“Yes.” Fiona stood at her kitchen island, rattling Fritos Scoops into a bowl to go with the clam dip she’d made. Expertly, she hid the fact that her son’s disappearance to Islehaven annoyed her. When suffering from amnesia, he should be home, surrounded by his family, receiving treatment from psychologists. Instead, he’d chosen to live in the spare bedroom of a lobsterwoman on Islehaven.
Which wassounlike him.
Not just his living situation but the fact that he’d chased after a woman. She’d never known Jeremiah to chase a woman. Never. Not even when he was young. And why would he? He had always been the chase-ee. It was more his style to put space between himself and the women who pursued him.
But chase Remy he had. Events were making it clearer and clearer to Fiona that the blond artist held great power over him. Fiona would need to court Remy’s favor because if she didn’t, Remy might take a stand against her, which in turn could pose a threat to her relationship with her son.
“It’s strange,” Margaret said, “that he’s lingering on Islehaven so long. Life there is so inconvenient. Is he staying because of that woman who saved him?”
“I think he’s partly there for her.” Fiona downplayed Remy’s draw. “But I also think he likes it on Islehaven. It’s relaxing. It’s been a hard year and a half for him. He deserves rest.”
Margaret’s expression sharpened hungrily, like a mouse eyeing a morsel of dropped cheese. “Do you think he loves this woman?”
Fiona waved a hand. “No, no. She nursed him back to health after the boating accident so he feels a connection to her. They’re close but it’s too early to discuss love.”
Their father, drawn by his sixth sense for food, bustled over and used a chip to scoop up a huge bite of dip. “Hello, girls.”
“Hi, Daddy.” They were no longer girls and had probably, technically, outgrown the termdaddy. Yet they continued addressing one another in these ways because . . . tradition. It made them all happy.
He waggled his white eyebrows and scooted the bowl of dip in front of his belly. “Here’smydip. Where’s everyone else’s?” He was only half joking.
The NFL season was heating up and the O’Sullivans had gathered to watch their mighty Patriots dominate the competition in Monday night football. She’d invited the rest over, as she often did, for a football-watching party. Her home was the best, her TV was the largest, and her hostessing skills were brimming with grace.
This evening, Mom and Dad had come. As had Margaret, Margaret’s husband, their adult son, the O’Sullivan baby of the family Mike, Mike’s wife, Burke, two of Fiona’s local friends and their husbands.
“What can I do to help?” Burke asked, nearing the island.
They’d been hanging out two or three times a week, she and Burke. Fiona liked him more each and every time. “You can take this tray to the others.” Fiona pointed at the chips and dip, just one of the several appetizers she’d prepared.
He bent to lift the tray—
Dad moved to block him. “Not so fast, young man. Let me get a few more bites first. This food will be as contested as a basketball lay-up once it gets out to those vultures.”
“Of course, sir,” Burke said politely.
“Burke?” Margaret’s hungry-mouse look returned. “Are you dating anyone at the moment?”
“No.”
“Who, if anyone, are you interested in dating?”
He glanced at Fiona.
She gave him a warning look.Whatever you say, buddy, you say at your own risk.
“I’m not interested in dating right now,” Burke answered.
Fiona’s man radar was excellent. If she had to bet, she’d say that Burkewasinterested in dating her. Seeing as how he’d not yet expressed that to her, there was no way he was going to confide in Margaret. When he did express his feelings to her, Fiona was prepared to let him down gently (something at which she was an expert). Afterward, she and Burke would maintain their friendship and she’d be buoyed by the pleasing knowledge that he found her attractive.
“I know several women I could set you up with,” Margaret said. This was clearly a bid to gauge the truth of his disinterest in dating.
“Thanks. I’ll . . . let you know if I’m in the market for that.”
“If I were you,” Dad said, “I’d stick with food over women. Food doesn’t demand anything and it’s a lot more predictable.”
“Food doesn’t keep you warm at night,” Margaret said.
“You only say that,” Dad murmured with his mouth full, “because you’ve never eaten chicken wings out of the oven at one in the morning.”
