teenager had his head stuck under the hood of an old blue Cadillac. Douglas flicked his gaze in that direction. “You may not have a car for me to work on, but I’ve been meaning to ask, do you, um, need a little help with repairs on this place?”
Since she doubted her brother had lifted a hammer his entire adult life, she snorted at the offer. “Mom said something to you about my disgraceful living conditions.”
“While also managing to cast aspersions on my manhood and ability with power tools.”
The idea of Douglas near a power tool made Vi’s fingers itch to dial 911. Zoe, his ex, used to joke that he drank straight Scotch over ice because he couldn’t even build a decent drink. Vi had liked the woman and occasionally still ran into her on campus, where the willowy brunette taught a civics class. At thirty-seven the former Mrs. Mason was attractive enough that Vi wouldn’t be surprised if freshman boys had hot-for-teacher fantasies over her.
For that matter, Vi had reason to believe her brother still fantasized about Zoe on a regular basis. Their divorce was no healthier than their marriage had been, but given Vi’s own dysfunctional love life, she wasn’t one to judge. Her relationships seemed to come in two modes—low-key fun with guys she knew she’d never stay with long, and passionate flings characterized by intense sex but too much fighting. Frankly, until today’s revelation, she’d always wondered if Neely had the right idea by staying single.
Oblivious to Vi’s mental meandering, Douglas was still defending his masculinity. “All right, so I’m not…some guy famous for renovating stuff. My employers must not think I’m useless because they pay me pretty damn well. Even if I don’t rescreen your windows myself, I can certainly write you a check to get it done.”
Yes he could, without even blinking. It was so Douglas to offer the easy solution.
She sighed, wishing his attempted generosity didn’t leave her feeling snide. “Nah, I’d probably just blow the money on booze and extreme makeovers.” Besides, if she really needed something fixed, she could always ask Brendan, her most recent low-key boyfriend, a nice guy with whom she had little in common.
As if she were the kid he’d jokingly called her, Douglas reached over and tousled her hair, a chin-length platinum shag. “I like this, but I kept waiting for Mom to say something about it.”
Please. As if Savannah hadn’t been dyeing her hair for years? Or did Douglas think it was naturally retaining its youthful gold, unmarred by the hereditary gray that streaked Neely’s ash-blond bob? Vi had heard their mother sigh to Neely as they’d set out the china, “I suppose that awful bleaching is better than some of the colors Vidalia could have chosen.”
She forced a laugh. “Pointless to say something about it now that it’s done, isn’t it? Besides, I’m a grown-up, and it’s my hair.”
Douglas stared at her for a long, unsmiling second, then ducked his head, a wry grin and one dimple evident in profile. “You’re no more a responsible grown-up than I am. We just play different games, is all.”
Savannah parked The Tank, her SUV, wondering if she’d ever be completely comfortable maneuvering the vehicle into her half of the garage. When Trent left for university next fall and she was officially beyond her toting-children-around years, maybe she’d buy something small and sleek. The thought should have made her smile, but instead a cold shadow passed through her. It seemed like only yesterday her sons had been strapped into car seats behind her, pelting each other with Cheerios.
She unfastened her seat belt with a sigh, her mood not lightened by the realization that she should have called. Arriving home late with no word was the kind of behavior that would have earned her boys a reprimand. Even though her husband and youngest son knew she’d been with her family, a lot could have happened between Kennesaw and Roswell. She’d been so caught up in the excitement of Neely’s wedding plans that she’d forgotten to phone them so they didn’t worry and let them know what dinner options were in the refrigerator.
But a voice that sounded more like one of her sisters’ than hers whispered, Trent is seventeen and Jason has a medical degree, they can darn well open the fridge and see for themselves what’s available. Okay, maybe that didn’t sound exactly like her sisters. She couldn’t imagine no-nonsense Neely saying darn, and the thought of Vi using such a watered-down expression was enough to restore Savannah’s grin as she opened the door that led into her spacious navy-and-white kitchen. Sunflower accents added bright splashes of cheer.
Although she hadn’t done any baking today, the room smelled as homey and delicious as it did on Thanksgiving, thanks to the cinnamon spice potpourri she kept in the windowsill over the double sink. She worked hard to make this house a comfortable, inviting place to live. Whether he was capable of checking in the refrigerator or not wasn’t the point—Jason Carter, one of Atlanta’s best obstetricians, worked long, draining shifts and provided well for his wife and two sons. The least she could do was insure he came home to lovingly prepared meals and clean rooms.
The kitchen was unsurprisingly empty. Though the women in her family were known for congregating in kitchens, Savannah’s sons and husband normally gravitated toward the big-screen television. She heard muffled sounds from the den down the hallway.
“I’m home,” she called out, kicking off her shoes before she padded across the pale carpeting.
Trent and Jason were both in the den, her son stretched across the couch with his size twelve sneakers on the velour arm, and her husband sprawled in the recliner she’d bought him for Christmas. An open cardboard box on the coffee table between them revealed two uneaten slices of pizza, and while both men said hello, neither looked away from the basketball game they were watching.
“Honestly, Trent, you’re old enough to know better than to put your shoes on my furniture.” And a shower after his softball practice wouldn’t have killed him, either.
“Sorry.” He bent toward his feet with teenage flexibility, tossing the shoes to the ground with muffled thuds while his gaze stayed locked on the foul shot being made. Now the room smelled like sweat socks and sausage pizza—she squelched the urge to run for her vacuum cleaner and some carpet deodorizer.
“I hope you two weren’t worried about me,” she said, feeling like an idiot even as the words left her mouth. The glassy-eyed, sauce-smeared faces before her did not hold expressions of concern. “I know I’m normally back long before dinnertime, but—”
“Now that you mention it.” Trent craned his head, his hazel eyes finally meeting hers as he flashed her an impish grin. “What are we having?”
It was just plain sad that some part of her was pleased by his request, felt gratifyingly needed. “Didn’t you have pizza already?”
He crinkled his nose. “That was an afternoon snack. I’m starved. But I can finish off those last two slices if you don’t want to cook, Mom.”
“I don’t mind.” The words came out too fast, the echo of desperation worse than the locker-room-meets-pizzeria aroma. “Any special requests, Jason?”
Her husband shook his head. “I made the mistake of having a piece of our son’s killer pizza when I got in and have the heartburn to show for it. I’ll probably take some antacid and hit the sack early.”
“Deliveries go okay?” she asked.
“One emergency C, but all mothers and babies are in good health. I’m exhausted, though. I swear I could just sleep here—this chair’s even more comfortable
