She nodded, accepting defeat. “They live in Bayside.”
A half hour later, Jane fought back nausea as Gabe pulled his shiny, black Ram 3500 pickup to the curb of the quiet, tree-lined street. She stared at the gigantic wreath hanging on her parents’ front door. For a moment, she considered asking Gabe to park around the corner. Forget the fact her mother still wasn’t speaking to her. Caroline Whitmore was going to take one look at Gabe and start plotting his part in fulfilling the demands of Grandmother’s bequeathal. If her mother spotted the high-end luxury truck, she’d be on the phone with Father Martin before they made it over the threshold.
She lost her chance when Gabe stepped from the vehicle. Joining him on the sidewalk, she led him up the walkway and didn’t bother knocking. She used her old key. “Mother. Dad.”
Gabe shut the door at their backs, sweeping the Stetson from his head and brushing fingers through his thick, black hair.
“Is that you, CJ?”
She winced at her father’s call from the living room.
“CJ?” Gabe raised a brow.
“A family nickname.” She mumbled the evasion. The J in CJ was self-explanatory, but Gabe Sutton already had a low opinion of her. The C for Calamity was a topic she’d rather avoid. “Come on.” Jerking her head in a follow-me motion, she entered the room off the foyer.
An enormous, twelve-foot Christmas spruce, decorated with perfect symmetry in gold and white, twinkled in the far corner. Her father sat in his favorite chair, the Sunday paper opened across his lap. His gaze moved over the man behind her while he folded the paper, tossing it to the coffee table at his feet, and stood. At six feet, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, Thomas Whitmore was a big, powerful man. Jane almost felt sorry for Gabe, when, instead of greeting her, her father pinned him with his most intimidating frown.
Not that Jane expected any kind of warm and fuzzy greeting personally. In fact, she would have been shocked to receive one. Emotional greetings weren’t her parents’ style, unless of course, the emotion was disappointment.
“Hi, Dad. Where’s Mother?”
“She’s here somewhere.” His curious gaze held firm on Gabe as he called out to his wife. “Caroline?”
Jane swallowed and turned at the sound of her mother’s heels on the tiled foyer floor, marking her imminent arrival. Caroline Whitmore’s piques frequently lasted much longer than generally warranted. The loss of Todd, more as a trigger to gain her daughter her inheritance than as a son-in-law, was worthy of at least a six-month pout. The whopper Jane was about to deliver should be worth a decade.
Her mother swept into the room, looking crisp and put together as usual in a woolen day dress and pearls. The expected coolness of her expression arrested when she spotted Gabe, and the disapproving slash of her lips softened into a polite smile.
“Hello, Mother.” Jane accepted the air kiss to her cheek before her mother stepped back.
“We didn’t expect you.”
“Sorry, I should have called.”
“Nonsense.” Her father propped his hands on his hips. “It’s about time the two of you kissed and made up.”
Jane cleared her throat and plunged ahead before the conversation could turn to the reason for their quarrel. “Gabe, these are my parents, Thomas and Caroline Whitmore. Dad, Mother, this is Gabe Sutton.”
Her father offered his hand and Gabe shook it. “Mr. Whitmore. Mrs. Whitmore.”
“I serve on the arts council with Alice Sutton.” Her mother’s gaze grew speculative, a sure sign she was about to get her potential son-in-law flirt on. “Any relation?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I didn’t think so.” Her mother proved Jane’s concern right when she cooed, “She would have mentioned having such a handsome young man for a son.”
“Mother,” Jane warned softly.
She spoke over her. “How long have you known our Jane? She didn’t mention having a new man in her life.”
“Mother, please.” Jane spoke more forcefully and avoided looking Gabe’s way. “I have something to tell you.”
“What is it, baby? Please, sit.” She waved Gabe toward one of the matching couches. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Mother!” Beginning to sweat beneath her coat, she wanted to get this over with and go. “This isn’t exactly a social call.”
“Really, Jane. Mr. Sutton is a guest. It’s not polite to—”
“I’m pregnant.” Jane swallowed audibly. “And Mr. Sutton is the baby’s father.”
Stunned silence met her announcement. Her mother folded into the nearest wingback chair. Disappointment sparked in her father’s narrowed gaze.
Beads of sweat popped out on Jane’s brow as the now familiar bubbling in her belly threatened. Not now. Oh, please, not now. The silence stretched out while she drew in air through her nose.
“Are you okay?” Gabe’s deep drawl breathed in her ear.
His large hand coming to rest on the small of her back tipped the scales in the battle she fought with her stomach. Whimpering, she slapped a hand over her mouth and ran from the room.
Chapter Eight