Paige always felt kind of sorry for Carter’s girlfriends. Somehow they all fell so hard for him. And the deeper they fell, the more he pulled away from them. And the more he pulled away, the more upset they got. There would be scenes. Carter hated scenes, mostly because his childhood had been one long, dramatic scene.
His mother, Willow Mooney, had loved his father, Franklin Bravo, to distraction. Franklin was already married when he met Willow. But Frank Bravo didn’t let a little thing like a wife get in his way. He set Willow up in a house on the south side of town. Willow kicked Frank out of that house on a regular basis. But she always took him back, remaining his mistress for over two decades, giving Frank five children while he was still married to his first wife, Sondra, who gave him four.
Yeah. Falling for Carter? Not a wise move.
This can’t really be happening, Paige thought for about the fiftieth time since Monday and that awful, terrible, silly, pointless quiz. This can’t be happening to me.
But if it wasn’t, then why was she lurking in the doorway to the kitchen, staring longingly at Carter’s broad, thick shoulders and fine, tight butt?
It just made her feel sad. Beyond sad. Carter’s shoulders and butt had never mattered in the least to her before Monday. Why should they mean so much now?
He sent her a quick smile over one of those far-too-fine shoulders of his. “Coffee’s ready.”
As if she didn’t know. Carter was a great cook. And he had a way with coffee. She would know a Carter-brewed cup of coffee blindfolded. All it took was one sniff. Heaven in a cup.
“Thanks.” She shuffled over and filled a mug with the hot, wonderful brew. And then she stood there, leaning against the counter, sipping it slowly, her heart breaking at the hopeless absurdity of it all as Carter cracked eggs into her mother’s favorite cast-iron pan.
* * *
Carter woke on Thanksgiving morning to the sound of his cell ringing. He stuck out a hand, snared the damn thing off the nightstand and squinted at the display. It was 5:49 and his mother was calling.
When had Willow Mooney Bravo ever climbed out of bed before six in the morning? Never, that he could remember. Even when he and his brothers and sisters were small they knew not to bother Ma too early in the morning. She tended to throw things if you messed with her beauty sleep.
His sweet redbone coonhound, Sally, lifted her floppy-eared head from the foot of the bed and blinked at him questioningly.
“Hell if I know,” he said to the dog, and put the phone to his ear. “Ma? What’s going on? Did somebody die?”
“Happy Thanksgiving, darling. Everything is fine and no one has died. But I know you’re an early riser and I wanted to catch you before you left the house. I want a private word with you—today, I hope. I’m leaving for Palm Springs tomorrow and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” Since his father had died four years ago, you could hardly catch his mother at home. She traveled the world, flitting from one luxury destination to the next. “I wonder if you could drop by for a drink before you join the rest of the family at Clara’s.”
His half sister Clara Bravo Ames had invited the whole family to her house that afternoon for a big Thanksgiving dinner. Paige and Dawn were coming, too. “Won’t you be at Clara’s?”
“It was sweet of Clara to include me, but no. Big family gatherings exhaust me and I have an early flight tomorrow morning—and besides, I want to speak with you alone.”
He didn’t really like the sound of that. “About what?”
“Darling. Honestly. Don’t be so suspicious. I’ll explain everything when we talk.”
“We’re talking now.” At the foot of the bed, Sally picked up the tension in his voice and whined. He snapped his fingers and she slinked up the bed, slithered in a circle and settled beside him where he could throw an arm around her and scratch her silky red head.
His mother went on, sounding way too casual for his peace of mind. “How about this? I know you’re expected at Clara’s at three. So let’s say two o’clock at my house, just you and me.” Her house was the Bravo Mansion, which his father had built for his first wife, Sondra. The mansion was full of beautiful things that used to be Sondra’s. When Sondra died, Frank married Willow and installed her at the mansion. By then, Carter had been twenty-three and on his own. He’d never had to live in the house he still considered Sondra’s, and he was damn glad he hadn’t. He didn’t want to go there today, either. “Carter. Are you still there?”
He patted Sally’s smooth flank. “Yeah.”
“Two o’clock, then?”
He reminded himself that she was his mother and he really didn’t see her all that often these days. “Yeah, Ma. See you then.” Disconnecting the call, he tossed the phone on the nightstand. Then he turned to Sally. “Walk?”
Sally let out a happy whine of agreement and lifted off her haunches enough to give a wag of her red tail.
“Let’s go pick up Biscuit and get after it, then.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, he stood on Paige’s front porch and stuck his key in the lock. Biscuit was waiting on the other side. He grabbed the beagle’s leash from the hook by the door and clipped it to Biscuit’s collar. Then he clicked his tongue and Biscuit trotted out the door to wiggle over and butt against Sally, who waited patiently for Carter to lock up again so they could get going.
Half an hour later, he was back in the kitchen at Paige’s, getting the coffee going, trying to decide between French toast and oatmeal. He settled on the oatmeal because of the huge dinner ahead of them at Clara’s. Paige and Dawn came down together as he was turning off the fire under the oats.
Through breakfast, Dawn chattered away as usual about the afternoon dinner at Clara’s, about how she and her best friend, Molly D’Abalo, were going to the movies with friends in the evening.
Dawn was a great kid. Not an ounce of bitterness in her, though she’d lost her mom and dad suddenly when she was only ten. Erica and Jerry Kettleman had been buried in an avalanche while off on a twenty-fifth anniversary skiing trip. Paige had come home from college to take care of her little sister. Together, they’d made it work. And now, at eighteen, Dawn had boundless enthusiasm and a smile for everyone. She was an A student and first chair clarinet with her high school band.
Babbling away happily between bites, Dawn inhaled her oatmeal. Once her bowl was empty, she jumped up, carried it to the sink, ran water in it and rushed off upstairs to get dressed.
Carter turned to Paige, who wore her heavy plaid robe, with her brown hair loose and uncombed on her shoulders. Her eyes looked kind of puffy. She’d hardly said a word since she came downstairs. “You okay?”
She blinked and seemed to shake herself. “Uh. Fine.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
He couldn’t really get a read on her, couldn’t decide whether he ought to keep pushing her to tell him what was going on with her or let it go. It was odd. As a rule, he never had to push her to tell him if she had a problem. She always came right out with it and asked his advice.
Okay, so maybe this time she needed a little encouragement. He was just about to try that when she jumped up. “Thanks for the breakfast, Carter. You’re the best.”
“Gotta keep my girls fed.” He watched her bustle to the sink, rinse out her bowl and bend to stick it in the dishwasher.
“Well.” She shut the dishwasher door and straightened. “Better get after it. The day’s not getting any younger. Leave everything. I mean it. I’ll clean up.”
“Will do.”
“Quarter of three?”
“I’ll be here.”
And then she darted to the door and took off down the hall.
He didn’t get it. They always spent a few minutes together in the morning after Dawn went back upstairs. But today—and for the past cou
ple of days, now that he thought about it—Paige couldn’t get away fast enough.
Her rush to leave the kitchen right after breakfast hadn’t bothered him much yesterday or the day before. Today, though, he’d really wanted to tell her about the weird call from his mother. He wanted to get her take on Willow suddenly asking him to come to the Bravo Mansion and have a drink with her, alone.
But so much for wanting Paige’s input.
“So, okay, then,” he said to the dogs, because there was no one else there to hear him. He rose. “Come on, Sally. Time to go.”
* * *
Built less than forty years ago on top of a hill at the west end of Grandview Drive, the Bravo Mansion seemed a product of a much earlier age. Georgian in style, with big white columns flanking the front door, the mansion bore a striking resemblance to the White House. Let it never be said that Frank Bravo didn’t dream big.
The housekeeper, Estrella Watson, must have been told to watch for him. Before he was halfway up the front steps, she pulled the wreath-hung door open and gave him a big smile of greeting. “Happy Thanksgiving, Carter.” She reached for a hug.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Good to see you.” He’d always liked Estrella. She’d been the mansion’s housekeeper for years, from before Sondra died and Carter’s mother moved in. Well into her fifties now, Estrella kept the house and grounds in great shape, hiring and supervising maids, gardeners and repairmen. She lived in, cooking for Willow whenever his mother was at home. She seemed to enjoy her job and treated everyone kindly.
A jumble of boxes filled the front hall, most of them opened, bright decorations and shiny ornaments spilling out. “It’s a weeklong job, getting the house ready for the holidays,” Estrella explained. “And I’m not preparing Thanksgiving dinner this year, so I thought I might as well get a head start.”
What for? he couldn’t help wondering. Only she and his mother lived there, and his mother was leaving for California. But Willow liked the mansion just so, whether she stuck around to enjoy it or not. And Estrella had a gleam in her eye, as though nothing pleased her more than decking the halls of the big, empty house.
She took his coat. “Your mother’s in the library.”
He thanked her and went on through the formal living room to the large book-lined room behind it, where a fire crackled in the ornate fireplace and the mantel was already done up in swags of green garland studded with shiny ornaments and twinkling lights.
“Carter.” His mother rose from a silk-covered chair. She looked beautiful as always, in snug black slacks and a fitted green cashmere sweater, her chin-length blond hair combed back from the classic oval of her face.
He kissed the smooth, pale cheek she offered. “Ma. How are you?”
She fiddled with the diamond stud in her left ear. “Perfect. Thank you. How about a martini?”
He looked at her patiently. “Got a beer?”
She sighed. “Of course.” She had a longneck waiting in an ice bucket on the fancy mirrored drink cart, right next to the Bombay Sapphire and the Vya vermouth. She also had a chilled glass for him.
“Just give me the bottle.”
Another sigh. His mother had been born with nothing. Her own mother ran off when she was three weeks old and Willow grew up in a double-wide, just her and her father. Gene Mooney, deceased before Carter was born, had had trouble holding a job and drank too much. It probably wasn’t all that surprising that, over the years, Willow had developed a passion for elegance and gracious living. The way Willow saw it, if a man insisted on drinking beer, he should at least use a glass.
Too bad. Carter took the beer, sat in the chair across from hers and watched as she skillfully whipped up her martini—stirred, not shaken.
Willow took her seat again and raised her glass. “To happiness.”
Happiness? His mother had never struck him as a person who put a lot of store in happiness. She’d wanted Frank Bravo and the good life he provided for her. And she’d fought tooth and nail to get both.
But hey. She was getting older. Maybe she missed the happiness that had never seemed all that important to her while Carter was growing up.
“Happiness it is.” He lifted his bottle in answer to her toast and resisted the urge to come right out and ask her why she’d summoned him here. It wouldn’t kill him to try a little friendly conversation. “So, what’s happening in Palm Springs?”
“The usual. Shopping. Spa time. And the weather is lovely there now.”
“Well. Have a great time.”
“I will, darling.”
Ho-kay. So much for cordial conversation. He took one more stab at it. “We’ll miss you at Clara’s.”
She smiled her cool smile. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Annoyance gnawed at him. His half siblings had made it more than clear that they wanted to forgive and forget. Her decades-long love triangle was seriously old news. “You’re wrong. We will miss you.” He took care to say it gently. “And I think you know that.”
She sipped her drink. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about dinner at Clara’s.”
“Well, all right. What’s going on?”
Willow lounged back in the chair and crossed her legs. “Notice I made a toast to happiness?”
“Yeah, Ma. I heard you.”
“That’s because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness, about what makes a man—or anyone, really—truly happy.” She paused. Just to be nice, Carter made an encouraging sound low in his throat. She said, “Take your brother.”
“Which one?” He had two full brothers, both younger than he was—Garrett, thirty-three, and Quinn, thirty-one. And then there were also Sondra’s sons, Darius and James.
“I’m talking about Quinn,” his mother said. A former martial arts star, Quinn had retired from fighting last year and brought his little daughter, Annabelle, home to Justice Creek. Now he owned a gym and fitness center on Marmot Drive. Just recently, he’d gotten together with gorgeous Chloe Winchester, who’d also grown up in town. “Now that Quinn’s married Chloe, he’s a truly happy man.”
Carter wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. “Can’t argue with that,” he answered cautiously.
“I want that for you, too, darling. I want you to find happiness.”
Okay, now. He definitely didn’t like where this was going. “What are you up to, Ma? Just spit it the hell out.”
“Love, darling. I want you to take a chance on love.”
He really wished he hadn’t asked. “Oh, well, sure. I’ll get right on that.”
“Don’t give me sarcasm. You’re thirty-four years old. When a man reaches your age and he’s never been married, the likelihood that he’ll find someone to be happy with is...” Another sigh. God. He hated her damn sighs. “It’s not looking good for you. You have to know that.”
Carter sat very still in the silk wing chair and reminded himself not to say anything he would later regret. But she pissed him the hell off. She acted as if he didn’t want to get married. He did. Very much.
But somehow the whole romance thing never worked out for him. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. He had. Repeatedly.
There was just something about him, something wrong with him. Because he always attracted the drama queens.
Things would begin well. Lots of fireworks in bed, yes, but otherwise the woman would seem like a reasonable person, someone he could talk to, someone easygoing and fun. Early on, his girlfriends reassured him that they wanted what he wanted, a solid partnership and a balanced life. He always explained up front that he expected an exclusive relationship and he planned someday to get married, but if they were after passionate declarations of undying love, they should find a different guy. The woman would say that was no problem; she completely understood.
But every woman he’d ev
er dated had eventually told him she loved him. He never said it back. And his silence on the subject never worked for them. The downward spiral would start. There would be heated accusations, generally irrational behavior and a messy breakup at the end. He hated all that.
Truthfully, deep down?
Carter thought the whole love thing was pretty damn stupid. The way he saw it, falling in love was a good way to lose your mind.
His mother said, “I know, darling. I understand. I wasn’t a good mother.”
“Did I say that? I never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it. It’s simply the truth. There were way too many big dramatic scenes. I loved your father to distraction and I wanted him to leave Sondra. Every time I kicked him out, I swore I would never take him back.”
“But you always did.”
“I loved him.” She said it softly, gently. As though it explained everything.
Carter kept his mouth shut. It was stupid to argue about it. To some people, love excused the worst behaviors. All you had to do was call it love and you could get away with anything—steal someone else’s husband, make your children’s lives an endless series of shouting matches and emotional upheavals.
His mother set her empty martini glass on the small inlaid table by her chair. “I want you to take a chance on love. I may be a bad mother, but I do love you. And a mother knows her children. At heart, you’re like Quinn. A family man. I won’t have you ending up alone because of my mistakes.”
She wouldn’t have it? You’d think he was ten, the way she was talking. “Ma, you really need to dial this back. It’s not all about you. I’m a grown man and have been for quite a while now. It’s on me if I can’t make things work with a woman.”
“Not entirely. I know very well that my actions when you were growing up have made you afraid of strong emotions.”
He looked at her sideways. “Have you gone into therapy or something?”
“No. I’ve only been thinking—as I’ve already told you. These days, I have plenty of time for thinking.”
Carter Bravo's Christmas Bride Page 2
