Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (39 page)

“I can handle my own daughter, thanks,” Ethan snapped, only to realize how dumb that sounded, considering what he'd said not two seconds before. A realization Claire obviously picked up on, judging from the damn twinkle in her eyes.

“Yeah, well, as someone who used to
be
a teenage girl I can tell you they're very good at ignoring what they don't want to hear. Especially from their fathers. And since this doesn't only concern you, I do reserve the right to set things straight from my end.”

Jeez, the woman was worse than his daughter. But Ethan also guessed she had Juliette's ear, which apparently he didn't. At least not about this.

“Fine. Do whatever you think is best. But for now...let's just get this breakfast over with, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Claire said with a quick smile before following him to the kitchen, and Ethan pushed out another sigh that, God willing, in a half hour this—she—would be nothing more than a tiny blip on the old radar screen.

Because it'd taken the entire three years since Merri's death to fine-tune the playbook that held his family, his life, together...and damned if he was gonna let some curly-headed cutie distract him from it now.

Claire ducked into the main floor half bath as the landline rang: Jules had already picked up by the time Ethan reached the kitchen, deftly cradling it between her jaw and her shoulder as she served up omelets and fried potatoes, looking so much like her mother Ethan's heart knocked.

“Hey, Baba—” The spatula hovering over the skillet, she went stock-still. “Oh, no...that sucks! Ick....Yeah, I'll tell him....No, we'll work it out,” she said as Ethan motioned for her to give him the phone. But she only brandished the spatula, shaking her head. “Of course I'm sure. You need us for anything?...Okay, then....We'll talk later.” She redocked the phone, glancing at Ethan as she finished dishing up breakfast. “Baba's got a tummy bug, she can't take Bella to dance class.”

He silently swore. Right or wrong, he depended on Merri's parents to sometimes fill the gap, a role they both seemed to relish. And it'd been Carmela's idea to put the little jumping bean in ballet class to burn off at least some of her boundless energy. Kid could run ten circles around her brothers. Speaking of whom... “The boys have their game at ten, I can't do both.”

“Another argument for letting me get my license sooner rather than later—”

“Forget it. Maybe I could get Pop to take her—”

“PopPop in a room full of baby ballerinas. Yeah, I can totally see that. Hey—maybe Miss Jacobs could do it?”

“Maybe Miss Jacobs could do what?” Claire said as she returned, scrubbing her obviously still-damp hands across her butt.

Ethan looked away. “And I'm sure she has better things to do with her morning.”

“And you always
say,
Dad, it never hurts to ask. Right? Anyway, sit, both of you, everything's ready. So Bella has ballet this morning,” she went on as Claire sat, “and my grandmother usually takes her, 'cause the boys have football or soccer or whatever—it's always something. Only she's sick and can't do it. So I said maybe you could. It's not far, right over on Main—”

“Omigosh—not Miss Louise's?”

“Yeah. You know it?”

“Know it? I took classes there for more than ten years! She's still alive?”

“Barely, but yeah—”

And naturally, Bella picked that moment to bounce into the kitchen in her pink tights and black leotard. “Is Baba here yet? 'Cause I'm all ready, see? And can I have a piece of bacon?”

“Help yourself,” Jules said, holding the plate out for her sister as Ethan said, “You're not supposed to leave for an hour yet. But in any case—”

“Your grandmother's not feeling well,” Claire said, chomping the end off her own piece of bacon, “so I'm going to take you.”

Ethan's brows slammed together. “What?”

“My morning's free, so why not? Besides, I've always been a sucker for trips down memory lane. So what do you say, Isabella?”

That got the Very Concerned Face. “But I don't know you. And Baba always takes me for lunch afterward.”

“It's okay, Belly,” Jules said, “Ms. Jacobs is one of my teachers, she's cool—”

“And maybe Juliette could go with us, if that would make you feel better,” Claire said, adding, at the teen's nod, “and we can still go to lunch after.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Then she grinned at her breakfast. “Even though I probably won't be hungry for hours. This looks amazing, Juliette.”

“Thanks,” she said, then shot Ethan a grin that sent a brief, sharp pain shooting through his skull.

Chapter Two

N
ostalgia swelled through Claire the instant Isabella shoved open the door to the storefront studio, releasing a cloud of steam heat permeated with the tang of rosin and sweat, Miss Louise's too-sweet perfume. For her entire childhood, this was the scent of Saturday mornings, and it made her smile.

“Um...we can't stay,” Juliette said after Bella raced into a dressing room overflowing with squealing little girls.

“Oh, I know.” Because the presence of parents and such, except at recitals, tended to either make little Pavlova wannabes painfully self-conscious or turn them into obnoxious show-offs. “I just want to say hello. For old time's sake.”

“Meet me outside, then?”

“You bet.”

Because when an opportunity plunks into your lap, you take it. Of course, Ethan could simply be misreading Juliette's natural friendliness for machinations of the matchmaking kind. Certainly the idea had never occurred to Claire, even after the girl invited her for breakfast. But if Ethan's hunch was right, then the sooner this was all put to rest, the better. For everyone's sake.

Especially Ethan's, Claire thought as the girl wandered off to window-shop, and Claire remembered the pressure Mom's well-meaning friends had put on her after Claire's dad died to get out there and date again. As well as her mother emphatically telling them to mind their own business, Norman was irreplaceable, end of discussion.

So obviously that's how it was for some people—you only got one shot at love, and when it was over, it was over. True, Ethan was a lot younger, and she knew widowers were more likely to remarry than widows. But still. Bad enough the poor guy had to endure the merciless flirtations of every unattached female teacher at Hoover. So if Juliette
was
trying to set him up... So wrong—

“Oh, my God—Claire Jacobs?”

Green eyes sparkling over powder-caked cheeks, Miss Louise floated across the worn wood floor in pink ballet slippers and a wispy chiffon skirt probably older than Claire. After a brief, fierce hug, bloodred lips pursed as the redhead gave Claire a once-over that would make a Mafia goon cringe. “What on earth are you doing here, doll? I thought you'd blown this joint years ago.”

“I had. But I'm back. Teaching up at Hoover. Drama and English,” she said to the woman's raised, insect leg–like eyebrows.

“You don't say?” Her sharp gaze darted over a dozen spinning, chattering little girls. “Which one's yours?”

“Isabella. But only for this morning.”

“Bella, yeah. Little blonde toughie. Love her to bits.” Miss Louise lowered her voice. “So sad about her mommy, but the kid seems to be doing okay. So...wait a minute...” Her eyes sidled to Claire's. “You and her daddy...?”

“No,” Claire said, laughing, and the microthin brows arched again. “Long story, I'm only pinch-hitting. Anyway, figured I'd say hi.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder. “How long's the class?”

“Forty-five minutes.” Her mouth curved. “You can still do a double pirouette?”

“Ha! Like I ever could!”

Miss Louise grinned, then patted her arm. “Hey, we have an adult class on Wednesday evenings. Lots of mommies who took ballet when they were kids, now they want to lose the baby weight.” Smirking, she glanced at Claire's midsection. “Couldn't hurt, right?”

“It's the vest, I swear!”

“Whatever,” she said, walking away. “Ten bucks a class, starts at seven on the dot...”

Okay, so maybe she'd put on a few pounds since she moved back, Claire thought on a sigh as she left the studio. And maybe—she saw Juliette staring at something in the window a few stores down—there were more important things to worry about.

She hustled down the street, which in three weeks would be all gussied up for Christmas. Right now, though, despite all the redbrick fronts and colorful awnings and pretty black iron benches—the little town was nothing if not determined to survive the plague that was urban sprawl—between the stripped-bare maples and barren planters lining the curbs, it was kind of blah.

And fricking freezing, the stiff river breeze ripping right through her vest. She dug her hat out of her pocket and crammed it over her curls, but that wasn't going to help her soon-to-be-numb butt. In contrast, Juliette—who was hardly dressed like a Laplander—seemed totally unfazed by the bitter wind, her streaked hair whipping around her face as she stared.

“Wh-whatcha l-looking at?”

She pointed. “Aren't they the cutest things ever?”

“They” being a pair of fluff-ball kittens, one gold, one gray, wrestling in a shredded paper nest in the window of the local adoption shelter's adoption center.

“Omigosh...” Suddenly her bum didn't feel so cold. “Adorable.”

“Dad said maybe Belly could have a kitten for Christmas, if she promises to take care of it. Meaning I'll probably end up doing it. Like I do everything else...” She gave her head a sharp shake. “Sorry,” she mumbled, still watching the kittens. “That sounds terrible.”

“No, it doesn't,” Claire said gently, steeling herself for wherever the conversation might be headed. “It sounds like somebody who's got a lot on her plate these days. Totally understandable.”

“Except it's not even true, not really. Yeah, okay, so sometimes it does feel like that, but it's not like Dad doesn't do more than his share. Speaking of having a lot on his plate—he's got his teaching, and coaching, and making sure the boys don't, like, destroy the house. Or themselves,” she added with a little smile, then sighed. “And it's not like I mind cooking. Actually, I love it. And we got this new washer/dryer set last year, it's so awesome, it does everything but fold. And Baba helps, too, when she can. Except there's only so much she can do. Because she's, like,
sixty...
” Juliette looked over, her brow knotting at Claire's gotta-keep-the-blood-moving jig. “You cold?”

“A l-little, yeah.”

“There's that tearoom over there, maybe we could get some hot chocolate or something while we're waiting?”

“You're on.”

The two-bit diner Claire dimly remembered from her childhood had morphed into something very quaint and prissy, but the hot chocolate came in enormous mugs with a mountain of whipped cream, so she was good. She would have been even better with one of the pastries winking at her from underneath the gleaming glass dome on the counter, but remembering the brutal look Miss Louise had given her hips, she passed.

“That was so nice, you offering to take Belly to dance class,” Juliette said, focused on her mug as she swiped a napkin over her whipped-cream mustache. “I'm sure Dad appreciated it.”

“No biggie. Glad I could help.”

“So it was a good thing we ran into each other at the estate sale, huh? And then you taking me home? Like...it was fate or something.”

Claire's lips twitched.
“Serendipity.”

“Exactly.”
Juliette leaned forward, her eyes all blue fire, and Claire thought,
And here it comes.
“Don't you ever think that things happen for a reason? Sometimes, anyway. Like there's some big plan for each of us, if we can only see it?”

Claire sat straighter in her chair, a pink, curlicued confection that was hell on her back. “I certainly think life presents...opportunities,” she said carefully. “But being open to opportunity is very different from seeing something that's not actually there. Or trying to make something happen.” She met the girl's gaze dead on. “No matter how right it might feel to
you.
”

The girl sagged back in her own chair, hugging her mug to her chest. “Dad said something, didn't he?”

“Even if he hadn't, I would've figured it out on my own.”
Eventually. Maybe.
Juliette snorted. “So you have been trying to fix him up?”

“No! Well, okay, sort of. I mean...” She blew out a sigh. “What's wrong with wanting him to be
open
to the possibility of getting married again? Or at least having a girlfriend.”

“Because that's for him to decide, sweetie. Not you. Sometimes, when someone we love isn't...around anymore—”

“Mom died, Miss Jacobs. It's okay, you can say it. She
died.
And it sucks, and we were all miserable, and I know Dad still is, but...” She shook her head. “I know it sounds like I'm only thinking about myself, but I'm not, I swear. The extra work's not that big a deal, and like I said, I'm cool with cooking. And I love my brothers and sister, even when they're being pains. Except, for one thing, I've only got three more years before I'm gone. Because I'm so not sticking around for college. Not if I can help it. And for another...”

Juliette set her mug back down. “You didn't know Dad before. When he was happy. I'm not saying he acted like a clown all the time or anything—that's not his style—but at least he smiled, you know? I mean, for real. Eyes and everything. And laughed... Omigosh, his laugh... It was insane.”

Claire took a sip of her drink. “Having a hard time picturing that.”

“I'm having a hard time
remembering
it. Which is so sad.” The girl sighed, then scooped up a blob of whipped cream with her finger, poked it in her mouth. “I do remember, though, how he used to look at Mom when she didn't know he was watching, and he'd, like,
glow.
Seriously. Like he'd struck gold or something. And that feeling... You'd walk into the house, and you'd just feel it, that glow. Like everything was okay. And it's not there anymore.” She looked up, tears brimming. “And I can't believe that's how it's supposed to be for the rest of our lives. Especially the rest of D-Dad's.”

“Oh, honey...” Claire reached for the teen's hand, her heart aching in spite of herself. Yes, the thought niggled that the girl might be manipulating her—or trying to—but something louder said that wasn't what was going on here. Whether Claire fully understood or not Juliette's reasons for confiding in her, that wasn't the issue. The issue was that the child really was hurting, and for her dad more than for herself. That put a whole different spin on things, one she wondered if Ethan even realized. “Your heart's in the right place, wanting someone to fill the gap in your lives. Especially your dad's. But as I said, you can't force these things to happen. If you father's not ready—”

“But how does he know that if he won't even try? It's been more than three years already!”

“And I know, for you, that feels like a long time. For your dad, it might feel like no time at all.” She let go. “You know, not every kid in your situation is down with getting a new parent. In fact, many are absolutely horrified by the idea—”

“And you don't think I'm not? Hey, I
devoured
fairy tales when I was little—all those wicked stepmothers?” She shuddered. “Serious nightmare material. So yeah, while I think things would be much better if Dad found someone else...” Her face pinked. “I don't totally trust him to pick for himself.”

A startled laugh popped out of Claire's mouth. “So you've decided to prescreen applicants for the position?”

“Seemed like a good idea.”

“And I'm on your short list.”

“Well...yeah,” Juliette said, and Claire laughed again.

“Why?”

“Because you're
sane?
”

“Spoken like someone who clearly doesn't know me very well.”

“Oh, trust me. I know from insanity. Not to mention desperation. At least you don't go around shoving your boobs in guys' faces.”

Claire smiled. “This is true. But, honey, I'm not your mother—”

“Duh, I know that—”

“No, what I mean is... Okay, let's get real. Setting aside the fact that I'm no more interested in your dad than he is in me—”

“And maybe if you guys got to know each other—”

“Juliette—stop. Even if, by some very,
very
slim chance, your dad and I hit it off, it takes a special person to take on a ready-made family. And trust me, I'm not that person.”

“But—”

She lifted a hand to stop whatever the girl was about to say. “
Four
kids? And while I might be able to fake it with girls...your brothers? No way.”

“But...you obviously like kids—”

“I love them. Teaching them, though. Not raising them. I was an only child, honey. I'm doing well to keep a cat and two houseplants alive. Sweetie,” she said, “whatever's best for you guys... It'll happen. When it's supposed to and without your...help. After all, your dad picked your mom on his own, right?”

Finally, the wind seemed to go out of the girl's sails. “Guess I hadn't thought of that.” Then she sighed. “But it's so...hard.”

“I know, honey. Really.” Claire glanced up at the clock over the counter, dug her wallet out of her purse. “And we need to pick up your sister.”

Juliette fell silent after that. Until, right as they reached the dance studio, she said, “Can we at least be friends?”

“Of course! You need someone to talk to, I'm here. But you need to tell your dad your matchmaking days are over. Because he doesn't need to worry about that on top of everything else. Deal?”

“Deal,” Juliette said on a gusty sigh as her little sister burst outside, and she squatted to hug her.

So, whew, done,
Claire thought after she took the kids for burgers and shakes, staying in the car after driving them home. But listening to Isabella's giggles as they ate, Juliette's too-grown-up observations about her world... It hadn't exactly been horrible.

And you know what else? Seeing the little one streak to her father, who was outside raking the last of the leaves, watching him scoop her into his arms, his eyes glued to hers as she relayed every detail of the past two hours... Having someone like that in her life might not be so horrible, either. Except there were way too many ifs and buts and excepts attached to that thought to even go there. Because if Claire had learned anything from her over-before-it-began marriage, it was that serious relationships required at least a certain level of self-sacrifice—something she didn't seem very good at.