FROM ONE GIRLFRIEND TO ANOTHER…

Dear Charlotte,

Just a note to let you know that you and Zoey aren’t the only two to find your first love—I’ve found mine!

Only, he doesn’t know it, of course. And I’m not telling. He’s a lawyer now—still has a “bad boy” motorcycle, though—and he’s got a darling little girl. Guess who introduced us? His ex!

Zoey, as usual, is giving me plenty of advice. I hope you’re having a wonderful time in Bermuda and I’m so looking forward to the three of us getting together when you return. See you soon!

Love,

Lydia

Dear Reader,

Just what is “keeping house”? In the barest sense, it means keeping a family safe, secure and healthy by providing the essentials of warmth, shelter and food. But beyond the physical necessities of life, “keeping house” also means providing for grace, beauty, hospitality, friendship…. The list goes on. Not just sustaining life, but what makes life worth living.

A home is much more than a house.

Lydia Lane wants to do all these things, only she doesn’t have a family to practice on. She decides to turn her knowledge into a business, teaching the “homely arts” to others. One of her first clients is Sam T. Pereira, the “bad boy” she’d once secretly loved with all the passion in her fifteen-year-old heart.

Now a street lawyer and a divorced single dad who works out of his house so he can spend more time with his daughter, Sam can’t believe how his buddy’s little sister has grown up. He decides he doesn’t just want her turning his house into a home; he wants her in his life.

I hope you enjoy the story of Lydia and Sam as they discover that true love can happen to people who care deeply about the things that give life its meaning—home and family.

With Lydia’s story, we end the three girlfriends’ search for their first loves. Zoey chases her man down (or so she thinks); Charlotte accidentally falls for hers all over again and, to turn the tables, Lydia’s first love finds her.

Warmest regards,

Judith Bowen

P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 2333, Point Roberts, WA 98281-2333 or check out my Web site at www.judithbowen.com.

Lydia Lane
Judith Bowen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Linda Earl,

loyal, generous, enthusiastic—always an inspiration

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“AMBER!” Sam slapped the pizza box onto the coffee table in the family room, pushing aside the week’s accumulation of newspapers and comic books. He whistled loudly, then yelled up the stairs. “Mommy’s show is on and the pizza’s here.”

He flicked the channels on the big-screen television until he got to TownTV, Channel 14, and the familiar opening medley of his ex-wife’s late-afternoon talk show, “What’s New with Candy Lou?” Her name was Candace Penelope Downing, no Lou at all, but the producers thought the rhyme sounded better.

“Yippee!” His daughter raced into the room with her friend from three doors down, Tania Jackson, right behind her. Amber carried the microphone from the play karaoke set that had been a Christmas present. Tania never said much. The two girls, both eight, were practically joined at the hip, and now they skidded to a stop as one, each grabbed a slice of pizza—the two largest, of course—and scrambled onto the oversize recliner where they settled down happily. Nothing to wipe their fingers with. Should he bother? Yeah, might as well, even though the whole room was due for a major cleaning.

“Who’s Mommy got on today?” Amber asked, her mouth already stuffed with Hawaiian pizza. Sam was so sick of Hawaiian he could scream. Oh, for a lacing of hot peppers and anchovies. Feta cheese and Greek olives—he could dream, couldn’t he? Cappicola or, damn, even oysters!

“Don’t know, honey.” Sam dropped a couple of paper towels on the arm of the girls’ chair and then settled into the other recliner with his slice of pizza. Come to think of it, he was sick of pizza, period. “We’ll see.”

Watching Candace Downing’s show with his daughter was a ritual Sam tried not to miss. Amber lived with him. The single women who drifted in and out of his life and the regular visits from Amber’s grandmother and his sisters didn’t provide enough feminine influence, in his opinion. This—watching Candace’s show once a week—was supposedly one way of maintaining maternal contact. Candace’s idea, naturally.

What kind of world was that—where you had to catch your mother on afternoon TV if you wanted to see her?

Sam shook his head and told himself to pay attention.

“—a new and unusual business. Do you really teach people like me how to polish silver?” Candace’s high-pitched giggle had always bothered him. Sam frowned; he’d seen that woman before, Candace’s guest.

“—if you happen to own silver. Many people, of course, don’t. But the service I provide helps busy Toronto families learn some of the skills involved in running a household efficiently and well. There can be a lot of satisfaction in knowing that the people you love are being taken care of—”

“I’ll take your word for it!”

“So many of the homemaking arts our grandmothers knew have been lost over the years. These skills used to be passed down as a matter of course from mother to daughter. I learned a lot of them from my great-aunt. Since the sixties, our mothers have been too busy forging careers outside the home to worry about housekeeping skills, so, over the last few decades a lot of know-how has disappeared. Often, today, there’s no one to ask. That’s where my company, Domestica, comes in. We can teach you the skills that will make your home a sanctuary in a hectic world.”

“How intriguing. Literally turning a house into a home, you mean?”

Sam glanced around the family room. It looked like a tornado had been through. It always looked like a tornado had been through when his mother was away, which she was, or he’d lost another cleaning lady, which he had, just before Christmas. He could go for some of that sanctuary business….

“That’s right.” The woman on the screen gave his ex a cool look—one that was very appealing, Sam thought—and slowly crossed her legs. Long, slim, very nice legs, he noted, pizza slice halfway from his plate to his mouth. He frowned. He definitely knew this woman from somewhere. A client? No way!

“Homemaking skills are important but sadly undervalued in the modern world. Once, a good housekeeper kept her drains scalded and her kitchen clean to preserve her family’s health. Today, with vaccinations and chlorinated water, we don’t have to worry so much about those kinds of germs, but good housekeeping skills can affect your health even today.”

“They can?” Candace was all attention.

“Yes. For instance, did you know that a properly made bed will contribute to a good night’s sleep? And wouldn’t a good night’s rest make a stressed-out day a little easier? Science proves—”

“You mean you don’t just toss a duvet over the sheets, grab a coffee and race out the door? That’s what I call making the bed!”

Sam was sure Candace thought she was speaking for the entire civilized world. He was intrigued. A well-made bed…

“Yes. A properly made, properly aired bed is comfortable, clean and allergen-free, all of which adds up to a more restful sleep. Our grandmothers knew about the benefits of fresh air in the bedroom. The pillow should have a zippered microfibre cover to prevent dust mites, a source of allergies, from passing through. Over that, a pillow cover and a nicely ironed pillowslip, preferably pure cotton or linen—”

“Ironed?” Candace squealed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

Her guest smiled but did not reply and Candace leaned forward in a phony confidential way that Sam had seen many times before. “Okay, besides ironing tips, what else does your company offer us? Can you teach kids anything? And dads? I mean, if you can, lots of moms out there would be thrilled to hear about it.”

“Certainly.” There was that calm, assertive look again, a look Sam found incredibly appealing. The woman oozed sensuality and icy cool competence at the same time. “I’ve taught Boy Scout troops how to iron their own shirts, pack their own tasty, well-balanced school lunches and polish their own shoes. I’ve conducted executive retreat weekend workshops on cooking—”

“Cooking, too?”

Candace’s guest nodded. “Yes, cooking. In fact, Domestica offers a personal chef service as an addition to our homemaking workshops. You’d be surprised how many people want me to organize their kitchens, shop for their groceries and prepare a week’s worth of nutritious meals they—”

“Lydia Lane!”

“What, Daddy?”

“Lydia Lane,” Sam repeated, feeling a little rush of blood to his knees, a sensation he hadn’t felt for quite a while. It was the well-made bed that had done it. He’d pictured this tawny goddess sprawled out on that well-made bed…. “Daddy knows that lady, Amber. Remember my friend, Steve Lane? We went fishing with him and Uncle Avie last summer and Uncle Avie accidentally caught that mud turtle?”

“Oh, yeah. Yuck.” She turned to her friend. “We let him go back in the water.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Steve’s little sister Mommy’s talking to.” That was it.

“Oh. Isn’t Mommy pretty today?”

“Sure is, baby,” Sam muttered. Was she? Of course she was. Not that Candace Downing did anything for Sam anymore. Their four-year marriage had been friendly but not passionate. Their divorce was cordial and they were on good terms, always keeping Amber’s interests foremost. In fact, he’d been relieved when Candace had decided that if he was cutting down his corporate law practice—where he had a chance to make something of himself, in her opinion—so he could expand what she described as his “street people” practice, she was calling it quits. She’d always regretted leaving her barely hatched TV career so she could marry him and have his baby a year later, and she decided to give it her best effort again before her looks and energy were gone. Candace liked society and parties and grown-ups, she informed him. She found full-time care of a three-year-old just too…too trying. Sam always thought it ironic that the pinnacle of her renewed career so far was this snoozer of a talk show.

Their daughter, Candace had reasoned, would do just fine with him. Lots of kids had day care and nannies and were brought up perfectly well by single dads. Sam could afford help. Candace would take Amber on weekends whenever she was in town, and on holidays and shopping trips to New York and Montreal when she got a little older. That would be fun—a real mother-daughter experience. Sam working out of a home office; Candace pursuing her media career. It couldn’t be more perfect, she declared.

Perfect. Sam glanced around. The room was a disaster. The carpet and upholstery needed cleaning. Amber’s jeans had holes in the knee. Why didn’t she put on a new pair or tell him when she needed to buy some? The fridge was empty—again. The Christmas tree had turned brown; Sam had forgotten to put water in the receptacle. There was still some balled-up Christmas paper behind the tree, jammed into a corner along with a whole lot of dust. The last housekeeper had left before the holidays and Sam hadn’t had the heart to look for another one yet. How many did this make this year? Three? Four? Five?

Several glass ornaments had fallen onto the carpet, bowling balls for Punch, the cat, who belonged to Tania but spent as much time at their house as he did at home. Only one string of lights worked. And now—Sam groaned—someone would have to take down the damn tree and get rid of it and store all the little decorating doodads—

Someone meant him.

He ran his hands through his hair and picked up the empty pizza box to carry through to the kitchen, which was another kind of disaster. Why hadn’t he listened to his mother’s advice and just gone to one of his sisters’ houses for Christmas? Let his brother-in-law worry about Christmas trees. But, no, putting up a tree every year for his kid was something he figured he should do.

His daughter deserved some family traditions and it was up to him to provide them. No mom around, and a dad who wasn’t doing the world’s greatest job of running a household on his own. But this was his family, even if it was just him and Amber. If that meant dead Christmas trees, and Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at the Royal York Hotel, so be it. For Easter they usually went to his parents’ place, along with his sisters and their families. He couldn’t have managed without his mother’s help and while he appreciated her tremendously, she could be…well, quite ornery about doing things her way. Candace would have said pushy.

Now his parents had gone to Portugal for six weeks, visiting relatives, and look at this place! Straight downhill. It was exactly what Lydia Lane had said, he didn’t have the faintest idea where to start. Or how to do anything. Taking care of a house was a hell of a bigger job than he’d thought and he had renewed respect for his mother and other women like her, who always seemed to know exactly what needed to be done and when.

Sam had been doing his best for the past four years but this single dad business wasn’t working out the way he’d planned.

Perfect? If only!

THE TOWNTV BUILDING, a redbrick, three-story converted warehouse, was on a quiet street on the edge of the Danforth-Pape neighborhood, not far from Lydia’s loft.

In the second-floor Studio A, “What’s New with Candy Lou?” was just finishing up. The program was taped in the morning for broadcast at five that afternoon. Lydia’s appearance had been followed by a puppeteer who specialized in pet birthday parties—he did mostly animated bones and mice—and a playwright whose first play, “A Time to Laugh, a Time to Cry” was opening New Year’s Day in a tiny local theater.

Aptly titled, no doubt, Lydia thought skeptically as she dug through her change purse for a subway token. That wasn’t fair, she reprimanded herself; she’d try to see the play for the sake of the starry-eyed author. Her aging minivan had been making weird noises and she’d left it at the garage to be checked out. Fingers crossed—her budget was extremely tight right now. There was no room for repairs on top of the mortgage payments, not unless business picked up and that was highly unlikely at this time of year. People would be getting their Christmas credit-card bills soon and paying someone to reorganize their households was not a top priority.

She had no idea how the show had gone but she hoped it brought in some new business. Every little bit of publicity helped. She’d watch the interview at home later, when the show aired. She and who else? Who watched afternoon television between Christmas and New Year’s Eve? Anyone with any kind of life was busy with holiday activities, going away somewhere warm with a lover, skiing for the week with the family in Vermont. Something a little more exciting than going to the after-Christmas sales by herself. If only Zoey and Charlotte weren’t so busy right now…

This week she had two small jobs and then Charlotte’s wedding was coming up on New Year’s Eve, next Monday. That, at least, was something to look forward to.

“Oh, there you are!” Candace Downing slipped into the cloakroom, closing the door behind her. “I was hoping you hadn’t gone yet—did you catch the rest of the show?” Her eyes were sparkling and her hands fluttered.

Lydia nodded. She’d been curious to see the puppet guy. How weird was that—doing a puppet act for pets? Plus, she was always looking for interesting party acts so she could recommend them to clients who asked, an old habit from her days with Call-a-Girl, the little do-everything business she and Charlotte and Zoey had run when they were in college. She’d met Zoey Phillips and Charlotte Moore ten years ago when they all worked at Jasper Park Lodge in the Alberta Rockies the summer after high-school graduation. That fall, they’d started Call-a-Girl. Cutting grass, shoveling snow, catering birthdays, house-sitting, walking dogs—they did anything to pay the bills.

Now Charlotte was getting married at City Hall on New Year’s Eve, Zoey was marrying some cowboy from out West just before Valentine’s Day—and Lydia was cooking no-fat meals for a ladies-who’d-rather-lunch breakfast club and organizing closets for an industrial tycoon who’d bullied her on her fee to the point where she’d nearly turned down the job even though she needed the work. You could see why these people got rich; they never let go of anything.

“You wanted to see me?” Lydia smoothed on her gloves. Bright, bright red, to match her cashmere beret from Holt’s, a pre-Christmas sale present to herself.

“Nice gloves,” Candace said.

“Thank you.” Lydia smiled.

“Listen, have you got time for a coffee?” Candace glanced at her watch. She was a small woman, much more petite than she appeared on television. Thick dark hair, blue eyes, very pretty.

“Sure. Why?” Lydia was mystified. She’d done a good interview with Candace Downing, she thought. The invitation to be a guest on her show was welcome, particularly during the slow holiday season. She’d expected a bit of a put-down for the work she did with Domestica—she often got one—so had been prepared with her answers. Lydia believed passionately that her work had a positive effect on people’s lives. Had she made a convert? Maybe. Candace probably wanted to hire her. Some people were so furtive about it. As if aspiring to a well-run household should be some kind of…of secret!

“Let’s go down to the caf,” Candace said, opening the door again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said on the show. I may have a client for you.”

They both ordered lattes in the cafeteria that served the building and the neighborhood and took a seat by the window. Although it was late morning, they were the only people there. It was Boxing Day, December 26, and Lydia assumed most office staff in the area had the entire week off between Christmas and New Years.

“You ever do longer jobs—you know, a couple of weeks, maybe months if necessary?” Candace stirred her coffee vigorously. Lydia had the impression that Candace did everything full-tilt.

“No, but I’d like to find something like that,” Lydia said. “A longer job would allow me to prove that the things I do can make a real difference to a real family. You can’t adequately judge results doing a weekend closet job.” She eyed her companion over the rim of her coffee cup. “Depends what it is, of course.”

“I’m thinking of my ex.”

“Your ex?”

Candace’s blue gaze met hers steadily. “Yes. His life is one big mess. I wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s raising our daughter and I worry about her. His mother helps out a lot and she’s very Old World— Portuguese—not that I have anything against the Portuguese, of course. But she’s very—” Candace gave her a girl-to-girl look “—you know, quite persuasive, and I’m worried that Amber isn’t getting the type of influence she should have….”

“How old is Amber?”

“Eight,” Candace replied. “Her nana is totally traditional. No offence, of course, considering what you do, but you know the type I mean? Cooks and cleans all the time? Believes a woman’s place is in the home looking after her man, garbage like that? She’s giving Amber the wrong idea about modern women.” Candace took a sip of her coffee, put it down and stirred in more Sweet’n’Low. She shook her head. “Very wrong.”

“What would you want me to do?” Lydia shrugged. “And surely your ex-husband would be the one to talk to?”

“Of course! Your Domestica thing sounds perfect, though. I’ll mention it to him. He takes my advice on most things to do with Amber.” Her expression was rather smug and Lydia wondered what kind of wuss she’d been married to. “He’s one of those guys who’s never done anything for himself domestically. Mama did everything. Ironed his shirts, picked up his socks, cooked his breakfast, tied his ties. Don’t get me wrong. I was never a great housekeeper—”

Candace laughed, looking thoroughly pleased to acknowledge her shortcomings in that department, which irritated Lydia. But she’d seen the attitude a million times before, especially with career moms like Candace.

“—but it didn’t matter. I hired people to do the nitty-gritties—and I have tremendous respect for someone like you who’s made a business out of it. Sam went straight downhill after we split up. And now, since he’s had a home office—whew! Seriously, you don’t want to know. Everything’s totally disorganized.”

“Where exactly do you see me fitting in?”

“Everywhere!” Candace leaned forward. “You could start with the cleaning thing, get that house of his sanitized. That’s number one. Then you could organize him. He’s totally helpless. He sends out all their clothes to a laundry, even Amber’s pajamas. They can’t keep a maid—they’ve had about half a dozen this year alone. Seriously! No one will stay. I don’t blame the housekeepers. These days they interview the clients, you know, not the other way around. They can get all the work they want at easier places.”

Lydia bit her lip. Sounded bad. “It would be a…challenge.”

“You could do it, I know you could. You’re smart, you’re organized, it’s your business, for heaven’s sake! Charge him as much as you want, he’s got money. Teach him how to shop and cook. You do that, don’t you? Yourself?”

“Yes. And I’ve got part-timers who work with me.”

“What clients do you have now—for food preparation, I mean?”

“A ladies’ breakfast club. That Raptors guy, Griff—”

“Not Griff Daniels! The basketball player? Is he as sexy as they say?”

“I guess so. If you like your guys seven feet tall.” Lydia made a face. “I don’t.”

“Hey, to each her own.” Candace giggled. “I’m going to try and get him on my show. Never mind that, you’ve got credentials, that’s the main thing. Sam can’t cook. They live on cornflakes, pizzas, Chinese takeout, Swiss Chalet. Or his mother brings food over. Isn’t that terrible? And I haven’t even got to the worst part yet!”

Candace studied her for a reaction. Lydia decided not to ask what the worst part was. “Listen, if things are so bad,” she began gently, “why don’t you have your daughter live with you?”

“Oh, no! That’s out of the question.” Candace breezily waved a well-manicured hand. “Sam and I made a deal when we split up so I could pursue my TV career. Anyway, he’s the better parent. I travel a lot and I have long hours, so I’m never home. Plus, well, you know—” she lowered her voice confidentially “—I like it this way. He’s a terrific father. Reliable, responsible. A natural. And Amber adores him. It’s just the chaos factor in his house, that’s all.”

Why, Lydia wondered, had Candace had split with such a prize? Obviously she wasn’t telling all. “Okay, I know there’s more—what’s the worst part?”

“The home office thing.” Candace set down her cup. “He used to do corporate law when we were married, but then he decided he didn’t like the hours, especially after Amber was born. So he cut back on the corporate stuff so he could do more of what I call street law.”

“Street law?”

“Hookers, ne’er-do-wells, B & E artists, old broken-down has-beens of one kind or another.” Candace shuddered delicately. “You name it. Waiters who’ve been robbed of their holiday pay by bosses, people who say they’ve been framed by the police, you get the picture.” Candace rapped her lacquered nails on the tabletop. “He won’t give it up. Feels sorry for those people. Luckily, he still has regular clients who actually pay their bills.”

“Does he deal with murderers?” Her ex sounded like quite a guy.

“Oh, no!” Lydia frowned. “At least I don’t think so. Heavy-duty criminals, like serial killers or bikers or anything, would get some big downtown lawyer, don’t you think? No, I’m sure it’s not dangerous, just that it’s no place to bring up a girl with these people running in and out of his house.”

“Surely not his house!”

“Well, home office. But he ends up making friends with half of them and they end up in the house. He’s very social. Anyway, that’s next on the list. First we get him organized, then we get rid of that home office. We can work on that later.”

“We?”

“Well, me.” Candace giggled again. She had a very girlish laugh. “But I can see that we’re going to understand one another very well, Lydia. And that’s half the battle, isn’t it? Will you consider taking him on—please?”

Lydia smiled. She liked Candace, one of those pretty women who were an inch deep and a mile wide and didn’t care who knew. “I will. Of course, I’ll need to talk to your ex—what’s his name again?”

“Sam.” Candace scooped up the bill. “Sampson T. Pereira and you know what he always tells people the T stands for?”

“What?”

“Trouble!”

CHAPTER TWO

SAM STEPPED AWAY from the shower and walked nude over to the wooden bench he and Avie shared by their lockers. He grabbed a towel and began to mop his streaming head. “Candace called yesterday, Av.”

“Yeah?” Avie Berkowitz, his pal from grade school and regular partner—perennially losing partner—at Tuesday and Thursday squash sessions, was already dressed. He examined his chin in the mirror inside the locker door. “To talk to the kid?”

“No, to me.”

“Ah. Let me guess—she’s on your case again.”

“That’s it.” Sam rubbed his face briskly. “She wants me to make some changes. New year coming up and all that. Get the house under control. She’s got a point. You know what it’s like around there.” Sam managed to squeeze out a chuckle. “Matter of fact, she’s already got someone lined up for the job. A guest she had on her show.”

“That’s our girl Candace. Why do something yourself when you can get someone else to do it? And, preferably, get our boy Sam to pay for it.”

“You’re too hard on her, Av.”

“She’s a bitch.”

“She’s Amber’s mother. She’s not a bitch—she’s just superficial. That’s allowed.”

“If you say so.” Avie ran a comb through his sandy hair. Sam stopped toweling to admire the way his friend expertly camouflaged the shiny spot on the crown of his head with a few quick strokes. Avie was only thirty-three, Sam’s age, but he was already a little soft around the middle and a little thin on top. “So, she wants you to get someone in to redo your life? We’re talking about a woman, I presume.”

“Yeah.” Sam finished drying off and reached for his jeans. “I’m definitely thinking about it. Trouble is, it’s kind of weird. You remember Steve Lane?”

“Of course I do. Graduated bottom of our class, lineman for the B.C. Lions for two years, went into real estate, last I heard. What’s he do now?”

“Stockbroker—”

“Bay Street?” Avie looked incredulous.

“No, Winnipeg. Listen, this woman is Steve Lane’s little sister, believe it or not. She runs this trendy one-person business, shopping, doing closets, cooking, basically straightening out people’s lives.”

“Doing closets? I could use someone like that,” Avie muttered. He turned to Sam. “Good-looking?”

“A babe. Major babe. I saw her on Candace’s show.” Sam stepped into his briefs and jeans and pulled them up.

“Even better. Do I detect some hesitation, pal? Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, history.” Sam grinned. “She used to have a big crush on me. Some coincidence, eh?”

“No kidding?” Avie studied him with real interest. “That a factor?”

“Well, no.” Sam sucked in his stomach to do up his button and zipper. Avie wasn’t the only one getting a little soft. Time to go back to Guido’s Gym and start punching bags again. This uptown squash stuff was great, but pumping serious iron was what he really needed. “I never went out with her. Never even talked to her that I can remember. Steve told me she had the hots for me. When I heard that, I avoided her like a bad case of the—well, you know.”

“Why?” Avie slipped on his jacket.

“She was fifteen, for crying out loud!” Sam reached for his shirt. “Sixteen, maybe. I just feel weird about it.”

“Hey, she won’t even remember. Believe me, at fifteen, they’ve got crushes on anything with an Adam’s apple. No kidding, my sisters used to go through guys like penny candy at that age.” Avie should know; he had four sisters.

Sam had two sisters himself. Why didn’t he recall stuff like that? “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Avie slapped him on the shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “Trust me, she won’t remember you. And even if she does—so what? Listen, I gotta go. Meeting somebody at five.” He winked and Sam laughed. “By the way, you got anything on for New Year’s?”

“Nope. Maybe go skating or watch the fireworks down at Ontario Place.”

Avie gave him a skeptical glance. “Really?”

“Yeah, we did it last year. It’s fun. This someone new you’re seeing?”

“Not exactly.” Avie winked again. “Brainy type from Accounting I’ve had my eye on for a while. We’re on for New Year’s Eve, too. You still seeing that pro tennis player? Delores something-or-other?”

“No.”

“Jessica? The art-school babe?”

“Not really.” Sam shrugged. “I’m going to a gallery launch with her in January, that’s all.”

“Okay. See you later.”

“Good luck.”

Sam picked up the socks he’d worn to the gym, walked over to the sink area and dropped them in the garbage can. He pulled a new pair from the twelve-pack of white athletic socks he kept in the locker. Shoving aside his motorcycle helmet, he sat down on the bench to pull them on.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t washed socks for years. Or briefs. He was embarrassed to send them out to the laundry, along with everything else. He recalled a law clerk laughing hysterically as he told Sam he’d read in the paper that Sylvester Stallone, the actor, always put on brand-new briefs straight out of the package, never wore a pair twice. They had to provide him with new ones wherever he went, on location. Brand-new briefs every day! Could you beat that?

Sam had tried to work up a laugh for the clerk’s sake—but, hey, what was so funny about that?

He zipped his leather jacket and picked up his helmet by the visor. Keys? He patted his jeans pocket. He’d brought the Harley although it was cold today. Maybe he should’ve taken a bus. But he couldn’t disappoint the street kid who kept an eye on his bike for him when he came to the Y. Sam always dropped him a twenty, which made for expensive parking, but the kid needed the cash. Now he had to get Amber from the community center day camp. On the Harley. In zero-degree weather. Bad planning.

Sam sighed. Candace was right; he could use some organization in his life. A sense of order and what had Lydia Lane called it? Oh, yeah—sanctuary.

THE DAY AFTER the television show, on the way back from finishing the industrialist’s closets, Lydia peered into her mailbox at the entrance of the converted warehouse building that housed her loft. Aha! Letters.

She opened the brass wicket and pulled out three cards, two flyers and a nice fat envelope from Wolverine Productions. Finally!

She ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents. Bull’s-eye—they wanted to rent her loft for six weeks. The contract was enclosed, if she was still interested.

Was she! Her new loft was a big financial worry. And now the van’s horrible engine noises were giving her heart failure, plus it had stalled twice in the last week. It was still at the garage and she’d put off calling to find out what was wrong. She didn’t want to know. Bad news, for sure.

She’d bought the loft on impulse last summer, unable to resist the location or the price, but her finances weren’t really solid enough to take on a big mortgage. Then there were taxes and utilities and various property owners’ expenses she hadn’t really considered. She’d made all her mortgage payments so far—a thrill after so many years of pouring money into the black hole of rent—but she’d overstepped her meager decorating budget this fall and been forced to economize drastically at Christmas.

Right now, with the usual midwinter, post-Christmas slowdown, she couldn’t afford to spend much on the loft or—heaven forbid—major repairs to her vehicle. But neither could she bear to live with no closets, raw cement floors and uncurtained windows. She absolutely had to fix the van, if it was broken. She couldn’t conduct her business without it and she couldn’t afford a new one.

Two weeks before Christmas, a friend in the movie business had mentioned that Lydia’s loft was a perfect location for one of her clients, and last week someone from Wolverine Productions had come around.

Now they were offering big bucks to take over her loft for a month, possibly six weeks. With the money, Lydia could fix up the apartment the way she wanted. It was terribly tempting. Her friend had told her that any improvements the movie people made you could keep if you wanted. Like paint, carpets, drapes. Even furniture. Whatever wasn’t rented, they’d sell you for almost nothing.

Lydia hurried to the elevator. The big drawback all along had been where she’d stay while the movie was being filmed. She’d tested the waters with her mother, but the invitation had been very reluctantly extended. Marcia Lane had a new boyfriend and Lydia knew she wasn’t keen on reminding him that no matter how fun and frisky she was, she was still on the far side of fifty and had a daughter of twenty-eight to prove it.

There was the possibility of using Charlotte’s place while she and her new husband were away on their honeymoon for three weeks, but that wasn’t long enough. She’d have to find a second place if the movie people wanted her loft for the full six weeks. Zoey? Maybe. Now, with the possibility of a longer job coming through for her…

Lydia punched the elevator button again.

Sam Pereira. After all these years.

Somehow she’d known he’d end up married to am airhead. It was justice, really. Lydia stared at the big steel doors as they slowly opened. Her loft was on the third floor. She hadn’t let on to Candace Downing, of course, but Lydia knew very well who Sam T. Pereira was.

And the T standing for trouble? He wasn’t far off.

She’d met Sam Pereira when she was fifteen. Chubby, naive, painfully shy and…well, fifteen. Her brother Steve had already graduated and was working at a menswear store, a job he hated. He’d been scouted for football in high school—as had Sam, Lydia found out later—but Steve’s marks weren’t good enough and the scholarship offer had been rescinded. Instead, he’d lived at home, worked out at Guido’s Gym and dreamed of being scouted by the CFL in a trans-city league game. Mostly, Lydia knew, he wished he had the money for a big, noisy motorcycle like the one Sam Pereira had.

Sam Pereira was hot. Hot, hot, hot. There was just no other word for it. He was tough and handsome. Tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, with a sexy smile and a body hard as a rock, not that Lydia had ever felt any of it. But she could guess. He wore jeans and sunglasses and black T-shirts with the sleeves torn off. He swaggered, and women loved him. Even her mother giggled and got rosy-cheeked when Sam came to the house with Steve. He was always full of compliments for her hairdo, her taste in clothes and decor.

Like Steve, Sam was an athlete. But instead of playing football after high school, Sam worked in a garage and concentrated on boxing, of all things. Lydia and her friends didn’t know anything about boxing except that it was an icky, stinky, sweaty sport where guys wearing baggy shorts bashed away at each other until one fell down or one was declared a winner. According to Steve, the judges were all on the take. So why did they do it?

Lydia and her group sometimes used to skip school on Fridays and take the streetcar to Guido’s Gym on Fisher Street to watch the matches when Steve or Sam was fighting. They were all in love with Sam Pereira. Exhibition matches were free, and Lydia thought that was because the gym was just glad to get a few spectators. She and her friends would each buy a hot dog and a soft drink and stand on the sidelines and scream and yell like the rest of the crowd, most of them men. If Steve happened to spot them, he’d always make a big fuss, send them home and warn her he’d tell their parents if Lydia came to Guido’s again. It was no place for a girl, he insisted.

Early that spring, goaded by her best friend, Carly Dombrowski, Lydia wrote a note asking Sam if he’d escort her to a Valentine’s school dance, a fund-raiser for the graduation festivities planned in June. Lydia thought it was a good thing. She knew that lots of past graduates of Selkirk High were attending the fund-raiser. Why not Sam Pereira?

She’d written the note—on pink, scented notepaper, she recalled, to her endless embarrassment—because she couldn’t bear to speak to him in person, even though he was a regular at their house. She was too shy, and what if he turned her down? A note was easier. If he didn’t want to go with her, he could write her back. No one needed to know.

The big mistake was giving it to Steve to deliver. Steve, of course, read it. He was furious with Lydia and reamed her out for being sex-crazed. A ludicrous accusation, since she was fifteen and planned to remain a virgin until marriage. He said she was just a baby in ninth grade, way too young for his friend—who had to be all of about nineteen or twenty—and too bold and too dumb and too just-about-everything-else. She’d yelled back that this was just a stupid dance they were talking about; she wasn’t asking Sam Pereira to marry her. She’d screamed and wept and complained to their mother—who’d put her fingers in her ears, Lydia remembered—and then ran to her bedroom, slamming the door so hard it nearly popped off the hinges. She’d cried herself to sleep.

Rather suddenly, Sam had disappeared from her life. Steve told her he’d gotten a job in Montreal, at an athletic club, which, she knew, was guy-talk for another seedy gym. Lydia always wondered if Steve had told Sam about her note. Surely not. What would be the point? At the time, Lydia hadn’t understood the reason for Steve’s behavior.

Later, when rumors about Sam’s escapades in Montreal and elsewhere penetrated their neighborhood, she began to understand. Steve obviously knew his friend a lot better than Lydia did. She’d certainly never heard that Sam had cleaned up his act and gone to law school and become a responsible citizen. What she’d heard was that he was always in and out of trouble—with the law, with women, with ex-girl-friends, with the shadowy figures who frequented the clubs and boxing world. He lived on the edge, no matter where he was.

By the time she graduated herself, Lydia had much more sympathy for her brother’s reaction. No way did Steve Lane want his little sister mixed up with the likes of his best friend.

At least not when she was fifteen years old.

Lydia opened the robin’s-egg-blue door to her loft and deposited the few groceries she’d picked up on the kitchen counter. The light on her machine was blinking—Zoey, wanting to know if she could meet her for lunch on Saturday, to go over some last-minute details for Charlotte’s wedding. Yes, that would be fantastic; she’d return Zoey’s call after she’d had something to eat. No messages for Domestica.

It was so odd, thinking about Sam Pereira after all these years. Steve never mentioned him. Until yesterday morning when she’d had coffee with Candace Downing, after the show was taped, she’d even forgotten about that little crush she’d had on him thirteen years ago.

After graduation, she’d gone to the summer job at Jasper Park Lodge where she’d met Zoey and Charlotte, who were still her best friends. Sam had obviously joined the real world, had a daughter and an ex to prove it, and she was no longer a virgin. She’d held out until twenty-two, a lot longer than most of her friends, and then given herself, heart, body and soul to a park ranger she’d met while working at a kids’ summer camp in Algonquin Park. That had lasted two months, before Lydia realized he was more interested in bears than he was in her.

Since then, she’d had several boyfriends. She was currently without a man in her life, hadn’t really been serious about anyone since Joel Monday, a guitarist and part-time clerk in a music store, who’d told her after they’d been seeing each other for over a year that he’d done some soul-searching and decided he was finally ready to make the big commitment. It was embarrassing to recall. Lydia had been poised, heart racing, wondering if she’d say “yes”—and then he’d said he was committing to his career and going to Chicago to join a boy band. Boy band! He was twenty-seven!

Since then—nearly three years—she’d started Domestica and had been too busy to invest much energy in her love life. Who had been her last date casual or otherwise? Let’s see—Tag Blanshard, the circus guy. Trained trick horses or something. He’d gone off to Germany on a circus contract and she hadn’t heard from him again. He’d been fun. Weird, but fun. What was it about her that attracted such oddballs?

Lydia glanced into her living area. Charlie, her lovebird, chirped his loud “how ya doin”’ greeting. The “What’s New with Candy Lou?” tape stuck out of the VCR slot. Maybe she’d watch it again tonight, after a nice supper and a long bath. She’d plan tomorrow while she watched; there was only tomorrow’s breakfast club to get through before Charlotte’s wedding. Charlotte getting married! She almost had to pinch herself to believe it.

First things first. Lydia let Charlie out of his cage to fly around the loft, then she poured herself a glass of Australian chardonnay and put the bottle back in the refrigerator. The phone rang.

She briefly considered letting the machine take it, but after the third ring she picked up. “Hello.”

“Is this Domestica?”

“Yes, it is. Can I help you?” Good—she crossed her fingers for luck—some new business.

“Lydia Lane?” She felt it coming, like a buzz in her elbow joints…. A sexy male chuckle. “Hey, you’ll never guess who this is.”

She thought about guessing, but he didn’t give her time.

“Steve’s friend—Sam Pereira. Remember me?”

CHAPTER THREE

FOR A SPLIT SECOND, Lydia thought about playing dumb, but decided that was giving Sam Pereira more importance in her life than he had: he was a potential client, according to his ex. That was all. “Sure I do. How are you, Sam?” she asked pleasantly.

“Fine, fine. Yourself?”

“Very well.”

“Married? Kids?”

“No.” She racked her brain for something to say. Funny how you could obsess about a situation like this—well, she had when she was fifteen—and come up with a million clever remarks but when the time came, your mind went blank. “How about you?”

“Divorced. One daughter.”

“That’s nice—not about the divorce, I mean. I meant your daughter, that must be nice.” She took a deep breath. “So, do you still see Steve much?”

“Now and then. We spent some time together last summer near Peterborough. I was with him and Avie—you remember Avie Berkowitz?”

“No.” She remembered a Jill Berkowitz, who was probably related.

“He graduated with me and Steve. We went fishing, the three of us and my little girl. Rented a cabin for a week. Caught some northern pike.”

“Great.” Lydia was starting to feel silly. Where was this conversation going? “Well, it’s good to hear from you, Sam, after all this time—”

“Fourteen years.”

Had it been that long? Thirteen, Lydia had thought. “As a matter of fact, Candace Downing mentioned your name to me yesterday.”

“That’s what I’m calling about,” he said quickly, the charm evaporating as he picked up on what she hoped were her cool, attention-to-business tones. “Candace is, uh, she’s my ex, you know.”

“Yes, she told me. She mentioned you might call me regarding Domestica—”

“That’s it. Candace thinks I could use your company’s services. Organizing my house or whatever it is you do. I’m not a hundred percent convinced but I told her I’d talk to you.”

“I understand. Domestica isn’t for everyone,” Lydia said stiffly. Honestly, she was so tired of people being skeptical about the joys and rewards of making a house a home, even people who desperately needed it.

“That’s what I told Candace. Can we get together to talk about it?”

“This is a busy season but I think I could work you in.” It would have been a lie, except that with Charlotte’s wedding, this actually was a busy time. “We could discuss your needs tomorrow or Saturday. Or toward the middle of next week? I have a wedding to go to on Monday.”

There was a horrifying split-second pause. “My…needs?”

“What you want me to do. You know the services Domestica offers clients?” she said hastily. From the frying pan into the fire!

And, of course, Sam didn’t miss a beat. He chuckled. “Hey, for a minute there…”

“Does tomorrow afternoon work for you?” she interjected frostily. Really! Mr. Charming hadn’t changed his ways much. “Say, two o’clock?”

“Two o’clock is fine. My place or yours?”

“It’d better be your place, Sam, since it’s your place I’ll be organizing, right?”

“Right. See you at two.” He gave her directions to his house and Lydia put the phone down, realizing that her hand was shaking. She wished she didn’t know him. She wished she was meeting him for the first time and could safely call him Mr. Pereira, as she addressed all her clients. It was part of the professional attitude she tried to maintain, which was hard when so many people seemed to automatically look down on the “menial work” they thought she did, even though they were paying big bucks for her expertise.

Just hearing his voice after all this time…

Would she be able to pull it off? The cool, competent Ms. Lydia Lane? Of course she would. This was just another job and a particularly interesting one, considering what Candace had said. It was ridiculous to even think anything else! She was no besotted fifteen-year-old who went tongue-tied and weak-kneed at the sight of a macho guy on a noisy motorcycle.

Not anymore.

And, besides, what was she worried about? He had no idea she’d ever had a crush on him. As far as he was concerned, she was just Steve Lane’s little sister. She was lucky he’d remembered her at all.

SHE HAD the breakfast club assignment in the morning, which meant allowing time to zip back to the loft and change out of her uniform of the past two years—black leggings, a loose hip-length striped black-and-tan linen tunic that said “Domestica” on the back and a chef’s apron. Sometimes, on a cooking job, she’d don a big chef’s cap, too. Kids loved that. When she was doing closets or helping a client organize other parts of his or her life, she added a slip-on apron that had a million pockets in it. Lydia had sewn the aprons herself, plus tunics for her part-timers, all of whom had families of their own and had booked off through the holiday season, until the middle of January.

The breakfast club ladies were full of post-Christmas gossip and entertained themselves while Lydia whipped up breakfast in the middle of Mrs. Laverty’s big kitchen. There were seven regulars, all longtime friends in their fifties, who rotated their meetings at each others’ houses every Friday morning. They’d played cards for a while, shopped and even hired a personal trainer for six weeks once. Now they were trying a no-fat breakfast club. This was the last one of the year, and Mrs. Laverty told her they’d decide next month if they were going to continue with the club or try some other activity.

The ladies were always dieting. Lydia prepared poached eggs with smoked salmon and grilled tomatoes with feta cheese and basil. She juiced man-goes, strawberries and kiwis for beverages and popped a batch of apple muffins in the oven for those ladies who preferred low-fat to no-fat. There were always two or three who caved and had muffins or coffee cake or whatever Lydia baked.

Then she rushed home to change. She’d been thinking about Sam all morning. She was curious about him. Where he lived, how he lived, what his daughter looked like. What kind of father he was—a wonderful one, according to his ex. Whether law school and responsibility had changed him at all.

She checked her messages when she came in the door, as was her habit.

“Lydia? Sam here. Listen, my daughter would really like to meet you. What about joining us for dinner this evening so Amber could be there? Nothing fancy. Six o’clock? If not, see you at two.”

Well. Lydia was moved. She did want to meet Sam’s daughter. See what kind of child had been produced by the union of a sexy Portuguese-Canadian tough guy and a delicate, Barbie doll TV-host mom. And, of course, she’d be spending time with Amber if Sam offered her the job.

Eight years old? The girl was probably either a terror or hopelessly adorable.

So afternoon businesslike was out and casual social evening was in. Lydia opened the door of her overstuffed antique armoire—she’d order built-ins when the movie money came in—and started pulling out and discarding outfits. She had an impression to make—on two people—and she wanted it to be exactly right.

SAM LIVED in a three-story brick Victorian on Parry Street, a block from High Park. It was one of those roomy older houses meant for a big family. The streets in the area were lined with mature elms and maples and Lydia passed a group of children playing hockey under the streetlights as she inched along in her minivan, which she’d retrieved from the garage that afternoon.

By this time of day, in midwinter, it was nearly dark. Luckily, she was able to park right in front of the Pereira house. Her mechanic had told her the van needed major repairs—a valve job, among other things. She didn’t want to think about it.

She reached over to the passenger side to grab the mixed bouquet of flowers she’d brought as a neutral-but-appropriate offering to her host and prospective client. Wine, she’d decided, was too personal and presumptuous for what was essentially a business meeting. She also retrieved her leather project case, a converted briefcase in which she kept notes and plans concerning the individual projects she had on the go, both the ones she was doing herself and those she’d farmed out to part-timers. With the Christmas holidays underway, she was on her own, and her agenda pages were dismally empty.

She had mixed feelings about accepting Sam’s revised invitation. She wanted the job, but she also wanted to remain on strictly business terms with Sam, something that might be harder to do while sitting down to a meal with him and his daughter. On the other hand, she was anxious to meet Amber in an informal setting. Father and daughter were both part of this project. Candace didn’t want Lydia just to straighten out Sam’s life and organize his shopping and menus, she wanted her to function as something of a role model for Amber. Not that a month or two of her influence would make much difference with a child who’d be at school most of the time Lydia was around.

And of course, she’d be working for Sam—not Candace—if the job was offered. Sam was the person she needed to convince.

She got out of the minivan, which had ping-pinged all the way over—the valve problem, apparently—and balanced on the icy sidewalk. It had snowed the day before but the sidewalk leading to the Pereira residence had been neatly cleared, the snow piled on either side. At the bottom of the steps that led to the front porch, Lydia noticed a professionally lettered sign, with an arrow pointing to the side of the building: Sam T. Pereira, Barrister & Solicitor. His home office obviously had an outside entrance. There was a buzzer, but Lydia raised the old-fashioned brass door knocker—incredibly tarnished, she noted—and rapped smartly.

The door was opened almost immediately. Lydia felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Sam Pereira! And ten times handsomer than she remembered.

“How you doing, Lydia?” He grinned and extended his hand. “You look great.” Was he going to kiss her?

She quickly thrust the flowers at him. “Here. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. You don’t look so bad yourself.” The understatement of the year.

“Flowers?” He seemed dumbfounded, then pleased. “Hey, how about that? You can give Amber her first flower-arranging lesson.” He held the door wider and Lydia stepped in.

The vestibule was warm, and Lydia could smell smoke from a wood fire crackling somewhere. There were no pictures on the wall and only a vinyl boot mat at the door, no carpet of any kind. He kept smiling at her, which made her blood jangle from her knees to her earlobes. Lydia fumbled with the buttons on her coat. He reached out one hand, still smiling, “Here, let me take that.”

Lydia pulled off her boots and allowed Sam to take her jacket. While he hung it in the hall closet—crowded beyond belief with coats, hats, umbrellas, tennis rackets, boots and school bookbags, to name just part of its burden—she slipped into the low-heeled black suede shoes she’d brought with her.

“Very nice,” he murmured as he turned to her again, eyeing her embroidered twin set and trim gray slacks. She’d thought the outfit faintly festive and yet businesslike at the same time.

She ignored the comment. “Well?”

“Come in,” Sam said, leading the way. Lydia picked up her project case and followed him. He was wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt, short-sleeved, which showed off his biceps. Despite the law degree, he still resembled a neighborhood tough, from the shaggy dark hair to the well-muscled physique. He even had a vestige of the swagger she remembered.

“This is my daughter, Amber,” he said proudly as they entered the kitchen. “Amber, this is Lydia Lane.”

“Hi!” A sweet-looking girl with dark hair and brown eyes was stirring something in a bowl. “Dad and I are making supper.”

Dropping the flowers on the counter, Sam turned to Lydia and whispered. “Do you want to be Ms. Lane?”

“Lydia, please,” she returned quietly.

“You can call her Lydia, honey. Uh, Lydia—” His warm dark eyes swept over her again. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Fruit juice? Water?”

Lydia hesitated a split second. “A glass of wine would be very nice.” She moved closer to the girl. “What are you making, Amber?”

“Some salad.” The girl stirred whatever she had in the bowl. Stirred salad? “It’s our special salad, me ’n’ my dad’s. We make it all the time. Even for picnics in the summer and at the lake when we go fishing.”

“I see.” Lydia stepped a little closer and saw that the girl was stirring shredded green cabbage, flecked with a few grated carrots and a bit of red cabbage. She noticed the empty cellophane bag marked “coleslaw” on the counter beside the bowl. “That looks yummy.”

“It is,” the girl said with a shy smile, giving the cabbage an extra stir. “Very yummy.”

“Tonight’s our big night to cook, right, honey?” her father said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of wine. “Riesling do, Lydia?”

“Just fine.” Her curiosity was aroused. “What else is on the menu, Amber? I’m presuming you’re the cook here and your dad’s just the helper.”

The girl giggled. “Yes. Dad!” she said importantly, addressing him. “I need the bottle out of the fridge, the stuff for the salad.”

“Ta-da!” He plunked a bottle of creamy coleslaw dressing on the counter and Lydia watched the girl glug at least half the bottle into the grated cabbage and start stirring vigorously again. “We’re having chicken and salad and little buns out of the fridge.”

Little buns out of the fridge? Sam poured wine into two glasses.

“Have you got a vase?” Lydia could see that no one was going to do anything about the flowers. She had the feeling it wasn’t because they weren’t appreciated, just that no one realized they’d die if they weren’t put into water immediately.

Sam reached into a cupboard over the refrigerator and brought down a dusty cut-glass vase. “Never been used,” he said with a smile, giving it a quick wipe with a paper towel. “I think it was a wedding present. I have no idea why Candace didn’t take it with her. It’s not my kind of thing.”

Lydia knew he was joking but his casual mention of his ex unnerved her. “Knife?”

“In the drawer.” Sam regarded her curiously.

Lydia pulled a carving knife out of the drawer he indicated and sawed off the bottom inch of the stems. The knife was dull. She ran warm water into the vase and thrust the flowers in, arranging them very hastily. It didn’t matter; they looked lovely. Shaggy and wild. She moved one cluster of chrysanthemums to a different part of the arrangement, then set the vase on the counter near Amber. “There!”

Sam silently handed her a glass of white wine.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No, thank you.” He picked up a glass himself and gazed admiringly at the flowers for a few seconds. Then, with a smile, he gestured toward the family room, which opened off the kitchen. The fireplace, with a fire blazing in it, was the source of the smoke she’d sniffed earlier. Sooty chimneys. She glanced around the room quickly. A very dead Christmas tree sagged in one corner. Other than that, it was a pleasant, comfortable room, but sadly in need of care. Dust on most of the horizontal surfaces, fingermarks on the woodwork, and the mirror over the mantel didn’t look as if it had been cleaned in a while.

Sam raised his glass and smiled. “To old friends.”

“To old friends,” she repeated, although it wasn’t at all true, and took a sip of the reisling, which was crisp and cold. They’d never been friends. She didn’t think she’d even spoken to him until now.

“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” he asked. “You being Steve Lane’s kid sister?”

“Mmm.” Lydia perched on the edge of the loveseat that fronted the bay window. “Isn’t it? Steve and I aren’t that close anymore. He lives in Winnipeg, has a family.”

“I know. You’re what, three or four years younger than him?”

“Five.”

“Then Candace having you on her show like that.” He shook his head and smiled. He still had a killer smile…. “How are your parents, by the way?”

“Mom’s fine. She has a new boyfriend.”

“Yeah?” He looked rather shocked. “What about your dad?”

“Oh!” She realized he thought her mother was having an affair. “He lives in New York State. Albany. They’ve been divorced for ten years. Right after I graduated from high school, actually. I thought Steve might have mentioned it.”

“No.” Sam shook his head and studied her over the rim of his wineglass. Lydia wished he wouldn’t stare. She didn’t really want this visit to become personal in any way. Maybe she could hurry things up in the kitchen. “Do you want to talk business? Or is there anything I can do to help with the meal?”

Sam laughed. It was a very familiar sound, one that sent little skips of sensation down her spine. “Hell, no. It’s our usual Friday night supper, when we don’t eat out, that is. Cabbage salad, those pre-made biscuits in the refrigerator roll. Amber loves them—”

The buns out of the fridge.

“—and some chicken from a churrasqueira on Bloor Street. That’s my part.” He checked his watch. “I’m expecting the delivery kid any minute.”

“I thought you said this was your big night to cook,” she reminded him, taking another sip of wine. She sat back, feeling slightly more comfortable. What had she been so worried about? Sure, he was sexy and handsome as ever, but now that the initial shock had worn off, she knew she was fine. She’d met handsome, sexy guys before. Even the circus guy was handsome and sexy, although he sported a few too many tattoos for her taste.

“Hey, we are cooking—biscuits and salad.” He set his glass on a table beside him, the surface of which was littered with magazines and newspapers. “What can I say? At least it’s not pizza.” He made a face and she smiled. “Candace was pretty impressed with you the other day. She thinks you could probably do a lot for me.”

“And you don’t?”

He picked up his glass. “Damned if I know. I’ve had five housekeepers this year. Or six, I can’t remember. I’m game to try anything.”

“I’m not a housekeeper,” she warned.

“No.” He watched her carefully for a moment, then took a sip of his wine. “I understand that. But I’m not sure exactly what you do.”

“I teach people how to look after themselves in their own homes. That might sound strange, but a lot of people just don’t know how to do it anymore. They lurch from one crisis to the next, whether it’s no bread or milk in the house at breakfast time or no clean laundry when they need it. They’ve never learned the organizational skills to create the kind of quiet, efficient surroundings they want to live in and to maintain those surroundings with the least possible effort. They haven’t learned how to balance their busy lives with the requirements of a smoothly running household. And that’s what I teach them.”

“Wow.” He actually looked impressed, which Lydia found encouraging. It was her standard pitch. “The kind of things moms do,” he murmured.

“Some moms.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Maybe your mom. And mine, when Steve and I were little. In the past, yes, these were the skills passed down from mother to daughter. Life has changed.”

“Sure has.”

She crossed her legs. “People are different, too. It’s not one size fits all. Everyone wants a different kind of home. I try to design systems to suit my individual clients.”

“Sounds interesting. We’re not too formal here, as you’ve noticed.”

“Yes. Some people like formal surroundings, with everything in its place, and others prefer to live more casually. The trick is to organize your home so that you like it and you have some control over it. That way, in the end, you actually save time, which you can then spend enjoying your home or being with the people you love and everyone’s happier all around. It works, believe me.”

Sam laughed and Lydia’s fingers tightened on her drink. “Almost too good to be true. I’ve tried cleaning services. Live-ins. Housekeepers…” He glanced around the cluttered family room. “Hell, I’ve had so many housekeepers I’ve got the employment service on speed dial. No one ever stays. Seriously, I have no idea why. Then, when things get really bad, my mother steps in. She’s our lifesaver. Right now they’re in Portugal—”

“And it’s hardly her responsibility, is it?”

“No,” he said slowly. “Of course not. She’s raised three kids. She doesn’t need to be worrying about my household as well as her own.”

“Exactly. You’re a grown man. You should be able to look after yourself.”

He stared at her. Lydia wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds. “You’re right. I should be able to handle this. So tell me what you’d suggest for a hopeless case like me.”

Whew! For a few seconds there, she wondered if he’d taken offense. She reminded herself just how desperately she needed this job. “Nobody’s hopeless.”

“Promise?” He grinned. “Is that a money-back guarantee?”

“First we’d have some detailed talks about what exactly you want to achieve here.” She waved one hand to include the room. “Throughout the house. Then I’ll start teaching you whatever is necessary to accomplish that. Everything from the basics of how to wipe down and sanitize a kitchen counter to how to do laundry—” Lydia smiled but noticed that Sam didn’t “—to more complicated stuff like, oh, I don’t know—ironing tablecloths properly, making brioche, freezing perfect ice cubes. Depends on how much you want to do—”

“Hold on!” Sam held out a hand. “Forget brioche. Basic stuff, yes. Fancy stuff, no.”

“Like laundry?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe…”

Lydia wanted to laugh, considering what Candace had told her about Sam’s overworked laundry service, but she managed to maintain a straight face. “Basics are critical, of course, but you’d be surprised how much of a difference what you call the ‘fancy stuff’ can make to people’s lives. The happiness it can create. The serenity.”

“Yeah, I heard you talk about that on Candace’s show.” He looked at her as though he expected her to leap right in with a demonstration. She found the admiration in his eyes exhilarating and cautioned herself that she wasn’t here to be admired, pleasant as the sensation was. This wasn’t a social occasion.

She could hear sounds from the kitchen. Banging sounds. What was going on in there? “Do you want to talk about specifics now? Shall I give you a quick example?”

“Sure. Chicken’s not here yet.” Sam glanced at his watch, then leaned back and put his feet up on the leather ottoman in front of him.

“Okay.” He folded his arms over his chest and regarded her attentively. “Shoot.”

CHAPTER FOUR

LYDIA WAS VERY AWARE of his interest in her as a woman but realized at the same time that Sam Pereira liked women. Always had. Any woman interested him. “Prices? Services? Timetables?” she said briskly.

“Services.”

“All right. From the bit I’ve seen and from what Candace has told me, I’d start by overseeing a complete overhaul of your house, top to bottom.”

“Which would involve—what?” He frowned.

“Getting everything cleaned, first of all. Carpets, furniture, kitchen cabinets, floors, walls—”

“Wow. You do that?”

“No, I don’t clean. But I can go through your house and make a list of what’s needed and hire a crew to do the actual work. I deal with several firms in town that specialize in cleaning. They do a thorough job.”

He nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

“It would probably be best if you and Amber left for a couple of days, while the cleaners are here,” she added, doubtfully. This was a recommendation that a lot of her clients didn’t like. They thought it wouldn’t matter if they were on the premises but it always did. People got upset seeing commercial cleaners handle their furniture, move their goods around, clean behind their family pictures. It was human nature. Then there were damp carpets to dry, which took a day, sometimes strong odors in the house….

“As it happens, Amber’s away on a ski trip next weekend with a family from the neighborhood. Would that be too soon—if we go ahead with this?”

“I’ll check. I can let you know.” Lydia heard a clatter and a yelp from the kitchen.

“You okay?” Sam called over his shoulder.

“Okay, Dad! Just dropped the rolling pin. Don’t worry, it didn’t break.”

“I’m more worried about your toes, honey,” he called back.

Lydia raised one eyebrow. Rolling pin?

“She’s doing the biscuits, I guess. Okay, cleaning. I’d be in town but I’d stay out of your way, I promise. What about you? What would you be doing?”

“Me? Besides supervising subcontractors, I’d come in on the organization side. We’d go through everything together. For example, I’d guess that you want your closets done—that hall closet looks pretty bad. Also kitchen cabinets, linen closets, drawers, things like that.”

“Linen closets. Hmm.”

Lydia’s cheeks were hot. The fire was blazing and it was very warm in the room, especially with two sweaters on. The wine didn’t help.

“Sanctuary. Harmony. Isn’t that what you promised on television?” He smiled. “I admit, it sounds very appealing. You’d be doing this…this organizing yourself, right? Not someone who works for you?”

“Is that a factor?” She wondered why her heart was racing.

“Yes, it is,” he said with a shrug. “I know you. Well, I sort of know you from the past. Right?” When Lydia nodded he continued. “Amber knows Steve. I think I told you we went fishing last year. Now Candace has had you on her show. Let’s just say I’d like to—you know, keep this personal. In fact, I insist. That’s why I preferred to have you meet Amber casually tonight. Almost as though this is an ordinary social occasion.”

She wasn’t convinced by his reasons but, regardless, his position fit in with her plans.

Oh. She suddenly got it.

“That way if Amber didn’t take to you or I decided not to do this, we could just drop the whole thing and she’d—well, you’re just a family friend who stopped by for dinner once.” He smiled wryly. “Then I could start interviewing housekeepers all over again, like we’ve done before.”

“Dinner!” Amber came into the dining room with the bowl of cabbage salad in her hands, her eyes shining with pleasure. “Everything’s ready, Dad.” Her jeans were rolled up, obviously too long for her, and her feet were bare. Lydia realized how proud and pleased the girl was to participate in the dinner preparations for her father’s guest. Somehow, Lydia couldn’t see Candace allowing an eight-year-old to muck about with a salad or touch a hot oven to bake biscuits. If it was a safety issue, maybe Sam shouldn’t either…. Lydia didn’t know.

The doorbell rang. Sam stood and took Lydia’s empty wineglass from her nerveless fingers.

“You understand, don’t you?” he said softly, moving very close to her. She met his gaze, difficult as it was with him so near.

“Yes,” she said. “I understand.”

The doorbell rang again.

“You go join Amber at the table, okay?” he said, touching her shoulder lightly. He looked apologetic but she supposed he’d actually done her a favor by letting her know how things stood. “This is her big event. I’ll bring in the chicken.”

DESSERT WAS Rocky Road ice cream. A premium brand, Lydia noted, but then she hadn’t thought for a moment that Sam was a penny-pincher or that his domestic problems were a result of being reluctant to spend money.

Lydia learned quite a lot during the meal, without prying at all. Amber, she was relieved to see, took to her immediately, maybe because Lydia had complimented her warmly on her salad.

The girl had had a series of nannies since her mother left, then there’d been an exclusive day care for a while followed by up-and-down relationships with a series of housekeepers. Sam Pereira had tried everything in his attempts to do the best for his daughter and run his household smoothly at the same time.

Everything except Domestica. Her services didn’t come cheap, but she didn’t think Sam would object to the expense. He seemed desperate.

As for the salad, it was quite good. Kind of mushy, but tasty—the way leftover coleslaw tasted. Lydia had caught Sam’s eye once or twice as Amber rattled on, telling her about school and what Santa brought her for Christmas, and had been hard-pressed to keep a straight face. He’d been worried that she wouldn’t get along with his child! Surely the only objections he could have now would be to the price, possibly, and the service she could provide. She crossed her fingers under the table; she needed this job.

Toward the end of the meal Sam casually asked Lydia what she had planned for New Year’s Eve and Lydia reminded him that she was going to one of her best friends’ weddings. At the news, Amber stared at her so raptly that Lydia almost felt embarrassed.

“Oh, I wish I could see a bride. I’ve never been to a wedding.” She glanced at her father.

“Never?”

Amber shook her head and Sam looked uncomfortable. “Never. My best friend has, Tania, her cousin got married and she got to go….” The girl’s voice trailed off and Lydia felt a pang of sympathy.

“Excuse me.” Sam cleared his throat and left the table. He carried the empty ice cream dishes into the kitchen, where he piled them on top of a stack of soiled dishes already in the sink. Lydia followed him with some glasses and cutlery. She wondered how one small girl could dirty so many dishes making salad-out-of-a-bag and refrigerator dinner rolls.

“Coffee?”

“Do I dare?”

“Of course you do,” he said with a grin. “I make excellent coffee. It’s one of my prime domestic skills. Trust me.” He reached into a cupboard for mugs. “So, your best friend’s wedding, huh?”

“One of my best friends. Charlotte. The other best friend, Zoey Phillips, is getting married in February.”

Lydia was sorry the conversation had veered to weddings. She went back to the dining room for the dish containing the remaining coleslaw and the chicken bucket, which had been plunked down in its cardboard container in the center of the table. Even though she was technically a guest, there was no ceremony here….

“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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