by Laura Simcox
He took a couple of steps back from Herman, unfolded the delicate sheet of old-fashioned stationery, and smoothed a bent corner. After a quick glance in Herman’s direction, he began reading, his voice remarkably steady:
My dearest Marcus,
You better not be reading this unless you’re eighteen because that is when Herman is supposed to give it to you. Son, I’m sorry if you’re reading it at all, since it means I’m no longer with you. Please know that had you been old enough to understand, I would have told you what you need to know myself. I always said your daddy is a mystery man, but that’s not true. It’s complicated, but I chose not to tell him about you. At the time, I was eighteen and didn’t have a dime to my name. Your daddy was a young man, too, when I met him, and I didn’t know he was a player. I didn’t know he was rich. I didn’t even know he had another girlfriend besides me. The only thing I did know was that you were going to be my angel, the brightest little thing in my life.
I was right about that, son. I’m not so sure I was right to let my brother Herman help us because it came with conditions. He took care of us, Marcus, and put a roof over our heads, but he told me I had to keep your father’s identity a secret. I know Herman’s heart was in the right place because he was trying to protect mine. I loved your father as much as any eighteen-year-old girl could have loved a man. Herman knew your father would break my heart if I told him about you, and much as I hate to admit it, Herman was right. It still doesn’t excuse me from not telling you about your father, and you have every right to know. His name is Jim Parliament, and that alone probably rings a bell, right, son? Half the county works at his factory over in Celebration, although for your sake, I hope you don’t. I hope you got out of here, honey. Life swallowed me whole, and I let it, but you’re not weak like I was. I owed you more, honey. So much more. I’m sorry.
I love you, Marcus. I love you so much.
Momma.
Marcus stood there, staring at handwriting he hadn’t seen since he was fourteen. His mother had been gone longer than he’d been alive when she died. It was the only clear thought he had right then because the actual contents of the letter were too much to comprehend.
He stepped forward to tower over Herman. “Let me get this straight. My mother knew who my father was all along. You knew it, too. And instead of helping her find the courage to approach the man, you encouraged her to stay out of town, eking out an existence and living in a trailer almost as nasty as this house? Why?”
Herman looked up, his eyes bright and feverish. “To protect you. And her.” He shivered.
“Bullshit.”
“Well, it ain’t hurt you none, Toothpick. Look at you. I didn’t expect you to ever amount to much. Charlene would be proud.” A violent shiver racked Herman’s thin frame, and he reached for the blanket on the floor.
At the sound of his mother’s name being spoken aloud, an unexpected jolt of pain rocked Marcus. He hadn’t said her name in years, and the thought shamed him. With numb fingers, he reached down to the coffee table and flipped over the photo. It was his mother in a hospital gown holding a tiny baby, holding him. She was beaming and so young. Her eyes were bright, unclouded by alcohol and pills. He picked up the photo and slipped it into his pocket.
There was silence for a moment, and then Herman took a deep rattling breath. “So now you know. And don’t tell me I shoulda told you years ago. I realize that already.”
The old man broke into a spasm of coughing so violent that it made Marcus wince. Herman caught his breath and grabbed for the blanket. “And now you know why I had to tell you. You’ve got Jim Parliament’s property now.”
“I don’t see why that changes anything. I’m going to sell it.”
“That’s for the best.” Herman shivered again. “I think I’ve got a fever.”
Marcus folded his arms. “I can see that. I’ll make this quick so you can rest. All you have to do is answer one question, Herman, and I’ll leave you alone.” He stepped close to the settee and bent his head to meet his uncle’s gaze. “Why did you hide the truth?”
Herman twisted his wet lips into a bitter smile. “Your momma was right. I was protecting her from Jim Parliament.” He struggled to sit. “You know, you and me ain’t that different. I started with nothing, worked hard, and made enough money to buy one piece of property. Then I managed that well and saved enough for another one. In a few years, I had a bunch and was busy. Too busy. I needed a manager, and I called down to the college in Ithaca, looking for an intern. They sent me Jim, and I wished right away that they hadn’t. Jim had notions that he was better than me. He had more education. He had ideas. He had an inheritance.”
Herman waved around a papery hand. “And I’ll give him this…he was smart. But he didn’t know how to treat women, and when I found out he got his hands on my sister, that didn’t set well with me at all. Even if she lived a trashy life.” He glanced at Marcus to gauge his reaction.
Marcus kept his face smooth. “Go on.”
“Charlene was almost twenty years younger than me. I’d practically raised her, and when Jim, my damn employee, knocked her up, I was pissed. I made her swear she’d never tell him about the child. I knew I’d get even with him someday.” Herman clawed at the arm of the settee and stood on trembling legs. “I did, too. Took me more than another twenty years, but I got Jim. Took his bakery and cut him down to size.”
The old man weaved and clutched onto Marcus’s arm for support. Marcus didn’t move. “I suppose it didn’t matter that you cut the town down, too?”
Herman reached for his handkerchief. “Well now, I didn’t mean for that to happen. “I’m on the town council. I was gonna fix it.”
Marcus shrugged off Herman’s hand. “The way I see it, there’s no fixing anything you’ve damaged. You’re too full of hate.”
Eyes glittering, Herman slumped back onto the broken-down cushions. “And you ain’t?”
“No.”
But Marcus knew he’d let resentment color almost every move he’d made since his mother died. After she was gone, living with Herman all those years ago hadn’t helped tamp down the fire. And then when he’d learned how to make money and move in privileged circles, bitterness was his constant companion, fueling his desire to be wealthy and successful. Wealth was a cushion. Wealth was numbing. He didn’t want to embrace the attitude of the rich, just the cloak of comfort money could provide. He needed it.
Herman hacked into his handkerchief. “I know you hate me. Probably for the best. I did what I had to do and ain’t no regrets about it.” Herman closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his chest. “I need a drink. Go into the kitchen and get me that bottle.”
“You need a doctor, not a drink,” Marcus said.
Herman didn’t answer, except to let out a wheezing gasp. “My head hurts. Oh, damn.” He stared at Marcus with glassy eyes. “Toothpick…get me a drink.”
Marcus took a step back. “That’s enough. I’m taking you to a hospital.” Fishing his car keys from his coat pocket, Marcus grabbed Herman’s shoulder. “Where are your shoes?”
Herman sank back down and fumbled under the coffee table. He shoved his feet into a pair of old house slippers. “I don’t wanna go anywhere.”
“Get up, Herman.” Marcus took hold of a bony arm and lifted Herman to his feet. His uncle smelled terrible. With a sigh, Marcus heaved the half-conscious man out of the parlor and through the front door. As he felt his way down the snowy steps, a realization that should have come to him sooner popped into his head. If Jim Parliament was his father, then…Preston Parliament was his brother.
His eyes went wide and he halted on the bottom step. Oh, shit. Shock ricocheted through his gut as the ridiculous truth sank in. He threw his head back and laughed.
Next to him, Herman grinned. “You’re a chip off the old block, ain’t you? Charlene was a whore and an unfit momma, but once I got a hold of you I raised you right,” he mumbled.
“What are you talking about?” Marcu
s asked.
“You’re laughing. Laughing right in the face of heartbreak.”
Marcus adjusted his grasp on Herman’s frail arm and walked to the car. “There’s nothing funny about that.”
Chapter Twenty
Ivy was greeted by a wave of warm air as she opened the back door of her parents’ house and stepped into the kitchen. The sweet, decadent smell of fresh doughnuts hung thick in the air, which normally made her mouth water. Today it made her sick.
“Oh good, honey. You’re here. Now you can help me decide which cider recipe to use for tomorrow,” Delia said as she stood at the island flipping pages in a cookbook. She peered over her bifocals at Ivy. “Have you spoken to Marcus?”
Ivy closed the door and shrugged off her coat. She pretended not to hear her mother’s question. “Hi, Mom.” She flopped the coat onto the vacuum cleaner standing next to the breakfast nook and slid onto one of the built-in benches that flanked the rectangular table. Opposite her, her grandmother sat with her ever-present iPad, fingers flying across the screen.
Colleen glanced up. “Told you, Delia. I knew if I called her enough times, I’d wear her down and she’d come over.” She shook a finger at Ivy. “It’s not good to sit alone in your house moping on Christmas Eve.”
Ivy hadn’t been moping. She’d been sleeping…and then waking up and thinking about Marcus and then crying, which made her want to go back to sleep again. Okay, she’d been moping. With a sheepish smile, she folded her hands on the table. “Hey, Gramma. How are you?”
Colleen looked up briefly. “I’m fine. You look like shit, though.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Colleen set aside the iPad. “Okay.” She reached across and squeezed Ivy’s hand. “Here’s something you apparently don’t know: Everything is going to be fine.”
Ivy frowned. “Eventually, maybe. But not today.”
Colleen tapped her lacquered nails on the tabletop. “Your mother and I have something to tell you.” She paused. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
“Depends on what you tell me.” Ivy gave her mom a considering look.
Delia moved toward the table. “I spoke with Marcus and invited him to Christmas dinner.” She removed her glasses and slid them into her apron pocket.
A slow throbbing began in Ivy’s left temple, and she rubbed her raw eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t just say that, Mom,” she murmured.
Delia sighed. “Ivy, I know you’re upset with him, but I’ve been watching the two of you for weeks now. There’s something special there, something once in a lifetime, and it would break my heart for you to throw it away.”
Colleen nodded. “Look at how happy your parents are. When they were about your age, they got the chance at a once in a lifetime and they took it.” She shifted in her seat. “Despite my objections.”
Ivy stared at her. “You were against Mom and Dad getting married?”
Colleen shot Delia an inscrutable look. “She was so bossy. Still is. I thought she was going to lead him around by his—”
“Okay, she gets the picture.” Delia glared at Colleen. “So what? I’m bossy. You don’t win any awards for being sweet as sugar.”
Colleen shuddered. “I hope to hell not. But the point is, your parents have had a great marriage. I did, too. It’s been twenty years since your grandfather died, and there’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.” She smiled. “That part of my life was magic, and it was because I trusted that our love would overcome any obstacles. It’s sappy, but it’s true.”
Ivy shook her head. “I understand what you’re both trying to do. But Marcus…betrayed me. He tried to make me look like fool in front of my town. Where’s the love in that?” She rested her elbows on the table and let her forehead sink into her palms. “I won’t let him hurt me again.”
Colleen sighed. “You really think that was his number-one goal? To humiliate you? Think about it, Ivy. Marcus is as stubborn as you are, and right now, I seriously doubt he’s somewhere laughing into his sleeve about his victory. It’s just a big-box store, for fuck’s sake.”
Ivy stared at her. “Just a big-box store? Which he managed to force on our town by lying and manipulating me, the mayor?”
“Oh, Ivy.” Delia sank down on the bench and bumped her hip until Ivy scooted over. She wrapped her arms around Ivy’s shoulders. “The only thing he manipulated was your pride. You love him. You can’t control that. Just take a step back and look at your own obstinacy. It’s not going to help you where Marcus is concerned. One of you has got to give,” she said with a laugh in her voice.
“Damn straight,” Colleen said.
Ivy’s head shot up. “Jeez, kick a girl while she’s down, why don’t you? I’m not obstinate!”
She glared at her grandmother, who just shrugged again. “Yes, you are. Runs in the family,” Colleen said.
Delia squeezed Ivy’s shoulders again and let go. “I’m glad it does.” She got to her feet and walked back to the island. “Keeps things interesting.”
The back door opened then, and her dad walked in, stomping his boots on a throw rug. A second later, a loud thump sounded in the living room and Breezy trotted into the kitchen, winding herself around his legs.
“Hey, Ivy,” he said. He picked up the cat, cradling her in his large arms and scratching her on the chin.
“Hi, Dad. I’m not obstinate, am I?” She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting for a response.
“Well…” He bent down and let the cat slide to the floor. “It’s a good trait for a mayor to have,” he said, giving her a shrewd smile. He unzipped his coat. “And you’re a good mayor.”
She shook her head. “I should have known you’d be vague.”
He winked at her. “I’m always vague when I walk into the middle of a conversation with you three. It’s how I’m still alive.”
Ivy slid out of the booth and scooped Breezy up, turning to her mom. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, you and Gramma. But I’m not ready for it, so please just call him and—”
“Call! Thanks for reminding me, honey. I need to call the old-folks home in Arizona and see if they’ve shipped those last boxes yet.”
Brian frowned. “You need to call Sunnyside Retirement Village on Christmas Eve? For boxes?”
Ivy groaned and walked to the kitchen doorway. “I’ll let you all sort everything out. The only thing that I want to do is take a nap.” She buried her face in the cat’s silky fur.
“Well, you’re room’s empty, so have at it,” Brian said gruffly. “Get some rest.”
Ivy hoped that she could. Maybe when she woke up, she could manage to go five minutes without crying and then she would call Marcus and tell him not to come over tomorrow for Christmas dinner. She didn’t want him here. She could feign a toothache. Or cramps. Or diarrhea. Yeah. That ought to keep him away. Or…she could tell him the truth: that she loved him and it was making her sick. She shuddered.
“Honey, are you ill?” Delia placed a cool hand on Ivy’s forehead. “Hmm. You do feel hot. Go lie down.”
Ivy nodded and carried Breezy into the living room. She paused to stare at the Christmas tree with its softly winking lights and mishmash of ornaments. The tarnished star on top was crooked, just like it had been every year she could remember. Well, except for the four years she had stayed away from Celebration. She shook her head. How stupid that seemed now. Four long years of hiding out, worrying what people thought of her after she broke off the engagement with Preston. How selfish. She should have been right here, in this house at Christmas, not in the rec room of a senior center in Arizona with her parents and grandmother gathered around a professionally decorated fake tree. They had always looked so uncomfortable in that sterile environment. They belonged here. She belonged here.
Tears blurred her eyes and the tree lights became a fuzzy ocean in her vision. “Oh for crap’s sake,” she muttered and wiped her face on the cat. Breezy grunted and slit open an
accusing eye. “Sorry,” said Ivy. The cat licked her cheek and then her eyebrow. Gross. Ivy squinted and wiped at her eye with the back of her hand. “Come on, girl. Let’s go take a nap.”
Putting one foot in front of the other took most of her concentration, but she managed to make it halfway up the stairs before her parents’ phone rang. As usual, the noise was deafening since her mom insisted on having a cordless phone in every room of the house. “It’s so I never have to run to answer it,” Delia always said, but inevitably there were at least three phones that ended up on the kitchen island by the end of the day. Ivy paused on the steps and crossed her fingers. Maybe it was Marcus. With any luck he’d be calling to cancel.
“Ivy? Phooooone.”
Shit.
Her mom only used that wheedling tone when she knew who it was and had decided that Ivy needed to take the call. She sighed and sank onto the shag-carpeted steps. “Tell him I’ll call him later, Mom.” Then she mouthed along with Delia, “No, honey. I think it’s important.”
Delia appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a phone pressed to her chest. “It’s Preston Parliament,” she whispered, her eyes round. “He’s crying.”
Ivy rolled her eyes and reached for the phone. “Great.”
“Now, Ivy, don’t be spiteful,” Delia admonished before surrendering the receiver.
Taking a deep breath, Ivy settled Breezy onto her lap. “What’s wrong, Preston?”
On the other end of the line, Preston moaned. “My dad’s coming to New York. Flying out tonight. What am I going to do?” He sniffled. “I need help.”
Ivy just barely managed not to hang up on him. “Go pick him up from the airport? Just a suggestion.”
“But he doesn’t know I live in Celebration. He thinks I’m in law school in Syracuse!”
“What?” Ivy stood up, dumping Breezy on the steps. The fat cat grunted and, tail swishing, disappeared up the steps. “Why would he think that?”
“Because that’s what I told him. Ivy, he wouldn’t have wanted me to take the job as town planner. When the bakery failed and then you…dumped me, he just wanted to cut all ties with the town. But then, out of the blue, he called me a couple of hours ago and said he wanted to meet me in Celebration. He wants to have Christmas here.” Preston’s voice rose. “I was at the airport getting ready to fly to Alabama to see him.”
