Teardrop Lane (34 page)

He went to work, let his mind drift, pictured Rose as he had left her last night after walking her back to Angel’s Rest, her mouth swollen from his kisses. He thought of making love to her as he crafted a flowing,
pulsing form in bright red, the color of life and love and passion.

He lost himself in his work—and came close to being late for his own wedding.

Like a good best man should, Flynn pulled his ass away from the fire and got him to Eagle’s Way with eight minutes to spare.

Sage glowed with that special luminescence that expectant mothers often display as she walked up the wildflower-dotted aisle. Galen dropped his ring bearer’s pillow, then Keenan picked it up and wouldn’t give it back. The brothers traded punches until they took their assigned seats. Misty smiled shyly as she held her sister’s hand and helped her drop rose petals on her way up the aisle.

Then Rose appeared and took his breath away.

“Sirena Bellissima,”
he said, lifting her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

They exchanged their wedding vows in front of family and friends, and danced the night away to a live band. Where the hell Flynn came up with the stretch Jeep limo that spirited them away from Eagle’s Way to the infamous yurt, he hadn’t a clue. Nor did he worry about it once he got a look at the tent.

Round and as big as a house, it had a wood floor, indoor plumbing—complete with a sunken tub—and a round bed roughly the size of the Starship
Enterprise
.

She took him to the stars and back as they made love until dawn.

The following day, they went home to the monsters. Rose settled in to the mother role with enthusiasm, and their home and family became one filled with laughter, love, and joy.

On July third, Mac called with the news that his request for temporary custody had been denied. During supper, Amy texted new puppy pictures to Misty and
asked her to ask Cicero to call them at his earliest convenience.

Rose sent him a questioning look. He’d decided to wait to share Mac’s news after the kids had gone to bed, but she must have seen something in his expression because she suddenly set down her fork, dabbed at her mouth with her cloth napkin—a new addition to his home since the wedding—and excused herself.

“I need to check on dessert.”

“Dessert?” Galen repeated. “We’re having dessert? What dessert? I want dessert.”

“I didn’t see her cook anything,” Keenan said. “Did you see her cook anything, Misty?”

Busy yearning at the pictures on her phone, Misty didn’t look up. “She didn’t bake. She didn’t bring anything home.”

Cicero gave his wife five minutes, then walked into the kitchen where he found her staring at little bowls filled with instant pudding sitting on a tray. He ran his finger around the lip of the mixing bowl and licked it.

“Banana, huh? Butterscotch is my favorite.”

“In that case, buy butterscotch and make it yourself.”

“Whoa, the honeymoon’s over fast, is it?”

She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just—you heard something, didn’t you? Tell me. Just tell me.”

“I was going to tell you after the kids went to bed. Mac called.”

“We can’t stop August first, can we?”

“No. I’m sorry. We rushed the wedding for no good reason.”

“Stop it.” Always the healer, Rose reached out and touched his forearm. “Our wedding was wonderful and it was exactly what it was supposed to be.”

“If I win the Albritton, I’m going to buy us our very own yurt. And our very own adult dress-up box like the Timberlakes have. I really liked the harem costumes.”
He took her in his arms and held her tight. Against her hair, he murmured, “I’m so sorry, Rose. I wanted to give you the children you wanted.”

“You have. They are mine, no matter where they live, with whom they live, or what they call Amy or any other woman in their lives, I am their Doctor Mom. Being with you has taught me that my definition of family has been too narrow. My definition of motherhood has been too narrow. I want—”

“Are we going to get dessert or—” Keenan broke off. “Oh, geez. Are y’all slobbering on each other again?”

“Go away, Sprout. Now.” Cicero nibbled at his wife’s neck.

Galen entered the kitchen on his brother’s heels.

“I want dessert. Can I have dessert?”

Laughing, Rose ducked away from Cicero. “Banana pudding for everyone who is in their seats by the time I count to five. One, two, three—”

The boys fled squealing with delight. Cicero stared at the empty doorway, distracted by a flash of memory. “My mother used to do that, count like that. She’d pick random numbers, though. Not three or five or ten. She’d say seventeen or forty-three or one thousand sixty-seven. Weird, isn’t it, what you remember about being a kid?”

“It’s a good memory for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“We have three weeks left with these darlings. Let’s go make some memories, shall we?”

It was the best July of Rose’s life.

She worked. She played. She lived. She loved. Oh, how she loved. She made heart-shaped waffles for breakfast and had peanut butter sandwich picnics beside Angel Creek on her lunch break. She cheered Keenan when Cicero taught him to ride a bike without training wheels. She dealt with her first ear infection on the other side of the stethoscope.

She signed her scripts Dr. R. Cicero.

And the days flew by.

Her attitude remained amazingly positive. She knew that she’d be blue after the children left for Texas, but she refused to ruin what time she had left with them. Unfortunately, her husband wasn’t taking the impending change as well. He grew grumpier as each day passed. She suspected that the long hours he’d been keeping in the studio lay at the root of his bad attitude.

At ten minutes to seven on the thirtieth, she waved to Shannon when she entered the theater. Moments later, Sage waddled down the aisle to the front row seats Rose had saved for them. “You came!” Rose said. “I’m so glad. I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

“I’m due in a week,” Sage grumbled. “I’ll probably carry this baby for another year. And I didn’t want to
miss Misty’s big night. Is she excited? Nervous? Over the moon thrilled?”

“All of the above.”

“Where’s Cicero?” Shannon asked.

Rose glanced back toward the entry, frowning. “I don’t know. Still at the studio, I guess. I called him right before you arrived, but he didn’t pick up.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Sage assured. “A photographer was there taking pictures of the Albritton piece today. Maybe that ran long.”

“He’s been working crazy hours.” Rose tore her gaze away from the doorway. “Whimsies’ success has been both a curse and a blessing. Gabi and Mitch are working nonstop just to keep the shelves filled, and new commissions are pouring in for Hunt since word of the Albritton has gotten around.”

“I sold two more of his pieces this week,” Sage said. “And, I talked him into letting me see the Albritton work again. It’s fabulous. Simply spectacular. He’s going to win the fellowship. I just know it. Has he decided on a name for it yet?”

“Not that I know of. I thought he intended to ask you for suggestions.”

“He did. I’m haven’t come up with anything so far.”

“Me, either. I think once Hunt and I get past this weekend, we’ll be better able to think about what’s coming up in September.”

Shannon patted Rose’s knee. “Any news from Texas?”

“They’ll be here tomorrow.”

Sage wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “The plan is still to spring news of the move on the kids after the play?”

Rose sighed, checked her watch, then scoped out the entrance once again. Where is he? “Yes. It’s what we negotiated with the Parnells. I honestly think this approach is best. Misty has been so wrapped up this play. She’s made a friend of Holly Montgomery, and she’s just
so happy. Keenan has new friends he’s not going to want to leave. What good would it do to tell them too much ahead of time and let them brood? You and I know it’s most often easiest to pull the bandage off fast.”

Sage dipped her head and rested it on Rose’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sister.”

“We’ll be okay. Hey, I won’t have time to be blue. I have a new niece ready to make her entrance to the world.”

The lights flickered and an announcer asked guests to take their seats. Rose dialed Cicero’s number again. Again, no answer. She glanced back toward the entrance and spied familiar faces entering the theater. Amy and Scott Parnell. Her stomach sank. A part of Rose had held out the hope that when the time came for talk to turn to action, they wouldn’t show.

She blinked back tears.
Hunter, where are you?

Cicero sneaked a peek at his watch. He had twenty minutes before he absolutely had to leave. “That should be good, don’t you think?” he asked the photographer.

“Just a few more shots. The afternoon light in this room is simply fantastic. Your piece pulses in places and glimmers in others.”

“My daughter’s play starts at seven. I won’t be late.”

“Sure. Okay. I understand. I have a daughter, too. How old is she, your girl?”

“Almost ten. I have a two-year-old, too.” Even as he claimed them, he wondered why he used the word “daughter” rather than “niece.”

“Little girls sure are special. I’ll wrap it up so you can get to your play. Want to be sure you get a seat.”

“My wife is saving one for me, but it wouldn’t do for me not to be there when the curtain rises.”

Eight minutes later, he ushered the photographer out the front door. He flipped the lock behind him, then
headed for his office where he had a bouquet of flowers waiting to take to Misty.

A dozen yellow roses were nestled in green tissue paper and tied with a yellow ribbon. He’d just picked them up when he heard the back door open and footsteps pound across the studio’s wooden floor.

The cry and crash stopped his heart.

Rose watched Marta and Liesl and Friedrich and Brigitta and the others sing about their favorite things—and plotted murder. As soon as the play was over, she’d march over to the studio and use his hammer on his head. Or maybe stab him with his punty. Or shove him into the furnace. Or pinch his head off with those big pliers of his.

Or, she could tie him into a chair, lock him in a room, and force him to repeatedly watch the video of the look on Misty’s face when she’d first walked out on stage and noticed the empty seat next to Rose.

How could you do this to her, Hunt?

It was one thing for him to forget her at a Caribbean island party; but something else entirely to disappoint Misty on the most special day of her nine-year-old life. What project was so important that he would let her down this way?

There isn’t one
.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. He wouldn’t be a no-show if he could possibly have avoided it.

But a little part of her remembered that night on Bella Vita. She couldn’t forget that the man was an artist. When it came to his work, her husband could be selfish and blind and temperamental with a capital
T
. He had been grouchy lately. Could this be his way of protecting himself from the pain of the children’s departure? Make
them so angry that they’ll be glad to go? Sort of a one-sided separation anxiety?

Surreptitiously, she checked her pager. Nothing. Okay, then. If anything too serious had happened, someone would have paged her.

She tried to lose herself in the production, but her mind drifted. Minutes dragged by. When the final bows were taken, she wanted to rush from the theater to go searching for her husband. Instead, she waited for Misty at the stage door as planned and called him. This time her call went straight to voicemail. She thought a moment then sent Lori Murphy a text. “Do you know where Hunt is?”

“The studio,” came the answer as the Parnells walked up, and Sage and Colt joined her. They had flowers to give Misty. Rose had never felt so empty-handed in her life.

When she exited the stage door minutes later, Misty’s watery gaze swept over the waiting gathering. The hope in her eyes died.

“He didn’t come, did he? I thought maybe he got stuck at the back, but he wasn’t here at all. Why didn’t he come to my play, Doctor Mom?”

“I don’t know, honey. I’m anxious to find out myself.” Rose gave her hard hug. “Congratulations, Misty. You were the best Brigitta ever.”

“We were here, sweetheart,” Amy Parnell said, stepping forward, handing Misty a mixed flower bouquet and giving her a hug. “You were wonderful. We are so proud.”

Shyly, the young girl said, “Thank you. I didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow.”

Amy blinked fiercely. “We couldn’t stay away. I didn’t want to miss your debut.”

“That’s nice.”

“C’mere, beautiful,” Colt hugged Misty and Sage handed her flowers. “Congratulations.”

Sage added, “You were fantastic.”

“Thanks Uncle Colt. Thanks Auntie Sage.”

Rose watched Scott’s eyebrows lift at the girl’s use of the words aunt and uncle. She said, “Amy and Scott Parnell, meet my sister and her husband, Sage and Colt Rafferty, and our friend, Shannon O’Toole.”

Colt shook their hands. Sage kept her hands folded over her baby belly, her smile polite but not reaching her eyes. Shannon offered a cool hello.