Yet they took comfort in each other. Loving, kissing, stroking and finding solace in their shared grief.

In the morning, it was over. All the quiet comfort of the night was gone and guilt, her companion ever since, lodged deep into a very private place in her soul....

J.D. had left and never once called her. Nor had he written or stopped by. She’d moved to Bittersweet, and, until that day just last week when he’d shown up and rented the upstairs room, she hadn’t seen him again.

She’d thought what they’d shared was long over. A mistake. A one-night stand.

Now she knew differently.

And it scared the heck out of her.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

“I’m just telling you she’s doing the best she can,” J.D. said into the mouthpiece of his telephone. It had been installed on Friday and he’d finally decided to report to his father.

“She’s no mother,” Carlo insisted, then his voice was softer as he turned away from the phone. “No prune juice . . . I don’t care, Frankie, I won’t drink it. Just coffee and toast. We’ll have brunch after Mass.”

“I think you’re wrong.” J.D. wasn’t afraid to stand up to the old man.

“About Tiffany?” Carlo snorted. “What would you know?”

“She loves her kids.”

“Love, shmove. Stephen’s already in trouble with the law, isn’t he?”

“A little,” J.D. lied. There was no reason to bring up the Isaac Wells mess; not until there was concrete evidence as to Stephen’s involvement. J.D. intended to take care of the situation—without his father’s interference. “She’s got problems, but she seems to be handling them.”

“Sure.” Carlo didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. “What happened, J.D.? Have you fallen under her spell like your brother—may he rest in peace—did?”

If you only knew. “I’m just telling you what I’ve observed.”

“Yeah, and remember, if it wasn’t for her, he’d be alive today.”

“You don’t know that, but let’s not get into it again.”

J.D. wasn’t foolish enough to point the finger at Tiffany for Philip’s death, but his parents needed someone to blame, someone to punish for the loss of their firstborn.

“You’re already standing up for her and you’ve hardly been there a week yet.” Carlo sighed in disgust. “Sending you down there was probably a mistake.”

“Probably,” J.D. countered, refusing to be baited by the irascible old man. “You know I go by gut instincts.”

“Humph. And what does your gut tell you about a new winery?”