A Man to Hold on to (A Tallgrass Novel) (11 page)

When Therese repeated the question after the waiter left, he opened his mouth again, but the answer got garbled between it and his brain. “One.”

Damn. His mom had been trying to get him to acknowledge Mariah as his child from the moment she met her, even knowing better, but he’d resisted. So where the hell had that come from?

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl. Nearly three years old. Mariah.” Her birth certificate did list him as father. And it was easier than going into the whole explanation of how he wound up with custody of another man’s daughter—especially when that man was Therese’s dead husband. If the time came when there was a reason to tell her, okay. Until then…

“I take it she doesn’t live with you.”

“Right now she’s staying with her grandmother.”

“Do you mind if I ask why she’s not with her own mother?”

He hadn’t realized how awkward a question it was when he’d asked her. Served him right that she’d turned it back on him. “I think Sabrina and your Catherine have a lot in common.”

Therese’s expression wasn’t shocked or even surprised. Instead, she just looked sad. “You know, there was a time when I believed becoming a parent changed you. It made you want to be a better person. It moved you from the center of your universe and put that sweet little baby there instead. It made you want to do
anything
to keep that child safe, secure, and happy.”

“Some people it does. Most, probably.” He’d felt some of that himself before Sabrina had told him he wasn’t the baby’s daddy. He’d had just enough time to imagine a baby and the responsibility and the awe and the good times and the worry. Seventeen years ago when his mom had sat him down for “the talk,” she’d told him that having a baby changed everything—no option.
Get a girl pregnant, you grow up fast. You don’t get to say, “But I’m still young, I’m not ready, I’m still having fun.” Having a baby is the end of the world as you know it. You deal with it.

Just as she’d done, even though Max Logan had kept running out after every kid they brought into the world. All five of them. Thank God she’d finally told him no more.

“Do you see her often?” Therese asked.

“Most days. In my job we spend some time in the field, and sometimes the hours are long. It’s easier for her to be with her grandmother.” Easier for him, too, but saying so would make him sound like a jerk. Even thinking it made him feel that way. “Do your stepkids get to see much of their father’s family?”

She chewed a bite of lettuce before responding. “I just call them ‘the kids.’ I don’t want to emphasize the ‘step’ part of the family—it sounds like we’re not a real family—but I can’t call them
my
kids or…”

Drama Princess would have a meltdown.

“Anyway, no, they don’t. When Paul was alive, they saw his parents once or twice a year. Now they visit them once in the summer and talk to them on occasion. His parents are nice enough people, I suppose, but they don’t have a strong sense of family. Paul was an only child. When they finished raising him, they were finished. Their focus is on each other and enjoying their retirement.”

An only child. Just his luck. No aunts or uncles or grown cousins who’d want to take in their dear relative’s child.

If there wasn’t anyone in Matheson’s family who wanted her, if Sabrina didn’t come back, what would happen to Mariah? Foster care? Yeah, that had been such a success for Sabrina.

Something niggling worked down his spine, something that felt entirely too much like guilt.

For the rest of the evening, he wasn’t going to think about Mariah. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about her. He was going to eat dinner with a pretty woman, talk about things that didn’t really matter, and put his problems out of his mind. There was time enough tomorrow to worry.

S
ome people who had a crappy day at work went home, dumped it on their spouses, then vegged in front of the TV for the rest of the night. Some went out with their friends, focused on having a good time, and tried to forget it had ever happened. Some got stinking drunk.

Jessy had done all of the above, though in her case, instead of spouse, it was friends she unloaded on. But her favorite way of getting through the crappy evening that followed a crappy day could be summed up in one word: Serena’s.

The restaurant was located in the middle of the block, just one building over from Jessy’s apartment. Run by its namesake and her grandmother, Miss Patsy, it offered the kind of home cooking Jessy’s mother had never done: fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, fried okra, green beans with ham hocks, and brown or cream gravy on just about everything. And the desserts were to die for—all kinds of pies, carrot cake with the cream-cheesiest frosting ever, sticky buns big enough to fill a dinner plate.

Leaving her umbrella at the bottom of the stairs, Jessy opened the door to a rush of fresh damp air, stepped outside, and locked up, then breathed deeply. The rain had started after lunch and showed no sign of stopping yet. She liked the way it smelled and the way the sidewalk and street gleamed wetly and the way it formed a halo around the streetlights and headlights. It danced along the gutter, puddled in the low spots, and spotted her clothing beneath the jacket she wore.

Rain made everything clean again.

She made the trip from home to Serena’s on such a regular basis that she fancied she’d worn size six shoe prints into the concrete. It had been her go-to restaurant since her first week in Tallgrass, though the last few months instead of eating there, she’d begun taking orders home. She pretended it was because she was busy, or she wanted to catch the latest episode of her favorite reality show, or to eat in her pajamas without makeup or shoes.

Sometimes all that was even true. But mostly it was because she could have a drink or two with her meal if she took it home, and a drink or two always made dinner for one a little less lonely.

That was her intent as she breezed through the door tonight, rain dripping from her coat, her hair looking as if she’d just gotten out of the shower because she hadn’t bothered to pull up the jacket’s hood. By the time she’d passed through the vestibule into the restaurant proper, she was smiling broadly, as if she didn’t have a care in the world beyond what culinary treats she would take home with her this evening. She knew, because she practiced that smile in the bathroom mirror every day.

“Miss Patsy, you look beautiful tonight,” she said, pausing in front of the cash register.

Miss Patsy was a short, solid woman, her iron gray hair twisted into a bun that wouldn’t dare release one strand until she took out the last pins. Patsy was probably somewhere past sixty, but her face was unlined, and her hair had turned gray with the birth of her first child. She came in at five every morning to bake the fabulous desserts, the flaky biscuits, and the yeast rolls, and stayed until closing every night at nine, and while she was friendly with everyone, she didn’t seem to have a soft spot for anyone besides her granddaughter.

Her sharp brown gaze swept over Jessy, and her mouth settled into a disapproving line. “Why haven’t you learned to cook yet?”

“I know how to cook.” Sort of. Passably. But cooking for one just didn’t interest her. “Besides, I’m one of your most loyal customers. If I started eating at home, think what that would do to your bottom line.”

Miss Patsy rolled her eyes as she reached for an order pad. “I saved a piece of pecan pie and a slab of chocolate cake. You gonna have some real food to go with it?”

Saving desserts for her…maybe Miss Patsy did have a soft spot somewhere underneath all that grit. “If you weren’t such a good baker, I wouldn’t be eating all those desserts. When I’m too fat to leave my apartment, will you have one of the staff deliver them to me?”

The woman took a long look down at herself, then scanned Jessy head to foot before snorting. “What do you want?”

Jessy was checking the specials board when an arm waving across the room caught her attention. It was Lucy Hart, one of her margarita sisters, alone at a table for four with a magazine open in front of her.

“I’ll get back to you, Miss Patsy.” She crossed to Lucy’s table and slid into one of the empty chairs. “What are you doing out on a night like this, doll?”

“I had a craving for meat loaf.”

“But you make the best meat loaf in town.”

A smile creased Lucy’s face. “Yeah, but if I made one, then I’d eat the whole thing. At least here, I can satisfy my craving with just one slice. Besides, my broiler broke the other day. I was finishing up a rack of ribs, and it burned a hole in the top of the blasted oven. It actually scorched the bottom of the cabinet up above.”

Lucy was a cook, a baker, a nester, a maker, a mother to everybody. Though she worked for the colonel who commanded the post hospital, her passion was to make people comfortable. She’d been a great wife to Mike, who’d died in the same battle that had killed their friend Marti’s husband, and would have been the best mother ever if she’d been given the chance. Sometimes she joked she would never get the chance. She barely topped five feet and had passed pleasantly plump thirty pounds ago. Sure, she had boobage, but not the perky kind guys were looking for, and along with it came broad hips, thunder thighs, and cankles.

Jessy knew too well that when Lucy joked about her shortcomings, she was anything but amused inside. She listed her flaws before anyone else could list them for her, not that the margarita girls would ever do such a thing. If they judged people on their flaws, they would have thrown Jessy out a long time ago.

“Are you getting take-out?” Lucy asked.

Was she aware of the barely noticeable hope in her voice? “I was, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather have dinner with you.”

Relief, quick but fervent, crossed Lucy’s face. “I’ve gotten used to eating out alone, but I always prefer company.”

Jessy gestured, and the waitress came over to take her order for coffee and pot roast: tender beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions in thick rich gravy. It was the perfect dish for a cool rainy night. Followed by dessert, of course.

“Isn’t it wonderful about Carly?” Lucy asked, cradling her own coffee cup in her hands as if she needed the warmth.

“Wonderful. And scary. And I’m jealous as hell.”

“I’m so happy for her, but at the same time, I think…” Lucy’s voice wobbled a bit. “What if everyone finds someone else but me? You’ll all fall in love and get loved back and have homes and families and be couples, and I’ll be…alone.” Her eyes darkened at the thought, glistening just a little too much. Inwardly, Jessy flinched, hoping she was imagining it, seeing wetness because it surrounded them outside.

“I don’t do well alone, you know?” Lucy went on. “I mean, I can handle not having Mike because I’ve got all you guys to lean on, but once you’ve all got another love—”

“We’re not going anywhere, Luce. None of us.” Unless they realized what a fraud Jessy was and kicked her out of the group. “Besides, you’ll fall in love again long before I will. Being in love was tough enough the first time. I see no reason to give it a second shot at me. So even if everyone else marries off, I’ll still be here.”

Her response had the intended result—it chased the wistful sadness from Lucy’s features—but it was accompanied by an unintended one as Lucy laid her hand on Jessy’s arm. “Oh, don’t think like that. You’re so smart and pretty and funny, and you have so much to give. I know how much losing Aaron hurt, but, Jessy, you can’t just shut yourself off like that. You’ll move on eventually. You’ll meet a guy—the right guy—and you’ll be as happy as you were with Aaron.”

Heat flooded through Jessy, blistering the air that a few moments ago had been cool against her skin. She shrugged out of her jacket, then pushed up her shirtsleeves. Her hands trembled with the quick gestures, so she gripped them tightly in her lap to hide it. She needed a drink, something a lot stronger than coffee, and wondered if Miss Patsy might keep a bottle hidden somewhere.

She was such a phony. Smart, pretty, funny? Not by a long shot. So much to give? Only what she gave to strange men when she’d had too much to drink. Hurting over Aaron?

Yeah, it hurt, but not for the reasons Lucy and everyone else believed. It had broken her heart that he’d died, that he’d loved her so much more than she’d loved him, that he’d wanted to come home to her and spend the rest of their lives together while she’d wanted a divorce. She’d wanted to be away from him.

And she’d gotten that. He’d had to die, but she’d gotten her wish.

God, she should have been the one to die. Aaron was so much the better person.

Summoning the breezy attitude that got her through most of her days, Jessy shrugged. “If it happens, it happens—for both of us. If it doesn’t—” Hoping her hands were steadier, she lifted her coffee cup in a toast. “We’ll grow from margarita girls to margarita broads together. Deal?”

Laughing, Lucy raised her own cup for a chink of heavy-duty porcelain. “Deal.”

Years ago Therese’s parents had been fans of a TV show featuring a song about a place where everyone knew your name. Back then, that was an apt description of her hometown. She and her brother and friends couldn’t do anything without word of it getting home, usually before they did. When she’d decided to move from Montana, one of her goals had been to find a place where nobody knew her.

Now one of her favorite things about Three Amigos was that they might not know her name, but everyone who worked there knew her. They asked about her, about the kids, about the other club members. They noticed who was absent one week and welcomed her back the next, or asked about her if she missed that week, too.

It was safe to say Three Amigos was one of the few places they could gather where nobody eyed them curiously. The staff and the regulars knew they were Army widows, but they treated them like any bunch of regular, raucous, and occasionally rowdy group of customers.

Normally Carly was the first to arrive, but when Miriam escorted Therese to the patio they claimed when weather allowed, the tables were empty. She chose a seat with her back to the wall, facing the parking lot. She murmured her thanks when Miriam returned with chips, salsa, and a margarita that was thick, slushy, and a delicate shade of pink.

“Johnny doesn’t want you girls to get burned out on the usual,” the waitress explained.

“Tell him thanks.” She set the menu aside and sipped cautiously from the drink. Instead of salt rimming the glass, it was sugar, but the margarita was as sour and puckery as ever, with a tart, fruity flavor she couldn’t quite identify.

Usually, by Tuesday, though the week had just begun, she was feeling pretty stressed out. This evening, she felt fine. No headache. No neck muscles straining to maintain control. No knot in her stomach or heat spreading through her without warning. She was as close to relaxed as she got these days.

Maybe it was her decision to send Abby away, even though she’d done nothing about it yet. Maybe it was the fact that Abby had been unnaturally quiet when Therese got home from dinner last night. She’d come into the living room briefly, where Jacob watched TV and Therese was settling into her favorite chair with her Bible, and she’d watched a few minutes of Jacob’s show from the back of the couch. She hadn’t whined, snarled, or sneered at Therese even once before leaving to nuke the leftover Chinese, and after eating, she’d rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher without being told.

Abby
never
put dishes in the dishwasher without being told.

She’d been cranky again this morning, but quietly so, not the I-hate-you-you’ve-ruined-my-life routine Therese was used to. She hadn’t even slammed the front door on her way out to catch the bus.

Or maybe Therese was relaxed because she’d spent an evening doing regular, everyday woman things—going out to dinner, sitting with a handsome man, talking the way men and women talked. Despite the rain, despite her discomfort during some of the conversation about the kids, she’d had a very good time. It had been great practice for the day when she finally went out with a man she could consider getting involved with.

She and Keegan had shared dessert with steaming cups of so-so coffee, then he’d taken her home. Even though it was still raining, he’d walked to the door with her, stood on the porch in the shadows—she’d forgotten to leave the porch light on—and waited while she unlocked the door.

She’d thanked him, and he’d said
you’re welcome
, and they’d just stood there looking at each other for at least two whole minutes. She’d thought he might kiss her. Practice dates could include practice kisses, couldn’t they? It had been as long since she’d kissed any man but Paul as it had since she’d dated any man but him. But she wasn’t sure she wanted Keegan’s kiss, or maybe she wanted it too much, and the sound of the television filtering through the door had been an uneasy reminder that Paul’s kids were inside and didn’t know she’d gone out with a man.

After that long look, he’d smiled—faintly, not that charming grin—and backed away before pivoting and taking the steps two at a time. He strolled to the car as if it were a clear, still night, and there he’d glanced back just for an instant. Then he’d gotten in and driven away without a word about whether she’d see him again.

The part of her that didn’t always feel as if she might blow a release valve from the tension she carried inside thought she would.

The part of her that had wanted his kiss wasn’t so confident.

The part of her still trying to decide about Abby and Jacob didn’t know what to think or feel or want about anything.

Metal chair legs scraped on the tile floor, and she focused on the present, on the muscular form in front of her.
Think of the handsome devil…
He’d come in the low gate from the parking lot and was leaning on the chair back across from her. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt in white, the collar open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up a few times. “Are you early, or have you been stood up?”