Holiday in Your Heart (17 page)

“And you did.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Not that it's gotten me that promised phone sex.”

“Yet. But since I've been remiss about that, how about I make it up to you tonight with in-person sex?” She couldn't keep her eyes off him, with his casually styled hair, dark skin, and tailored shirt. Was he, objectively speaking, really the most handsome, sexy man she'd ever gone out with, or was it pheromones speaking?

He gave that white, rakish grin of his. “That's an offer I won't refuse.” Under the table, his foot nudged hers.

Trying to control her racing pulse, Maribeth got the conversation back on track. “So, anyhow, I gather your landladies voted in favor of Caruso?”

“They said they'd give him a chance.” He gave a soft laugh. “Which, I think, was pretty much their attitude when they rented to me as well. Anyhow, so there I was Monday night, installing a small-sized pet door.”

“Small? Oh, because he's like a cat and can squeeze through small spaces?”

“Yeah, he only needs a space as wide as his face. That's something the ladies found out on the Internet. And the smaller the door, the less cold air comes in with him.”

“He's using it?”

“Yeah, he thinks it's fun.”

She smiled, liking the dog and the man better all the time. “He sleeps inside at your place at night? Where?”

“A wooden apple crate. My landladies had a couple of old blankets they said they didn't need.”

“What are you feeding him?”

“Dog food. Ms. Haldenby told me which kind to get.”

“You bought dog food. And you have a doggy bed.” She put her elbows on the table, clasped her hands, and rested her chin on them. “Aw, Mo, that's so sweet.”

He snorted.

She laughed. It was so cute how Caruso had insinuated his way into Mo's life and how he'd let him. Mo's softheartedness gave her hope that inside the self-professed loner lay a man who would one day enjoy having a real home and a family. Because the truth was that in addition to being super hot, Mo was insinuating his own way into her heart.

Whether he wanted to or not.

Chapter Nine

When the attractive Japanese hostess had shown him and Maribeth to their table, Mo had felt a bit like a bull in a china shop—or like an auto mechanic in a refined, classy Japanese tearoom. And yet, sitting across from Maribeth and glancing around, he was starting to feel comfortable.

The elegant simplicity was actually relaxing: the pure notes of the flute music, the vivid purple of the spray of flowers on the table, the painted scroll on the wall portraying mountains and a Japanese woman crossing a bridge. Of course the thing he enjoyed the most was Maribeth's animated face. The deep red of her hair set off the creaminess of her skin, the brightness of her emerald eyes, the rosiness of her full lips. And then there was the tantalizing cleavage revealed by that sexy leopard-print top, making him remember the fullness and softness of her breasts.

Keiko returned to their table, taking small steps within the long, wrapped skirt of her printed kimono. She set their appetizers on the table and said, “Mo-san, would you like me to bring cutlery?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I'm okay with chopsticks.” He'd eaten in his share of Chinese restaurants and an occasional sushi bar. He could manage the appetizers, and he assumed that when his steak was served, there'd be a knife and fork.

Keiko dipped her head and moved away.

The plates of salad and dumplings were in the center of the table, along with little bowls of dipping sauce. He and Maribeth had their own small rectangular plates, so he gestured to her to serve herself first. Efficiently, she dished out small portions, and then he did the same, doing okay with the gyoza but being a little clumsy with the edamame and shitake mushrooms.

He sampled both dishes, enjoying the blend of tanginess and sweetness. “Good choices.”

“You can't go wrong with anything here.” She sipped her flower-scented tea. “Tell me how it went with Brooke.”

That called for a long swallow of his fruit drink as he reflected. “Conversation went in fits and starts. She told me more about how she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and realized she was an alcoholic. And how those discoveries turned her life around.”

“It was Brooke who was responsible for turning her life around. Some people would have just used the illness and alcoholism as excuses to keep messing up.”

“I know.” He shook his head ruefully as they both dished out more food. “Something we said is that it took us both one hell of a long time to grow up. She did it in her late thirties. In the hospital, drying out after an accident, being manic and getting diagnosed.”

Maribeth paused with a dumpling halfway to her mouth. “And you?”

“I was roughly the same age, but for me it didn't happen in a dramatic way. No accident, no diagnosis, no sudden revelations. It just got kind of old, that ‘rebel without a cause' thing. Kind of dumb when you've passed thirty-five. Getting fired from yet another job, waking up with a nasty hangover and bruised knuckles from a bar fight.”

Maribeth's gaze was intent, like listening to him ramble on was the most important thing in her world.

He shook his head. “So, anyhow. I was sick of myself. Did some thinking, did some reading. Went to some A.A. meetings. Figured out I wasn't an alcoholic, but I was just as messed up as the others, and drinking made it worse. One guy said the ‘tread lightly' thing. And it made me think about the harm I'd done. Some minor stuff along the way, and some big stuff to Brooke and Evan. I was a shit, and I was sick of being a shit. So I cleaned up my act.” He shrugged. “End of story.”

“Not the end. You're still writing the story.”

Mo wasn't entirely sure what she meant, but there was one thing he knew, so he said it. “Seems like we're always talking about me, and I'm way more interested in knowing about you. You're a good listener, Maribeth. But now it's my turn.”

She finished her last bite of salad and placed her chopsticks across a small ceramic crane. Mo had a crane, too, and until now had assumed it was purely decorative. “What do you want to know?” Maribeth asked.

“All of it.” He moved his chopsticks from his plate to his crane's back. “Your interests, hobbies. Why you chose to run a thrift shop. What it was like growing up in Caribou Crossing. How you decide where you're going to go for those holidays of yours. What's your—” He broke off to smile at Keiko as she approached the table rather tentatively, like she didn't want to interrupt.

The hostess cleared their appetizer plates, leaving their chopsticks and saying, “I will be back with your prawns and steak.”

She returned quickly, and Mo saw that he wouldn't need a knife and fork after all because the steak had been sliced. It wasn't what he'd expected, yet it looked and smelled delicious, sitting atop a mix of rice and vegetables.

“Is the drink to your liking, Mo-san?” Keiko asked.

“It's great, Keiko. I'll have another, when you get a chance. And the steak looks wonderful. Thank you.”

“Maribeth-san, a glass of wine perhaps?”

“Not tonight, thanks, Keiko. I'm happy with the tea.”

“I will freshen it up.” She whisked the teapot away.

Mo and Maribeth both tasted their meals, proclaimed them good, and exchanged bites. They thanked Keiko when she returned with fresh drinks. Then, with all the little rituals out of the way, he returned to the subject he was most interested in. “Tell me something about you, Maribeth Scott.”

“Well, I had a wonderful childhood, right in that same house I live in now. The only thing I was unhappy about was being an only child. I wanted siblings. When I was a little kid I was a pest about it.” She sighed. “Until one day my poor mom sat me down and said it wasn't that she and Dad hadn't wanted more children, but they weren't able to have them, and every time I whined about it I hurt them.”

He nodded his understanding. “As an only child, were you spoiled rotten?”

“No. My mom and dad were responsible parents. They made sure I had everything I needed plus a few treats, but they didn't overindulge me. They taught me about priorities, the value of money, budgeting. Just because a girlfriend had a new doll or sweater or whatever, or got to buy candy after school or go to the movies whenever she wanted to, that didn't mean I got to do it.”

“Did you whine about that, too?” he asked with a grin.

“Sometimes, yeah.” She wrinkled her cute turned-up nose. “And they'd tell me I shouldn't have blown through my allowance so quickly. As I got older, I realized they'd done me a huge favor. Their lessons stood me in strong stead when I wanted to open my own business.”

“They do sound like good parents. Like they thought about what was right for you rather than what they wanted from you.” He wondered how he'd have turned out if he'd been born to parents like hers. And he felt like an utter shit for not doing right by Evan. No wonder his son didn't want to see him ever again.

“Absolutely. They taught me how parenting should be done.” She blinked and then looked down at her plate and concentrated on picking up a prawn with her chopsticks.

She'd said she'd like to be married and have kids one day. Was she wondering what she was doing wasting her time with a guy like him? His time with her was limited and would end when some better man came along. That was a sad thought, yet Mo counted himself blessed for each moment he had with this special woman.

Maribeth finished her prawn and then smiled brightly. “I think I mentioned that I got my travel bug from my parents. They both had a yen to explore the world, and watched travel shows in their spare time. They'd decide on a destination then do their research, work out a budget, and save for it. By the time I was sixteen, we'd been to England, France, Italy, and Spain.”

She put down her chopsticks. “The next trip was Austria,” she said solemnly, “in May of the year I turned nineteen. They said they'd pay my way, but I'd just finished my second year at university in Vancouver and, being the responsible kid they'd raised, I decided I needed to get a summer job instead.” She sighed. “They died on that trip, in a bus crash.”

“I'm so sorry, Maribeth.” He reached across the table and rested his hand atop hers. Thank God she hadn't gone with her parents.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “It was awful. We were so close, and I was shattered.”

“Were there other family around to help?”

“My parents were both only children like me. Dad's parents died when I was little. Mom's are wonderful, though. They have a house in Kitsilano in Vancouver, and I lived with them while I was at university. They helped me so much after my parents died, and I don't know how I'd have survived without them. And my friends as well. I got a lot of practical and emotional support, and I got through the worst of it. Grandma and Granddad were hurting, too, of course, and they helped make me see that what we needed to do was focus on the memories, the good times, the love we'd shared.”

Mo thought about Maribeth at nineteen, dealing with the loss of her parents. He, at the same age, had been messing up his life and Brooke's. “You decided to keep the house.”

“Yes. Living there made—still makes—me feel close to Mom and Dad.” She gave his hand a pat and then lifted her arm, freeing them both to pick up their chopsticks again. “I decided not to go back to university. I'd been studying arts and design, with the idea that I might go into fashion design.”

“I bet you'd have been great at it.” He picked up another bite of tender steak.

“Thanks. But you know, I've never been that interested in schoolwork, and I'm just not very ambitious. Fashion design is a competitive industry, and it'd be hard to do it in Caribou Crossing. My grandparents wanted me to move to Vancouver. The idea of being with them was really tempting, but after two years in the big city, I knew that the lifestyle wasn't for me. I'm a small-town girl. Anyhow, the mom of one of my friends was a career counselor, and she helped me figure out what I really wanted to do.”

Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward, and he tried to focus on those sparkles rather than look down her cleavage.

“I'd always liked shopping at thrift stores and consignment stores,” she said. “Friends came to me for fashion advice. And thanks to my parents' life insurance and everything else I inherited, I could afford to start my own business. Not only that, but it didn't have to be a business where I made a fortune.”

“That was a pretty special gift your parents left you.”

“I know.” Her eyes held affection and sadness. “I kind of named the shop after them.”

“How do you mean?”

“Dad, who was several years older than Mom, had this habit of talking about how things were when he was young, and Mom would say, teasingly, ‘Oh yes, way back in days of yore.' So I used that, but changed the spelling to y-o-u-r.”

“Clever. And a nice tribute to them.” He was glad she'd been so close to her parents. It wasn't her fault that each time she raved about how wonderful they'd been, he felt guilty for being such a shitty dad. “Tell me more about the store.”

He finished his dinner and drink as she talked enthusiastically, with him interspersing an occasional comment or question but mostly just enjoying listening and watching her expressive face.

When Maribeth finished her meal, Keiko came to remove their plates and ask if they'd care for anything else. She recited the dessert menu and Mo said, “How about you, Maribeth? I could go for that blood orange sorbet, if you want to stay for dessert.”

“I love the sour cherry and green tea sorbet,” she said. “So yes, please, Keiko. Sorbet for both of us.”

“Coffee?” Keiko offered.

“Please,” Mo said, but Maribeth said she'd stick with her tea.

When dessert was served, Mo kept the focus of the conversation on his companion. He enjoyed getting to know her better. She sure was rooted in her community, being involved in so many activities and having such a large number of friends.

“We're opposites, aren't we?” he commented as he pushed aside his empty sorbet bowl.

She considered that and then said, “In a lot of ways, I suppose. In the way we grew up and the way we've lived our lives.”

Childhood and adulthood. That pretty much covered everything. Except maybe for one or two of the fine things in life. “Do we have anything in common? Except for liking good food and”—he leaned forward, giving her a teasing grin as he murmured—“good sex.”

She returned the grin and reached over to weave her fingers through his. “Having a soft spot for stray dogs.”

Her words struck a deeper chord than she'd likely intended. He tugged his hand free and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that what I am to you, Maribeth? A stray like Caruso, and your heart's too soft to leave us out in the cold?”

She gazed evenly at him. “I think you and Caruso have a lot in common. You're self-sufficient and you're wary of people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“As for my soft heart, what's wrong with wanting the best for people and for animals? I'd like Caruso to find the kind of home that suits him, where he has protection and affection but also all the freedom he needs. I'd like you to . . .” Her voice faded and there was an inward expression in her eyes.

He uncrossed his arms and leaned toward her. “Yes?”

She blinked. “To find what you're looking for. What you're really, really looking for, deep inside, if you'd let yourself dream. To not only apologize to Brooke and Evan and make whatever amends you can, but to build good relationships with them. And with their families. I'd like you to find a home of your own where, well . . . I guess as with Caruso, you wouldn't feel tied down and bound, but you'd have affection and—” She broke off.