Page 46 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

Lucy pulls back far too soon, wiping at her eyes and heading toward the door. At the last minute, she turns, her hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry for how mad I let myself get at you six years ago. About how I’ve been treating you.”

Aw, Sunshine. I stick my hands into my pockets. “I’m sorry for leaving. You were right. I should have listened to you. Should have been here for Mare.”

“You’re here for her now. That’s what counts.” She opens her mouth as if to say more, then must decide against it. “I’m happy for you. That your dreams are coming true. Those L.A. foodies aren’t going to know what hit them.” Then she softly slips out the door and it latches behind her.

And I slump back against the counter, my heart beating double time. Because I’m no L.A. foodie. And unlike them, I know exactly what’s hit me.

And yet. I can’t pursue it. Can’t chase this feeling. It wouldn’t be fair to Lucy. To me. To Dad and his dream for me.

I have to do better at maintaining my distance. If I keep letting Lucy in like this—literally and figuratively—then I’m bound to break down.

I’m only human, after all.

sixteen

LUCY

At twenty-eight, I wouldn’t exactly call myself old.

But when you’ve just spent thirty minutes giving romping, alternating piggy-back rides to a three-year-old, a five-year-old, and a six-year-old, you start to understand the phrase, “Oh, my aching back.”

“Okay, guys.” I slide Felicia, the youngest, off my back onto the bottom stair, then lean against the railing to catch my breath. “Aunt Lucy is getting tired.”

They protest for a moment, and five-year-old Leonardo narrows his striking blue eyes that stand out even more against the darker skin tone he inherited from his Hispanic mama. “You promised me next!”

“Please, auntie? One more?” Isabella bats her little lashes at me and twirls.

I’m not really their aunt—I can’t be anyone’s aunt, since I don’t have siblings—but my littlest cousins don’t know the difference. Their dad, Jeff, my oldest cousin who is in town visiting for a few days with his wife and four kids from Dallas, is eight years older than me, so he was already away at college when I moved here sophomore year. Still, he’s come back a few times every year to visit, so as far as his kiddos know, I’m just like another one of his sisters.

Speaking of his sisters, Stephanie is on her way to this little impromptu Monday night gathering—working late—and April is huddled on my uncle’s beat-up recliner in the corner of the tiny living room with her computer. I don’t know how she writes with all the chaos ensuing.

Five children (including her own seven-year-old, Scarlett) ranging in age from three to twelve have spent the last hour shouting, running up and down the stairs and out to the backyard, tossing balls and snatching bits of food from Aunt Bea, Aunt Janine (my dad and Uncle Burt’s sister), and Jeff’s wife in the kitchen, where my stomach rumbles at the smells of the Mexican food Maria is an expert at making.

My uncle Burt and Jeff are sitting at the kitchen table, loudly discussing the Cowboys’ chances this year at going to the Super Bowl. (Which, yes, is eight months away, but these Texas men love their football.)

But despite the cacophony surrounding her, April is still zeroed in on whatever she’s writing. That woman loves a good romance novel, and I’m convinced that someday she’s going to be published. Whenever I ask her how it’s going though, she just shrugs me off. I’ve heard authors are never satisfied with their own work, but I remember when April let me read some of her stuff before she left to study at the University of Washington’s creative writing program. I’m not a big reader, but even I could tell that it was good.

“Give me fifteen minutes, all right? Shoo now. Git.” I lunge like I’m going to pat my cousins’ tushies, and they run up the stairs screaming like little banshees.

It’s glorious, and I’m right at home in the chaos.

After a few moments of rest, I haul myself up and sit down on the end of the couch closest to April. She’s got on a pair of slouchy socks and bright red lounge pants that match her shoulder-length red hair, which is back in a clip and—from the looks of it—several days unwashed. There are some dark circles under her eyes, and she’s got a stain on her black T-shirt. I haven’t seen her looked this harried since Scarlett was a newborn. She had to move home from college, pregnant and a dropout at age nineteen, severely depressed but also determined to somehow carve out a life for her daughter.

And that’s exactly what she did. By the time Scarlett turned two, April had built up a little nest egg from her job at Aunt Janine’s inn, The Purple Seashell, and moved them both to San Francisco, where a friend from college offered her a job as an administrative assistant at a publishing house.

April is fiercely independent, and I know that moving home again recently wasn’t something she really wanted. She did it for Scarlett, to grow up with family around, and also for her parents, since they’re starting to get up there in years. But maybe the move has been harder on her than I realized.

“Hey, cuz.” I nudge her with my big toe.

She jolts at the contact and slams her laptop shut as if on instinct. What in the world is she working on that that’s her reaction? I don’t think she writes steamy scenes in her books, but then again, what do I know? I have no clue what’s popular these days.

When she notes that it’s me, her shoulders relax. “Sorry. I had a moment of inspiration and had to get it down.” She laughs softly and slides the computer onto the coffee table. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. But I’m more worried about you. You look tired.” I pull one of Aunt Bea’s bulky quilts from the floor between the chair and couch and tuck it around my legs—not really because it’s cold, but because it’s comfortable. That’s how this whole house feels, because that’s how my aunt and uncle make everyone feel when they come inside. It’s nothing fancy, just random knickknacks and no real decorating theme. But the way the living room leads right into the kitchen in a great room style, the comfy sitting area, the big-screen TV, the quilts—it all somehow comes together to say, “Stay a while.” (Or in my case, nearly thirteen years!)

April pushes back the side-swooping bangs hanging in her eyes. Shakes her head. “I’m just on a deadline.” She blanches and hurries to continue. “I mean, I’ve given myself a deadline and don’t want to miss it.”

Hmm. I mean, my cousin is kind of hard on herself, but this seems like more than that. Maybe she’s worried about Scarlett. “How’s Scar doing? Adjusting to life in Hallmark Beach?”

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