Chapter One
Gentry’s Wordplay
Colic:
According to Merriam-Webster—a condition marked by recurrent episodes of prolonged and uncontrollable crying and irritability in an otherwise healthy infant that is of unknown cause and usually subsides after three to four months of age
According to me—karmic payback for reneging on my offer to let Hunter and Sara adopt my baby
Colt had been screaming all evening, as usual. Colic, they said, although labeling it did nothing at all to help Gentry’s infant son or her to live with the never-ending fussing. No amount of soothing, bouncing, rocking, or walking quieted him if his eyes were open.
She was alone and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, her thoughts as slippery as quicksilver, fueling the stress headache pulsing behind her eyes. Her son’s screeching response to the doorbell, which echoed off the vaulted ceiling and plate glass windows, didn’t help.
With her unhappy child bristling in her arms, Gentry raced across the living room—sidestepping a growing stack of unread parenting magazines—to reach the door before the visitor rang again. If she’d actually succeeded in getting Colt to sleep this evening, she might’ve shot the fool on the other side of her door for risking waking him. In fact, she might shoot him, anyway, just because it had been that kind of day, and her frustration needed a target.
She flung her door open, baby pressed to her chest, and gawked at her half brother, Hunter. “You?”
Hunter and his wife, Sara, stood in the dusky summer sunset. Wide eyes and slack jaws contrasted with their elegant Saturday-night attire. Were they stunned by her impolite greeting or by her shabby appearance? Probably both, she conceded.
Seconds ticked by before Hunter found his voice. “You’re alive.”
“Depends on your definition.” Gentry retreated into the house, knowing they’d follow even though she hadn’t invited them to visit. She couldn’t shoo them away, but she didn’t want them to see her strung out, either.
Expecting Gentry to fail was something of a Cabot family tradition. For most of her life, she’d been happy to live “down” to their expectations. In rare moments of self-honesty, she could admit that, at times, she’d even turned it into a game. An immature dynamic, for sure, but one that hurt a lot less than being ignored or than trying and failing. She didn’t, however, want to be seen as a failure of a mother.
Colton was the only perfect, innocent, precious thing she’d ever produced in her entire life. The problem? She had no idea how to be a mom, let alone be a good one. Hadn’t exactly had a great role model.
“We just left A CertainTea.” Sara held up a to-go bag that smelled like curried seafood. Her signature smile returned, which complimented her simple summer sheath and shiny hair. Gentry smoothed the loose hairs that had pulled free from the ponytail, unable to recall the last time she had looked as sharp. “No one has seen or heard from you in almost three days. We thought we’d check on you on our way home and drop off some food.”
Hunter and Sara lived about a half mile up the road. Their proximity had been one of the reasons Gentry had picked this unit. Its oversize deck and lake views didn’t hurt, either. The only flaw was the cliff of a backyard, which descended to more than one hundred feet to Lake Sandy. Not the best play space, but that view! She figured the flat front yard and nearby park would suffice.
Sara set the bag on the entry table, her gaze homing in on Colt. Gentry almost wished Sara had held a grudge against her for keeping Colt, because Sara’s graciousness inflicted far worse guilt. The look of love her sister-in-law gave Colt only made it harder.
“Thanks.” Gentry’s stomach gurgled at the whiff of real food. Getting to the grocery store had become harder than climbing Mount Everest, so she’d been making due with Ritz crackers, oatmeal, and eggs. A fact underscored by the empty red-and-yellow box tipped over on the coffee table.
Hunter stood, legs apart, hands on his hips. His owlish gaze roamed the living room, taking inventory of the remnants of what had once been a lovely, contemporary condominium.
Baby blankets lay strewn on several surfaces. The outrageously pricey Roche Bobois sofa cushions were askew. Two half-empty baby bottles sat on various tabletops sans coasters, and brightly colored baby play gyms, bouncy seats, and other necessities ate up a majority of the floor space. The pièce de résistance? The hideous white plastic sculpture—otherwise known as the Diaper Genie—looming in one corner.
If Gentry didn’t already know that her brother’s house never looked like it had been ravished by a monsoon despite them chasing after their foster son, Ty, the look on Hunter’s face confirmed it. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing.” Gentry rhythmically jostled Colt, but he fussed and cried, heedless of how much she wished he’d stop just long enough to convince Hunter and Sara that she knew what she was doing. His tiny head bobbled against her collarbone.
She tucked her nose against Colt’s cheek to smell his sweet skin and then looked into those inky-blue eyes—the color of a moonless night sky—and swore she’d do right by him. Somehow she’d learn, on her own, to be what he needed and give him everything he deserved.
Someday. As soon as his constant crying ended and her mental fog lifted. Then she’d finally experience the bliss reflected in every other young mother’s face. Tonight, however, there’d be no bliss. At the moment, she’d settle for thirty minutes of peace and quiet.
Sara reached both hands toward Colt, soft smile on display. “Can I hold the little pumpkin while you eat?”
“And shower,” Hunter muttered, earning himself a sharp look of disapproval from Sara. He raised his hands in surrender.
Hunter and Sara probably thought they’d make better parents for Colt than Gentry did. As much as she wanted to prove them wrong, right now she wanted that curry shrimp more. “Sure.”
Gentry handed her son to Sara, whose entire face lit with adoration. Would there come a day when wondering if Sara coveted him a bit would no longer be the first thought Gentry had whenever she saw her son with his aunt? The thought wasn’t charitable or fair of Gentry, considering how quickly Sara had forgiven her.
Forcing her uneasiness aside, Gentry retrieved the to-go bag from the entry table. Anything from their sister Colby’s restaurant qualified as the best food in the Greater Portland area. Colby’s boyfriend, Alec, was A CertainTea’s chef and had spent years training in Mougins, France.
Gentry practically skipped to the kitchen, clutching the bag with greedy hands. Her brother followed her and waited while she reheated the food in the microwave—the one appliance her mom had taught her how to use.
“Gentry.” He then waved his hand up and down, obviously unimpressed by her formula-stained robe, old lady slippers, and ponytail. “Are you okay? You seem a little . . . overwhelmed.”
“You just caught me at a bad moment.” She turned away, pretending to study the plate spinning in the microwave. He didn’t need to know that the so-called bad moment repeated over and over, minute by minute, day by day, like a hellish version of Groundhog Day.
He tipped his head, eyes filled with doubt. “Will we see you back at work starting Monday? I hate to pressure you, but the ready-made tea launch is just around the corner. We need all hands on deck in the marketing department.”
The family business, Cabot Tea Company, had entered into a joint venture with King Cola to produce and distribute ready-to-drink iced tea. Hunter had pretty much gambled the family fortune on the new product launch. He’d been growing more intense by the day in an effort to ensure the launch went off well.
“I thought the launch wasn’t until October,” she deadpanned.
His brows rode up on his forehead. “What?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Hunter. I’m joking.” She snatched the plate from the microwave and grabbed a fork. He was lucky she was starving, or he’d have gotten an earful. “I know the schedule. I’ve been on some calls with my mom and the team.”
Just not FaceTime or Skype—God forbid!
The first too-hot bite burned the roof of her mouth, but hunger kept her chewing. She heard herself purring the kinds of sounds that, in another context, might come from the bedroom—not that she could remember that feeling much these days. “Alec’s the best chef ev-ah.”
“Colby would agree.” Hunter smiled for the first time since he’d arrived.
Gentry had taken her third bite when Sara came into the kitchen with Colt, forehead creased with concern. “I think he’s a little warm. And this cough. Have you been to the doctor?”
Gentry loved Sara, but her worrywart reflex and preference to parent “by the book” added unnecessary stress to motherhood. If Ty’s adoption went through, no doubt the poor tyke’s childhood would be a series of very well-intentioned and warmly enforced rules and expectations, tutors, and lessons. Sara probably googled every little boo-boo, too.
Gentry didn’t believe in raising kids that way. She wanted Colt to be a free spirit. To explore without limitations so he’d become a confident, interesting, outside-the-box kind of man.
“I don’t need a doctor. Colt’s warm because he’s been crying all evening. That takes a lot of exertion.” She chomped another shrimp. Honestly, it tasted orgasmically good. Was that a word? Well, it should be. Note to self—check Merriam-Webster.
“His cough sounds wet, but I can’t tell if he’s wheezing. You know, preemies are more susceptible to illnesses like RSV. Maybe you should have him checked just to be sure.” Sara patted Colt while swaying with him, cuddling him like a beloved, if screechy, teddy bear.
“At eight thirty on a Friday night?” Gentry made a face. “The pediatrician’s office is closed, Sara.”
“What about urgent care?” Sara suggested with a hopeful smile.
“This isn’t urgent. And look at me. I’m in no state to leave the house.” Gentry ate the last shrimp with a bit of despair now that the plate was empty. If Hunter and Sara would look away for three seconds, she could lick the plate. “Besides, the people in that waiting room are really sick. Why expose Colt to those germs when it isn’t necessary?”
“Good point.” Hunter’s surprised expression irked Gentry. As if her common sense was as rare as snow in Florida.
“What if I call Ian?” Sara’s pleading eyes were hard to ignore. “He’s in town . . . at a motel, actually. He can listen to Colt’s lungs and make sure there isn’t a problem.”
Ian, the humanitarian EMT Sara had wanted to fix Gentry up with many moons ago, before Gentry decided to keep her baby. The same EMT who’d arrived on the scene downtown when Gentry’s water had broken unexpectedly and Sara’s flat tire prevented them from heading to the hospital right away. How fitting that her second run-in with him might be as humiliating as the first.
“Why’s he at a motel?” Gentry wondered aloud. She recalled thinking him handsome, which said a lot considering the Freddy Krueger–caliber labor pains stabbing her when they’d met. Not that it mattered. Handsome men weren’t a priority. The last time she’d dived into that pool—her one-night stand in Napa with a gorgeous man she knew only as “Smith”—she ended up with Colt. Now she hadn’t the interest or time for men or, sadly, sex.
“I’m not exactly sure, but Gloria said something about his girlfriend kicking him out when he returned from Haiti.” Sara had met Ian’s mother, Gloria, because that woman ran the Angel House, a homeless shelter for women and children where Sara volunteered. “It’s possible he doesn’t have the security deposit to rent someplace new.”
“What’s he even doing in the country?” Gentry asked.
“Maybe he hoped to save his relationship.” Sara kissed Colt and stroked his fuzzy hair, clearly less interested in Ian’s story than she was. “Let’s see if he’ll come take a listen.”
Gentry shot Hunter a look. He shrugged, which meant he knew that Sara wouldn’t let up, and he wasn’t going to argue.
“You’re totally overreacting.” Gentry placed the back of her hand on Colt’s forehead, which did feel a little warm. Not scary hot or anything. She rummaged through the kitchen drawer stuffed with 1,001 infant gizmos. When she located the baby thermometer, she held it up and almost cried “Eureka!” Instead, she stuck it in Colt’s ear until it beeped. “Ninety-nine point six. Nothing a little baby Tylenol can’t handle.”
“That won’t help his lungs. Wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?” Sara shrugged a shoulder to emphasize her point.
A quiet stare-down ensued for four seconds, maybe five. Fiddle-flippin’-sticks.
“Fine. Call Ian.” Hopefully, the guy would laugh, and Sara would back down. Gentry reached for her son. Once she had him in her arms, she said, “Excuse me.”
While Sara called Ian and conferred with Hunter, Gentry took Colt to the bathroom and dabbed a cool washcloth across his forehead. She checked his writhing body for a rash but found none. His nose was runny but not totally full of gunk.
Sara’s concern niggled, even though Gentry seriously doubted the need to call in reinforcements. While she changed his diaper, she was struck by his absolute dependence on her judgment. His utter trust. In her.
Her poor son.
If he could speak, she’d know what he needed. Instead, she remained stymied, trying to decipher one cry from another. Trying to determine if his head, ears, or belly caused the ache that kept him crying. What? What? What?
She lifted him and swayed, humming softly in an attempt to comfort him and herself. In all honesty, at any second she could fall apart or asleep—a real toss-up. In the privacy of the bathroom, she blinked a couple of times to hold back the tears pricking her eyes, clinging to her child. It’s us against the world, baby.
Either God took pity on her or Colt had finally worn himself out, because his crying subsided to a dull kind of whine. Gentry took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back. By the time she returned to the living room, Ian was knocking on the door.
An inadvertent glance in the mirror set off a new shock wave of horror. No wonder Hunter and Sara had been stunned into silence when they’d first arrived.
She closed her eyes, momentarily imagining herself in her normal clothes: Gaultier, perhaps? Trendy high-heeled shoes that drew attention to her long legs and ankle tattoo. A multitude of bracelets on her arm. Her auburn hair artfully woven in a waterfall braid. The image of her old self enabled her to tip up her chin and pretend her robe wasn’t covered in spit-up.
She opened her eyes just as Sara escorted Ian inside. At least her messy apartment would still look like a palace compared with the disaster zones he’d navigated.
Ian hadn’t known what to make of Sara’s call. They’d spoken only on a few brief occasions, but his mother held her in high regard. He remembered their first encounter, when she’d been hurt by someone’s abusive husband who’d barged into the shelter. Once he’d made sure she wasn’t hurt, she’d shifted to the role of matchmaker, bringing up the very sister-in-law who now stood before him. The one he’d later met when she had unexpectedly gone into labor.
Hopefully, no part of Sara’s agenda tonight involved playing Cupid.
He stepped inside the ostentatious, newly constructed unit, with its picture-perfect views framed by massive plate glass windows. This joint probably cost upwards of a million bucks. Like a reflex, his mind immediately calculated other uses for that kind of money: medicine, water, clothes . . . food. Or a donation to the EMT training facility he wanted to build in Haiti in his father’s name.
“Ian, thank you for coming out of your way tonight.” Sara led him into the living room. She gestured to the imposing man on her left. “This is my husband, Hunter, and his sister, Gentry, whom you might remember. And that little bundle is Colt.”
Ian shook Hunter’s hand, reminding himself not to nitpick these people. Sara volunteered at the shelter, and the Cabot family had started a foundation that supported a number of community-outreach programs. If they also thought monogrammed dress shirts and expensive watches were important, who was he to judge? “Nice to meet you.”
He then turned to Gentry, who didn’t look particularly grateful to see him despite the polite smile on her face. She sure hadn’t primped for his arrival, he thought, holding back a wry smile. Clearly, she was no more interested in Sara’s matchmaking than he was. Good.
Ian had zero interest in being fixed up with any woman. Especially not now, after being booted from his apartment by his ex, Farrah. His disinterest in women went doubly so with respect to an heiress to the Cabot Tea fortune, who’d likely drive him up the wall with her First World complaints and oblivious privilege.
“Sorry. I asked Sara not to bother you.” Gentry’s smoky voice could make another kind of guy a little dizzy.
If he had been in the market for a woman, she might tempt him. Despite the circles under her eyes, the ratty ponytail, and bathrobe in need of a serious washing, Gentry Cabot was a head turner. She was tall and proud, with striking green eyes and curves the robe didn’t hide, and his body reacted like any hot-blooded man’s should have. Luckily, his brain put on the brakes.