at Vito’s, Tara looked over the menu, still nowhere. No one had noticed Faye, so she must have met her father in the parking lot or slipped upstairs unnoticed.
When the birthday song rang out from a nearby table, she looked over. There were balloons floating above a girl’s chair, a pile of gift bags beside her.
Tara smiled, remembering a birthday party she’d had here when she was young. You got a free entrée and dessert on your birthday.
When the song ended, a man stood. She recognized him as Jim Crowley, who owned the grocery store and was one of her father’s poker buddies.
He headed for the restrooms. Here was her chance to talk to him. She made her way to the hallway and pretended to talk on her cell phone until he stepped out. “Mr. Crowley?” she said breathlessly.
“Tara.” He went instantly on alert. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She shifted so she subtly blocked his path. “I was just wondering, since you were at the poker game with my father, was he acting, I don’t know, unusual in any way?”
“It was a regular poker night. That’s all I can tell you.” He looked past her into the dining room, clearly wanting to leave.
“Was he drinking? Did he seem upset?”
“Your father was himself. The game was the game. I’m sorry for your loss.” His mouth was a tight line, closed against her. Why was he so guarded? “I’m here for my niece’s birthday, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Then it dawned on her. “Bill Fallon called you, didn’t he?”
He paused, considered that, then leveled his gaze at her. “Bill Fallon does a good job for the citizens of this town. He doesn’t owe you one more word. Your father would not want you upsetting your mother with wild accusations.” Anger flared in his eyes. “But then I guess other people’s feelings don’t mean much to you, do they?” He meant the grocery store protest she’d organized over unfair wages and hours. She’d been inspired by a unit on labor unions in her history class and organized a march with picket signs.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a family I care about.”
That stung. “I care about my family. I care that lies are being told about them. My father was your friend.”
“Yes, he was. And he would not want this. For once in your life, respect his wishes.” He walked past her.
She stood there, her cheeks hot, stinging as if he’d slapped her. This town. These people. So smug, so judgmental, so closed off, so infuriating.
She walked back to her table, aware that eyes followed her. When she glanced at Crowley’s table, Mrs. Crowley was glaring at her.
Perfect. Yeah, she’d interrupted a birthday celebration, which was impolite, perhaps, but there was no reason to be hateful.
For once in your life, respect his wishes. Did that mean her father had complained about her to his friends? The idea made her cheeks flame.
So blowing up at Bill Fallon had gotten her shut out of the entire poker group. He’d likely called all the guys to warn them she was on the warpath. Hell, the whole town would likely close rank on her. What if word got back to her mother?
It made her feel ill. Small towns. Small minds.
Except she should have known better. She should have controlled herself in the first place.
Talk to me before you come out swinging. She’d promised Dylan she would. Instead she’d confronted Jim Crowley at a birthday party.
She was dying to leave. Her appetite had fled, but she refused to give the gawkers the satisfaction of seeing her run. When the waiter arrived, she calmly ordered a glass of merlot and pasta marinara, her head high, her face serene.
Jim Crowley was wrong about one thing. Her father would want the truth. And she was going to get it. As long as she had Dylan on her side. She had to make sure he stayed there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT NIGHT, Tara parked in front of Dylan’s adobe-style ranch house situated on a huge expanse of manicured cactus and desert plants, and climbed the steps to his porch. Tile mosaics of hummingbirds decorated the twin posts at the top. Was it just coincidence or had he had the mosaics made in honor of the hours they’d spent on Tara’s terrace?
Surely he wasn’t that sentimental.
If he was, it was sweet. Or sad.
Maybe both, which was how she felt about their past.
She shifted the tequila bottle to the other hand, since her palm was