Love in the Vineyard (Tavonesi #7)(76)

How could he think she’d done it? She’d thought he knew her. But how could he know her when she’d purposefully kept so much of her life a secret?

The whole damned thing was her fault.

But the tears that slid down her cheeks weren’t from guilt. She’d wanted so badly to believe in the dream that she’d fooled herself into believing she could create the life she dreamed of. Worse, she’d believed Adrian knew her soul. She’d fooled herself into believing in a world that didn’t exist, that would never exist.





On the way home from the ballgame, Natasha stopped off at Inspire to plant the fuchsias and salvias she’d bought for the tiny back garden. She could’ve just taken them since they were surplus, but she liked to do things straight up, pay her way. And wasn’t that just a hell of an irony?

It was a good thing that Mary wasn’t around to ask questions. Adrian’s assumption that she’d stolen from the Casa lanced deeper into her belly and made it hard to think about anything else. As she worked the bag of soil into the raised garden bed and eased the starts into the earth, hot tears ran down her cheeks and fell onto the tiny plants. She brushed the soil from her hands, wiped the tears from her cheeks and said a silent prayer that her warring thoughts would give her some peace. But they didn’t. With still-trembling hands, she grabbed the plastic bag that had held the soil and marched to her car in the fading evening light. Her plans for a full-on flower garden to brighten Inspire’s back patio and cheer the women and children would have to wait.

Her stop at the grocery store didn’t do anything to calm the sharp bursts of adrenaline spiking in her chest. When she pulled in front of her apartment, she couldn’t even remember what she’d bought.

She opened her car door and then realized she hadn’t unfastened the seat belt. With the back of her hand she wiped the wetness from her face and then undid the belt.

Slow. Slow.

But saying the words brought to life the memory of Adrian’s voice thick with passion whispering the same words to her in the wine cave. She couldn’t think about that. Not right now. She swung her legs out of the car.

A man exited a black sedan parked across the street. He walked purposely toward her. Instinctively she got back into her car and closed the door.

He walked to her driver’s side window.

“Natasha Raley?” He spoke her name in a tone that told her he knew exactly who she was.

“Yes?”

“I have something for you.” He reached into his coat pocket and handed her an envelope.

“You have been officially served with court papers. I’ve been instructed to inform you that if you fail to respond to these legal documents in the time frame allowed or to appear in court on the date set within them, a default judgment will be entered against you by the courts.”

He pulled out a phone and snapped a photo of her holding the envelope. And then without a word he turned, got into his car and drove off.

Served?

Her steps were unsteady as she pulled the bag of groceries from her trunk and made her way into her apartment. Once inside, she tore open the envelope. That she could make out most of what it said was a tribute to her dyslexia counselor and her class instructor. The irony that the first document she could read with her newfound skill was a court summons didn’t make her laugh.

Eddie.

He hadn’t waited for her to contact him. She kept coming back to the same question—why after so many years was he in such a damned hurry?

She read the title across the top of the page again—Uniform Parentage: Petition for Custody and Support—a rather dry grouping of words for a possibly life-altering document. It should have said: warning, an * is about to take your kid! She flipped to the blank form at the back—Declaration Under Uniform Child Custody Jurisdiction and Enforcement Act. A declaration? What was she supposed to declare? Was she supposed to fill it out? She wanted to burn it.

The front door banged open.

“Mom! You missed my home run. But Brandon and I got to have pizza.”

“A home run, that’s great, honey.”

“More than great, we won seven to five. We get to go to the regionals.”

And she’d missed the game.

“You had work, huh, Mom?”

“Lots of work. But it’s almost done.” She scooped up the papers and stuffed them into the envelope.

“Adrian stayed for the entire game. Then he had pizza with us. He’s awesome, Mom. And I think he likes you.”

“Why do you say that?” She couldn’t resist asking.

“He told Monica that you have a real talent with plants—something like that. But it was the way he said it, special-like. Like in the movies. You know, those gooey ones you like to watch.”

Her heart did a little flip. Someday Tyler would fall in love and battle with his heart. But for tonight she needed to get him settled down and doing his homework so she could focus and make some phone calls for help.

“Ten-minute break,” she said, tousling his hair. “And then get out here and do your homework.”

He ducked away from her hand. “Can’t we go to town for an ice cream? We made the regionals. Only four teams get to go.”

“We’ll celebrate this weekend.”

“Adrian’s right. You are a tough cookie.”