[Ladera by the Sea 01] - A Wedding for Christmas

by Marie Ferrarella

  Normally she kept a tight lid on sentiment since it usually made her feel weepy.

  There was nothing to cry about today. She had her family around her, which she knew made her luckier than a great many other people. In addition, her beautiful son was bright and healthy and he was surrounded with people who absolutely adored him.

  Right now, life felt perfect. And that was what scared her.

  As a child, she’d noticed that whenever things felt perfect, suddenly something would happen that would shoot arrows of pain through her.

  The very first time was when her mother had unexpectedly been taken from her. The next was when her father fell ill and she’d been so afraid that they would lose him, as well. Terrified, she’d kept vigil over him until, mercifully, he’d gotten well again.

  After that, everything had gone along smoothly for a long while. Better than smoothly. She’d married Mike and their joy when she found out she was pregnant had been off the charts.

  When he was killed a few weeks later—her letter to him about her pregnancy in his pocket for good luck, of all things—she didn’t think she would ever recover, ever ascend from the abyss she was free-falling through.

  But slowly, inch by inch, locking away all her emotions until such time as she could deal with them, Cris had struggled to make her way back up to the land of the living. Back to being a productive person, a loving daughter and sister. Above all, a loving, caring mother. She did it for Ricky and for Mike, who would have been disappointed in her if she’d given up.

  Having her heart savagely carved up taught her two things: never take happiness for granted and always be aware that life can change in less than a heartbeat, which meant that the solid ground beneath her feet could become a sinkhole faster than she could even envision.

  And that had her thoughts turning toward the pending visit from her in-laws. What could they possibly want to talk about regarding Ricky’s future?

  Before fear could rise up and cut off her air supply, she pushed the thought away, sticking it into an imaginary, airtight metal box. She’d deal with it when the time came. Nothing she could do about it now—except pray every night that she was overreacting.

  With effort, she focused on her immediate surroundings.

  This afternoon, the dining area was full. Her entire family was gathered at the main table, along with Wyatt, who would soon become the brother she never had, and Shane.

  Shane’s presence gladdened her but made her feel uneasy at the same time. She liked him—more than liked him if she was truly honest with herself—and because she did, she was waiting for some nebulous, awful thing to happen that would wound her almost mortally.

  Just like all the other times.

  Her sisters had set the tables and pitched in to bring the food out for both the family and the inn’s guests.

  Today, everyone was family.

  That was the message Richard Roman wanted to convey and his daughters made certain that it came across.

  When Cris was finally done in the kitchen, Ricky and Shane had each taken one of her hands and pulled her into the dining room despite her protests that she felt she’d left something undone.

  “Whatever it is, it’ll keep,” Shane had assured her.

  Ricky had tugged at her apron strings, undoing them, and Shane had deftly tossed the apron aside the second it had loosened.

  “Time to start,” her father had called out just as she was escorted into the dining area.

  Shane and Ricky buffered her on either side as they made her take a seat. Cris perched on the edge of the chair rather than sitting back, a sure sign that she intended to spring into action as soon as she was able or the need arose.

  “You heard the man, Cinderella,” Shane told her. “Officially time to start Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s not her name,” Ricky told Shane, laughing at Shane’s “mistake.” “Her name’s Mama. I forget her other name, but she likes me to call her Mama. She’s not your Mama,” he confided to Shane in what could be best described as a stage whisper. “But you can call her that if you want ’cause she’ll answer. But she won’t answer if you call her Cinderella,” the boy informed his friend seriously.

  Shane grinned as he inclined his head in a little bow. “I stand corrected.”

  Ricky frowned. His expression said he thought adults were strange, even the really nice ones.

  “No, you don’t,” Ricky argued, mystified. “You’re sitting.”

  “Ricky, it’s not nice to correct grown-ups,” Andy warned her nephew in as stern a voice as she could manage while stifling her laughter.

  “Shane doesn’t mind, do you, Shane?” the little boy asked, seeking backup and confident he would get it.

  And he did.

  “Nope,” Shane answered genially. “How else am I going to learn?” he wanted to know, clearly amused.

  Just too good to be true, Cris thought, looking on and taking in the exchange between her son and Shane. She struggled to brace herself for the inevitable letdown, but she was at a loss as to which direction it would come from.

  “Hey, I think the gravy’s missing,” Stevi said, looking around the table as she did a quick mental inventory of what should be on the table and what was still waiting in the kitchen to be pressed into service.

  At the mention of the gravy, Cris sprang from her seat. “I’ll get it,” she said to everyone at the table and no one in particular.

  She would have made a beeline for the kitchen if strong fingers hadn’t suddenly tethered her wrist. She found herself looking down into Shane’s chiseled face. He was smiling at her, but with a steely smile that said he’d made up his mind and no amount of her talking would change it.

  “No, you won’t,” Shane told her evenly. “You’re going to stay right here, even if I have to tie you to your chair. I’ll go for the gravy.”

  “Easy, big fella,” Stevi teased, rising to her feet as if she intended to push him down by herself if he didn’t obey. “You don’t know where anything is in the kitchen. I’ll get the gravy.”

  “No, neither one of you will,” Alex told them both.

  Still standing, Stevi propped one fisted hand on her hip in the universal body language sign of impatience. “Why? Because you don’t think I can find anything?” she wanted to know.

  “No, because the gravy bowl is right there, behind the baked yam and apple dish,” Alex pointed out. “But just for the record, Stevi, you do have trouble locating things.”

  “Girls.” Richard’s soft, even voice commanded their attention. “This is a day for giving thanks, not for giving your father a headache with your squabbling.”

  “Yes, Dad.” Alex pretended to meekly withdraw from the confrontation, as did her sister.

  “And I for one,” Richard said, gazing at the people seated at his table, “am extremely thankful for each and every one of you. I feel very blessed right now. It’s been a good year and it promises to be even better,” he said, looking directly at his late best friend’s son, “with Wyatt officially joining our family.”

  “He was always part of the family,” Stevi was quick to remind her father.

  “Even when I was verbally sparring with Alex?” Wyatt teased. To him, they had always been his family. Richard and his daughters were his anchor, even when he’d been too young to realize it.

  “Especially when you were verbally sparring with Alex,” Cris assured him. “We were all secretly cheering you on.”

  “Thanks,” Alex said wryly, pretending to be miffed.

  “As a matter of fact, at times, I think we all liked you better than we liked Alex.” Stevi slanted a whimsical glance at Alex and deadpanned, “No offense, Alex.”

  “None taken,” Alex answered, mimicking her sister’s tone.

  “I think you should just say grace,
Dad, and start carving the turkey while there’re still no visibly wounded at the table,” Andy prompted. “They can’t talk if their mouths are full of food.”

  “Very good idea,” Richard declared with a laugh. Turning toward his grandson, who was seated beside his mother, he said, “Ricky, would you like to say grace for us?”

  Ricky grinned, raised his small chin and declared, “Grace.”

  “Very funny,” his mother said tolerantly. “And now say it seriously.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her son folded his hands before him, bowed his silken head as he closed his eyes—and remained silent.

  “Out loud,” Cris prompted. “Say it out loud.”

  Ricky turned his head slightly as he opened one eye and looked at her, puzzled. “God can hear me.”

  “Very true,” Shane agreed, making eye contact with the boy. “But we can’t. Why don’t you share it with the rest of us?” he suggested.

  Ricky’s face lit up instantly. “Sure,” he cried, eager to please the new man in his life. Taking a breath, he bowed his head again and this time, in a clear, strong voice, said, “Thank you, God, for taking care of us, for Aunt Alex and Wyatt getting married and thank you for my new friend Shane. Oh, and for him making Mama laugh again. I like hearing her laugh. Amen,” he announced, then looked up. “Can we eat now?” he wanted to know, stressing the last word.

  “Yes,” Richard answered his grandson as he rose to his feet, taking the freshly sharpened carving knife in one hand. He steadied the turkey with the matching fork in his other. “Everything looks perfect, Cris,” he told her. “As usual.”

  “I had help,” Cris replied, deflecting the compliment so that it encompassed her sisters as well as Shane. “Everyone pitched in.”

  Richard nodded. It might have been her imagination, but she could have sworn her father was eyeing Shane as he told her, “Things always go faster when you have help.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Alex said. “I think Cris breathed a huge sigh of relief when I bowed out this year to cover the desk.”

  “I did not,” Cris protested. “At least, it wasn’t a ‘huge’ sigh,” she corrected.

  “We’ll leave the comment right there,” Wyatt interjected. “I know how these things can escalate, given half a chance.”

  “Good idea,” Richard agreed. “All right,” he declared, glancing around at his family, “who wants dark meat?”

  * * *

  “YOU ALREADY DID enough helping me prepare the meal—you don’t have to clear the table,” Cris told Shane two hours later. He was following right behind her with a tray full of dishes, his destination the dishwasher.

  “I know,” he replied cheerfully, “but I want to.”

  “Nobody wants to face dirty dishes if they can help it,” Stevi told Shane, coming up next to him as she brought in another load of plates from the dining area.

  All the guests had eaten, expressed their thorough enjoyment of the meal and cleared out, leaving the leftovers and the empty plates for Cris and whoever volunteered to help her with them.

  Although she was pleased when Shane began to pitch in, Cris felt obligated to tell him he could sit this out because he was, after all, more of a guest than not and guests were supposed to relax after the meal, pick a favored corner of the main room and quietly doze off in one of the wing chairs.

  “Okay, I don’t exactly like KP,” Shane confessed, “but I do want to show my appreciation for the meal and especially for being allowed to share in the company.” He paused for a moment as he rolled up his sleeves. “I want you to know that this was one of the best Thanksgivings I’ve ever had. Certainly the best one I’ve had in recent memory.”

  Cris laughed softly and shook her head. “Well, I’ll say this about you—you certainly have a low threshold when it comes to appreciation.”

  Shane looked at her as he picked up the top plate from the tray he’d brought in and passed it to her. His fingers brushed hers. Both she and he felt the light current that passed between them.

  “Not so low,” he contradicted. “Actually, I consider it relatively high.”

  “Well, that’s my cue to leave,” Stevi announced, beginning to back away.

  Cris gazed sharply in her sister’s direction. She wasn’t fooled for a second. “Ha! Anything is your cue to leave.”

  Stevi stopped in the doorway, sparing her a single glance over her shoulder. “I can take back the dishes I just brought in,” she threatened.

  “Just go play with my son,” Cris told her, waving Stevi off to the main room. As Stevi disappeared, Cris turned to Shane. “You’re free to leave, too, if you like. I was serious earlier. You’ve more than done your time.”

  He made no attempt to leave. Instead, he picked up another plate and passed it to her. “You have a hard time accepting help, don’t you?”

  There was no point in arguing with him over that one. “We’re all control freaks in my family to greater or lesser degrees,” she admitted. “As for accepting help, it’s just more of a case of my not expecting it.”

  “That should make it all the more pleasant for you to be on the receiving end when it does happen,” Shane noted. “I speak from experience.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I didn’t expect to even have turkey for Thanksgiving, much less the kind of feast you put together.”

  Despite warning herself not to get drawn in, Cris knew her curiosity had been aroused. She had to ask, “What were you going to have?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t think that far ahead. But since you inquired, I probably would have stopped at one of those little sandwiches-to-go shops and gotten whatever was at the top of menu.” As his words echoed in his head, Shane stopped and laughed at himself. “I guess now is when you’d hear sad violin music if this were a made-for-TV movie.”

  For a moment, he had pulled her in. Really pulled her in. When she let her defenses down, she could feel everything the person she was empathizing with felt.

  “Well, I don’t know about violin music,” she said, trying to shake off her empathy for him, “but it sounds pretty sad to me. I’m glad you decided to spend the day with us.”

  “As I recall,” he reminded her, “it wasn’t actually my decision—it was more of a command performance.”

  “Regrets?” she asked, unable to gauge by his tone if he had them or not.

  A smile curved his mouth. “Only if you don’t let me show you my gratitude by letting me help you with cleanup.”

  Cris laughed—and then recalled what Ricky had said during grace. Shane did make her laugh, she realized. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess I really can’t just send you away, can I?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. And I wouldn’t go even if you did.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. There was something in his voice, something that held a promise—but of what, she couldn’t pinpoint. “Are we still talking about the dishes?”

  “Sure,” he replied, a bit more breezily than she would have thought him capable of. Was he pulling her leg or hinting that not everything was visible on the surface? “Why?” he asked her in all innocence. “What else would we be talking about?”

  The smile on his lips now was a teasing one, as if he was just barely holding back a laugh, and a secret he wasn’t about to share—yet.

  Just your imagination, Cris. You’re tired and you’ve been working too hard. There’s no hidden meaning behind his words, no multiple choices to weed through.

  What you see is what you get.

  If only...

  “Not a thing,” she replied. “Why don’t you start rinsing the plates and getting them ready for the dishwasher while I consolidate the leftovers?”

  “I’m yours to command,” he answered glibly, taking his position by the sink.

 
Cris stopped herself before her imagination could take off again. But, she quickly discovered to her growing dismay, reining in her thoughts after hearing such a leading line wasn’t at all easy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “PLEASE, MAMA, PLEAZZZE?” Ricky begged.

  The little boy had been singing the same refrain, in varying intonations, off and on since the morning after Thanksgiving. That had been five days ago.

  The plaintive supplications all revolved around getting Cris to go looking—and ultimately, of course, buying—a Christmas tree for the inn.

  “Christmas is almost here,” Ricky pleaded, stressing the last word as he followed her around the kitchen the way he seemed to have been doing every day of late.

  Even when one of his aunts or his grandfather managed to distract him with something for a short while, he always made his way back to her and picked up where he’d left off as if no time had gone by in between.

  Ordinarily, Cris dearly loved Ricky’s company, even when she was busy preparing meals for the guests. She could multitask with the best of them.

  But this morning she’d picked up her cell phone to discover a message that she’d been trying not to think about even as she was dreading it. Her former mother-in-law had called her to say they would be arriving sometime during the week.

  When she’d attempted to return the call, she’d gotten the woman’s voice mail and heard a robotic voice informing her that the phone was off. There was no point in leaving a message—Marion MacDonald never returned messages—so Cris didn’t.

  More fluttering butterflies in her stomach turning into oversize objects.

  Why now? Cris couldn’t help wondering. The last time she’d seen the couple, Mike’s mother had made no effort to hide her anger at Cris for refusing what Marion had informed her was a “very generous offer.” The offer entailed Ricky and Cris moving into their home—a place that could only be referred to as a mansion.

  They had assumed it was a done deal and were really taken aback when Cris had turned them down, saying her life was here at the inn. She’d gone on to tell the couple they were welcome to visit Ricky any time they wanted to.