“What kind of friend, a man?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Just a friend.”
“You know I want a grandkid before I die,” Mom said, and coughed again.
“That would be funny if you weren’t so darned sick. You know, stubborn old people who refuse to go to the doctor get pneumonia and die all the time.”
“Who are you calling old?” Mom demanded, incensed.
“Not you. I’ll be there as soon as I can with your soup. While you’re waiting, eat your salad.”
“Salad. Bleh. Pick me up some cookies.”
Her mom, the nutrition queen.
Devon appeared then, two of his fingers splinted and his head bandaged. Even all banged up, he looked good. Better than good. Fireman-hot good. Tilda was glad she had an excuse to drop him off and leave him.
“Okay, gotta go,” she said to her mom.
“If this is going to turn into something, take your time. Have sex. Get pregnant.”
“Thanks for the motherly advice,” Tilda said, and ended the call. “What’s the verdict on your hand?” she asked Devon.
“A couple of broken fingers. Glad it’s my left hand and not my right. Otherwise, I’d have to miss work.”
“What about your head?”
“I could have a concussion. Someone needs to stay with me,” he added, giving her the kind of smile that set her panties on fire.
“You can call your brother,” she said, and told her panties to cool it.
“He’s got a wife.”
“He can bring her along. Come on, let’s get you—” to bed. No, no, don’t say that! Don’t think that, don’t go anywhere near that “—home.”
She loaded him in the Jeep and drove him to the Mountain View Apartments at the edge of town. They were older, mostly inhabited by struggling single moms, divorced men and bachelors. She expected his apartment to be a mess, with clothes and magazines scattered around, dirty dishes in the sink and a mishmash of furniture. Surprisingly, it was clean and the furniture matched. He had a couch that looked like real leather and a matching chair. A couple of framed baseball posters hung on the walls.
“Where are the pictures of you in your baseball uniform?” she asked, glancing around.
He frowned. “In my mom’s scrapbook.”
Of course, he probably didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d lost. She walked over to the coffee table, a smooth piece with simple lines carved out of maple. “Cool table.”
“Thanks.”
“Where’d you get it?” She could use one like that at her place. At the moment she was making do with a garage-sale special.
“I made it.”
“You made it?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I have talents,” he said, and fell onto the couch. “I need a beer.”
“I bet the doc said no alcohol.”
“What does he know?”
“More than you do. I’ll get you some water.”
“Whoopee.”
She searched in the tiny kitchen cupboard and found the glasses. They weren’t the cheapo kind she had. No, these were the kind her cousin Georgie bought from Crate and Barrel. She took one down and filled it with water.
“So why are you here?” she asked, handing it over.
“Why are any of us here?” He took a drink and laid his head back against the couch.
“Seriously. In this apartment, I mean. You’ve got all this fancy furniture and stuff.”
“And I’m living in a dump. Well, what can I say? The furniture is left over from the glory days. The house got sold, though, and most of what I made went—never mind.” He shrugged. “Bad choices equal starting over. I’ve got some money in savings. One of these days I’ll get a fixer-upper. Or find someone with a fixer-upper,” he said with another of those panty-burner smiles.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone.” Half the bimbos in Icicle Falls would fall all over themselves to be with him.
“I’ve gotten particular about the kind of someone I want,” he said. “Can you get me an aspirin?”
“Didn’t they give you anything?”
“A prescription. All I need is an aspirin. In my medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Down the hall.”
The bathroom was dinky, with worn-out linoleum. It sure didn’t match the furnishings. She opened the medicine cabinet and found it pretty understocked. Aspirin, some mouthwash and deodorant, toothpaste. Plenty of condoms. What a surprise. She took out the bottle and returned to the living room. “One or two?”
“Two,” he said, and watched as she shook out two pills. “You know, you make a good nurse.”
She held them out to him. “Not really. No bedside manner.” Oh, no. Had she just said the B word? She had, because her cheeks suddenly felt as if she stood in front of a roaring fire.
Instead of taking the pills he caught her wrist. “Tell me more about your bedside manner.”
Oh, this was ridiculous. That little bit of skin-to-skin contact had sent an electric current running up her arm. She needed to get out of there. “Are you going to take your aspirin or do I have to stuff it down your throat?”
He took the aspirin all right. Licked it off her palm. “Have you been watching Fifty Shades of Grey?” She snatched her hand back.
“I don’t need all those extras. I’m good all by myself.”
“You obviously got more brain damage than you realize,” she said.
“You oughta give me a chance. I almost got killed today.”
“You got knocked over.”
“What does a guy have to do to impress you?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that why you pulled that little boy out of the way?”
His cocky expression disappeared and so did his playful tone of voice. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re full of yourself.”
He grunted and turned his head away, looking at something she couldn’t see. “Not much to brag about these days.” She was almost feeling sorry for him when the smile came back and he added, “Except my bedside manner.”
But it was too late. He’d removed the facade he’d been wearing ever since he came to town and given her a glimpse of a different kind of man, one who’d been broken and had some trouble putting the pieces back together again. One who, maybe, wasn’t such a bad guy, after all.
He still thinks he’s God’s gift to women, she told herself. He was a smooth-talking heartbreaker, probably out to rebuild his confidence with notches on his belt. Not what she was looking for.
“Sit down for a while. Keep me company.”
Why did she have a feeling that sitting down could quickly lead to lying down...with a sexy male body on top of her? “I’ve gotta be somewhere.”
He frowned. “Fine. I’ll just sit here all by myself and hope I don’t pass out.”
“Call your brother,” she said, not for the first time, and then left before she was tempted to join him on that big leather couch of his.
She went to the store and got more chicken soup and some cookies. “That was some rescue,” Carol the checker said as she rang up Tilda’s purchases. “I heard you took him to the emergency room. Is he okay?”
Ah, small towns. Everyone knew everything about everybody. “Yeah, he’s fine.”
“I tell you what, that Devon Black can rescue me anytime,” Carol said.
Carol the cougar was twice his age and twice divorced. Probably just his style.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, “call me Mrs. Robinson. But that boy is a delicious-looking hunk of beefcake.”
“Yeah, he is,” Tilda agreed, and swiped her charge card. “Just ask him.”
Carol gave a snort. “Ah, Tilda. You know what your problem is?”
Ti
lda suspected she was about to hear.
Carol handed over the receipt. “You’re too picky.”
“Now you sound like my mom.”
Carol grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I love your mom.”
So did Tilda, but sometimes the woman drove her nuts. She was still on the couch, burrowed under her afghan, her face flushed with fever, when Tilda returned.
“You need to go to the doctor,” Tilda said.
“I will if this gets worse,” Mom promised.
“If it gets any worse, you can forget the doc and go straight to the morgue.”
“Just give me my cookies.”
“Soup first,” Tilda said.
Mom struggled to sit up and Tilda plumped the pillows behind her and tried not to envision herself plumping up pillows behind Devon Black. What was wrong with her all of a sudden? The guy did one good deed, and now all of a sudden he was Superman? She needed to get a grip.
No, she needed to get a boyfriend. She should take Georgie’s advice and get online, find someone pronto, maybe even before the New Year.
“So, tell me more about this man,” Mom said as Tilda served her the container of soup.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Mom gave her the all-knowing-mom look. “Oh?”
Tilda could feel a blush coming on. She hated it when she blushed. “He’s not my type.”
“You need to redefine your type,” Mom said, and took a slurp of soup. “There aren’t enough firemen in Icicle Falls to go around.”
“I don’t need a fireman.”
“Or policemen. Unless, of course, you take up with Jamal. Now there’s the man you should be locked up with for life.”
“His mama wants him to marry a nice girl from her church.”
“Well, you’ve got the ‘nice’ part down,” Mom said, and spooned up some more soup. “You know what your problem is? You’re too picky.”
Where had she heard that before? “I’m not picky,” Tilda insisted.
“Then quit looking around for Superman and go for Clark Kent. When he loses the glasses he’s the same guy. And you know what? Deep down they’re all really just Clarks, anyway.”
Tilda had to smile at that. “Maybe you’re right.”
Maybe she was indeed. That gave Tilda plenty to think about as she drove back to Candy Cane Lane. Darkness had fallen, the big Saturday tree-lighting ceremony was long over and people had shifted from singing Christmas songs to going out to eat. Several cars were already starting to cruise Candy Cane Lane.
Tilda had almost reached her house when she saw a little girl in pink pajamas and slippered feet making her way down Ivy Bohn’s front walk, a teddy bear clutched to her chest. First a dog and now a kid—what was with Ivy Bohn that some member of her family was always escaping?
Tilda parked the car and got out, greeting the little girl just as she reached the sidewalk. “Well, hi there. Remember me? I’m your neighbor.”
“Hi,” said the girl, and kept walking past her.
The kid’s feet were going to be frozen. Tilda fell in beside her. “Where are you going?”
The little girl’s expression turned mulish. “I’m going to my daddy.”
Uh-huh. “Well, then, I’ll tell you what. Let’s get you a coat so you don’t catch a cold on the way.”
Now the expression morphed into sneaky. Yep, the kid definitely knew she was in trouble. “That’s okay. I don’t need a coat.”
“Oh, I think you do,” Tilda said, and picked her up.
Her cargo strained to get away. “Put me down!”
“I will as soon as we’re inside. Your mom can get your coat.”
No dummy, the kid knew she was being lied to. “I want my daddy,” she cried, and tried even harder to break free as Tilda strode up the walk.
Tilda rang the doorbell. At least she hoped it had rung. It was hard to hear anything over the girl’s crying.
The door opened and there stood Ivy Bohn, looking first puzzled, then horrified. “Hannah! What on earth?”
“I found her going down your front walk,” Tilda explained.
“I want my daddy!” Hannah wailed as Tilda placed the kid in her arms.
“Hannah, what were you thinking?” Ivy demanded.
“Daddyyyyyy.”
“Come in, please,” Ivy said.
“I should get home.” Tilda nodded to her dark house, where nothing was happening.
“Let me at least give you some wine as a thank-you.”
Now another woman was there in the hallway. Tilda recognized her from when she’d been at Christmas Haus, shopping.
“She tried to run away,” Ivy said.
“The door was locked,” the woman protested as if a child couldn’t figure out how to turn a lock.
“This is Tilda, my next-door neighbor. Deirdre’s my sister. Dee, get her a glass of wine. I’ll be right back,” Ivy said, and started up the stairs with her crying daughter.
Deirdre watched them go. “Sometimes I wonder if I want to have kids.”
“I guess everybody survives it. My mom did.”
Deirdre smiled. “Come on out to the kitchen. We’re just in the process of getting fat on wine and red velvet cupcakes.”
Tilda really hadn’t planned on staying. She and Ivy Bohn didn’t have anything in common.
Except red velvet cupcakes. Okay, she’d stay for a few minutes.
Ivy’s kitchen looked like something from HGTV, with granite countertops, a fancy island, elaborate bar stools. The walls were painted a sage green. It opened out onto a large family room, beautifully furnished, with only a toy box and a playpen to prove that kids lived there.
Deirdre must have caught her staring. “Yeah. That’s my sis. The high achiever. The only thing she ever did wrong was marry Rob. Although nobody thought he was wrong when they first got together.” Deirdre shook her head. “What is it with men that they can’t settle down?” Tilda didn’t get a chance to answer because Deirdre had already moved on. “So you’re the cop?”
“Yeah,” Tilda said cautiously.
“If we’re nice to you does that mean you won’t give us tickets?” Deirdre filled a wineglass with merlot and handed it to her.
Since she was smiling, Tilda assumed she was kidding. But considering who she was related to, you never knew. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“Guess I’d better spend the night, then, ’cause I plan on doing some serious drinking,” Deirdre confided.
“You and me both,” said Ivy, walking into the room. She picked up her wineglass and took a sip. “First she’s opening the door when she’s not supposed to and now she’s running away. And she’s only four. What’s she going to be like when she’s fourteen?”
“I don’t think you want to know,” Deirdre said.
“Thank God you came along,” Ivy said to Tilda. “I owe you big-time.”
“Nah. A cupcake will do,” Tilda said, and helped herself to one. “I suppose you made these.”
Ivy acted as though it was no big deal. “Cake mix.”
“Really?” Tilda could handle a cake mix.
“Do you bake?” Deirdre asked Tilda.
“Not one of my skills.”
“Anybody can make cupcakes,” Ivy said.
Tilda took a bite. Heaven. “Not like these. And what’s this frosting?” It was like eating whipped cream.
“Family secret involving a ton of butter.”
“Oh, man,” Tilda said, and took another bite.
“I know,” Deirdre agreed. “Red velvet orgasm. About the only kind I’m gonna get these days.”
“Her creep of a boyfriend dumped her,” Ivy explained.
“Fiancé,” Deirdre corrected, “which made
it even worse. He got cold feet.”
“And the hots for someone else,” Ivy added in disgust.
“If he marries her, I’m gonna send them dead fish for a wedding present,” Deirdre said, and drained half her glass.
“I know the feeling,” Tilda said.
“You got dumped by a fiancé?” Ivy looked at her in surprise, whether surprised that Tilda got dumped or that she’d had someone in the first place, Tilda couldn’t tell.
“Just a boyfriend.” At least that was what she’d thought he was. She’d thought wrong. Stupid her for not putting two and two together when he kept playing the gentleman card and not trying to get her into bed. A heck of a lot different from... No, she wasn’t going to think about Mr. Not Right.
“That sucks,” Deirdre said.
Tilda shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“Well, here’s to shit.” Deirdre raised her glass. “May it happen to someone else ’cause we’ve had enough of it. Can I get an amen?”
“You sure can,” said Ivy.
“Make that a third,” Tilda threw in, and they clinked glasses.
“Have another cupcake,” Ivy said to Tilda.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“And stick around,” said Deirdre. “We’re gonna watch Gremlins.”
Tilda would never have thought of that as an Ivy Bohn Christmas movie pick. But then, there were a lot of things she’d never have thought about Ivy. Sometimes there was more to people than you realized.
“More wine?” Ivy asked as if assuming Tilda was staying.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She liked that movie. And she was beginning to like Ivy Bohn.
Chapter Fourteen
Sometimes things don’t go according to plan, so stay flexible.
—Muriel Sterling, Making the Holidays Bright: How to Have a Perfect Christmas
Maddy was just dishing up Sunday breakfast when Alan’s cell phone rang. “Yo, Mark,” he said. “What’s up?” His Sunday-morning smile fell away, which could mean only one thing. Alan had to go into work. “No, no worries. There’s a lot of that going around.”
A lot of not wanting to work, if you asked Maddy. Mark called in sick at least once a month, and always on a Sunday. “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” she said as Alan set aside his phone. “Mark has some mysterious ailment.”
Christmas on Candy Cane Lane Page 20
