Lydia Lane

“And you’ve never been married?” he continued, when she returned.

“No.” He knew that, didn’t he? Why had he asked?

“Not even close?”

Why did he look so interested? It was annoying. Lydia shrugged. No way was she telling this man about the almost-proposal from the unemployed musician!

Sam poured coffee beans into a grinder. “Poor kid. No weddings! What kind of single parent am I? I’m afraid I just don’t get all this girl stuff. Maybe I ought to start haunting churches on Saturdays instead of taking her skating. At least she’d get to see a few brides and limos.”

“It’s her age, don’t you think? Girls like weddings, especially little girls. They see it as a fashion event, like dressing up Barbie dolls, not a marriage between two people who want to make a life together.”

Sam laughed softly. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Hey, sometimes even grown-up girls see it as a fashion event, not a marriage,” he said. Lydia wondered at the faint note of bitterness in his voice. It had been four years—was he still in love with Candace Downing? Or was he thinking of the tangled affairs of some of his clients?

Lydia returned to the dining room, where Amber was still sitting quietly at the table, apparently day-dreaming. Lydia felt sorry for her. She’d be delighted to take her to Charlotte’s wedding. Of course, she didn’t dare mention the possibility until she’d talked to Charlotte or, at least, Zoey. Charlotte’s marriage to her first love, Liam Connery, the man she’d rediscovered on her trip to Prince Edward Island this fall, was anything but formal. It was City Hall in the afternoon and a party at the King William afterward. A New Year’s-cum-wedding party. One more small guest wouldn’t matter….

“I wish you could meet my friend Tania,” Amber said, her brown eyes meeting Lydia’s seriously. “She’s been to a real wedding and she knows how to make chili and everything!”

“Oh?” Making chili was quite an accomplishment for a child Amber’s age. “Good for her.”

“Her mom showed her how.” Amber looked rather pensive for a few seconds. Lydia had a fleeting glimpse of the fashionable Candace in the kitchen with her daughter. “My nana helps me cook sometimes, but she won’t let me turn the oven on by myself,” the girl said. She brightened. “Dad does, though. Dad lets me do everything.”

“Is Tania the friend you’re going skiing with next weekend?”

“Boarding!” Amber scoffed, looking cheerful again. “Nobody skis, that’s for sissies—”

“Like me,” her father said, coming into the room with two steaming mugs topped with whipped milk foam. When Lydia had seen the coffee grinder, she knew he was serious about making a decent cup of coffee. Nice to see he wasn’t entirely helpless. “I ski. I’ll bet Lydia does, right?”

She nodded. “Not as much as I’d like to. But two or three times a winter.”

“Bo-o-oring,” Amber said with an impish grin.

“You used to box, too, as I recall,” Lydia said, taking her mug from him. “You still do?”

“Box? You mean my dad used to be a boxer like that creepy old Larry Mozzarella—”

“Amber!”

“He is, Dad! Mom said. He’s a creepy old, broken-down boxer—”

“Upstairs, young lady,” Sam ordered. When it seemed Amber might ignore him, he added, “Now.”

His daughter went to the door, red-faced. “How long?”

Sam glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Then you can come down and we’ll see how polite you can be.” He shook his head when the child left. “Sorry about that.”

Lydia followed Sam back to the family room, carrying her mug of coffee and cleared her throat softly. “Larry Mozzarella?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Actually it’s Massullo, but the girls, she and Tania, always call him that. Larry doesn’t mind. He’s a client.” He was silent for a full minute, frowning. “I just wish my ex-wife would keep her opinions to herself. Amber’s never made fun of Larry before. I don’t like that—”

“She knows him?”

“I’ve known Larry for a long time and, yeah, Amber’s met him.”

“It’s my fault, I guess. I didn’t know your boxing career was a secret.”

“No secret.” He bent to poke the fire. “And some career! To answer your question, yeah, I still put on the gloves from time to time. These days, it’s mainly to take a beating from the young guys—like Steve and I used to be.”

She stared at him, shocked.

He gave her a crooked grin. “Keeps a guy humble.” He set his cup on the mantel and threw another log on the fire. Sparks and bursts of flame, blue and orange, shot up the chimney and a small puff of smoke wafted into the room. Having the chimneys cleaned was high on any agenda for this place. If she got the job.

Sam sighed and picked up his mug. “Now, back to business. Can we talk money?”

“Sure.” She was surprised he’d changed the subject so abruptly. Maybe he’d remembered that neither his personal nor professional life was any of her concern—which they weren’t. He didn’t blink at the hourly fee she mentioned, plus an initial assessment fee. “Or, if you like, I could give you a quote for the full job once I’ve had more of a chance to see what’s involved.”

“That might be a good idea.” Sam lapsed into silence again, staring at the flames. The incident with his daughter had obviously disturbed him. Lydia regarded him, unobserved for a moment. He was still such an incredibly handsome man, clean-shaven now instead of wearing the three-days’ growth he’d affected as a teenager. Rugged, fit, with charisma and appeal that made a woman’s pulse jump. At least, hers did. She was curious—was Sam still as much of a ladies’ man as he’d once been? Probably. He’d obviously changed a lot from the days when he and Steve used to fix up old cars and drag-race at midnight. Lydia remembered her parents finding out and having a fit. Now he was a single parent, a responsible lawyer, a property owner.

Some things changed; some didn’t.

Lydia put down her mug and Sam glanced up at her. “I have a lunch date tomorrow but I could come over in the morning, if you don’t mind me being here early, about nine,” she said. “Or we can make it midafternoon.”

“Let’s go for the morning,” he said. “I’d like to do something with Amber in the afternoon, maybe take her to the Leafs’ game.”

“Fine with me.” Lydia stood. “Time for me to be on my way. Thank you for the meal. It was very nice.”

“And you’re very diplomatic, Ms. Lane,” he teased. He accompanied her to the hall closet, where he retrieved her coat. Here was a Domestica lesson….

“You see?” she said, smoothing the wrinkles from her coat. “When your closets are overstuffed, like yours is, you can’t find things—am I right?”

“Yeah, you got that right.”

“And,” she continued logically, “when you do find something, it’s all wrinkled from being packed in—right again?”

He laughed and smoothed the shoulders of her coat after she’d put it on, a teasing, caressing gesture that gave Lydia cramps in her toes. “There! All smooth again. Drive carefully.”

“I will.”

He opened the door and held it for her.

“And, no question, you’ve passed the most important hurdle for the job. My daughter.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE ICE FOG SETTLED IN overnight. It was almost half-past nine by the time Lydia made it back to Parry Street the next morning. Traffic was hideous, plus she drove more slowly than usual due to visibility problems.

“Lydia!” Sam opened the door and threw his hands over his face in an exaggerated gesture, as if he’d forgotten she was coming over this morning, but she knew he hadn’t. It was early and he clearly wasn’t a morning person. She was. She’d been up since seven.

“Actually, I’m late. Sorry, the traffic was terrible,” she said as she handed Sam her gloves and jacket and watched him cram them into his hall closet. She took off her boots and slipped on a pair of moccasins. Today, she’d gone for a casual businesslike image and was wearing chino trousers and a blue sweater. Under her arm, she carried her project case.

Sam, in jeans and a T-shirt, looked rumpled and sleepy—and sexy enough to want to kiss. If she’d been fifteen, she’d definitely have swooned.

“You had breakfast?” Sam ran a hand through his hair. He’d obviously showered, but that was about it. “You won’t mind if I have some toast or something before we get started? I think I’m going to need fortification. How about you?”

“I’ve eaten.” She followed him to the kitchen. Bare feet. Very sexy bare feet. “Ages ago,” she added.

He gave her a humorous look and rummaged in the fridge, bringing out a loaf of bread. Lesson Number Two…

“Is Amber still asleep?”

“Amber? Oh, she’s at Tania Jackson’s. There’s some show they watch together on Saturday mornings—Binky or Batty? Biffy? I don’t know. Some girls’ type of show. It’s the Jacksons’ turn to have them.”

Sam popped two slices of bread into the toaster that sat on the kitchen counter. “Barbara Jackson makes sure they get a decent breakfast. It’s a little competitive thing she’s got going with me. Coffee?”

“Thanks.” She perched on a stool behind the counter, which ran partway into the kitchen, a sort of working island that separated the kitchen proper from the breakfast nook. At some time, this house, at least the kitchen area, had been updated. “Competitive thing? What do you mean?”

“They get muffins and milk and juice here. Or something you can microwave. Like burritos.” He grinned. “Over there, it’s waffles, scrambled eggs, things with soy in them, the big all-out nutritious breakfast.”

Sam ground some beans and there was a whoosh as he did something else with another machine, this one stainless steel. Suddenly there was a fragrant cup of coffee steaming in front of her. “Cream? Sugar?”

“You do take your coffee seriously!” She laughed as she poured in some cream and stirred.

“Yeah, if my law practice tanks I could always hire on at a Starbucks somewhere.” He made another cup, for himself, and turned to her, holding his high. “You know, there are very few absolute pleasures in life….” He inhaled deeply, his eyes half-closed. “Ahhh. Good coffee is one of them.”

“What else?” she asked, sipping at her own coffee as his toast popped up.

He buttered one slice before looking directly at her. “Sex. Chocolate. Fly-fishing. Not necessarily in that order.”

Lydia set her cup down unsteadily. Well, she’d asked. “Have you ever noticed that your bread’s always stale, even when you’ve just bought it?”

He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“The art of keeping house. What I’m here for. Last night I mentioned a few drawbacks to living with overstuffed hall closets. Today I’m giving you a tip about keeping bread fresh.”

He laughed out loud, put his two pieces of toast on a plate, opened the fridge and retrieved a jar of jam. Then he pushed the door shut with one bare foot and came over to sit on the stool beside her, still grinning. “You take this stuff seriously, don’t you?” he said, echoing her earlier remark.

“So should you, since you’re going to be paying me.”

He inspected his toast. “Good point.” He took a big bite and looked attentively at her as he began to chew.

“It’s knowing these little things that makes life pleasanter and easier. Good household management. I’m sure you find it vaguely irritating to always have stale bread.”

“Definitely. How did you know? I’m always cussing out the bakery for selling me day-old.”

“It’s not their fault. They sell you fresh. As soon as you put it in the fridge, you ruin it. Bread should never be refrigerated. Either keep it at pantry or shelf temperature, or freeze it.”

“No kidding! I thought keeping stuff in the fridge meant things lasted longer. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“It seems to make sense, yes. But not for bread. There’s data somewhere, I know I could find it in one of my books, that proves bread deteriorates fastest at temperatures just above freezing. Refrigerator temperatures in other words. One day in the fridge is the same as five or six days in a breadbox at room temperature.”

He nodded, and once again seemed impressed by her knowledge.

“You’re better off to buy it sliced and then freeze the part you’re not going to use right away. You can take out each slice as you need it and use the microwave or toaster to defrost it. You’ll always have fresh bread on hand.”

“Really?”

“Really. Of course, there’s a limit to how long you can keep it in a freezer.”

“But that’s another lesson, right?”

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