Broken (27 page)

Max stood at the stove monitoring the progress of the French toast on the pancake griddle when he heard footsteps behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the identity of the person. “Good morning. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Coffee’s on the burner, and there’s juice in the fridge,” he said as he flipped the toast over to cook on the other side.

The footsteps halted. “I see. You cook?” Mrs. Palmer sounded justifiably wary.

“I’m the youngest of eight children and my mother insisted all of us—including the boys—know how to handle ourselves in the kitchen.” Max crossed over to the cabinet and took down an oval food platter. He could feel the weight of Mrs. Palmer’s stare.

“You come from a large family,” she said finally.

“We’re Italian,” he said simply, as though that explained it all. Continuing his friendly patter he said, “Cassidy came in earlier and slid the turkey in the oven. She’s getting dressed now and will return in a minute. Will Mr. Palmer be joining us?”

“He’s taking a shower. Mr. Desalvo—”

He shot her a quick glance. “Please, call me Max.”

There was a slight hesitation. “Max…if you don’t mind my asking, how long have you known my daughter?” Her tone said she didn’t care if he did mind.

Max pretended to consider. “About twelve years, give or take a few months,” he said easily as he scooped up the food onto the platter.

“Oh!”

She clearly hadn’t expected that answer. Max hid a smile.

“So you knew her husband, Phillip?” Now Mrs. Palmer sounded puzzled.

Keeping his voice neutral, Max said, “Yeah.” The less said about that the better, in his opinion. He set the platter on the table and returned for the plate of meat, sitting in the microwave.

“Max and Phillip were roommates when I met Phillip,” Cassidy said, coming into the kitchen. “He was Phillip’s best man, and if things had worked out differently, would have been Zoe’s godfather as Phillip would have been godfather to Max’s child.”

That was a masterful summation of events. Max gazed at Cassidy with new respect.

“If he and Phillip were so close, why wasn’t he at the funeral?” Cassidy’s mother asked sharply, still gazing at him with barely suppressed suspicion.

“I’ve been living in Italy for the last year and only recently learned of his death. My family didn’t notify me. Had I known, I’d have been here.” Again, like Cassidy, what he said was the absolute truth. Simply not all of it. “Food’s ready.”

“Mom, you want me to pour you a cup of coffee? Or, I have that tea you like. It’s in the cabinet. We also have juice.” Cassidy rattled off the types as she took down some plates to set the table.

“I’ll get it. You sit down. Get off that leg,” her mother ordered.

“My leg is fine.
I’m
fine.” Cassidy sounded like she was grinding her teeth. “What would you—”

“Mama!”

“Zoe’s up,” Cassidy said unnecessarily.

Before Max could offer, Mrs. Palmer said, “Pour me a glass of apple juice while I go and get Zoe.”

“You don’t have to—” Cassidy began.

“I want to. I didn’t get to spend anytime time with Zoe last night. Your father monopolized her attention. You sit down and eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” Mrs. Palmer ordered as she left the room.

Cassidy glanced wryly at Max. He allowed the side of his mouth to crook, showing his amusement. “You heard the woman. Sit down and eat.”

They both took a seat and filled their plates.

“Sounds like she was grilling you when I arrived,” Cassidy said.

“She’d just gotten started.” He smiled as he reminded her, “You’re the one who wanted to ease your parents into this. Give them a chance to get to know me. Interrogation and questioning my intentions are part of the process. Besides, I have nothing to hide. Anything sticky”—for her, not him—“I’ll defer to you.” His family knew his and Cassidy’s history. Her mother did not, and he wasn’t certain Cassidy wanted her to know.

“Good, because I’m sure this was just the beginning. I know you said you understand her position, but my mother doesn’t always know when to back off,” she said, sounding worried.

Max snatched a piece of bacon off her plate and popped it into his mouth. “Stop worrying. After dealing with my mother and sisters for years, yours is a piece of cake.” If there was one thing he knew, it was the female of the species. Between his mother, aunts, grandmothers, sisters, and nieces, he had more than his fair share of female relations. “It’s your father that worries me.”

“Daddy? He’s a teddy bear,” she with a laugh.

More like a grizzly
, Max thought. One lying in wait, ready to pounce. Mr. Palmer knew about his former relationship with Cassidy, yet he’d shown no sign of recognition during the introduction. Cassidy might consider her mother a harridan, but he knew who ruled the Palmer household.

The man in questioned entered the kitchen wearing a navy and white track suit. “Good morning, Max. How’s my girl doing today?”

“Fine, Daddy.” Cassidy stood and gave her father a big hug. “I beat Mom to the kitchen this morning and got the turkey into the oven,” she said, sounding and looking smug.

Her father laughed. “Good for you.” Mr. Palmer glanced at the food spread on the table. “Looks like I’m right on time.”

“I’ll pour you some coffee,” Cassidy said as her father took a chair and sat. “The food should still be warm, but if it’s not hot enough, I can slip it in the microwave for a minute to heat.”

“No, no. I’m sure this is fine,” her father said as he took a plate and begin loading it with food. To Max he said, “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I never start the day without it.”

“Neither does Max, Daddy. He makes sure Zoe and I have a hot breakfast each morning,” Cassidy said, returning to the table with a cup full of black coffee.

Mr. Palmer slid him a sideways glance. “Is that right?”

Cassidy didn’t notice.

Max rose to refresh his coffee and top Cassidy’s off. He’d just placed the glass pot on the warmer when Zoe came running into the kitchen on tiny, sneaker-covered feet.

“Dada, eat!” she demanded, running straight to him.

Max’s heart leapt and he had to suppress a huge grin. Zoe had called him Dada! He wanted to pump his fist in the air, snatch Zoe up in his arms, and give her a big hug. He refrained, knowing his exuberance would frighten her.

“Morning, Princess,” he said as casually as possible. “Ready to eat?”

“Eat!” she repeated and ran to her high chair.

He followed, lifting her into the seat and strapping her in. He couldn’t resist placing a quick kiss on top of her curly head. Once the tray was in place, he said to Cassidy, “Will she eat French toast, or should I fix her a bowl of cereal?”

“If we cut it up it should be fine, but no syrup. Maybe add some applesauce on the side?” Cassidy handed Zoe a link of sausage.

“Isn’t she too young for that?” her mother said, entering behind Zoe and glaring disapprovingly at the meat in her granddaughter’s hand.

“She won’t eat it,” Cassidy said patiently. “Zoe doesn’t really eat meat. As for the French toast, I’ve never given it to her before, but she eats regular toast with peanut butter.”

Max quickly washed his hands before going to the refrigerator and pulled out the bowl of batter and the loaf of Texas Toast, taking them to the counter. He heated up the griddle and prepared Zoe’s breakfast. “Anyone want seconds?”

Previously, he’d prepared six portions, not wanting the food to get cold while waiting for the others to appear.

“If you’re offering, I’ll take seconds,” Mr. Palmer said.

Max prepped and added four more slices to the pan. “Cassidy? Mrs. Palmer?”

“I’m good,” Cassidy said.

“This is enough for me,” Mrs. Palmer added.

He flipped over the toast, and while that side browned, opened the dishwasher to retrieve Zoe’s spout cup. Filling it with milk, he brought it to Zoe and placed it on her tray. As predicted, his daughter was delicately licking the grease off the sausage. Max smiled.

The minute Zoe spotted her grandfather, she’d begun a stream of babbling. Her childish chatter, interspersed with Mr. Palmer’s deeper voice, made for a cheery background. If one weren’t sensitive to the underlying atmosphere, they’d have totally missed the tense undercurrents. Cassidy and her mother were noticeably quiet.

Max cooked another platter of French toast and brought it to the table. Cassidy took one, put it on Zoe’s plate, and cut it into strips before placing the food in front of their daughter. He and Mr. Palmer served themselves another large helping.

As he sliced his toast, Mrs. Palmer asked, “Max, you said you’d recently returned from Italy? What do you do for a living?”

Cassidy gave a barely audible groan. Suppressing a smile, he said, “I’m a lawyer. My specialty is real estate. Earned my law degree from Temple.”

If his answer surprised Cassidy’s mother, she did a good job of hiding it. In the same politely inquisitive tone, she asked, “What firm are you with?”

“Currently, none. I take the occasional pro bono case with legal assistance—mostly landlord/tenant disputes,” he said dismissively.

“Max also fixes up homes in Philly and sells them to people who might not be able to afford them otherwise,” Cassidy inserted.

“So you’re self-employed?” Mrs. Palmer asked, her tone so neutral Max knew that in her mind self-employed was the same as un-employed.

He finished chewing, swallowed, and took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee before answering. “You could say that.”

Mrs. Palmer arched an eyebrow at Cassidy, her message so clear Max had no trouble interpreting it. “That can’t be very lucrative with the way the housing market is fluctuating. I’d think a man who sells houses for a living wouldn’t need to rent a basement apartment from my daughter.”

“Mom!” From her appalled expression, Max could tell Cassidy was completely mortified.

Max laughed. “I don’t. I own a perfectly nice brownstone in Philly.”

“Why aren’t you living in it?” Mrs. Palmer asked archly.

Cradling his coffee cup in both hands, he gazed steadily at Cassidy’s mother over the rim. “Because Cassidy and Zoe are here in West Chester.”

Mrs. Palmer scowled, her scrunched eyebrows broadcasting her angry confusion. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” she snapped.

Hands braced on the table, Cassidy leaned forward, her intent stare locked on her mother. “You don’t have to ‘see’ anything, Momma. Max is here because I want him here. That’s all you need to know,” she said in a firm, no-nonsense tone that dared her mother to contradict her.

Mrs. Palmer opened her mouth, most likely to do just that, glanced at her husband who watched her through narrowed eyes, and subsided.

Now that he was a parent, Max could sympathize with Mrs. Palmer. To ease her worries he said, “I also own or have shares in several restaurants, Mrs. Palmer.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Palmer asked, her skepticism evident.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Cassidy muttered, “but have you heard of Papa Luigi’s?”

Mr. Palmer perked up. “They make a damned fine pie. Best pizza I ever had. Too bad the chain hasn’t extended as far as Pittsburgh. I usually make it a point to stop in whenever we come to visit Cassidy. Might have to drive over and get one while I’m here. By Saturday I’ll be sick of turkey. Those yours?”

Mrs. Palmer shook her head. “They can’t be. Those pizzerias have been around longer than he’s been alive.”

“My family’s,” Max admitted. “My grandparents opened the first one when they arrived in this county from Italy. My parents, and now my siblings, have expanded the business.”

Cassidy’s mother slumped in her seat, deflated. “I see.”

Cassidy rose and began clearing the empty dishes from the table. “Anyone want more coffee? There’s enough here for another cup, maybe two.”

Like a good host, Max politely waited to see what Cassidy’s father decided before answering.

“I’m good. Too much coffee troubles the digestive system,” Mr. Palmer said, patting his flat belly. The man was in surprising good shape for his age. Tall and trim, with just a sprinkling of gray at the temples, he looked to be in his early- to mid-forties instead of his fifties as Max knew him to be. Max remembered Cassidy told him her father liked to play golf and jog. Her father was the one who’d gotten her interested in running, having been a track star in his high school days.

Suddenly, Mr. Palmer turned that piercing brown-eyed gaze on him. “Max, what size television do you have? The first game will be on soon.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” Cassidy said from the sink. “Max has a monster TV mounted on the wall down there. One of those that looks like it belongs in a home theatre.”

“It’s not that large,” Max protested with a laugh. “It’s only a 46-incher—”

“Only, he says,” Cassidy commented with a roll of her eyes.

“It just looks big because of the space it’s in,” he continued like she hadn’t spoken. “I still need to hook up the surround sound, but you’re more than welcome to join me.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer. That thing my daughter calls a TV is an insult to its kind,” Mr. Palmer said.

“Hey!” Cassidy protested.

Max chuckled. His wife wasn’t much for television viewing, except for the Redbox DVDs she rented every weekend. As a result, her television was almost half the size of his—24 inches. Most of the time, some children’s program was showing, or one of Zoe’s education videos played on the screen.

“Let me clean the breakfast dishes first,” he said to Mr. Palmer as he rose with his plate in his hands.

Cassidy appeared at his side, taking the dirty dish from him. “You cooked, I’ll clean. Just take Zoe with you so she doesn’t get underfoot.”

“Don’t worry about Zoe. I’ll see to her,” Mr. Palmer said, already lifting Zoe from her high chair.

Mrs. Palmer stood. “I’ll help with the dishes and the cooking, Cassidy.”

“Mom, that isn’t necessary. Why don’t you go into the living room and relax. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade should be on, and I’m sure afterwards, one of those holiday movies you like will be playing on the Hallmark Channel,” Cassidy said.