Christmas Getaway (17 page)

“Yeah, but we had it for lunch today, too,” Charlie said.
“So that means we have to go back to the supermarket the day after tomorrow.”

“Is that all you eat?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” they said as one.

“Wow.”

Joe winced. Ouch. And he hadn't been going to cook macaroni tonight. Not now that Molly was here. He'd been planning on opening the refrigerator and finding inspiration in its depths.

Okay, maybe that wasn't going to happen. “Any suggestions?” he said, trying not to sound hopeful.

“I like macaroni and cheese,” she said cautiously.

“Then you're in luck. I can have it on the table in three minutes times five boxes.”

“But it's not my first choice. What are you intending to do for Christmas dinner?”

“You did say…”

“That we needed the trimmings,” she said, fielding the ball and tossing it to Zoe. Zoe missed, the ball went long, and Charlie and Lily whooped after it. “I did. It's what I want but that doesn't mean you guys have to eat what I do. If you're hung up on your macaroni thing… Maybe I can get a frozen Christmas dinner for one.”

“That's silly,” Zoe said, grabbing fruitlessly for the ball.

“Why?” The older kids paused to take part in the conversation. Taking advantage of the distraction Molly did a neat, seal-like dive under the water, came back up and seized the beach ball and raised it high, out of reach of any of them. “Why is it silly?”

“You can't eat Christmas dinner on your own,” Lily told her, staring at the dripping Molly as if a mermaid had appeared from the depths.

“I'm not eating macaroni for Christmas dinner. You guys didn't eat macaroni last Christmas.”

“We didn't like the stuff at the hotel much,” Lily said.

“So what do you like?”

“Strawberries,” Zoe said.

“Hot dogs,” Charlie said.

“Meringues,” Lily added.

Molly nodded, serious. But still holding the ball out of reach. “Okay, we have a start. Are you really, really committed to macaroni?”

“What's committed?” asked Zoe.

“If you don't have macaroni, will you cry?”

“Not if I can have strawberries,” Zoe said, her baby eyes filled with hope.

“Good girl,” she said while Joe looked on with astonishment. “Okay, how's this for a plan? Let's see how many yummy things we can eat between now and the day after Christmas. If we get out of the pool now, we could probably go to the supermarket and get the makings of hot dogs and strawberries and meringues for tonight.”

“How do you make meringues?” Lily asked, awed.

“I don't know,” Molly confessed. “But if your uncle Joe can make Sex on the Beach cocktails I'm willing to bet he can whip up a meringue or two. Do we have the Internet?”

“Yes,” Joe said, flummoxed.

“There you go then,” she said smugly. “If you're not swimming, then in you go and surf the Net until you find a recipe for meringues. Zoe and I will beat the pants off these two at water polo and then we'll get dressed and all go supermarket shopping for ingredients. Oh, and we'll find a Christmas tree while we're at it. How's that for a plan?”

“Macaroni and cheese sounds easier,” Joe said.

“Macaroni and cheese is so last night's news,” she said in such a drawly, over-the-top voice that the kids giggled. “Tonight the menu consists of hot dogs, strawberries and meringues.” Then, when he kept staring at her, she put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a don't-mess-with-me look. “Don't just stand there with your mouth open, buster. Hop to it.”

 

W
HEN HE'D FIRST BROUGHT
the kids to Australia, Joe had reluctantly left his sweet little Alfa Romeo in the airport garage and rented a family wagon for the duration. He surely needed it. They drove into town, he and Molly in the front, the kids in the back.

“We're just like a family,” Lily said from the backseat.

“Yeah,” Joe said dryly, and glanced across at Molly. He was expecting to see her smiling. For an abandoned bride she'd been really upbeat. Apart from her initial shock, she'd launched herself into these plans with enthusiasm.

But she wasn't smiling now. Her smile had slipped, replaced by something he didn't understand.

Bleakness? Desperation?

She'd been jilted less than a week ago, he reminded himself. She'd be raw.

“He's not worth looking like that,” he said gently, and she flinched and looked away, out the passenger window at the rain forest they were traveling through.

“Of course he isn't.”

“You'll meet someone else.”

“Sure.”

“Molly…”

“Leave it,” she said roughly.

So she'd loved the scumbag. That made it a whole lot worse.

But why had he thought she wouldn't? Why was the thought of anyone loving Connor O'Bannion inconceivable?

No. Why was the thought of Molly loving O'Bannion inconceivable?

“I'm sorry,” he said gently, and she cast him a look that was almost scared.

“Let's have some music,” he said, and flicked on the radio. Cricket. Cricket! He cheered up. Christmas in Australia was all about cricket. Men in white, leather on willow, yells of “howz that?” as cricketers appealed for umpires to rule the batsmen out.

“Australia is four for twenty-seven against the West Indies,” the announcer said, and Joe groaned.

“Is that bad?” Molly asked, surfacing again.

“Awful.”

“Four for twenty-seven what?”

“Four wickets for twenty-seven runs. A good inning is a hundred runs. Four for four hundred would be great. Four for twenty-seven is almost take-your-bat-and-go-home territory. Do you kids know about cricket?”

There was deathly silence from the backseat.

“Well,” he said. “Well.” He cast a surreptitious glance at Molly and thought she was doing her best to forget her pain by throwing herself into Christmas. He could do worse than to help her. “Here's my plan.”

“What?” Charlie asked.

“Supermarket followed by sports store,” he said. “We need a bat and ball, a wicket and a set of pads for the keeper. You guys are having an Australian Christmas. That means cricket in the backyard.”

“I don't think I like cricket,” Zoe announced.

“Like doesn't come into it,” he said in solemn tones. “It's your heritage. Your mother was Australian, therefore you're bred to play cricket.”

“What about me?” Molly asked.

“You're a jilted bride,” he told her. “You need distraction.”

“From what I've ever seen of cricket, it's the sport least likely to distract in the known world.”

“That's where you're wrong,” he said expansively. “You're all so wrong. Molly. You're in charge of Christmas eating. I'm in charge of Christmas education.”

I
T WAS AN ENORMOUS
, comprehensive shop. The supermarket manager must have thought all his Christmas shoppers had come at once, for Molly was in a buying mood. The deep sadness Joe had glimpsed in the car had been put aside with a vengeance.

“Of course you can have chocolate ice cream,” she told Zoe. “But I like strawberry. We'll have both. You like caramel, Charlie? Of course we can have that, too.”

They gave up on the one trolley. She gave the kids a trolley each and let them do what they wished with it.

For the first few minutes the kids were as hornswoggled as Joe. An empty trolley each. “But it's too much?” Lily whispered.

“Nonsense,” Molly said firmly. “Nothing's too much at Christmas. If you think you'd like to eat it, let's buy it. That's the rule.”

These kids' lives had been carefully controlled. They'd never shopped. Joe watched in awe as realization hit each of them that the rule here was no rule.

Zoe headed to the confectionary aisle. He groaned inwardly, imagining a trolley loaded to the brim with candy. But he needn't have worried.

“Zoe, there's little baby sausages in the fridge,” Lily told her sister excitedly, as Zoe loaded her fifth box of chocolates
into the trolley. “And there's grapes. And watermelon. And cherries. And there's party hats over in the last aisle. And party poppers.”

Zoe looked at her older sister in astonishment. She looked at her chocolate boxes, wrinkled her small brow, put two of the boxes back on the shelves and headed for the other aisles.

“We'll have far too much,” Joe said to Molly, who was piling mangoes into her trolley.

“Are you kidding? There are three refrigerators in that mausoleum of a holiday house. This is fun.”

“It'll cost a fortune.”

She stopped, a mango in each hand, and eyed him cautiously.

“So it will. Why didn't I think of that? But you know, I'm a lawyer. I have a few contacts. When the police were convincing me of Connor's guilt, they showed me a pile of cross-matched bank statements, including Vincent's. These children stand to inherit a fortune, and the police are saying it's almost all profits from illegal activities. Because Vincent's dead he can't be charged and the money is likely to remain theirs. The lady on the plane this morning told me this little town is struggling. There was a cyclone came through here last summer. The tourists have been staying away and the locals are doing it tough. We spend some of Vincent's ill-gotten gains, we spread Christmas fortune further than ourselves and we risk Zoe getting a tummy ache. So what? You want to stop us now?”

“You've thought it through.”

“What else have I had to do but think? I spent twenty-four hours getting here and days before that being interviewed, interviewed, interviewed. Oh, and humiliated into the bargain. Of course I thunk. I gather you have access to those funds as you're caring for the children?”

“I…yes.”

“And Erica told me once that her brother was loaded. She said you get paid an obscene amount of money for deciding why airplanes crash. But I'll pay if I have to,” she said, and tossed her mangoes a couple of inches into the air and caught them again. She raised her brows and tossed them again. Tossing her mangoes as if they were hand grenades. “If I have to. If you really are too tight-fisted…”

“I'll pay,” he said weakly.

“Very wise.” She smiled and tossed her mangoes a final time. “And for my trolley, too?”

“I…yes.”

“Excellent. I don't think Zoe has enough chocolate. My trolley needs some, as well. And we need a mass of candy canes for the tree. What's Christmas without candy canes, is what I want to know.”

 

T
HEY FINISHED SHOPPING
. They loaded the wagon—with difficulty. They went to the sports store and purchased cricket paraphernalia.

The store had run out of Christmas trees. There'd be no more until tomorrow.

“Excellent. That means we need to shop again tomorrow,” Molly said, and Joe thought
what the heck.

The kids were happy, and he sure as hell wasn't bored anymore. Things were looking up.

They returned to the house, exhausted, but Molly insisted the kids unpack their own bags, then help make hot dogs. Joe had put the makings in his trolley.

The hot dogs were excellent. They ate them while they dangled their legs in the swimming pool. Then, using Joe's Internet recipe, they made meringues. They ate strawberries while they cooked.

And they played cricket out by the pool.

It was dumb but it was great, Joe decided. Sure he still felt trapped. The house was chaotic and the fridges would hardly shut and he felt he had even less control, but Charlie was standing behind the wicket, Lily was holding the bat with fierce determination and Molly was bowling.

She bowled. Lily hit with ferocity, straight into his stomach. He grabbed the ball involuntarily and managed to hold on.

“Howzat?” Zoe yelled like a true Australian cricketer, and he grinned and looked at the three-year-old, who'd hardly had her thumb out of her mouth for the entire time she'd been here. She was coated with meringue ingredients and ketchup and unspecific dirt.

She looked happy.

He glanced at Molly. She was grinning, too. She was back in her bikini and sarong. She had a smear of meringue on her nose.

For one crazy moment he had an urgent desire to kiss her.

How to destroy the Christmas spirit right then and there.

“We're all out,” Molly said in satisfaction, showing to a nicety she was catching on fast to cricketing language. “But not without a fight. We'll be champions in no time.”

Right. He put away the plan to kiss her as ridiculous.

The concept stayed, however. As a concept it had definite appeal.

Cricket over, they trooped inside to inspect the meringues. They were cooked to perfection. Fantastic. Eaten warm, they tasted even more fantastic than they looked. Zoe, who'd eaten hardly anything for days, ate five.

“Showers and then bed,” Joe decreed as the last meringue disappeared, but Molly shook her head.

“Showers are too much trouble and it's hot. Strip down to your undies and I'll hose you all down on the patio.”

The kids gazed at her as if she was a sandwich short of a picnic, but she was serious.

“It's the rules,” she said, and grinned.

Without a word they stripped to their knickers. They stood in a line out on the patio, and squealed and giggled while Molly hosed them off.

“Three towels, Uncle Joe,” she commanded, and he jumped to. Once the kids were towelled dry, he shepherded them through the laundry, where Molly had set out their nightclothes.

Fifteen minutes later they were snuggled into bed. They'd elected to sleep together in one of the massive guest rooms—one king-sized bed fitted the three of them with room to spare.

Joe started their traditional bedtime story, but five minutes in their eyes were closed.

He stared down at them, feeling absurdly touched, absurdly thankful. Absurdly…he didn't know what.

He returned to the kitchen. Molly had her sarong wrapped round her middle and was tackling the chaos. Five inexperienced cooks meant wall-to-wall mess.

“Mop,” she said, and he jumped to again.

“Are you always this bossy?” he asked as he mopped and she washed down the benches.

“Always.”

“This isn't just diversion therapy for you.”

“Of course it is. If I'm not diverted, I'll go nuts.”

“He really hurt you?” It was a dumb question to ask. Of course Connor had hurt her. But Molly seemed to give it serious consideration.

“What do you think?” she said softly at last, and set her dishcloth down and turned and faced him. “I've had a lovely, controlled, planned life. I'm a partner in a hugely prestigious law firm in Boston. I've fought tooth and nail to get myself
there. I've put everything into my career. I met Connor four years ago. He's almost as high up in the Boston force as he can get but he wants to get higher. He's as ambitious as I am. He's smart, he's witty, he makes my friends laugh. I got partnership on the strength of my relationship with Connor. Then he decides we need to get married and the whole thing blows up in my face. Again.”

“Again?” he said cautiously, and her face closed. Once more he saw that flash of pain.

“Don't go there.”

He held up his hands. “I won't. But you…” He frowned. “You had no idea what he was playing at?”

“Of course I had no idea. What do you take me for?”

“I don't take you for anything,” he said wearily. “It's just a mess. The cops are saying Vincent and Erica's deaths were definitely murder.”

Her expression softened. “Erica. Your sister. I
am
sorry.”

“I hardly knew her,” he said. “But that she was murdered… Do you know if they're definite?”

“How much do you know?”

“I got the kids out of the country the night of the wedding. The kids were traumatized. I had a brief conversation with some detective from Boston, simply about who I was and what my links to Vincent were. As soon as they found out I couldn't stomach the b—my brother-in-law…and hardly saw him, I was allowed to leave. In fact, I was encouraged to leave—they cut through all sorts of red tape for me.”

She nodded. He was still mopping, getting closer to her. She hitched herself up on the bench so he could mop where she'd been standing.

He mopped under her feet. She was still wearing her sarong. Once again he had that strange feeling of vulnerabil
ity that had nothing to do with her age or her career or who she really must be.

“I'm sorry I threw you into the roses,” he told her.

“They're saying it's likely you saved my life.”

“Yeah, but I'm still sorry. You were a gorgeous bride.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“The hoops were a bit over-the-top,” he said cautiously.

“They were. I might go down to my room and read a book.”

“You brought books?”

“Of course I brought books.”

“I thought you'd packed for your honeymoon.”

“So why wouldn't I have packed books?”

“No reason,” he said, and decided to opt for discretion and mop a bit harder.

“You're suggesting we weren't planning a real romantic honeymoon?”

“Hey, I'm not suggesting anything.”

“Well, we weren't,” she admitted, and swung herself off the bench. “Connor would likely have gone jet surfing while I caught up on legal briefs.”

“Romance comes in all shapes and forms,” he said blandly.

“It does.”

“It was a very romantic wedding,” he said cautiously.

“It was horrible.”

“I meant, before it went wrong.”

“It was still horrible.”

He paused with his mop. She'd said she was going to read a book. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen looking like she didn't know what to do.

“How about we hit Vincent's book again and make one more cocktail before bed?” he said.

“From
Seduction by the Glass.
”

“They're not all about seduction.”

“I don't want…”

“Neither do I,” he said hastily, though if she kept standing there looking like she was looking… Seduction had a certain appeal.

Right. When he had three kids in the next bedroom.

“We have three chaperones,” he said dryly, and she cheered up.

“So we have.”

“So you'd like a cocktail?”

“Out by the pool?”

“You can even bring your legal briefs if you want.”

“I've given up legal briefs,” she said sourly. “I've decided I make an appalling lawyer. How can I tell right or wrong when I agreed to marry a murderer?”

“He might not be a murderer”

“And I might not be a half-wit. There's hope for everyone.” She sighed. “Innocent until proven guilty. How would I know? Meanwhile bring on your
Seduction by the Glass.
I suspect it'll help me sleep and I feel like sleeping for a very long time.”

 

S
HE DIDN'T SLEEP
.

She lay on an almost obscenely comfortable chaise out by the pool. She read
Seduction by the Glass
with legal thoroughness. She chose Caribbean Mama and then watched in disquiet as Joe made it for her and then made something called Parson's Choice for himself.

“It's nonalcoholic,” she objected.

“One of us has to stay sober.” He handed her the Caribbean Mama and sank down on the neighboring chaise with his Parson's Choice.

All of a sudden he felt too close. The situation felt too familiar.

It felt dangerous.

She was still in her sarong. He was fully clothed in his chinos and long-sleeved shirt…and boots, even. Yeah, his shirt had the first three buttons open, and yeah, his sleeves were rolled up, but he was drinking a nonalcoholic cocktail and she…wasn't.

“Zoe's having nightmares,” he explained. “I can't afford to sleep deeply, which is what I do if I have more than a couple of drinks in the day.”

“So sobriety is the name of the night.”

“Not for you. You're a jilted bride,” he told her. “Jilted brides don't have to do sobriety.”

“I'll have this one then,” she conceded, and took a sip and thought about it. “Or maybe one and a half.”

He laughed.

She relaxed, lying back on the cushions and staring up at the stars glimmering through the canopy of palm trees.

This was a really romantic setting, she thought. Probably more romantic even than Paradise Island Honeymoon Resort.

“Where do you reckon Connor might be right now?” Joe asked, and she flinched. For almost a minute she'd forgotten about Connor.

“Cuba?” she said cautiously.