by Judy Duarte
He opted not to comment about that, realizing her ex-husband’s cruise had taken precedence over the child support check he was supposed to send her. Mac knew he wouldn’t have liked the guy anyway, but his selfishness was hard to stomach.
Instead, he steered his thoughts and the conversation back to the only thing he and Jillian had in common—the renovations they were both tackling. “This house must hold a lot of memories for you.”
She leaned her hip against the counter. “It does. Both good and bad.”
So much for intending to talk about fix-it projects. After that comment, he couldn’t help wondering about the bad memories she’d admitted to having. It was hard to imagine that hers could compete with some of his. “I always thought that you had the perfect childhood.”
“The early years were wonderful, but I lost my mother when I was twelve, and things were never the same again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She cast him a wistful smile, then shrugged.
They’d never really gotten into the past before. Instead, as teenagers were prone to do, they’d clung to the here and now. He’d known she’d lost her mother, though, but he hadn’t been aware of the details. “How did your mom die?”
“In a car accident. She was driving home from the grocery store one night and the roads were wet.” Jillian glanced at the rain-splattered kitchen window. “It was a December night like this one: rainy, cold, and miserable.”
Mac really hadn’t meant to stir up any uncomfortable memories and, with the weather being what it was, he was sorry he’d asked.
“I think that’s why this time of the year is so…sad.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and scanned the interior of the kitchen with eyes that glimmered with nostalgic yearning. “It wasn’t always, though. My mom loved antiques and old Victorian houses. In fact, when we first moved to Fairbrook, Dad wanted to buy a place in one of the new developments off Applewood, but Mom insisted they find something on Sugar Plum Lane. He gave in to her, as he always did. And she went to great lengths to make this house a home for us. She was always picking up old knickknacks and furniture to add to the charm.”
Mac wondered why Jillian had really moved back home. Was it for financial reasons? To escape the memories of a marriage gone bad? Or had she come to the one place she’d been able to call home?
Either way, he suspected the move had been bittersweet.
“My mom would begin decorating for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving, and it would take weeks for her to finish. She’d start from the inside out. It was really something. You should have seen it.” Jillian let out a wistful sigh. “But after the accident, it was hard to get excited about anything anymore. Dad felt that way, too, which was another reason he didn’t want to remain in Fairbrook without me.”
Mac knew Jillian and her dad had been close, but he hadn’t realized they’d had to cling to each other following their loss.
“Christmas was her favorite holiday,” Jillian added, “but after she was gone, it no longer held the same appeal. In fact, even after I got married and tried to re-create my own traditions, I just never could seem to get into the Christmas spirit. Without my mom, it…” She paused for a moment or two, then shrugged. “Well, enough of that.”
Mac didn’t want to drop the subject. He wanted to find out everything he could about Jillian, about her hurts and disappointments, about her life after she’d moved up north. But he didn’t suppose he could press her about it. Not if thinking about it hurt.
That’s the way it had always been with them, though. There was a side of her she’d refused to share with him. A side he’d known better than to ask about.
The rain began a steady tap-tap-tap at the window, and they both looked out to see that the raindrops had turned to ice.
“Hail,” Jillian said.
Before Mac could comment, Tommy ran into the kitchen. “Mom, look outside. It’s snowing! I hoped and prayed that it would.”
“I’m afraid it never snows around here,” Jillian said. “That’s hail, honey.”
“But it’s turning the ground white,” the boy argued. “So Megan and I are going to make a snowman.”
“I’m afraid you can’t make anything out of ice,” Mac said. “And you’d better not put too much hope into having a white Christmas. The last snowfall recorded in Fairbrook was back in 1976.” At least, that’s what Ray had told him. It was easy to remember the date because it was Mac’s birth year.
“Well, this is practically the same thing,” Tommy added before dashing back into the living room.
“He’s a lot like his father,” Jillian said.
Mac wanted to know in which ways the boy and his dad were alike—in looks? In temperament?
He wouldn’t ask, though, even if he couldn’t help being just a little bit envious of the man who’d married Jillian, then let her get away. A guy Jillian hadn’t been ashamed to bring home. A man her father had undoubtedly approved of.
When Mac and Jillian had been teenagers, it hadn’t taken him long to realize she was making up excuses to meet him away from her house—at the library, at the park, at the beach, at The Creamery. And when he’d finally realized she was ashamed to have him meet her father, his pride had taken a direct hit.
The rebel in him had refused to accept the slight, and he’d actually planned to end things. But a part of him had needed Jillian. A lonely, hurting part that had needed her innocence and her healing touch.
As Jillian placed the skillet on the stove, then poured a bit of oil into the pan and turned the flame on high, Mac watched her work.
A few years after she’d moved away, he’d quit thinking about her on a daily basis and had figured he was over her for good. But right this minute he wasn’t so sure.
“That little dog sure seems to have settled right into the family,” he said, changing his focus to something they’d both feel more comfortable talking about.
“It certainly looks that way.” Jillian reached for a pair of tongs from the cupboard drawer. “We’ll have to keep her in the house, though. I have a feeling she’s going to run over to Mr. Iverson’s yard every chance she gets. With my luck, she’ll probably dig up his petunias or something. And all I need is one more thing for him to complain about.”
“Charlie’s getting older,” Mac said by way of an explanation. “And he’s facing his first Christmas without his wife of fifty-some years. They never had any kids, so I suspect this one will be especially hard.”
“I’m sure it probably will be.”
Mac watched her expression drift. He knew this particular Christmas was going to be especially tough on her and the kids, too.
“Did you mention Tommy when you went over to Mr. Iverson’s house this afternoon?” she asked. “Or did you just talk about the Charger game?”
“A little of both.” Mac leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking in complaint. “I told Charlie that the more I got to know you and the kids, the more I think you’ll make great neighbors. I suggested he give you a chance.”
“What did he say to that?”
Truthfully? He’d grumbled about it, and Mac had gotten the idea it might be easier to get through to Tommy. But he wasn’t sure that was going to help build a neighborly relationship where none existed. “I’m sure, with time, things will work out.”
“I hope you’re right.” Jillian placed the first fried tortilla shell on a paper towel, then dropped another into the skillet. She jerked her hand back as the hot oil hissed and spattered.
“Charlie and I watched the game highlights,” Mac added. “Then we chatted for a while. I’ve noticed that he’s been especially talkative lately, and I suspect that’s because he’s lonely.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jillian removed another fried tortilla shell from the pan and replaced it with a new one. “It’s too bad he couldn’t have been a little more understanding of Tommy. If he had been, I would have been a lot friendlier to him.”
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nbsp; She had a point, but Mac still couldn’t help feeling sorry for the old man. “I met Charlie about ten years ago, and he wasn’t nearly as crotchety back then. Before he retired, he was an insurance agent for the most part. But during football season he was an NFL referee. You can’t believe the stories he had to tell. I really used to enjoy talking to him.”
Actually, Mac still did, but he hadn’t had much time for the elderly man since he’d been staying in the neighborhood. With only ten days of vacation time available to him, he’d had a lot to do in order to get Ray’s house back into shape, and only a short time in which to do it.
“I didn’t realize you’d known Mr. Iverson that long,” Jillian said.
“Ray Burke, my first partner, invited me to a barbecue about ten years ago. He’d also included a couple of his neighbors, and that’s when I first met the Iversons.”
“So you knew Charlie’s wife, too?”
“Her name was Grace, and she was a great lady.” Mac smiled, as he was prone to do whenever he thought about the short, matronly woman who’d mothered the entire neighborhood. “Grace used to make killer brownies that were loaded with nuts and covered with a fudge frosting. Ray was allergic to chocolate, but when she found out how much I liked them, she’d make him bring a plate to me each time she made a batch.”
“What happened to Ray?” Jillian asked.
“He died of a heart attack about six months ago.” It was a loss Mac was still grieving.
Years ago, the homeless man Mac had met in the park had predicted that Mac would find his place in the world and that he’d get the family he’d always wanted. Ray had been his first real human connection, his first real sense of belonging.
But Jesse had neglected to mention how much it hurt to lose someone who’d come to mean so much.
“Ray owned the house you’re fixing up?” Jillian asked.
“Yes. It’s mine now.”
It had been a shock when Sam Dawson, Ray’s attorney, had called Mac the day before the funeral and told him Ray had created a trust, making Mac the sole trustee. Sure, Mac had known that Ray had really liked him, but he hadn’t realized that Ray had considered Mac the only family he had.
So that’s how Mac had ended up with the old Victorian and everything else that Ray had owned.
Of course, he’d give it all up in a heartbeat to have his old buddy back.
A child’s scream tore through the house, and a shot of adrenaline rushed through Mac’s veins.
“Nooooo!” Megan yelled.
Jillian ran to the living room, with Mac on her heels.
The front door was open, and both children stood on the porch, frozen droplets of hail bouncing on the steps and the sidewalk.
“Tommy opened the door, and Princess Leia ran outside,” the girl explained. “We gotta get her back.”
“I think she went over to Mr. Iverson’s house,” Tommy said.
Jillian slid a glance at Mac. “Hopefully, she’ll realize that she’s better off inside and come back home.”
“I’ll go and get her.” Tommy started for the steps, and Mac stopped him.
“Hold off a minute or two,” he told the boy. “Maybe she went outside to relieve herself.”
“What does that mean?” Megan asked.
Mac shot a glance at Jillian, who explained, “Princess Leia probably had to go potty and didn’t want to make a mess on our floor.”
“That’s a good thing,” Tommy said. “Right? And so she’ll come right back.”
Before either Jillian or Mac could respond, the fire detector screeched out an ear-piercing alarm.
“Oh, my gosh.” Jillian dashed back toward the kitchen, taking time to look over her shoulder. “I forgot to take the skillet off the flame!”
Chapter Seven
Mac jogged after Jillian, hoping she hadn’t caught the house on fire and kicking himself for not being more alert when they’d dashed into the living room to see what all the fuss was about.
When he reached the smoke-filled kitchen, Jillian had already removed the burning pan from the flame. He opened the window, and she grabbed a dishtowel and began fanning the smoke out of the house. Still, the alarm continued to screech like a banshee.
“Where’s the smoke detector?” he asked. “I’ll remove the batteries.”
She nodded toward the doorway, her towel flapping in the air. “It’s at the top of the stairway.”
He turned to leave the kitchen, and she reached for his arm, stopping him. Again, her touch reached something deep inside of him.
“I’m really sorry about this.” A blush on her cheeks revealed sincerity, as well as embarrassment.
He lifted his free hand and skimmed his knuckles along her cheek. “Don’t be sorry.”
Her lips parted, and her breath caught. Yet she didn’t step back, didn’t turn away.
If he had any doubt about the strength of the attraction he still felt for her, he didn’t anymore. But he figured a relationship with her now would be just as doomed as it had been fifteen years ago. So he decided it was best to laugh it off. “I could be eating take-out all by myself, and this beats watching television.”
A slow grin stretched across her lips, and she released his arm. “It’s not always this hectic around here.”
He wasn’t sure he believed that, but he returned her smile before heading toward the stairway to turn off the annoying alarm. Thirty minutes later, the house was quiet, the batteries had been put back into the smoke detector, and the smell of burned oil and corn tortilla was just a whisper in the air.
To appease the kids, Mac had braved the hail-turned-rain with an umbrella Jillian provided and had gone out to look for Princess Leia. He’d found her on Charlie’s front porch. Fortunately, the old man’s television had been blaring too loudly for him to hear her yappy barks. So Mac had scooped her up and carried her home.
“This is your house now,” he’d muttered to the little dog. “And if you want to stay on everyone’s good side, you’ll figure that out before you head outside again.”
Now, while Princess Leia lay snoozing near the fire in the hearth, the adults and children sat in the dining room, where an oval, dark-wood table was laden with bowls of taco fixings: spicy beef, golden-brown tortilla shells, shredded lettuce and cheese, chopped tomatoes, salsa and sour cream. Two casserole dishes, one filled with Spanish rice and the other with refried beans, rounded out the meal.
This, Mac decided, had to be an example of family style eating at its best.
As he reached for the rice and scooped out a second helping, he glanced at the table, the varnish darkened by age. It matched the hutch against the wall.
“I like this antique furniture,” he said. “It really suits the house.”
“Thank you.” Jillian placed her hand on the dark, polished oak, her agreement and appreciation apparent. “It used to be my mother’s. My dad sold a lot of her favorite pieces, but I kept this set in storage while we lived in Roseville. Jared liked a more modern style, and this didn’t fit.”
Mac wondered if having her mother’s things and being in this house made Jillian feel closer to her mom, or whether it made her feel worse. A little of both, he suspected. Just as being in Ray’s house, surrounded by Ray’s things, made him feel good, yet sad.
Jillian, who’d skipped the tortilla shells and had made a taco salad for herself—light on the meat and cheese—asked, “How long will you be staying in the neighborhood?”
“About a week. I need to go back to work before Christmas.”
“Where’s home?” she asked.
“Downtown San Diego.” He took a sip of the iced tea she’d poured for him. “I’m afraid a loft apartment in the Gaslamp District suits me and my lifestyle a lot better than an old Victorian in the suburbs.”
“It’s too bad that you’ll be leaving.” Jillian lifted her napkin and blotted her lips. “I liked the idea of knowing a police officer lived close by.”
Tommy, who’d been drinking milk, set t
he glass back on the table with a thunk and a wobble. He used both hands to prevent a mishap, then brightened. “You’re a cop?”
“Yes. Actually, I’m a detective now.”
“Cool,” Tommy said. “Do you arrest guys and put them in jail?”
“If they’re guilty, I do.”
“And do you shoot guys, too?”
Mac glanced at Jillian. He wasn’t sure how honest she wanted him to be. “I don’t like drawing my gun, but if I have to protect myself, my partner, a victim, or an innocent bystander, I do what I have to do.”
“Wow.” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Did you ever catch any bank robbers?”
“I’m in homicide, so I don’t usually get called out on those kinds of cases. But yes, I’ve caught my share of thieves and burglars, too.”
“How many bad guys have you locked up?” Tommy asked, clearly enjoying the grittier aspects of Mac’s job.
As much as he hated to admit it, Mac kind of liked being the subject of hero worship, especially in the eyes of Jillian’s son. “I’ve arrested plenty of them.”
Tommy turned to his sister and gave her a nudge. “Did you hear that? We have a real live policeman living on our street.”
Megan didn’t appear anywhere near as impressed as her brother was.
The phone, which sat on a small table in the hall, rang, and Jillian excused herself to pick it up. “Hello?”
Mac didn’t pay much attention, but when he glanced through the open doorway and saw her stiffen, his curiosity was piqued and he found himself listening to one side of a conversation.
“They’re fine.” Jillian looked at the kids. Tommy was chomping on a taco, and Megan was studying her plate with an intensity that had erased the smile she’d been wearing earlier.
When Jillian and Mac made eye contact, she shrugged and tried to hide a grimace.
“Just a minute,” she said, covering the mouthpiece with her fingers. “Tommy, your father’s on the phone.”
