Holiday in Your Heart (7 page)

Cradling her own mug in both hands, she said, “Actually, I don't take much money for myself from Days of Your. I have enough money to get by nicely, thanks to my folks. Dad was a civil engineer and Mom was a dentist, and they were both great with money management and financial planning. Sadly, they died when I was nineteen. I'm an only child and I inherited everything.”

She sighed and glanced at the family photo on the mantel. “Of course, I'd rather have them still alive, living in this house, with me coming over for Sunday dinner every week.” Her tone was utterly sincere.

“I can tell they were good people.”

“Oh? How?”

“Because of you. I mean, because you're a good person.” Unlike him, who'd never been very nice. Nor had his parents, who'd cared more about appearances than about his or his sister's happiness.

“That's a sweet thing to say, Mo.”

He shrugged.

“So, tell me,” she said. “You saw Brooke.”

“Hank loaned me the truck and I drove out to her place.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “It was weird, walking through the gate in the white picket fence and up the walk to the front door of that immaculate little house in the country. Wondering what to expect. How she'd look. How she'd act. But it was a man who opened the door. Her husband, Jake.” Humor twitched his mouth. “In his RCMP uniform.”

“Oh, my. Was he on duty, or just being unsubtle?”

“The latter.” He opened his eyes and grinned. “Can't say I blame the guy. He was looking out for his wife. I respect that. Anyhow, we introduced ourselves, he did some glaring and said he wasn't so sure this was a good idea, but it was what Brooke wanted. I pretty much kept quiet. Then he said he'd leave us alone, but he'd be in the back of the house with their little girl.” It was still hard to believe that Brooke, who'd had Evan when she was in high school, had given birth to a second child when she was forty-three.

“And then you saw Brooke. Doesn't she look fantastic?”

“Oh, man. Yeah, she sure does. She was one pretty girl, and now she's a really lovely woman.”

* * *

Brooke Brannon
was
a lovely woman. It was crazy for Maribeth to feel a pang of jealousy when Mo commented on it. Holding on to her half-full mug with one hand, she uncurled her legs from underneath her and shifted to curl them up the other way.

Mo's gaze didn't follow her movement. He had picked up his mug and was staring into it, like he saw something in there other than a marshmallow melting on top of hot chocolate. “One thing I could see,” he said slowly, “was that even though she was tense about seeing me again, she was happy. I mean she's happy with her life.” He glanced up, at Maribeth. “That's the first time I've seen her like that.” A sense of wonder gave a softness to his rough-edged voice.

“Seriously?”

He nodded. “When we first started to date, she was, you know, excited. Happy in that keyed-up kind of way. She was dating this older guy, making her girlfriends jealous.”

Maribeth held back a grin. Mo would always be the kind of guy who drew female attention.

“Then she got pregnant and we got married. And again, she was excited, like suddenly she was a grown-up. But then she had the baby, and he was”—he shook his head—“I guess Evan wasn't what she expected. She'd played with dolls not all that many years before. But a real baby, one who cried all the time and pooped just after you changed his diaper, well, that wasn't so much fun.”

“And she was so young. Barely more than a child herself.”

“And I was no help. I was pissed off about suddenly being tied down, and I pretty much ignored the fact that I was a husband and father. I had too high an opinion of myself, but when it came to acting like an adult, taking on responsibility, I couldn't cut it. I hung out with my old friends, cheated on Brooke, avoided looking after Evan.” He shrugged. “Like I said, I was a shit. And that kid, man, he was one unhappy, demanding baby. Maybe he knew he was a mistake.”

“Poor Evan.”

“I know.” His jaw tightened. “That's something Brooke and I admitted tonight. We made no bones about letting that poor kid know that he'd ruined our lives. He shaped up real quick: being quiet, trying to please us. Doing well in school, once he reached that age. But Brooke and I were both so immature and miserable, we took our unhappiness out on him as well as on each other.”

Maribeth stared at him. “I don't know what to say. It seems so inconceivable to me when parents don't love their children.”

He sighed. “I think we both did, in some place in our hearts, but instead of showing it, we screwed him over. Brooke told me tonight that she'd never stopped loving Evan.” He met her gaze. “She told me other stuff, too. Not just her alcoholism, but that she has bipolar disorder. She said you know about that. She appreciated that you didn't tell me.”

Maribeth nodded.

“See, she had excuses,” Mo said. “Excuses for being a crappy mother and, as she said herself tonight, a crappy wife.” He leaned forward to put his mug on the coffee table. “I didn't.”

“Living with a wife who was bipolar and alcoholic couldn't have been easy. Nor was having your own life turn out so differently from what you'd expected.”

The shadow of a smile played around his mouth, drawing her attention to the sensuality of his lips. “Aw, you're being nice. Like I said, you're a nice woman, Maribeth. But the truth is, I had no expectations about what my life would turn out like. I'd already dropped out of high school by the time I met Brooke. Did some drugs, shoplifted, even stole a couple cars and was lucky enough not to get caught. If there hadn't been Brooke and Evan, I'd have found some other path that I'd surely have messed up. I was a loser. There's no two ways about it.”

“What were your parents like?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Blame it on the parents? Nah, that's not gonna wash. Look at Evan. Two shitty parents, and he turned out successful and well-balanced.”

“I'm not talking about blame. There's no point to blame. I just wondered what it was like for you, growing up.”

He leaned back and rotated his neck as if he was trying to loosen tight, achy muscles. “We lived in Los Angeles. My dad was an Irish-American kid from a family of cops who broke family tradition and became a baker instead. Amma's—that's Hindi for mom—anyhow, her parents had come from India when she was in her teens. Her dad was a microbiologist who got a job with a company in L.A. They expected her to go along with an arranged marriage with a man back in India. Instead, my parents met, fell in love, and got married. Both their families were mad at them and pretty much disowned them.”

“That's harsh.”

“Yeah, but their parents were right that they weren't a good match. Oil and water. Or more like corned beef and cabbage versus saag paneer.” He added, “That's a vegetarian dish, spinach and cheese.”

“I know. I've had it.”

“Anyhow, there was lots of squabbling. They were both very demanding of me and my sister, but what they demanded never matched up. Dad wanted to raise us Catholic; Amma wanted us to be Hindu. Dad wanted me to be a baker; Amma wanted me to get a professional degree.”

“That must have been horrible for you and your sister.” And so different from the way Maribeth had been raised, with parents who respected and truly communicated with each other and with her.

“My sister Kaitlin,” he went on, “who's four years older than me, was a good girl who walked the fence between our parents, trying to make both of them happy. Me, I wasn't going to twist myself out of shape like that. They didn't want to see who I really was and they didn't care what I wanted. So why should I care what they thought? I rebelled and went my own way.” He shook his head. “How did I get onto this? I was gonna tell you about Brooke.”

“We did kind of get off track,” she agreed. Still, she'd found this glimpse into his past fascinating.

Mo rested his hands on his jean-clad thighs. “First thing Brooke did, which blew me away, was apologize. So then”—the humor was back, around his mouth and eyes—“we kind of had this competition over who could apologize the most.”

“I guess that's better than railing at each other.”

“Yeah, for sure. There was a point where she started to laugh. It caught me off guard, but then I saw that she was right, we were being ridiculous. So I laughed, too.”

“That sounds good. You cleared the air between you?”

“We made a start. An awkward one. I asked if we could talk some more and she said she wanted to, but she needed a little time. She didn't just, you know, listen to my apology and then tell me to get out of her life. So that's good.”

“It is.” Maribeth hoped Brooke and Mo could find a resolution that was comfortable for both of them. But there was a third party to consider. “What about Evan?”

He sighed. “Brooke said she needs to think about that. Whether it'd be good for him to see me or not.”

If it was good for Brooke, why wouldn't it be good for Evan? Maribeth frowned slightly. “It's not up to her to decide,” she said gently, feeling a tug of disloyalty to Brooke. But Evan and Mo had rights, too. As far as Maribeth could tell, Mo had been doing penance for years and years—far longer than if he'd actually been convicted of an offense and sent to jail. He had earned a second chance. And Evan had a right to hear his father's apology and learn what kind of man he'd become. “Evan's an adult,” she pointed out.

“I know. But I don't want to hurt him any more than I already have. And I figure his mom's probably the best judge of how he'd react.”

“The longer you're in town, the more chance he'll find out anyway. And if he does, and you haven't been in touch, he might think you don't want to see him.”

His mouth tightened. “I know. But I gotta trust Brooke on this.”

Maribeth tried to be optimistic. “She loves Evan. She'll do what's best for him.” And if Brooke didn't do it soon, Maribeth might have another chat with her. Sometimes people benefited from an outside perspective, and Maribeth had never been shy about giving her friends advice.

“I'm going to believe that. Tonight was good. A good start.” Mo smiled across at her. “And this is good. Thanks for letting me come over. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important.”

Only hunting for a sperm donor. She glanced at her computer, waved a hand, and said, with a private grin, “Just some online shopping.” In fact, she'd been happy to get Mo's call, and when she'd opened the door to the wet man holding a bunch of flowers, her heart had given a jump of pleasure. Sitting here watching his attractive, expressive face, listening as he revealed himself to her, she felt so drawn to him.

How did he feel? He'd made that comment about “reconsidering” dating. Was he serious? She decided to test him out with a little flirtation.

She uncurled her legs slowly and sensually, and this time his gaze did hook onto her. She slipped out of the chair and, barefoot, went to the fireplace and tossed in another chunk of wood. Returning, she ran a finger over the orange petals of a gerbera daisy. The bouquet he'd brought was nothing fancy, just a plastic-wrapped one from a grocery store, but she loved that he'd chosen vividly colored flowers. She'd never been much of a one for pastels.

“How are you coming on that decision?” she asked, dropping down to the sofa beside Mo. She wanted to touch him, and the wanting was almost irresistible. But something held her back. Maybe she hoped that the first touch would come from him, to prove that he was as drawn to her as she was to him.

“Which decision?” he asked.

“About reconsidering dating.”

He turned sideways and looked at her, deliberately casting his gaze from the top of her head down her body. “I can't believe you're not already dating someone.”

She shrugged. “Not at the moment. It's a small town. I've gone out with most of the eligible guys, and many of us are still friends.”

“You're not looking to get married?”

“I'd like to, but not until I meet the right person.”

“Man, you're choosy.”

“I'm not. Really, I'm not.” It always rankled when someone made that accusation. “It's not that I'm looking for anything so special or that I think I'm too good for these men. I've dated lots of really nice, smart guys, starting back when I was thirteen.”

“But?”

She shrugged. “We have fun for a while, but that's it. I don't need to be married. I'm not going to get serious about a man unless—” She bit off her next words as a realization stunned her and her comfortable little world tilted on its axis.

“Unless what?”

There was no reason not to tell him, so she said slowly, “Unless there's a click.” She didn't go on to reveal the rest. What she felt with Mo . . . well, it bore a strong resemblance to a click.

“Click? You've lost me.”

Mouth dry, she swallowed and tried to gather her thoughts. “To start with, a special chemistry. Something, and maybe it's pheromones, that draws you, physically, to another person. Lust, but more than that, because lust is pretty common. More, um . . .” She studied him, feeling the itch to touch him, flesh to flesh. “Like a magnetic, undeniable attraction.”

A knowing gleam lit his eyes. “Got it.”

“But that's only part of it. It's not just physical, not solely chemistry. There's also a recognition of . . . who they really are, I guess. That they're someone who—” Thinking of how she felt about Mo, she tried to put it into words. “Someone who's different from you, and not perfect, but you can relate to them. You want to understand them. You want to make them happy, help them find what they're looking for.” Frustrated, she shook her head. “But it's more than that, too.” She often felt that way about people, just not with the same intensity as she did with Mo.