she needed the money, she simply couldn’t do what he wanted. Her life was a leaky rowboat and she was bailing as fast as she could. So far, she was staying afloat. Barring another disaster, she could meet her financial obligations and no one would be the wiser. She’d rather walk barefoot on broken glass than have her mother and aunt find out the only home they’d ever known was always one paycheck away from being snatched out from under them.
Her mother rested her hands on the table and leaned forward. “M.J., I just don’t understand why you’re making things harder—”
“Dinner’s ready,” Aunt Lil interrupted. M.J. shot the older woman a grateful look. “This smells wonderful, Aunt Lil. I love your soup.”
“Your aunt is a good cook,” Evelyn agreed. She sat across from M.J. “I never had time to nurture my inner chef.”
M.J. felt another twinge. Her mother was a single mom before the needs of single moms were commonly recognized. It wasn’t M.J.’s fault, but she felt guilty that her mother had worked so hard to provide for her. The only thing Evelyn hadn’t worried about was the roof over their heads because the house had been in the family for so long. M.J. intended to see that didn’t change.
“It takes more than time to be a cook, Ev,” her aunt said gently. She sipped from her spoon and nodded with satisfaction. “Yagottawanna.”
M.J. laughed. “Excuse me?”
“You have to want to do it. You’re a teacher, dear. You should understand. Some people go through the motions because they have to. Others just have the desire to be successful. Any fool who can read can follow a recipe. But a good cook has a calling, a need to experiment, a love of working with food.”
“I suppose I didn’t get that gene,” her mother admitted.
“Me, either,” M.J. said. She looked down at her empty bowl and realized she’d scarfed down the contents. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d write down everything you put in this soup so this fool could have a recipe to read.”
“I’ll do that as best I can. And thank you, dear. I’m glad you like it.”
After dinner, the sisters cleaned up and M.J. was shooed out of the kitchen to rest. Since she had papers to grade, that wasn’t going to happen. She grabbed the backpack with her work and started up the stairs to her room when she noticed the mail on the sofa table in the entryway.
Scooping it up, she headed upstairs. Her room was just above the kitchen and had the same bay window, with a chair and ottoman filling it. On one wall sat her queen-size bed, the pink chenille spread neatly covering it. Her desk sat just inside the door and she set the mail down there.
The top envelope caught her eye when she noticed the official-looking return address from a mortgage company. She’d learned to loathe official-looking letters. It was never good news. Her stomach knotted and her hands shook as she opened the envelope.
M.J. read through it several times, hoping she was getting it wrong, then realizing she wasn’t that lucky. The words second mortgage, balloon payment, six months and enough zeroes to make her eyes cross just put a gaping hole in her leaky little rowboat. This was the disaster she’d been afraid would sink her and it was a beaut.
After Evelyn’s mild heart attack three years ago, her mother and aunt had put the title in M.J.’s name because they weren’t getting any younger. M.J. hadn’t known about her husband’s compulsive gambling. Only after his death had she learned that he would do anything, use anyone, to get the money to fund his obsession. Some methods were more underhanded than others. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed the first mortgage let alone this one. The bill was due and payable in six months, she didn’t have the money, and she was liable. In addition to borrowing against the house, he’d maxed out numerous credit cards, some of them in her name, all of which she was responsible for. Thanks to him, her credit was ruined and she couldn’t borrow a dime.
M.J. dropped into her desk chair before her trembling legs gave out. What was she going to do?
She wasn’t sure how long she sat staring at the letter before dropping it on the desk blotter. Tucked into a pocket was the card Gavin had given her. She picked it up and stared at the no-nonsense black block letters. Gavin Spencer, CEO, Spencer Technology, Inc.
“I hate that you were right, Gavin. But everyone does have a price.”
M.J. picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card.
Chapter Three
M .J. breathed a sigh of relief when her little old car coughed and wheezed, then shuddered off in front of Gavin’s house. When giving directions, he’d said Cliff House overlooked the Pacific Ocean on a bluff, but with everything else on her mind, it hadn’t quite registered that getting there involved a serious incline.
“The little car that could. Barely.” She patted the dashboard approvingly, then got out.
She’d agreed to meet Gavin here at five o’clock and it was getting dark. Late-afternoon clouds had rolled in off the ocean and the large gray house blended in, except for the intricate and elaborate white trim that outlined the roof, windows and second-floor deck. The expanse of lawn was neatly trimmed as were the marguerites and privets bordering it. California cypress grew thick around the perimeter, giving the estate privacy.
She looked around again and knew she was putting off going inside. “Procrastination is a crime. It only leads to sorrow. I can stop it anytime, I think I will tomorrow.” It was a rhyme she recited to her students, teasing them into taking action. It was time to take her own advice. “I hate that rhyme,” she mumbled.
Taking a deep breath, she followed the walkway to the double-door entry. As the mist rolled in, she shivered, feeling like the plucky heroine of a Gothic romance novel. The difference was, she wasn’t plucky. Desperation was her only motivation. If she had a choice, she’d get back in her little car and go as fast as she could back down the hill.
She rang the bell and, through the oval etched glass in the door, she could see lights inside and someone coming. Bracing herself, she prepared to see Gavin again. When a tall, trim, gray-haired man opened the door, she was surprised.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m—”
“Ms. Taylor. I’m Henderson, the caretaker of Cliff House. Mr. Spencer said to expect you. He had planned to be here when you arrived, but was delayed at the office. He’ll be here shortly and sends his apologies. I’ll introduce you to Sean.”
“Thank you.” It was the polite response, but M.J. wanted to tell him not to do her any favors. She dreaded this with every fiber of her being.
“My wife, Lenore, is the housekeeper. She’s watching over the boy in the family room.”
M.J. nodded as she glanced around. The entryway ceiling must be twenty feet high. Twin staircases curved up to the second floor. As she followed Henderson through the house, she had a fleeting impression of elegant furniture in serene shades of celery and hunter green. In the artwork and glassware there were splashes of red, gold and orange. Beige tile gave way to plush carpet as they moved through the house.
Just off the kitchen with black granite-covered island and countertops, they stopped in the family room. A large sea-foam green sectional filled one corner with a huge flat-screen TV across from it.
An
