Christmas On Nutcracker Court (24 page)

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Authors: Judy Duarte

BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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“No, it's not that.”
The silence seemed to grow into this big, dark, hulking shadow that was sucking all the air out of the room, but Josh did his best to ignore it.
“Are you mad at your mom?” he asked.
“Why would you think
that
?”
“Well, you said it wasn't me. And I doubt that it's your brother or the dog. So that only leaves one other person in the house to bug you.”
Josh loved his mom; he really did. It's just that . . . Well, he didn't want to talk about it with anyone.
“It's not her,” he said.
“Then who is it?”
Like Josh was going to answer that question. “What makes you think something's bothering me?”
“Sometimes you have a scowl on your face, like your dog died, and you don't even have one.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, it's no big deal. I can handle it.”
“I know you can, but just so you know, your mom's worried about you.”
She was? Sometimes Josh figured that she didn't think about him at all.
The silence came back, and when Josh turned to Mr. Tolliver, the guy was looking at him like he could see right through him.
So what was he? A psychic or something?
Yet for some reason—maybe because he was the one who'd come to his rescue when he'd chased off Ross “the Boss”—Josh found himself admitting what was really bothering him. “Okay, so I do get a little mad at her sometimes.”
“Why's that?”
“I don't know. I guess it's the stuff she does.”
“Like what?”
Josh looked at his brother, who was so wound up showing the dog all of his
Star Wars
characters that he wasn't paying any attention to the man talk going on around him.
Still, Josh lowered his voice anyway. “She treats me like a little kid sometimes, and then like an adult two seconds later.”
“And you don't like that?”
“Would you? Sometimes, when I just want to be a kid, she treats me like an adult, asking me to do all kinds of things, like babysit, put laundry in the washer, clean up the living room.... Then, when I want to go out with my friends and hang out, she forgets all the chores I do and treats me like a baby. She forgets that I'm almost a teenager.”
“I can understand why that would bother you.”
Could he?
“You need to level with her,” he said. “Not when you're angry with her, of course, but when you're both in a good mood. You might be surprised at how well she takes it.”
Josh wasn't sure if he believed that or not.
It was weird having a man-to-man chat with a guy like Mr. Tolliver, but it was also kind of cool.
“Communication is the key to a good relationship,” he added.
“Sometimes it's hard to talk about stuff you're thinking about, especially if you don't want to fight.”
“Yeah, I know. But if a man really cares about a woman, he's got to bite the bullet and open up.”
“Oh yeah?” Josh turned to the man seated beside him, only to notice a weird look on his face, like he was eating something that didn't taste very good.
When he caught Josh studying him, he gave a little shrug. “Well, I guess that's what a man ought to do.”
Josh wondered if Mr. Tolliver used to get mad at his mother, too. And if he remembered not talking to her about it.
If that was the case, then maybe they had a lot more in common than he'd thought.
Chapter 14
Carly hadn't cooked dinner for a man in years, but she knew they usually had hearty appetites, something she hadn't considered until she'd looked into the pan of hamburger that cooked on the stove.
Worried that there might not be enough meat, she'd taken a raw potato and peeled it, then using the large side of the cheese grater, she'd shred it into the hamburger to stretch the taco filling. It had been a trick her mom had used on occasion, and Carly was glad she'd paid attention.
After taking a bite of the finished product, which was pretty tasty even before she'd added tomato sauce and spices, she'd decided that Max would never suspect that she'd added the potato so there'd be plenty for him to eat this evening.
If he mentioned anything about the ingredients or the taste, she'd tell him it was an old family recipe—and, in a sense, it was.
Now, looking over the meal she'd prepared and realizing that everything was done, she was at a bit of a loss. The table was already set. She'd also grated the cheese and chopped the tomatoes and lettuce, which were now in three separate bowls and ready for everyone to fill their own tacos.
Earlier, before Max had arrived, she'd made Spanish rice and refried beans, both of which simmered in pots on the stove. So there wasn't much left for her to do, other than fill the serving bowls.
She glanced at the clock on the oven, noting that Max had been with the boys for a while. Did that mean that Josh was opening up to him? She sure hoped so.
With nothing else to do, she fried a dozen corn tortillas, bending them in the middle so they'd be easier to fill when they were crisp. Then she called everyone to dinner—whether their talk had ended or not.
As Mikey entered the kitchen with the dog on his heels, he asked, “What about Hemingway? Where's he supposed to eat?”
“He had dinner before we came,” Max said. “Why don't I put him out into the backyard until we finish eating?”
Mikey agreed, although reluctantly, and moments later, they were all seated around the kitchen table.
With the boys in the room, the conversation seemed to flow much easier than it had when Max had first arrived and Carly hadn't known quite what to say to him. Yet that didn't mean she felt compelled to join in their chats about the Chargers or television shows they'd seen recently.
She was more interested in the talk that had gone on between Max and Josh earlier, but no matter how eager she was for answers, she couldn't bring up that subject while the boys were present. So she waited until after dinner, when everyone had eaten their ice cream and the kids had taken Hemingway back to their room.
After serving Max a cup of coffee and pouring one for herself, Carly finally asked, “Did you and Josh get a chance to talk?”
“Yes, we did, but he's pretty tight-lipped.” Max added a single spoonful of sugar into his mug, then took a sip. “That's probably because he doesn't trust me yet.”
“So you weren't able to find out what's bothering him?”
“Not exactly, but I do know he's feeling as though he's doing more than his share to help out around the house.”
Carly wasn't sure whether she wanted to defend herself or admit she'd been wrong.
Neither, she supposed.
“Do you agree?” she asked. “Do you think I've asked too much of him?”
“There's a big difference between reality and a person's perception of it. So it's hard to say.” Max returned his cup to the table, then wrapped both hands around it, appearing to be giving the situation some thought. After a beat, he looked up and caught her gaze. “I still think the bully might be part of the problem.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When I asked him about the boy, he insisted that he wasn't worried.”
“And you don't believe him?”
“It's difficult for a guy to admit that he's afraid or that he's vulnerable, no matter what his age. It's easier to pretend he's tough and that nothing bothers him, even when it does.”
Before Carly could comment, Max grew silent. Tearing his gaze from hers, he peered into his cup.
Was he thinking about Josh? Or was he merely as pensive and cryptic as her son seemed to be lately?
Desperate for answers and a solution to whatever was bothering Josh, she prodded for more details. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“Not really, but it's kind of weird.” Max looked up from his cup, and their eyes met. “While I was talking to him, I found myself offering a little advice I probably should have taken myself in the past.”
“What do you mean?”
He slowly shook his head, shutting her out, it seemed. “Nothing, I guess. It's too late to beat myself up about it now.”
She wasn't sure if he'd been thinking about an issue he'd had with his own mother or something else entirely. But either way, he clearly didn't want to talk about it, and she had no way of connecting dots that weren't there.
Max Tolliver wasn't an easy man to read.
Speaking of reading . . .
“I should be finished with your manuscript by Sunday,” she said, deciding to change the subject. “Do you want to meet and talk about it then?”
“Sure. Should we meet at a coffee shop? Or do you want me to come by here?”
“That's up to you. I'll probably take the kids to the early service at church, but we're usually out by ten.”
“Then I'll come over about eleven,” he said, “if that's okay with you.”
She offered him a smile. “I'll have a pot of coffee brewing.”
“Well,” he said, getting to his feet. “I probably ought to take off. I don't want to keep you from whatever you do in the evenings.”
What
did
she normally do? After fixing dinner for the boys, she washed the dishes. She usually put a batch of clothes in the washing machine and stewed over the check register more often than was healthy.
Still, as she pushed her own chair back and stood, she didn't dare admit that his visit tonight—and having his manuscript to read—were the highlight of her week.
Max gathered his cup and saucer, then reached for hers. “I'll help you with the dishes.”
“No, you don't have to do that. I've got the kitchen clean already. It's just a matter of filling the dishwasher.”
“Are you sure you don't need any help?”
Just talking to him about Josh had been helpful enough, so she offered him another smile. “Absolutely. It'll only take me a couple of minutes.”
“All right then.”
She followed him to the boys' room, where the dog was sitting with Mikey in the midst of the
Star Wars
toys, and Josh was lying on his bed, thumbing through a book.
“Hemingway, it's time to go,” Max said.
Mikey glanced up and frowned. “Aw, does he have to go?”
“I'm afraid so,” Max said. “Your mom would shoot me if I left her with the dishes
and
a dog who can be more trouble than he's worth.”
“He wasn't any trouble for me,” Mikey said.
Max chuckled. “I can see that.”
“Maybe Mr. Tolliver will bring his dog back when he comes over on Sunday,” Carly said.
“I'd be happy to.” Max turned to Carly and shot her a crooked grin. “At least, as long as your mom doesn't mind.”
“She doesn't care.” Mikey shot a hope-filled glance at Carly. “Do you, Mom?”
“Actually,” she said, crossing her arms and turning to Max with a smile. “Having Hemingway come over to play is the next best thing to owning a pet of our own. We can have some of the fun and none of the work.”
“Then I'm glad we could be of help.”
Moments later, Max had the dog on a leash. After he'd said good-bye to the boys, Carly walked him to the door and out onto the front porch. As their gazes met and locked, that same sense of awkwardness that had buzzed between them when he'd arrived this evening, started up all over again, although she didn't know why it would.
“Thanks again for dinner,” he said. “It was a real treat. I haven't had a home-cooked meal in a long time.”
It was only tacos,
she wanted to say.
Wait until you try my pot roast
.
Instead, she said, “You're welcome. I'll see you on Sunday.”
He nodded, then led his dog to his car.
At that point, Carly could have returned to the house, but for some reason, she waited until he got into his car and started the engine.
It seemed that she'd had an ally tonight—albeit an unlikely one.
And she hated to see him go.
 
 
Feeling more melancholy than she had in ages, Lynette sat in the comfort of her living room, a red cashmere throw draped over her legs. It was quiet and peaceful tonight—no music playing on the stereo, no wind blowing in the trees.
As she sipped a cup of chamomile tea, she found herself almost mesmerized as she stared at the fireplace, where gas flames blazed over artificial logs.
Breaking her concentration yet again, she glanced at the telephone that lay on the cushion beside her, tempted to pick it up.
Three different times she'd initiated a call to Susan this evening, only to reach for the receiver, dial the first few numbers, and then disconnect the line.
Without a doubt, she owed her friend an apology, which would be easier to make over the phone than in person, yet she still couldn't seem to follow through with it.
Not that she didn't want to make things right with Susan—she did. She just found it difficult to open her heart and apologize, then risk having the attempt thrown back in her face.
It's not that she couldn't acknowledge making a mistake. Goodness, she'd made plenty of them in her life—and would undoubtedly make many more before it was all said and done—but asking for someone's forgiveness had always been a struggle.
Well, not always.
One wintery December, when Lynette had been about seven or eight, she and her mother had to spend a couple of days in a homeless shelter, thanks to her stepdad, who'd run out on them the month before and had taken the rent money with him.
Desperate to provide a better option for shelter, Mama had placed a call to her great-aunt, a wealthy widow who'd agreed to let them move in with her temporarily.
“But just until you get back on your feet,” Aunt Pauline had said. “I'm not used to having children underfoot, and I value my privacy.”
Mama had assured Pauline that Lynette was a good little girl, that she wouldn't be a problem. So they'd packed up what few belongings they had and moved into the upscale, two-bedroom condo in Point Loma.
At first, having a warm bed in which to sleep had been a godsend, and Great-Aunt Pauline had been their savior. But it wasn't long before the older woman, who wore long acrylic nails and had steel gray hair, revealed a harsh and selfish side that Lynette had seen firsthand.
She could still recall that cold afternoon, just days before Christmas, when everything had changed, when she'd made a mistake that had triggered the end of their stay in paradise.
Pauline had insisted upon keeping her bedroom door closed, but on that fateful day the cleaning lady had left it wide open.
Lynette, who'd been on her way to the bathroom down the hall, had peered into the pink and frilly retreat. To a poor child who'd spent most of her life wearing hand-me-downs, the room seemed to be suited to royalty.
A dressing table, with its oval mirror and satin-padded chair, displayed a vast assortment of creams, lotions, and beauty supplies—each in a colorful container.
Mama had never been able to afford those kinds of luxuries, so, being a curious child, Lynette had wandered into the room, drawn to the table that she could imagine belonging to a princess.
Intrigued by a delicate lavender perfume bottle and unable to help herself, she'd lifted the lid to take a sniff of the floral scent. In her wide-eyed wonder, her fingers had trembled, and she accidentally dropped the glass bottle onto the floor, where the expensive liquid spilled onto the light-colored carpet.
Mortified and guilt-ridden, Lynette had tried her best to clean it up, although the fragrance seemed to permeate the walls, drapes, and bedding, reminding her that she'd never be able to make things right.
When Aunt Pauline got home, she'd been on her hands and knees, sopping up what she could with a fluffy white bath towel. The woman had swept into the room and shrieked, “How
could
you? After all I've done for you and your mother.”

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