Holiday in Your Heart (5 page)

She ventured a teasing comment. “Brooke's no dummy.”

His lips quirked. “Ha. I'm wounded.”

She smiled. “Anyhow, Evan came back to Caribou Crossing a few years ago. He's married, with a little boy and an adolescent stepdaughter. And he and Brooke are very close. But I'm sure that didn't come easily for either of them.”

When she revealed that he had grandkids, Mo blinked and looked a little stunned. But when he spoke, he didn't mention them. “You're saying I should talk to Brooke and Evan.”

“I'm thinking out loud,” she corrected. “I'm saying that they're both strong and they're capable of dealing with crap from the past.”

Mo barked out a wry laugh. “That'd be me. Crap from the past.”

“I didn't mean . . . Okay, yeah, I guess that's true. If you asked Brooke and Evan about their relationship now, I'm positive they'd both say it was totally worth the pain, the bad memories, and the awkwardness it took to get there.”

“You think that could be the same with me?” She saw hope in his eyes, and vulnerability.

Her tender heart throbbed, but she was also a practical woman. “Maybe. But that depends on you, Mo Kincaid. Brooke and Evan are good people. They're my friends. If you mess up their lives, don't make things right, and run out on them again, then . . .” She didn't know how to finish that sentence. Setting Jake Brannon, Brooke's husband, on Mo could never make up for any pain suffered by Brooke and Evan.

Mo said quietly, “Then it'd be bad. Really bad.”

She nodded. “What kind of man are you?” Sexy, and too handsome for his own good, but those things didn't count. “You say you've changed, but how much have you changed? You may no longer drink a lot or get violent, but are you going to treat Brooke and Evan right? Are you going to stick around?”

He swallowed.

She went on. “Do you have the guts to hear what they need to say, to not argue with them, to accept the blame? To persist, even if they don't want to accept you into their lives?” As she spoke, he nodded a couple of times, looking increasingly determined. She went on. “To prove to them that you're a man worth knowing?” She peered into those fascinating blue-green eyes. “
Are
you a man worth knowing?”

Her question surprised him; that was evident from the way his eyes widened. His shoulders rose and then fell, and the look of determination faded. When he spoke, he sounded discouraged. “When you put it that way, I guess the best I can say for myself is that I try to tread lightly on the earth.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did a lot of harm in my youth. Now I try not to. I fix vehicles and I try not to break anything.” His mouth tightened. “Guess that's not much to show for fifty years on this planet.”

She watched him, not speaking.

“But,” he went on, squaring his shoulders, “it's a hell of a lot better than the man I was in my twenties and thirties.”

Slowly, she nodded. “That sounds . . . good.” Commendable, yes. But also sad, if that was all his life was about.

Chapter Three

Maribeth's gaze was assessing, making him want to squirm, but he managed to keep his shoulders squared and hold her gaze. She'd been more than fair with him, and he would answer every question she asked.

“You never remarried?” she said.

“God, no. Inflict myself on another woman? I'm not relationship material. And I'm sure not having any more kids.”

Two or three years after he'd run from the police and left Caribou Crossing, he'd sent divorce papers to Brooke. It had seemed crazy to stay married when he figured they'd never see each other again. He hadn't asked for visitation rights with Evan, and—asshole that he'd been—hadn't offered child support. He'd kind of figured that once Brooke had his address, she'd go after him for money, but she didn't. She just returned the signed forms, no doubt relieved to be rid of him. A clean break; obviously, it was what they'd both wanted.

It was probably still what she wanted.

“Do you have friends?” Maribeth's voice cut through his thoughts. “Male or female?”

He shrugged. “I'm not much of a people person. Yeah, I've hung out with some folks now and then, to shoot some pool or whatever. But that's it.”

Her nicely shaped eyebrows, darker than her red hair, pulled together. “What's the longest you've stayed in one place?”

“Five years, in Regina. That's where I lived last. I managed an auto repair shop.”

“So you're capable of staying in one place and holding down a responsible job.”

“I guess.” It wasn't that he'd had any particular love for Regina, but the job was a good one and he'd grown tired of drifting around. He'd have still been there if the regret about Brooke and Evan, and the desire to see them again, hadn't become a compulsion as persistent and nagging as an engine tick that defied diagnosis.

“Hmm.”

He'd asked for Maribeth's wisdom and perspective. She was weighing him and finding him lacking, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Mo drank the remaining hot chocolate, cold now and more bitter than sweet.

“If you're not a people person,” she asked, “what is it that you want from Brooke and Evan?”

“To let them know that I'm sorry. I want them to know that I realize what a shit I was. If I could change the past, I would. But I can't.”

“Do you want their forgiveness?”

He wrinkled his nose. “That'd be a lot to ask for.”

“What, then? You apologize and then you go away again?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I haven't really thought past the point of me apologizing. If there's some way of making amends, I'd do that, but . . .” He shrugged. “Guess I don't know if that's possible.”

She gave a soft huff. “That's it? That's your whole plan?”

Anger stirred, but he tamped it down and admitted, “I didn't exactly come with a plan. I just found myself thinking about them this past couple years. I wondered how they were doing, if they were still in Caribou Crossing. I found the
Gazette
online, and from time to time there'd be something about them. Once I started, I couldn't get them out of my mind. I felt . . . I guess driven is the right word. Driven to see them again and, uh . . .”

“Prostrate yourself at their feet and tell them you know you were a shit?”

Damn, he liked this woman even if she didn't think much of him. “Pretty much.”

She crossed her arms over her curvy chest. “You're kind of a mess, aren't you, Mo Kincaid?”

There was only one honest answer to that question. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You really don't have a best-case scenario in your mind?”

He blinked, not sure what she meant.

“Think about it,” she said. “You see them and apologize. After that, what's the best thing you could imagine happening?”

He closed his eyes and concentrated, but nothing came to mind. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes again.

Maribeth was gazing at him, her green eyes kind of misty and soft. God, but she was one beautiful woman. “Do you ever let yourself dream?” she asked quietly.

Dream? Tonight he might well have steamy dreams about a green-eyed redhead. But he figured that wasn't what she was talking about. “You mean, not when I'm asleep but about the future?”

“Exactly. Do you dream about what you'd like your life to look like?”

“I think I gave up the right to do that,” he said gruffly.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “And I think that you're not as bad a person as you think you are.”

His eyes widened in surprise. So she hadn't completely written him off? “You're a generous woman.”

“I'm an optimist.”

Which made her his opposite. Not that he didn't already know that. She was vibrant, caring, domestic—qualities that put her on the opposite end of the spectrum from him. Although it still surprised him that she wasn't married with kids, he'd noticed those photos on the fridge. She had a bunch of friends, close ones. He'd also bet a month's pay that she'd have a pack of guys chasing after her. Which made it all the more strange that she'd flirted with him.

But his purpose in being here tonight wasn't about flirtation, as appealing a prospect as that might be. “Does that mean you think it'd be okay for me to contact Brooke and Evan?”

Her eyes narrowed in thought. “It means . . . how about this? Let me sound Brooke out.”

“You mean tell her I'm in town and see if she's willing to see me?”

“Something like that, I guess. I need to make a hair appointment anyway.”

Her hair looked awfully pretty to him, but women had their own ideas about that kind of stuff. “I'd be much obliged,” he said. “You can reach me at Hennessey's.” No point in owning a phone; the only people who wanted to talk to him were telemarketers.

He stood. “I'll be on my way now.” He didn't belong in this homey room, with all those photos on the fridge. He didn't belong with this woman who was so generous and beautiful, who had a full life that was the opposite of his.

She remained seated. “Where do you live?”

“Over on Cottonwood Drive.” Hank had told him about a pair of eightysomething women, a married couple, who had a studio apartment in their house. Mo'd been skeptical that they'd want to rent to a guy like him, but Ms. Haldenby and Ms. Peabody had checked his references, laid down some rules, and then welcomed him.

“That's a ways.” Maribeth rose. “I'll give you a ride.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but I won't take any more of your time. I'm used to walking. I like it.”

She studied him. “You're a mechanic and you once had a motorbike, and now you don't have any kind of car?”

“Don't need one.” He'd always loved the feeling of a powerful machine, whether it was a Harley, a sports car, or a Jeep. But he didn't need one, and so he didn't have one. “It's part of that treading lightly thing.”

She muttered something under her breath. He thought he caught “doing penance,” but he wasn't sure. If that was what she believed, maybe she wasn't so far wrong. He had a lot to atone for.

He shrugged into his jacket. “Maribeth, just one thing? If you could see Brooke sooner rather than later, that'd be good. If anyone who knew me back in the day comes into Hennessey's and recognizes me, it'd likely get back to her.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I know. It's a small town. I'll make an appointment as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.”

“You can go out the front door.” She walked out of the kitchen and he followed her down the hallway, past a dark room at the front of the house.

She stepped back, letting him open the door. “Good night, Mo. I'll call you.”

“Thanks for everything.” He stepped out onto the front porch and went down a half dozen steps. Those sullen gray clouds had finally fulfilled their promise. Snow dusted the ground and small, crisp flakes nipped his face. He resisted looking back until he got to the street. When he turned, she was there, standing in the doorway, framed by light behind her. He raised his arm in a wave.

She returned the gesture, then stepped inside and the door closed—a warm, kind woman retreating into her cozy home. Leaving him alone out here on the sidewalk on a snowy November night, with nothing to go home to but a lonely one-room apartment. And the hope that his ex-wife would agree to talk to him.

* * *

The next morning, Maribeth hung the clock sign on the door of Days of Your, indicating that she'd be back in an hour. Last night, she'd checked the online appointment calendar for Beauty Is You. Brooke only worked part-time now that she and Jake had little Nicki. Fortunately, Brooke had had a slot open at 10:30. Kate, the owner and other stylist at the salon, was booked at that time doing a perm with Carlotta Bowden. Elderly Mrs. Bowden was such a talker, there was no chance she and Kate would pay any attention if Maribeth talked to Brooke about Mo Kincaid.

As she walked the three blocks to the salon, she wondered how her friend would react to the news about her ex-husband. She didn't want to upset Brooke, and yet that was almost guaranteed to happen.

The man had even messed up Maribeth's own evening. She'd anticipated spending engrossing hours poring through online profiles and studying pictures of sperm donors. Instead, each time she gazed at a new photo, into her mind popped the image of a brown-skinned man with blue-green eyes that reminded her of river water. Somehow, none of the guys on the screen came close in terms of physical attractiveness and appeal.

Not that her baby's father had to be handsome, but Maribeth knew that looks mattered. If she could stack the deck in favor of having a boy or girl who was good-looking as well as healthy and intelligent, of course she'd do it.

Maribeth pushed open the door to Beauty Is You, and the bell jingled. She pulled off her gloves and undid her coat.

Brooke came toward her. “Good morning, Maribeth.” Brooke was in her midforties, but dressed in charcoal pants and a mauve sweater, with her wavy hair shining and a smile on her face, she looked easily ten years younger. Sobriety certainly suited her, as did having a sexy new husband and an adorable toddler. “Time for a trim?”

They exchanged hugs.

“Hi, Brooke.” Maribeth smiled back, guessing that Brooke wouldn't look so cheerful after hearing her news. “Yes, it's getting heavy and flyaway.”

“It's always a pleasure working with your lovely hair.”

Brooke ushered her to a sink at the back, and Maribeth waved a greeting to Kate Patterson and Mrs. Bowden. The older woman was nattering on about her grandchildren while Kate wrapped her thinning white hair on rollers.

Brooke enveloped Maribeth in a navy cape and tested the water temperature. Maribeth closed her eyes, luxuriating in sensations: the scent of lemongrass shampoo, Brooke's deft fingers massaging her scalp, warm water pouring through her hair, and then a delicate whiff of coconut. “Bliss,” she murmured.

“We all deserve a little spoiling every now and then,” Brooke said as she wrapped a towel around Maribeth's hair and urged her to sit up.

“So true.” She stood and followed Brooke to her station. Her friend was lucky to have a devoted husband who no doubt spoiled her more than every now and then—as, Maribeth was equally certain, Brooke also spoiled him. Life was supposed to be lived in pairs. Maribeth's parents had been so happy together, and she'd always assumed that she'd find the same kind of deep, committed love.

And she still would, one of these days. For now, she was taking charge of her own life and moving forward. An idea struck her. If she created a short list of potential sperm donors, she'd love to get her girlfriends' input. So far, she hadn't told any of them what she was thinking of doing, but now that she'd actually made the decision, it was time.

“We haven't had a ladies' night in a while,” she said to Brooke, who had run a comb through Maribeth's thick hair and was now wielding scissors. “I'd love to have everyone over to my place. You, Jess, Cassidy, Sally, Corrie.” They'd become a tight-knit group. She had other girlfriends, too, ones she'd known longer—some dating back to elementary school—but she would invite them on a different night rather than have one huge “pick my baby-daddy” party. Another person occurred to her for this first group. “Lark Cantrell, too, I think.” After all, a conversation with Lark had helped her arrive at her decision.

“Sounds like fun, MB. I'm in.” Brooke didn't look up from her work. Wisps of Maribeth's hair were hitting the floor and tumbling down over the navy cape.

“I'll e-mail everyone and try to find an evening that works.” Over at Kate's station, which was some distance away, the stylist and her customer were still engrossed in conversation. Gazing in the mirror at her own reflection and Brooke's, Maribeth said, “There's something else I wanted to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

“You believe in redemption, right?” she asked quietly. “That people can change.”

Now Brooke did pause, and her gaze met Maribeth's in the mirror. The stylist's eyes were blue green, but more like the Caribbean, while Mo's reminded Maribeth of a fresh mountain stream. After a moment, Brooke said, “You know that I do. That's the story of my life.”

“So if a person had gone through that process and wanted to apologize to people they'd hurt, you think that would be a good thing?”

“It's one of the basic tenets of A.A. I did it myself.”

“Was everyone receptive?”