Turn My World Upside Down: Jo's Story (8 page)

“About Jack . . .”

“My grandson.” Nana’s narrow chin lifted and her eyes narrowed. “Where issa he?”

“School.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Good. I will have cookies for him when he comes home.” She snapped a look at Jo. “What time he gets home?”

“He’s out at three, but he usually goes to Sam’s house. Plays with Emma until I’m off work.”

“No more,” Nana decreed, pushing herself up from the chair and reaching back to replump the pillow. Then she bent, straightened a stack of magazines on the coffee table, and dragged her index finger across the dusty surface. Frowning, she held the evidence of laziness up for Jo to see.

She winced guiltily, but hey, there hadn’t been a lot of time for dusting. Since moving back into the Marconi family home to take care of Jack, she’d been a little busy. You know, running the business single-handedly,
looking after her brother . . . No excuse would be good enough and she knew it.

Nana clucked her tongue, shook her head, then brushed her hands together, ridding herself of the dust while simultaneously glaring at Jo. “They should come here. Be with their Nana.”

Sunlight speared through the living room window, highlighting the streaks on the glass. Nana was sure to notice that, too, any minute now. And to hear her tell it, dirty windows were the
real
path to hell.

“Um . . .” Jo stood up too and tried not to hover over the much smaller woman. She suddenly felt like an Amazon at a leprechaun convention. “Weasel D—” She caught herself when Nana’s eyes narrowed. Okay, note to self: Don’t use the family nickname for Jeff in front of Nana. “I mean, Sam’s husband, Jeff, usually watches the kids and he—”

Nana held up one hand, cutting off the rest of that speech. “Tell him to bringa the children here. They will want to be with their Nana. Is only right.”

“You don’t have to babysit.”

“Is why I came. To see the children. To be with Michaela when her bambinos are born.”

Ooh. And she was sure Mike was delighted at
that
prospect.

“Yeah,” Jo said, following her grandmother as she started across the living room for the kitchen. “But Nana, about Jack—”

She whirled around, her black skirt flapping around her knees. “He is sick? Something issa wrong?”

“No, he’s just—”

“Speak up, Josefina,” her grandmother said, folding
her gnarled hands at her waist. “What issa wrong? You think I maybe will not love this Jack? You think that I am foolish enough to blame the child for what his father has done?”

Jo cringed. Okay, yes, she had been worried. After all, ever since the family had found out about Jack, Nana had made it a point to let everyone know just what she thought of a man who would cheat on a dying wife. Was it so hard to understand that she’d been afraid Nana would take out her anger on the child, too? But she should have had more faith in a woman who was a born mother. A nurturer from way back.

God, she did feel like an idiot. But in her own defense, it had been a full week so far. “Of course not, Nana.”

“This boy is my grandson. The son of the
bastardo
, yes, but still, my grandson.”

Well, as long as there were no hard feelings.

And technically, Jack wasn’t really her grandson. But apparently, Nana wasn’t looking at it like that.

“You’re right, Nana, but—” Jo said, then stopped when the old woman’s eyes narrowed on her. “Fine. Forget it. I’ll call Jeff. Tell him to bring the kids here after school.”

“Good.” She turned for the kitchen again, a spring in her step. Nothing like stomping your way through a conversation to give you that little extra zip. “Be home at six. Supper will be ready.”

“Yes, Nana.” Jo sighed, surrendering to the woman who could make a four-star general look like a shy Cub Scout.

Leaving the house, she stomped down the front
steps and headed for her truck, parked in the tree-shaded driveway. Somehow or other, she was losing control of her life.

The hell of it was, she was starting to like the wild ride.

Chandler, California, had the best of everything.

Almost perfectly situated in the middle of the state, Chandler was just far enough north to avoid most of the summer heat and just far enough south to escape snow in winter. Sitting right on the coast, the little town was nestled between the sea on one side and a forest that stretched out at the feet of the mountains on the other.

Decades ago, Chandler had survived on the strength of its natural harbor and the fishing boats that plied the waters—not to mention its closeness to the vineyards that crowded central and northern California. Now, though, tourists were the backbone of the economy and there were festivals planned for every season to make sure they kept coming. The town was big enough to keep neighbors from living in each other’s pockets and small enough to retain the cozy feel of a fishing village.

Shops crowded the main street, where old-fashioned street lamps stood proudly with bright splashes of flowers jumbled at their feet. Tourists and locals alike crowded the sidewalks, bustling in and out of the shops and restaurants.

In another week or so, the Flower Fantasy would open and buses filled with eager shoppers would descend on Chandler to buy up the local growers’ supply of cut flowers, plants, bulbs and seeds. Then it would be summer, and the beaches would be packed with people determined to get a summer’s worth of tan in one weekend. In the fall the Autumn Festival brought out the local artisans, selling their wares in the open meadow outside town. By late October, streets would clog with people coming in to see the brilliant gold and scarlet foliage, and in winter, there would be the Victorian Christmas festival, when street vendors sold everything from hot apple cider to actual roasted chestnuts, and period-garbed carolers wandered the street, serenading tourists and locals alike.

Contrary to popular opinion, something was
always
happening in small towns.

But for now, Jo mused as she parked her car outside the Leaf and Bean, things were relatively quiet in Chandler. She stepped out of the truck and lifted her face into the wind sweeping in off the ocean. Smiling to herself, she listened to the distant bark of the seals angling for a handout, the conversations bubbling up around her, and underneath it all, the rhythmic sigh and hush of the ocean itself, like the heartbeat of Chandler.

She slammed the truck door and headed for the sidewalk, waving absently to Gloria Harding as she dragged her tantrum-throwing three-year-old behind her.

Jo shook her head, tugged her sweatshirt tighter around her, and stalked up to the Leaf and Bean. Maybe she was stalling a little before going out to the
work site. But she’d already dealt with Nana and she figured she owed herself a latte before facing Cash.

The minute she opened the door and was slapped by the combined scents of coffee and freshly baked pastries, Jo felt every cell in her body stand up and shout “hurray.”

A dozen or so round tables were scattered across the gleaming wood floor and the people huddled around those tables sent up a muted roar of conversation that drew newcomers in. The walls were cream colored, with dark wooden beams as accents. Sunlight sliced in through the wide front windows facing onto Main Street and glanced off fern- and flower-filled copper pots hanging from heavy silver chains. Across the far wall, a long glass case was filled with the pastries Stevie Ryan Candellano baked fresh daily, and the hiss and sputter of the espresso machine drew Jo forward like metal shavings to a magnet.

Her gaze swept the room as she headed toward paradise. At this time of year, most of Stevie’s customers were locals. In another couple of months, tourists would be battling for the seats and Stevie’s cash register would be singing. Jo waved to Trish Donovan, sitting in the corner, with a spread of tarot cards laid out across her table. Then she stopped when Phillip Howell called to her.

“Jo! Going to need you and your sisters before summer,” he said loudly. “My roof sprang a leak in the last storm.”

“I’ll call,” she said, smiling, and in her mind, she tucked Phil’s name into her file folder marked “pending.” “And,” she added, turning back to look at him again. “Don’t try to fix it yourself this time, okay?”

“I remember,” he said with a grimace as his friends laughed.

Last time Phil had tried a little roofing on the weekend, he’d put his foot right through the overhang and damn near broke his leg.

Nothing like a weekend handyman to make a construction worker’s life happy, Jo thought.

By the time she reached the counter, she was feeling a lot more cheerful. A latte was in her immediate future and she already had another job lined up.

“The usual?” Stevie asked, grinning.

“Oh God, yes,” Jo said, then stood back to admire the pastries lined up in the case in front of her. “And I think a cinnamon roll, too.”

Stevie’s blond eyebrows lifted as she wielded the buttons and levers on the espresso machine she ran like a magician. Steam rose, hot milk bubbled, as Stevie bent to snatch up a pastry and tuck it into a small paper bag. Sliding it across the counter, she asked, “Nothing for Mike or Sam?”

“Not today,” Jo muttered, reaching into the bag to break off a corner of the roll. Popping it into her mouth, she closed her eyes and sighed at the glorious taste. “Mike’s on bed rest, making Lucas nuts, and Sam can’t even smell coffee without turning green.”

“Poor thing,” Stevie said as she wiped down the metal tubes and clicked a plastic lid atop Jo’s coffee cup. “Thank God I don’t have
that
worry. Don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t at least
make
coffee while pregnant.”

Hard to keep up, Jo thought. Not just her sisters were in the middle of a population explosion. It seemed that all of her friends were also on the mommy
train. Pretty soon, she’d be the only woman in town without a gang of kids hanging off her body.

She took a sip of coffee and even the glorious taste of the perfectly done latte couldn’t completely wipe away the bitterness blooming inside. But what did she really have to be miserable about, anyway? It wasn’t as though she were interested in having a man in her life.

Shaking her head, Jo pushed the stray thoughts out of her mind and focused on Stevie instead. “So when’re you due again?”

The blonde stepped out from behind the espresso machine, put one hand on the small of her back and shrugged as she glanced down at the mound of her belly. “A couple of months still,” she admitted, then added, “And Carla’s not letting me forget it that she beat me to the baby finish line.”

Carla Candellano Wyatt. Another old friend. Now a married mom to a newborn boy and stepmother to a darling little girl. “How’s she doing, anyway?”

“She’s fine, the bitch,” Stevie said wryly. “Already getting her figure back and making sure she tells me at least once a day that I’m still fat and she’s not.”

“Oh, evil,” Jo agreed, “but on the bright side, neither one of you is as big as Mike.”

“Good point!” Stevie crowed. “I feel better.”

“Happy to help.”

“So, how’s Cash working out?”

“Huh?” The abrupt shift in subject had Jo’s mind rattling.

“Cash. He’s been working for you a lot lately since Sam and Mike have been out of the picture.”

“Get that gleam out of your eye,” Jo warned, leaning in across the glass counter and lowering her voice so
that the people behind them couldn’t hear her. “There is
nothing
, repeat,
nothing
going on between me and Cash.”

Stevie chuckled. “Who said there was?”

Jo stiffened. “Cute. Very cute.”

“So my husband tells me.”

Jo sagged a little and tapped her fingertips against the top of the cool glass case. “He’s being . . .
helpful
.”

“Well, God,” Stevie said, in mock horror, “call Tony and have him arrested.”

She took another sip of her latte and let the heat sweep through her, as the caffeine gave her system a much-needed kick. “I just don’t get
why
he’s being helpful,” she said, choosing to ignore Stevie’s limp attempt at humor.

“Maybe he likes you.”

“He likes
all
women.” And that was exactly why she was so determined to keep her distance. She’d fallen for a smooth-talking guy once before and all it had gotten her was years’ worth of nightmares.

“Used to,” Stevie said, then glanced to a corner of the room and shouted to a customer wanting a refill, “Coming!” Turning back to Jo, she said, “Word is, Cash has been living like a monk for months.”

Jo’d heard that, too. She just didn’t know if she believed it. Or if she believed it, what it might mean—if anything.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said firmly a second later. Because she wouldn’t
let
it matter. She picked up her coffee and cinnamon roll and said, “You’re busy and I’ve gotta run anyway.”

“Sure,” Stevie said, lifting a coffeepot and heading
around the edge of the counter. “But, um, let me know if there’s anything
to
know.”

“There won’t be,” Jo said, and wasn’t really sure if she was promising Stevie . . . or herself.

The Marconi kitchen was bright and warm and smelled as if Italian angels had been at work. Papa’s big golden retriever, Bear, snored under the table, his wide head resting on the toe of Jack’s shoe in a comforting weight.

Jack swung his hair out of his eyes, then reached for a cold glass of milk sitting in front of him on the kitchen table. While he took a long drink, he let his gaze slide to the old lady walking around the room. She stopped at the stove and stirred a big pot of something that sent steam and really good smells into the air.

His
grandmother
.

He’d never had a grandma before. Or a grandpa, either.

So far, he kind of liked it.

After school, he’d gone to his sister Sam’s house like always. But then instead of staying to play video games with his niece Emma—which he still thought was pretty weird, that he could be an uncle and only be ten years old—Emma’s dad had brought them both here.

To meet Nana Coletti.

He’d been a little worried about it. But since his mom died, he’d been a little worried about everything. Chandler was nice and everything, but it was all so new and stuff, and he still missed his best friend, Dennis Ferris, a lot.