Holiday in Your Heart

by Susan Fox

  “Prostrate yourself at their feet and tell them you know you were a shit?”

  Damn, he liked this woman even if she didn’t think much of him. “Pretty much.”

  She crossed her arms over her curvy chest. “You’re kind of a mess, aren’t you, Mo Kincaid?”

  There was only one honest answer to that question. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You really don’t have a best-case scenario in your mind?”

  He blinked, not sure what she meant.

  “Think about it,” she said. “You see them and apologize. After that, what’s the best thing you could imagine happening?”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, but nothing came to mind. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes again.

  Maribeth was gazing at him, her green eyes kind of misty and soft. God, but she was one beautiful woman. “Do you ever let yourself dream?” she asked quietly.

  Dream? Tonight he might well have steamy dreams about a green-eyed redhead. But he figured that wasn’t what she was talking about. “You mean, not when I’m asleep but about the future?”

  “Exactly. Do you dream about what you’d like your life to look like?”

  “I think I gave up the right to do that,” he said gruffly.

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “And I think that you’re not as bad a person as you think you are.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. So she hadn’t completely written him off? “You’re a generous woman.”

  “I’m an optimist.”

  Which made her his opposite. Not that he didn’t already know that. She was vibrant, caring, domestic—qualities that put her on the opposite end of the spectrum from him. Although it still surprised him that she wasn’t married with kids, he’d noticed those photos on the fridge. She had a bunch of friends, close ones. He’d also bet a month’s pay that she’d have a pack of guys chasing after her. Which made it all the more strange that she’d flirted with him.

  But his purpose in being here tonight wasn’t about flirtation, as appealing a prospect as that might be. “Does that mean you think it’d be okay for me to contact Brooke and Evan?”

  Her eyes narrowed in thought. “It means . . . how about this? Let me sound Brooke out.”

  “You mean tell her I’m in town and see if she’s willing to see me?”

  “Something like that, I guess. I need to make a hair appointment anyway.”

  Her hair looked awfully pretty to him, but women had their own ideas about that kind of stuff. “I’d be much obliged,” he said. “You can reach me at Hennessey’s.” No point in owning a phone; the only people who wanted to talk to him were telemarketers.

  He stood. “I’ll be on my way now.” He didn’t belong in this homey room, with all those photos on the fridge. He didn’t belong with this woman who was so generous and beautiful, who had a full life that was the opposite of his.

  She remained seated. “Where do you live?”

  “Over on Cottonwood Drive.” Hank had told him about a pair of eightysomething women, a married couple, who had a studio apartment in their house. Mo’d been skeptical that they’d want to rent to a guy like him, but Ms. Haldenby and Ms. Peabody had checked his references, laid down some rules, and then welcomed him.

  “That’s a ways.” Maribeth rose. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but I won’t take any more of your time. I’m used to walking. I like it.”

  She studied him. “You’re a mechanic and you once had a motorbike, and now you don’t have any kind of car?”

  “Don’t need one.” He’d always loved the feeling of a powerful machine, whether it was a Harley, a sports car, or a Jeep. But he didn’t need one, and so he didn’t have one. “It’s part of that treading lightly thing.”

  She muttered something under her breath. He thought he caught “doing penance,” but he wasn’t sure. If that was what she believed, maybe she wasn’t so far wrong. He had a lot to atone for.

  He shrugged into his jacket. “Maribeth, just one thing? If you could see Brooke sooner rather than later, that’d be good. If anyone who knew me back in the day comes into Hennessey’s and recognizes me, it’d likely get back to her.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I know. It’s a small town. I’ll make an appointment as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You can go out the front door.” She walked out of the kitchen and he followed her down the hallway, past a dark room at the front of the house.

  She stepped back, letting him open the door. “Good night, Mo. I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks for everything.” He stepped out onto the front porch and went down a half dozen steps. Those sullen gray clouds had finally fulfilled their promise. Snow dusted the ground and small, crisp flakes nipped his face. He resisted looking back until he got to the street. When he turned, she was there, standing in the doorway, framed by light behind her. He raised his arm in a wave.

  She returned the gesture, then stepped inside and the door closed—a warm, kind woman retreating into her cozy home. Leaving him alone out here on the sidewalk on a snowy November night, with nothing to go home to but a lonely one-room apartment. And the hope that his ex-wife would agree to talk to him.

  * * *

  The next morning, Maribeth hung the clock sign on the door of Days of Your, indicating that she’d be back in an hour. Last night, she’d checked the online appointment calendar for Beauty Is You. Brooke only worked part-time now that she and Jake had little Nicki. Fortunately, Brooke had had a slot open at 10:30. Kate, the owner and other stylist at the salon, was booked at that time doing a perm with Carlotta Bowden. Elderly Mrs. Bowden was such a talker, there was no chance she and Kate would pay any attention if Maribeth talked to Brooke about Mo Kincaid.

  As she walked the three blocks to the salon, she wondered how her friend would react to the news about her ex-husband. She didn’t want to upset Brooke, and yet that was almost guaranteed to happen.

  The man had even messed up Maribeth’s own evening. She’d anticipated spending engrossing hours poring through online profiles and studying pictures of sperm donors. Instead, each time she gazed at a new photo, into her mind popped the image of a brown-skinned man with blue-green eyes that reminded her of river water. Somehow, none of the guys on the screen came close in terms of physical attractiveness and appeal.

  Not that her baby’s father had to be handsome, but Maribeth knew that looks mattered. If she could stack the deck in favor of having a boy or girl who was good-looking as well as healthy and intelligent, of course she’d do it.

  Maribeth pushed open the door to Beauty Is You, and the bell jingled. She pulled off her gloves and undid her coat.

  Brooke came toward her. “Good morning, Maribeth.” Brooke was in her midforties, but dressed in charcoal pants and a mauve sweater, with her wavy hair shining and a smile on her face, she looked easily ten years younger. Sobriety certainly suited her, as did having a sexy new husband and an adorable toddler. “Time for a trim?”

  They exchanged hugs.

  “Hi, Brooke.” Maribeth smiled back, guessing that Brooke wouldn’t look so cheerful after hearing her news. “Yes, it’s getting heavy and flyaway.”

  “It’s always a pleasure working with your lovely hair.”

  Brooke ushered her to a sink at the back, and Maribeth waved a greeting to Kate Patterson and Mrs. Bowden. The older woman was nattering on about her grandchildren while Kate wrapped her thinning white hair on rollers.

  Brooke enveloped Maribeth in a navy cape and tested the water temperature. Maribeth closed her eyes, luxuriating in sensations: the scent of lemongrass shampoo, Brooke’s deft fingers massaging her scalp, warm water pouring through her hair, and then a delicate whiff of coconut. “Bliss,” she murmured.

  “We all deserve a little spoiling every now and then,” Brooke said as she wrapped a towel around Maribeth’s hair and urged her to sit up.

  “So true.” She stoo
d and followed Brooke to her station. Her friend was lucky to have a devoted husband who no doubt spoiled her more than every now and then—as, Maribeth was equally certain, Brooke also spoiled him. Life was supposed to be lived in pairs. Maribeth’s parents had been so happy together, and she’d always assumed that she’d find the same kind of deep, committed love.

  And she still would, one of these days. For now, she was taking charge of her own life and moving forward. An idea struck her. If she created a short list of potential sperm donors, she’d love to get her girlfriends’ input. So far, she hadn’t told any of them what she was thinking of doing, but now that she’d actually made the decision, it was time.

  “We haven’t had a ladies’ night in a while,” she said to Brooke, who had run a comb through Maribeth’s thick hair and was now wielding scissors. “I’d love to have everyone over to my place. You, Jess, Cassidy, Sally, Corrie.” They’d become a tight-knit group. She had other girlfriends, too, ones she’d known longer—some dating back to elementary school—but she would invite them on a different night rather than have one huge “pick my baby-daddy” party. Another person occurred to her for this first group. “Lark Cantrell, too, I think.” After all, a conversation with Lark had helped her arrive at her decision.

  “Sounds like fun, MB. I’m in.” Brooke didn’t look up from her work. Wisps of Maribeth’s hair were hitting the floor and tumbling down over the navy cape.

  “I’ll e-mail everyone and try to find an evening that works.” Over at Kate’s station, which was some distance away, the stylist and her customer were still engrossed in conversation. Gazing in the mirror at her own reflection and Brooke’s, Maribeth said, “There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You believe in redemption, right?” she asked quietly. “That people can change.”

  Now Brooke did pause, and her gaze met Maribeth’s in the mirror. The stylist’s eyes were blue green, but more like the Caribbean, while Mo’s reminded Maribeth of a fresh mountain stream. After a moment, Brooke said, “You know that I do. That’s the story of my life.”

  “So if a person had gone through that process and wanted to apologize to people they’d hurt, you think that would be a good thing?”

  “It’s one of the basic tenets of A.A. I did it myself.”

  “Was everyone receptive?”

  Brooke tilted her head, considering. “Pretty much. With some, it took time. I needed to convince people I really had changed. It was tough for my parents and sister down in California. I’d hurt them badly. Evan, too, of course, but he was so generous.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “The best.”

  “You got in touch with everyone you’d hurt?”

  Brooke’s gaze dropped. She studied the top of Maribeth’s head. “Except for one person,” she said so softly that it was barely more than a whisper. “My ex-husband.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know where he was.” And then Brooke’s gaze rose again. “And I didn’t look all that hard to find him.” Maribeth knew that Brooke, now that she was sober, hated to lie. She rarely even allowed herself a white lie. “The two of us, we weren’t good for each other.”

  “And yet something drew you together in the beginning.”

  Brooke’s face brightened, and for a moment Maribeth felt as if she were looking at a teenage girl. “Oh, he was something,” her friend said. “Long, black hair, ripped jeans, leather jacket, and a motorcycle. When he walked, he had a swagger. He was older. A man, or so I thought. I’d matured early and I lied about my age so he’d go out with me.” She shook her head and grinned wryly. “I swear, Mohinder McKeen was the sexiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on.”

  Maribeth could believe it. Even at fifty, the man was damned hot. So, Mo was short for Mohinder. But . . . “McKeen? I thought his name was Kincaid?”

  Brooke blinked. “Long story, and not mine to tell.”

  Respecting her privacy, Maribeth returned to the main subject. “So if you could see Mo again, you would?”

  Brooke began to snip hair again. After a moment, she said, “It would be hard, but yes. There are so many things I’d like to apologize for. And I’d like to see if there’s any way of making amends.”

  Knowing that the words she was about to say would change her friend’s life forever, Maribeth took a deep breath. It was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it? “He’s in town. Mo.”

  The scissors dropped, clattering on the floor.

  Kate and Mrs. Bowden glanced over as Brooke bent and fumbled to pick them up. “Sorry,” she called. She stood, holding the scissors awkwardly, her face white and drawn. “He is?”

  “He just started work at Hennessey’s garage. I met him yesterday when I went to pick up my car.”

  Brooke plunged the scissors into ajar of liquid and swished them around. Under her breath, she said, “How did you know who he was?”

  “I happened to mention your name, and he told me. Brooke, he came to town because he wants to do exactly what you said. Apologize and make amends. To you, and to Evan.”

  Brooke’s hand flew to her chest, where Maribeth guessed her heart must be racing. “Evan,” she whispered. “Oh my God, Evan.”

  Chapter Four

  Thursday, the night after Mo had left Maribeth’s house, he was again stepping outside into the cold as a beautiful woman stood in the doorway of her cozy home.

  “Thank you, Brooke,” he said. “I appreciate, well, everything.” He felt like an old rust bucket that’s been driven over a hundred miles of potholed dirt road but managed, somehow, to come out the other side still on four tires.

  Maybe she felt the same because when she smiled, she looked tired and yet serene. “I’m glad you came back, Mo. I’m glad we could talk and both own up to our failures.”

  Anxiety stirred. That sounded pretty final. “But, uh, we’ll talk again, won’t we?”

  Her smile faded and now all he saw on her face was tiredness and worry. “I’ll think about Evan, I promise. I’ll call and let you know.”

  She had told Mo she wasn’t sure whether it would be good for Evan to meet his father, and she needed to reflect on it. Evan was a grown man and Mo didn’t need his ex’s permission to see him, but he wanted to do the right thing, not cause his son more pain. He figured Brooke was the best judge. Still, she needed to do her reflecting fairly quickly, or Evan might find out on his own that his father was in town. But Mo didn’t say that; Brooke knew it as well as he did.

  He moistened dry lips. “It’s not just about Evan. I mean, I’d kind of like to see you again. To talk some more.” She’d matured so much, and though they’d only spent an hour together, he thought he would like the woman she’d turned into. Besides, there were so many topics they’d barely skimmed over. To him, tonight felt more like a start than a conclusion.

  Her lips trembled. “I think I’d like that, too. But tonight . . . it’s been a lot. I need to think. To talk to Jake.”

  Mo felt a moment’s anger. Evan, Jake, why did his own future depend on these men? But he stifled the frustration. The answer to that question was obvious: because he’d fucked up so badly in the past. “Let me know,” he said, discouraged.

  It seemed she read his feelings, a more sensitive and compassionate woman than she used to be, because she reached out and touched his shoulder. It was only the briefest brush of her fingers, but it was the first time she’d touched him at all. “Mo, I do want to see you again. I just need some time.”

  Hope filled him. “Thanks, Brooke,” he said, finding that his voice came out a little ragged. He gave her a nod and then turned and strode toward the Hennessey Auto Repair truck Hank had loaned him.

  As he drove back to town, the night was dark and drizzly, so he focused his attention on the road. There’d be time later to process his first meeting with Brooke in almost two decades.

  As he pulled into the parking lot of the garage, the truck’s headlights illuminat
ed Caruso lurking by the closed doors of the service bays.

  “Good God, dog,” he said when he climbed out of the truck. “You could be somewhere warm and dry.”

  He’d found Caruso waiting there when he came to work at seven in the morning, and then the animal had disappeared on his own business. Now, as Mo walked closer, Caruso regarded him warily.

  “Guess there’s no point trying to take you back to the shelter, is there? You’d just go climb a tree again.” He shook his head, having to admit that Caruso intrigued him.

  The dog didn’t retreat, but held his ground until Mo stood beside him. The creature tossed his head, rotating it up and back as if he were looking over his shoulder. Then he gazed up at Mo. The dog didn’t have that pleading “puppy-dog eyes” expression common to so many dogs. Instead, his brown eyes held a question, maybe a challenge.

  Mo bent to run a hand over the animal’s head, surprised and pleased when Caruso welcomed the gesture. “I live in a tiny apartment. Even if I had the slightest inclination to adopt a dog, and even if my landladies agreed, you’d hate it.”

  Caruso cocked his head and made that warbly howling sound, kind of like a coyote or wolf call combined with whale song. This was one strange animal.

  Mo sighed. “Hang on a minute.”

  He unlocked the shop door, went inside, and hunted around for an old wooden box and some clean rags. He took them out and around to the side of the shop where the roof ’s overhang created a dry space underneath. The dog followed and, when Mo stepped back, went to sniff the box.

  “If Hank fires me for this, I’m going to be royally pissed at you,” Mo said gruffly.

  Caruso hopped into the makeshift bed and again gazed at Mo.

  “If that’s a thank-you, then I guess you’re welcome.” Should he feed the beast? No, as resourceful as that dog was and as healthy as he looked, Mo guessed he was proficient at finding food. As he turned to go, he found himself saying, “See you in the morning,” and he was actually looking forward to it.