and head for California, but by the time he’d graduated high school, Mom had gotten ill and her heart would have broken if he’d left. He’d been pretty egotistical and self-absorbed back then, but he had enough good Italian sense of family to override the ego when it came to Mom.
So he’d stayed on. He’d gotten an associate degree in motor maintenance to please his parents, “So you’ll have something to fall back on if the acting thing doesn’t work out.” Although, of course, he’d secretly vowed never to need a fallback plan.
He’d worked with Dad in the garage until a year after Mom’s death and then he’d finally gone to make his fortune in Hollywood when he was twenty-two. Dad had still had Joe’s three older brothers reasonably close by—Danny an accountant in Albany, John a paramedic in Burlington and Frank a lawyer in New York City.
Thirteen years later, his brothers were still doing those same jobs in those same cities, each of them with a family, and Dad was still showering before dinner, but now the routines and the habits and the settled lives seemed precious and meaningful and good, compared to the seven years of chaos and fear and heartache and anger and relentless work that Joe had just lived through.
If he could build something like this for himself and the girls, he would feel as if he’d struck gold. He’d just spent six years busting his gut to get through a California law degree part-time, while working to support himself and the girls, and he was taking the reputedly grueling New York state bar exam at the end of July. Having barely studied in high school, he now spent more hours at his desk in a single night—every night, after the girls had gone to bed—than he would have in a month twenty years ago.
Life really was a funny thing.
Mary Jane reappeared in the kitchen doorway, having deposited the garlic bread on the dining table as instructed. She stood a little awkwardly, looking as if she was waiting to be given another task, but there was nothing more for her to do. The girls had transported the salad and the grated cheese. Joe had the big blue ceramic pasta bowl in his hands. “Sit,” he told his guest. “We’re ready to eat.”
* * *
The word Mommy wasn’t spoken.
Mary Jane kept waiting for it. Surely she would have to hear it eventually, and the context it came in would answer some questions. So far, nothing.
The girls were absolutely adorable, and she could see the slight difference in Maddie’s hairline that Joe had mentioned. She studied it, as well as both girls’ faces, to make sure she didn’t get them mixed up in the future.
What future, though? This was one evening, not the start of something.
She couldn’t quite believe that she was sitting here like this, part of a three-generation family dinner at a cheerful table in a pretty room. She liked it too much, felt it warming the frozen, rusty parts of her heart in a way that she instinctively knew was dangerous.
Before coming into the house, she’d called Daisy to let her know what was happening, and Daisy had said to take her time and not worry about a thing. She could manage fine without the cream and raspberries and cinnamon. They were part of her breakfast plan, and she’d switch the menu around. “Relax!”
So Mary Jane was relaxing. Relaxing too much. Her headache had completely gone. The meal was delicious. Mr. Capelli...Art...was warm and fatherly and comfortable. “More pasta, Mary Jane. Go on, eat!” he’d told her, and he had been incredibly understanding about the disaster with the car, while Joe made the cutest dad.
I can’t believe I’m thinking this.
About Joe Capelli!
He teased his daughters into minding their table manners, with a look in his dark eyes that was a mix of long-suffering and wry humor. Once, after Holly had said something unconsciously funny, he exchanged a glance of shared amusement with Mary Jane across the top of two dark little heads, and she heated up all over, exactly the way she would have done in high school.
He’s gorgeous, he has these darling little girls, and he’s smiling at me!
The girls were adorable and also very chatty. Not to say exhausting. She learned their birthday, the names of the friends they’d left behind in California, the hair color of their former teacher and a whole list of their favorite foods. She discovered that they were working on a novel called Happy Horse and All His Friends. She heard that they didn’t like dolls or guns.
But they never mentioned their mother, and neither did Art or Joe, and it seemed a little strange. Halfway through the meal, when the girls paused for breath and another mouthful of ravioli, the two men asked her about Spruce Bay. They’d heard about the upgrading of the resort and wanted to know how that was going.
“Everything’s done, and we have the whole place up and running at full capacity,” she told them.
“So you’re filling up, on weekends?” Art asked, sounding hopeful about it.
“We’re filling up during the week as well, from now until Labor Day. Very pleased. Our website is really pulling people in. People can see how beautiful and fresh everything is after the remodel. The spa bath and solar heating for the pool has been a big hit. So have the new barbecue area and the expanded deck for the restaurant.”
“Hate to see a slow season, up here,” Art said. “So bad for the local economy. That’s good that the remodel has paid off. Helps all of us.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Capelli Auto was indirectly as dependent on tourists as Spruce Bay, because if the people who ran the resorts and motels and restaurants weren’t making money, then they weren’t paying staff, and if staff weren’t getting paid then they would put off getting their cars fixed for as long as they could.
Ugh, but she didn’t like this train of thought, because it reminded her of her own slackness in ignoring the noise in her car. If she’d had it looked at sooner, she might not have needed the loaner car today, and if she hadn’t been driving the loaner car, she might not have rear-ended—
Change the subject, Mary Jane.
“Are you starting school here in September, girls?” she asked quickly.
They nodded. “But we’re not sure which school yet.”
“Bit of research to do, there,” Joe came in.
“And how about over the summer? What will you do? I bet you have all sorts of plans.”
“Pony camp,” they said in unison, at once. She couldn’t believe how often they did this—came out with the same phrase, in the same intonation, at exactly the same time.
“Pony camp! Wow, that’ll be great fun!”
“Well...” Joe came in again, sounding reluctant this time. “Pony camp is more aspiration than reality, at this stage. I don’t know if it’s practical.”
“Dadd-yyyy...!”
“I know. I get it. You’ve said. You really, really want to go to pony camp. But I don’t know what there is, around here. If there even is a pony camp. Maybe you could help me on that a little bit, Mary Jane. You probably need to answer guests’ questions on this stuff, right?”
“Yes,
