Loving Again: Book 2 in the Second Chance series (Crimson Romance) (9 page)

And her personal life? It was off the charts. Dinners, movies, and nights with Sam made the weeks rush by in glorious bliss. Cynthia was right. Soon she’d have to admit she was in love — first to herself and then to Sam.

• • •

After dinner one Saturday night, Sam said, “Are you ready to talk about something personal about us?”

“How personal?” She was sure she sounded wary.

“Meeting my sons. They’re getting pretty curious about you.”

She was sure she looked startled. “How do they even know about me?”

“They always ask what I’m up to on the weekends I don’t see them. They’ve noticed that I’m going out more and Sammy, the older one, asked what the name of the woman was who was going with me. He prides himself on being a good detective.”

“Like his dad.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure. How’ve you handled this before when you’ve dated someone?”

“They’ve never met anyone I’ve gone out with. After the divorce, their mother and I agreed we’d be careful about introducing them to people who would float into their lives and then walk out when the relationship ended. We didn’t want to add any more stress than they were already under from the split.”

“You get along better with your ex than some people do with their spouses.”

“I don’t know about that but we do have the same ideas on how to parent our sons. We agreed, no overnight guests when the boys are around and, like I said, no introductions to anyone unless it’s more than a casual relationship. And this isn’t a casual relationship any more. At least, not for me. But you have to decide if you’re up for it. I haven’t said anything to them but if you’re okay with it, I thought maybe next Saturday you could have lunch or something with us.”

She took a deep breath and made the leap. “Okay, I guess it’s time. How about meeting at the dog park? If they hate me on sight, at least Chihuly will interest them enough to get us through an hour. But if everyone gets along, you could all come here for lunch.”

“They won’t hate you on sight but the dog park’s a great idea. Jack wants a dog so bad he can taste it but their stepdad has serious allergies and I won’t have one shut up all the time because of my hours. He’ll love Chihuly.”

The following Saturday Amanda sat on a bench in Normandale Park, her dog at her side. She wasn’t sure who was antsier: her about meeting the boys or Chihuly because he was being made to stay while all the animals around him were chasing balls and Frisbees. But Amanda wanted him with her until Sam and his sons arrived.

She didn’t get her way. At about the time Sam said they’d be there, Chihuly’s ears perked up and, slipping out of Amanda’s control, he took off running. When he ignored her calls to stop, she gave a long, sharp, shrill whistle and he came to an abrupt halt at the feet of two boys and a man who looked at Amanda in amazement.

“Christ, who knew you could do that?” Sam said as he circled her shoulders with an arm and kissed her.

“Sorry. Chihuly must have heard your voice. I didn’t. That’s the emergency signal that always makes him stop.”

“Him and everyone else in the park.” Sam gestured to the two boys. “Amanda, this is Sammy and this is Jack. Boys, this is Amanda St. Claire. And you’ve already met Chihuly.” Sammy put his hand out to shake hers and looked at her with his father’s brown eyes and serious expression. Jack had knelt to get to Chihuly’s level and barely acknowledged the introduction until Sam asked him to stand up and be polite.

After his “hello,” Jack said, “He has a funny name. What kind of dog is he? He’s wooly, kinda like a sheep.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Amanda said. “He’s a curly coated retriever. And he’s named for a glass artist who has curly black hair.”

“Does he do tricks?”

“He sits and stays although not today, I guess. And he fetches and rolls over. Mostly he likes to play Frisbee.”

“Can we play Frisbee with him, Dad?” Jack asked.

Sam glanced at Amanda who nodded. “The Frisbee’s back at the bench. I’ll get it.”

Sammy decided he didn’t want to play, so Sam and Jack went off to entertain Chihuly — or vice versa — while Sammy sat on the bench beside Amanda. He stared straight ahead, legs swinging, saying nothing.

After a few moments, Amanda said, “You look even more like your dad in person than in the photos he’s shown me. Do many people tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“Does Jack look more like your mom?”

“I guess.”

“And do I remember right that you’re ten and Jack is seven?”

“Yes.”

“Does this feel as awkward to you as it does to me?”

No response although she was sure she knew the answer.

“Okay, how about you ask the questions. Surely there’s something you want to know about me.” Amanda faced him, trying to read his expression.

“Are you going to marry my dad?” he asked without turning toward her.

“You don’t mess around with the little stuff, do you? You are like your dad.” She shook her head. “The answer is, we haven’t talked about it. There are things that have to get settled first.”

“Like what?”

“Well, the first one is, do his sons and I get along.”

Sammy finally looked at her. “Jack will like you just because you have a dog.”

“So you’re the one I have to impress. Good to know.” She smiled at him and got a half-smile back. Progress, she thought.

“Will you spend the weekends with us from now on when we’re with Dad?” He’d turned away from her again.

“No, you guys don’t have a lot of time together so I don’t want to intrude. Although I wondered if you’d like to visit my studio sometime to see the two glassblowers I share space with work. I haven’t said anything to your dad yet because I wanted to see if you were interested first.”

“Dad said you’re an artist.”

“Yup. I work with glass but I don’t blow it. The kind of work I do, you might be interested in doing yourself.” As she went on to describe how she did her work, Sammy finally gave her his full attention.

• • •

It was killing Sam. He was trying to keep his mind on the Frisbee game but he really wanted to know what was going on with Amanda and Sammy. So far, Amanda was doing all the talking and his older son’s face was set in a familiar stubborn expression.

Sammy was a hard sell. Jack had been so young when the divorce happened he barely noticed that his parents didn’t live together any more. Sammy, on the other hand, had been old enough to be hurt and unhappy. He’d made it clear he wanted his parents back together. The first blow to his plans had been his mother’s remarriage. Amanda, Sam knew, would be the last nail in the coffin, consigning his hopes for reconciliation to the flames.

Sam wanted this meeting to work out because he had his own plans. They included things he’d never believed in until recently, like sappy, “happily ever after” movie shit. And then there was this image that flashed through his mind of a little girl with his brown eyes and her caramel-colored curls, sitting in front of him on an Appaloosa, her fingers laced through his as they guided the horse around the corral at the family ranch.

All his plans depended on the woman on the bench. But before he could work on her about the plans, he had to know she and the boys were comfortable with each other.

Suddenly Sammy smiled at Amanda and started talking, his hands moving in explanation of something. Maybe he shouldn’t have worried. She seemed to have charmed Sammy almost as fast as she’d charmed Sammy’s father.

Sam signaled to Jack to wind down the game, and headed toward the bench, his younger son running before him.

Jack raced right to Amanda. “Dad said we could go to your house and have lunch and play with Chihuly some more. Is it really all right?”

She nodded.

“But Sammy has to want to go, too. Say yes, Sammy. Please?” Jack begged.

Amanda stood up. “How about I go clean up after my dog, who seems to have left a little present over there while you three decide?”

“No,” Sammy said. “You don’t have to leave. Going to your house for lunch is okay. And maybe we can go see your studio. Dad, Amanda says if you and Mom are cool with it, she’ll teach us how to cut glass and make things like she does. Can we?”

Sam smiled at his son. “I’ll talk to your mom and see what she says but, yeah, I think that sounds like a great idea. Today, though, we’ll just watch Leo and Giles.”

“I’ll meet you there, Sam, as soon as I clean up after Chihuly,” Amanda said. He nodded and kissed the top of her head.

“The guys blow glass, you know,” Sammy said as they walked to where Sam’s truck was parked. “Amanda does a different kind of glass art. She cuts up sheets of glass into designs and fuses them in a kiln.” He continued, repeating almost word for word what Sam knew Amanda had told his son. Knew because she’d once explained it exactly like that to him.

• • •

That night, as he usually did after herding his sons to bed, Sam called Amanda, eager to find out how she felt about the day.

He broached the subject first. “You were a big hit. Not only is Jack in love with you because you have a dog, but you managed to charm Sammy, which is considerably harder. He says if I want to invite you for one of our Friday pizza nights or a Saturday green-eggs-and-ham dinner, it would be okay.”

“You don’t really make green eggs and ham, do you?”

“Close. When we eat in, we make odd combinations of food often dyed with a lot of food coloring to make up for the fact than none of the three of us can cook anything other than breakfast.”

“I’m honored and scared, all at the same time.”

“You’re not only beautiful but wise.” He was silent for a moment. “It went okay today, didn’t it?”

“I think so. I hope so. I really liked your boys. Jack is adorable, so open and loving. And Sammy is so much like you it almost made me cry. You and your ex have done a great job raising them.”

“Think you’d be okay with this more often, maybe even regularly?”

She hesitated a moment then said in a soft voice, “Yeah, I think I would.”

In that admission, he heard the first sign that she might be ready to talk about some of his plans for their future.

• • •

The plan was moving but not fast enough. The money hadn’t panned out yet. Turned out, getting into the bitch’s house wasn’t easy, between the security system, the dog, and the fucking cop who was almost living there. By convincing that idiot Kane he’d be better off letting the lawyers work it out, he’d slowed down one half of the operation while he kept trying to get around the complications.

Lucky he had this bolthole. No one knew he kipped here except the owner, a guy he met last year who was still away. The place was a pile of shit, hardly any furniture, bad plumbing, no electricity. But using this place got him out from under the supervision of the people who were keeping track of him. He needed to get away sometimes, so he didn’t get squirrely.

The whole thing was making him crazy. All he heard was how important patience and persistence were. Fuck that. He was running out of both. One last try to get in the house and he’d force the issue with phase two. He’d make her pay for the murder she’d gotten away with. And when they locked her up, he’d be able to find what he was looking for and leave town. This waiting was getting on his nerves.

“Where’ve you been?” Eubie Kane asked. He was standing outside the door of the now closed and darkened Bullseye Resource Center, shivering in the fall rain. Next to him was a hand truck piled with plastic tubs. “Why’d you keep me waiting so long?”

“I couldn’t do anything until Robin went across the way to set up for her class,” the man holding open the door said.

“Yeah,
her
class. She’s a second-rate teacher. I’d do better.” Kane wheeled his hand truck toward the classroom area. The other man closed and locked the front door.

“Whatever.” The man shrugged, bored with listening to the young artist’s complaints. “She said it would be about an hour. So that’s what you have to get that thing set up so it’ll start doing whatever it does after we leave.”

“You mean program the controller so the kiln fires my work overnight,” Kane said in a patronizing tone. The other man barely controlled his impulse to punch the artist in the mouth.

Apparently oblivious to the reaction he was causing, Kane went on. “I called Amanda St. Claire. I’m going to her studio when I’m finished here. I’ve talked to my lawyer and have a figure to give her. She’s going to freak when I tell her how much it’ll cost her to keep me from taking her to court.” He pried the lid off the top bin and unpacked pieces of art glass swathed in bubble-wrap. He carefully removed the plastic and placed the glass on the worktables in the middle of the room.

“She said she thought it would be a good idea for us to get together. I bet she thinks she can talk her way out of this.” The artist grinned at the man he thought was his buddy. “But when I’m finished with her, she’ll be sorry she took advantage of me. And once I’m recognized for what I am — an artist who inspires other artists — I’ll be able to pay you back for the money you loaned me for the lawyer.”

“Nah, that was a gift from another friend. Don’t worry. You deserve what you’re gonna get.”

Eubie rearranged the stacks of glass on the table as he talked. “I owe you a lot more than money. I’ve been struggling for years to be taken seriously. Your ideas have been inspired. First suing Amanda. Then confronting Liz. Now having the staff here awed by a kiln load of my new pieces. Finally, I’m catching a break … ”

Kane droned on and the other man zoned out, lounging on the lowest tier of the stadium seating where students usually watched artist demonstrations. Thank Christ he’d overheard Eubie bitching about artists using his ideas when he was with Robin in the coffee shop. With very little persuasion Eubie began to believe that the St. Claire bitch was one of them. Eubie was so perfect for the plan it was almost scary.

He watched Kane finish unwrapping the last of fifteen pieces of glass with minimal designs on each one. “Whadda you call your work, Eubie?” he asked. “I forget.”

“The old work you saw was weather moods. The new work is seasonal moods.” He held up a stack of fired eight-inch squares. “You can see how different it is.”