one’s father be…?”

Enough, Charlene chided herself. No good would come from obsessing over all the hurtful things that people might say.

She needed to take action. She needed to find her sister. But how?

Charlene got out her address book. She had two San Diego phone numbers her sister had given her way back when Sissy was in junior high. Charlene dialed the first one, for a girl name Mindy: no longer in service.

The second was for a Randee Quail. A woman picked up after it rang three times. Maureen Quail, Randee’s mother. She remembered Sissy, vaguely, but said she thought that Randee and Sissy had drifted apart in high school. Randee was a freshman at UCLA now. Maureen gave Charlene her cell number.

Charlene reached Randee on the first try. She said she hadn’t spoken to Sissy since her sophomore year in high school and had no idea where she might be now.

Next, Charlene looked through the junk drawer in the kitchen and every nook and cranny of her desk in the living room. She found two phone numbers scrawled on sticky notes, no names attached, and she was feeling just desperate enough to try them both.

The first was a chimney-cleaning company. A machine greeted her and told her to leave a message. She didn’t.

When she dialed the second number, a man answered. “This is Bob Thewlis.”

“Uh. Hi. I’m Charlene Cooper and I wonder if—”

“Charlene. Yeah. At the diner up in New Bethlehem Flat. Well. Gave you my number how many months ago…?”

“Oh.” She vaguely remembered—or she thought she did. Now and then a guy would ask for her number. She’d always tell them, Why don’t you give me yours? “Well. Hi, Bob…”

He chuckled. “I thought you’d never call. Because you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

Bob reminded her that he lived in Nevada City and he asked her if she’d like to have dinner Friday night. She almost said yes, just because she was so embarrassed to have called him and not even known who he was.

But then Mia started crying from her makeshift bed of pillows. Charlene apologized and said she couldn’t and explained that she was trying to reach someone and had found his number on a sticky note…

“Bye, Charlene,” he said, and hung up before she was through making excuses for her bizarre behavior.

She changed Mia’s diaper and then sat in the rocker in the living room with her for a while, thinking bleak thoughts.

Not only had she totally misplaced her own sister, she also never had a date. Not lately, anyway. She used to date. She’d go out now and then when some guy would ask her.

But somehow, it just never went anywhere with anyone. A couple of dates and they’d stop calling—or she’d make excuses when they asked her out again.

There was just never a…fit. There was never that excitement, that special thing that happened when you met a guy who was the right guy. There was never the thrill she’d known all those years ago.

With Brand.

By Sunday afternoon Brand wanted to shoot someone. Or better yet, punch somebody’s lights out.

Shooting and brawling did not fit the image he’d so carefully cultivated over the years. But too damn bad. A man—even a levelheaded man—can only be pushed so far before he had to start pushing back.

He’d picked up his uncle Clovis—who was also the senior and soon-to-be fully retired partner in their two-man firm—at five that morning. They went down to play golf in Grass Valley. Brand wasn’t a great lover of golf. But it pleased his uncle if he played with him now and then.

The drive down to the golf course, on a twisting mountain highway, took over an hour. Usually that drive was a quiet one. It was early in the morning, and Clovis liked to sip the coffee he brought with him in a big red Thermos and watch the sun rise.

But that day, Uncle Clovis had plenty to say.

The way Clovis had heard it, Old Tony Dellazola had seen Charlene Cooper headed out of town—going east, in the direction of Brand’s house, as a matter of fact—at a little before seven Saturday morning. Old Tony claimed he’d seen a baby seat strapped in the back of that silver-gray wagon of hers.

And then, at about seven twenty-five, Charlene had been spotted again, this time by Emmy Ralens and Redonda Beals, coming out of Brand’s driveway and turning onto Riverside Road. Not ten minutes later, she’d shown up at the diner carrying a baby she claimed was her sister’s.

“So did Charlene pay you a visit yesterday morning?” Brand’s Uncle Clovis asked.

“Yeah. She did.”

“I thought the two of you never spoke.”

“As a rule, we don’t.”

Clovis waited—for Brand to offer some sort of explanation. But Brand had no plans to do any such thing. They rolled down into the heart of one canyon, across a bridge and then began climbing again.

“You know,” said Clovis. “Daisy and I always think of you as the son we never had.”

“And I consider you like a dad, Uncle Clovis.”

“If you got a problem, I want you to feel you can come to me, that we can work it out together.”

“Thanks, Uncle Clovis. I appreciate that.”

“So, then?”

“There’s nothing. Believe me.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“No. I don’t.”

For the rest of the ride, Clovis was blessedly quiet.

At the golf course, they teed off and played three holes before, at the fourth tee, Clovis remarked, “Charlene’s story is that the baby’s here for a visit.”

“Yeah,” said Brand. “That’s what I understand.”

“Kinda strange. I mean, that is a very young baby to be without her mother. And nobody’s seen Sissy. That’s odd, don’t you think? Hard to get into the Flat without somebody noticing.”

Brand handed his uncle his favorite driver. “Here you go. And don’t worry, okay? Tell Aunt Daisy that everything’s fine. Charlene’s taking care of her niece for a while. No matter what wild stories folks like to make up, that’s all that’s happening.”

Don’t worry.

Brand wished he could take his own damn advice.

The stuff Clovis had told him ate at him. He knew people were talking, putting two and two together, deciding that there was only one reason Charlene would take her sister’s new baby and go knocking on Brand’s door.

If they weren’t already saying that Brand had to be the baby’s dad, they soon would be. Before you knew it, they’d be comparing him to his own bad dad, who’d managed to impregnate any number of gullible women in his long and disturbing life as a bona fide sociopath. Oh, yeah. They’d all be babbling on about how the apple never fell far from the tree and like father, like son….

Worst of all, he couldn’t stop thinking about Charlene.

Couldn’t stop worrying about her, wondering how she was holding up, what with not knowing where Sissy was and having to keep a brave face on things while she ran her business and took care of a new baby on her own.

His mother called at six-thirty that night from the B&B she’d been running since before Brand was born. She would have served her guests afternoon tea by then. Dinner was for herself—and maybe her boyfriend, Alyosha Panopopoulis, a widower she’d been dating for over a year. Bowie and Buck both lived out of town now, but sometimes she’d invite Brett to bring Angie and the baby over. And sometimes she’d call Brand.

Chastity said, “I’ve got that chicken broccoli casserole you like in the oven.”

“The one with the almonds and water chestnuts?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ll be there. Ten minutes.”

“I’ll set you a place.”

The best thing about Brand’s mom was how she never butted into her son’s business—well, almost never. Now and then one of them would really tee her off. Then she’d let them know in no uncertain terms what they’d done wrong and what they’d better do about it. But such times were rare.

Usually, a man could sit at her kitchen table in the back of the B&B and enjoy her cooking and her calm, easygoing ways, and never be asked to come up with an answer to an uncomfortable question.

And so it was that night. Chastity had a whiskey and soda waiting for him. He sat at the table and sipped it as she cut up a green salad and took homemade bread from the oven to cool.

They talked of ordinary stuff: how his practice was picking up, now he’d pretty much taken over from Clovis who’d only been in the office part-time for the past five or six years. Brand was attracting clients from all over the county, as well as several from down in Nevada City and Grass Valley.

Chastity said she was thinking of redoing a couple of the guest rooms upstairs. “I talked to Glory today,” she added.

Glory Dellazola and Bowie, Brand’s youngest brother, had been in love—and probably still were. Glory had gotten pregnant. Bowie had wanted to marry her. But Bowie was big trouble and she wouldn’t have him. In the end Glory had taken their baby and moved to New York to work for Brand’s oldest brother, Buck, and his wife, B.J. Glory was nanny for Buck’s son, Joseph James.

No one knew where Bowie was. He’d left town without telling anyone where he was going.

“So how’s Glory doing?” Brand sipped his drink.

“Just fine,” said Chastity. “She’s taking those online classes the way she planned, getting herself a degree.”

“That’s good.”

Chastity put the casserole on the table, along with the bread and the salad. And then she took her chair, smoothed her napkin on her lap and said a short grace, the way she always liked to do.

Brand bent his head, too.

His mother said, “Amen.”

Brand glanced up and met her eyes across the table. And suddenly it seemed the best thing, just to say what was on his mind.

“Ma?”

“Hmm?”

“I want another chance with Charlene.”

“Well, of course you do,” said Chastity. She picked up the serving spoon. “Pass me your plate.”