When You Least Expect It (38 page)

“Your mama is going to be so happy to see you,” I told him. “Just you wait and see.”

Thirty minutes later, I wheeled the carriage up the driveway and across our flagstone front walk. The front steps took a bit of negotiating—I didn’t want to jar the baby by bumping him up them, so I opted to lift the carriage instead—and then it was another awkward moment fitting through the front door.

“India?” I called out.

“Jeremy? I didn’t hear you pull in.” India’s voice floated back from the kitchen, along with the yeasty warm smell of freshly baked bread. She’d been baking a lot lately, working out her frustration by punching at mounds of dough.

“I walked home,” I said.

“Why? Did your car break down? You should have called, I would have picked you up.”

India appeared, walking out from the kitchen into the hallway. She had a dusting of flour across her shirt and on the tip of her nose. She froze when she saw me standing there. I’d unbuckled the baby from his car seat carrier, and lifted him gingerly up into my arms, careful to support his neck.

Ripples of emotion crossed India’s face. Shock. Hope. Happiness. Longing. Joy.

And, finally, love.

I smiled at her. “Surprise,” I said.

The white Ford rental slowed and pulled over to the side of the road. The sun was just starting to sink in a hazy sky dotted with a lazy swirl of clouds.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” the man asked, looking over at his companion. He was in his late twenties, with a lean build and a liberal amount of curly dark hair that sprang from his head in unruly abandon.

“I just need to see something,” she said, unrolling the windows. She was also thin, with an angular face and ink dark eyes. A single pearl on a chain hung at her clavicle. Her gaze was trained on a pink cottage across the street.

“Let me guess: You’ve been lying to me for the past five months. You’re not really a photographer, and we didn’t really fly down here for a photo shoot. Instead, you’re an assassin and you go around wearing a gun in an ankle holster.” He grinned at her, his teeth white against newly tanned skin. His eyes, which were the color of whiskey and streaked with gold, were kind.

“That’s right,” she said, without taking her eyes off the house. “And my hands are deadly weapons.”

“And you lured me down here with the promise of a beach vacation—”

“A working beach vacation,” she amended.

“A working beach vacation,” he agreed. “Where you’d spend all of your nonworking time in a bikini. When in reality, you’re about to turn me into your accomplice.” He reached over and rubbed the back of her neck. “Is that how it works?”

“You know me so well,” she said, flashing him a smile. “Anyway, we’ve got some time. We’re not meeting Flaca and Luis until seven.”

“This is kind of a cool neighborhood,” he said, looking around. “Very picturesque. Are you scouting it for a shoot or something?”

“No. I used to know someone who lived here.”

“Who? An old friend from when you lived here?”

“Sort of. Not a friend, exactly. More like distant relatives,” she said carefully. “I don’t even know if they still live here.”

“Why don’t we go knock on the door and ask?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to drop in on them without warning.”

“Okay. But if you don’t want to talk to them, what are we doing here?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she watched as a car pulled in to the driveway of the pink cottage. The man who climbed out was tall, with a shock of russet hair. He opened the trunk and pulled out an overnight bag. The front door of the house suddenly opened, and a boy ran out. He was thin with long coltish legs and shiny dark hair. A yellow Lab—an older puppy, with a thick coat and a lolling pink tongue—bounded after the boy across the emerald lawn, a yellow tennis ball clenched in its mouth.

In the car, the woman drew in her breath.

“Dad!” the boy yelled, and hurtled toward the man, who quickly dropped the bag and intercepted the child before he was knocked off his feet. “Mom! Dad’s home!”

The front door swung open again, and this time a woman with long, curly blonde hair came out. There was a small Asian girl
curled in her arms. The little girl was wearing a floral dress and clutching a stuffed bear to her chest. When she saw the man, she smiled and wriggled to get down.

“Daddy!” she called out.

The woman put her down, and the little girl set off determinedly past a row of hibiscus trees in bloom with extravagant cherry pink flowers to where the man and the boy were. The woman, following behind, smiled warmly at the man above the heads of their children. “Hey, you. How was SciCon?”

“Actually, not so bad. My table was next to the Klingon tent, so I got some overflow traffic from them,” he replied.

Inside the car, the woman leaned forward, her body tense as she strained to hear every word.

“Lainey, is everything okay?” her companion asked.

She didn’t answer. He lay the flat of his hand on her lower back, then slid it up between her shoulder blades like an arched brace.

The little boy ran down to the end of the driveway, chasing after the tennis ball the dog had dropped. Lainey’s hand reached for her camera, which was sitting between the two front seats. She lifted it and snapped a single photo, just as the little boy looked up in the direction of the car and, for the briefest moment, stood perfectly still.

The boy grabbed the ball, pivoted around, and ran back up the drive. The family turned to head inside now, their progress slowed when the Lab careened into the little girl, who fell down in a flood of tears. Her mother and father soothed her, while her brother bounced the tennis ball on the walkway, rolled his eyes, and said, “Honestly, it’s not like Elvis meant to do it. It’s not his fault Nattie falls over so easily.”

“Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” the woman said.

“What are we having?” her husband asked.

“Chicken tacos,” she said. “Griff’s favorite.”

“You aren’t going to try and hide vegetables in my tacos again, are you?” the boy asked suspiciously.

“I would never do that,” the woman said solemnly.

“Come on, Elvis,” the boy said, and he ran inside the house, the dog barking at his heels.

The father shifted the little girl, still a bit weepy, on one hip and lifted his overnight bag to his other shoulder. She nestled against him, rubbing her cheek on his sleeve.

“Do you want me to take your bag?” the blonde woman asked, turning to look back at him, just before she disappeared inside.

“No, I’ve got it,” he said, following her in. “This way I’m balanced. Take one of them away and I might tip over.”

“Noooo, Daddy, no!” the little girl wailed dramatically. “No tipping!”

He laughed and followed his wife inside. The door slammed shut behind them, and the street was quiet and still, save for the distant roar of a lawn mower.

The woman in the car exhaled a long breath and then turned to the man sitting beside her.

“Yes,” she said, and when she smiled, the angles of her face softened. “Everything’s fine.”

“You sure?” He cupped a hand against her cheek, and she leaned against it for a moment.

She nodded. “I’m sure. Are you hungry? Because I’m starving.”

“Sure thing. Let’s get going.” He slung one arm across the back of the seat, the tips of his fingers grazing against her shoulder.

Lainey touched his hand briefly and then turned the key in the ignition. She reversed the car around in a neat three-point turn, and slowly headed back down the street.

Whitney Gaskell lives in Stuart, Florida, with her husband and son.
When You Least Expect It
is her seventh novel, all published by Bantam. You can visit Whitney’s website and read her blog at
www.whitneygaskell.com
.