by Meg Maxwell
Lacey was glancing at the flyer in her hand, more to avoid eye contact with Clementine, she thought. Why did their relationship, if that was even the right word, have to be so awkward? As Clementine approached, Lacey offered a tight smile.
“I understand you’re looking for volunteers,” Lacey said, her gaze going around the room where various groups were sitting in circles, some reading over song lyrics sheets, some practicing first stanzas.
Every time Clementine saw Lacey she thought about how alike they looked, the hair, the height—both tall—the pale brown eyes. Sometimes it unnerved her and made her think about her birth story, how exactly she’d come to be.
Clementine had been told by her caseworker when she turned eighteen that Lacey had shared a brief version of events; eighteen-year-old Lacey had been deeply in love with a substance-abusing young man her age, but he’d been long gone before Lacey had even discovered she was pregnant. Then five years after Clementine was born, Lacey had learned he had died. Clementine looked at Lacey now and wished the two of them could just sit and talk about all this—Lacey’s past, how Lacey had felt about her baby’s father, all that. But Clementine had to accept it was never going to happen.
Clementine did have to admit though that seeing Lacey walking into the room, flyer in her hand soliciting volunteers to help with the children’s Christmas show, was a surprise.
“I’d like to help with singing,” Lacey added. “I do love to sing.”
I remember, Clementine thought, feeling a pinch in her chest. She didn’t have many memories of living with Lacey, but she did remember her singing her to sleep several times. And she also remembered the angelic voice, almost as if it was magical that a real person, her mother at that, could have such a voice.
“I’m very glad you’ve come,” Clementine said, trying to inject nonchalance into her voice. In the past, too much emotion, whether enthusiasm or need or anger, would send the woman running away. “Do you have a particular age group you’d like to work with?” Clementine asked. “I could use the most help with the five-to-eights since they’re old enough to learn the songs but have the toughest time memorizing.”
“That’s fine,” Lacey said.
Clementine led Lacey over to the group of kids and introduced her to the children and the two other volunteers, then hurried away in the pretext of checking in with the teenagers, who seemed to be having a squabble. By the time she reached that group, the volunteers had defused the tension between two girls and all was well.
Clementine glanced over at Lacey. She was nodding in encouragement at two seven-year-old boys as they sang the first stanza of “Jingle Bells.” Why are you here? she wondered. What do you want? Why do you keep on the fringes? What the heck is it going to take to make you bust through and want to know who I am? To let me know who you are? Why are you so frustrating?
When Clementine would pose these questions to her grandmother over the years as she’d notice Lacey peering in the restaurant windows, coming in for lunch yet making sure to sit at another waitress’s table, walking past the Victorian and just staring up at the windows, her gram would say that her birth mother clearly wanted to feel connected to Clementine at a level she could handle and that you had to let people have their levels.
But that’s not fair, Clementine would say back. Why does she get to decide the level? Why don’t I? I’m the one with the questions.
And her grandmother would just hold her close and say her birth mother might not ever be ready to answer those questions; she might never get any closer than another waitress’s table. You may not know everything you want to know about Lacey, but you do know who you are, Clementine Hurley. And that someone is pretty special.
Then Clementine would cry at how sweet her grandmother was and for how frustrated she was, but at least she’d feel better.
But that’s not fair...why does she get to decide the level? Why don’t I?
Clementine bit her lip, realizing that Logan had said as much about the two of them on Saturday night. Why did Clementine get to decide something that had such huge emotional repercussions for him?
At the sound of laughter, Clementine glanced over at the youngest group, Henry Grainger doubled over in glee, his brother looking so angry she was afraid he’d lash out. She hurried over.
“What’s going on here, guys?” she asked, looking from twin to twin.
“Henry told me I keep saying the wrong word, but I didn’t!” Henry shouted.
“It’s jingle all the way, not jingle on the hay,” Harry said, trying not to laugh again.
“It is jingle all the way,” Clementine said. “But I’ll bet you have hay on your mind because you were decorating the horses’ Christmas tree in the barn. Am I right, Henry?”
Henry nodded. “Uncle Logan said we can put presents under the tree for them. I’m drawing Lulu and Winnie a picture.”
“Oh me too,” Harry said. “Let’s draw a giant one from both of us.”
And just like that, the squabble was over. Clementine put out a few more of these fires with the help of her volunteers over the next two hours, but headway with a few different songs was made. Clementine had avoided contact with Lacey during the rehearsal, pretty sure her birth mother wanted it that way. She wanted Lacey to come back. She glanced over at the woman, smiling at a little boy as he barely got through the first stanza of “Jingle Bells.” As Lacey began to sing, the area around her quieted as her beautiful voice floated through the room. When Lacey finished and the little boy began to try the stanza again, Clementine forced her attention away. Why were people so complicated?
“There are my guys,” came a familiar voice.
Clementine whirled around to see Logan walking up to the twins. He knelt down and held up a palm for two high fives.
He looked so damned gorgeous. He wore a navy shirt that made his blue eyes even more intense and a dark brown leather jacket over jeans.
“Can Clementine come over for dinner?” Harry asked.
“Say yes, Uncle Logan,” Henry pleaded.
Logan stiffened. But he looked at her and said, “The restaurant is closed on Mondays so you don’t have to work, right?”
This was a surprise.
“Are you inviting me over for dinner?” she asked.
“The boys did. And I think we should talk,” he added in a lower voice. He turned to the twins. “Guys, why don’t you go say goodbye and thank you to your counselors?” They went sprinting over to Jackie and Heather, who were straightening chairs and putting song sheets back in bins for the next rehearsal.
Hope blossomed. Would he invite her to dinner to tell her she didn’t have his blessing? No way. He’d just blurt it out on the sidewalk so he could escape rather than have her in his house where she could state her case, explain herself and ask him to rethink.
“If you’re going to...” He cleared his throat. “I think we should discuss how that’s going to go. You mentioned Phoebe working at my ranch, for example. I don’t know about that.”
The hope blossomed brighter. Perhaps she did have his blessing. He was trying to set ground rules. “Well, I haven’t yet petitioned to foster Phoebe. I didn’t want to do that until I heard from you.”
She needed his blessing. Truth be told, she was scared spitless about taking in Phoebe. She wanted to take in Phoebe. Very, very much so. But she’d never been responsible for anyone before, let alone a child, a girl who’d been through her share of hurts and losses and disappointments, a girl who’d been shunted around. Clementine had her family’s support and her own experience to guide her, but given the twisty way she’d come into Clementine’s orbit, she did want Logan Grainger’s blessing.
He looked away, glancing out the window, then at the many parents coming to collect their kids from rehearsal.
“Are you okay with it?” she whispered.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know that I’m okay with it. I just understand why you want to—and should.”
She gasped. “Logan. Thank you. Really, thank you. That means a lot to me.”
He stepped closer. “The thought of her at that home with a foster mother who doesn’t seem to like her at all...I can’t say it didn’t bother me. ‘She wants to be a bronc rider...rodeo clown is where she’s headed.’ I didn’t like that. Not one bit.”
Clementine nodded. “I didn’t either.”
He leaned his head back. “I don’t know anything, Clementine. I guess the only thing I do know is that what you said the other day makes sense.”
“What was that?” she asked.
“That sometimes all you can go by is what you feel is right. Heck, I don’t feel it’s right just leaving her there, but I’m not prepared to do anything about it. So I’m glad you will.”
God, she wanted to fling herself into his arms and hug him tight and never let him go.
* * *
Logan kissed each nephew on the forehead and drew up their rodeo-imprinted comforters to their chests, then quietly left their bedroom and headed back downstairs. After dinner, an impromptu game of tag in the yard and some decorating of the house Christmas tree, Clementine had brought the boys upstairs to read them a bedtime story. Logan had peeked in toward the end, touched at how she truly seemed to adore his nephews, answering their many But why? questions about the stories, her voice laced with affection. She’d slipped past him so he could say his good-nights even though they were snoring away, and the barest scent of perfume had caught him and caused a reaction he hadn’t expected.
She’d caused a reaction. He was so damned attracted to her. Sometimes he was glad for it; lately, he’d be talking to her about something uncomfortable that made him want to claw his chest, like the whole thing with Parsons, with Phoebe, and he’d suddenly be overtaken by how sexy Clementine was, all that long silky dark hair and her lush curves. Everything would go out of his head but Clementine. She was straightforward and for the most part serious, not a flirtatious bone to be found, and she drew him unlike any woman ever had. He had no idea how she managed to clear his mind of everything but her when she was a constant reminder of all the turmoil in his life.
He came down the stairs and found her standing in front of the big window overlooking the side pasture. Again he was struck by how her jeans and soft pink sweater hugged her tall, slender body. She’d taken off her cowboy boots and wore yellow socks. He tried to focus on the socks, to get his mind off how pretty she was, how much he wanted her. It was working, actually.
“They’re fast asleep,” he said.
She turned around and he forgot the socks. “I made two mugs of tea,” she said, pointing at the coffee table. He glanced at the tray with the mugs and sugar bowl and creamer.
“Thanks. Does a splash or two or five of whiskey go in tea?” he asked.
She offered a small smile and walked over to the sofa and sat down, wrapping her hand around the yellow mug. “It’s big stuff, I know. For you, for me. But Logan, it really does feel absolutely right to me to foster Phoebe.”
He picked up the other mug and added a teaspoon of sugar and a splash of cream, wishing it really was the whiskey. “Well, given your history, I can understand that. And clearly, since you had this all set in motion for months now—I mean, to become a foster mother—I can see how A led to B.”
She was quiet for a moment, wrapping her hand around her mug of tea, the steam rising. “My birth mother came to volunteer today. She’s helping with singing.”
“You okay?”
She nodded. “Well, okay enough. She makes me feel so...unsteady, I guess.”
“I know what that’s like,” he said.
“You sure do.” She reached over and squeezed his hand and he wanted to pull her to him and hold her. They could both use a good hug. But then he remembered why she was here, why he’d invited her. To talk through how things would work when—if—Phoebe came to live with her.
“Speaking of birth mothers,” he said. “How does this work with Phoebe’s? You foster her but she can’t be adopted, like you were?”
“Well, it’s possible that her mother’s parental rights could be involuntarily terminated due to prolonged abandonment. But that would be something for the caseworkers and a family court judge and I, if I’m her foster mother, to discuss in the future.”
“The hospice aide was right,” Logan said. “Phoebe has been dealt a rough hand.”
Clementine nodded. “So you can understand why I was so moved by her story. I was prepared to take in whatever child was matched with me,” she said, sipping her tea. “But meeting Phoebe, listening to her, knowing some of her story, her connection to you, that she was going to be moved again—I found myself unable to stop thinking about her.”
He’d been thinking about Phoebe too. The way her eyes had lit up at the sight of him. That she had Parsons’s scrapbook with rodeo ticket stubs and flyers and newspaper articles. The story the hospice aide had told, all that Phoebe had said, that the foster mother had said. Everything had been flying around in his head, smashing into one another, making his chest feeling heavy.
Clementine sipped her tea. “And suddenly the faceless, nameless child I’d been mentally preparing myself for became very real.”
He nodded and leaned his head back, then sat up straighter, resting his hands on his thighs. “Very real might just be the key words here, Clementine. That girl is a very real reminder to me that Parsons was real, that he existed, even though he’s gone. He was taking care of her even though she was the kid of the wife who’d left him. And knowing he was dying, he made arrangements for her, thinking she’d be okay. Part of me hates that I can’t write him off as a total bastard.”
Clementine nodded. “I know.”
“But I want to, Clem. And I don’t want to know anything about him. I just want to forget him and the letter—all of it. I want to go on believing that Haywood Grainger was my father. And with you bringing Phoebe to Blue Gulch, Parsons becomes impossible not to think about.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, though,” she said. “For you to be forced to deal with the truth, how you feel about it.”
He shoved the mug back on the table and stood up. “I know how I feel about it. I hate it.”
She stood up too and took his hands. “You don’t have to have any involvement. Or you could take slow steps. Or no steps.”
She was watching him, gauging. She expected him to take some steps. And that wasn’t fair.
He pulled away from her and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I told you—I don’t know about this, Clem. I don’t know if I want anything to do with her at all. And you can’t make me feel bad about that. That’s not fair.”
She took a breath. “You’re right. I know you’re right. And I know that I am overstepping here, Logan. I want you to be comfortable with this. As much as you can be, anyway.”
“What the hell happened to my life?” he asked, dropping down on the sofa. “One minute, I’m eight seconds on a bull, walking away with a wad of prize money, and the next, I’m pulling photographs out of a PO box, discovering my entire damned life was a lie.”
“Not a lie, Logan. Your father was your father. He raised you. He was there. He loved you, he was responsible for you. He was your father.”
He leaned over and drew her to him, those words meaning so much to him that he lost control of himself and went by pure need. And that need was to have her in his arms. His hands slid to either side of her face and he looked at her, beautiful Clementine with her big pale brown eyes, and there was so much in those eyes that he closed his and kissed her hard and deep and long, hoping she’d relax against him instead of the ramrod straightness and then she did. In that moment, everything in
side him let go. All he saw, all he thought about was Clementine.
“I’ve missed this,” he said. “Even though we had just one kiss, I’d thought about kissing you constantly. I could barely think straight.”
She smiled and slipped her arms around his neck. “Me too.”
“Just for tonight, let’s just forget everything but us and this,” he said. He kissed her again and she melted into him, deepening the kiss, her lush breasts against his chest, the scent of her spicy perfume teasing him, tantalizing him. He slid a hand under her soft yellow sweater, up past her stomach to the bottom edge of her lacy bra. He had to know what color it was.
Yes, yes, yes, he thought, every single thing they’d been talking about going out of his head. Bras. Breasts. Clementine kissing him. That’s all he wanted—all other thoughts obliterated. His other hand slid under the sweater and he ran both over the wisp of bra, her full breasts against his hands. He pressed her against the sofa until he was half lying on top of her, every part of him straining and buckling. He needed her naked. Now.
He pulled up the sweater and drank in the sight of her. The bra was black.
“Logan,” she whispered. Her hands were on his face, drawing his head upward. “Logan, I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“This is a good idea,” he said, moving to the other breast, trying to lose himself again in the sensations and scent and feel of her.
“And tomorrow morning? In the bright light of day? When you’ve had coffee and everything we’ve talked about is still hovering between us? Will it be a good idea then? When we can add had sex to an already complicated situation?”
Oh hell. He closed his eyes and jerked himself upward and away from her, hating that she was right.
She sat up, straightening the black bra and pulling down her sweater in one quick move, her cheeks reddened. “The last time you kissed me you didn’t speak to me for three months.”