“Stuff I found on the Internet about vegetable gardening. I made a quiche. It’s probably still hot.”
“You made quiche for breakfast?”
“Weese, it’s nearly ten in the morning on a beautiful Sunday in spring. I’m keeping country hours now.”
“Let a woman knock over one little hog house, and she’s singing the theme to Green Acres.” The mention of quiche had him looking more awake. “What kind of quiche?”
“Swiss cheese, spinach, some mushrooms, a little bacon.”
“Be still my heart.” He opened the oven, sending a waft of heat and good food aromas through the kitchen. “What kind of vegetables will you grow?”
Luis was mighty parsimonious with plural pronouns. We might have quiche for breakfast, but we weren’t planting a garden.
“Don’t know. You have any favorites?”
“My grandmother always grew tomatoes in pots on her fire escape. They were good. Better than anything from the store.” He dished himself out about a quarter of the quiche. “I wonder if you could make a tomato quiche.”
“May I ask you something?”
He put the pan of quiche back in the oven and brought his plate to the table. “This sounds serious.”
“Did you hit the keg yesterday?”
Luis blinked once at his quiche. “Yes.”
“Thought so. Learn anything?”
He used his fork to slice off a bite of quiche but left the food sitting on his plate, steaming fragrantly. “I learned nothing much gets by you.”
“You were zonked all afternoon, Weese. I was worried about you.”
“Geez, Sid, don’t start, OK? I had a few beers. I caught up on my sleep. This is good quiche.”
He’d slept right through dinner, and she and Mac had brought the horses in.
“I turned the mares out this morning. Mac showed me what to do last night.”
“Thanks.”
“I was hoping you’d show me how to groom them some time.”
He started on his breakfast. “I can do that. Mac can brush them standing on the ground. I have to stand on a damned bucket to reach their butts.”
“I learned something today, Weese.”
“What’s that?” The quiche was disappearing from his plate at a steady, no-nonsense pace. If he were truly hungover, he wouldn’t be shoveling it in like that, would he?
“I learned I can trust you to tell me the truth, even when it doesn’t flatter you. I’m proud of you.”
He nodded. Just that, only a nod. No boyish grin, no snappy reply.
Her little man was growing up. Did she dare ask Luis what he’d have done if she’d forbidden him the keg? Would his honesty go that far?
Her cell phone rang, making the question moot. “Sid Lindstrom.”
“I’m in princess-video withdrawal,” Mac said. “Good morning.”
“Poor baby. We’re having quiche on the veranda.”
“That house doesn’t have a veranda.”
“Not yet. How are you?”
Sid heard Mac discarding various replies in the small silence that ensued. “I’m doing my laundry.”
Two honest men in her life, then. “Is that your idea of what do with a pretty Sunday morning?”
Another silence, which frustrated her. If they’d been sitting at the same table, she would have been able to read worlds into the way Mac quirked his eyebrow, the line of his mouth, the things he did with his hands, his posture.
“This is part of my routine, actually. Monday through Friday I work for the paying clients. The first Saturday of the month, I take my nieces out to give their parents a break, the second and fourth Saturdays, I tend to Adelia’s horses. Sunday is for the domestic chores and solitude.”
“That leaves you with one Saturday a month to paint the town red?” Good heavens, couldn’t he answer a simple question?
“Tell me about your schedule, Sid. I know Luis probably has a lesson at Adelia’s today, because he wasn’t up there yesterday.”
“He was sleeping off a drunk.” She wanted to tousle Luis’s hair but let him finish his breakfast in peace. “Naughty boy. If Social Services finds out about it, and finds out I was here at the time, they’ll likely snatch him right back to a group home.”
She saw from Luis’s reaction that this outcome hadn’t occurred to him. He stood abruptly and darted up the stairs.
“A drunk?”
“Some tippling, at any rate. He was honest about it, and I don’t think he’ll do it again.”
“Then no harm done, and maybe he learned something. What will you do with yourself today, Sid?”
“I’m planning my garden.” She waxed eloquent about squash, beans, and tomatoes, all the while aware of what they weren’t discussing.
Invite me over for dinner tonight. Invite us. Ask me if I can meet you for pizza on Tuesday. Come help me lay out my garden. Tell me, please, please, please tell me you’re missing me, because I am damned sure missing you.
Nowhere in his litany of chores and obligations had MacKenzie Knightley mentioned having fun. He hadn’t mentioned hobbies, a social group, a pastime.
“MacKenzie, where do you live?”
“In a house about two miles from you, as the crow flies. James is closer to you than I am, Trent not quite as near.”
“Tell me about your house.”
Come on, Knightley. Tilt at my quintain. The conversation was obviously an effort for him, but he was trying, and heroic efforts should be rewarded.
“You should come by sometime,” he said, slowly, as if the words surprised him. “Bring Luis, and I’ll throw together a meal.”
“Pick a day.”
“Today.” For once, his reply came without hesitation. “Come on by after Luis’s lesson. We’ll eat while it’s still light.”
Thought you would never ask. “What can I bring?”
“Bring the salad, and don’t bother with anything fancy.”
“I’m going to be a vegetable tycoon. Salad’s easy.” She got directions from him and hung up, feeling a silly, giddy feeling she hadn’t had to deal with since high school.
Middle school, rather. She hadn’t been exactly honest with Mac last night. There hadn’t been many relationships, true, but there had been guys.
Many guys. She had sneaked out regularly when Tony had first taken her in, and then college had been more of the same but without the thrill of thwarting authority.
And then her own body had called a halt to her foolishness—and that’s all it had been. Pure, undiluted foolishness. A foolish way to cope with being alone in the world, except for a well-meaning half brother who’d treated her more like a housemate than a sister.
Young people were not well known for their wisdom.
“Luis!”
He appeared at the top of the stairs, his expression wary.
“I won’t turn you in to DSS, so stop fretting. Get your homework done, do whatever chores you do in the barn, and then we’re supposed to have dinner with Mac after your riding lesson.”
“That’s it? You’ll let me get away with drinking?”
“You disappointed me by drinking. You redeemed yourself by being honest about it. I have a garden to plan.”
Sid hoped it was that simple. Hoped and prayed.
* * *
Mac hadn’t been entirely honest with Sid about several things. He’d told her Sundays were for domestic chores, for example. He hadn’t admitted Sundays were also his one day to dream.
In solitude, he’d cruise the Internet for interesting places to travel. Some were places a man might go with his family; others were more for couples. He browsed his library, reading the poetry of the romantics and the occasional Shakespeare sonnet, memorizing his favorites. He cooked recreationally, trying this and that recipe, wondering if children would find a p
articular dish appealing.
Monday morning, he put away his imagination’s toys, and went back to work. Mondays purely sucked, but Sundays made the whole week bearable.
So Mac hadn’t much to fret over, at the prospect of having company for dinner. James and Trent made the effort to show up for holiday meals, mostly because all three of them—James, Trent, and Mac—had felt the need to create family gatherings for Merle’s sake.
That would likely change now that Trent had his own family.
Mac knew exactly what food he’d prepare, which tablecloth he’d put on the table, what music he’d have playing when Sid and Luis walked in his door.
Though classical piano might be a little too much like a date. Luis would feel awkward.
Mac would feel awkward.
And there weren’t any roses blooming yet, so he’d have to rethink his centerpiece.
Everyday or silver?
“Holy Ned on a pogo stick.”
Crystal? A pepper grinder on the table or a pair of shakers?
Which pepper grinder—he had three.
He got out his cell phone, stared at it for a full minute, then hit James’s number.
* * *
“What’s the best date you’ve ever been on?” Mac demanded.
James held the phone away from his ear, tempted to pitch the damned thing into the wall, except Mac’s voice held urgency—and Mac was about as urgent as a glacier most days.
“I’m on my best date ever right now, if you must know.”
“This is serious, James. I’m having company for dinner, and it isn’t family.”
Not serious—miraculous. “What are you asking me?”
James stroked a hand over Vera’s naked back, marveling at the smooth, silky feel of her skin. And the muscle. Of course a concert pianist would have beautifully defined back muscles and shoulders and arms and—
“James, you there?”
“The connection got fuzzy. What was the question?”
“Describe the best date you’ve ever been on.”
“Can I think about it and call you back in, say, twenty minutes?”
“Not one second more. I’ve planned an early dinner.”
“It’s not even noon yet, Mac, but OK. Not one second more.”
An hour passed before Mac’s phone rang.
* * *
“I don’t suppose you had a chance to talk with Luis about representing him?” Mac put the question to Trent over a meal in the courthouse café. A burger and fries for Trent, a grilled chicken salad for Mac.
“He didn’t strike me as being in the best frame of mind to discuss his case on Saturday. Will you leave me any fries?”
“A few, though they’re my one indulgence.” What Mac had done with Sid on that blanket on Saturday had gone far, far beyond an indulgence. “James didn’t get in until ten this morning.”
Trent plucked a fry from Mac’s plate. “Noticed that, did you?”
“The managing partner pays attention to the details. I’m thinking this is a good thing. The guy works too hard. I’m also wondering when you’ll tell me what went on at Vera’s on Saturday night.”
“It’s really for James to tell you, because I was there in my capacity as Vera’s counsel.” Trent picked up his pickle just when Mac would have snitched it, then grinned at his older brother. “Beat ya.”
“Too much salt isn’t good for your blood pressure, and Vera’s divorce was final last year. You went because James called you, and you were free to go because I held the fort with Grace and Merle, so stop stalling.”
Trent considered his pickle. “Suffice it to say, I think James and Vera are talking again.”
“Am I getting my tux out of mothballs?” Mac didn’t let his relief show, because to do so would have implied he’d doubted James could see the situation with Vera through. Mac hadn’t doubted, not for a minute.
He’d worried, though, constantly.
“I hope they’re not going the formal wedding route,” Trent said, “because that means I’ll have to dust off my tux as well, though Hannah might like to see me in it.”
“Or get you out of it.” Mac took a sip of Trent’s cola.
“MacKenzie Knightley, for shame.”
“Have to watch my caffeine. You ordering dessert?”
“No, because you’d steal it. I liked your Sidonie, and Hannah did too.”
“She’s not…” Well, she was his Sidonie. “I’m glad you like her, because I like her too.”
“Profound, MacKenzie. A sure sign the sap is rising when your nimble brain spouts inanities. Does the lady like you?”
“She seems to.”
“You haven’t gotten into her knickers yet. What are you waiting for?”
Too many witnesses to put Brother Dearest into a half nelson, and most of those witnesses lawyers.
“Mind your own business, Trenton Edwards.”
“No can do.” Trent settled back in his chair and aimed a blue-eyed stare at his brother. “James and I played racquetball yesterday afternoon, and we decided we’re done letting you wander around in the outer darkness without the occasional encouraging word from your younger brothers.”
“I thought you were walking a little funny today.” Mac took another sip of Trent’s drink. “James has the gene for the physical stuff. You’re good too, but he’s five years younger, and he’s James.”
“And you’re MacKenzie,” Trent said, crunching the pickle into oblivion. “I’m thinking of passing on Luis’s case.”
Mac set Trent’s drink down with a little thud. “Why?”
“Because I can see it getting sticky. His mother’s rights were terminated on the two sisters, so they’re slated for adoption. Luis wasn’t placed with his sisters, and he’s never been in a pre-adopt home before his stint with Sid—nobody kept him the requisite six months. She wants to adopt, and his mom still has her parental rights where he’s concerned. If Luis were placed with his sisters, the complexion of the case would change.”
Sid would support that, if that was what Luis wanted, even if it killed her.
Which it damned near would.
“Luis might change his mind,” Mac said, “and ask that family to adopt him when he won’t ask Sid. He told me that family doesn’t want him.”
Or had Luis merely implied that he was unwanted in his sisters’ foster family?
Trent munched a fry lengthwise, the same way his daughters did. “OK, but what if, as his counsel, Luis tells me he’s tired of being a grieving woman’s surrogate brother? What if he wants to be moved? I can live with Sid not forgiving me, but what if she won’t forgive you?”
Sid could probably hold one hell of a grudge, that’s what. Mac dreaded telling her what he did for a living besides shoe horses.
“You have a point,” he said. “Your scenario is far-fetched but not impossible. I still don’t think Sid would hold me responsible for the position Luis took in court regarding his future.”
“She lost her brother less than a year ago, Mac. James says grieving women are trouble.”
“James is talking again with a woman who’s herself both widowed and divorced.” Though Vera’s circumstances were very different from Sid’s. Mac knew it, and Trent knew it.
What was Mac doing, swilling Trent’s jitter juice, when caffeine was something any sane person avoided after breakfast?
“James and I don’t want to see you put in the middle,” Trent said, “much less castigated for how Luis’s case is handled.”
Which meant Trent and James had discussed Mac’s situation. Mac didn’t know whether to be pissed or pleased.
“I don’t want to see Luis’s case handled by some overworked Legal Assistance attorney with less than two years experience in family law,” Mac said. “You don’t have a conflict of interest, Trent. Si
d’s not a party to the case, I’m not a party, and for all you know, the boy will ask you to get the Termination of Parental Rights filed so Sid can adopt him.”
“He might.” Trent’s eyes were guarded, his tone conciliatory.
Mac felt not like a fry-snitching older brother, but like a legal client who wasn’t hearing anything he liked at his free consultation.
“What?” Mac balled up his napkin and tossed it on the tray. “Just say it, Trent. If we need to have a knock-down-drag-out, here is probably better than the office, because I can’t beat your sorry ass for sassing me.”
Trent cracked a smile. “As if.”
“Say what’s on your mind. I have an evidentiary hearing over a pair of damned magical traveling felony pants in twenty minutes.”
“James has pointed out that you haven’t dated since before I married Merle’s mother. If Sid Lindstrom got you out of hibernation, then I don’t want anything—not some foster kid’s whim, not a judge’s bad decision, not even the fate of the practice—to come between you and her. You’re dying on the vine, Mac. You’re so much less flamboyant about it than James that I hardly noticed it. Hannah’s worried about you.”
The burdens of a family-owned law practice were without number. Mac took the last gulp of Trent’s cola. “Back to that?”
“Hannah’s right: We should be worried about you. You’re a great guy. You deserve somebody to appreciate you. Some lady, not those sharks from the prosecutor’s office who are always hitting on you.”
Trent picked up his drink, scowled at the ice, then fished his corporate credit card out of his wallet.
“Those are your encouraging words?” Mac said, more touched than he wanted to admit. Hannah was worried about him?
“Yes, damn it, those are my encouraging words.”
“OK.”
“That’s all you’re going to say? I tell you to get a life, and you say OK?”
“OK, thanks.” Mac snitched one more fry, rose, and went to his hearing.
Chapter 11
“You’re staring at that phone like it’s about to give birth.” Luis hiked himself up on the counter. “What’s the big deal?”
“No big deal.” Sid forced her gaze back to the sketch she was making of her garden plot. “How was school?”
Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses) Page 17
