did her best not to scream. Of course she needed help! She was working sixty hours a week in a desperate attempt to stay afloat financially, taking care of her house, dealing with a sixteen-year-old, decorating for the holiday and getting ready to cook a fancy meal. Help would be nice. Help would be grand. But, in Bunny’s world, the woman of the house did not ask for help. No, she did it all herself, seemingly effortlessly. Family came first. The measure of a woman was how well she looked after her family and so on. Harper knew it all by heart. The problem was, from her perspective, the only person who cared about all that was Bunny herself. Bunny who no longer had to do anything for anyone because somehow all that responsibility was Harper’s now. Bunny was free to spend the day with her friends, dress perfectly for every occasion and judge her oldest daughter.
Harper smiled at her mother. “I’m good, Mom. I have it all under control. You just show up and look pretty.”
“All right. Stacey and Kit are coming to dinner?”
“Last I heard.”
Which could be interesting, Harper thought. At some point her sister was going to have to reveal her pregnancy and wouldn’t that be a conversation starter? She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to happen at Easter dinner, though. Not with all the work that went into the meal. Maybe after would be better, when everyone was still digesting, although that could be problematic, as well.
She supposed the actual issue was that there was simply no good time to confess to your mother that you were six months pregnant. At sixteen it made sense to hide the truth, but Stacey was forty.
Harper held in a sigh. She knew exactly why Stacey wasn’t eager to share the information. Their mother would have a million rules and shoulds, all of which Stacey would ignore. Then there would be fighting. Given that scenario, keeping quiet sort of made sense.
“Do you think she left you anything?”
Harper stared at her mother. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re asking.”
“Do you think she left you anything?”
“Saying the same thing again doesn’t make it any clearer, Mom.”
Her mother sighed. “In the will.”
Oh, right. Because Bunny would rather buy store-bought bread than actually say Great-Aunt Cheryl’s name. Which would be really funny except Harper had a similar problem with her ex’s girlfriend. She went out of her way to never say Alicia if at all possible. Although there was a huge difference, what with Alicia being twenty-eight and gorgeous and Great-Aunt Cheryl not being a relative at all and, well, dead.
“I have no idea,” Harper admitted. “A couple of years ago she asked me if I would take her dogs. I made it clear there was no way.”
Great-Aunt Cheryl had been many things, including a former army nurse who had somehow become a spy during World War II. After that, she’d traveled the world, taken lovers and generally lived a life that would have left anyone else exhausted. In the past decade or so, Great-Aunt Cheryl had taken to training dogs for the government. Harper was pretty sure they could arm a nuclear missile if instructed. They were also huge, slightly scary-looking Dobermans that she in no way wanted in her house.
“So no jewelry? No antique silver tea service?”
“Great-Aunt Cheryl wasn’t the antique silver tea service type.”
“Pity.”
They both knew that wasn’t true.
“I’m not expecting her to leave me anything, Mom. She was Terence’s aunt, not mine.”
“Yet you were always so close.”
There was a slight sniff at the end of the statement, but Harper ignored it.
“We were. She was lovely and I miss her a lot.” Great-Aunt Cheryl had always encouraged her to do more with her life than just take care of her family. When Becca had started kindergarten, Cheryl had offered to pay for Harper to go to college.
Harper, being an idiot, had refused. Why should she take time away from caring for her family to do something as ridiculous as going to college? It wasn’t as if she was ever going to be on her own and having to support herself and her daughter.
After the divorce Harper had wanted to tell Great-Aunt Cheryl how much she appreciated the offer, even if she hadn’t taken it. But at that point she’d been afraid it would sound too much like begging for money, so she’d never said the words. Now she couldn’t.
Regret was a mean and vindictive bitch.
* * *
Harper heard a knock at the front door, but before she could run to open it, she heard a familiar “It’s me.”
“In the kitchen,” she yelled as she deftly maneuvered hot lasagna noodles into the casserole dish. She wiped her hands on a towel, then reached for the bowl of marinara sauce—homemade, of course—and a spoon.
She glanced up as Lucas strolled into the room, then returned her attention to what she was doing. There was no point in looking at what she couldn’t have, she reminded herself. Not that she wanted Lucas—not exactly.
Yes, the man was ridiculously good-looking. Tall and fit, with an air of confidence that was just shy of being a swagger. He was fifty, so older than her, and unexpectedly kind. While he was always underfoot, he was rarely in the way and whenever he came to dinner—which was surprisingly often—he always brought thoughtful little gifts.
He stood on the other side of the kitchen island and studied the ingredients she’d set out earlier.
“Let’s see,” he began. “Lasagna goes without saying, so there will be garlic bread. Some kind of salad.” He paused. “The chopped one with the homemade basil dressing. Which means we’re having Becca’s favorite dinner.”
“In celebration of her return.”
“She was gone three nights. How are you going to show she’s special when she heads off to college for months at a time?”
“I don’t want to think about that,” Harper admitted. Not her only child being gone nor how she was supposed to pay for out-of-state tuition. “I made a chocolate cake.”
“Of course you did. What time is dinner?”
“Terence said they’d be back between four and five, so maybe five-thirty or six.”
“I’ll be here.” He looked around at all the mess. “This big dinner is in addition to the Easter feast tomorrow?”
“Of course. They’re totally unrelated.”
“And we couldn’t just let one of them go?”
“Seriously? You’re asking that?”
“Yeah. You’re right. What was I thinking?”
She finished sprinkling on a layer of grated cheese, then glanced at the clock. It was nearly three. She figured she could risk leaving the lasagna out on the counter until she popped it in the oven at four-fifteen. She’d made the bread days ago
