Page 19 of Under Pressure

The doorbell rang, drawing Don’s gaze straight to the large framed picture of Amelia that sat on an easel by the front window. His stomach lurched, and he whipped back around to his bread. “You can get the door.” He clenched his jaw as he fought the lump in his throat like a man wrestling a lion.

“Sure thing, Grandpa.” The plodding of large feet over the hardwood floor moved away. A second later, the door creaked open.

“Remind me to grease those door hinges tomorrow,” Don said to no one in particular as he beat his batter. Beat it within an inch of its life.

“I’ll take care of it,” Sean said.

Don sat the wooden spoon down in the bowl, and gripped the edge of the counter, letting the cool surface ground him, as he fought the urge to snap at Sean. Don was perfectly capable of fixing a squeaky hinge, but he reminded himself that wasn’t what this was about. Of course Sean knew he was capable, he just wanted to help. So, despite how much Don hated being coddled to, he kept back his remark.

“Johnny, it’s so good to see you,” Nancy said as the sounds of several people shuffling into the house met his ears.

“Is that a new tattoo?” Harry asked.

“No,” Johnny said. “I usually have it covered.”

“I like it,” Harry said.

Don turned around to face his friends—his adopted family. Through the kitchen, over the baby grand, past the living room, and at the door, his friends came to an abrupt halt, eyes bulging from their sockets, as they glanced around the room.

Every available flat surface of his bungalow, except for the floor, was covered in baked goods. Apple strudel donuts on the settee, coffee cake on the coffee table, pecan rum bars, shortcake, and chocolate pie on the couch, carrot cake on the piano bench, cookies of various kinds on top of the baby grand itself, cannoli, minty chocolate cream cheese bars, chocolate chip banana bread, and eclairs on the table, lemon bars on top of the refrigerator, chocolate croissants on top of the oven, and other various projects in different states of readiness waiting to be put in the oven as soon as he removed the German black forest cake.

Winnie sucked in a breath and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, Don.” Polly’s gaze darted around the room.

Rosa crossed herself. “Santa María.”

Harry pulled off his plaid pageboy hat and placed it over his heart.

Walt picked up a donut and dug in.

Johnny was about to shut the door when Samantha’s slight figure wedged in. He glanced around the frame at her, his expression going from placid to irritated in a second. “What are you doing here?”

Samantha glared. “Not that it’s any of your business but I was invited.” Her job as the Activities Director for The Palms Retirement Community made her the perfect ally to their schemes. And Don needed her here.

“This isn’t a good time,” Johnny snapped.

“Let her in and shut the door,” Don barked.

Begrudgingly, Johnny stepped back, letting Samantha fully enter. Rosa wrapped an arm around Samantha’s waist as the group weaved their way through the baked goods to the kitchen. Don couldn’t help noticing the way Johnny’s bitter gaze dragged down Samantha’s figure as she led the way. If the boy didn’t knock it off, he’d have to knock some sense into him.

His friends were all dressed in their Sunday best, Walt and Harry in suits with ties—Walt’s baby blue, Harry’s plaid, and the women in brightly colored dresses. Nancy wore a salmon skirt suit, Polly a red pantsuit, Winnie A flowy lime green dress, and Rosa an orange dress. Gratitude filled him for his friends for wearing cheery colors. Amelia would’ve loved that. She hated everyone wearing black at funerals and red roses—which is why he’d gone with sunflowers, delphinium, and bougainvillea.

Samantha stepped forward in a yellow pencil skirt and white, button-up top, with musical chords on the collar—a Winnie creation, no doubt—her strawberry blond hair hung in a neat ponytail of waves down her back. She held a tray of homemade Oreo cookies. “Cocoa helped me make you some cookies, but cookies might be redundant.” She glanced around the room.

Don’s chest warmed for the gal. Samantha wasn’t a baker. She was a self-proclaimed mess in the kitchen. Yet, she’d gotten Cocoa to help her makehisfavorite cookie. Don grabbed one from her plate and took a bite. He was sure it was good, but for all he could tell, it might as well be ash in his mouth. “Delicious.”

From behind her, a muttered, “Suck up,” came from Johnny.

Samantha straightened her spine, clearly having heard it, but didn’t take the bait. She just took a deep breath.

Don glowered in Johnny’s direction, but Johnny simply smiled that shark smile of his, and acted like he’d done nothing wrong. Sean stepped closer to Johnny and kicked him in the shin.

“Ouch!” Johnny grumbled, bouncing on his good leg as he rubbed his shin.

“Be nice. Do you really want to tick Grandpa off today?” Sean whispered. “Plus, Samantha’s nice. We like her.”

“Speak for yourself,” Johnny muttered.

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