Or maybe it was just the way Courtney had looked at him as they stepped out of the room to give Araceli privacy with her phone call—as if he were her hero. Marc knew then that he would do whatever he could to reunite this family in person. Araceli’s mother had already passed the statute of limitations necessary after a deportation for applying to reenter the country legally, so Marc had hired an immigration attorney, who was currently reviewing the case and preparing the documents to file.
The family court judge had allowed Courtney to formally host Araceli, who had moved in. According to Courtney, the place no longer seemed so big and empty with a teenager in residence. Things were working out smoother than they could have hoped.
Getting up from the kitchen table, Marc made his way to the door and stepped outside into the brisk night. He and Courtney had made it a habit of meeting after Araceli had turned in for the night, and he had no sooner pulled the door shut behind him when her porch light came on.
Courtney appeared, backlit by the glow, her features cast in shadow but the sight of her causing his heart to throb a single hard beat. Life was changing. Marc might not know where he was going yet, but he was putting the pieces in place one by one. Because Courtney had been right. When it was time to move on, something better always came along.
She was his something better.
Tonight she carried two steaming mugs. Might be coffee or cocoa or some foul tea she seemed so fond of. He wouldn’t know until he got onto the porch. Some nights she brought a bottle of wine. Whatever struck her fancy. He drank what she brought, because he didn’t care what was in the cup so long as she was seated beside him, chatting away about whatever was on her mind, asking for his opinions and listening to his replies.
As content to be with him as she had been during those treasured nights during their search for Araceli.
She sat on the top step and set the mugs beside her, watching him as he crossed the yard. Their gazes finally met, a hello that connected them in the quiet night.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hi back.” He maneuvered onto the step beside her. “Thought you were standing me up tonight.”
A smiled played around the corners of her mouth. “I’m actually surprised they went to bed so early.”
“They? Violet over again?”
She nodded, passing him a mug.
His niece had been thrilled to have someone her age to hang out with, and Araceli was equally impressed with Violet, who had lived in South America for several years. The two happily conversed in Spanish, a match made in heaven. Or so it seemed, since Violet had been at Courtney’s more than she had been home these past three weeks since their return from Nashville.
He sipped from the mug. Coffee. His personal favorite. “Thanks,” he said. “I thought Violet promised to help her mother with the wedding preparations. Guess not.”
“I’m not really surprised. Nic and Megan are going to be honeymooners. Violet has got to feel like a bit of a third wheel right now. I think Araceli is the perfect distraction.”
Marc supposed she was right. “Works both ways.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Araceli, too, was facing dramatic changes in her life, and while she was eager for the reunion with her mother, she did understand the need to follow the legalities to the letter of the law. After deportation from this country, reentering became far more difficult. Fortunately, Araceli was more street-smart than most kids her age. She and Violet were a pair that way.
Courtney snuggled close and rested her head on his shoulder. “Got a date today.”
“So the FBI officially closed the investigation?”
“About time, don’t you think? I’ll go in for a hearing on the first of November and should be back to work on the fourth.”
“You’re relieved.” Not a question.
She nodded, and exhaled a contented sigh that reminded him of the way she sounded at night in his arms. He missed having her all to himself. Now that they were in New Orleans, he had to share her with everyone in her life. Her family. His family. Her friends. Araceli. The Department of Children and Family Services. He had gotten spoiled.
“I am,” she admitted. “Going to have to play catch-up with my kids. I’ve missed them.”
He wasn’t surprised to hear that, not with the way she cared for everyone around her. “Does that mean you’re going to start working nonstop again? I don’t see you enough as it is.”
She patted his leg reassuringly. “Then we’ll have to remedy that, because I’ve learned my lesson. I’m all about balance and enjoying the moment. How about you? How was therapy today?”
Resting his cheek against her silky head, he stared into the yard, only the stars and the porch illuminating the dark. He felt a contentment that was still so unfamiliar, a peace that things were working out exactly the way they should. As long as he didn’t stubbornly fight for the things meant to be let go.
He had to stay focused on now and not cling to the past or worry too much about the future.
“Therapy went well, thanks for asking. Streetcar ride didn’t wear me out so much. Every day is getting better.”
She burrowed her face against his neck, another response reminiscent of being in her arms naked. “I’m glad.”
She hadn’t been when he had first announced his intention to ride the streetcar to his therapy sessions. Like his mother, Courtney wanted him to accept more help than he was willing to accept. He would ride the streetcar until he could get behind the wheel of a car again, which was the first of his short-term goals to reclaim his life. He was setting realistic goals, and every day that passed, he was getting stronger, figuring out what he wanted.
“Listen, I have a proposition for you,” he said.
“This sounds serious.” Setting aside her mug, she glanced up at him, her gaze lingering as if she had been missing him, too. And that look in her beautiful eyes, a look he was getting used to seeing lately, had done far more toward helping Marc see past now into a possible future than all the therapy he’d had in the months since his accident combined.
Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tipped her beautiful face toward him.
“I’m not going back to my mother’s. I want to work something out with you so I can stay in the cottage for a while. With you returning to work, I don’t want to be far away, wasting time we can be spending together. I’d invite myself to move into your place, but you’ve got a guest who’s at an impressionable age. Moving some random guy in probably won’t look good to the judge. Then there’s the admiral. He’s old. Don’t want to give him a heart attack.”
A laugh slipped between her parted lips. “You’re not some random guy.”
He arched an eyebrow, resisted the urge to catch her mouth beneath his. “No?”
“No,” she said decidedly. “You’re the man I don’t want to be too far away so we don’t waste time we can spend together.”
“That’s settled then.” Lowering his mouth to hers, he gave in to that need to kiss her, to taste the excitement and feel her melt against him, eager and willing. Marc might have no clear idea of what the future would hold for him, but he knew one thing for absolute certain.
He would convince Courtney to be in it.
* * *
MARC SAT AT his mother’s kitchen table—in the same spot he’d been sitting since his return. Only tonight he didn’t feel crammed into a corner to stay out of everyone’s way. This was simply his seat because it met his needs, the way Damon’s seat kept him out of reach of Nic and Anthony. The way Nic sat at the head of the table where their father had once sat. The way Vince squeezed in anywhere because everyone wanted to be next to him. The way their mother sat closest to the stove.
They had been squeezing in more and more chairs lately. For Anthony’s family. Nic
’s family. Now Courtney, whose new seat was right beside Marc.
They were going to need a bigger table soon.
Or, knowing his mother, a bigger kitchen.
She had added Araceli to the wedding guest list, believed finding a missing child deserved a celebration. Since Nic and Megan already had one planned...
Tonight they had all gathered around the table for coffee after the rehearsal dinner, rehashing the events of the night and going over plans for the big day tomorrow.
“Are you kidding?” Nic was saying. “I’m going home tonight. Violet won’t let me see the bride. She’s playing by the book.”
Anthony laughed. “No surprises there. She’s your kid.”
“You know about the bad luck, Uncle Anthony,” Violet said. “I’m not risking it. No way. Araceli agrees.”
“I do.” Araceli narrowed her gaze at Nic. “And no peeking, Chief Nic. You promised.”
Nic snorted. “Like I could even get past you two. You’re worse than bodyguards.”
Violet and Araceli exchanged smug glances. Courtney slipped her hand beneath the table and reached for Marc’s, and he slipped his fingers through hers, more content than he could remember being in so long. He appreciated having Courtney beside him, knew she appreciated how she and Araceli were made to feel as if they were a part of the family.
His family. All it took was a dinner invitation... Marc had to admit he liked the way they just dragged over an extra chair or two and included everyone.
Even people who didn’t want to be included.
He wasn’t sure when he had stopped wanting to be included, but he was glad they had never stopped asking.
“Hey, Uncle Marc, I want to know something.” Violet ground the chatter around the table to a halt again and made him the center of attention.
“Shoot, kid.”
Tossing her tawny hair back, Violet frowned at him, looking so like Nic in that moment Marc had to laugh. Just what this family needed—another Nic. “Araceli told me she heard you playing a sax in Nashville. I didn’t even know you played, but she said you were, like, really inspired.”
Courtney gave his hand a squeeze. Tilting her head forward just enough so her hair slid down to cover her face, she tried to hide a smile.
“That’s generous, Araceli. And, yes, I used to play, Violet. When I was your age.”
If his family hadn’t been his family, they would have respected that answer and left it there. But they were his family, so they felt compelled to turn his answer into a damned epic, embellishing and exaggerating and imparting way more information than Marc wanted to recall, let alone share.
“Your uncle did a lot more than play, Violet,” his mother announced. “He was so talented that every music school in the country offered him scholarships for college. All the good ones, anyway. Eastman. Juilliard. Oberlin. He even went to a music conservatory for high school. That’s how good he was.”
When his mother stopped to draw air, he asked, “You done?”
“No, as a matter of fact. Violet missed out on a lot of family backstory. I need to bring her up to speed.”
“Grandmama looks out for me.” Violet beamed.
But his mother was bringing more than just Violet up to speed. Courtney tried not to appear too eager to hear the story, but failed miserably. Her grip tightened on his, and she leaned forward on the bench, hanging on his mother’s every word.
“Your uncle filled this house with music. Inspired music. Sometimes he’d even bring his friends and the house would sound like a concert hall.”
“You couldn’t even hear to talk on the phone,” Anthony agreed. “Had to take calls outside.”
“Except this was in the day when phones were attached to the wall with a curly cord about this long.” Vince held up his hands about a foot apart.
Damon groaned. “Let me tell you how many times Uncle Anthony ripped the phone right out of the wall trying to stretch it outside to talk to his girlfriends.”
“The phones weren’t, like, mobile?” Violet asked.
“They were not. And your uncle Marc didn’t only play the saxophone.” His mother seized control of the conversation again. “Although that was always his favorite. He was like Araceli with her art—a prodigy. All he had to do was pick up an instrument, or sit at one, and he could play anything. He has an ear for music. It’s an amazing talent. Once he started training, all the orchestras and bands in the city wanted him to play for them.”
She went on and on and on. If Marc could have gotten out of this corner, he would have run screaming. If he could have run. As it was, he slid his hand from Courtney’s and folded his arms over his chest, feeling self-conscious. He even felt a little guilty because his mother waxed nostalgic with such drama that everyone knew a house without music must be torture.
Even Courtney glanced up at him, mouthing the words, “Really?”
Marc glared. If he didn’t say anything, maybe the conversation would turn to something relevant, like the wedding.
But, no. His mother hadn’t stopped talking when Nic slammed his hands down on the table so hard the coffee cups rattled. Every gaze around the table shot from Marc to Nic, who held a hand to his ear. “I hear choirs of angels singing.”
Their mother must have known what that meant because she gasped and looked straight at Marc. “Nic, now is not the time.”
“It’s the perfect time. If we wait for him, we’ll all be dead. Or he will at the rate he’s going.”
His brothers got quiet, even Damon—never a good sign.
Courtney frowned up at him to see if he had any clue what the hell they were all talking about.
Marc didn’t have a clue, which also was not a good sign. Looked like the time had come to beat a hasty retreat. He inclined his head toward the door, a silent cue for Courtney. They would have to grab Araceli and make a break for it.
“It’s my wedding, Mom.” Nic held up his hand as if that might stop her objections. “I gave you a grandchild—”
“Hey, I gave her two at the same time.” Anthony managed not to pound his chest. “One of each.”
Nic wrapped an arm around Violet and pulled her close. She glowed beneath his attention. “I gave her the first.”
“Does it count since we didn’t know about her?” Damon asked, and it was a good thing he was sitting safely out of reach, judging by Nic’s expression.
“I. Am. The. Groom.” Nic was also used to giving orders. “So we do things my way.”
“You know, my ride’s heading out.” Marc scooted the bench back and pushed himself up. “Peace out, dudes.”
Courtney was already in motion, but Nic stopped them cold.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Everyone sit. I have a present for my best man. Now put your butts back on that bench. Violet, don’t let your uncle move.” Nic bolted out of his chair so fast he nearly knocked the damned thing over.
He vanished from the kitchen, and Anthony leaned forward. “I know what’s coming, so I’d start walking, gimp. It’ll take you that long to get out of here.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Violet circled the table and pressed both hands on Marc’s shoulders as if she could keep him there by force.
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. Everyone was staring at him, and he didn’t doubt that at least half the table knew what was coming. Courtney looked worried, but it was his mother’s expression that made him nervous. She could handle anything, but even she looked faint around the edges.
Marc did not want to be here. “You’re not supposed to give the best man a gift until after the reception, after I make the toast. It’s bad luck. Violet, are you going to risk it?”
She dropped a kiss on the top of his head and ruffled his hair. “You’re not going anywhere, the police chief said, and I really don’t want to dea
l with him.”
“So you roll your uncle under the bus?” Courtney asked. “Can’t say I blame you.”
“Traitor,” he told her.
Her clear eyes sparkled. Slipping her fingers over his knee, she patted him reassuringly.
Then the floor shook again as Nic clambered down the stairs. His mother eyed Marc warily, and he braced himself.
Nic reappeared, carrying a big black bag that looked like a trash can liner. “Okay, everyone. Clear me space.”
Hands flew around the table, sliding aside coffee cups.
Marc stared as Nic set down the bag in front of him with great ceremony and a weighty thump.
Anthony provided a pocketknife. He wasn’t smiling. “Here you go, Marc. Have at it.”
Violet was bouncing on her tiptoes with barely contained excitement. “Go on, Uncle Marc. We’re all dying here.”
In reality, Marc was probably the only one close to dying—maybe Courtney, too, because her fingers were digging into his thigh now. As he sliced away the filmy plastic, he recognized the shape of the case below. And time stopped. Just stopped.
His old sax.
Marc knew the case by heart, the shock-resistant top-of-the-range case that had cost nearly what his father had made in a week. He knew because they’d shopped for it together.
“You’ve got to have solid equipment, Marc,” his father had told him. “You put an LT5 under the wrong hood, and you’re just begging for trouble.”
Marc had no problem understanding the engine reference. What he hadn’t understood at the time was how his father was swinging the pricey sax and expensive case. Scholarships paid the tuition, but the conservatory was still a money pit.
Books. Music. Recital fees. Housing. Meal plans.
“Your job is to go to school and do your best,” his father had said. “You leave me and your mother to figure out the rest. We’re the parents. That’s our job.”
Love In Plain Sight Page 26