A Mom for His Daughter

by Jean C. Gordon

  Marc bristled. “If I knew I wouldn’t be here.”

  Fiona pulled together her confident, professional persona, even if it was a facade at the moment. “We need to talk with Mrs. Delacroix together, and then plan more activities with all of us and Stella to help her get used to me being part of her family.”

  “What do you suggest?” Noah looked from her to Marc.

  Marc stretched his legs out under the table. “I could make dinner for her and Dad at my place.”

  An offhand remark Claire had made one day at work about never turning down an invitation to a meal cooked by Marc ran through Fiona’s head. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to cook dinner for her, but... “I’m not sure. I don’t think Stella should be there because we’ll be talking about her.”

  Marc grimaced. “We could make it lunch on a day Natalie could take her after school, if you’re able to get time off work.”

  His reply almost sounded like a challenge as to whether she would put work ahead of Stella. “I could do that.”

  “Sounds good. We’ve made real progress,” Noah said. “Should we call it a night?”

  “Fine by me,” Marc said, rising before he finished speaking.

  Fiona nodded, mulling over what progress Noah had thought they’d made.

  “See you at the next group meeting,” Noah said as Marc opened the door for Fiona. “You have my number if you need to meet again before then.”

  “Like that’s going to happen,” Marc muttered under his breath once the door was firmly closed behind them.

  Fiona scratched her cheek. She had no idea where Marc’s animosity was coming from.

  “We should have met by ourselves for all the help Noah was.” Marc tugged on his ski cap. “Mom isn’t going to like this. Despite Renee’s vocation, she isn’t a fan of counseling, taking family matters outside of the family.”

  Ah. So that’s where it had come from.

  He pushed open the outside door. “We may be better off waiting for Mom to come around on her own.”

  Fiona passed by him and turned, blocking Marc’s way. “No, we need to have that lunch. Your mother doesn’t have to like it. Nor does she have to like me. But she does need to accept the reality that I intend to be involved in Stella’s life.”

  * * *

  For the first time since he’d moved back north, Marc was questioning his choice—really questioning it. He turned down the flame under his Irish stew and stirred it. His life had gotten out of control downstate, and it seemed to be careening in the same direction here.

  He’d totally lost control of the meeting with Noah. His mother had given him a tight-lipped yes to his lunch invitation when he’d said Fiona was joining. Stella’s old pediatrician hadn’t had the concerns the doctors here had. He’d pressed like a maniac for anything that might have put Cate’s cancer in remission and that hadn’t gotten them anywhere. Now Stella...

  He dropped the lid on the Dutch oven. He’d like to lay all of the blame on Fiona’s appearance in their lives and simply wish her away. Except that he liked her. Yeah, he had to admit it. He liked being around her, having her as part of the family. And whether Fiona cared or not, he wanted his mother to like her.

  A knock and the sound of the kitchen door opening behind him put a stop to the direction of those thoughts.

  “Hi,” his mother said, walking in with a covered plate. “I brought some of the apple crisp with walnuts that Stella likes.”

  Marc looked behind his mother for his father. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He and Paul had a problem with the milking machine this morning, so he had to stay and finish.”

  “It must have been some problem if they’re still milking at noon.” Or his father had dragged it out so he could avoid the impending conflict. Lunch was all ready. Maybe he should volunteer to go help them.

  “That and he had a feed delivery this morning that Paul had to unload.”

  “Dad’s loss. I made Irish stew for him.”

  She took off her coat and boots and hung her coat on one of the hooks beside the door. “I’d expected you to make something more impressive. For Fiona.”

  He stopped just short of slapping his palm on the countertop next to him. “Mom, this isn’t like you. What do you have against Fiona? You haven’t even given yourself a chance to get to know her. If you did, you’d like her. Natalie and Connor do, Renee does, and Claire does. And she works with her every day.” He didn’t mention his own feelings toward her, and the omission hung between them.

  Marc’s mother placed the apple crisp in his refrigerator and then faced him. “I only want your happiness.”

  Before Marc could begin to try to interpret that, the front doorbell rang. “That must be Fiona.” He left his mother in the kitchen.

  “Hi,” he said, holding the door for her. “Let me take your coat.”

  “Thanks.” She stomped the bit of snow off her low-cut leather boots and wiped her feet on the mat.

  “I left my shoes at work,” she apologized.

  “Your boots are fine. The rug in here is mud-brown anyway.”

  He followed Fiona’s gaze to the rug, his face heating when he caught the corners of her mouth turning up.

  She removed her coat, her cold fingers brushing his warm ones as he took it from her. Marc resisted the impulse to rub her hands between his to warm them up.

  “You should have worn gloves.” What was wrong with his mouth? She was an adult; she knew when to wear gloves. He sounded like he was talking to Stella.

  She laughed. “I have a pair in my pockets. What smells so wonderful?”

  “That would be my Irish stew, and thanks.”

  Her expression sobered. “I saw the car in the driveway. Your parents are here?”

  “Only Mom. Dad had a problem with the milking equipment and couldn’t come.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s probably better that it’s just the three of us.” And if she believed that, he had a bridge to sell her. He’d invited his dad for a little more testosterone against the two women. He had a feeling that if she wanted to, Fiona could match his mother inch for inch, digging in her heels.

  “The kitchen is this way. Everything is ready. Mom brought an extra dessert.” As if the tiramisu he’d made last night—because Fiona had said she liked it—wasn’t enough.

  “Here you are,” his mother said when they walked in.

  Marc hoped Fiona hadn’t caught the false brightness he’d heard in his mother’s voice. But the frozen smile on Fiona’s face said otherwise.

  “I knew you wouldn’t mind. I tasted the stew and added more salt and pepper.”

  He minded. As good a cook as his mother was, he was the professional, and he’d long thought she was heavy-handed on the salt and pepper and too sparse on more subtle spices.

  “As I told Marc in the other room, it smells wonderful.” Fiona rested her hands on the back of one of the chairs. “I can’t wait to taste it. Claire told me that if Marc ever offered to cook for me, I was not to turn him down.”

  “Then I’ll set the table,” his mother said.

  “Mom, sit. Please. This is my gig.”

  Marc stepped past her to the stove. He opened the oven for the crusty bread he’d baked last night that was warming, thankful for the blast of hot air to hide any flush of irritation on his face.

  “Mmm, that smells as yummy as the stew.”

  He closed the oven and saw that Fiona had taken the seat across the table from the stove. Marc placed the bread on the table and removed the extra place setting at the far end across from his mother, leaving the other one beside her for him. He followed the bread with the pot of stew and pulled out his chair. “Go ahead, dig in.”

  His heartbeat stalled as Fiona and his mother looked at each other. Fiona reached for the stew ladle at the same time his moth
er lifted her hand to do the same. Fiona grasped the ladle and scooped a generous serving into her bowl.

  Good girl. He should have known his mother wouldn’t intimidate Fiona.

  “I can’t wait to taste this.” Fiona turned the ladle toward his mother, who put a half scoop in her bowl before handing it to Marc.

  “Would you say grace,” his mother said, more a direction than a question.

  He bowed his head. “Lord, we are grateful for this food and the opportunity to further welcome Fiona into our family.”

  When he lifted his head, his mother curled her lips in and released them. “I know why you invited me to lunch.”

  Marc tore the end piece off the loaf of bread and slapped on a knife full of butter.

  His mother made a noise in the back of her throat. “I apologize for the rude way I’ve been acting, Fiona, Marc.”

  His gaze went to Fiona.

  “Apology accepted,” she said, a shadow he could only describe as longing passing over her face.

  Marc bit into the crust of his bread, not feeling as gracious.

  “Wait.” His mother raised her hand. “I want to explain, so you understand my rudeness before you forgive it.”

  He chewed the bread slowly. This sounded more like the mother he knew.

  “My sister, your aunt Margarette, and her husband adopted a baby girl a couple years after they married.”

  Fiona stiffened, and Marc stopped chewing, the bites he’d swallowed congealing in his stomach. Aunt Margarette and Uncle Ed didn’t have a daughter, only a son.

  “Days before the adoption was to be finalized, but within the legal time frame, the birth mother changed her mind. Margarette was devastated. She had to be treated for severe depression, and it was nearly ten years before they adopted your cousin Greg. I couldn’t bear for Marc, for all of us, to go through that kind of pain.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Fiona said. “I told Marc I wouldn’t.”

  He reached for his mother’s hand and squeezed it. “And I told you my lawyer said Fiona has no standing to do that.” His words sounded flat against Fiona’s heartfelt ones.

  “I was still afraid. You’re a parent. You understand, and Fiona, Marc said you had custody of your sister after your mother died.”

  Fiona nodded, her expression open.

  “I do understand, Mom.” Yet he was having trouble giving his mother’s apology the simple acceptance Fiona had seemed to.

  “Well, I’m glad to have that out in the open. Isn’t the stew fabulous?” his mother asked.

  “Absolutely, as is the bread.” The two women continued chatting in a polite manner.

  Marc stared at his bowl. That’s it? We’re all good now?

  After dessert with coffee, and after his mother had packed up several helpings of her apple crisp for Fiona to take home, Marc watched the two women walk to their cars like old friends. He sighed. Wasn’t this what he wanted? For his mother to accept Fiona as one of the family?

  He turned from the window in disgust. Lunch hadn’t helped him gain any control. Just the opposite. Now, he was begrudging his mother the smiles and ease Fiona had for her. He was as bad as Stella had been about her new coloring book. He didn’t want to share Fiona.

  Chapter Eight

  Fiona heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to her apartment. She’d been trying to keep an eye and an ear out for Marc, so he wouldn’t have to come up, but her phone had rung with a call from someone offering her a student loan consolidation deal on student loans she didn’t have, and she’d missed hearing his car pull into the driveway. The Bridges program had scheduled an afternoon of sledding for the families in Stella’s group. This sort of activity seemed like a good way to get together with Marc and Stella, in line with what they’d talked about with Noah.

  She answered the door on the first knock. “Sorry, I tried to listen for your car so you wouldn’t have to come up.” Fiona nodded at Stella.

  “No problem. Stella wanted to see your house.”

  Fiona ran her finger under the scarf she’d tied securely around the collar of her jacket. Did that mean Stella wanted to see her?

  “Feena’s house.” Stella pushed against Marc’s chest to get down.

  He placed her on the floor. The little girl took a few steps, touched the couch and said, “Feena’s couch,” before moving on to touch the TV stand. “Feena’s TV.”

  “Yes.” Fiona laughed, as much from the joy of Stella at ease here as from her niece’s overall cuteness.

  Stella spun around. “Feena sleep?”

  “Yes, I have a bedroom.” Fiona pointed to a closed door, which Stella made a beeline for.

  “Whoa, sweetpea. We came to pick Fiona up to go sledding, not to move in.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Maybe you could come over some other time and we could watch a video,” Fiona said.

  “Frozen?”

  The way the little girl’s face lit up warmed Fiona enough that she doubted she’d be cold during the sledding.

  “But Daddy’s tired of Frozen,” Stella said sadly.

  Marc shrugged. “What can I say? It’s a little girly for me. But maybe we can come over sometime. I can cook us dinner or lunch while you girls watch the movie.”

  Fiona had been thinking along the lines of having just Stella over. But Marc would be a welcome addition. She suddenly felt the full impact of standing inside too long in her down jacket. A welcome addition to make Stella feel more secure, she told herself.

  Marc removed his ski cap, ran his hand over his hair and replaced it. “We’d better get going. We don’t want to miss out on the fun.”

  Stella raced back to him and lifted her arms. Once Marc had picked her up, she motioned to Fiona. “Feena, come. Sledding.”

  Fiona’s heart swelled. Stella definitely seemed more comfortable with her today.

  “I’m ready,” she said, following Marc to the door. She stopped on the first step to turn and lock the door.

  “Feena,” Stella called again.

  Fiona pressed her hand to her heart and listened to Marc’s footsteps on the stairs. “I’m coming. I had to lock the door.” She turned to see Marc and Stella reaching the bottom step, the little girl’s wide smile a beacon to her.

  Marc leaned against the door to hold it open for her and shifted Stella to his left hip. So she’d have to brush by the little girl rather than him?

  “Boggan,” Stella shouted and pointed at the rack on top of Marc’s SUV.

  “I see you’ve come prepared.”

  Marc stepped away and let the outer door slam shut, shifting Stella again as if to keep her as a buffer between them.

  “The toboggan,” Fiona said.

  “Oh, right.”

  Fiona walked through the dusting of new snow to the passenger side front door. She’d been getting strange vibes from Marc since he’d arrived. Would he be able to relax and be comfortable with her today?

  * * *

  “It’s unlocked,” he said, rounding the rear of the vehicle. He stopped. He was prepared for sledding, but not for whatever was going on between him and Fiona. He looked over the top of the vehicle at the tassel of her hat swaying behind her. Or was it only going on with him? Years of his mother and sisters drilling him on how to treat a woman kicked in. He should have opened the car door for Fiona, but it would be weird to walk back around and do it now.

  He shook off the guilt. It wasn’t as if they were on a date. Fiona was Stella’s aunt, like his sisters. He opened the back door for Stella. Except Fiona wasn’t his sister. His gaze went to the front seat, to her face. The winter air had put a rosy flush on her cheeks. Her smiling lips were the same attractive tint. No, she wasn’t his sister. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Stella pulled away from him to scramble into her car seat.

  “Stella’s se
at. Daddy’s seat. Feena’s seat,” she sang repeatedly as Marc, with one eye drawn to Fiona making herself comfortable in the front, fumbled with the fasteners on Stella’s car seat. He wanted Stella to accept Fiona. That was the idea, but to accept her on her own, not as part of a package deal that included him.

  “There you go,” he said, after finally having to take his gloves off to snap the last fastener. He pulled his gloves back on, closed Stella’s door and slid into the driver’s seat.

  “We’re sledding at the golf course,” he said as he backed onto Main Street. He shoved the car into Drive. She knew that. She’d gotten the same email from Noah that Marc had. “Have you ever been there?”

  “No, I moved here in the fall after the course had closed for the season. Not that I’ve ever played.”

  “I could teach you in the spring.” He gripped the steering wheel. Now what was he doing?

  The corners of her mouth twitched. She was laughing at him. He couldn’t blame her. “I think my skills lie more along the lines of miniature golf. It’s something we could do with Stella.”

  Stella. He hadn’t heard a peep out of her since she’d stopped singing. “Is she asleep?”

  Fiona looked behind him. “Yep.”

  “That’s good. She was up before six this morning raring to go. I should tell Mom a car ride is the key to getting Stella to nap. She’s been giving her a hard time about it. I’ve been spending more time at the restaurant, and Mom has been watching her when she’s not at school.”

  “Has the contractor run into more problems?”

  “No, I’ve been getting myself and Stella into a routine of going into work every day, so it won’t be a difficult transition when La Table Frais is up and running and I’ll have to be there full time.”

  “I see.”

  Her casual comment struck him as almost judgmental. Why, he wasn’t sure. But today he didn’t seem to be sure about anything concerning Fiona.

  “If you want to give your mother a break or spend a weekday with Stella, I could take her on a Saturday or Sunday so you could work—or evenings once you open.”

  He hadn’t gotten as far as thinking about the evening hours. He should be more appreciative of Fiona’s offer. Except Fiona seemed to be equating her spending time with Stella as the same as him spending time with his daughter.