Читать книгу His Chosen Wife: Antonides' Forbidden Wife / The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife / The Millionaire's Chosen Bride - Susanne James, Anne McAllister - Страница 12

“WHAT sort of things?” PJ slanted her a wary glance.

She had seen signs for various Hamptons—West Hampton, Bridgehampton, East Hampton—so she knew they were getting near now. She didn’t know which PJ’s parents lived in, but the knowledge that she’d be meeting them soon banished her pleasure at the surprising ease of the journey and was replaced by jittery nerves and a definite edginess.

“Rules,” she said.

“Rules?” he repeated, sounding incredulous. “What sort of rules?”

“No kissing.”

His head jerked around. Disbelieving green eyes stared at her. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, feeling her cheeks begin to heat.

“Not right, I didn’t,” PJ muttered under his breath. “I’m your husband,” he reminded her.

“Only for the moment,” she said primly.

“You can kiss me like you did and still want a divorce?”

Now her face really was burning. “You caught me off guard. And I never said you weren’t appealing. It’s just …” she hesitated. There was no way she could discuss this with him. They weren’t speaking the same language. “I won’t say that I’m filing for divorce. I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Big of you,” he muttered. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. His knuckles were white.

“I just—” she plucked at the hem of her skirt “—don’t think we should lead them to expect that we’re a couple.”

“Ally, in their eyes we are a couple. We’re married.”

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Well, too bad. You’re here now,” PJ said as he flipped on the turn signal and, the next thing Ally knew, they were off the highway and heading south. She clenched her fists in her lap and tried to settle her nerves. She took a deep breath intended to calm her.

“You’re not going underwater,” PJ said. “Relax. They don’t bite. I don’t either,” he added grimly.

“You kiss,” Ally muttered.

“And damn well, or so I’ve been told,” he retorted, then tipped his head to angle a look at her. “You didn’t seem to have any complaints.”

“You kiss very well,” she said primly, staring straight ahead. “And you’ve proved that.”

He made another right turn, then a left. They were getting closer and closer to the shore, running out of houses. And she was running out of time. She turned to entreat him. “I don’t want us to make this any more difficult than it is, PJ.”

He slowed the car and looked straight at her. “I didn’t realize it was such a terrible imposition.”

“It’s not! It’s—” she couldn’t explain. She couldn’t even make sense of her tangled feelings herself “—not difficult. But it is awkward. I feel like a fraud. That’s why I don’t want kissing.”

He let the car roll to a stop now. They were sitting in the middle of the road. Fortunately there was no traffic. He let his hands lie loosely on the steering wheel for a long moment before he drew a long breath, then said quietly, “Is it when you kiss me that you feel like a fraud, Ally?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. He gunned the engine and they shot down the road another hundred yards and then he swung the car into a large paved parking area behind an immense stone and timber pseudo-English-style two-story house.

“Home sweet home,” he said, and without glancing her way, he hopped out of the car.

Challenged by PJ’s question, Ally sat right where she was, feeling as if she’d just taken a body blow to the gut. But before she could even face the question internally, let alone articulate a reply to PJ, he jerked open the door on her side of the car and said tersely, “Come and meet my parents.”

Knees wobbling, and not just from being stuck in a car too long, Ally got out. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected—apart from being nervous—when he introduced her to his parents. Probably she hadn’t even let herself think that far.

But whatever fleeting notions she had, they didn’t come close to what she got.

“Good luck with your ‘no kissing’ rule,” PJ said just before he turned to face the horde of relatives descending upon them.

And the next instant, they were surrounded.

“Ma, Dad, this is Ally. Al, these are my parents, Aeolus and Helena,” PJ said and somehow he swept them together.

And instead of politely shaking hands and saying, “How do you do?” as Ally had expected, she was instantly enveloped in Aeolus’s hearty embrace, her cheeks were kissed, her body was squeezed, her hands were pumped.

“And so you are real!” he said jovially, dark eyes flashing with humor. “My boy is just full of surprises!”

And somehow he managed to wrap PJ into the same fierce hug so that she might not have kissed him, but she certainly had plenty of body contact before Aeolus struck again, this time drawing his wife into their midst.

PJ’s mother was not quite as effusive as her husband. But her expression, though clearly inquisitive, was warm and her smile was just as welcoming.

“A new daughter,” she murmured, taking Ally’s cheeks between her palms and looking straight into her eyes. “How wonderful.”

And just as she was smitten by guilt, Ally was kissed with gentle warmth. Then Helena stepped back, still smiling and slid an arm around Ally’s waist, drawing her away from PJ and his father. “Come,” she said, “and meet your family.”

Her family.

More guilt. More dismay. And yet, how could she not smile and allow herself to be passed from one to another. There were so many, all dark-haired, eager and smiling, as they shook her hand, kissed her cheeks, told her their names.

Some names she recognized—PJ’s siblings, Elias and Martha, their spouses and a swarm of little boys who must be more of PJ’s nephews. There was another brother, some aunts, cousins, friends.

She heard Mr. and Mrs. Cristopolous’s names, but they were just part of the blur. She did get a bead on Connie, though, the woman Aeolus hoped his son would marry.

Connie Cristopolous was the most perfectly beautiful woman Ally had ever seen. She was blessed with naturally curling black hair. Ally’s own, stick straight, couldn’t compare. Not only did it curl, but it actually seemed to behave itself instead of flying around the way most of the women’s hair did. Her complexion was smooth and sun touched. Her features—a small neat nose, full smiling lips, deep brown eyes—were perfect. And she had just enough cheekbone to give her face memorable definition, but enough fullness in her cheeks to make her face warm and feminine.

She smiled at Ally and greeted her warmly. “So glad to meet Peter’s wife,” she said in a lightly accented voice that reminded Ally of the spread of warm honey. Even her thick luxuriant eyelashes were perfect.

Maybe she was a perfect shrew, too. But somehow Ally doubted it. PJ’s father didn’t look like the sort of man who would have chosen a shrew as a potential daughter-in-law. Ally suspected Aeolus Antonides had terrific taste in women.

She slanted a quick glance at PJ, who was being mobbed by his aunts and mauled by his brothers. He didn’t seem to be noticing Connie. But no doubt he would.

Maybe he would even marry her. After all, she could be his, once the divorce was final.

The thought made Ally stiffen involuntarily, and she narrowed her gaze at the other woman, as if she could discern at a glance whether she was worthy of a man like PJ. Would she love him?

Would he love her?

The question made Ally stumble as she was being led up the steps to the house by a couple of PJ’s aunts.

“Are you all right, dear?” one asked her, catching her by the elbow to make sure she didn’t fall.

“F-fine,” Ally stammered. But she wasn’t all right. The truth was that while she might be able to cope with the idea that PJ didn’t really love her, she didn’t want him falling in love with anyone else, either.

Mortifying, but true.

“Come and meet Yiayia.” The aunts drew her into the house.

The house PJ had grown up in was as lovely and warm within as it was without. There was a lot of dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a massive fieldstone fireplace, which could have been oppressive but was softened by overstuffed sofas and chairs and balanced and lightened by high ceilings and French doors. These faced south and opened onto a deck that led to a lawn, then down a flight of wooden steps to the sand—and the ocean and horizon beyond.

Ally, seeing that, felt a moment’s peace. She would have preferred to stop there, admire and take a breath, try to regain her equilibrium.

But the aunts were towing her on through the dining room and into the kitchen where a small still-dark-haired elderly lady was in the middle of a rather elaborate baking project. Her hands were stuck in something that looked like honey and ground nuts. A very sticky business.

Ally wondered how they would handle the requisite hug.

But though the older woman looked up when they came in, her eyes, bright and curious as they lit on Ally, she made no move to take her hands out of the bowl. She simply looked Ally over.

It was clear she needed no introduction to the new arrival. She was already assessing her carefully. She did not smile.

And Ally, who was still feeling overwhelmed, was almost grateful. And her gratitude had nothing to do with avoiding the sticky stuff.

“This is Yiayia,” one of the aunts said. “Grandma,” she translated in case Ally couldn’t.

Ally could. PJ hadn’t said much about his grandmother. He’d indicated that she would be there, but nothing more.

She smiled at the old woman who didn’t smile back. She was still studying Ally closely and in complete silence. Ally wondered suddenly if PJ’s grandmother spoke English.

Well, if she didn’t, they’d certainly figure out another way to communicate. The family seemed big on kisses and hugs. At least, all of them but Grandma.

“Hello,” she said at last, when it was clear that PJ’s grandmother wasn’t going to take the conversational lead. “I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Alice. Or Ally if you prefer. Or Al if you’re PJ,” she added with a small conspiratorial grin, inviting PJ’s grandmother to share a grin with her.

She was surprised to discover how very much she wanted the old lady to smile.

“Alice,” PJ’s grandmother said quietly at last, her gaze still fastened on Ally’s face. But even then her expression didn’t change. She turned and looked up at the aunts. “Alice will help me. Go now.”

They looked at her, then at Ally, then at each other and, with only that much hesitation, they nodded and left.

Outside Ally could hear a multitude of voices, laughter, scuffling. But no one came into the kitchen. In the kitchen it was just she and PJ’s grandmother. It felt like having an audience with the pope.

Like going to see her own father who was distant and formal and also rarely ever smiled. Ally almost breathed a little easier. This was more what she expected.

And then suddenly the door opened and PJ strode into the room. At the sight his grandmother burst into an absolutely radiant smile. And when he crossed the room in three long strides to pick her up bodily, sticky hands and all, and kiss her soundly, she crowed with laughter, then put her honey-coated hands on each of his cheeks and kissed him right back.

Ally felt her mouth drop open.

Both PJ and his grandmother turned toward her. “So, what do you think of my wife, Yiayia?” he said. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

“A beauty,” his grandmother agreed. She was still smiling, still patting his cheek with her sticky hand but her eyes were shrewd when they met Ally’s. “So, this is Alice.” It sounded like a pronouncement.

PJ nodded. He was still smiling, but there was a seriousness in his expression that told Ally something else was underneath the smile.

“You went to get her?”

“She came to me.”

“Ah.” His grandmother’s brows lifted. Her gaze softened a bit, a hint of a smile touched her face. “Ne. This is better.”

Better? Than what? Ally could tell there was a subtext to the conversation, but neither PJ nor his grandmother enlightened her. And all the vibes she was getting said it wasn’t better at all. She was very much afraid that PJ’s grandmother, like his sister Cristina, was misunderstanding the situation.

“So, you have come,” the old lady said, approvingly. “At last.”

“Don’t give her a hard time, Yiayia. She’s had things to do.”

“More important than her husband?”

“Important for her,” PJ said firmly. “Like when I went to Hawaii for school. That was important for me. You understand?”

The old lady eyed him narrowly for a long moment, then slanted a gaze of silent judgment at Ally, who stood motionless and didn’t say a word.

“Ne. I understand, yes,” she said. She sighed. “You are happy now?”

PJ grinned. “Of course I’m happy now.” He took her fingers and nibbled the honey off each one, making her laugh again. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got two of my favorite women right here in the room with me. You’re making baklava.” He nodded at the project underway on the counter. Then he sniffed the air. “Mom’s made roast for dinner. And there’s no way Dad can foist any more women off on me.”

His grandmother laughed, reassured. “Wash your face and go help your brother with his twins. Tallie must put her feet up and rest. She’s going to be a mother again.”

“Really?” PJ was clearly delighted. “When?”

“In the spring. Go now. Leave your wife,” she said after he’d washed his hands and face and had turned toward Ally. “Alice and I will talk.”

“But—”

“Go,” his grandmother ordered. “Trust me. I will not eat her.”

Still he hesitated for a moment. “She’s worse than Cristina,” he said to Ally. There was a warning look on his face.

“We’ll be fine. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make baklava.”

Yiayia smiled and nodded. “I will teach you.”

“Just be sure that’s all you do,” PJ warned his grandmother. He dropped another kiss on her forehead, then with a quick smile at Ally, went out the door, yelling for Elias.

They both watched him go. Then as she cleaned her hands and began to layer the filo and melted butter with the honey mixture, PJ’s grandmother said something in Greek.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand,” Ally said, coming closer and picking up the brush to help butter the layers as Yiayia spread them out.

“I said,” Yiayia repeated clearly, in English this time, “he is my favorite.”

She smiled fondly out the window where they could both see PJ rescuing his older brother who was being used as a human climbing frame by his toddler-aged twins. “All of my grandchildren I love, ne? But Peter I love the most.” She turned to Ally and shook her head.

“I don’t say that to anyone else,” she went on. “But I know. He knows. He is the most like my dear Aeneas. Strong and gentle like his grandfather. He makes me laugh. He makes me happy. He is a good man.”

“Yes.” Ally knew that. She’d always known it.

“A man who deserves to be happy, too,” Yiayia added.

“Yes.”

“He says he is.”

“I hope he is,” Ally agreed quickly, then felt more was needed. “I want him to be happy,” she said fervently. And that was the truth. “I know he was happy to come home for the weekend.”

“Now that you are here and his father knows what he says is true. But that is not what I mean. He says he is happy, but I wonder …” Her voice trailed off and her gaze turned to the windows again as she watched PJ and Elias on the lawn playing with the little boys. They all were laughing.

“He looks happy,” Ally said stoutly.

“Ne.” Yiayia agreed, nodding. “But then I ask myself—” she looked archly at Ally over her spectacles “—why does a man who is happy and in love, kiss his old wrinkled yiayia and not his lovely wife?”

As tough as the old woman was, Ally liked her.

She felt guilty for not confessing her plans. But she’d promised PJ she wouldn’t mention the divorce. And the truth was, even if she hadn’t promised, she wasn’t sure she could have got the words past her lips.

It felt like a sacrilege to even think it, much less bring it up. And she completely forgot about it after another ten minutes of conversation, during which PJ’s grandmother changed the subject and asked about her art and her retail business.

Her questions weren’t casual. They demonstrated she was not only knowledgeable but that PJ had obviously told her a great deal about what Ally did.

“He is very proud of you,” she said.

“He made it possible.”

Yiayia smiled. “And now you make him happy.” Her eyes met Ally’s over the pan of baklava. They were back to “happy” again. And this time Yiayia’s words very definitely held a challenge.

But before she could figure out how to respond, PJ’s grandmother said, “Here comes Martha. You will love Martha.”

And as she spoke, the door from the deck swung open and Martha stuck her head in. She carried her toddler son on her hip.

“Oh, good, you are here,” she said to Ally. “I’ve been looking for you.” Then, “Can you spare her, Yiayia? I want to get acquainted with my sister-in-law.”

When they’d first met, Martha had simply beamed and kissed her. Was she now about to grill Ally the way PJ’s grandmother and Cristina had?

But before she could demur, Yiayia said, “You go, both of you. Hurry now, Martha, or your mother will put you to work.”

“God forbid.” Martha laughed. “Come on,” she said to Ally. “We’ll go down on the beach. Eddie can eat sand.”

She led the way and, bemused, Ally followed.

“I saw one of your murals at Sol Y Sombra,” she told Martha. “It was amazing.”

And any concern she might have had about Martha’s reaction to her relationship with PJ evaporated right then. Martha’s face lit up. “You were there?” And when Ally explained, her eyes widened. “Gaby’s showing your work, too?”

She was clearly delighted and peppered Ally with a thousand questions—about her art, about her shops, about her focus. And she was absolutely thrilled to meet PJ’s wife.

“Dad didn’t think you really existed,” she confided. “It’s so cool to discover you do. And even cooler that I like you!”

If Cristina had been suspicious, Martha was just the opposite. She was eager to welcome Ally into the family. She practically danced along the beach as they followed Eddie from one pile of flotsam and jetsam to another.

“We’ll have to get together. Maybe in Santorini—or we could come to Hawaii sometime, Theo and Eddie and I,” she said, eyes alight with possibilities. “Theo would love that. He sails. He and PJ bonded over PJ’s windsurfer. They have a lot in common. And apparently we do, too.”

And what was Ally supposed to say? No, they didn’t?

“That would be fun,” she managed. And she was telling the truth when she said it. It would be absolutely wonderful, if only …

Something of her hesitation must have shown through, because Martha immediately said, “Don’t let me bully you into it. Theo is always telling me I shouldn’t just assume.”

“No,” Ally said quickly. “I really would love it. I just … We don’t know what we’re doing yet, PJ and I. We have to … discuss things.”

“Of course,” Martha said quickly. “It must be so weird, getting back together after all these years.”

Ally nodded. “We don’t really know each other …”

“Why did you stay away so long?”

And how, Ally wondered, could she even begin to answer that?

“There always seemed to be things to do,” she said, “and PJ married me so I could do them.” She knew that all the Antonides clan had heard the story of her grandmother’s legacy by now. But she didn’t know how much else any of them knew. She shrugged and turned to stare out to sea. It was easier that way than when she had to look into Martha’s face. “And once I finally got going, I was a success. I ended up on a fast track. Doing what he’d expected me to do. And—” she shrugged “—as that was what we’d married for, I just … kept doing it. I guess I thought he would have moved on. Got a divorce.”

“Could he?”

Ally nodded. “If he had filed and I didn’t respond, yes. He could have got a divorce without my ever having to sign anything.”

“Bet you’re glad he didn’t. Bet he is, too.” Martha shook her head. “Wow. What if you’d come back and found out you were already divorced? What if he’d married somebody else?” She looked appalled at the thought.

And Ally had to admit to a certain jolt when she thought about it, too. Of course it would have been easier. She could have married Jon without any of this ever happening.

“You wouldn’t be here now,” Martha said, making almost exactly the same mental leaps. Then she laughed. “And PJ would be facing a weekend with Connie Cristopolous.”

“She’s beautiful,” Ally protested.

“But not PJ’s type.”

Ally wasn’t sure what PJ’s type was. But before she could ask Martha’s opinion, the other woman went on, “So how did you find him?”

And Ally told her about going back to Honolulu, about her dad’s heart attack, about looking for PJ. “I thought he’d be there still,” she admitted. “But he wasn’t.”

“And so you had to track him down! How romantic is that?” Martha was clearly pleased.

Cristina thought PJ was the romantic. Martha thought she was.

“Eddie! Ack, no. Don’t put that in your mouth!” Martha swooped down and scooped her son up, taking whatever he’d been about to eat and tossing it into the water. “Kids! What will I ever do when I have two of them?” she moaned.

“Are you …?”Ally looked at Martha’s flat stomach doubtfully.

But Martha nodded happily. “Not till January, though. What about you guys? Have you talked about kids?”

“Not … much.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. They had talked about children—the ones she hoped to have with Jon, the grandchild she wanted to give her father.

But now in her mind’s eye she didn’t see a child she might have with Jon. She saw PJ as he had been with Alex that evening at his house in Park Slope or, for that matter, PJ now. He had one of Elias’s twins on his hip while he tossed a football with his brothers.

Martha’s gaze followed her own. “Well, it’s early days yet. You will.”

Ally didn’t reply. Her throat felt tight. The glare of the sun made her eyes water. She swallowed and looked away.

As a child, Ally had been a reader.

From the time she had first made sense of words on a page, she’d haunted the library or spent her allowance at the bookstore, buying new worlds in which to live. And invariably the worlds she sought were the boisterous chaotic worlds of laughing, loving, noisy families who were so different from her own.

Oh, she was loved. She had no doubt about that.

But the everyday life of her childhood had been perpetually calm, perennially quiet, perfectly ordered. When her mother had been alive, there had, of course, been smiles and quiet laughter. And even her normally dignified taciturn father had been known to join in. But after her mother’s death, after the number of chairs at the table had gone from three to two, mealtimes had become sober silent affairs. After her mother was gone, there had been no more light conversations, no more gentle teasing. There had actually been very few smiles.

Never a demonstrative man, after his wife’s death Hiroshi Maruyama became even more remote.

“He is sad,” her grandmother had excused him.

“So am I,” Ally had retorted fiercely. “Does he think I don’t miss her, too?”

“He doesn’t think,” Ama had said. “He only hurts.”

Well, Ally had hurt, too. And they had gone right on hurting in their own private little shells, never reaching out for each other, for years. Hiroshi’s way of dealing with his daughter was to give her directions, orders, commands.

“They will make your life better,” he told her stiffly, if she balked.

But they hadn’t.

Marrying PJ and running away from her father’s edicts was what had made her life better. Doing that had freed her, given her scope for her talents, new challenges that she could meet and, eventually, a life she loved and determinedly filled with her art and her work.

In the fullness of that life, she’d forgotten about the warm, boisterous families she’d read about and envied, the closeness she had yearned for all those years ago. She hadn’t really realized anything was missing until she’d come home after her father’s heart attack.

Then, forced to take a break, to slow down and look around during those long days in his hospital room, she had seen cracks in her well-developed life begin to appear. A chasm of emptiness opened up before her.

She was back with her father—in subdued silence. And longing for something more. That was why she’d been so glad to find Jon.

He was as addicted to work as she was. For his entire adult life he had been filling the empty spaces in his life with patients and professional demands on his time. Now he was thirty-five. It was time to marry, to have a family.

“One child,” he said. “I have time for one child.”

“Two,” Ally had responded instantly. “I want at least two.” There was no way she was going to subject a child of hers to the same loneliness she’d experienced.

Jon had looked doubtful and skeptical and as if he thought she was being irrational and irresponsible.

“Two,” Ally had repeated. “Or three,” she’d added in a moment of recklessness.

“No more than two,” Jon had stated firmly. “We don’t want chaos.”

But a part of Ally did.

And tonight on the deck of PJ’s parents’ house, she was reminded of it.

The whole day, from the moment she’d got out of the car to be swept into the embrace of his parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins and assorted relations, she had felt a sense of déjà vu that was odd because she knew she’d never experienced anything like it before.

It wasn’t until after dinner, when she’d sat on a bench on the deck listening to Martha and Tallie compare toddler notes while in the kitchen the aunts discussed recipes, and in the dining room PJ’s father, Mr. Cristopolous and several friends compared golf swings and on the lawn little boys toddled about and bigger boys tossed footballs, and on the sand where PJ’s brother Lukas was deep in conversation with Connie Cristopolous and PJ and Elias were starting up a bonfire in the rock fire pit that Ally recognized what she was seeing—the families she’d read about in her books.

They were real—at least this one was. And for the moment—for this one single weekend—they were hers.

She smiled. Not just on her face, but all the way down to the depths of her soul.

“Come on, then, Ally.” Martha broke into her realization. “I’ll show you guys the mural I’m doing in Ma’s sewing room.”

And happily, willingly, Ally went with Martha and Tallie. She ran her hand along the oak banister as they climbed the stairs, certain that the wood beneath her fingers had been worn smooth by PJ and his brothers sliding down it. She paused to look at the family photos that lined the upstairs hall. They stretched back for generations, right to a couple of fiercely scowling men with bushy moustaches who looked as if they’d just got off the boat.

“My great-grandfather Nikos and his brother, right after they emigrated,” Martha said when she noticed the direction of Ally’s glance. “I want to do a mural of the whole family—” she waved her hand to encompass the myriad photos on both the walls “—sometime. Show all the generations. I did something like it out in Butte as a local history project. You would have loved this photo of a traditional Chinese bride one of the students brought in.”

Martha rattled on happily about that, while Ally and Tallie admired the ongoing mural in Helena’s sewing room. Martha had done small vignettes of children—the Antonides children. Here was Alex throwing a ball, Eddie taking his first steps, the twins smearing birthday cake all over their faces. And their parents, too, when they were children. All of Helena’s and Aeolus’s children were there.

“Is that PJ?” Ally asked, arrested by a small painting on the wall by the bay window of a young boy on a surfboard.

Martha laughed. “Who else?”

Who else, indeed? Ally moved closer, drawn to the picture of PJ as a boy, recognizing the triumphant grin and, in his expression, the sheer joy of being alive.

“Of all of us kids,” Martha said, “he was the one who loved it here the most. The one who loved the ocean the most. We always thought he was insane, going all the way to Hawaii when he had one out the back door. But—” she smiled at Ally “—I guess he wasn’t so crazy after all. Look who he brought home.”

And there was such warmth and such approval in her voice that Ally felt about two inches high.

She couldn’t respond to it, could only smile and feel betraying tears prick.

“Hey,” PJ’s voice came from the doorway. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

“Brought her up to show her family history,” Martha said. “You haven’t seen this, either.” She waved a hand around the room.

PJ ambled in and startled Ally by snagging her hand and drawing her along with him while he moved from vignette to vignette. She tried to look at them, too, but mostly she was aware of his hand wrapping hers.

She should tug it away. It was sending the wrong message, and not just to the onlookers, but to Ally herself. It promised a relationship, a future. A married life of love.

Experimentally she tried pulling her hand out of his. He hung on tighter. “They’re terrific,” he told Martha, nodding at her paintings. “Ma loves ‘em. Says she’s going to make you fill the whole room.”

“Yes, well, Theo and I are doing our part. Tallie and Elias are doing theirs. Up to you now,” she added giving him a significant look.

Ally tensed at her obvious inference, but PJ’s grip on her hand didn’t change. “All in good time,” he said easily. Then, as if he took it all in stride, as doubtless he did, he said to all of them, “Fire’s going. Sun’s set. Come on out.”

The scene around the firepit was even more reminiscent of all the stories she used to read. Most of the family gathered around it, sitting on blankets, laughing and talking as the evening lengthened and the sky grew deep and dark.

The breeze off the ocean turned the air cool, and Ally would have gone for her sweater, but before she could, PJ slipped his sweatshirt jacket over her shoulders.

“Come here,” he said, and drew her down onto the blanket, shifting around so that she sat in the vee of his legs and he tugged her back against his chest, looping his arms around her.

It felt far too intimate for Ally’s peace of mind. But at the same time, perversely, it felt like exactly where she wanted to be.

“Warmer?” His lips were next to her ear, his breath lifting tendrils of her hair.

She shivered again at the feel of it and, misunderstanding the cause, he wrapped his arms more tightly around her. “I can go get you a warmer jacket.”’

It would have got her out of his arms. Saying “Yes, please” would have been the sane thing to do, but Ally didn’t do it.

She couldn’t bring herself to destroy the evening. It was her dream come to life. The warmth and joy of the camaraderie, the laughter and easy music that began as Lukas picked up a guitar and began to play, and two of PJ’s aunts began to sing, enchanted her. And the hard strength of PJ’s arms around her simply enhanced the experience.

“I’m fine,” she said.

It was true. It was wonderful.

It lasted the rest of the night.

It was late when the party began to break up. Tallie and Elias had put the twins down to sleep. Martha had gone inside to rock Eddie. Yiayia had gone up to bed an hour earlier, but not before she’d stopped on her way in to smile down at Ally, snug in the embrace of PJ’s arms.

“Ne,” she said approvingly. And her fingers had brushed over the top of Ally’s head. A benediction of sorts?

“Night, Yiayia,” PJ said, tilting his head up to smile at her.

Yiayia said something to him in Greek that Ally didn’t understand. She was surprised when PJ seemed to.

His smile broadened and he nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will.”

His grandmother nodded and padded off into the house.

“What did she say?” Ally wanted to know.

“She said I shouldn’t forget to kiss you.”

Ally’s breath caught in her throat, knowing that PJ’s lips were a scant inch from her ear. But even as she held her breath, he made no move to kiss her.

Instead he eased back away from her and stood up, then held out a hand and hauled her to her feet. “Time to go up,” he said.

“Yes. It is late. Nearly midnight.” She felt stiff from having sat there so long, yet she was reluctant to leave. Lukas was still softly playing his guitar. And Connie, apparently oblivious to any machinations that would have directed her toward PJ, seemed enthralled with sitting at Lukas’s feet and listening to his music. Elias and Tallie had come back out and were sitting on the other side of the fire, their arms around each other as they stared into the magic of the fire.

Ally understood. She didn’t want to leave the magic, either.

But she could do exactly what she’d always done as a child after she’d read one of those books that made her dream impossible dreams. She could take her dreams to bed with her.

But first, she reminded herself as she followed PJ up the stairs so he could show her to her room, she should call Jon.

She hadn’t called him all day. But it wasn’t too late. With the time difference, he would probably just be getting home from the hospital. Maybe she could communicate a little of what she’d felt today to him—this feeling of family belonging, joy, connection. Maybe he would understand.

Maybe, she dared hope, he would share her dream.

PJ took hold of the handle on one of the doors in the hallway. “Here we are.” He pushed the door open and held it for her. “My old room,” he said with a grin.

“Yours?” She looked around, intrigued. It had obviously been redecorated since PJ had lived in it. The walls were a freshly painted pale sage green. But the bookcase still had some books that the young PJ Antonides would have read, and the hardwood floors showed evidence of being used for more than walking.

“Used to have bunkbeds, too,” he told her. There was a double-size bed in the room now, with a taupe-colored duvet and heaps of inviting pillows. “I had the top one. Always wanted to be on top. Luke was stuck with the bottom.”

She could imagine him in here, her mind’s eye seeing the boy on the surfboard that Martha had painted. She wondered about the dreams he had dreamed as a child. He needn’t have dreamed ones like hers. They’d been his reality.

Then she realized he was just standing there looking at her. “What?” she said.

He shook his head, smiling, too. “Nothing.” But still he made no move to go.

“Where are you going to be?” she asked him.

He blinked. “What?”

She shrugged. “I just wondered where you were sleeping? Which room?”

“This one,” he said. “I’m sleeping in here. With you.”