He smiled. Valentine was the light of his life. “She adores them.”
“Which one did she like best?”
He supposed it was like a painter or a musician or a writer asking if you liked their latest work. Her cakes were an art form. “The lamb. Or maybe that was just my favorite. Because Valentine was very partial to the pink and red ladybug.” There’d also been an amazing butterfly, its wings topped with colored fruit jellies arranged to look like a pink monarch, and a Finding Nemo fish, which had been pink instead of orange and accented with red stripes instead of black. “You’re very talented.”
Even in the shadows of the car, he recognized her blush. “Thank you. Valentine? For her birthday? I didn’t realize that was actually her name. Her mother didn’t say.”
His mood immediately spiraled. He hadn’t known what Marilyn planned until she’d done it. When he’d seen the credit card bill later, he’d almost choked. But she was gone by then, and over the years, he’d realized what she’d given Valentine was worth every penny. In fact, it probably wasn’t enough. This woman—he hadn’t even asked her name—had already provided far more than the money Marilyn had paid her. A childhood’s worth of cakes, a mother lode of love. Why would she go to such lengths for a woman she didn’t know and a child who hadn’t even been born when she made the deal?
“Who are you?” he finally asked.
*
Grace figured that he wanted to know her name, but there was something on his handsome face, as if he were asking far more. She hadn’t a clue what. “I’m Grace Collier.”
“Brian Pierce,” he said automatically.
She’d known his name for five years, read it in his wife’s obituary. Survived by her husband, Brian Pierce, and her infant daughter. He was probably two or three years younger than she was, about thirty-five, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. Good-looking in a boy-next-door way. He and his wife were a perfect match. Or they had been.
“What did she say to you?”
This was what he wanted: to fill in the blanks of that long-ago day. The day before he lost her. But whatever she told him couldn’t be earth-shattering or even elucidating. Because Marilyn hadn’t told Grace anything.
“She just said that she wanted a cake delivered every year on Valentine’s Day. To a little girl who would love pink and red.” It wasn’t the way Marilyn had put it, but how Grace thought of it. “Does she love pink and red?”
“Pink more than red,” he said softly.
“Good.” Grace had always used predominantly pink and accented with red, even on the ladybug.
“And that was all? She didn’t say what was wrong?” The wealth of sadness in those words was mirrored in his eyes, now a smoky gray-blue.
Grace had never known sadness like that. Not on her worst days, not even when she finally accepted that she wasn’t the kind of woman men wanted to date, let alone marry. Her mother had explained it was instinctual, survival of the fittest; men wanted pretty, petite women to carry on their blood line. Pretty, petite women like her mother. Whereas Grace took after her big bear of a father. She’d adored him for how large he was, how strong, for the feel of his big arms around her, and she still missed him though he’d been dead ten years. But even that loss was nothing compared to the grief graying Brian Pierce’s eyes.
“Your wife didn’t say anything. And it wasn’t my place to ask.” She needed him to know that. “She just wrote out the card, and I’ve copied it ever since. It was obvious she was afraid she wouldn’t be there for her daughter.”
“She had ovarian cancer,” he said, his gaze faraway. “They didn’t know what was wrong at first. They thought the baby had issues. Then they found the tumors.” He closed his eyes, squeezed them tight a moment. “She chose Valentine’s Day for the caesarean. She said it was good luck. The doctors would save them both and remove the tumors. She said nothing could go wrong, that we’d have our beautiful little girl.”
Grace’s throat was tight with unshed tears. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to see his pain. She wanted to say that it was five years ago and he needed to move on. But honestly, she had no clue how a person ever did that. Time didn’t heal all wounds.
He opened his eyes, speared Grace with a suddenly bright blue gaze. “I was so angry when she told me about the cake. If we were going to be lucky, why did she order those cakes? For every year. As if she didn’t believe she was going to be there. And why did she have to pick a day that everyone celebrates? Why couldn’t we have done the surgery days before that?”
She understood his anguish, though she’d never thought of it that way. Her duty had always been about making sure Marilyn’s daughter knew her mother was thinking of her. She’d never thought of what that promise had done to the husband, the reminder it would have been.
He shut his mouth, his jaw working. “Damn, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all that. I don’t know where it came from. I’m tired. My flight was late. I’ve been up all night.”
Grace reached out, stopped just short of touching his hand. “Don’t apologize. I never thought about how it would make you feel.” Like he wasn’t allowed to move on or to forget.
He drew in a deep breath, the following exhale shaky. “Valentine needs it. That’s all that matters. That’s what Marilyn was thinking, that she wanted her daughter to know how much her mother loved her. It’s all that matters,” he repeated.
Grace sensed what he felt, that he hated this day, yet he was forced to celebrate it, forced to pretend. The day, though, didn’t really make a difference. Whether it was Valentine’s Day or not, his daughter’s birthday would forever be the same day he lost his wife. Still, the cakes were so in-your-face.
Not that she’d stop baking them. She’d made a promise. She just hadn’t thought about all the ramifications of it. And now she had no idea what to say to Brian Pierce. There were no words to alleviate his pain.
Chapter Three
Brian scrubbed his hands down his face. “Jesus, I’ve never told anyone all that crap. I’m really sorry.”
Damn, this was freaking embarrassing. Where had it all come from? She probably thought he was a total asshole, that he was weak, that he actually resented the beautiful thing Marilyn had done for Valentine.
Grace was silent a long time, simply looking at him with a thoughtful gaze. He wondered what color her eyes were, probably something dark like her hair.
She reached down to shut off her seat warmer, and spoke softly. “You can turn off the engine now. I’m pretty toasty.”
He almost laughed. It was the last thing he expected, but come to think of it, his butt was getting warm, too. “Didn’t mean to put you on the hot seat.” He turned the ignition, let the car die.
“It’s not my seat that was hot.” She followed the words with a gentle smile. “You know, when you never say something out loud and keep it bottled up inside, it festers. It feels so much bigger, so much worse. Like you’re the only one who ever had this horrible, terrible thought. You lose perspective on it.”
Right. Like he was supposed to tell anyone that he resented his wife for giving their daughter such an important gift because it made him feel bad? Who would he tell anyway? He and Marilyn had moved out here from Michigan. They’d left behind the only family they had. And tell Marilyn’s friends? No. His friends had all been her friends, couple friends. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen any of them. There was no one he would tell.
“So now you’ve told me,” she went on. “You’ve said it aloud. And I don’t think you’re a terrible person for feeling it.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“Therefore I’m not biased and I see things more clearly than someone you’re close to.”
Isn’t that why people went to psychiatrists? So they could tell all their secrets without being judged. Maybe he needed a psychiatrist. Or maybe he just needed someone like Grace, a woman who didn’t know and with whom he didn’t have to pretend.
“I don’t
miss her all the time anymore,” he said, feeling a sickness deep inside. It was almost as if he hadn’t loved her enough.
“Of course you don’t. It’s been five years.”
He tipped his head. “You ever lost anyone?”
“My father. I don’t think about him all the time either. Just on his birthday, or sometimes the holidays. Or the anniversary of the day he died. Then I think, wow, it’s been ten years. But I have to pull out his picture to remember his face.”
“All I have to do is look at Valentine.” She was so beautiful. And so like her mother.
“And you resent her for that?”
“God, no.” His answer was quick and heartfelt.
“Then what it is you resent?”
God. Life. Unfairness. Being alone. “That Marilyn made all the choices. I didn’t.”
“What choices?” Her voice was so soft it could have been only inside his head.
“What to name the baby. When she’d have the operation.” He paused. “And if it came down to her or the baby, it was to be the baby.”
“You wouldn’t have done that?”
Would he? Would he really wish away Valentine? Maybe back then. Before he’d held her in his arms, before he’d kissed her baby hair. “Marilyn did everything right. Even looked out for Valentine right from her grave, making sure there was a reminder every year.” He had been the weak one. Marilyn had been strong. He’d been the failure.
“You didn’t fail your daughter.”
He realized he must have said that last part aloud. He’d been on the verge of failing Valentine by forgetting about the cake from her mother. He was sure he must have done that on purpose.
“Do you want to know what kind of cake I made this year?”
He tipped his head at the non sequitur, almost unable to wrap his mind around the abrupt change. “What?”
“A pink pony. Just the head. The pink is made out of fondant. And I used red sour tape for the mane because you can curl it.”
“Sour tape?” He knew he was just repeating, trying to comprehend the message behind her words.
“Candy. It’s sort of like a gummy worm, but you buy it in a roll, and it’s flat and covered in sugar. So you get the sweet and sour flavors together. I cut up black licorice whips for the eyelashes and used red gumdrops for the eyes. Do you think she’ll like it?”
“She’ll love it,” he said, his words slow, like he was speaking out of a fog.
“Is she having a party?”
“This afternoon.” It was a good thing he’d decided to take the day off, since he hadn’t slept. “A bunch of kids from her kindergarten class and some that she knew in preschool.”
“Great. The cake is perfect timing then. How many kids?”
“Fifteen.”
“There should be plenty then. Does she love her birthday parties?”
“What little girl doesn’t?”
She let a few moments pass before answering. “So how have you failed her? She’s happy. She’s got lots of friends.”
“She doesn’t have a mother,” he said quickly.
She raised her brows. “And that’s your fault, the fact that your wife got sick?”
He puffed out a breath. It was close to a laugh. “I see what you’re trying to do.”
She smiled. She had a pretty smile that, along with the dimples, made a person want to smile right back. “Is it working?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Does that mean I get to keep making cakes?”
“Of course.”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “What should I do next? I don’t know how I can top the pink pony.”
“I didn’t think you could top the lamb with all those marshmallows and chocolate chips. How long did that take?”
She wagged a finger. “Baker’s secret.” Then she changed the subject yet again. “I’ve never told anyone this, but I liked my father a lot more than my mother.”
She was doing it again, making him feel his sins of thought weren’t as bad as they seemed, or that everyone had thoughts they weren’t proud of. “Is your mom still alive?” he asked.
“Yes.” She gave him a sad smile. “Sometimes I wish it was my father who was still around.”
“You’re a really terrible person,” he said solemnly.
She held his gaze. “So are you.”
“So we’re even.”
“No way. I’m worse,” she argued.
“No, I am.”
They laughed at the same time. “Okay, I get your point,” he admitted. Everyone had thoughts they hated themselves for.
A yellow tow truck with blue striping rumbled through the intersection and pulled in front of the van.
Brian was almost sad to have to let her go. She’d had an uncanny effect on him. He’d actually laughed on Valentine’s Day, not the forced laugh he used with his daughter, but something real.
“I’ll go with you.” He opened his car door despite her protest.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said as he came abreast of her on the sidewalk. “You’re tired. Go home. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with some stranger.”
“You’re a stranger.” Her eyes were a deep brown like the chocolate chips she’d used on the lamb, and the sparkle in them belied the words.
He didn’t feel like a stranger. He’d bared his soul. She’d bared hers in empathy. “But I know I’m harmless,” he insisted.
She shot him a wry smile. “Yeah, sure. That’s what Ted Bundy said.”
He put a hand to his chest and gaped in mock horror. “Moi?”
“Come on then,” she said, her tone sassy.
He liked the banter. He’d missed female banter. She walked at a fast clip, and he stayed on her heels. Up to this point, he’d only been seated, but now he realized how tall she was, maybe only an inch or two shorter than his height of six feet.
Handing her Triple A card to the driver, an older guy with faded blue overalls, she waited while he wrote the number down on his clipboard. Then together, they leaned close to inspect the engine. “What do you think?” she said after a few seconds.
“Did you run out of gas?” the man asked.
She bristled at the sexist comment. “I know how to check my gas gauge, and I’ve still got half a tank.
“You’d be surprised” was his reply. He pulled on some wires, checked the oil, fiddled. The vehicle was far from new. “Ah, here it is. Condensation in the distributor cap.” Whipping a yellow shop rag from his pocket, he swabbed the inside of the cap and replaced it. “See if she’ll start.”
Grace rounded the hood, jumped in the driver’s seat, and tried the ignition. The van started without even a sputter. She hopped back down, coming back to the space between the two vehicles. “I can’t believe that.”
“These older models can sometimes have problems on cold, misty, or rainy days. Keep a rag handy if it happens again. You saw what I did, right?” The man raised a craggy, white brow.
“Yeah. I saw. Thanks.”
He saluted with the rag in his hand, got back in his truck, and sat there idling for a few minutes as he wrote on his clipboard.
“Gosh, if I’d known that.” She rolled her eyes. Then she opened the passenger door, leaned in, grabbed a small notebook, and handed it to Brian. “If you write down your new address, I’ll put it in my file for next year.”
He gave her his cell number as well. “You better give me yours, too, just in case I decide to move again.” He wouldn’t, but he wasn’t taking any chances this time.
She wrote on the back of a business card. “This is my cell phone,” she said as she handed it to him. “Thanks for helping me.”
“My pleasure.” She was going to leave. He wouldn’t see her for a year. Correct that, if she came to the house at four in the morning, he’d never see her again. “Why don’t you come to Valentine’s party? Then you can see how much she loves the cake.”
She opened her mouth, cl
osed it, then said, “I’ve got too much work to do.”
“A couple of hours, that’s all. Three o’clock.” His voice was neutral, but he needed her to say yes. He couldn’t say why, maybe it was all the stuff he’d revealed, as if they’d been through something together, shared terrible confidences, and washed themselves clean with the revelations. He wasn’t ready to let her go yet.
“All right. But I probably won’t be able to make it by three. It’ll be later than that.”
“Better late than never.” He resisted the urge to punch the air. It made him happy, and again he didn’t know why. Hell, he didn’t care. She was coming to the party, and that was good.
Chapter Four
God, what was she supposed to wear? What did it matter anyway? This wasn’t a date. Brian just wanted her to see Valentine’s reaction to the cake. He was tall and blond and handsome. And Grace was…what she was. He’d had the perfect wife. He said he didn’t miss her all the time, but after five years, who would be able to hold someone in their mind all the time? But it was clear he still ached for her, still anguished over her. He wasn’t looking to date, and certainly not Grace. If he ever went out on a date again, it would be with someone like his wife.
So she chose jeans, a flowery top, and a nice fitted jacket. She told herself she shouldn’t be anxious, but her nerves rattled anyway as she parked behind several cars on the circular drive of the bungalow. Children’s voices rang out from the backyard as she climbed from her compact.
The drive was fronted by a big oak surrounded by ferns and greenery that obscured the house from the road. Brian had definitely moved up, the house larger and better landscaped. She walked up the short path leading to the front door, rang the bell.
A white-haired lady answered with an impish smile. Brian’s mother? If so, Grace didn’t see a resemblance. Maybe Valentine’s maternal grandmother.
“Hi, I’m Grace.”
The woman touched her arm. “Oh dear, do come in. Brian told me to listen out for you. I’m Hannah, Valentine’s nanny. They’re all out back. Thank goodness it’s a lovely day. I’d even call it hot, especially for February. If we’d had to handle them all inside…” She trailed off with a grimace, then folded her gnarled fingers around Grace’s and walked her through the kitchen, its counters littered with a wild assortment of paper plates, utensils, dishes, napkins, empty potato chip bags, and snack packs.
Love, Valentine Style Page 2