Holiday in Your Heart (24 page)

“I guess not. When I've gotten together with Brooke, she's had their daughter in another room, and I've never actually seen her before.”

They stopped talking as their guests came up the path to the door, with Brooke holding Nicki's hand and Jake toting a bag of toddler stuff.

“The lights look great, MB,” Brooke said. “We haven't had a chance to hang ours yet.”

“Thanks. We put them up this afternoon.” She ushered them in. “Jake, you and Mo have met, haven't you?”

“We have,” he said evenly. “Hello, Kincaid.” He held out his hand.

“Brannon,” Mo said, shaking his hand.

The handshake was more than casual, and Maribeth sensed that the men were, if not challenging each other, at least conveying some kind of testosterone-type message. She studied the pair, both very handsome men, making comparisons. Jake was taller and broader across the shoulders, though Mo was equally fit and muscled. They both had black hair, but Jake's was cut in a short, neat style that showed off his strong features while Mo's was longer and curlier. Mo's hair, together with his dark skin and unusual eyes, gave him a more exotic, dramatic masculine appeal.

Maribeth squatted down in front of Nicki. The toddler, who would turn two in February, looked adorable in a puffy red coat and red gumboots with black lady bugs on them. The little girl had inherited her dad's black hair rather than Brooke's blond, and had smoky blue eyes. “Hi, Nicki,” Maribeth said.

“Tee Bee!” she said, opening her arms in a request to be lifted up. The name was her way of saying Auntie MB.

Maribeth hoisted her and planted a big kiss on her nose. “Nicki, this is my friend, Mo.”

Mo said awkwardly, “Hi there, Nicki.”

The child gazed at him and her forehead puckered. “Ma?” she ventured doubtfully, and glanced toward Brooke, who was taking off her coat. Maribeth knew that Nicki called her mother Mama.

Mo stifled a laugh. “Not quite. Mo,” he pronounced clearly, and then repeated it. “Mo.”

“Mo-Mo,” Nicki said more confidently.

“That'll do fine.” He smiled at the girl, and Maribeth thought that it was impossible to resist Nicki's charm.

While Maribeth held the toddler, Mo hung up Brooke's and Jake's coats, and then they all went into the sitting room. Maribeth offered beverages and everyone chose fruit drinks. Jake, who'd often have a beer or two when he was off duty, said he'd pass tonight because he'd be driving home on snowy roads with precious cargo.

Mo went to the kitchen to get the drinks and Maribeth, sitting down in a chair with Nicki on her lap, said, “Jake, thanks for coming.”

“It's important to Brooke.” He seated himself on the sofa beside his wife and mustered a smile. “Besides, it's always good to see you, and you always have great food. And of course Nicki loves you.”

“And I adore her. But wow, every time I see her, she's grown.” Right now, the child was squirming to get free, so Maribeth put her down so she could explore. She puttered around the room in her clunky boots.

“She's a smart one,” Jake said with pride. “It's hard keeping up with her.”

Brooke rose and went over to her daughter. “Her latest thing is toilet training.” She took a blanket and a couple of stuffed animals out of the baby bag. “Everyone says to wait until the child shows interest in it, and Nicki definitely has.” She got the girl settled with the toys. “Much as I hate to see her grow up, I admit I won't miss the diapers.”

Mo had walked into the room as she was speaking and said, “Oh, man, I remember diapers. Bleck.” He handed out the drinks and took the other chair.

“Ha,” Brooke said, rising from the floor. “Seems to me you always found a way to avoid changing them.”

“So did you,” he shot back. “When we were living with your parents, you usually managed to get your mom to do it.”

There was a snippiness to Brooke's and Mo's banter, but also a sense of intimacy, a reminder that they'd been married for a number of years.

Brooke wrinkled her nose. “Okay, true enough. Fortunately for both of us, Evan was always ahead of his age when it came to development.”

There was an uncomfortable pause and Maribeth hunted for something to say, to shift the focus away from the exes' relationship.

Jake got there first. “I admit,” he said, “back before I met Brooke, I sure never figured I'd be changing diapers.”

Brooke sat down beside him again and took his hand. “No, the tough old undercover cop on his Harley never planned on being domesticated.” The edge was gone, and now her teasing tone was affectionate.

Chapter Thirteen

Mo stared at Jake Brannon. Brooke's husband had been an undercover cop on a Harley? He stifled a snort of laughter. Seemed she hadn't gotten over her taste for bad boys in black leather. “You worked undercover?” Mo said to Jake.

“Yeah, for many years. I pretty much planned on keeping doing that.”

“Until he was on an operation in Caribou Crossing,” Brooke said, “and crashed his bike through my white picket fence. And no, before he jumps on me for saying that, it's not that he's a bad driver. He'd been shot, lost a lot of blood, and passed out. Which was the only reason”—she leaned her head against his shoulder—“that I forgave him for smashing my fence.”

“It was a sign,” Jake said, putting his arm around her. “The Harley knew where I belonged even if it took me a while to figure it out.”

It was weird seeing Brooke with her husband. When Mo'd been married to her, he hadn't exactly been faithful, yet it had pissed him off when other guys flirted with the pretty blonde. Now it all seemed so long ago. He and Brooke were different people. Though he was no longer attracted to her in a sexual way, he felt genuine affection, maybe more than he had when they'd been together and both been so miserable. It was pretty clear that Jake made her happy, and Mo was glad for her.

It was also strange seeing her with her daughter. The child had Jake's coloring, but there was something about her face that reminded him of Brooke. As far as he could see, both Nicki's parents lavished her with loving care. Lucky little girl—and poor Evan, who'd been denied that same attention. Mo wondered how his son felt about this decades-younger half sister.

While he'd been reflecting, Maribeth had been trying to coax Brooke and Jake to tell him the rest of the story about how they got together. Mo wouldn't mind hearing it and besides, it would keep the focus off him. “Oh, come on,” he said. “I'm interested.”

Brooke glanced over to check that Nicki, down on the rug, was absorbed in playing with a stuffed cat and stuffed dog. “There'd been a murder down in Vancouver.” She spoke softly. “And it looked like it might be drug-related. Go on, Jake, tell him what brought you up here.”

Mo settled back with his drink and listened as Jake told about his undercover operation and how he'd been shot and had his cover blown. After he crashed his bike, Brooke had helped him by supplying a new cover story.

“Yeah, I could see how the excitement would have appealed to you,” he said to his ex. In fact, that fit more with his image of her than did the one of a contented small-town wife and mother.

“Yes, but no,” Brooke said. “I mean, sure, I used to seek excitement. But since I'd gotten sober and gone on bipolar meds, I'd relegated my adventure to between the pages of books. My life was stable. I had my routines and I played it safe. I was afraid I couldn't handle anything more, afraid I'd start cycling—you know, manic, then depressed—again.”

Oh yeah, he knew what she was talking about. For a moment, he wondered what their lives would have been like if she'd been diagnosed back when they were married. “But,” she said, “there was Jake, and I had to figure out how to deal with him.”

Her husband squeezed her shoulders. “She was a lot stronger than she gave herself credit for.” He picked up the story again, telling about his investigation and how the killer had been brought to justice. “And all the time,” he said, “Brooke and I were growing closer.”

“And by then you'd figured out that you liked Brooke and Caribou Crossing, and wanted to stay?” Mo asked.

The married couple exchanged knowing smiles. “Something like that,” Brooke said. “But that's a story for another day.”

“And right now,” Maribeth said, “it's time for dinner. Mo, can you help me in the kitchen? And, Brooke, you and Jake can get Nicki settled in the high chair. The food'll be ready in five minutes.”

When she and Mo reached the kitchen, she gave him a quick hug and kiss. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay so far.” He had grown more relaxed as Brooke and Jake shared their story. He sniffed the air. “That sure smells good.”

“Chicken stew with dumplings. I put the dumpling dough in when I got our drinks.”

“You're pretty amazing, you know. What do you need me to do?”

“Could you unplug the slow cooker and take it into the dining room? Set it at one end of the table, on the trivet I put out.”

Trivet? A new word to him, but the meaning seemed pretty obvious. When he went into the dining room, he interrupted a hushed conversation between Brooke and Jake, who were getting their toddler settled in a high chair at the table. Mo put the casserole dish on a glazed ceramic tile with a blue, white, and yellow pattern, then left the family alone.

Maribeth was chopping a red-skinned apple. “Would you get me the salad from the fridge?” she asked.

He brought her a bowl of mixed greens and she slid the apple bits into it, then tossed in a handful of raisins. She shook up the contents of a small jar and poured them over. “Mild seasonings tonight,” she said, “and food that's easy for Nicki to eat by herself.”

“Chicken stew sounds just right for a snowy December night.” He picked up the salad and carried it to the dining room, and Maribeth followed.

She got everyone seated: Brooke and Nicki on one side of the table, with Jake at the end beside Nicki. Maribeth placed herself and Mo on the other side of the table with him across from Brooke. That also put him beside the serving dishes.

“Mo,” she said, “would you serve the chicken, and then we'll pass the salad around.”

“Sure.” Glad to have something to do, he stood and dished out portions.

Brooke served salad to herself and Nicki, then passed the bowl to Jake. After that, the talk was casual, about how delicious the food was and how everyone had spent the weekend. Mo kept pretty quiet.

He noted that Nicki was included in the conversation and participated readily, usually managing to make her thoughts clear despite her limited vocabulary. She was also reasonably proficient with a fork and spoon, not spilling much down her chin or onto the bib she wore.

He tried to remember Evan at that age. They'd left L.A. by then and come to Canada. Had Evan turned two when they were living in Red Deer, Lethbridge, or Lillooet? Had Mo been repairing cars, selling motorcycles, or working at a twenty-four-hour convenience store? The months and years blurred together. So many places, so many jobs, so much drinking.

Everyone was on seconds when Jake turned to Mo and asked, “How long are you planning on staying in Caribou Crossing?”

Mo put down his fork. “I'm not sure. Hank Hennessey and I have talked about me buying into the garage, taking it over one day. But . . .” He sighed and glanced across the table at Brooke. “I'm giving Evan time and hoping he'll come around. But if he doesn't, and he really never wants to see me, maybe I should respect that and move away.”

His ex pressed her lips together, her tropical ocean eyes looking troubled. “I don't know what to say, Mo. It took him some time before he agreed to see me.”

“But he did see me,” he pointed out. “And it didn't go well.”

“I think maybe when he reconciled with me,” Brooke said slowly, “he ended up putting even more blame on you.” She leaned forward, gazing straight into his eyes. “I think he still had all the hurt and anger inside, and once he stopped directing some of it toward me, it all went on you. And that was easy for him because you weren't, um, real to him. You were gone and he never expected to see you again. So it was easy to hate you.”

Mo swallowed hard, Maribeth's delicious food settling in his gut like oil sludge in a vehicle engine. “That's what he said. That he hates me.”

Maribeth's hand snuck over to squeeze his thigh, and he was grateful to her.

“I'm sorry about that,” Brooke said. “You were the easy target by not being here. Now you're real, and he has to deal with that, and doing it is painful. He's mad at you for that, as well as for past wrongs.”

“Am I causing him more pain by being here?”

“In the short term, yes. But you're like”—her lips curved with a hint of mischief—“a nasty boil, and he's not going to be able to ignore you. Pain is going to drive him to deal with you, and I hope he can lance the wound, and ultimately the infection and pain will drain away.”

“A boil.” He grinned at his ex, liking the woman she'd become. “I knew I was a sh—” Remembering Nicki, he broke off. He figured the adults knew what he'd been going to say. “But now I'm a boil?”

Brooke laughed, and so did Maribeth.

Mo forced himself to turn to Jake and ask, “What do you think? Evan's your stepson.”

Jake's mouth quirked on one side. “We don't really treat it that way since I'm only seven years older than him.”

Mo tried not to show his surprise. That made Jake eight years younger than Brooke. Not that there was anything wrong with that, as the saying went.

“But yeah,” Jake said, “I've gotten to know Evan. He's a good man. The kind who tries to do the right thing. I think he will this time, too.”

“What's the right thing?” Mo asked. Brooke's husband sure had no reason to be on Mo's side.

“For him and for you,” Jake said, “the right thing is to reconcile.” He gazed levelly at Mo. “I checked you out.”

Mo had expected that. “You're RCMP. Of course you would.”

“Your story holds up. Everything you told Brooke.”

“It's the truth.”

Jake pinned him with a steely gaze. “The whole truth? You didn't shade the story to make yourself look better?”

Mo snorted. “What part of ‘I'm a sh—uh, a sure-fire loser' sounds like trying to make myself look better?”

Jake nodded, and now his expression was lighter. “Yeah, there's that. I've got good radar when it comes to BS, and I'm not getting that from you.”

Maribeth finally spoke. “So what do you think Mo should do, Jake and Brooke? Just keep waiting?”

Jake said thoughtfully, “Working undercover, I know the value of waiting. But it's boring as h—heck.” He glanced wryly at Nicki, who seemed less interested in the conversation than in picking raisins out of her salad and eating them. “Little girl, you've sure cleaned up your daddy's speech. Anyhow, here's something I've learned about waiting. If nothing happens after a while, you can often find a way to poke the beast.”

“Poke the beast?” Brooke echoed with amusement. “Evan's a beast?”

“Ha ha,” her husband said. “You know what I mean. Facilitate some kind of change that stirs up the mix.”

They were all quiet, and Mo wondered how he could poke Evan without further raising his ire.

“Here's a thought,” Maribeth said. “We watch our speech and behavior around Nicki because she's a child, right? She's impressionable and she needs to be protected. But Evan's a grown-up.”

The three adults stared at her, and then Brooke said, “Yes. And?”

“We shouldn't tiptoe around him. We should get on with our own lives, the way we'd normally live them.”

“My turn,” Jake said. “Yes, and?”

“You know that I have an open house on the day I put up my Christmas tree, and that's going to be next Sunday.” She turned to Mo. “I invite all my friends and their significant others and kids. All my old friends from school and those I've made over the years. I'll be inviting Sally and Ben, Corrie and her boyfriend, Lark and her family, Dave and Cassidy, and of course Robin.” She glanced between her two friends. “Brooke and Jake, I hope you can come and bring Nicki.”

The spouses exchanged grins. “We'd love to,” Brooke said. “It's always a lot of fun. And I see where you're going with this.”

So did Mo.

“Of course I'll invite Jess and Evan, and little Alex,” Maribeth said. “They almost always come.”

Mo wasn't sure if this was a wise idea, but it would definitely shake things up. And not only for Evan. The thought of meeting all those people, and especially Evan's stepdaughter and young son, his grandchildren, made him distinctly jumpy.

Maribeth went on. “Mo, I think this year I'll invite Hank Hennessey and Inga. And Ms. Haldenby and Ms. Peabody.”

Now she was stacking the deck with people who seemed, for whatever reason, to support him. The woman truly was amazing. Could her idea possibly work?

“Evan knows you two are dating,” Brooke said. “He'll guess Mo will be here and he'll stay away.”

Mo's heart sank. So much for that idea.

* * *

Maribeth was afraid Brooke was right. She tilted her head, chin up. “Then we'll have a lovely time without Evan. He'll miss out, and so will poor Jess. And he'll miss out at the next social event, and the next one. You've done everything you can do, and he's the one who's being stubborn.”

“Maribeth, I'm not sure—” Brooke started tentatively, but Mo's voice, speaking at the same time, was louder and overrode hers.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “That's not fair. It took me years to sort myself out and have the guts to come back here and apologize. Why should Evan be expected to suddenly change his mind about me?”

Okay, maybe he was right. She was impressed that Mo thought that way. She gave him a warm smile and squeezed his arm. “You're defending your son. That's so nice, Mo. And I'm sorry. I know you're right and I was being too harsh. I'm just impatient because I know you and Evan are both going to be so much happier when you've worked things out.”