by Susan Fox
“I want to know if it’s the right thing to do.”
“How could an apology and amends ever be wrong?” But even as she framed the question, she knew the answer. “If it would hurt Brooke and Evan more than it would help.”
He nodded. “Exactly. I hurt them both so much. Apologizing feels like the right thing to do. There’s something inside me that’s driving me to do it, like I can’t live with myself any longer if I don’t.”
She narrowed her eyes. What did he mean by that?
He held up a hand. “No, I’m not saying I’m going to off myself if I can’t do it. Maybe I’m just being selfish, trying to salve my conscience. What I need to do is think about Brooke and Evan, not about me. I want to make things better, to maybe give them some resolution. But if I’d only mess up their lives, then—”
A knock on the car window beside her made Maribeth jump and Mo stop talking. She lowered the window to see the puzzled face of the shelter employee. “Everything okay here?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.” She raised the window again and backed out of the driveway. To Mo, she said, “I’m going to take a chance on you. You can come back to my place and we’ll talk.”
“Thank you. Thank you for trusting me.”
“An inch,” she specified. “That’s how far I trust you. And if you betray my trust, I’ll . . . Well, you’ll be in deep trouble, mister.” All it’d take would be one call to Brooke’s husband, Jake, the local RCMP commander.
Having gotten what he wanted from her, Mo kept his mouth shut as she drove toward the residential neighborhood where she lived. On the radio, Sam Hunt was singing that he didn’t want the woman’s heart, just some of her time. It struck her that the singer had something in common with Mo Kincaid.
Why was she letting this stranger, this self-proclaimed “shit,” take her time on a Wednesday night when she’d planned to check out sperm donor profiles? Too late now. She’d already agreed, and she honored her promises.
She drove up to the two-story house with the dormer windows and big front porch that had always been home. With its four bedrooms, it was way too big for one person, but she’d always believed she would share it with a husband and children. The garden, which she devoted a lot of effort to during three seasons of the year, was dormant now. It looked a little stark as her headlights played over it before she turned into the driveway and hit the remote control to open the roll-up garage door. Oh well, in less than a month she’d be hanging her colorful Christmas lights, and then the house would have a sparkly, festive façade.
After parking, she ushered Mo through the door from the garage into the house and down the hallway to the kitchen. She clicked on the track lighting so the room was bright and cheery. It was warm, too. The heating was on a timer, set to turn on twenty minutes before she normally arrived home. She put her bag and keys on the counter and tossed her coat over a chair.
“Nice,” Mo said, glancing around.
“Thanks.” She’d kept the same basic layout she’d grown up with, but over the years had done some upgrading. Now the floor had terra-cotta tile, the counters were peach-colored granite, the composite sink was a copper color, and the appliances were white and shiny. Dark colors and stainless steel didn’t belong in her kitchen. On the walls hung a couple of paintings, cheap, colorful ones of a village in Crete that she’d picked up on her last holiday.
Her favorite thing in the kitchen was the table, the same battered wooden one her parents had found at a garage sale when they were newlyweds. Maribeth would never, ever replace it. Her own child—children?—would grow up eating meals, doing homework, and sharing confidences at that table, just as she had.
“Sit.” She cocked her head toward the table. She wasn’t going to take this man any farther into her house. “What do you want to drink? I have milk, tea, coffee.”
“I don’t need a drink. I just want to talk.” He took off his denim jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Clad in a navy pullover and jeans, he had a rangy build: broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. Most definitely an attractive man with that same kind of sexy charisma that Hugh Jackman and Brad Pitt had. Normally, she’d have been pretty happy to have such a hot guy hanging out in her kitchen.
Mo sat down, not settling in but kind of perching. Like he was as restless and wary as that crazy singing dog up in the tree.
The man unsettled her, and few things in life unsettled Maribeth. She didn’t like it one bit. “Well, I could use a drink,” she said. “It’s been a long day.” She opened the fridge, which was covered with photos: friends’ weddings and children, her with various friends, her on holiday in exciting places. About to pull out a beer for herself, she changed her mind. Dr. Jones had said it was best to avoid alcohol. She made a mental note to buy some fruit drinks and decaf coffee and tea.
She grasped the milk jug. “I’m going to make hot chocolate.” The drink was soothing and homey, which appealed to her right now. If there was a little caffeine in the cocoa powder, surely it was negligible.
“That sounds great, if you’re offering.”
As she took cocoa and sugar from the cupboard, she felt his gaze on her. Unsettling. Yes, that was the right word for Mo Kincaid. She flicked on the radio, wanting something else familiar to ease her nerves. Vince Vance & the Valiants were singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
“I wish they wouldn’t start with Christmas music until December,” Maribeth complained as she stirred warm milk in a pot on the stove.
“Yeah? Why?”
“So it doesn’t get overdone. Like, every year, come December first, it should be this special treat. And it should last through Christmas, and then be put away again for a year.”
“Huh. And turkey’s only for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and you should only eat hot cross buns at Easter?”
“Pretty much.” She shrugged. “Anything wrong with that?”
“You know what you like. Nothing wrong with that, not at all.”
She finished up the cocoa and poured it into two large mugs. Though she’d have liked a puffy marshmallow on top, she wasn’t giving Mo any special treats. When she sat down across from him, he said, “How come you’re not married?”
She blew out a puff of air. “Never met the right man. Why?”
“Just”—he shrugged—“you seem like you should be. Pretty woman. Smart. Nice cozy house with a big kitchen. I’d picture you with a husband and two or three rug rats.”
So would I. But she wasn’t about to share that bit of personal information with him. “Maybe one day. Now, you wanted to talk about Brooke and Evan.”
He blew on his cocoa, took a sip. “This is good. Thanks. Hmm, I’m not sure where to start.”
“Call me conventional, but I like stories that start at the beginning.”
“You won’t like this one.” Another sip. “Like I said, I was a shit. A rebellious teenager, pissed off at the world. Brooke was a few years younger. So pretty and sweet, like a blond princess.”
Maribeth knew that Brooke was in her midforties, so Mo had to be approaching fifty. Ten years older than Maribeth. Like his ex, he didn’t look his age.
“I was like a boy staring in the window of a candy store,” he said. “And I guess she was dumb enough to fall for the bad boy on the motorbike. We probably wouldn’t have lasted long, except that she got pregnant. There was parental pressure on both sides. We got married.” He raked a well-shaped hand through his almost-dry hair, dragging curls back from his face. “We were both immature and we had lots of problems.”
Maribeth sipped her cocoa, trying to focus on his words rather than on how good he looked. “Go on.”
“I’m not even sure why we stayed together. I guess in some muddled way, we thought it was the right thing to do. There was Evan, and both of us cared about him even if we did a piss-poor job of showing it. We were both really unhappy. We drank; we fought. Sometimes it, uh, got physical.”
Maribeth caught her breath. She’
d guessed this, as much from what Brooke hadn’t said as from what she had, but it still set her pulse racing. “Physical?” she asked quietly.
“Sometimes I hit her. Not really hard, but enough to bruise.”
She swallowed. It hurt to ask this question about her friend, but she had to know. “Did Brooke hit you?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer, and then he said, “Yeah. She slapped and punched.” He squeezed his eyes shut. When he finally opened them, he said, “It gets worse. Sometimes Evan got in the way. He took a few knocks.” He gazed straight into Maribeth’s eyes. “There’s no excuse for what I did, and I know it.”
Maribeth pressed her lips together, trying to settle her nerves and think straight. She agreed that there was no excuse, and knew Brooke did as well. “Brooke drank, too,” she said.
“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. “Have to say, when I saw in the Gazette that she was married to the RCMP commander, it was a real surprise.”
“She doesn’t drink anymore. At all.”
His eyes widened, and then slowly narrowed. “Earlier, you mentioned A.A. Is Brooke doing that?”
It was hardly a secret in Caribou Crossing, so Maribeth nodded. “She’s been sober for years now.”
“Good for her.” A touch of humor flickered across his face, making him look even more irresistible. Maribeth could certainly understand why Brooke had been drawn to the guy. “Must make her a hell of a lot easier to live with,” he added.
“She was moody,” Maribeth said. She knew about that from Brooke as well.
“Sure as hell was. Especially after Evan was born. When she sparkled, there was no one like her. But it was almost, like, over the top. Like she was burning too bright. Sure enough, one day it would all fizzle. She’d be depressed, pissed off. And I was always mad at the world, so we’d drink, we’d fight.” He cocked his head. “Is she happy now?”
“Definitely. She’s a happy, serene, wonderful woman.” A woman who’d been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the same time she’d figured out she was an alcoholic. Brooke had been on bipolar medication ever since, and it worked well for her. But that information was too personal to share.
“I’m glad for her.” His mouth softened with what looked like genuine affection, or at least the memory of it. It suited him. “I don’t want to mess with that.”
Maribeth nodded. “I hear you.”
They were both quiet. Maribeth savored the delicious aroma of chocolate and listened to the song on the radio. This wasn’t a Christmas one, but the upbeat “Any Man of Mine” by Shania Twain. Another woman who knew just how she liked things. The familiar words made Maribeth reflect on Mo. Yes, he was, quite literally, a breathtaking guy. But the quality that mattered most in a man was the way he treated people. Mo said he’d changed, and the frank way he talked about himself made her inclined to think he spoke the truth. That he had redeemed himself just as much as Brooke had. Sitting here alone with him in her house, Maribeth’s instincts—which rarely led her wrong—didn’t tell her to feel anxious. Instead, she actually felt comfortable with Mo.
People deserved second chances. Maribeth believed that, and she knew Brooke did, too.
She took another sip of cocoa. “Brooke’s strong. She’s gone through a long process of building a new life. I know that meant coming to terms with her past. It also meant her own set of apologies and amends. To Evan, for example. But they worked through it and reconciled, and—”
“Reconciled?” he broke in. “They were, what, estranged?”
“Oh, right, I guess you wouldn’t know. Yes, for ten years. Evan left town the moment he graduated from high school. He ended up building a successful career in New York City.”
Mo let out an admiring whistle. “He was always a bright, determined kid. God knows where he got those qualities.”
She ventured a teasing comment. “Brooke’s no dummy.”
His lips quirked. “Ha. I’m wounded.”
She smiled. “Anyhow, Evan came back to Caribou Crossing a few years ago. He’s married, with a little boy and an adolescent stepdaughter. And he and Brooke are very close. But I’m sure that didn’t come easily for either of them.”
When she revealed that he had grandkids, Mo blinked and looked a little stunned. But when he spoke, he didn’t mention them. “You’re saying I should talk to Brooke and Evan.”
“I’m thinking out loud,” she corrected. “I’m saying that they’re both strong and they’re capable of dealing with crap from the past.”
Mo barked out a wry laugh. “That’d be me. Crap from the past.”
“I didn’t mean . . . Okay, yeah, I guess that’s true. If you asked Brooke and Evan about their relationship now, I’m positive they’d both say it was totally worth the pain, the bad memories, and the awkwardness it took to get there.”
“You think that could be the same with me?” She saw hope in his eyes, and vulnerability.
Her tender heart throbbed, but she was also a practical woman. “Maybe. But that depends on you, Mo Kincaid. Brooke and Evan are good people. They’re my friends. If you mess up their lives, don’t make things right, and run out on them again, then . . .” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Setting Jake Brannon, Brooke’s husband, on Mo could never make up for any pain suffered by Brooke and Evan.
Mo said quietly, “Then it’d be bad. Really bad.”
She nodded. “What kind of man are you?” Sexy, and too handsome for his own good, but those things didn’t count. “You say you’ve changed, but how much have you changed? You may no longer drink a lot or get violent, but are you going to treat Brooke and Evan right? Are you going to stick around?”
He swallowed.
She went on. “Do you have the guts to hear what they need to say, to not argue with them, to accept the blame? To persist, even if they don’t want to accept you into their lives?” As she spoke, he nodded a couple of times, looking increasingly determined. She went on. “To prove to them that you’re a man worth knowing?” She peered into those fascinating blue-green eyes. “Are you a man worth knowing?”
Her question surprised him; that was evident from the way his eyes widened. His shoulders rose and then fell, and the look of determination faded. When he spoke, he sounded discouraged. “When you put it that way, I guess the best I can say for myself is that I try to tread lightly on the earth.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did a lot of harm in my youth. Now I try not to. I fix vehicles and I try not to break anything.” His mouth tightened. “Guess that’s not much to show for fifty years on this planet.”
She watched him, not speaking.
“But,” he went on, squaring his shoulders, “it’s a hell of a lot better than the man I was in my twenties and thirties.”
Slowly, she nodded. “That sounds . . . good.” Commendable, yes. But also sad, if that was all his life was about.
Chapter Three
Maribeth’s gaze was assessing, making him want to squirm, but he managed to keep his shoulders squared and hold her gaze. She’d been more than fair with him, and he would answer every question she asked.
“You never remarried?” she said.
“God, no. Inflict myself on another woman? I’m not relationship material. And I’m sure not having any more kids.”
Two or three years after he’d run from the police and left Caribou Crossing, he’d sent divorce papers to Brooke. It had seemed crazy to stay married when he figured they’d never see each other again. He hadn’t asked for visitation rights with Evan, and—asshole that he’d been—hadn’t offered child support. He’d kind of figured that once Brooke had his address, she’d go after him for money, but she didn’t. She just returned the signed forms, no doubt relieved to be rid of him. A clean break; obviously, it was what they’d both wanted.
It was probably still what she wanted.
“Do you have friends?” Maribeth’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Male or female?”
He shrugged. “I’m not much of a people person. Yeah, I’ve hung out with some folks now and then, to shoot some pool or whatever. But that’s it.”
Her nicely shaped eyebrows, darker than her red hair, pulled together. “What’s the longest you’ve stayed in one place?”
“Five years, in Regina. That’s where I lived last. I managed an auto repair shop.”
“So you’re capable of staying in one place and holding down a responsible job.”
“I guess.” It wasn’t that he’d had any particular love for Regina, but the job was a good one and he’d grown tired of drifting around. He’d have still been there if the regret about Brooke and Evan, and the desire to see them again, hadn’t become a compulsion as persistent and nagging as an engine tick that defied diagnosis.
“Hmm.”
He’d asked for Maribeth’s wisdom and perspective. She was weighing him and finding him lacking, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Mo drank the remaining hot chocolate, cold now and more bitter than sweet.
“If you’re not a people person,” she asked, “what is it that you want from Brooke and Evan?”
“To let them know that I’m sorry. I want them to know that I realize what a shit I was. If I could change the past, I would. But I can’t.”
“Do you want their forgiveness?”
He wrinkled his nose. “That’d be a lot to ask for.”
“What, then? You apologize and then you go away again?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I haven’t really thought past the point of me apologizing. If there’s some way of making amends, I’d do that, but . . .” He shrugged. “Guess I don’t know if that’s possible.”
She gave a soft huff. “That’s it? That’s your whole plan?”
Anger stirred, but he tamped it down and admitted, “I didn’t exactly come with a plan. I just found myself thinking about them this past couple years. I wondered how they were doing, if they were still in Caribou Crossing. I found the Gazette online, and from time to time there’d be something about them. Once I started, I couldn’t get them out of my mind. I felt . . . I guess driven is the right word. Driven to see them again and, uh . . .”
