Holiday in Your Heart (6 page)

Brooke tilted her head, considering. “Pretty much. With some, it took time. I needed to convince people I really had changed. It was tough for my parents and sister down in California. I'd hurt them badly. Evan, too, of course, but he was so generous.”

“He's a good guy.”

“The best.”

“You got in touch with everyone you'd hurt?”

Brooke's gaze dropped. She studied the top of Maribeth's head. “Except for one person,” she said so softly that it was barely more than a whisper. “My ex-husband.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I didn't know where he was.” And then Brooke's gaze rose again. “And I didn't look all that hard to find him.” Maribeth knew that Brooke, now that she was sober, hated to lie. She rarely even allowed herself a white lie. “The two of us, we weren't good for each other.”

“And yet something drew you together in the beginning.”

Brooke's face brightened, and for a moment Maribeth felt as if she were looking at a teenage girl. “Oh, he was something,” her friend said. “Long, black hair, ripped jeans, leather jacket, and a motorcycle. When he walked, he had a swagger. He was older. A man, or so I thought. I'd matured early and I lied about my age so he'd go out with me.” She shook her head and grinned wryly. “I swear, Mohinder McKeen was the sexiest thing I'd ever laid eyes on.”

Maribeth could believe it. Even at fifty, the man was damned hot. So, Mo was short for Mohinder. But . . . “McKeen? I thought his name was Kincaid?”

Brooke blinked. “Long story, and not mine to tell.”

Respecting her privacy, Maribeth returned to the main subject. “So if you could see Mo again, you would?”

Brooke began to snip hair again. After a moment, she said, “It would be hard, but yes. There are so many things I'd like to apologize for. And I'd like to see if there's any way of making amends.”

Knowing that the words she was about to say would change her friend's life forever, Maribeth took a deep breath. It was the right thing to do. Wasn't it? “He's in town. Mo.”

The scissors dropped, clattering on the floor.

Kate and Mrs. Bowden glanced over as Brooke bent and fumbled to pick them up. “Sorry,” she called. She stood, holding the scissors awkwardly, her face white and drawn. “He is?”

“He just started work at Hennessey's garage. I met him yesterday when I went to pick up my car.”

Brooke plunged the scissors into ajar of liquid and swished them around. Under her breath, she said, “How did you know who he was?”

“I happened to mention your name, and he told me. Brooke, he came to town because he wants to do exactly what you said. Apologize and make amends. To you, and to Evan.”

Brooke's hand flew to her chest, where Maribeth guessed her heart must be racing. “Evan,” she whispered. “Oh my God, Evan.”

Chapter Four

Thursday, the night after Mo had left Maribeth's house, he was again stepping outside into the cold as a beautiful woman stood in the doorway of her cozy home.

“Thank you, Brooke,” he said. “I appreciate, well, everything.” He felt like an old rust bucket that's been driven over a hundred miles of potholed dirt road but managed, somehow, to come out the other side still on four tires.

Maybe she felt the same because when she smiled, she looked tired and yet serene. “I'm glad you came back, Mo. I'm glad we could talk and both own up to our failures.”

Anxiety stirred. That sounded pretty final. “But, uh, we'll talk again, won't we?”

Her smile faded and now all he saw on her face was tiredness and worry. “I'll think about Evan, I promise. I'll call and let you know.”

She had told Mo she wasn't sure whether it would be good for Evan to meet his father, and she needed to reflect on it. Evan was a grown man and Mo didn't need his ex's permission to see him, but he wanted to do the right thing, not cause his son more pain. He figured Brooke was the best judge. Still, she needed to do her reflecting fairly quickly, or Evan might find out on his own that his father was in town. But Mo didn't say that; Brooke knew it as well as he did.

He moistened dry lips. “It's not just about Evan. I mean, I'd kind of like to see you again. To talk some more.” She'd matured so much, and though they'd only spent an hour together, he thought he would like the woman she'd turned into. Besides, there were so many topics they'd barely skimmed over. To him, tonight felt more like a start than a conclusion.

Her lips trembled. “I think I'd like that, too. But tonight . . . it's been a lot. I need to think. To talk to Jake.”

Mo felt a moment's anger. Evan, Jake, why did his own future depend on these men? But he stifled the frustration. The answer to that question was obvious: because he'd fucked up so badly in the past. “Let me know,” he said, discouraged.

It seemed she read his feelings, a more sensitive and compassionate woman than she used to be, because she reached out and touched his shoulder. It was only the briefest brush of her fingers, but it was the first time she'd touched him at all. “Mo, I do want to see you again. I just need some time.”

Hope filled him. “Thanks, Brooke,” he said, finding that his voice came out a little ragged. He gave her a nod and then turned and strode toward the Hennessey Auto Repair truck Hank had loaned him.

As he drove back to town, the night was dark and drizzly, so he focused his attention on the road. There'd be time later to process his first meeting with Brooke in almost two decades.

As he pulled into the parking lot of the garage, the truck's headlights illuminated Caruso lurking by the closed doors of the service bays.

“Good God, dog,” he said when he climbed out of the truck. “You could be somewhere warm and dry.”

He'd found Caruso waiting there when he came to work at seven in the morning, and then the animal had disappeared on his own business. Now, as Mo walked closer, Caruso regarded him warily.

“Guess there's no point trying to take you back to the shelter, is there? You'd just go climb a tree again.” He shook his head, having to admit that Caruso intrigued him.

The dog didn't retreat, but held his ground until Mo stood beside him. The creature tossed his head, rotating it up and back as if he were looking over his shoulder. Then he gazed up at Mo. The dog didn't have that pleading “puppy-dog eyes” expression common to so many dogs. Instead, his brown eyes held a question, maybe a challenge.

Mo bent to run a hand over the animal's head, surprised and pleased when Caruso welcomed the gesture. “I live in a tiny apartment. Even if I had the slightest inclination to adopt a dog, and even if my landladies agreed, you'd hate it.”

Caruso cocked his head and made that warbly howling sound, kind of like a coyote or wolf call combined with whale song. This was one strange animal.

Mo sighed. “Hang on a minute.”

He unlocked the shop door, went inside, and hunted around for an old wooden box and some clean rags. He took them out and around to the side of the shop where the roof 's overhang created a dry space underneath. The dog followed and, when Mo stepped back, went to sniff the box.

“If Hank fires me for this, I'm going to be royally pissed at you,” Mo said gruffly.

Caruso hopped into the makeshift bed and again gazed at Mo.

“If that's a thank-you, then I guess you're welcome.” Should he feed the beast? No, as resourceful as that dog was and as healthy as he looked, Mo guessed he was proficient at finding food. As he turned to go, he found himself saying, “See you in the morning,” and he was actually looking forward to it.

He went into the office to lock up the keys for the truck Hank had let him borrow. A phone sat on top of the counter. Mo stared at it, thinking
Maribeth
.

That was ridiculous. He wasn't a guy who had people in his life to phone at nine o'clock on a night when a bunch of confusing stuff was going on. Mind you, last night he had asked Maribeth for assistance, and she'd offered exactly what he'd requested. She'd given him perspective and wisdom, and then spoken to Brooke on his behalf.

He could sure use some more perspective and wisdom. Not to mention a big mug of hot chocolate. Most especially not to mention big, expressive green eyes and a face and body that were pure pleasure to look at.

Okay, so that was what
he'd
like. But how about her? The woman had better things to do with her time than listen to him blather. Though when she'd phoned him at Hank's around noon to tell him that Brooke had agreed to see him, she had said that she hoped things went well. Maybe she'd be curious.

Hell, if he phoned, she could always tell him she was busy.

Would it be stalkerish to look up her phone number in the customer file? Yeah, maybe. Instead, he trusted his fate to the Caribou Crossing Phone Directory that resided on a shelf in the office. Sure enough, she was listed.

Feeling more awkward than he had in a long time, he dialed her number and listened to the phone ring. When she said hello, he said, “Maribeth? It's Mo Kincaid. I, uh, looked your number up in the phone book.”

“Mo?” She didn't sound pissed off, and that was something. “Are you back from Brooke's? How did it go?” In fact, she did sound curious, and almost . . . caring.

“It went okay.” He paused. “I wondered if maybe I could come by and tell you about it.” Quickly, he added, “Though you're probably busy.”

“I was just, um, doing some research on the computer. It can wait. Sure, come on over.”

“I could pick something up. Bottle of wine?” He had no problem being around people who were drinking.

“Thanks, but don't bother.”

“Okay. I'm at the garage. I'll walk over now.”

“See you soon.”

Walking was good. Mo'd always been a physical guy, and he tended to walk a lot of miles every day. Tonight, striding along the drizzly, almost-deserted streets got his blood flowing. Not wanting to show up empty-handed, he stopped at a corner store that was still open and picked up a bunch of brightly colored flowers that reminded him of Maribeth.

Yesterday, she'd taken him into her house through the garage. Tonight, he went up the front walk, thinking how appealing her house looked with light glowing out an uncurtained front window and smoke rising from the chimney. It wasn't just a house, it was a home, and again it struck him as strange that Maribeth didn't have a husband and two or three kids sharing it with her.

On the porch, he shook like a dog, trying to rid his hair and jacket of some of the dampness before ringing the bell.

The door opened and Maribeth stood there like a vision of . . . well, of something he didn't even recognize. Something warm and welcoming, like maybe the home that as a boy he used to dream about. A home that his ever-bickering, ever-demanding parents sure hadn't provided.

Maribeth's red hair gleamed, a coral zip-front top hugged her generous breasts, and gray leggings showcased her curvy hips and shapely legs. Sliding his gaze down all this perfection, he reached her feet and had to grin. The sexy, stylish woman wore fluffy slippers with puppy-dog faces. “Nice slippers,” he commented.

She stepped back, ushering him inside. “I love them. I wore them as a kid, and one of my old, good friends gives me a new pair every Christmas.”

“What do you give her?”

“Pajamas with moo-cows.”

He laughed, feeling almost lighthearted for the first time in forever. Optimism filled him in a tingly surge. Things with Brooke had gone as well as he could reasonably have wished. He and his ex had a long way to go—and she'd yet to agree to see him again, much less tell him she thought it was okay to contact Evan—but he was hopeful. And now here he was with one of the most attractive women he'd ever seen, who was ushering him into her home with a big smile and a pair of puppy-dog slippers.

“You're all wet,” she commented. “Honestly, I don't know what men have against umbrellas.”

“They're not manly. We guys have to be macho,” he joked as he put down the flowers and peeled off his wet jacket.

“Pfft.” She rolled her eyes and took the jacket from him gingerly. “Look up macho in a thesaurus. The synonym's ‘stupid.'”

“I believe you.”

Taking a hanger from the hall closet, she put his jacket on it and hung the hanger on the doorknob, not in the closet where it would get her clothes wet. “Come on in and get warm.”

He picked up the flowers and handed them to her. “These are for you.”

“I kind of figured.” She took them. “They're beautiful, but . . .” She tilted her head to look up at him. “Flowers seem kind of like a ‘date' thing, and you don't date, right?”

If he were going to date, she was the woman he'd want to go out with. He was in a new place, maybe building a new life. Why shouldn't he have more than a one-nighter? Why shouldn't he actually date a woman if he wanted to? If
she
wanted to, knowing that he wasn't a guy who believed in long-term commitment? “I might be reconsidering that,” he said, letting a little of the old Mo show in his eyes and his slow smile.

Her face lit, warming until those green eyes danced. “I might be in favor of you reconsidering that.”

She walked off with the flowers and he followed her to the kitchen. She opened a big, pantry-type cupboard, went in, and emerged with a ceramic vase. Deftly, she arranged the flowers in it. “Thank you for these. Now, what can I get you to drink?”

“I wouldn't turn down more hot chocolate, if you felt like making it. Seems to suit the night.”

As she took out the ingredients, he studied the photos on the fridge. She sure was one active, popular woman. Glancing at a picture of a man and woman with a pony-haired girl and a big black poodle, he commented idly, “That singing dog's still hanging around.”

“Caruso?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Hanging around where?”

“The garage. Since he seemed determined to stay, I put a wooden box outside in a sheltered spot, with some rags in it to keep him warm.”

“You're a soft touch.”

“Tell me you'd have done any different.”

“Nope. But then I don't pretend to be macho.”

Damn, but the woman made him smile. “Just hope the stupid dog doesn't get me fired. Can't imagine Hank's going to be too happy about having some stray hanging around the shop.”

“Tell him Caruso will be good for business. He can sing to the customers.”

She poured hot chocolate into two big mugs and held up a bag of fluffy marshmallows. “Want one?”

“Please.”

She popped a marshmallow onto the top of each drink and picked up the vase. “Come on into the sitting room. I have a fire going.”

Carrying both mugs, he followed her to a room at the front of the house, with a sofa, love seat, recliner chair, and a bunch of bookcases full of books and knickknacks. The base colors were neutral—pale gold walls and oak furniture—but there were lots of vivid accents: pillows and rugs, a multicolored blanket over the back of a chair, lush green plants. On the walls, framed color photographs looked like they'd been taken in Greece, Italy, maybe Spain, for all that he knew anything about Europe. They were a contrast to the music that was playing: Loretta Lynn's “Coal Miner's Daughter.”

The fireplace was a big old brick one, but a black insert had been added, and the burning wood generated real heat. A framed photo on the mantel showed an attractive young couple with a redheaded girl maybe two or three years old, all of them sprawled on the floor beside a decorated Christmas tree and surrounded by gifts and wrapping paper. A portion of that very same mantel showed in a top corner of the photo.

“Nice room,” Mo commented, sitting on the sofa and putting the mugs on coasters on the coffee table. She'd put the vase down there, beside a closed laptop computer. “You take those pictures on the wall?”

“Yes. Every two or three years, I go for a holiday someplace special.”

“You must be doing well with that thrift shop to afford a nice house like this and take fancy holidays.” Then he said, “Sorry. I'm not so good with the social graces. Guess that wasn't the most polite thing to say.”

“It's okay.” She pulled up the chair so it was across the coffee table from where he sat and then took off her slippers. Before she tucked her bare feet up under her, he caught a glimpse of sexy red toenails, painted to match her fingernails.