Marie Ferrarella - Saving Home

Cris pulled her hands free from Andy’s and placed her fingers against Andy’s lips in an effort to, at least for the moment, stop the torrent of words.

“Shane is fine with this,” Cris assured her. “In case you hadn’t noticed, he’s really crazy about this family.” Resting her hand on the baby, who must have been once more attempting to kick its way out of her belly—a rather regular occurrence recently—the smile on Cris’s lips widened. “I am an exceedingly lucky woman. To have two good men love me in one lifetime, well, it just doesn’t get any better than that.”

Andy saw that there were tears shimmering in Cris’s eyes. Happy tears.

“No, it doesn’t,” Andy agreed quietly.

The next moment, Andy felt a wave of guilt wash over her. Guilt because she caught herself being envious of Cris.

Her tall, willowy, gentle older sister had had two men pledge to love her forever. Two men who vowed to be there for her so she would have someone to lean on. Not that she didn’t think Cris deserved the love of both her late husband and Shane, the man she’d married last Christmas. She did.

But was it too much to ask to have someone like that come her way?

Apparently, Andy decided, it was. She struggled to suppress a deep sigh.

Cris pressed her lips together, knitting her eyebrows into one very thoughtful line. “For a second there, you seemed like the old Andy,” she told her sister. “But then this new Andy 2.0 version popped out again.” Cris gave her a penetrating stare—and a warning. “You might as well resign yourself to the fact that you’re not coming out of this kitchen until you get it all off your chest.”

Andy just looked at her.

Cris shook her head. “And sorry, I’m not a sucker for that sad, little girl lost face you just put on. Now talk to me, kid. Let it all out. You’ll feel better.”

Andy shrugged, watching Jorge, Cris’s sous-chef, move about the kitchen on what seemed like automatic pilot. Cris was the creative one in the kitchen. These days, as she was getting closer to her due date, Jorge had gone so far as to insist that he wouldn’t listen to a thing she said unless she was sitting down when she said it.

As independent as her sisters, but less vocal about it, Cris had no choice but to comply.

Apparently Jorge’s stubbornness was on the same level as Alex’s. Cris had lamented that she was outnumbered, but Andy believed her sister was secretly grateful for all the help she was getting. It was to the point where everyone was anticipating—correctly—her next order.

Andy blew out a breath, surrendering. “All right, if you really want to know...”

“I do,” Cris replied firmly.

It took Andy a second to gather her courage. She wasn’t one given to whining or complaining. “For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m the odd girl out.”

“Well, there’s no arguing that you’re a little odd,” Cris allowed, then she laughed, her eyes crinkling with unabashed humor. “In comparison to the rest of us, you’ve always been the one on an even keel, the one who was always happy. You’re the one who always makes the world seem a little brighter, a little happier because of your attitude.”

Cris grew more serious as she made her way to the industrial-sized refrigerator that her father had had installed two renovations ago, at the time it became clear that the one they had could no longer accommodate all the food they needed to feed their increased number of guests.

“Go on. Don’t stop,” Cris urged. “There’s got to be more to it than that.” She took out one of the potpies she’d made earlier that morning and popped it into the microwave. Hitting the appropriate numbers, Cris turned around to look at her sister. “You were saying—?” she coaxed.

Andy wet her very dry lips before continuing. “You and Alex and Stevi, you’ve got your men. You’re set for life, for having your own families.”

This wasn’t coming out right. It was making her seem petty and small, and she wasn’t, she thought, annoyed with herself. She would have gladly laid her life down for any of her sisters or her father. That list also included her brothers-in-law as well as her nephew.

She was feeling this way because she wanted to be just like them , to have the promise of love and a family—her own family.

“And me,” she continued out loud, “I’m going to be your kids’ crazy old Aunt Andy.”

“Wait,” Cris said. “Shouldn’t there be violins for this part? And a blizzard? Definitely need a blizzard to sell this.”

Andy flushed. “You’re making fun of me,” she complained dejectedly.

“Damn straight I am,” Cris answered, crossing back to her for a moment. “Andy, love doesn’t punch a clock or have some kind of a mysterious, preset timetable. Some people find the person they were meant to be with early on, others don’t until years later—”

“And some never do,” Andy pointed out. And she was certain that she belonged to that group.

“Granted, some never do. But that’s not going to be you, kid,” Cris said with complete conviction.

“There’s no guarantee on that,” Andy protested.

“Yes, there is. I guarantee that there’ll be someone for you soon enough,” Cris told her fiercely.

But Andy shook her head. She wasn’t a kid anymore. She didn’t believe in fairy tales.

“Don’t argue with a pregnant woman, Andy. Don’t you know that aggravation might make me go into premature labor?”

“No, it can’t.” Then Andy considered Cris nervously. “Can it?” she asked in a far less certain voice.

“She is pulling your legs,” Jorge interjected, taking pity on the youngest Roman sister.

“Leave my legs alone, Cris,” Andy said, picking up on Jorge’s slight mangling of the saying.

“Okay, I will,” Cris agreed. “But only if you cease and desist feeling sorry for yourself for no reason. Part of the fun in life, Andy, is the journey.” She patted her cheek. “Enjoy the journey and don’t be so impatient—”

“Said the woman who’s been staring impatiently at her belly. Don’t you know that a watched belly doesn’t go into labor?” Stevi asked with a grin, crossing over to the long worktable. She’d come into the kitchen in time to hear the last exchange and quickly made her own judgment on the nature of the discussion.

Looking at Stevi, Cris shook her head. “There’s so much wrong with that, I don’t even know where to begin. There you go,” she declared, momentarily changing the subject as she put a steaming, individual serving of chicken potpie in front of Andy, who was already seated on a stool at the long table. Turning back to Stevi, she asked, “And just what brings you here, invading my kitchen?”

“Other than the wonderful aroma of one of your chicken potpies?” Stevi asked, a deliberately innocent expression on her face.

“Other than that,” Cris conceded. “By the way, if you want one—”

“I do,” Stevi assured her with feeling.

“There just happens to be another one in the refrigerator. I’ll heat it up for you.” Moving slowly toward the fridge, Cris asked, “You were saying, Stevi?”

Her mind on lunch, Stevi had temporarily lost her train of thought. “I was?”

Cris turned to fix Stevi with a look. “About what drew you over here,” she prompted.

“Oh, right.” Stevi nodded. “Now I remember. Alex sent me in here, told me to tell Andy to get her sorry little behind out to the reception area pronto like she was supposed to.”

Andy began to rise, but Cris waved her back into her seat. “Tell our illustrious pregnant Napoleon that Andy will come out after she’s had her lunch.”

“Sure thing,” Stevi agreed, then added with a grin, “After I have mine.”