The Mommy Quest Page 4

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s why I don’t have a birthday.”

  “You’ve got a birthday. We just—”

  “Don’t know when it is. Sucks.”

  It did. One of the best things about being a kid was having a day that was all yours.

  “Why don’t you pick one? Until we know any different, and we may never know, any day you like can be your birthday.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Okay. This Saturday.”

  “This Saturday. But—”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “Nothing,” Dean said. “It’s just September 11.”

  “So?”

  “You remember the towers going down? The planes crashing?”

  Tim had been about two years old at the time, so he didn’t recall the day, but the videotapes were shown enough every year for him to “remember” like everyone else.

  “Evil, terrorist scum!” Tim shouted.

  “Uh, yeah.” The kid had been talking to his grampa again. “That was September 11.”

  Tim stopped walking and looked up at Dean. The sun shone brightly behind his dark head, making a kind of halo. Dean had to smile. The kid was really the cutest thing on two big feet.

  “Wouldn’t it be good to make that day happier?”

  “Not sure we can. What about the next day? September 12?”

  “If my birthday was on the bad day, would that make me bad?”

  “Of course not. The men who flew those planes were bad. The day has nothing to do with it.”

  “Then that’s my birthday. Nine-eleven.” His lips tightened. “I want it.”

  Nice one, Dean. His dad was going to have a ballistic fit when he found out Tim had picked Patriot Day for his own.

  Except Dean’s father surprised him.

  “Great idea, champ.” John ruffled Tim’s hair. “Let’s have a party.”

  “A party?” Tim’s eyes went wide.

  “Why not?”

  “Dinner’s ready.” Eleanor came in from the kitchen. “Why not what?”

  “Have a party for Tim’s birthday.”

  “Which is when?”

  “I chose Saturday for my birthday, Gramma. Isn’t that the best day?”

  Eleanor glanced at Dean and he shrugged. As far as he was concerned, Tim could have a birthday every day. The kid deserved it.

  “Sure,” his mom said. “I’ll bake a cake. We’ll have a picnic.”

  “And presents?” Tim asked.

  “What would a birthday be without presents?” She opened her arms. Tim threw his around her ample waist and held on.

  Dean was struck again by the odd feeling that aliens had secretly replaced his mother with this woman. In his youth, Eleanor had never been cuddly. She hadn’t had the time. She’d loved them all, and they’d known it. But six kids in seven years meant her fuse was shorter than short.

  They’d all walked on eggshells around her for most of their lives. Hell, they still did. Since menopause had hit a few years back, her fuse was nearly nonexistent.

  However, to her grandchildren, Eleanor Luchetti was a gentle, loving safety zone in the middle of a scary world.

  “What do you want for your birthday, kid?” Dean asked.

  Tim released his gramma, then let his bright, excited gaze touch each one of them before he did a dance of excitement and breathed, “A pet pig.”

  Eleanor groaned and smacked herself in the forehead before returning to the kitchen. The ensuing bang and crash of pots and pans made everyone jump.

  Tim glanced at Dean. “Whad I say?”

  STELLA GOT THROUGH THE REST of the week at Gainsville Elementary without having to suspend any more pupils.

  She’d seen Tim Luchetti from afar. He spent every recess playing some imaginary version of football by himself. He also sat alone at lunch and walked to the bus alone after school. She didn’t like that at all.

  Stella spoke with his teacher, but after only a week and a half in the classroom, Mrs. Neville didn’t feel qualified to make a judgment. Nor did she feel it was necessary to call Tim’s home. Except for the fight, which Stella had already handled, Tim was the poster boy for a properly medicated problem child.

  So there was really no reason for Stella to climb in her car and head for the Luchetti farm on Saturday afternoon. No reason at all beyond her nagging unease and her annoyingly erotic dreams of Dean Luchetti. She wished she’d never seen his face— both at seventeen and last Monday.

  Balloons trailed from the Luchettis’ mailbox, an oddity that didn’t strike Stella until after she’d started down the long, rutted driveway.

  The yard was full of cars. They had company.

  She couldn’t turn around because the land around the road was too rocky for the low carriage of her rented four-door crapmobile. She had to coast nearly to the house before she could even attempt a Y-turn. By then, everyone had dropped whatever it was they were doing and gathered on the porch to stare.

  Stella had no choice but to get out of the car. As soon as she did, a herd of dogs trapped behind a fence on the far side of the house started barking. One dalmatian and four…Lord knows what.

  “Silence!” Mrs. Luchetti snapped.

  Every dog stopped mid-yip. Stella wished she had that power. It would come in handy at assembly.

  She recognized everyone on the porch—Dean’s mom and dad, his sister, Kim, and Brian Riley.

  She frowned. Last she heard, Kim had taken off and not come back, leaving Brian devastated. Then his parents had died in a car accident and he, alone, had inherited the farm.

  Brian didn’t appear alone any longer if Kim’s hand on his shoulder and the adorable little girl in his arms were any indication. The child, attired in a navy-blue star-spangled dress and matching hat, leaned over and began to coo at her ruby red slippers, which was the cutest thing Stella had seen since someone had brought a kitten to school on Tuesday.

  “Hello.” She raised her hand, feeling like a fool. “I didn’t know you were having a family get-together. I’ll just leave.”

  She reached for her car door.

  “Stella?” Kim asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “Here, here? Or Gainsville here?”

  “Both.”

  “Dean didn’t tell you?”

  Brian frowned, which made Stella nervous. Brian and Dean had been best friends. How much did he know?

  Stella straightened, staring Brian right in the eye. If anyone had anything to be embarrassed about it was Dean. She’d loved him; he’d used her.

  Brian glanced away, but since the little girl had lunged at her shoes and he’d had to haul her back, Stella wasn’t sure if he was guilty or merely busy.

  “Ms. O’Connell is the new principal at Gainsville Elementary,” Mrs. Luchetti explained.

  “Acting principal,” Stella corrected. “While they try to replace Mrs. Little.”

  “Thank goodness.” Kim shuddered. “Woman still gives me nightmares.”

  “You and every other kid who ever went near her,” Stella said.

  “Saturday house call by the principal,” Dean’s mom murmured. “What did Tim do this time?”

  “This time?” Stella asked. “Oh, you mean Monday.”

  “I mean pretty much every day. He’s a handful. In my opinion, Mrs. Little wouldn’t have made it through the year with Tim around. He’d have worn her out.”

  Terrific, Stella thought. Just what she needed was Dean Luchetti in her office every damn day.

  She had a sudden flash of him and her entwined naked on the desk and she choked, then began to cough.

  “You okay?” Dean’s father hurried down the porch steps and smacked Stella on the back hard enough to dislodge a lung.

  “Yes. Sorry. The hay. I’m a bit allergic.”

  “To hay?” Mr. Luchetti said, his expression completely mystified.

  “Come on inside, then,” his wife ordered. “I’ll get you something
to drink, and you can tell me what the trouble is.”

  “I should probably talk to Dean.”

  Mrs. Luchetti shot her a look that made Stella tremble in her sensible black pumps. Why had she thought it a good idea to wear a gray pin-striped pantsuit to a farm on a Saturday?

  “I mean in addition to you, of course,” she blurted.

  Kim snickered and Brian muttered, “Shh.”

  “Shh! Shh! Shh!” The little girl put her finger to her lips and made exaggerated shushing sounds, blowing spit all over her hand and her father’s neck.

  “Thanks, Zsa-Zsa,” Brian grumbled, dabbing at the wetness with the collar of his T-shirt.

  “Zsa-Zsa?” Stella couldn’t help but ask.

  “Hi!” The child waved, smacking her father in the eye. Brian merely sighed and toted her toward the swing set in the backyard.

  “Her real name’s Glory,” Kim explained. “But she’s got this thing for shoes and hats, glitter and feathers. Always has. Dean started calling her Zsa-Zsa and…” Kim shrugged. “It stuck.”

  That sounded like Dean.

  The thunder of feet could be heard an instant before Tim skidded out the front door. He frowned at Stella. “You weren’t invited.”

  “Tim!” Mrs. Luchetti snapped.

  “She wasn’t.”

  “She’s come to talk to your father.”

  “I didn’t do it,” he said immediately.

  “You don’t even know what it is yet,” his grandmother pointed out.

  “I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “He didn’t,” she assured everyone.

  “Stella?”

  Dean appeared in the yard. His boots were encrusted with mud, or something far worse. His shirt was sweat-stained, his pants filthy. He was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

  “I didn’t meant to interrupt,” she said.

  “Doesn’t seem fair to have the principal at my birthday party.” Tim kicked at the dirt with a worn tennis shoe.

  “Your birthday?” Stella murmured. “I thought—”

  “I picked it.” Tim glowered. “It’s mine now.”

  “Okay.” She glanced at Dean, who spread his hands.

  Stella could understand Tim’s hostility. What kid would want the principal to attend his birthday party?

  “If I could just talk to you for a minute,” she said.

  “I should clean up.” Dean looked down and frowned.

  “Not on my account.”

  The dogs started barking again and everyone glanced toward the road. A brown delivery truck bounced in their direction. Moments later, a blond pixie in an ugly tan uniform hopped out.

  “Tim Luchetti?” she asked.

  “That was fast,” Tim said.

  “What did you order?” Dean demanded.

  Stella glanced at the boy to see if Dean’s tone frightened him, but Tim had scooted over so he was standing directly in front of the delivery woman.

  “Mommy?” he asked.

  She blinked. “Whoa. Not me, kid. I already got three at home.”

  Tim turned a forlorn expression toward his father. “But I wished I’d get a mommy for my birthday. And she’s exactly the kind of lady you said you wanted, Dad.”

  Dean rubbed his forehead. “Tim.”

  “You said blond, short, flat, just a plain girl.”

  “Who you callin’ flat?” the woman asked.

  Dean lowered his hand, and his eyes met Stella’s. She wasn’t so dense that she didn’t understand he’d described a woman exactly the opposite of her. Stella glanced away and met the curious, contemplative gaze of Dean’s mother. Then she didn’t know where to look.

  “This is for you.”

  The delivery woman deposited a box on the ground in front of Tim, then hopped into her truck and left as quickly as she could.

  The container shimmied, rattled, and something inside began scratching to get out.

  “Oh,” Tim said, and smacked himself in the head. “This is the other thing I wished for.”

  “If that’s a pig in there,” Mrs. Luchetti announced, “someone’s gonna die.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “TAKE A BREATH, MOM.”

  Dean inched past Stella, gritting his teeth when he caught a whiff of her perfume. Something light, which made him think of new flowers, fresh grass, a roll in the hay.

  What was she doing here?

  Dean didn’t have time to find out. From his mother’s expression, he needed to move fast or risk an eruption.

  “Not a pig.” Tim was so excited he could barely stand still. “Nope. But can I have one?”

  “Sure. Why not?” Ellie said. “Take a cow, too, while you’re at it. Want a sheep?”

  Tim glanced from his grandma to Dean. “Is she bein’ sarcastic like you said? I can’t tell.”

  “Never mind.” Dean reached for the opening on the box as it rattled and shook and growled. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what was inside. Even if it wasn’t a pig, someone was in big trouble. Thank God that someone wasn’t him for a change.

  “Wait just one minute.” Dean’s mom crooked a finger at Tim. “What exactly did your dad say?”

  Tim glanced at Dean and he nodded. When Eleanor Luchetti asked a question in that tone of voice, you’d better answer. Actually, when she asked any question at all, at any time, anywhere, answering immediately was the best policy.

  “He said you’re the queen of sarcasm.” Tim’s huge feet shuffled, shooting up puffs of dust from the gravel driveway. “Whatever that is. But it’s good to be the queen, right?”

  His mother’s eyes narrowed, and Dean was possessed by the sudden urge to hang his head and confess to everything he’d ever done and several things he hadn’t. How did she do that?

  “It’s always good to be the queen,” she agreed, and Dean relaxed. “Now, what’s in that box and who do I get to blame for it?”

  Tim’s smile faded. “Uncle Bobby asked what I wanted.”

  Bobby. Dean walked around the container until he found the address label from Mexico. He should have known.

  Even though Dean’s older brother was off only Uncle Sam knew where completing daring Delta Force missions, Bobby kept in contact with Tim through his wife, Jane—a physician currently saving lives in the deepest jungles of Mexico.

  “Uncle Bobby’s in big trouble,” Dean’s mom murmured.

  “If you can catch him,” Kim said.

  Since the bad guys were never able to, Dean doubted their mother would have much luck.

  Preoccupied with thoughts of Bobby, Dean didn’t keep a close enough eye on his son. By the time he noticed Tim tugging on the end of the box, it was too late. A final heave and the thing fell open, revealing an animal containment cage.

  “Wait—” Dean said, but he shouldn’t have bothered. The instant Tim saw the catch on the door, he flipped it and a bundle of long legs and spotted fur shot out—headed straight for Stella.

  Her eyes widened; she stretched out her hands, backing up and shaking her head as she made soft, helpless sounds in the back of her throat. Sounds that caused Dean to remember things he had no business remembering at his son’s birthday party.

  “No!” Dean’s mom shouted.

  Unfortunately this dog didn’t know her well enough to be properly cowed. Every other animal in the vicinity froze, but not the mutation.

  The long, gangly, butt-ugly puppy launched itself at Stella, hitting her in the thighs. She wobbled, pin-wheeling her arms, then went over like a house of cards in a high wind.

  Dean winced when her rump met the grass, tensed when her head met the earth with a dull thud, started running at the sound of her shriek, which was loud enough to give the impression the dog was tearing out her throat.

  He was at her side in an instant, yanking the overly zealous animal off her chest in mid-slobber, then shoving it into the waiting clutches of his father, who banished the beast behind the fence with the rest of them.

  “Hey.” Dean fell to his
knees and helped Stella sit up. “Did he hurt you?”

  She was pale, stunned, tousled. Her chin was slick with dog spit. One of her shoes had fallen off. The top button of her suit jacket had popped, revealing too much lacy white girly stuff and even more creamy white cleavage.

  “I—” Absently Stella pulled on her jacket, removing everything interesting from view. “I’m not good with dogs.”

  “I remember.”

  Her parents had never allowed Stella to have a pet; therefore, anything with feathers or fur had been foreign to the point of fear. She’d always been nervous at the farm, and the only way to calm her down had been to—

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he had to force himself to turn away.

  “Why do they always come right for me?” Stella asked. “It’s a mystery,” he said, hauling her to her feet and making the mistake of looking back into her face.

  He was captured by the flecks of yellow amid the green of her eyes. How many times had he stared into them as he moved inside of her, coming together, falling apart?

  Her lips trembled. He wanted to kiss her until they stopped.

  “You don’t like dogs?”

  Tim’s voice made him start and take his hands off Stella’s elbows. How long had he been staring into her eyes, remembering?

  Dean glanced around at his family. His dad was dealing with the dogs, along with Brian and Zsa-Zsa. His mom had run into the house—no doubt to fetch her box of Band-Aids, Bactine and Valium.

  But Kim was watching him with a speculative expression. Of all his siblings, Dean wanted Kim to know his secret the least.

  Though things between them had been better since she’d married his best friend, they’d never gotten along. Which was his fault. He’d been jealous of the princess who’d appeared in their midst when he was two and a half.

  Dean was the first to admit he had issues, but lately he’d tried to focus more on his strengths than his weak-nesses—the strengths being farming and sarcasm, a perfect blend of both his father and his mother.

  He had never wanted anything other than to work this land, live his life, love this woman.

  Hell. He had to stop thinking like that.

  He’d given Stella up for her own good—broken her heart and his own so she could live the life she was meant to lead. He’d thought he was over her, but even if he’d thought wrong that didn’t mean he was going to tell her so. Stella still didn’t belong here, and she never would.