Kitabı oku: «I'll Be Home for Christmas and One Golden Christmas»
Praise for Lenora Worth and her novels
“Lenora Worth’s Christmas tale will warm the cockles of readers’ hearts.”
—RT Book Reviews on I’ll Be Home for Christmas
“Lenora Worth’s One Golden Christmas is another jewel shining like the brightest star atop the Christmas tree.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Lacey’s Retreat by Lenora Worth is rich in characterization and romance with an endearing hero.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Lenora Worth creates a character with a Heart of Stone that will have readers longing to melt it. Her best story yet.”
—RT Book Reviews
I’ll Be Home for Christmas & One Golden Christmas
Lenora Worth
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
LENORA WORTH
has written more than thirty books, most of those for Steeple Hill. She also works freelance for a local magazine, where she had written monthly opinion columns, feature articles and social commentaries. She also wrote for the local paper for five years. Married to her high school sweetheart for thirty-three years, Lenora lives in Louisiana and has two grown children and a cat. She loves to read, take long walks and sit in her garden.
Contents
I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
ONE GOLDEN CHRISTMAS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
I’ll be home for Christmas
And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
—1 Corinthians 13:13
To Jean Price and Dee Pace,
for taking a chance on me,
and
To my mother, Myla Brinson Humphries,
who’s in heaven with the angels.
Chapter One
He was tired.
He was hungry.
He wanted a big roast beef sandwich from that roast Henny had baked early in the week, and then he wanted to go to bed and sleep for at least fourteen hours.
Nick Rudolph shifted against the supple leather seat of his Jaguar sedan, his impatient foot pressing the accelerator further toward Shreveport, Louisiana, the interstate’s slippery surface spewing icy rain out around the sleek black car.
He was also late. Very late. Carolyn would be fuming; he’d have to smooth things over with her. Right about now, he was supposed to be escorting her to the mayor’s Christmas party. Instead, he was making his way along a treacherous stretch of icy road, on the coldest night of the year.
His mind went back to the meetings in Dallas he’d had to endure to cut another deal for Rudolph Oil. After all the hours of endless negotiations, he still wasn’t sure if he’d closed the deal. They wanted to think about it some more.
That he wasn’t coming home victorious grated against his ego like the ice grating against his windshield wipers. Over the last few years, work had always come first with Nick Rudolph. It was an unspoken promise to his late father, a man Nick hadn’t understood until after his death. Now, because he’d seen a side of his father that still left him unsettled, Nick preferred to concentrate on tangible endeavors, like making money.
Nick Rudolph wasn’t used to losing. He’d been blessed with a good life, with all the comforts of old money, and he didn’t take kindly to being shut out. He’d win them over; he always did. He might have given up every ounce of his self-worth, but he wasn’t about to let go of his net worth.
As the car neared the exit for Kelly’s Truck Stop, he allowed himself a moment to relax. Almost home. Soon, he’d be sitting by his fire, the cold December rain held at bay outside the sturdy walls of his Georgian-style mansion. Soon.
Nick looked up just in time to see the dark shapes moving in front of his car, his headlights flashing across the darting figures rushing out onto the road in front of him.
Automatically slamming on his brakes, he held the leather-covered steering wheel with tight fingers. His mind screamed an alert warning as the car barely missed hitting a small figure standing in the rain before it skidded to a groaning halt.
“What in the world!” Nick cut the engine to a fast stop, then hopped out of the car, his mind still reeling with the sure knowledge that he’d almost hit a child. Coming around the car, his expensive loafers crunching against patches of ice, he looked down at the three people huddled together on the side of the interstate. Tired and shaken, he squinted against the beam of his car’s headlights.
The sight he saw made him sag with relief. He hadn’t hit anyone. Immediately following the relief came a strong curiosity. Why would anyone be standing in the middle of the interstate on a night like this?
The woman stood tall, her chin lifted in proud defiance, her long hair flowing out in the icy wind, her hands pulled tight against the shoulders of the two freezing children cloistered against the protection of her worn wool jacket.
The two children, a small boy and a taller, skinny girl, looked up at Nick with wide, frightened eyes, their lips trembling, whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t be sure.
He inched closer to the haphazard trio. “Are you people all right?”
The woman pushed thick dark hair away from her face, shifting slightly to see Nick better. “We’re all okay. I’m sorry. We were trying to cross over to the truck stop. We…you…I didn’t realize how fast you were going.”
Nick let out a long, shuddering sigh, small aftershocks rippling through his body. “I almost hit you!”
The woman stiffened. “I said we’re all okay.” Then as if realizing the harshness of her words, she repeated, “I’m sorry.”
Something in her tone caught at Nick, holding him. It was as if she’d had a lot of experience saying those words.
“Me, too,” he said by way of his own apology. He’d never been good with “I’m sorry”, because he’d never felt the need to apologize for his actions. But he had been driving way too fast for these icy roads. What if he’d hit that little boy?
He ran his hand through his damp dark hair, then shoved both hands into the deep pockets of his wool trench coat. “Where…where’s your car? Do you need a ride?”
The woman moved her head slightly, motioning toward the west. “We broke down back there. We were headed to the truck stop for help.”
“I’ll drop you off,” Nick offered, eager to get on his way. Turning, he headed back to his car. When the woman didn’t immediately follow, he whirled, his eyes centering on her. “I said I’d give you a lift.”
“We don’t know you,” she reasoned. “It’s not that far. We can walk.”
“And risk getting hit again?” Regretting his brusque tone, Nick stepped closer to her, the cold rain chilling him to his bones. “Look, I’m perfectly safe. I’ll take you to the truck stop. Maybe they can call a wrecker for your car.”
“I can’t afford a wrecker,” the woman said, almost to herself.
“We’re broke,” the little boy supplied, his eyes big and solemn, their depths aged beyond his five or so years.
“Patrick, please hush,” the woman said gently, holding him tight against her jeans-clad leg. Gazing up at Nick, she shot him that proud look again. “I’d appreciate a ride, mister.”
“It’s Nick,” he supplied. “Nick Rudolph. I live in Shreveport.” As he talked, he guided them toward his car, wondering where they were from and where they were headed, and why they’d broken down on such an awful night. “I’m on my way back from Dallas,” he explained, opening doors and moving his briefcase and clothes bag out of the way.
“We used to live near Dallas,” the little boy said as he scooted onto the beige-colored leather seat. “Wow! This is a really cool car, ain’t it, Mom?”
“It’s isn’t,” his sister corrected, her voice sounding hoarse and weak.
The boy gave her an exaggerated shrug.
Nick stepped aside as the woman slid into the front seat. Her eyes lifted to Nick’s, and from the overhead light, he got his first really good glimpse of her.
And lost his sense of control in the process.
Green eyes, forest green, evergreen, shined underneath arched brows that dared him to question her. An angular face, almost gaunt in its slenderness, a long nose over a wide, full mouth. Her lips were chapped; she nibbled at the corner of her bottom lip. But she tossed back her long auburn hair like a queen, looking regal in spite of her threadbare, scrappy clothes.
Nick lost track of time as he stared down at her, then catching himself, he shut the door firmly, his body cold from the December wind blowing across the roadway. Running around the car, he hurried inside, closing the nasty night out with a slam.
“Mom?” the little boy said again, “don’t you like Nick’s car?”
“It’s very nice,” the woman replied, her eyes sliding over the car’s interior. “And it’s Mr. Rudolph, Patrick. Remember your manners.”
The expensive sedan cranked on cue, and Nick pulled it back onto the highway, careful of the slippery road. “What’s your name?” he asked the woman beside him.
“Myla.” She let one slender hand rest on the dashboard for support as the car moved along. “Myla Howell.” Nodding toward the back of the car, she added, “And these are my children, Patrick and Jessica.”
The little girl started coughing, the hacking sounds ragged and raspy. “Mama, I’m thirsty,” she croaked.
“They’ll have drinks at the truck stop,” Nick said, concern filtering through his need to get on home.
“We don’t got no money for drinks,” Patrick piped up, leaning forward toward Nick.
“Patrick!” Myla whirled around, her green eyes flashing. “Honey, sit back and be quiet.” Her tone going from stern to gentle, she added, “Jesse, we’ll get a drink of water in the bathroom, okay?”
Nick pulled the car into the busy truck stop, deciding he couldn’t leave them stranded here, cold and hungry. He’d at least feed them before he figured out what to do about their car. Turning to Myla, he asked, “Is everything all right? Can I call somebody for you? A relative maybe?”
She looked straight ahead, watching as a fancy eighteen-wheeler groaned its way toward the highway. “We don’t have any relatives here.” A telling silence filled the car. Outside, the icy rain picked up, turning into full-fledged sleet.
“Where were you headed?” Nick knew he was past late, and that he probably wasn’t going anywhere soon.
“To Shreveport.” Myla sat still, looking straight ahead.
“Mom’s found a job,” Patrick explained, eager to fill Nick in on the details. “And she said we’ll probably find a place to live soon—it’d sure beat the car—”
“Patrick!” Myla turned then, her gaze slamming into Nick’s, a full load of pain mixed with the pride he saw so clearly through the fluorescent glow of the truck stop’s blinding lights.
His mouth dropping open, Nick gave her an incredulous look. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing.” Her chin lifted a notch. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Rudolph. We’ll be fine now.”
The car door clicked open, but Nick’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm. “Hey, wait!”
Her gaze lifted from his hand on her arm to the urgent expression on his face. “Let me go.”
“I can’t do that.” Nick surprised himself more than he surprised her. “If you don’t have any place to go—”
“It’s not your problem,” she interrupted. “If I can just make it into town, I’ve got a good chance of still getting the job I called about yesterday. Once I find steady work, we’ll be fine.”
“I can help,” he said, almost afraid of the worn wisdom he read in her eyes. “I can call a wrecker, at least. And find a place for you to stay.”
From the back seat, Jessica went into another fit of coughing, the hacking sound reminding Nick of memories he’d tried to suppress for too long.
“That does it.” He reached across Myla to slam her door shut. The action brought them face-to-face for a split second, but it was long enough for Nick to get lost in those beautiful eyes again, long enough for him to forget his regrets and his promises and wish for things he knew he’d never have. And it was long enough for him to make a decision that he somehow knew was about to change his life. “You’re coming with me,” he said, his tone firm. “I won’t leave a sick child out in this mess!”
The woman looked over at him, her eyes pooling into two misty depths. “I…I don’t know how to thank you.”
Nick heard the catch in her throat, knew she was on the verge of tears. The thought of those beautiful eyes crying tore through him, but he told himself he’d only help the family find a safe place to spend the night. He wasn’t ready to get any further involved in whatever problems they were having.
“You need help,” he said. “If you’re worried about going off with a stranger, I’ll call someone to verify my identity.” A new thought calculating in his taxed brain, he added, “In fact, my sister is a volunteer counselor for Magnolia House. I’ll call her. She’s always helping people.” Having found a way to get out of this sticky predicament, Nick breathed a sigh of relief.
Myla turned back, her eyes wary. “What’s Magnolia House?”
He waved a hand. “It’s this place downtown, a homeless shelter, but a bit nicer. According to my sister it has private rooms where families can stay until…until they get back on their feet.” He really didn’t know that much about his sister’s latest mission project, except that he’d written a huge check to help fund it.
Giving him a hopeful look, she asked, “And we don’t have to pay to live there?”
“No, not with money. You do assigned tasks at the home, and attend classes to help you find work, things like that. My sister helped set the place up and she’s on the board of directors. She’ll explain how it works.”
“Can you get us in tonight?”
Putting all thoughts of a roast beef sandwich or a quiet evening with Carolyn out of his mind, Nick nodded hesitantly. “I’ll do my best. And I’ll send a wrecker for your car, too.”
She relaxed, letting out a long breath. Then she gave him a direct, studying stare, as if she were trying to decide whether to trust him or not. Clearing her throat, she said, “Thank you.”
Admiration surfaced in the murky depths of Nick’s impassive soul. He knew how much pride those two words had cost this woman. He admired pride. It had certainly sustained him all these years. Debating his next question, he decided there was no way to dance around this situation. Starting the car again, he carefully maneuvered through the truck stop traffic.
“How’d you wind up…?”
“Homeless, living in my car?”
Her directness surprised him, but then this whole night has been full of surprises.
“If you don’t mind talking about it.”
“My husband died about a year ago.” She hesitated, then added, “Afterward, I found out we didn’t have any money left. No insurance, no savings, nothing. I lost everything.”
Nick glanced over at her as the car cruised farther up the interstate, leaving downtown Shreveport at Line Avenue to head for the secluded privacy of the historic Highland District. Taking her quiet reluctance as a sign of mourning, he cleared his throat slightly, unable to sympathize with her need to mourn; he’d never quite learned how himself. So instead, he concentrated on the fact that she was a single mother. All his protective instincts, something he usually reserved for his sister, surfaced, surprising him. Must be the Christmas spirit. Could I possibly have some redeemable qualities left after all?
“What did you do?” he asked, mystified.
Lifting her head, Myla sighed. “I left Dallas and looked for work. I got a job in Marshall, but the company I worked for closed down. I ran out of money, so we got evicted from our apartment.”
Nick could hear the shame in her voice.
“After that, we just drove around. I looked for work. We stayed in hotels until the little bit of cash I had ran out. That was two weeks ago. We’ve been sleeping in the car, stopping at rest areas to bathe and eat. The kids played or slept while I called about jobs.”
She slumped down in her seat, the defeat covering her body like the cold, hard sleet covering the road.
Then she lifted her head and her shoulders. “I don’t want to resort to going on welfare, but I’ll do it for my children. We might be destitute right now, but this is only temporary. I intend to find work as soon as I can.”
It was Nick’s turn to feel ashamed. He was more than willing to write her a fat check, but he had the funny feeling she’d throw it back in his face. She had enough pride to choke a horse, but how long could she survive on pride? And why should he be so worried that she’d try?
Nick didn’t have time to ponder that question. Minutes later, he pulled the car up a winding drive to a redbrick Georgian-style mansion that shimmered and sparkled with all the connotations of a Norman Rockwell Christmas. Suddenly, the wreaths and candles in the massive windows seemed garish and mocking. He’d told Henny not to put out any Christmas decorations, anyway. Obviously, the elderly housekeeper hadn’t listened to him, not that she ever did.
Now, seeing his opulent home through the eyes of a person who didn’t have a home scared him silly, and caused him to take a good, long hard look at his life-style.
“Man!” Patrick jumped up to lean forward. Straining at his seat belt, he tugged his sleeping sister up. “Look, Jesse. Can you believe this? Santa’s sure to find us here. Mr. Nick, you must be the richest man in the world.”
The woman sitting next to him lowered her head, but she didn’t reprimand her son. Nick saw the pain shattering her face like fragments of ice.
Nick Rudolph, the man some called ruthless and relentless, sat silently looking up at the house he’d lived in all his life. He’d always taken it for granted, his way of life. His parents had provided him and Lydia with the best. And even in death, they’d bequeathed an affluent life-style to their children.
Nick had accepted the life-style, but he hadn’t accepted the obligations and expectations his stern father had pressed on him. When he could no longer live up to those expectations, he’d acted like a rebel without a cause—until he’d seen the truth in his dying father’s eyes.
Everything his father had drilled into him had become a sham. And Joseph, overcome with emotion because he loved his Ruthie too much, had tried to tell Nick it was okay to be vulnerable when it involved someone you loved.
But it had been too late for Nick. He’d learned his lessons well. Now, he guarded his heart much in the same way he watched over Rudolph Oil—with a steely determination that allowed no room for weakness.
Maybe that was why he’d felt so restless lately. Maybe his guilt was starting to wear thin. Though he had it all, something was missing still. Nick had never wanted for anything, until now. All his money couldn’t buy back this woman’s pride or settle her losses. All his wealth seemed a dishonest display compared to her honest humility.
“No, Patrick,” he began, his voice strangely husky, “I’m not the richest man in the world, not by a long shot.”
“Well, you ain’t hurtin’ any,” Patrick noted.
“No, I suppose I’m not,” Nick replied, his eyes seeking those of the woman beside him. “Let’s go inside where it’s warm.”
Opening the car door, he vented his frustration on the expensive machine. He was hurting. And he didn’t understand why. How had the night become a study in contradiction and longing? How had he fallen into such a blue mood? Well, he’d just had an incredibly bad day, that was all. Or was it?
No. It was her—Myla. Myla Howell and her two needy children. He couldn’t solve all the problems of the world, could he? He’d make sure they had a decent place to stay, maybe help her find a job, then go on with his merry life. Things would go back to the way they’d been up until about an hour ago.
And how were things before, Nick? an inner voice questioned.
Normal. Settled. Content.
And lonely.
And that was the gist of the matter.
These three ragamuffins had brought out the loneliness he’d tried to hide for so long. Denying it had been pretty easy up until tonight. But they’d sprung a trap for him, an innocent but clever trap. They’d nabbed him with their earnest needs and unfortunate situation. He’d help them, sure. He certainly wasn’t a coldhearted man.
But he wouldn’t get involved. At all. His formidable father had drilled the rules of business into Nick—no distractions, show no emotions. In the end, however, Joseph Rudolph had forgotten all his own rules. In the end, his own emotions had taken control of his life. Nick had learned from Joseph’s mistake. So now, he let Lydia do the good deeds while he took care of business. It was a nice setup. One he didn’t intend to change.
“I’ll call Lydia. She’ll know what to do,” Nick said minutes later as he flipped on lights and guided them through the house from the three-car garage. A large, well-lit kitchen greeted them as the buzz of the automatic garage door opener shut them snugly in for the night. Nick headed to the cordless phone, intent on finding his sister fast. Then he’d have to call Carolyn and make his excuses. When he only connected with Lydia’s perky answering machine, he left a brief, panicked message. “Lydia, it’s your brother. Call me—soon. I’m at home and I could really use your help.”
We make him uncomfortable, Myla Howell reasoned as she watched the handsome, well-dressed man talking on the phone. She knew she and her children were an inconvenience. When you didn’t have money, or a place to sleep, you became that way.
She’d learned that lesson over the last few months. People who’d called themselves her friends had suddenly turned away. She wasn’t good enough for them now. They didn’t have time for her now. They couldn’t be seen associating with a homeless person.
This man was the same. He couldn’t wait to be rid of them. But, he had saved them tonight. She’d give him credit for that. She watched him moving about the kitchen, taking in his dark, chocolate-colored hair, remembering his gold-tinged tiger eyes. Golden brown, but missing that spark of warmth. Calculating eyes? She’d seen that kind of eyes before; still bore the scars from trusting someone who could be so ruthless. Would this man be any different?
She hoped so, she prayed so, for the sake of getting her children to a safe place. Refusing to give in to her fears or her humiliation, she focused on her surroundings instead. What a joy it would be to cook in a kitchen like this! She missed having a kitchen. Cooking was one of her pleasures and with hard work and lots of prayer, it could soon be her livelihood, too.
The gleaming industrial-size aluminum stove shouted at her while the matching refrigerator-freezer told her there was lots of bounty here to explore. The long butcher block island centered in the middle of the wide room spoke of fresh vegetables and homemade breads and pastries. Myla closed her eyes briefly, almost smelling the aroma of a lovely, home-cooked holiday meal. She’d miss that this Christmas. But next year…
Nick watched her in amazement. Under the surreal lights of the truck stop, she’d looked pale and drawn. But here in the bright track lights, Myla seemed to glow. She was tall, almost gaunt in her thinness. Her hair was long and thick, a mass of red, endearing curls that clung to her neck and shoulders. Even in her plain clothes, this woman exuded a grace and charm that few women would possess dressed in furs and diamonds. Obviously, she hadn’t always been homeless. Her clothes and the children’s looked to be of good quality and in fair shape. Not too threadbare; wrinkled, but clean.
Mentally shaking himself out of his curious stupor, Nick watched her closely, noticing the dreamy expression falling across her freckled face. Then it hit him. “You’re probably hungry.”
His statement changed Myla’s dreamy expression to a blushing halt. “I’m sorry…this is such a beautiful kitchen…I got carried away looking at it.” Nodding at the expectant faces of her children, she pushed them forward. “The children need something to eat. We had breakfast at a rest stop—donuts and milk.”
The implication that they hadn’t eaten since this morning caused Nick to lift his head, but he turned away before she could see the sympathy in his eyes. “Well, don’t worry. Our housekeeper, Henrietta Clark, has been with the family for most of my life. She always stays with a friend down the street when I’m away, so she’s not here tonight. But she cooks a lot, way too much for my sister and me. We usually wind up giving half of it away—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Rudolph,” Myla said to ease his discomfort. “We’ll be glad to take some of your leftovers off your hands, right, kids?”
She was being cheerful for the children’s sake, Nick realized. Relaxing a little, he dashed over to the gleaming refrigerator. “Let’s just see what we’ve got. We’ll have ourselves a feast.”
Patrick hopped up on a wooden stool, yanking his fleece jacket off with a flourish. “My mom’s the best cook, Mr. Nick. She can make just about anything, but her bestest is bread—and cookies.”
“Oh, really?” Nick glanced over at Myla. “Well, come on over here, Mom. I could use an expert hand. I’m not very good in the kitchen.”
Eyeing Jesse and unsure what to do with her, he lifted the quiet little girl up on the stool next to Patrick. With an unsteady smile, he registered that she felt warm, almost too warm, but then he wasn’t a doctor or a daddy. What did he know about little girls?
Myla stepped forward, then took off her threadbare wool coat. “Anything I can do to help?”
Nick watched as she hovered beside him, as if waiting for him to issue an order. Tired and unsure what to do himself, he unceremoniously loosened the red-patterned tie at his neck, then yanked off the tailored wool suit jacket he’d worn all day. Tossing the jacket across a chair, he watched as Myla straightened it and hung it over the back of the chair, her hands automatically smoothing the wrinkles out.
“Thank you,” he said.
He watched as a flush bathed her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Force of habit. My husband liked everything in its place.”
Nick nodded, then wondered about her marriage. Had it been a happy one? Not that it was any of his business, but the sad, almost evasive look in her eyes made him curious. Did she miss her husband? Of course, she probably did, especially now when she was struggling so much.
“How about a roast beef sandwich?” he asked as he lifted the heavy pan of meat out of the refrigerator. “Henny cooked this for Sunday supper, but I didn’t get back into town to enjoy it.”
“That’s a shame.”
“No, that’s the life of an oilman. Lots of trips, lots of leftovers.” Searching through a drawer, he found a large carving knife. “I say, let’s cut into this thing.”
“Yeah, let’s cut into that thing,” Patrick echoed, clapping his hands. “My mouth’s watering.”
Jesse smiled, then coughed.
“Are you hungry, Jesse?” Worry darkened Myla’s eyes. “She has allergies and she’s fighting a nasty cold.”
A spark of warmth curled in Nick’s heart. “Maybe some good food will perk her up.” He offered Jesse a glass of orange juice.
Nick found the bread, then poured huge glasses of milk for the children. Myla located the coffeemaker and started a fresh brew. She sliced tomato and lettuce, then made some thick roast beef sandwiches. Soon all four of them were sitting around the butcher block counter. Nick picked up his sandwich for a hefty bite, but held it in midair as Myla and her children clasped hands and bowed their heads.
Seeing his openmouthed pose, Myla said quietly, “We always say grace before our meals. I hope you don’t mind.”
Nick dropped his sandwich as if it were on fire. “No, of course not.”
When Myla extended her hand to his, something went all soft and quiet in his ninety-mile-an-hour mind. When was the last time he’d said a prayer of any kind? He listened now to Myla’s soft, caressing voice.
“Thank you, Lord, for this day and this food. Thank you for our safety and for the warmth you have provided. Thank you for sending us help when we needed it most. We ask that you bless each of us, and this house. Amen.”
Stunned, Nick wasn’t so sure he wanted his house blessed. He felt awkward as he lifted his hand away from the warmth of Myla’s. To hide his discomfort, he said, “Let’s eat.”
Patrick didn’t have to be told twice. He attacked one half of his sandwich with gusto. Nick flipped on a nearby television to entertain the children, but mostly to stifle the awkward tension permeating the room.
He watched them eat, hoping Lydia would call soon. Patrick wolfed his food down in record time, while Jesse nibbled at hers between fits of dry coughing. Their mother broke off little bits of her sandwich, as if forcing herself to eat, her eyes darting here and there in worry.
Finally, out of frustration more than anything else, Nick said, “That hit the spot. I was starved.”
“Me, too,” Jesse said, speaking up at last.
