Holiday in Your Heart (22 page)

“I told them everything. Including my talks with Brooke and Jess, and how Evan is refusing to see me.” He rotated the Stetson, running his fingers along the edge of the brim. “Ms. Haldenby said she thought we were right not to try and force him. She said he was strong-minded, and he'd been badly hurt, and now he likely needs to feel in control. She also said she hopes things work out.”

“And she and Ms. Peabody said they were fine with you staying.”

He smiled a little. “They said that I'd have trouble finding another place that would take Caruso. So I said they shouldn't feel obligated because of the dog, and I'd work something out. They said they didn't feel obligated, but they kind of liked Caruso. And then they said they kind of liked me, too, if you can believe it.”

“Of course I can.” She reached over to touch his hand, then returned hers to the steering wheel.

“Ms. Peabody said that they knew something about mistakes and regrets, about trying to make things right and about happy endings.” She'd also said she hoped that Mo would find his own.

A happy ending. Maribeth had asked him, when he first told her about his situation, what he'd like his life to look like. He hadn't had an answer because he'd never let himself think in those terms.

But now he had the glimmering of a dream. His relationship with Brooke would become more comfortable, and he'd slowly build one with Evan as well. Which meant he'd stay in Caribou Crossing. Would he get to know his grandkids? Maybe he'd see if he could buy into Hank's business, keep the shop going as the old guy cut back on his work hours. Perhaps he'd eventually get Caruso to relax about wearing a leash.

And there would be Maribeth. The warmhearted, sexy redhead would be . . . what?

A friend and lover on a casual basis? Until her craving for variety had her thinking it was time to replace him?

That didn't feel like much of a happy ending. But what did he have to offer a woman like Maribeth, long term, that the dozens of guys she'd dated hadn't been able to give her?

Wait. Was he seriously thinking about a long-term relationship? A commitment? He wasn't that kind of guy. Was he? Even if he might possibly be, it sure didn't seem as if Maribeth was that kind of woman.

* * *

The phone rang around eleven on Tuesday morning, and Maribeth answered it with a bright “Good morning. This is Days of Your.”

“Maribeth, it's Evan.”

“Hi there.” She glanced at the two customers, a twenty-something new mother and her mom, who were browsing through baby clothes. With the phone held to her ear, she moved farther away from them. “What's up?”

“The end of the year's approaching, and I thought we should talk about transferring the maximum to your Tax-Free Savings Account.”

“Uh, sure.” Every year in mid-December, they did that. If the government was going to provide a means of sheltering money from tax consequences, she'd take full advantage. But it was only the twenty-eighth of November, so why was he calling now? Unless it was a pretext for sounding her out about Mo. Even if it wasn't, maybe she could take this opportunity. “What fund would you suggest transferring it from?”

They discussed the issue, reached a decision, and then he said, “I had another reason for calling.”

“I thought you might.”

“I hear that you're seeing, uh, him.”

“Mo. Your father. Yes, I am.”

There was silence. She checked that her customers were still happily engrossed and said quietly, “I like him. I didn't know him before, but he's told me how things were with him and Brooke, and what a terrible father he was. I truly believe he's changed, Evan, and that he regrets what he did.”

“Regrets?” His tone was bitter. “How nice for him. He wasn't the one who suffered through all that crap.”

“He knows that. He's not making any excuses.” She took a breath and dared to make a comparison. “Like Brooke, he takes full blame for his behavior. He knows there's nothing he can do to make it right. He just wants an opportunity to talk to you.”

“Oh, hell, Maribeth. I have a great life. I don't need this asshole back in it.”

“Did you need Brooke back?”

Another silence. And then, “I didn't think so at the time. But . . .”

“But it helped you, being able to talk about your childhood with her, and to know how bad she felt about her mistakes.”

“I guess. It was a resolution of sorts.”

“And a beginning. You're very happy to have you in her life now, right?”

He snorted. “I don't see that happening with . . . him.”

“Maybe not. But you won't know unless you talk to him.”

“I hate this.”

“I can only imagine. But please give Mo credit for trying, at long last, to be a decent man.”

“I'll think about it,” he said grudgingly. And then, “Sorry. I meant this to be a business call. Or at least I thought I did.”

“Evan, it's okay. I'm glad we had a chance to talk.”

“I'll attend to your TFSA right away.”

“Thanks.” She hung up and, as she went to chat with her customers and hear baby stories, she crossed her fingers that Evan would open his mind, and his heart.

After that, more people came in and the store was hopping. It was one thirty before she had a chance to microwave the homemade cauliflower-and-cheddar soup she'd brought for lunch. She perched on the chair behind the counter and spooned it up hungrily, but was only halfway through eating when—wouldn't you know it?—the shop bell rang again.

This time it was Lark Cantrell, whose face was bright with excitement. She didn't say a word, just strode toward Maribeth and held up her left hand. Light glittered off a lovely engagement ring.

Maribeth squealed, and Lark told her all about Eric's romantic proposal at Zephyr Lake on the weekend.

“I am so, so happy for you,” Maribeth said. “And for Jayden and Mary.” Lark's ex-husband had run out on her and her son Jayden when, as a baby, the boy was diagnosed with cerebral palsy. Lark's mom Mary, a single parent herself, had moved in and been with them ever since.

“I'd told myself I never wanted to fall in love again,” Lark said, “but then along came Eric. He'd told himself he never wanted to have a family, but . . .” She grinned.

“But there you were, the three of you, ready-made, perfect, and totally lovable. It was destiny.” And she had to wonder, were she and Mo each other's destiny? If Eric could change his mind about wanting a family, maybe so could Mo.

“Well, it took us a while to figure that out for ourselves, but we got there.”

Her words gave Maribeth hope. “You're a lucky woman,” she told her friend. In all likelihood, within a couple of years Lark and Eric would be having a baby. Maribeth knew her friend hoped to give Jayden a little brother or sister.

Well, she wasn't going to be envious. She'd have a baby too, whether with Mo, by using the sperm donor, or by adoption if it came down to that. Maybe her and Lark's little ones would become good friends.

Lark moved toward the children's section. “I actually did have another reason for coming in. Jayden needs a new winter jacket. He's a couple of inches taller and a good fifteen pounds heavier than last year.”

“That's fantastic.” The adorable ten-year-old, who'd been confined to a wheelchair until recently, had always been small and weak for his age. “Let's see what I've got.” Maribeth skimmed her fingers along a row of hangers and pulled out a couple of possibilities.

“On the subject of destiny,” Lark said as she examined the jackets, “how's it going on the sperm donor front? Did you pick one?”

“The doctor. But, well, I decided to wait—at least until next month.”

“To make absolutely sure you want to go ahead? That makes sense.”

“Yes, something like that.”

Lark glanced up from the jackets. “Something like that? What's going on, MB?”

“I'm dating someone.”

Lark's dark brown eyes narrowed. “You're usually dating someone. Men, men, men, right? So what you really mean is, this guy's special.”

“Maybe. Kind of. I guess.”

Lark's black eyebrows arched. “You said Eric and me meeting was destiny. Is it maybe destiny that you'd meet a special guy just when you'd decided to use a sperm donor?”

Maribeth groaned. “I don't know. Maybe. But what kind of destiny? The kind that tests my resolve about whether I want to go ahead and be a single parent? Or the kind that sends me the right man to make babies with?”

“I'd hope for the latter.” By now Lark had put the jackets down. “Wouldn't you?”

“Yes! Obviously. Except I'm not at all sure that's what's happening.”

“Why not? You think he's special and you have feelings for him. Doesn't he have feelings for you?”

“He likes me. We have chemistry. But he's—” She broke off as the bell jingled again.

It was one of her regulars, a sixtysomething pensioner who came in at least once a week to see if there was anything new in her size. Maribeth called out, “Hi, Mrs. Appleby. I'll be with you in a minute.”

“No rush, dear,” came the reply.

“He's what?” Lark prompted quietly.

Her own voice low, Maribeth said, “Brooke's ex.”

Lark gaped. “No. Not seriously? Does she know?”

“Yes, of course. I asked her first. She's fine with us dating.” Maribeth frowned. “Mind you, dating—the way I've always dated—isn't the same thing as getting seriously involved. I don't know if that would bother her or not . . .” Oh great, another thing to worry about. “But there are other problems. He's ten years older than me, which isn't a biggie, but it's there. He's been a real loner and he's wary about relationships. Worst of all, he says he doesn't want any more kids.”

“Wow. That's some big stuff, MB.”

“I know,” she said glumly. “Believe me, I know.”

“But you feel that click you've always said was missing?”

She nodded. “And I think Mo may change his mind about kids. If he meets Robin and Alex, he won't be able to resist them.” Mind you, if Evan refused to talk to his father, Mo might never even see his grandkids. But surely Evan would relent. “And once he sees how wonderful children are, surely he'll be more open to having another one or two of his own.”

Lark frowned. “MB, I know you get these, uh, strong ideas about how things should be and how people should act. And yes, people do change. But do you think it's realistic to expect Mo to change that much?”

“He's already changed so much! He's not at all like the man he used to be. He's a work in progress, so of course he'll keep changing.” Bolstering her argument, she said, “Eric changed, right? He was sure he didn't want a family, but when he met you and examined his heart, he found that he truly did. That was a total turnaround.”

“That's true,” Lark said thoughtfully. “You said Mo is forty-nine?”

“Fifty, actually.”

She cocked her head, reflecting. “That's kind of cool. That someone that age isn't set in his ways, but still evolving.”

“I know, right? Mo really is pretty cool in so many ways.”

“How fast is he evolving?”

“How do you mean?”

“MB, you're thirty-nine. That's one of the big reasons you decided to get pregnant now, isn't it? If it takes Mo a couple of years to reach the point where he can see having children . . .”

“Women have babies in their early and midforties these days.”

“They do.” There was sympathy in Lark's eyes, and she obviously felt no need to reiterate a bunch of truths that Maribeth was already well aware of. Like the fact that every year she waited, the chance of getting pregnant grew lower and the risks grew higher.

Chapter Twelve

Tuesday night around 6:20, Mo sat at a small conference table in a meeting room in Evan's office. Evan sat across from him. The tension in the air coming from the two of them was almost tangible, so intense that Mo figured one spark would ignite it.

His son had called that afternoon and said he'd spare Mo a few minutes if he came by at six. Mo had showered after work and walked over. The office of “Evan Kincaid—Financial Counselor” was on the second floor of a two-story historic building on Caribou Crossing's main street. When Mo arrived, the office door was locked, so he knocked.

Evan had come to open the door and he and Mo had stared at each other, and then without a word Evan led the way through the empty reception area and past an office with a desk to this meeting room.

Now, after Mo had recited the same story he'd told everyone else—one he figured Evan would have already heard from both his mother and his wife—Mo was still staring at Evan, fascinated by him and fearful of his judgment. This was his son. A thirty-year-old man. He'd been a scrawny, awkward kid, but now he was a tall, well-put-together man in a lightweight navy turtleneck, navy pants, and a tweedy jacket. A man who in many ways seemed to be a blend of his parents, with skin lighter than Mo's but darker than Brooke's; hair medium brown with the remnants of sunshine streaks; eyes blue green but as unique a shade as each of his parents' eyes were.

Evan hadn't said much. When he'd ushered Mo into the room, he hadn't offered him a drink. He'd simply sat down, his body and face rigid, and said, “Well, you're here. Tell me your story.” And as Mo spoke, his son hadn't commented or asked questions. He had, however, huffed, snorted, and scowled.

It pissed Mo off, actually. Not that he wanted his son to be a pushover, nor did he expect forgiveness. But it was damned annoying listening to the sound of his own voice and feeling as if every word he spoke was being rejected out of hand. Still, he held on to his temper. When he finished speaking, he closed his mouth and sat still. The room was so quiet that Mo could hear voices drift up from the sidewalk.

Evan's face was set in harsh lines. Mo wondered what it would look like when he was happy, laughing with his wife and kids. With Brooke.

He thought of one more thing he wanted to say. “You gave your mom a second chance. I hope you'll consider doing the same with me.”

“Don't even compare yourself to her.” Cold fury colored Evan's voice, and he sprang to his feet like a coil that's been wound too tight.

There was no good response, so Mo didn't even try.

Evan paced over to the window and turned. “You screwed up. Every step of the way.”

“I know. And I'm sorry.”

“You hurt me and Mom! You were too busy drinking to even put food on the table.”

Mo nodded. His son was a contained man. His anger was unmistakable, but he kept it under control. Mo would bet that it would take a lot—probably an attack on his wife, child, or mother—before Evan would use his fists.

His son strode around the table until he was across from Mo again, but he didn't sit. He rested his palms on the flat surface and leaned forward, braced on them, glaring at Mo. “You never cared about me! Not one iota.”

“I did, in my own, uh, flawed way. But I didn't want a kid and I sure as hell wasn't mature enough to have one.”

“You sure as hell weren't.” He straightened and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You may not have wanted a kid, but I wanted a dad. And I deserved a decent one, but instead I got you.”

“I know. You deserved much better. Every child deserves to have two responsible, loving parents.”

The anger left Evan's face, replaced by an introspective look. His throat rippled as he swallowed hard, and an expression that looked like regret or maybe guilt crossed his face. It struck Mo as an odd reaction to his own straightforward words.

A moment later, Evan narrowed his eyes and resumed his attack, saying, “The best thing you did for me was to leave.”

“I've said the same thing to myself, many times.” Mo nodded. “Leaving was the best thing I
did
do, but it wasn't the best I could have done. I should've shaped up. Confessed to my sins, gone to jail, straightened myself out, and been a real father to you. And a real husband to Brooke.” Maybe if he'd done that, Brooke would have got herself sorted out, too.

“Ha. Like you were capable of that.” The words were harsh, yet there was a hint of something else in Evan's voice, as if his son was imagining what life might have been like if Mo had cleaned up his act.

“Whether I was or wasn't, I didn't do it. And I'm very sorry for that.”

“What good does an apology do now?”

“I don't exactly know. It feels like something I need to do.”

“For you!” Evan uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, bracing himself on the table again. “This is all about you. You're getting old and you've got a guilty conscience. It's like you're doing confession in church and you want to be absolved of your sins.” His face was tense and his blue-green eyes icy. “But you know what? I don't care if you feel guilty for the rest of your life. I don't care about you.”

Despite his son's obvious anger and his harsh words, an unexpected warmth tugged at Mo's heart and he felt a visceral urge to reach out and hug Evan. He wanted to ease his son's pain, but he knew that touching him would be the worst thing to do. Mo wasn't used to expressing, much less experiencing, emotion, but he had to tell Evan the truth. “Well, I care about you,” he said gruffly.

Again, Evan was taken aback. It was obvious in the widening of his eyes, the slackening of his taut jaw. He recovered quickly. “I don't believe you.”

Mo swallowed, wishing he had a drink to ease his parched throat. “I don't blame you. But it's true. And yeah, this is about me, wanting to apologize. But it's about you, too. I want—”

“I hate you. I wish you hadn't come back to Caribou Crossing.”

Was his son even listening to him? Or were his defenses, the ones he'd learned from his parents all those years ago, too firmly entrenched? “Does your mother”—Mo cleared his throat—“does she wish I hadn't come?”

Evan blinked. “She's been upset since you got here. She thought you were long gone. She was happy without you, and now you've upset her.”

Mo knew all of that, and was sorry for it. But there was more to this than Evan was letting himself see. “But does she wish I hadn't come? Has she said that?”

“Not in so many words. But it's obvious.”

“Ask her.” Mo pushed back his chair and rose. “Please, for all our sakes, do that one thing. Ask her.” He walked toward the door.

When he reached it, he turned back and again faced his son. “I quit on you and your mother once before, when things got too tough for me to handle. This time, I don't plan on leaving.”

Evan, still seated, looked worn out as he asked quietly, “Is that a threat?”

“I don't mean it that way. I'm just saying that it matters to me. You and Brooke matter to me. I'm going to wait while you think about this some more.” And then he walked out of Evan's office.

When he was outside on the street, the strength left Mo's legs. Shaky, he leaned against the cold brick wall of the old building. He raised one hand and dragged it through his hair, feeling tension pounding inside his skull. His other hand dangled at his side, and after a few minutes something nudged it.

He jerked, glanced down, and there was Caruso. Again, the dog nudged his hand.

“Hey, buddy,” Mo said. “I'm sure glad to see you.” He stroked the dog's head. “Come on now, we need to walk. Don't want Evan coming out and finding us lurking here.” As Mo forced his legs down the sidewalk, Caruso trotted along with him. Mo remembered to take the leash from his jacket pocket and dangle it from his left hand.

Where to go? He was too keyed up to sit in his tiny apartment, and he wasn't fit company for anyone but the undemanding dog. Calling Maribeth was out of the question. Maybe he and Caruso would walk out of town, hike in the cold for an hour or so until Mo's mind settled down.

In his jeans pocket, his phone vibrated, startling him. He still wasn't used to having a phone, or having anyone who'd want to call him. When he slid it from his pocket, the caller name was displayed: Maribeth. Maybe he shouldn't answer, given his mood, and yet he couldn't resist.

“Hey,” he said, the phone to his ear as he carried on down the sidewalk. More and more businesses were putting up Christmas decorations and window displays, which he figured must annoy Maribeth since it was only November 28. The thought brought a hint of a smile to his lips.

“Hi, Mo. Have you eaten?”

“Uh, no.” The thought of food hadn't even crossed his mind.

“I stayed at the shop to do some bookkeeping and I have a craving for Chinese food. But it's much better shared, so you can order more things. Interested?”

He was. Mostly in seeing her pretty face, though he did like Chinese food. But he said, “Not tonight, thanks.”

“No problem.” A pause, and then, “Are you okay? You sound a little . . .”

A little what? Abrupt? Depressed? Pissed off? “I'm okay. Just not, uh, very good company.”

Another pause. “Why not?”

He sighed. “I talked to Evan.”

“Oh,” she said on a long breath of air. “It didn't go well?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I'm sorry. Want to talk about it?”

“There's really nothing to talk about. I said my bit and I'm not sure he even listened. He's determined to be pissed off at me. In the end he said he hated me and didn't want me in his life. End of story.”

“Oh, Mo, I'm so sorry.”

The compassion in her voice warmed him. “Yeah. Well. I told him that I didn't plan on running away this time, and I'd wait for him to think about it some more.”

“Good. I'm sure he will.”

Right now, Mo didn't have much hope that it would do any good. In Evan's state of mind, the thinking would likely be about all the past wrongs Mo had done him.

“So,” Maribeth said, “how about Chinese takeout and a movie on TV, and we don't have to talk about anything at all?”

Caruso's nose bumped Mo's hand. The dog had acute hearing and had no doubt recognized Maribeth's voice.

It occurred to Mo that Maribeth was doing the human equivalent of Caruso's hand-bump. Offering companionship without making demands. Damn, but he was lucky to have the two of them in his life. Gruffly, he said, “You really do want someone to share that Chinese food, don't you?”

“That's my sole reason,” she said cheerfully.

“You're a fine woman, you know that?”

“Oh!” Rare for her, she sounded flustered. “Thank you, Mo.”

“Why don't you go home, get the fire going, put on something comfy? I'll stop at the Golden Dragon and pick up some food. What do you like?”

“Everything. I love their chicken chow mein, and please include something with veggies. Otherwise, I'll leave it to you.”

“Be there shortly.”

His energy had returned and his step quickened as he and Caruso headed toward the restaurant. Mo had passed by it several times, always thinking it looked tempting, but he'd never been inside before.

When he walked in, telling Caruso to wait outside, he saw that the Golden Dragon was very different from Arigata. This place, which smelled spicy and enticing, wasn't elegant and subdued, but well-lit and casual. Most of the tables were occupied, a couple by family groups.

A teenage girl emerged from the back and hurried toward him with a smile. She had Asian features and wore jeans and a white T-shirt with the logo of a gold dragon outlined in black. “Hi, I'm Emily,” she said. “Table for one?”

“Actually, it's takeout for two.”

“Sure.” She handed him a menu made of a sheet of paper folded in three. “Let me know what you'd like.”

He had a quick peruse and said, “How about chicken chow mein, the chop suey with nuts, beef with broccoli and black beans, and Szechuan prawns? Does that sound like a good combination?”

“For sure. And rice, of course.”

“You bet.”

“I'll put in the order. Have a seat. It won't be long.”

He claimed a chair in the entrance area and took a closer look at the menu. On the front was the restaurant's name and logo, and the words, “The oldest restaurant in Caribou Crossing. In continuous operation since the Gold Rush.” On the back, he found a blurb and photos. He learned that Yao Men Wu and his wife, Lian, had come to Canada at the beginning of the gold rush when there was a wave of Chinese immigration. They made their way to the primitive camp at Caribou Crossing, put up a tent, and opened a restaurant. As the town grew up, the restaurant moved into more permanent accommodation. The Yaos and their descendants kept it in operation until the present time, making it over a century and a half old.

Emily emerged from the back with two takeout bags, and Mo pulled out his wallet. “Are you part of the family who owns the restaurant?”

“Yes. I'm Emily Yao. My parents run the Golden Dragon. They say that one day it'll be me and my brother's turn, but I don't really think I want to stay in Caribou Crossing. It's, like, so small, you know?”

“Yeah. But there's something to be said for that.” When he used to live here, he, too, had disparaged the town. But it had changed and so had he, and at the moment there was no place he'd rather be. Unless, of course, his son continued to shun him.