Author: Kristan Higgins

“Cool. Cute place, by the way,” Gretchen gestured around the great room. “You have such…interesting taste.”

“So you just decided to move in, huh?” she asked.

“I’m hardly moving in, Posey. It’ll just be a few days. Maybe a week. I thought it would be fun.”

If Posey knew Gretchen, she was just about to whip out the Parents Pity Card.

“After all,” her cousin said, “we haven’t really hung out since my parents died.”

Bingo.

It had been a horrible year for everyone, but, of course, mostly for Gretchen. However, she’d taken her misery out on Posey through constant jabs and insults, minor thefts of Posey’s treasures—the little heart necklace from her dad, Oma’s blue crocheted blanket. Posey understood, but it hadn’t been easy.

But family was family.

“You’re right,” she said, albeit reluctantly. Shilo put his massive head on Posey’s lap, commiserating. “Sure. You can stay for a while. I do know what you mean about Mom and Dad.”

“Great!” Gretchen clapped her hands and turned the sound back on. “Is there anything to eat?” she asked. “Other than ice cream?”

“Um…you’re the chef, Gret,” Posey said.

“And the guest,” she replied, not looking away from the TV.

Posey paused. “Okay. I’m sure I have some cheese and crackers or something.”

“That’d be fantastic,” Gretchen said. “If you have some extra virgin olive oil and French bread, bring that too, okay? But only if it’s extra virgin.”

“I have a frozen French bread pizza,” Posey said sweetly. “Close enough?”

Gretchen gave her another once-over. “It’ll have to do.”

A WEEK LATER, POSEY was ready to burn down the church with Gretchen inside.

“Seriously? It’s really that bad?” Elise asked on Day Six of the Barefoot Invasion.

“Well, the restaurant’s only open Thursday through Sunday until Memorial Day,” Posey answered. “She has a lot of time on her hands.”

“So what does she do all day?” Mac asked in a rare complete sentence.

“She looks at magazines, takes long showers and makes a big mess in the kitchen. But there’s still never anything to eat.” Posey took a sip of her coffee. “She leaves towels on the bathroom floor, tissues on the coffee table, glasses everywhere. Supposedly, she’s making plans for renovating Guten Tag, but I never see any sketches or anything. Oh, and she’s started calling my parents Mutti and Papa. That might be the last straw.” Especially since Gretchen had reminded Posey—twice—that Stacia was genetically identical to her own mother. As if Posey didn’t know that already.

“Does she, like, know Derek Jeter?” Elise asked. “They lived in the same building? In New York? Susan Lucci, too. I love her? From All My Children?”

“According to Gretchen, she knows every celebrity ever born, and they all want to date her.”

“I don’t think I’d want to date a famous person,” Elise said, giving Mac a doe-eyed look. “I’m, like, drawn to the blue-collar type?”

Mac muttered something and fled to the back room.

“Posey, what did you do to that man? Beat him with a stick? He’s like an abused dog.”

Both Posey and Elise turned as Vivian Appleton came in. “Hi, Viv! I was going to pick you up!” Posey said.

“I took a cab. I’m allowed to do that, am I not? The Vultures wouldn’t approve—there go six more dollars of their inheritance, and still I refuse to die. Well. What’s the matter with you, young lady?” She sat in the leather chair next to the front desk and put on her glasses to better stare down Elise.

“That guy? The abused dog, right? Mac. I totally love him,” Elise whispered.

“He’s rather old for you, dear.”

“I don’t even care. From, like, the first day I came in here? I just fell so hard, right? I mean, sometimes you just can’t help it? But he hardly even talks to me?”

“Perhaps it’s because you end all your sentences as a question,” Viv observed.

“Do you think so?” Elise bit her thumbnail.

“No. Don’t bite your nails.” Vivian surveyed the interior of Irreplaceable. “Older, unattractive men are generally good husbands,” she said regally. “The gratitude keeps them in line. Keep trying, my dear. Wear something a bit more form-fitting, too. That looks like it’s made out of a trash bag.”

“Seriously? You think?”

“I’m always serious.”

“You’re like this wise old woman or something?” Elise said. “Oops, I mean, you’re like this wise woman. Not a question, right? Posey, tell her about your cousin! I bet she could totally help you out!”

Posey rolled her eyes and gave Viv the nutshell version.

“You lack gumption,” Vivian pronounced when she was done. “Kick her out. She sounds like a parasite.”

“Right?” Elise said, her mouth half-open in admiration. “I totally agree.”

“It’s not gumption,” Posey said. “It’s my parents. They have this fantasy of Gretchen and me being close as sisters, and they’re thrilled that we’re bonding. Except we’re not. She just lays around like a big blonde slug with giant boobs.”

Vivian snorted. “Yes, she was blessed in that department, as I recall.”

“Don’t tell me you watched her show.”

“Once or twice. Not that I like German food. Does anyone?”

“I do,” Posey said, just in case her mother was lurking. One never knew with Stacia.

“How loyal of you. Are you taking me to lunch or not?”

“I am. Where would you like to go?” she asked.

“To L’Auberge,” Viv answered. “I’m in the mood for French after all this talk of Germany. I lived through that war, you know. Your parents may be nice people, but I will never eat at their restaurant.”

“L’Auberge. Okay.” Posey hesitated. To get there, they’d have to take Route 149, which led right past The Meadows. Did Viv want to see her old home? It might be just the thing for her to see it again, and see how much Posey loved it, too.

“We’ll go the long way,” Vivian said, reading her mind. “It’s a nice day for a drive.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“ALL RIGHT. MY assistant will call you when it’s all drawn up.” Allan Linkletter stood up, offered his hand. Liam shook it, but when it seemed time to let go, Allan hung on a little longer, his grip tightening. “So. Funny that we’re on the same baseball team, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Liam said. Allan still hadn’t let go of his hand.

“You met my wife at Rosebud’s afterward. I didn’t realize you slept with her in high school.”

Well, shit. What was the appropriate response here? “Um…who’s your wife?”

“Taylor Bennington?”

Liam tried not to wince. He definitely remembered Taylor from the old days. Funny, she hadn’t mentioned she was married the other night. “Taylor Bennington. Right.” Should he smile? Congratulate Allan on getting her to the altar? Taylor had been quite…talented, as he recalled. A little scary, but talented.

“It was her first time, she said.” Allan’s grip tightened.

A memory of Taylor unbuckling Liam’s belt—with her teeth—flashed to mind. First time, huh? Somehow, he doubted that. “You sure you want to be my lawyer, Allan?”

The other man shrugged and finally released his hand. “The past is the past. As long as it really is the past, because if the past becomes the present, the future won’t look too good for you.”

The speech reminded Liam of an English class on tense, but he had to give the guy credit for putting it out there. Allan was around five foot six, and it didn’t look like he spent much time in the gym. As if reading Liam’s thoughts, the shorter man said, “I know people.” Then, realizing that a lawyer in New Hampshire wasn’t quite as mobbed up as he’d like to be, he added, “Okay, I don’t know anybody. But I love my wife.”

“I’m not looking for a girlfriend. Or anything.” Especially one who was married, no matter what she used to do with her teeth.

“Great!” Allan said. He smiled, punched Liam on the shoulder and walked him to the door. “I’m definitely interested in that bike, so I’ll drop by this week.”

“Cool.” Apparently Liam’s past with Allan’s wife didn’t prevent the lawyer from wanting a custom-made bike to celebrate middle age.

Liam went to the bank of elevators and pushed the button and sighed.

At least that was done. Last will and testament, updated to include the value of the garage, plus another hefty life-insurance package. Advance directives, updated. Guardianship…well, it had always been the Tates. The only other option would be a stepmother, and Liam didn’t see that happening.

About a year after Emma’s death, he’d had an uneventful relationship with a nice enough woman—Paige, who owned the florist shop down the street from the garage where Liam worked. Uneventful was just what Liam was looking for—they’d had dinner once or twice a month, had sex afterward. It was fine. Emma had been the only one since senior year of high school, and being with someone else…all those differences, the feel of her hair, the way she smelled, the way they fit…it was a little weird. The sex was nice…it was sex, how could it not be nice? It just wasn’t…special.

They broke up amicably enough when Paige told him she was looking for a little more, and Liam couldn’t blame her. She was young, wanted a family…normal enough stuff. It’s just that he couldn’t do that. No hard feelings.

The doors to the elevator opened, and Liam went in. His own elevator was bad enough; the lawyer’s office was on the twenty-third floor, and it was an older building. The ride up had been painfully slow. Swallowing, Liam pressed the button for the lobby and waited. Some sappy song by Neil Diamond, made worse by the Muzak-ization of it. Oh, right, this was the one they played at the Sox game he’d dragged Nicole to last weekend to get her to start speaking to him again.

Suddenly the elevator gave a lurch, and Liam’s hands flew out to the walls. Shit! But the elevator continued on, though Liam thought he detected a lower note to the gears. Did he? Or was that just paranoia? After all, how many elevator cables snapped these days? Not a lot. You hardly ever heard about that kind of accident.

Still, his heart had that uncomfortable flopping feeling, and his chest was tight. He tried to breathe slowly. Calm down, idiot, he told himself. You’re fine. This is no time for a panic attack. Breathe in, hold it, breathe out, stop sucking in air, you’re going to hyperventilate. He knew the drill. And he had to get past these…events. Not cool to wig out when you were the only parent left.

Maybe he should get off and take the stairs, even if they were only at the eighteenth floor. Better than staying in this casket-waiting-to-happen. Liam swallowed thickly.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened and there stood Cordelia Osterhagen, looking at her phone. She took a step forward, then saw him and stopped. “Oh. Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” The doors pinged. “Getting on?” Liam asked, holding his hand on the door so it couldn’t close. His chest was tight still, but he wasn’t hyperventilating. Not yet, anyway.

“Yeah.” She stuffed her phone in her jeans pocket and came aboard. She wore sturdy-looking jeans and several layers of flannel, that lush mouth of hers the only feminine thing on her. Well, that and the hint of breast coming from under the layers of flannel. Was she humming?