Em held up the book. “Is this to help with the whole state senate thing?”
Kyle looked up from the pile of photos. “My mom picked that up for me. But nothing’s written in stone yet. The guy who holds the seat now got busted with his nineteen-year-old mistress and has a past littered with sexual misconduct. The paper did a whole exposé on him. A few local activists I met through my work with the Historical Society have shown some interest in having me run for the seat, but it’s still early in the process.”
“I’m sure they want someone without any skeletons in their closet after something like that,” Em said and returned the book to the shelf.
Kyle gave her a tight smile. “I’m going to see if there are some more house pics in my bedroom.”
Em paged through the worn copy of Grapes of Wrath as the sound of drawers opening and closing filled the small apartment. She flipped through a few pages of the book and discovered a photograph of a woman holding a baby. She recognized her. The woman was a younger, happier looking Anita Benson. There was a man, nearly the spitting image of Kyle, standing to her left with his arm wrapped around her hip. A girl, possibly in her early teens, stood to Anita’s right. The young girl looked familiar with her mousy-brown hair hanging in limp strands.
Mindy Lancaster?
Em stared at the photo. She dropped it when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Kyle said, retrieving the picture.
Em focused in on the girl. “Is that Mindy Lancaster?”
Kyle nodded. “Yeah, that’s my Aunt Mindy.”
“Aunt Mindy?” Em repeated. “I didn’t know you were related to the Lancasters?”
“My father was Mindy’s older brother. She was a lot younger than my dad, like fifteen years younger. My dad died shortly after that picture was taken.” Kyle propped the photo on the shelf. “It’s the only picture I have of him. A fire destroyed all of the photos and keepsakes from when I was a baby.”
“I’m so sorry, Kyle. Do you remember much about him?”
“No, not really.”
“And Mindy? Are the two of you close?”
“No,” Kyle answered. His expression had gone from friendly to blank. “Here are the house photos.”
Em took the stack of pictures. “Kyle, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your life. I was just skimming through the book and—”
“Not a big deal, Em,” he said. His smile was back in place. “You can take the pictures with you. Just let me know if and when you’d like me to photograph your place.”
A clock on the wall ticked like an irritated librarian drumming her nails. An awkward silence spread out between them. She wanted to ask Kyle more about his connection to Mindy Lancaster, but he was already heading toward the door.
Their impromptu meeting was over.
Em opened the door to the Senior Living Campus’ Arts and Crafts room. “The nurses said I’d find you back here. Do you want me to help you—”
Michael leaned down and stopped her question with a kiss. He buried his hands in her hair, turning her soft waves into a disheveled mess. He pushed her up against the door. His cock strained against his trousers and pressed into her belly. She let out a delicious moan. That magnificent cock had been buried deep inside her this morning.
“I’ve missed you,” he said between kisses.
“Michael,” she breathed. “We’re inside a retirement community’s arts and crafts room.”
“Yeah,” he answered, planting a line of hot kisses along her jaw. “Not much gets past you, Em.”
“What if someone comes in here? That wouldn’t be good.”
He palmed her breast. “What’s not good is the fact that you’re still wearing a bra.”
His hand abandoned her hair and gripped her ass. “Sweet Christ, I love it when you wear tights.”
She was wearing another skirt, tights, boots combo. She closed her eyes and surrendered to his touch. Michael had ripped the crotch out of at least four pairs of tights since their night behind the pavilion.
Her eyes flicked open. “There’s no way I’m sitting through Thanksgiving dinner with your father and my father with a gaping hole in my tights.”
He made a sound between a whimper and a groan. “To be continued?”
She met his gaze and palmed his cock. “Do you even have to ask?”
His gaze went to her hand. “A little less of that or else I don’t think I’ll be able to make it through dinner.”
She released her grip. “What are you doing in here?”
“They needed more centerpieces,” he said, adjusting his fly. “Come on, Mary Michelle, you can help me carry them to the ballroom.”
Michael handed her a gold and white cornucopia-looking thing. She gazed down at the odd centerpiece.
“I had the weirdest thing happen with Kyle Benson today,” she said, shifting the centerpiece under her arm as Michael handed her a second.
“Isn’t every run-in with Kyle Benson weird?”
She ignored his comment. He’d never been fond of Kyle.
“Kyle Benson is Mindy Lancaster’s nephew. Mindy is Kyle’s late father’s sister. Did you know that?”
“No, but lots of people are related in some way or another around here.”
“He says they aren’t close,” she continued. “I wonder why?”
Michael balanced a third cornucopia on top of the two he already had in his arms. “If there’s one thing I know, especially after spending a good part of the day disinheriting a truckload of nieces and nephews, is that all families have their fair share of quirks and drama.”
“Sage words of wisdom from Langley Park’s hottest attorney,” she said with a naughty grin.
A mischievous glint sparked in his eye. “I like that. I may have that printed on my business cards.”
He bent down with his hands full and pressed a kiss to her lips. She dropped a cornucopia as the one balanced precariously in his arms followed it to the ground. They laughed and kissed as the remaining centerpieces crashed to the floor when the door to the Arts and Crafts room swung open.
“Everything all right in here?”
23
Em pulled back from Michael’s kiss. “Oh, my goodness!”
Mindy and Tom Lancaster stood in the doorway. Tom worked to hide an amused grin while Mindy’s cheeks bloomed crimson, and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
“This is a nursing home,” Mindy gasped. Her gaze bounced between the centerpieces, strewn in a heap of gold and white on the floor, and Michael, who was working to remove his hand from where it had started to inch up the front of her blouse.
“I think retirement community is more politically correct,” Tom countered gently, pulling Mindy’s attention away from Em and Michael.
“Of course,” Mindy replied as the flush on her cheeks began to fade.
“This is a popular spot today,” Michael remarked and shook Tom’s hand. “What brings you two to the Arts and Crafts room?”
His question caused Mindy’s cheeks to dial back up to hot pink.
“The staff was wondering what was taking you so long to retrieve the centerpieces,” Mindy answered. “I guess now we know.”
“Give them a break, Min.” Tom placed his hand on his wife’s back. “You remember what young love felt like?”
“Well, never in an Arts and Crafts room,” she answered.
“Are you playing tonight, Tom?” Em asked, desperate to change the subject.
“I am. A few of us from the symphony put on a little performance before dinner is served. We’ve been doing it every Thanksgiving for the last few years.” Tom’s face lit up. “Em, you should join us.”
“I’m sure Em is here to enjoy Thanksgiving with her father, honey,” Mindy said to her husband.
“I don’t even have my violin,” Em answered, watching from the corner of her eye as Mindy fiddled with the pink cast still encasing her wrist.
“Another time,” Tom of
fered with an easy smile. “And from what I’ve heard, you might be even better now than you were as a girl.”
Em smiled. She had spent years studying the violin under Tom’s gentle guidance. He still had that way of making her feel like she could do anything. “Thank you, Tom.”
Mindy crouched down and tried to pick up all the cornucopias. “These centerpieces aren’t going to find their own way to the ballroom.”
Tom shook his head with good-natured ease, shared one last smile with Em, then bent down to help his wife.
“I don’t think I can eat one more bite,” Bill MacCaslin said and patted his stomach.
Michael cut a slice of pie for his father. “They do a great job every year.”
Noland MacCarron remained quiet throughout the meal. Every so often, he’d ask about his wife or share some tradition they had taken part in while she was still alive. While his comments were disjointed, he didn’t seem to be agitated or mind Michael’s presence.
“You’ve barely touched your food,” Mrs. Teller said. “I hope you’re not on one of those diets. A gal needs to be strong and healthy. That’s what my Rodney always says.”
“My stomach’s just a touch sour. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Em said, patting the woman’s hand.
The Tellers never had any children, and when Eunice had entered the ballroom alone, Michael insisted she sit with them, which turned out to be a godsend. When Noland would say something offbeat or nonsensical, Mrs. Teller would roll with it and compliment Noland on his quick wit or excellent sense of humor.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Em?” Michael asked, putting his arm around her chair. “Mrs. Teller’s right. You’ve hardly had anything.”
“Isn’t that sweet,” Mrs. Teller said to Noland and Bill. “Michael is just as attentive as my Rodney.” The woman smiled and turned her attention to Michael and Em. “Did I ever tell you young people about my first date with Rodney?”
They smiled politely. Mrs. Teller could barely go half an hour before mentioning her beloved deceased husband.
Mrs. Teller let out a contented breath. “It was very scandalous for the time.” The skin of her paper-thin cheeks blushed a muted crimson. “I climbed out of my bedroom window. Rodney was waiting in his father’s Buick Skylark. Oh, what a car that was! Rodney’s father was a big-wig at the plant and that Skylark was his prized possession. Well, we both snuck out, and Rodney drove us to Sadie’s Hollow.”
Em’s ears pricked up at the mention of the hollow.
“He had an entire picnic basket filled with all my favorite things. We laid out a blanket under the stars and talked and talked for hours. It was chilly that night, and he had given me his letterman’s jacket to wear.” Eunice Teller’s eyes flashed with nostalgia and the glassy look that often lit her gaze cleared like a windshield wiper casting away heavy beads of rain. “I insisted Rodney be buried in that little cemetery next to the hollow. We used to have so many friends in that area. Years ago, the townsfolk of LaRoe, Garrett, and Lyleville always came together to support each other. It only seemed right for that to be Rodney’s resting place.”
Em didn’t realize her hands were shaking until Michael reached into her lap and gave them a reassuring squeeze.
“Mrs. Teller,” Em asked, “growing up, do you remember any bridges, any old wooden bridges in the area around Sadie’s Hollow?”
“Goodness, the oldest bridges would be out in LaRoe. But it’s been two or three decades since anyone’s lived there. It’s a ghost town now.”
“Are there any wooden bridges you can think of in Lyleville or Garrett?” Em asked, trying to capitalize on the woman’s moment of clarity.
Mrs. Teller pressed her lips together, pondering the question. Her face lit up. “You can ask the young Mrs. Hale. She would know.”
“I don’t know a Mrs. Hale,” Em said, watching the woman’s eyes cloud over.
“She’s right there,” Mrs. Teller said and waved to Anita Benson.
Anita approached the table and greeted the group. “I was looking for you, Mrs. Teller.”
“Mrs. Hale, can you think of any old wooden bridges near Garrett? That’s where you met your Bobby.”
Anita’s face went blank.
Mrs. Teller pressed on. “Have I ever told you that’s where I met my Rodney? I was the Homecoming Queen, and he was the Homecoming King at Garrett High School.”
“Mrs. Teller, dear,” Anita began, “it’s been an eventful afternoon. Let’s get you back to your room for a little rest.”
“I’ll join you,” Michael said. “I think my dad could use some rest as well.”
“But, Mrs. Hale,” Mrs. Teller continued, “you surely remember your Bobby?”
Anita gifted Mrs. Teller with a tight smile. “Dear, it’s been an exciting day. I think you’re a little confused. I’m not Mrs. Hale. I’m Anita Benson, one of your nurses at the Memory Care Center.”
“Memory Care Center?” Mrs. Teller echoed back, her voice small and confused.
Bill MacCaslin stood. “I’ll join you. It would be my privilege to escort you back to your room, Mrs. Teller.”
The older woman smiled.
Bill pressed a hand to Noland’s shoulder. “I can also help your father get back to his room, Michael.”
“Are you sure, Dr. MacCaslin? I’m happy to do it.”
Bill gave him a wink. “Don’t you and Em have somewhere to be? Plus, it would do my old bones good to stretch my legs a bit before I head back to the cottage.” He came to his feet and strapped on his portable oxygen backpack. He unlocked Noland’s wheelchair and angled it toward the door.
Em’s gaze bounced between her father and Michael. Something was going on with the two of them. But she couldn’t stop thinking about what Mrs. Teller had said.
Anita Benson tapped her shoulder. “I hope Mrs. Teller didn’t upset you. You know she often thinks we’re all somebody from her high school days.”
“Yes, I remember you telling me that,” Em said. But she was convinced that at least part of what Mrs. Teller had told her was real. A wave of dizziness swept over her accompanied by a disorienting buzzing sound.
“Ready to go, Em?” Michael asked.
His words cut through the clutter of noise, and she took his hand.
“I hope you two enjoy the rest of your Thanksgiving,” Anita said, following behind her father who was pushing Noland’s wheelchair.
“Young lady,” Mrs. Teller called to Em.
“Yes, Mrs. Teller?”
“I can’t find my tiara. Have you seen it?”
Em’s face fell.
Anita glanced back at Em then patted the older woman’s arm. “I think your tiara is in your room, dear. I’ll help you look for it when we get back.”
“I thought we could take a walk through the botanic gardens before we went home,” Michael said.
They walked hand and hand down the main drive of the Senior Living Campus. The street lamps lining the road cast warm pools of light as the last breaths of daylight succumbed to the growing darkness of the evening sky. The temperature was mild for late November, and a gentle breeze played toss with the last few stray leaves scattered across the lawn.
“I could use a walk,” Em answered, inhaling the fresh air.
The buzzing in her head had quieted, and the nausea that had plagued her during dinner had passed. She was trying to untangle what Mrs. Teller had told her. Parsing out what was real from what was just a product of the woman’s dementia was proving to be a fool’s errand.
They passed through the garden’s main gate. Michael was more quiet than usual, his thumb tracing nervous circles on her palm.
“What did you make of Mrs. Teller?” Em asked.
“What do you mean? The Sadie’s Hollow connection?”
“Yes, the hollow connection. You don’t think that’s odd?”
“Em, there’s not a whole lot going on in southeast Kansas. Anyone from the area would know about the hollow. Kids have been partying there for ages.
Hell, we knew about it, and we live more than an hour’s drive away.”
“What about when she called Anita, Mrs. Hale. You don’t think that’s strange?”
He squeezed her hand. “She also asked for her missing tiara.”
Em blew out a breath. “I know. I know.”
“I think it’s best to take everything Mrs. Teller says with a grain of salt. She’s got pretty severe dementia.” Michael raised their joined hands and kissed her knuckles. “I want you to do something for me.”
“What are you up to?” Em asked, catching him with a goofy smile.
He tossed her a wink. “Why do I have to be up to anything?”
“That’s not an answer, and something’s going on between you and my dad. Did you think I didn’t notice?” she rallied back.
“Just close your eyes.”
She shut them halfway. “They’re closed.”
“Liar! Do it for real.”
Em shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, they’re closed for real.”
Eyes closed, she took his arm, and they walked farther into the gardens.
“Open your eyes, Mary Michelle.”
She blinked a few times adjusting to the light. He had led her to the pavilion. The tenting from the other night when they came upon the cotillion dance was gone. In its place were hanging strings of white lights.
“It’s beautiful, but why are we here?”
“Why?” he parroted back, smiling. “Because you never got to go to prom or homecoming and nobody forced you to endure cotillion waltz torture.”
Her tears blurred the twinkling lights.
“I wanted to give you the whole experience,” he began, leading her up the steps and into the center of the pavilion. “First, I took you to dinner.”
She brushed a tear away and cocked her head. “Thanksgiving at a nursing home counts as dinner?”
Michael smiled. “Classy, huh?”
“What if it was snowing or freezing outside?”
A self-assured expression crossed his face. “I had a backup plan.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.” He twirled her in a slow circle. “You remember Tony, one of my dad’s nurses?”
The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5) Page 43