Home to Laura

by Mary Sullivan

  Later, Nick used the yards of silk to bind both Laura’s hands and her feet. He drove her to a frenzy and brought them both to a resounding release.

  In Laura’s sexy grotto, in her love palace, they played long into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE GRAND OPENING of the Accord Golf and Cross-country Ski Resort was held on a sunny, perfect day in September.

  Nick held baby Pearl in his arms. Laura tried to take her, but he shooed her away.

  There was a bond between Nick and his baby daughter that he had missed the first time around. He planned to miss nothing this time. He would be there for every first—her first word (he was angling for Daddy and repeated it umpteen times a day), first solid food, first step.

  The new clubhouse sparkled like a diamond in a setting of emerald trees. The air swam with the scent of meat on the grill.

  All of Accord had come out. Mort showed the investors around, with pride in his every step.

  Nick’s brothers and their wives were here.

  Gabe and Tyler stood beside him admiring the resort, both with growing babies in their arms.

  “You did a good job, bro.” Ty nodded his approval.

  “Thanks for not carving up my mountain,” Gabe said.

  In the end, Nick had respected Gabe’s wishes and hadn’t carved ski runs out of the mountain.

  Visitors could hike or climb it, but it wouldn’t be desecrated.

  They could cross-country ski in the winter and golf in the summer. Shuttle buses would take them to Gabe’s dogsledding in the winter. In the summer, visitors could watch archaeology students as they conducted ongoing digs. If they were very careful, after copious instruction, they could even participate in a dig.

  Nick was going to run the resort. He’d have his wife and children to fill his nonworking hours, including entertaining his wife in the new bedroom they’d designed for the new house they were having built.

  He wandered to the clearing, where Salem’s Cathedral (his and Emily’s nickname for the Native American Heritage Center) showcased every artifact found on the land. There was so much more digging to do, but they were taking it slowly so they wouldn’t destroy anything.

  One resurrected skeleton, a young female, had been lovingly carried to a small cemetery created on a portion of Ron Porter’s land that Nick had bought. She had been buried with a moving ancient ceremony. Nick had attended, loving the reverence and the sense of peace that settled over him. A simple message, Peace, written in Salem’s native Ute, had been carved into a small headstone that Nick had paid for. Before burial, DNA samples had been taken, in case local Utes wanted to determine whether this might have been an ancestor of theirs.

  “Dad.” Nick turned and grinned. Emily flew toward him on legs getting longer by the second. She was growing into them. One day soon she would be a woman and gone. She was thirteen now. These days, he treasured every second of their time together.

  “Em,” Pearl squealed and Emily grinned from ear to ear.

  She nuzzled Pearl’s neck and got a big smile for her efforts.

  “Hey,” Nick said, “she hasn’t smiled at me yet today. Besides, her first word was supposed to be Daddy, not Em.” He frowned in mock disapproval.

  “That’s because you’re not her favorite sister.”

  “So? I’m her favorite dad.”

  “You’re my favorite dad.” Emily kissed his cheek. “The best.”

  Before he teared up and disgraced himself by crying, he said, “What do you think of the cathedral?”

  “I love it!” She ran ahead of him. “Salem’s going to give me a tour. I have to go. See you later!” Emily seemed to be running everywhere these days—to school, to violin lessons, to gymnastics—but that was okay. She always had a smile on her face and it warmed Nick’s heart to see her so happy.

  Salem and Nick’s architect had fashioned a three-story glass house with minimal brushed steel for support.

  Once inside, Nick felt like a part of nature while embraced by the modern architecture of wood, glass and muted steel.

  Every wall was glass, including the display cases and Salem’s office.

  Artifacts were lovingly tucked into corners with rounded edges that cradled them. As it turned out, Salem had an artist’s eye and ability and all signs were painted by his hand in English and in his native Ute.

  The gentle flow of paths and stairways was a testament to his old soul. Nick didn’t know what had happened in the boy’s life, but it had shaped him into a wise, but sad youth. Nick had no idea what more he could do for Salem. He’d given him a career, a beautiful home for his treasured history and a free hand in running the museum.

  The only one who consistently brought a smile to Salem’s face was Emily. Good. The kid needed it.

  Laura stood beside him. “It’s breathtaking.”

  “Yes. Mike and Salem did a good job.”

  “More than good. Stunning.”

  Nick stared down at his wife. She was pregnant again, just barely. They weren’t wasting any time.

  He remembered when he’d stood in his office that day that Mort had stormed in. He’d thought his work was the only real thing in his life. He’d been so wrong.

  He’d learned about depth of love from Emily.

  His love for Laura and Pearl was real and deep and everlasting. His life in Accord was more real than ever before.

  He was no longer that invisible poor Jordan boy. Nor was he the arrogant businessman who had to flaunt his worth.

  His wife looked up at him, her smile sexy and promising, and he wished they were alone.

  “Stop doing that,” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “Making me love you.”

  Laura grinned as she moved close for his kiss. “Not a chance.”

  * * * * *

  If you were to visit Laura’s bakery in fictional Accord, Colorado, you would be able to sample her tasty adult version of chocolate chip cookies. To bake them at home, try her recipe.

  LAURA’S CHOCOLATE CHUNK COOKIES

  ¾ cup butter

  ¾ cup white sugar

  ¾ cup brown sugar

  1 egg, beaten

  2 tbs Frangelico

  1 tsp vanilla extract

  1 2/3 cups all-purpose flour

  ½ tsp baking soda

  ¼ tsp salt

  1 Lindt Excellence 70% chocolate bar (100 g or 3.5 oz), chopped into chunks

  ¾ cup whole hazelnuts

  Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

  Toast hazelnuts in oven for 7 or 8 minutes. Be careful they don’t burn. Put them on one half of a kitchen towel, fold over the other half and rub them to get most of the papery dark skins off. Set hazelnuts aside.

  Cream butter until soft then add both sugars. Cream until smooth. Add egg, Frangelico and vanilla extract and mix well.

  Mix together flour, baking soda and salt. Add to the butter/sugar mixture and mix well.

  Add the chocolate chunks and the whole hazelnuts. If desired, chop hazelnuts before adding.

  Drop by tablespoonsful onto greased or parchment paper–lined baking sheets.

  Bake for 11–12 minutes.

  Caution: whole nuts could pose a choking hazard for children. Save these cookies for adults, or chop the nuts.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Spirit of Christmas by Liz Talley!

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  CHAPTER ONE

  MARY PAIGE GENTRY stepped into an icy puddle of water as she exited the taxi with not only one high-heeled shoe, but both of them.

  “Darn, darn, darn!” she said, trying to turn back to the driver without stepping into the cold water again. The cabbie raised bushy eyebrows and she tossed him a glare. “I assume you didn’t see that puddle when you pulled up?”

  He shrugged.

  “Yeah, right,” Mary Paige muttered, blowing out a breath that ruffled her bangs. “Just wait for me, okay?”

  She didn’t hang around for his response because, after the day she’d had, something had to go in her favor. She slammed the door and leaped to the curb, managing to clear the puddle she’d previously waded through. Having the cab wait for her would cost a small fortune, but she was way late to her uncle’s infamous Christmas kickoff bash, thanks to her boss, Ivan the Terrible.

  The frigid water seeped into the toes of her shoes as she walked toward the iron-barred glass door of the convenience store anchoring a corner in Fat City. Stupid, stupid! If she hadn’t let vanity rule, she’d be plodding around in her cute fleur-de-lis rubber boots with warm tootsies. But because the strappy high-heel, pseudo–Mary Janes had called her name that morning, she would risk frostbite for the remainder of the evening.

  Flashing neon signs hung garishly on the front of the store, bright cousins to the various cigarette ads, and from somewhere to her left, music bled onto the street. The door to the convenience store swooshed open, and she moved aside to avoid a woman who burst out, clutching a paper bag containing a fifth of something potent. Her elbow caught Mary Paige’s arm, but the woman didn’t even acknowledge the offense. She merely growled something about skinny blonde bitches and waddled down the block.

  “Really?” Mary Paige called after her, even as part of her relished the backhanded compliment since she’d spent the past two months doing Zumba and eating foam chips in an effort to fit into a size eight again. As she reached for the closing door handle, she heard a low moan to her right. Her hand paused in midair, hovering above the cold metal.

  Pulling her jacket closer to her chin and nuzzling into the cashmere scarf her ex-boyfriend had given her last Christmas, Mary Paige peered into the darkness beyond the blinking lights lining the eaves. At first, she saw nothing in the shadows, but then spied movement.

  She stepped toward the noise, her feet squishing in her wet shoes, her teeth starting to chatter. The light plink of sleet on her shoulders made her wonder if she was somewhere other than New Orleans. They rarely saw anything frozen—except daiquiris—so it had been quite the sensation when they’d gotten a blast of winter the day after Thanksgiving.

  Newspapers stirred and she made out the form of an elderly man wrapped in a thin blanket, moving among discarded boxes and newspapers quickly becoming sodden with the sleet.

  “Sir? You need some help?”

  The man stopped his rustling and flipped her the finger.

  “Guess that answers that question.”

  She turned around, ignoring the tug at her heart. Why didn’t he go to a shelter, anyway? Too cold out for someone to be sitting around with nothing more than a thin blanket. She glanced to the corner and found the cab still waiting. Good. A man who listened. An early Christmas miracle.

  She entered the warmth of the store, blew on her hands and scanned the cramped aisle. Nope, none of it would do. Bottled water, sanitary products and condoms. The necessities of life, sure, but nothing that would help her tonight.

  The second aisle proved as fruitless. Nothing but potato chips, cartons of cookies and packages of those powdery little doughnuts. Mary Paige’s stomach betrayed her with a growl as she eyed the pink snowballs. She shook her head and rounded the end cap, where she scanned the new offerings, methodically sweeping her gaze along the aisle, mentally discarding everything until… Bingo!

  Hanging innocently at the end of the aisle was the most repugnant pair of Christmas socks she’d ever seen. They were bright green with sparkly silver-tinsel trees around the ankles, adorned with bright cherry-red pom-poms. The tops had garish silver lace that matched the flashy trees and small jingly bells. They were hideous and absolutely perfect for the white-elephant gift required for Uncle Fred’s crazy pre-Christmas party. Mary Paige snatched them as if they were the Holy Grail. Finally, something had gone right.

  She hurried toward the register, hating that she’d already taken too much time in this little stop, hating that the homeless curmudgeon outside the door weighed on her conscience. Yeah, he was a miserable old goat, but it was the beginning of the Christmas season, and it was colder than normal outside.

  Perhaps she should get him a little something to warm him up?

  A coffee bar sat to her right, featuring a self-service, instant cappuccino machine. Not the best, but certainly good enough. Mary Paige glanced at the register. Only one person in line. Surely five more minutes wouldn’t hurt. She spun toward the bar, snatched a medium-size cup, centered it beneath the spout and pushed the button. It filled quickly. She plopped a lid on and grabbed two sugar packs along with a stir stick.

  Darn. Two more people had joined the queue behind the woman paying.

  She got in line, shifting back and forth on her frozen feet trying to restore the circulation and wondering why she even bothered with an old bum outside a convenience store in the middle of Metairie. He’d probably hurl the cup at her and ruin her only decent jacket. Par for the course considering the day she’d had. A run in her stockings, a nervous stomach that had sent her to the bathroom twice, a coffee stain on her pristine white blouse and a tongue-lashing from Ivan the Terrible when the towering pile of receipts on her desk didn’t add up for their biggest client. She really wanted to go home and curl up in her ratty chenille robe with a glass of wine. Instead, fierce love for Uncle Fred sent her scurrying across the city in a cab she couldn’t afford, wearing shoes now frozen stiff.

  Mary Paige finally reached the register, where the cashier snatched the socks from her, scanned them and dropped them into a plastic sack.

  “Ten thirty-seven,” the cashier said, not even bothering to make eye contact with her.

  Mary Paige rooted in her purse for her wallet. Ugh. She’d left it in her desk after doing some online Christmas shopping. But, luckily she always kept some cash in the side pocket along with her ATM card. Her fingers crisscrossed in a desperate search. No cash.

  No way.

  Thankfully a second swipe netted her the ATM card. She glanced at the cashier, who glared knowingly in return.

  “Uh, do y’all have an ATM?”

  The cashier pointed to a machine sitting below a glowing sign as a man behind her in line growled, “Jeez, get your cash before you get in line, lady.”

  Something inside Mary Paige snapped. “Listen, buddy. I have had a hell of a day and my ex-boyfriend stole all my cash. Give me an effing break here!”

  The man stepped back, throwing up his hands before giving her a smart-ass gesture toward the ATM.

  “Thanks.”

  She prayed as she entered her PIN that her account wasn’t overdrawn. Things had been so hectic lately she couldn’t remember the last time she balanced her bank statement. Please, please let the stupid machine spit out the money.

  The machine whirred and coughed out the amount she’d requested—thirty bucks.

  Whew. Hibernia Bank had just earned itself a place on her Christmas-card list.

  Mary Paige popped back in line as the rude construction worker rolled his eyes and blew garlicky breath on her neck with theatrical exaggeration. Mary Paige shrugged at the cashier. “Happens to the best of us, right?”

  The cashier held out a palm and gave no response, making Mary Paige feel like even more of an idiot. She placed a ten-dollar bill in the outstretched hand of the cashier along with three dimes and a nickel, the sum of all the change she could scrape up from the bottom of her purse. The cashier cleared h
er throat and looked pointedly at the money.

  “Oh, sorry.” Mary Paige scooped two pennies from the take-a-penny, leave-a-penny container on the counter. “There you go.”

  She grabbed the coffee and the plastic bag, swerved around Big and Beefy, desperately wanting to give him the finger—much as the old bum had given her earlier—and stalked out the door.

  “Ow.” Hot coffee splashed on her fingers through the open drinking spout. “Double darn it.”

  She shook the liquid from her fingers and caught sight of the cab out of the corner of her eye. Thank God he’d waited, and thank God the ATM had delivered the money she needed to pay for the cab. Shoving the bag with the socks under her arm, she held up a finger indicating she would be a minute longer, then headed around the corner to the old man.

  As she approached the alley, she was swamped by a feeling of déjà vu. How many other times had she done this kind of thing? Ten? Twenty? More? As much as she would like to be a hard-ass career gal, she knew her heart was of the Stay Puft variety. Not even rudeness would deter her from doing what was right.

  “Yoo-hoo? Mister? I have a little something here to warm you.” She stood in front of a Dumpster bookended by two large cardboard boxes. Flaps hung over, providing little shelter, and the man seemed to be curled into a pile of wet newspapers. A broken cyclone fence stretched behind him, leading the way to an abandoned bakery showcasing yawning windows. Dismal wasn’t the word for the small corner of the world this man occupied in the frozen rain. “Sir?”

  He said nothing.

  “I’ve brought you some coffee.”

  The papers moved. “What the hell ya want?”

  “Just thought you might like something to warm you.”

  “Coffee?” The papers shifted as the man unfurled like a gray troll from beneath a bridge, his grizzled face parting sodden sales flyers, pinning her with sleepy blue eyes. “Coffee, did you say?”