The Swallow's Nest. Emilie Richards

her skirt, the doorbell rang. The shower wasn’t running, but Blake was still in the bedroom. Shrugging, she set down her things and went to peer through the peephole. This was a gated community, and two men about her own age in jeans and sport shirts had made it through security and now stood on the porch. She opened the door a crack.

      “Can I help you?”

      The taller of the two, a man with perfectly normal features that were one size too large for his face, wrinkled his oversized nose. “Who are you?”

      “Since I’m on this side of the door, I think I’m supposed to ask that question.”

      He glared at her. “I’m Wayne Wendell, and my father lives here.”

      She saw the resemblance now, although Blake, at his son’s age, would have been much better-looking.

      She opened the door all the way and held out her hand. For the first time that day she was sorry she’d chosen her shortest skirt. “Marina Tate. I’m a friend of your father’s.”

      Wayne hesitated a moment before he took her hand, then he inclined his head toward the man beside him. “My brother, Paul.”

      Paul Wendell looked nothing like Blake. He was at least four inches shorter than Wayne, with a belly that hung over his belt and close-set eyes that were even closer now because he was scowling. Marina shook his hand, too, then gestured for both to come inside.

      “Your dad’s not feeling well. I’m almost sure it’s just the start of a cold, but I came over to make him dinner. He’s on his way to bed now. He needs to sleep.”

      “How well do you know my father?” Paul asked.

      She pretended not to understand. “I’m sorry?”

      “I said, how well do you know my father? I don’t think he’s mentioned you.”

      “I’ve known him a while.”

      “In what capacity?” Wayne’s eyes traveled down her legs.

      For a moment she didn’t understand. When she did she stepped back and stared at him. “You think he pays me for something?”

      He sniffed the air, where the smell of burned bread still lingered. “Not for your cooking.”

      She could feel heat rising in her cheeks. Blake took that moment to come out of the bedroom wearing a robe and slippers. His hair was damp, and clearly he had been in the shower.

      The moment he saw his sons, he frowned. “Is everything all right?”

      “You said you weren’t feeling well. We were checking on you.” Wayne gestured to Marina. “And look who we found.”

      Blake didn’t respond immediately. Instead he lifted one eyebrow before he went to Marina and put his arm around her. “Marina made me dinner. Not that I need to explain.”

      “I think I’d better go.” Marina kissed Blake’s cheek, then pulled away. “You need your rest. I’ll call tomorrow from San Francisco if I get a break. But drink plenty of juice. I bought extra, and there are cold meds on the counter. Please, call the doctor if you start feeling worse.”

      “We can take care of our father.” Paul stepped aside, leaving a clear path to the door.

      “I’m so glad you can.” She smiled at him. Then, just because she could, she winked. “But not in all the ways that I can.”

      Blake laughed.

      If the gloves had still been on, now they were off. Wayne stepped forward. “Dad, what are you doing? This woman is probably younger than I am.”

      “But with much better manners.” Marina cocked her head. “I, for instance, would never jump to conclusions.”

      Wayne acted as if he hadn’t heard. “I would appreciate it if you would leave so we can talk to our father.”

      “You’re the one who’s leaving,” Blake told him. “You and your brother. Right now. This is my house, and you’re not welcome if you can’t treat Marina with respect.”

      Marina stepped between them and touched Blake’s cheek. “Look, you’re not feeling well, and you don’t need a fight. We’ll all part friends and leave you alone to recover. Okay?”

      Paul’s voice rattled with anger. “We don’t need your help. And my father doesn’t need your attentions.”

      “That’s it!” Blake walked to the door and held it open. “Out!”

      The two younger men stalked to the open door. More words were exchanged, but Marina, too angry to trust herself, stayed out of the fight. When it was over, and the door had closed behind them, she shook her head.

      “Just what you didn’t need, huh? I’m sorry, Blake. If being your friend upsets your family, maybe I ought to stay away.”

      “It’s my own fault. I had to be away a lot when they were growing up, and they still resent me. I let them take over the business when their mother was sick and I needed to be with her. And after that I got tired of working so much and let them take over even more. Now they want to take over my life.”

      She was still furious, but fury had never worked in her favor. She didn’t let it show. “I’m sorry.”

      He ran his hand over his wet hair, leaving tracks where his fingers plowed through it. “You’re the first good thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

      “I like being your good thing.”

      “Don’t you dare stay away.”

      She thought about how not staying away would make his overbearing sons feel, and she had to work hard not to smile. “Then I won’t. I definitely won’t.”

      “I was thinking in the shower. Can you take at least one day off so we can go somewhere for a long weekend? We could get a flight to Las Vegas, see a show, have some great meals?”

      She had been to Las Vegas—hadn’t everybody? But she’d gone for one night on a budget, eaten at cheap buffets and played the penny slots.

      She didn’t have to think. This was her chance to do everything differently. “I’ll see what I can do. I might be able to take a day without pay.”

      “That job of yours is going to be a hurdle.”

      “Maybe I’ll quit someday.” She hugged him hard, but her mind was on other things. Like how she could use his sons’ anger against them. Like how her life could change for the better and quickly.

      Then she thought of Toby. If she had kept him, she wouldn’t have this chance. She had traded her son at least partly for Blake, but maybe it was going to work out best for everybody.

      “Stranger things have happened,” she said. “Someday I just might quit. Who knows?”

       11

      At age ten Lilia had fallen in love with her aunt’s “nest.” She’d stepped out of the taxi on her first visit to her grandparents and aunt in San Jose, and the tiny house had beckoned to her and whispered “home.” In those days the stucco exterior had been pale gray and the trim charcoal. Unkempt evergreens had flanked the house and hidden the lower panes of windows. As she and her mother walked up a crumbling concrete sidewalk, Nalani told her that while Auntie Alea could still walk, keeping up with the house was difficult now that she had Parkinson’s, and hard, too, for Lilia’s grandparents, who had moved from Kauai to help.

      “It doesn’t matter what shape the house is in, because Auntie Alea will never leave,” her mother added. “Leaving would kill her faster than any disease. She loves her nest the way I love my children. And while we’re here, we’ll do everything we can to make it a happy place for her.”

      Now, as Lilia stood