Changing Tides, page 20
The door chimed, and Rachel stifled a groan as she got to her feet. Turning to greet the customer, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her mother stood just inside the entrance of the diner, looking like a fish out of water in her royal blue Chanel pantsuit and matching Jimmy Choo handbag and shoes. Not a hair was out of place, and her makeup was impeccable. Even her perfume reeked of the kind of sophistication money could buy. It was much how Rachel imagined she’d looked that very first day on the job.
No wonder everyone laughed at her.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” Rachel’s gaze darted outside for signs of her father but found none.
Her mother cleared her throat before she stepped closer and slowly peeled her gloves off. “I came for lunch, of course. Do I just . . .” She glanced around her like she’d never been inside a café before. “Pick a seat?”
“Sure. Our hostess is out sick,” she said by way of explanation. Rachel motioned her toward the booths, but her mother chose a table instead, sliding into one of the chairs.
“So,” she said, glancing at the menu Rachel handed her. “What’s good here?”
Rachel sighed. “Mom, why are you here? I know you didn’t come for lunch.”
Her mother held the menu a moment longer before she set it down and eyed Rachel. “I came for a favor.”
“Are you kidding?” Rachel scoffed, shaking her head, because it was so like her parents—leave her high and dry, ridicule her for her choices, then ask a favor.
“No, I’m serious.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a charity event at—”
“No.” Rachel made to leave, but her mother caught her arm.
“Just hear me out.”
“Why should I?” Rachel said louder than intended. Across the room, Mr. Rodriguez briefly lifted his head, his gaze straying from his sandwich to Rachel before he resumed eating.
“Because there are more people in this family than just you.” Rachel opened her mouth to protest before her mother added, “Or your father, for that matter.”
She snapped her mouth shut, eyeing her mother and observing the dark crescents below her eyes. In all her anger at her father, Rachel hadn’t taken the time to think about how this affected her. Sure, she was in the same boat as her father, but like Rachel, she’d had little control over the situation. She’d been every bit as dependent on her father as she had.
“Fine,” Rachel relented but crossed her arms over her chest to emphasize she wasn’t happy about her mother’s proposal. “What event?”
“It’s a charity event. It’s in the city, and there are going to be a lot of big names there. It’s a chance for your father to announce his alliance with Carter and get back in good graces with a few prominent people.”
Rachel pursed her lips, hating the way she referred to her father as having an alliance with Carter. “Okay, but what does this have to do with me, and why do I need to be there?”
“You know how important it is to stand as a united front.” Her mother straightened and pushed her shoulders back, her tone indignant. “They need to see we’re still a family unit, and because they’re from the city, they won’t know about your little . . .” Her mother glanced down at Rachel’s apron “. . . side job. It’s a chance to stand strong and show we’re still the New England Beaumont’s everyone knows so well.”
“Will Carter be there?”
“Of course he’ll be there. There’s going to be talk of his race for state legislator.
Rachel dropped her arms and rolled her eyes. She could think of a million things she’d rather do, and all of them ranked right up there with shoving bamboo shoots under her nails.
“Your father thinks he can get your condo back.”
Rachel arched a brow. “I’m listening.”
“This event can either make or break us. If it goes well, and he can acquire some new clientele, he believes he can make a payment large enough on your place to stop foreclosure and get you back in there, where you belong,” she said, glancing around her pointedly.
Everything inside her said not to trust them, but the idea of having her home back called to her like forbidden fruit. Though her little place above The Sea Oat was growing on her, she missed the luxury of her old place. And if she didn’t have to scrape by to pay for it either . . .
“One dinner.” Rachel pointed a finger at her. “And then my obligation ends. I will not showboat around just because Dad needs to look good.”
“Okay.” Her mother nodded.
“And it can’t be this Saturday because I have plans.”
“What’s this Saturday?”
Rachel arched a brow. Like she was going to tell her. The last thing she wanted was another lecture from her father as to why Joe was a poor match for her. Besides, she wanted to enjoy Brady’s birthday party without her mother’s judgment hovering over her. A lot was riding on this weekend. It was imperative Joe’s sister like her.
“A birthday party for a friend, but it’s important.”
“Okay,” her mother drawled, eyeing her like she knew the truth. “I guess I’ll see you next weekend, then.”
Rachel sighed, a weary sigh. “I guess so.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
They pulled into the driveway of a quaint little home after a short drive. Joe’s sister’s house—a little yellow bungalow, with a sprawling white porch and an old playset in the backyard that looked as if it had seen better days, was only twenty minutes from shore.
He turned off the ignition of his truck as Rachel stared out into the yard. A swing creaked in the breeze, and Rachel turned to Joe, her stomach in knots.
She pressed a hand to her abdomen and inhaled. “What if she hates me?”
With a soft smile, Joe reached out and grabbed the hand holding her together and brought it to his lips where he brushed a featherlight kiss against her knuckles. “She’s protective, and you could say life has hardened her toward love, but I’m sure she’ll like you.” Joe’s description didn’t exactly ease her nerves.
“How do you know?”
“Well . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “Because I like you.”
Rachel groaned, and her head fell back against the headrest. “That means nothing.”
“The fact that I like you means nothing?” His lips quirked, and Rachel could tell he was stifling a laugh, but she was too nervous to see the humor.
“You know what I mean.” Then she asked, “Wait. Does she know who my family is? Like, does she know who I am?”
Joe nodded wordlessly.
Rachel moaned and brought her free arm up against her head, hiding her face. “She’s going to think I’m stuck-up and pretentious.”
“My sister isn’t judgmental.”
Rachel peeked at him from under her arm. “Are you sure?”
This time, Joe laughed. “Come on.” He tugged her arm and opened his door. “Let’s go. Brady already likes you, so you’ve already got one leg up.” He let go of her as he stepped out of the truck and rounded the other side while Rachel stared at the little house warily.
When the door clicked open and he held his hand out for her, she exhaled and turned to him, taking his hand. Her foot hit the running board and then the driveway before she followed him toward the front door, a wrapped package clutched under one arm meant for Brady.
She’d spent far too long on the silver wrapping and bright blue bow, and she only hoped he liked what she’d gotten him, considering she had zero experience with kids.
When they neared the porch, Rachel turned to him. “How many women have you brought to meet her?”
Joe’s dimples popped, the precursor to his smile. “Exactly zero.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “Oh my—”
The front door swung open, and Brady rushed out, nearly knocking Rachel over as he tried snatching the gift bag from Joe’s hands, then eyed the package in Rachel’s arm. “Is that for me?”
“Manners,” Joe scolded, but his smile belied his tone.
“Yes, it’s for you.” Chuckling, she held it out for him, and he promptly grabbed it up, ready to tear into it when a tall, slender woman with dark hair and the same stormy eyes as Joe appeared in the entryway.
“Brady,” she said in a warning tone, “not till after lunch and cake.”
Brady sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Fine.”
Then he made his way back inside, slower this time, and far less enthused, leaving Rachel and Joe on their own.
With a breath for courage, Rachel glanced up and into the stony expression of Sara Hastings.
The sound of gunfire filled the room.
Rachel clutched the controller until her knuckles turned white, staring at the screen while her player ran through a haze of gunfire, when out of nowhere, her on-screen man clutched his chest and fell on the floor, then disappeared. “What happened?” Rachel held the remote control out, pointing indignantly at the screen. She’d been playing one of Brady’s video games for the last hour.
Brady laughed. “You got shot.”
“What? How? I was just ducking for cover under that—that—whatever the big barricade thing was.”
Beside her, Joe grinned. His arm wrapped over her shoulders while his fingers idly danced over her skin, and with the way her skin caught fire at each touch, it was a miracle she could focus at all.
“You’re pretty bad at this, aren’t you?”
Rachel’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “I’m a beginner, that’s all. Give me a few good months to learn and I’ll sweep the floor with you.”
“Ha! More like a few good years. If you even live that long.” Brady tipped his head back, a roar of laughter escaping his chest, while Rachel playfully chucked the throw pillow behind her back in his direction. The pillow soared by his head as he ducked it missed.
“You throw like a girl too,” Brady cooed, and this time, Rachel couldn’t help herself. She joined in the laughter, then turned to Joe. “Aren’t you going to defend my honor?”
“I don’t know. You were pretty bad,” he teased.
Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. “How so?”
“Everyone knows you don’t go into the storage room.”
“Yeah,” Brady chimed in, brushing his unruly hair from his eyes. “It’s like on a horror movie where the girl hears a noise, so she opens the door and goes outside. Total amateur move. Like, who would do that?”
“Don’t worry about it, Rach,” Joe said, patting her arm. “He has a lot of time on his hands to do nothing but game since he’s on break.”
“Break from what?” Rachel turned to Brady.
“Baseball. I play fall ball, and the regular season’s in the spring. We won’t pick it back up for another two months.”
“Baseball, huh?”
“He’s really good. Like, really good,” Joe said with all the pride of a father. “His travel team went to nationals last year, and he was their star pitcher.”
Brady blushed and glanced down at his hands. The gesture reminded her so much of Joe, it made her heart squeeze. “Impressive. How’d you get so good? Did Joe teach you?”
In her peripheral, Rachel noticed Sara standing in the entryway to the room, and she wondered how long she’d been there, watching. Since she’d been busy in the kitchen since they arrived, she had yet to get a read on her, but the feeling Rachel got from her was exactly what Rachel had feared—that she didn’t care much for her.
She only hoped she’d give her a chance.
“Shoot.” Brady’s face twisted. “I’m way better than Uncle Joe.”
Rachel turned to Joe, aware of Sara’s probing eyes, trying her best not to seem as tense as she felt. “You never played baseball?”
“Me?” He pointed to his chest, then glanced up at his sister. “Sara, did we play sports?”
She snorted. “Like Dad would’ve given us time off for sports.”
Joe glanced back at Rachel with a look that said, There’s your answer. “When we weren’t at school or doing chores to help our mom out, Dad had us working—cleaning the boat, maintaining equipment, and working the stand.”
A swell of sympathy rose in her chest until it clutched at her heart. She imagined Joe watching the other kids playing at the park after school or lounging on the beach while he stood in the blazing sun hawking fish.
“You didn’t get to play at all?”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe a little, but never enough that I could’ve made it on a team had I wanted to. Not that I would have. Somehow I don’t think I would’ve fit in with that crowd.”
That crowd. Meaning, her crowd. Carter and a whole host of his friends comprised the majority of sports teams for the Bayshore Sharks.
Deciding to change the subject, Rachel turned back to Brady and cleared her throat. “So, who taught you, then, if not Joe?”
“Uncle Joe played with me when I was really small, but once I got older, he hired a private coach.”
Joe shrugged. “He seemed pretty serious about it, so . . .”
“My dad was really good at baseball, though, so I think I probably get some of my natural ability from him. At least that’s what Uncle tells me. Right, Mom?”
Rachel glanced up at Sara out of the corner of her eye. At the mention of her late husband, the blood drained from her face. Time slowed for a moment, and while she hesitated, Joe glanced down at his hands, his discomfort written in the slope of his shoulders.
Sara’s throat bobbed before she inhaled, and like resetting a popped breaker, her color instantly returned as well as a subtle smile as she said, “Yeah, he sure was. I used to watch him play in high school, and he was the best on the team.”
Beside her, Joe cleared his throat. “Hey, bud, maybe after lunch, you could show Rach your trophies.”
“Oh, I’d love that,” Rachel said, bright-eyed.
Brady perked up. “Really? You’d wanna see?”
“Of course.”
“Lunch first,” Sara warned. “We’re actually ready now, if y'all want to head on into the dining room.”
They filed into the quaint room off the kitchen, and each took their seat around the table. There, sitting across from Sara, Rachel allowed Joe to serve her some lasagna and salad. The sauce puddled on her plate, while the noodles, meat, and cheese formed a congealed blob. Rachel remembered Brady’s comments about his mother not being the best of cooks, and she swallowed. Lasagna wasn’t one of her favorites even when prepared spectacularly, but one glance in Sara’s direction with her laser-sharp eyes, and she knew she’d eat every last bite. The last thing she needed was a reason for Sara to hate her.
On either side of her, Brady and Joe dug into their meals with gusto, so Rachel did the same, ignoring the soggy noodles, excess ricotta, and the soupy sauce. It was when she’d started on her salad that Brady must’ve noticed her lack of enthusiasm for the dish in front of her.
“You don’t like lasagna, Rach?”
“What?” Rachel blinked and glanced down at her plate. She’d only managed a few bites while Brady had sopped his clean with his garlic bread. “Sure. Of course I do. I just ate a big breakfast.” She glanced over at Joe, offering him a weak smile, hoping she’d been more convincing than she felt.
“Well, it’s my favorite. On birthdays, we get to pick what we want for dinner. Today it’s lunch cuz Mom has to work late. Mom always picks steak, and Joe picks lobster.”
“Lobster?” she asked Joe, her eyes twinkling. “Shocker.” She grinned.
Brady nodded. “What do you pick?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. On your birthday. What do you have your family make you?”
“Oh, well, I . . .” Rachel trailed off, searching for an answer. She could lie. That would probably be best, but something told her Sara would see right through it, and lying was worse than the truth. Or so she thought. “My parents didn’t cook much, so they usually just took me out.” She shrugged, hoping to chase the conversation away with a large mouthful of salad.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about the cook thing.”
Or not.
“I would’ve thought maybe your cook made your favorite thing though. So, did you get to pick the restaurant?” he asked.
Rachel peered over at Sara, who stared at her with a stony expression.
Nerves unfurled in her belly like an open fist as she focused back on her plate.
The truth was she didn’t get to choose. Until recent years, they’d always surprised her. Typically, it wasn’t a meal so much as it was a lavish surprise. A trip to Disney World at seven. The Grand Cayman at nineteen. Martha’s Vineyard. Tickets with backstage passes to her favorite musician, clear across the country. A Mustang Convertible. Dinner on their yacht, only to discover her father chartered a private jet to take her anywhere she wanted. These types of gifts were commonplace in their inner circle.
“Well?”
“What?” Rachel blinked.
“Did you get to choose the restaurant? I would pick Emmanuel’s,” Brady said, referring to the priciest restaurant in Bayshore.
Rachel knew it well. Carter’s family owned it.
“Well, actually, no. I didn’t get to choose.”
Brady looked disappointed by this, so she added, “But usually I was given a special gift, not dinner.”
“Oh. That’s cool. Like what?”
Rachel swallowed. Shame churned inside her like a rising tide. The last thing she wanted to talk about was her privileged upbringing, especially in front of a woman who may or may not like her.
She hesitated a moment, pushing the lettuce on her plate around with a fork, trying to think of one present that wasn’t over the top.
“Buddy, maybe she doesn’t want to answer,” Joe said, and if it weren’t for his sister’s gaze burning a hole through the side of her head, she’d kiss him for his perceptiveness.
“I’m sure interested,” Sara said, chiming in.
