2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Read online

  “Yes or no is fine…. And I’m guessing this is another no.”

  “A rain check is all,” she grimaced.

  “Maybe next time.” Drew nodded kindly, allowing the farce to continue. Her friends back east would have called bullshit! long ago, but her sister-in-law was far more charitable.

  It was ten minutes from their doorstep to hers, plus the added boon of not having to cook, but Catherine had been dodging their weekly dinner date for months. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Drew, she loved her and appreciated her; she just needed time. At first she’d claimed that it was too soon after Renée had passed away and she wanted to ease Cara into her new life (though her old life had included having dinners with Drew and her family whenever she was in town visiting Fynn). And once school started, she conveniently claimed that school nights were simply too hectic. But then Drew gladly offered: any night you want to do it. Since then Catherine had gotten progressively lamer in her excuses or lack thereof, because it wasn’t about Cara at all.

  Drew had her happy, normal family, while Catherine and Fynn were still figuring this whole thing out, and she didn’t want to be on display while they worked on the kinks. It was hard to be around other mothers who knew how to mother and wore that title freely. Something she couldn’t do because she lived in that place where Cara needed to be mothered but didn’t need or want a new mother. Understandable. But it still hurt to hear Cara call Fynn “Daddy” sometimes, like it just popped out naturally. Of course, he’d been Renée’s closest and dearest old friend and Cara had known him since she was a baby, while she’d never even met her real father. Fynn wasn’t competing with every memory of her past. And there were Drew and Klein who had already earned aunt and uncle status; their boys, her cousins. Heck, Cara had called Catherine’s own parents Gramma Lizzy and Pop-Pop from their first meeting. She was a little girl with no extended family of her own, and now all those people she’d never had in her life were positions suddenly filled.

  Except for Mom.

  Renée was the coup de grace of Cara’s tender loving care, which made Catherine just plain Cat. And Cara might never want her to be anything more.

  “Well, listen, if you change your mind, give me a call. I was just going to order pizza anyway, so even if it’s last minute….” Drew stood up, winding her scarf around and around all over again. She gave her a quick hug and was gone. Hurt, definitely, but trying her best not to show it.

  Mel sidled up to the counter with the check. “So, should I get the hand truck to roll you out?”

  Catherine bit her lip and clenched her fists, her face flushing with heat. “Raise the dome,” she blurted, needing something to take the edge off.

  “Huh?” Mel asked, like she was speaking a foreign language.

  “The dome.” Catherine gestured at the dessert pedestal. “I’ll take one of those.”

  “A pie?”

  “A slice.” Curt.

  “Mmm-hmm.” So much judgment in the sound. Mel put down the perpetual carafe of coffee she seemed to carry and lifted the glass, and Catherine swore she heard a choir sing Hallelujah! in answer as a glorious golden light shown like a halo around the towering pie that was indeed sprinkled with candied bacon, and drizzled with caramel too. Suddenly she was pretty certain she could eat a whole pie. And she wanted to. A bottomless pit of craving. Except she wasn’t bottomless. She had a bottom alright—a Sir Mix-A-Lot special. Because nothing was off the table unless it was in her mouth and on the way down her throat. Her body hadn’t even had the good sense to get morning sickness. She had been “blessed” with an iron stomach, and therefore had been growing for two since conception—two danishes, two burgers, two foot-long sub sandwiches, two calzones, two helpings of….

  -3-

  Fynn came around the house from the garage, brushing sawdust out of his golden hair that had grown out a bit into even more unruly waves. Jeans, ribbed Henley, work boots—all part of a vision she never got tired of. But before she could swoon at her good fortune to have such a fine piece of genuine man-meat on her hands, he opened his mouth and screwed it all up.

  “Heard you ran into Drew at the diner.”

  Word obviously traveled faster than she could. Catherine grunted in answer, turning her attention to the groceries in the trunk so she didn’t say something nasty, safely occupying herself with the niggling thought that she’d forgotten something. As her mother would say, she had a sieve of a mind. Worse now than ever. If she’d only made a shopping list—oh wait, she had done that…. It was on the refrigerator at this very moment.

  “So, no dinner again this week?” Fynn prompted, reaching for several bags, the heavier things like milk and orange juice and canned goods. Helpful as usual, even while he was passive-aggressively challenging her about making unilateral decisions.

  Catherine whirled on him, eyes fiery, her voice several hundred degrees in the opposite direction. “Is your sister telling on me now?”

  He pulled back like he was avoiding a punch. “She just said—”

  “She didn’t have to say anything.”

  “Whoa, what got your panties in a wad?”

  She stared at him, waiting for him to recognize the inflammatory question, or better yet, retract it, but he was too busy grabbing even more of the bags in his big man hands, like she was weak and needed to be rescued.

  When Fynn finally met her gaze, he’d loaded himself up with the entire trunkful. “What?” he barked, like he didn’t have clue one what was wrong with him or this picture.

  “Really?” she snapped, shocked that he would go there with a woman who was already on the edge, and then play stupid about it. She knew he would say it was a joke, a little jab that she was taking too hard, but his words cut deep. She hadn’t had panties in her drawer in months. Nothing cute or sexy. Just cotton underpants that were close cousins to king-sized sheets and drop cloths and car covers. He could have said she was being a genuine bitch and it wouldn’t have been as bad.

  He clammed up, unwilling to respond to her challenge, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have a look on his face that said quite clearly she was being irrational. Which made her more crazy and irrational. And downright pissed off.

  “So, that’s it?” she demanded. “Or did Mel call, too? To give you the lowdown on what I ate?” Suddenly it felt like everyone she came across in this godforsaken town was a spy.

  “I just wanted to help you bring in the groceries,” he sighed.

  “Then why did you say something about Drew and dinner?”

  “Why did I say anything,” he grumbled under his breath.

  Her shoulders drooped, like the hackles on an animal settling down after a passing threat. She sounded like one of those awful wives that men had been avoiding for centuries—working late, staying out at the bar, picking up other women who treated them adoringly for a change. Things she did not want her husband to start doing. Two little words could make all the difference right now. They could undo what she was making a habit of doing—jumping down his throat. And this wasn’t even a him problem. Fynn wasn’t one to seek out gossip. He wasn’t one to make phone calls and check in with people, or to tell tales out of school. This was her sister-in-law’s doing, tattling on her.

  It could be so simple: I’m sorry. Yet she couldn’t get those words from her mind to her mouth. “God, I just feel like I’m losing my mind these days,” she blurted, hoping that would be enough, rather than outright admitting she was wrong or curt or mean or bitchy or downright shitty. All of which she was guilty.

  There was an unbearable pause, then the sound of plastic bags rustling as Fynn set the groceries on the ground before enveloping her even though she didn’t deserve him. “At least you still have that pretty little head of yours.” His words oozed over her like melted butter, the voice that had left her bothered, rankled, and unnerved from the beginning. Sexy and Fynn-ish. Not holding a grudge. Or making her beg. Just being.

  “A stupid empty head,” she groaned against his
chest.

  “Good thing I’m not with you for your mind.” All shrugs and breezes.

  “What did you marry me for then?”

  “Wait a second, we’re married?”

  “For now,” she warned, squeezing him tighter. This was why it was Fynn. The one. Her one. Defusing her was a masterful skill he had down pat. Only him.

  Right here, this very spot was where they’d first met. She had barreled into his life without warning, and now fat old Catherine Marie was married to the guy. She’d gotten it all and then some: hunting him down and hounding him until he screamed for mercy… then letting him take her until she screamed for mercy. A blush rose through her at the thought of the whirlwind that started all of this. Thank God for her irrational streak that at least once in her life she’d found a bona fide good use for.

  “Jelly!” she exclaimed, pulling away from him.

  “I know I make you weak in the knees, but—”

  “No, jelly. Like in a jar. Grape. That’s what I forgot. I knew it was something.”

  “Get it next time.” Problem solved, easy as that.

  “There is no next time.”

  “No jelly is the end of the world?” he joked.

  “I’ve already forgotten it four times over. This was my last chance. I ran out making Cara’s lunch this morning. She has it every day. Twice a day. Jelly on her toast and on her sandwich.”

  “If you need me to pick some up when I’m out tomorrow—”

  “I’ll get it.”

  He looked at her with a dubious grin—the likelihood of that obviously slim, considering.

  “Seriously. We need it. I’ll go back out now…. Where did I put my keys?” She dug through her purse.

  “It’s just jelly; Cara can have something else tomorrow.”

  Catherine’s head shot up in shock. “She shouldn’t have to.” Complete conviction. This was no time for a man’s style of reason. Not after everything Cara had been through. She deserved her jelly toast and her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was the least they could do for her.

  He sighed. “I’ll go.”

  Grateful. “I’ll make it worth your while tonight.” A mischievous smile playing on her lips.

  “You will?” Suddenly interested.

  “Of course.”

  “Just so I don’t get suckered all over again, lying across the bed naked is seductive; spread eagle and snoring is—”

  “We’ve been through this already, I was planning to seduce you and the next thing I knew it was morning.”

  “You don’t have the best track record when it comes to promises of this nature.”

  “You who knocked me up five minutes into this marriage shouldn’t be talking. You made me what I am.”

  “An honest woman?”

  “An exhausted woman. Eating, thinking, and sleeping for two. You get what you deserve.”

  “I think we get what we deserve.”

  It did take two. But she liked to blame him a teensy bit more since it was his sperm that had staged the microscopic coup, overtaking one of her eggs in the Battle of the Poconos, on a short honeymoon trip that her wonderful new husband had surprised her with based on her friend Tara’s word that Catherine was dying to go there. Which was a complete fabrication. She still hadn’t figured out if the advice was a practical joke or a heartfelt gesture, but she guessed it didn’t matter much anymore. It was history—check that, historical.

  The resort was one of those over-the-top kitschy spots with a private heart-shaped pool and champagne-glass hot tub and honest-to-god mirrored ceiling over the bed. The whole gaudy farce of it was kind of fitting considering the crazy road that was their relationship. And one thing was for certain, when you were lounging seven feet in the air in a champagne glass full of bubbles, it was hard not to get hot... and when you were already naked and slippery and steamy, it only made sense to go the rest of the way… because it was someplace you’d never been before—the Poconos or bareback—with anyone, let alone your new husband. And once you went there, it seemed a shame to unpack the condoms.

  What was the harm in unprotected married sex, anyway?

  Not so much harm, but life-changing ramifications, like that unreal second line on the pregnancy test just a few weeks later—Fynn strutting around like he’d conquered the world, while she’d been waffling along the spectrum from disbelief to out-and-out fear ever since.

  Suddenly Magnus was off like a shot—a blur of street-directed fur.

  “I guess the bus is here,” Fynn noted with a chuckle, picking back up all the grocery bags.

  “You know, he used to greet me like that,” Catherine said wistfully, of the giant, floppy-lipped golden retriever who was hell-bent on reaching Cara, his new best friend.

  “He used to knock you down. Regularly.”

  “That’s called love. You know he’s the one I fell for,” she swooned.

  “I trained him well.” A satisfied grin as he headed for the house.

  -4-

  Catherine headed up the winding drive, lagging far behind Magnus, who was probably already at the street, greeting Cara as she stepped off the bus. This was the daily routine they had settled into. Magnus got first dibs. She got second. Fynn waited at the house, last in line. Routine was so important. And presence. That was what all the books said. The ones about raising grieving children. Routines made children feel safe and secure. Heck, they made adults feel safe and secure, especially adults who were borderline panicked about where life was heading and how fast it was getting there.

  Soon enough everything was going to change all over again. She wouldn’t be alone walking to the bus, but pushing a stroller or wearing one of those baby carriers that was all straps and looked like a torture device. She’d gotten one in the mail from Lacey, the sister-in-law she wasn’t currently annoyed with, her brother’s wife who swore up and down by it, though Catherine had a sneaking suspicion you needed to be double-jointed or a downright contortionist to get into and out of it.

  She only got halfway to the street before she saw Magnus bounding excitedly back toward her as if he hadn’t just left her in the dust a couple minutes before. She ruffled his fur. “Silly boy, where’s Cara?”

  But Magnus wasn’t talking, his communication repertoire limited to licks and wags. Lassie, he wasn’t. More than a few kibbles shy of a full bowl.

  Cara came skipping over a rise in the driveway, her bright pink backpack jostling along with her and a chaotic armload of mail in her clutches. Her signature pigtails were lopsided as usual, her shirt sporting a fresh stain. She was a little girl who threw all caution to the wind while playing kickball, swinging on monkey bars, or eating chocolate pudding. No flies on her.

  Sometimes it was all too easy to look at Cara and see her own little sister at that age—the same age Josey had been when she died. Catherine still felt the aching loss today, over twenty years later. A tear came to her eye and she surreptitiously wiped it away with one shaky hand. She’d spent half of Josey’s life wishing her sister would just grow up already and the other half wishing she would stay out of her room and all her stuff. She’d been a mostly-awful big sister and time had run out to become anything more.

  Which made her worry how Cara would feel about having her own little sister—if she would even see this baby as her sister. Or if she would feel like she came in second to their real child. The one who unquestionably belonged in their world while she had only ended up here through misfortune. Catherine couldn’t help but wonder if this crazy little family they were putting together with duct tape and paste and glue was going to stick.

  “Cat!” Cara called out, breaking into a run that sent envelopes slipping out of her grasp and scattering on the ground behind her like a paper breadcrumb trail. She pulled up short, turning to look at the mess she’d left behind. Magnus had taken to sniffing each piece in hopes something had come for him, but found nothing of interest, so he wandered off to pick something interesting on which to pee.

&n
bsp; “The mail had a mind of its own, huh?” Catherine offered, a smile spreading across her face as she saw what Fynn always liked to point out: his girls were peas in a pod; clumsy, awkward, adorable peas. And with their hair and eyes in similar shades of brown, at a quick glance and certainly from a distance, they could be wholly mistaken for biological mother and daughter. In that case, he was the odd one out, all blond and blue-eyed as he was.

  Cara nodded, backtracking to pick up the pieces and handing them over for Catherine to carry the rest of the way to the house. That much she could do; it was the bending and squatting to gather it all up that was out of her wheelhouse for the time being.

  “So, what’s the news?” Catherine asked as they made their way to the house. It was the same question her mother used to ask whenever she came home. Elizabeth Hemmings was coming out of her mouth at an alarming rate these days now that she found herself on common ground with the woman for the first time in thirty-five years.

  “Kenny Rollins got a bloody nose at recess and it wouldn’t stop for hours.”

  “Hours?”

  “A really long time. It happened right in front of me.”

  “That must have been scary.”

  “Nope. Except he tried to get me in trouble.”

  “How?”

  “He said it was my fault, but he should have caught the ball. Or ducked.”

  “What exactly happened?” Catherine prodded, trying to piece together whatever story was just out of her grasp, wondering if there would be a school conference in her future, like when Cara got into a fight when a third-grade bully tried to take her friend’s lunchbox and she took him out, knocking him in the head with her own lunch—a conference and a new lunchbox that time. So she already had a “record”.

  “It was kickball. But everybody stopped playing when they saw the blood. Now we can’t play kickball at recess. Only at gym with teacher supervision. Unless Kenny gets another bloody nose and ruins it.” She kicked a rock in her path.