“Can’t they just eat turkey?”
She laughed and tweaked Portia’s little pug nose. “You’re a turkey.”
That brought a glimmer to the blue eyes.
“I’ll tell you what.” She waited until she had Portia’s full attention.
“What?”
“After we make our delivery, we’ll come home and eat our chicken dinner, and then after your nap we’ll have a girls-only day. We’ll paint our toes and watch movies and eat Cheetos ’til we pop.”
Portia’s eyes grew big. “I want purple this time! Purple polish on my fingers too?”
“We’ll see if we have time before Big Daddy gets home.” She felt a little better just seeing the joy on her niece’s face. Portia had lost so much. And it took so little to make her happy.
Why couldn’t she be more that way?
20
Link popped a second snickerdoodle, whole, into his mouth and surveyed the inn. Today it looked the way the old house had that time Mom had let him and Tim have a team party there after they won the state championship. Huge platters of half-eaten food covered every surface, with empty plates stacked high beside the sink, and the living room littered with bodies. Mostly his nieces and nephews, since the guys were downstairs watching football, and the women were gathered around the table making some crafty thing—party favors, he thought—for Bree’s wedding.
The wedding was two weeks from Saturday, and for some reason that fact depressed him like nothing had in a long time. He knew Mom and his sisters had struggled with Bree remarrying. Although that seemed to have turned out okay, given that Drew and Bree spent almost as much time at the inn as the natural-born Whitman kids did.
He was pretty sure his depression had more to do with Shayla Michaels than it did with “losing” Bree to Drew Brooks—who was a great guy and likely to keep close ties with the family, since his brother was married to Link’s sister.
Maybe it was the whole thing about being the last man standing. No doubt he was going to have to listen to a bevy of little old ladies ask when they could expect to see him heading to the altar. And no doubt he’d be the focus of every would-be matchmaker’s attention. Shoot, Bree was already teasing him about catching her bouquet.
But he’d already met the only woman he wanted to be matched with. He just couldn’t get her to take his calls. Or texts. Or answer his e-mails, apparently. He’d finally taken a hint after she’d ignored him for two days. He couldn’t force her to communicate with him. But it hurt to think she was ignoring him.
“Hey Link, come here.” Landyn beckoned him across the room. “We need an opinion.”
He shook off the heavy thoughts and put on his happy face. “If it’s about food, I’m your man.”
“Bro! You are a bottomless pit,” Corinne said laughing. “I don’t know how you could even think about eating another bite.”
“Besides, it’s not about food.” Bree held up something shiny and round. “It’s about these favors.”
He lifted his hands in truce. “Now you’re pushing it. You know I’m not crafty.”
“No, you don’t have to be crafty. You just have to tell us if a guy is going to ‘get’ this as a favor.”
He gave a little growl, knowing they wouldn’t stop until they had his opinion.
Bree handed him one of the tiny tins they’d been affixing stickers to. The sticker had a silhouette of what looked like the climbing tree out in the meadow, and it said “Drew and Bree sittin’ in a tree.” He flipped it over. Nothing on the bottom. He shook it. Something rattled inside. Something dense. “Can I open it?”
“Not yet!” Landyn grabbed it from his hand. “First, do you get it?”
“What do you mean, get it? Is it a joke?”
“More like a riddle,” Bree said. The women were all cackling like a brood of hens now.
He took the box back from Landyn and inspected it. “Drew and Bree sittin’ in a tree? Hmm. Is it supposed to be like that song?”
“What song?” They all spoke at once.
“You know. K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” he sing-songed.
“That’s it!” They cheered in unison.
“That’s it? I still don’t get it.”
“No,” Bree said. “That’s a clue.”
“A clue to what?”
“To what’s inside,” Danae said, bouncing Tyler on her lap.
“Now I have to guess what’s inside?”
“Yes, but now you have a clue.”
“Well, it’s kind of stupid, but it beats the last wedding favor I got.”
“What was that?” Bree was still smiling, so hopefully he hadn’t hurt her feelings.
He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Come on, Link.” Corinne tugged on his shirtsleeve. “You have to tell us now.”
“Mom’s not going to like it.”
His mother rolled her eyes. “I think I can handle it.” She looked around the room, checking, he knew, to be sure none of her grandkids were listening in. “Danae, cover Tyler’s ears.”
Link cracked up. “It’s not dirty, Mom.”
“Well, just in case. Now come on . . . Give.”
“It was a hangover kit.”
“What?” the hens chorused.
“How romantic,” Corinne said, rolling her eyes and looking a lot like Mom.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” his mother said. “What in the world is a hangover kit?”
“It was just a little baggie with aspirin and mints and”—he shrugged—“I can’t remember what else was in it.” He waited a beat. “I was too drunk.”
Their reaction didn’t disappoint. They all squealed like a bunch of banshees.
“Link! You were not,” his mother huffed. But her expression begged him to reassure her.
He laughed. “You’re right, Mom. I was not.”
If she could have reached him from the other side of the table, Link was pretty sure she would have smacked him upside the head.
“Like I said. Stupid.” He brushed a hand through his hair. “Okay, I played your silly little game, now can I open it?”
They dissolved into giggles again.
“No, you have to guess what’s inside.” Landyn spoke to him as if he were a two-year-old. “You have your clue now.”
He scratched his head.
“You were on the right track with the song,” Corinne hinted, sing-songing the rhyme like he’d done.
He humored them, repeating the clues and sing-songing again, but drew a blank. “I give up. You guys are too clever for me.”
Landyn grabbed the tin from him and popped open the lid. Candy kisses wrapped in pink and green went flying. The nieces and nephews came scrambling on all fours, as if a piñata had just broken. Then Huckleberry skidded into the scuffle, nosing the floor.
Link grabbed his collar. The crazy dog had already had one unpleasant run-in with chocolate in his life. They didn’t need a Thanksgiving run to the vet.
When things quieted down, Link eyed the table of women. “Okay, ladies, can I go now?”
“Go!” They all shooed him off.
But he returned, stepping over nieces and nephews. “Bree?”
She looked up from pasting on another sticker.
He gave her a thumbs up. “Edibles are always good. Let the women figure out the riddle, the men can eat the candy, and everybody will be happy.”
“ ’Preciate it, bro.” She gave him the smile he knew had made Tim fall in love with her.
And he couldn’t help but think about the smile that had made him fall in love. Despite being in this house full of people he loved, there was an empty spot in his heart. He wondered what Shayla was doing today. And whether she was thinking about him the way he couldn’t help thinking about her.
***
There were twice as many cars as usual in the parking lot at the homeless shelter. Shayla parked as close as she could to the entrance and went around to help Portia out of her booster.
“Stay right besid
e me, baby. I don’t want you getting hit by a car.”
“I’m a big girl, Shay.”
“Yes, you are. But you’re not bigger than a car. If one of those cars backed out and hit you, it would squash you flatter than a bug.”
“You’re funny. Mr. Link’s truck didn’t squish me flatter ’n a bug.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. And his truck sure could have squished you. You just stay beside me.” Ever since what had happened that icy day with Link’s truck, she lived in fear of Portia running out in front of a car again. The child was fearless. “Stick to me like glue, Portia, because I can’t hold your hand. I have to carry the bread in.”
She went around to the trunk and stacked up the boxes that had slid en route. Balancing them on one arm, she managed to get the trunk closed.
“I’ll need you to push the doorbell button for me, baby. You remember how to do that?” The shelter was usually locked for security purposes when she came, though sometimes on holidays, with so many people coming and going, they relaxed the rules a little.
“I can do it.” Portia skipped ahead. “Let me do it.”
“Get back here right now! You can push the doorbell, but I need you to stay right beside me. I promise, I’ll let you push it.”
When they reached the entry portico, Portia stretched to press the button, then looked up at Shayla. “How’s come they’re not letting us in?”
She laughed. “Give them a chance, honey. It takes more than two seconds to get down the hallway. You remember that long hall don’t you?”
“I remember.” She suddenly went quiet and Shayla wished she had time to ask what her niece was thinking about. There were usually some interesting characters here, and Shay supposed it could be a little scary for a five-year-old.
Within a minute, the door opened and one of the volunteers, a woman Shayla had seen here before, let them in. Her nametag said Nadine, but Shayla knew volunteers sometimes didn’t use their real names here.
“I hope I’m not too late with the bread,” Shayla said around the stack of white bakery boxes.
“Not at all. Thanks so much for bringing it. Here, let me take a couple of those.”
Shayla bent her knees so the volunteer could reach the top boxes. “We brought some pies and other goodies today too.”
“I can smell them!” the volunteer said brightly. “Who’s your helper here?”
Shayla smiled down at Portia. “This is my niece, Portia.” She spelled her name as she always did—and as she remembered her mom always having to do. She’d been a little miffed at Tara for taking Mama’s name for her baby. But of course Jerry had just as much right to the name as she did. And though she’d always wanted to name her first daughter after Mama, with all the trouble Portia’s name gave them, she had second thoughts about saddling a baby with a name she’d have to spell and pronounce and explain all her life.
She pushed the thoughts aside. It was silly to be ruminating about a choice she wasn’t ever going to have to make in her lifetime anyway. Looking down at Portia, standing up so straight and polite beside her, it suddenly struck her that she had a little girl named Portia.
“Will you stay and eat with us?” Nadine asked. “You know there’s always plenty.”
“Not unless you need someone to help serve.”
“We have plenty, so it’s up to you.” Nadine led the way to the kitchen and she put the boxes on the counter where the volunteer indicated. “If you don’t mind helping me cut up these cakes and pies before we put them on the buffet, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure, glad to.” Shayla shed her coat and laid it, along with her purse, on a chair by the door, then got out her iPad to entertain Portia while she waited.
Another volunteer named Betty came in to help, and the three of them made short work of cutting the desserts and plating them on paper plates. Shayla wished she’d thought to stop and pick up some holiday paper napkins for the shelter. It didn’t quite seem like a proper Thanksgiving with flimsy white paper plates and napkins. Never mind that she and Portia were going home to eat grocery store rotisserie chicken—and Cheetos. She smiled, actually relishing the thought. If she simply kept busy, kept her mind off of what she couldn’t have and dwelled on what she did have, she could forget the ache in her heart that had awakened her this morning—and reminded her in idle moments what she’d chosen to give up. She’d made the right decision. She had to rest in that. And find fulfillment in the life she already had.
The two older women arranged the dessert plates on trays while Shayla sliced the bread and placed it in baskets. She helped the volunteers carry trays into the dining room where the residents milled about, waiting for the meal to be served.
She slid a tray of sliced pie onto the end of the buffet and looked for Portia. She was standing beside Betty, staring at a middle-aged woman who looked like there wasn’t a square inch of her exposed body that hadn’t been tattooed—and plenty of her body was exposed. Lord, please don’t let Portia say anything rude.
“Portia? Come here, baby. Stick close. They’re trying to get dinner on, so you need to stay out of the way.”
“I’m hungry.” It was a broad hint, no doubt motivated by the cherry pie that was at eye-level to Portia.
“We’ll eat as soon as we get home. Remember we have plans?”
Portia’s expression took on a new perkiness. She looked up at Nadine. “I get purple polish.”
Nadine gave Shay a questioning look.
“We’re having a spa day.” She winked. “At home. Just us girls.”
“Well now, doesn’t that just sound like a treat? You two enjoy yourselves.”
“We sure will. If I can—” She felt a tug on her sweater and looked down to see Portia pointing behind Shayla. She stooped to her niece’s level, praying she would keep her voice to a whisper.
“It’s him, Shay. Look.” She pointed.
“Who, baby?”
“That guy.”
Portia was pointing toward a cluster of half a dozen men holding paper plates and looking impatient that it was taking so long to get the buffet ready.
“What guy?” She pushed Portia’s hair away from her ear and whispered, “Don’t point, honey. That’s not polite. And I don’t see who you’re talking about.”
“You know”—Portia’s voice climbed an octave—“that guy . . . that dumb teenager from the movies.”
“What movie?” She couldn’t remember any shows they’d watched recently that had teenagers in them.
“Nooo!” Her volume went up with her frustration. “That one movie Link went to with us. And that one boy with that yellow hair.” She pointed again. “That dumb teenager. You know.”
“Shush, Portia!” She put a gentle hand over the girl’s mouth, but she doubted there was anyone in the room who hadn’t heard her. Trying not to be too obvious, she scanned the group Portia was pointing to for someone with hair that might make her think of Mohawk.
She’d hoped her niece had forgotten that incident. But she apparently remembered details. Shayla’s adrenaline flowed faster just thinking about it. Picking on a five-year-old? It didn’t get much more cowardly than that.
She held Portia’s hand down to keep her from pointing. “I don’t see him, honey. Listen, are you ready to go have our girls’ day?” She made her voice bright.
But Portia wouldn’t be dissuaded. “He’s right there, Shay!” She freed her arm from Shayla’s hold and pointed again. “See? But he took off his funny hair.”
She followed the line of Portia’s finger and recognition hit. The guy sported a freshly shaved head now, but she recognized the spiked piercings in his lip and eyebrow.
To her horror, he chose that moment to look her way—and leer. If she hadn’t been certain it was him before, she knew now. She would have known that smarmy grin anywhere.
“Told ya, Shay. Told ya it’s that same dumb teenager.”
“Portia, hush!” Shayla knelt to whisper a stronger warning. And to scan
the room for an escape route.
21
The beefy young man turned his stare on Portia and sneered. “Who you calling a dumb teenager?” He took a menacing step toward her.
Portia shrank back, but the boy laughed and quickly retreated, his goal apparently met.
The guys clustered around him laughed.
“Whatsa matter, Billy, you scared of a little kid?” One of his cohorts challenged him like a schoolyard bully.
Billy. So he had a name after all. Shayla drew Portia closer and started edging her way backward.
“I’m not scared of anybody,” Billy growled. He lunged at them again, arms out in a juvenile bogeyman pose, never taking his eyes off Portia, who screamed and wrapped her arms around Shayla.
“Leave her alone!” The tremor in Shayla’s voice gave her away.
Mohawk—Billy—guffawed.
Fury made Shayla forget her fear. She lifted Portia into her arms and took a step toward him. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”
He slapped his cheeks and made a comical face. His minions roared.
She scanned the room frantically for Betty or Nadine. But they’d apparently gone back to the kitchen. Cradling Portia close, she turned and wove her way through the gauntlet of people queued up, waiting for the signal to eat.
“Oh, sure,” Billy taunted from across the room. “Leave just when we’re starting to have fun.”
Shayla kept walking, forcing herself to move at a natural pace—when what she really wanted to do was sprint full out to the parking lot.
Behind her, a low, male voice took command. “What’s going on here?”
Shayla was grateful one of the volunteers had come to their aid. But she didn’t dare turn around to see.
“Just having a little fun. Some games for the kiddies,” Mohawk said behind her, all innocence.
She couldn’t dignify the man by even thinking of him by his given name. What a despicable piece of humanity.
“Well, knock it off,” the low, cultured voice said. “Is that how you thank the people who feed you and give you a place to come inside and get out of the cold?”
“I don’t need your freakin’ charity. My truck is nicer than this craphole.”
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