Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses)

by Grace Burrowes

  No, they were not. But Mac had only recently come to understand that James had the worst memories of the three brothers. James had been left at home with their grieving mother while Trent and Mac had gone off to college, and his adolescence had turned into a quiet nightmare. That James had been able to tell Mac that much had put them on more equal footing and shifted their relationship closer to friends and brothers than merely brothers.

  As if there was anything mere about being brothers.

  “We’ve seen hard times here, true enough,” Mac said. “I left before Dad died, and growing up here I was happy. Very happy.”

  The happiest he’d ever been. The realization sank in, bringing order to some little corner of the chaos that was his internal landscape.

  “What’s my second problem?” Mac asked.

  “Have you considered that Trent may end up representing the boy?”

  Crappity-crap-crap-crap. No, Mac had not.

  “Trent will do a good job,” Mac said. “Luis is a good kid. He shouldn’t be hard to represent.”

  “Bullshit.” James kept his voice down, but his posture radiated tension. “When you represent a kid in delinquency court, Mac, the job is clear-cut, easy. You’re supposed to get the little hoodlum off, or at least keep him or her at home if you can, same as if they were adult criminals. The child welfare attorney has a different role.”

  “What do you mean? My knowledge of family law would fill a bottle cap.”

  Mac could admit that to James, because having complementary areas of expertise was one of the reasons their firm did well.

  “Mine would fill two bottle caps,” James replied. “But with a child welfare case, the attorney is supposed to advocate for what the kid wants, provided the child has considered judgment on the issue in question.”

  “What in the lawyering hell does that mean?”

  “I’d ask Trent if you really want to know, but my take on it is that the attorney can decide the kid’s reasons for his position—wanting to go home, to stay in foster care, to be placed with siblings, whatever—are unsound, and advocate not for what the kid wants, but for what is in the kid’s best interests. It’s slippery.”

  “Slippery isn’t good,” Mac said slowly. Slippery wasn’t black and white, and Mac thrived on black and white. “Give me examples.”

  “Luis might want to be placed with his siblings, and that family might be willing to take him, but not adopt him. Trent would have to weigh the sense in reuniting siblings with the disruption to Luis of changing schools and families again, and leaving a potential pre-adopt placement with Sid for one that doesn’t offer permanence. It’s tricky.”

  Tricky, slippery. Reasons why a rational man avoided family law like the plague.

  Why, if that man were smart, he’d avoid entangling himself in Luis’s situation like all the biblical plagues combined.

  While Luis lived a reality he’d done little to create every hour of every day.

  “I don’t think it will come to that,” Mac said. “Luis is levelheaded as teenagers go. He won’t force Trent into that kind of corner.”

  “A levelheaded teenager is a contradiction in terms. I know. I was one.”

  James pushed away from the fence, leaving Mac to stare out over the greening pasture, seeing nothing. He was still there when Trent came up on his shoulder forty-five minutes later.

  “Lunch is about to be served,” Trent said. “James is manning the grill, which strikes me as disrespectful of the steaks when you’re on hand to do it right.”

  “James takes his nutrition seriously. Though I think he’s dropped some weight.”

  “Pining for Vera?”

  “Growing up,” Mac said. “And pining for Vera. My money’s on James though. He gets what he goes after, usually.”

  “He’s worried about you. The girls look good for being in their dotage.” The mares were back at their grass, oblivious to guests or brewing legal storms.

  Mac appreciated that Trent was easing up to whatever he wanted to discuss. That came with being a dad, a guy who liked the complications and unexpected twists of the typical family law case. James had competed on horseback over fences as a younger man. If Trent had taken the same path, he would have ridden broncs, and done so with the lithe elegance of the natural champion. Nothing unseated the guy. Nothing.

  “Why is James worried about me?” Mac asked.

  “You’re falling in love.”

  Mac considered his conversation with James, and considered Trent’s version of James’s concerns. “Did I tell you what to do with Hannah?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you not to mix business and personal agendas, Trent. I never said you had to leave her alone.”

  “You told me not to get us sued and not to trifle with her. Same thing. It was good advice, and I followed it.”

  “You think I’ll get us sued?”

  “You’re not denying the allegation,” Trent said, his voice quite, quite casual.

  “I wasn’t aware the Annotated Code of Maryland now included an article on falling in love,” Mac said, equally casually.

  “It doesn’t, but, Mac, have you considered that it isn’t Sidonie you’re attracted to, but the prospect of coming home that tugs at your heartstrings?”

  “Yes, Trenton Edwards, I have considered that, and while I do not concede that I am falling in love with anybody, I have had at least two opportunities to buy this place in the last ten years. I also could have kept it in the family rather than sell it when Mom died.”

  “So three times, you’ve passed up an opportunity to call this place home again, but now I’m settled, and James will be soon. That puts things in a different light.”

  “You mean well,” Mac said. His criminal clients often meant well too, and yet, they were convicted on the basis of what followed those good intentions. “I’m going to get me a steak. You coming?”

  “Stubborn.” Trent pushed off the fence. “So goddamned stubborn. Hannah will kill me if I let anything happen to you. Grace and Merle will dance on my bones.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me.” Mac biffed Trent on the arm. “It’s good to know you’d notice if it did.”

  Chapter 9

  “Going to get his ass handed to him,” James said, but he kept his voice down because there were children on the property. One kid could overhear every swear word uttered on an entire four-hundred-acre farm. “You said it’s already happened twice before, once in law school, once in college. A guy like Mac doesn’t shrug off getting kicked to the curb.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong”—Trent pulled up a cooler and hunkered beside James—“but isn’t it you who’s enjoying the view from the curb these days?”

  “Yeah, but there’s always room for one more. Mac stands too close to Sidonie, Trent. She’s grieving, and he’ll be her transition toy.”

  “Which role devastated you all fourteen hundred times you were dragged, beaten, and bullied into it, including, just possibly, the last time too?”

  Older brothers should qualify as a biblical plague. “Eat your steak,” James said around a mouthful of scrumptious potato salad. “I like Sid, but a brokenhearted woman is trouble.”

  “Now you know how Mac and I felt fourteen hundred times over watching you in action.”

  Well, hell. James washed his potato salad down with cold beer.

  “You’ve met Luis?” Trent asked.

  Merciful in victory, that was Trent. “Luis was helping stack the lumber on the trucks. Seems like a hard worker. Needs some meat on his bones.”

  “Growth spurts are hell on a man’s physique. He’s been hitting the keg for his hydration though.”

  James stopped chewing and set his plate aside. “Not good. Where’s Mac?”

  “Took Merle and Grace to see the horses.”

  Whoever de
cided beer, potato salad, and a spring day edging toward warm was a good combination? “And there goes Luis around to the picnic table again.”

  “You get Mac.” Trent shoveled another piece of steak into his mouth. “I’ll keep an eye on the kid and ask Hannah to keep Sid busy in the kitchen.”

  * * *

  “Don’t get upset.” James was shifting from foot to foot, a few feet away from Mac—outside swinging range—just as he’d learned to do when he was a kid and he’d done something stupid.

  “What’d you do, James?” Mac asked. “If you hit on Sid, it’s your own fault she smacked you.”

  “I didn’t hit on Sid, though she’s a perfectly lovely lady. Can you, uh, come around to the back of the house?”

  “He means now, Uncle Mac,” Grace offered from beside her uncle. “It’s OK. Merle and I will run off our cake out in the pasture.”

  “Tell your mother where you’re going first,” Mac said. “Don’t bother the horses, and stay away from the pond. Watch where you step too. You know what poison ivy looks like?”

  “Yes, Uncle Mac,” Merle piped up, taking her sister’s hand. “And we won’t poke at any snakes with sticks, and we won’t get lost, and we won’t play in the haymow without telling anybody. If we see a skunk, we’ll run—quietly—the other way.”

  “How in the heck did we grow up here without regular trips to the emergency room?” Mac asked.

  “There were a few, but you’ve got an emergency brewing in the backyard, bro,” James said.

  “You and your doomsaying. The sooner you and Vera talk things out, the happier this entire valley will be.”

  “Luis has been hitting the keg. Does the term minor in possession of alcohol ring any bells with you? Contributing to the condition of a minor? Underage drinking?”

  “How about, the boy’s mother will kill me?” Mac muttered, but he didn’t take off at a run.

  “That too, and then Social Services will start on her.”

  “Crap. Hadn’t thought of that.” Mac walked—quietly—toward the back of the house. “You know how much he’s had?”

  “Trent might, he’s the dad at large.”

  “Yeah, but you were the delinquent.”

  “Never one time,” James said. “If there’s an expert on delinquency, it would be you.”

  Mac stopped short as they came around a corner of the summer kitchen. “Oh, Jesus.” Trent was strolling with Luis toward the barn, an arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Boy doesn’t look too good.”

  “When did you set up that keg?”

  “About nine this morning.”

  “Four hours of steady drinking,” James said, “when he likely has no tolerance, and he can’t weigh but about one twenty, one thirty wringing wet. I’ll see if Hannah has aspirin and get some bottled water.”

  “Get him a clean shirt. He has Mom’s old room—and bring some towels.”

  Mac followed Trent and his charge into the barn, saying prayers all the while that Hannah could keep Sid from getting curious.

  “Je suis…malade.” Luis grinned at his own savoir faire, then the corners of his mouth turned abruptly down. “Pardon…”

  “You’re malade, all right.” Mac fetched a bucket out of the tack room.

  “He’s a bilingual drunk,” Trent remarked. “That’s pretty impressive.”

  “I got him a shirt,” James said, coming up the aisle. “The ladies are dishing out dessert, so we’re probably safe for a while. How you doing, sport?”

  “Malade. J’aime la bière.”

  “Yeah, nous all aimons la bière, until we’re puking it up through our noses,” Mac said. “When did you start drinking, Weese?”

  “Depuis mon cinquième anniversaire.”

  “He’s been drinking since he was five years old?” James asked, shaking out the clean T-shirt. “I didn’t try Dad’s whiskey until I was six.”

  “You’re not helping,” Mac said, but James had been so sick and so brave when his older brothers had found him with a bottle of Jim Beam.

  “Weese, you have to do two things before we sneak you up to your room for a nap,” Mac said.

  “I can doo anny-ting,” Luis said, sweeping his arms open dramatically. “Anny-ting for you, cher.”

  “A singing, bilingual drunk,” Trent muttered. “This just gets better and better.”

  “Go ahead and laugh,” Mac said. “When he starts puking, we’ll aim him in your direction.”

  Luis’s arms collapsed to his side. “Je…don’t feel so good.”

  “Here we go.” Mac produced a bucket, and between him and Trent, they got Luis on his knees before it. “Take shallow breaths, kid. Pant if it helps, but you’ll probably do yourself the most good if you just hurl.”

  “Best thing,” James said, reaching over to pat Luis’s shoulder. “Get it over with. It’s just us guys, and we’ve all been exactly where you are. Just let ’er rip, toss those old cookies, pray to the five-gallon—”

  “James.” Trent used his most quelling, stern-dad voice. “You’re going to make me sick.”

  “Mon Dieu…”

  All three men were silent as Luis heaved twice, then gave up the beer his system hadn’t yet processed.

  “Glad that’s over,” James said, squatting beside the patient. “Here, drink this.”

  “No drinking,” Luis said, sitting back on his heels and bracing his hands on his thighs. “Never again, the drinking.”

  “It’s water.” Mac took the bottle from James’s hand and twisted off the cap. “Just rinse out your mouth, then take a few sips to see if your stomach is open for business.”

  “My stomach, she has died to death forever. I hate beer.”

  “A poetic, bilingual, singing drunk.”

  “Your stomach, she will appreciate the water.” Mac brought the bottle to Luis’s lips. “Little sips, fella.”

  Luis wrapped his hand around Mac’s and took a couple of swallows.

  “See how that sits,” Mac suggested.

  The bilingual, now-silent drunk opened his eyes and stared at the bucket.

  “Look at me.” James moved the bucket and gently turned Luis’s face by the chin. “How you doing?”

  Trent took the bucket Somewhere Else while James and Mac got Luis’s arms free of his shirt.

  “You’re making progress,” Mac said. “Worst part is over, for now. Gimme…that’s it.” Luis’s head emerged from the T-shirt. “You think you’re done being sick?”

  “I will never be sick again, no more, jamais. I hate beer.”

  “Sure you do, sweetheart,” James said. “On three?”

  Mac nodded, and on three, they levered Luis, without his shirt, to his feet.

  “We’re going for a little walk,” James said. “Right outside into the fresh air, around back where nobody will see, and then we’re going to stick your aching, stupid head right under the pump. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Don’t tease him,” Mac said from Luis’s other side. “Though you do seem to have a certain way with a drunk.”

  “Misery recognizes misery.”

  “Les Miz…” Luis muttered, his voice dropping away to hum a few bars of the main theme. He stumbled, Mac and James caught him, and Trent opened the barn doors to let them out into the spring sunshine.

  “Hurts,” Luis said, turning his face into Mac’s shoulder. “Le sol…”

  “Hurts my soul too,” Mac said. “But James is right. You’ll feel better soon.”

  Trent worked the handle of a squeaky pump, and Luis stood dazedly while the first few rusty quarts gushed into the trough below the pump.

  “Surprised that thing still works.” James was holding Luis up on one side, Mac on the other. “Did we all sober up here at one time or another?”

  “Not often,” Mac said. “Daddy caught me sne
aking in one night. Never said a word about drinking, but at breakfast the next morning, I got an oblique lecture about setting a good example. Luis, you ready?”

  “I got the same lecture,” Trent said.

  “I got the one about how my older brothers would be so disappointed,” James added. “Here we go.”

  At the last possible second, Luis realized what his fate would be, and he gave a token struggle but then submitted to his baptism stoically.

  “Towel?” Mac held out a hand a few cold, wet moments later. Trent shoved a clean towel into it.

  “I do eet.” Luis snatched the towel away and scrubbed at his face and scalp. When he emerged from the towel, his dark red hair was sticking up in all directions, and his eyes were more focused. “I will get even, you,” he said, glaring at Mac.

  “You will get sober. Sober enough to drink at least a quart of water, take four aspirin, and get yourself upstairs to sleep off your idiocy.”

  “Four is a lot.” James held the water bottle out to Luis. “Start with two. See if they stay down. We aren’t all built on the dimensions of Sister Mary MacKenzie here.”

  “I get even for leaving the beer out for me.”

  A little silence, while the three brothers exchanged looks.

  “Are you an alcoholic?” Trent asked. The question was without inflection, almost bored.

  “I am not.” Luis took the water bottle and studied it. “But if I were?”

  “Then we’d get you the help you need.” Mac draped the towel over Luis’s shoulders. “So you’d better be telling us the truth. If you have a drinking problem, you need to tell us now. Every kid I know experiments with forbidden fruit, and most come through it older and wiser, no harm, no foul. We all did, Luis, and we’re more or less contributing members of society. James got into our dad’s sipping whiskey when he was six. He graduated first in his class and is a CPA. Trent maintained a 4.0 as an undergrad.”

  “I can’t sing in French, though,” Trent said. “Might scare my womenfolk if I tried to.”

  Luis looked from one man to the next, his gaze eventually settling on Mac. He took another sip of water before he spoke, and Mac saw the bottle shaking slightly in the boy’s hand.