[Ladera by the Sea 01] - A Wedding for Christmas Page 6

  Shane McCallister won a place in her heart that very moment.

  It took her a second to realize that Ricky was trying to get her attention. After a beat, she looked at him and he asked, “Can I go with him, Mama?”

  Getting the boy to speak properly felt like a never-ending battle. “May I go with him,” Cris corrected him patiently.

  The lesson was lost on Ricky. He took her words at face value.

  “You wanna go, too? Then we can both go, right?” Ricky asked eagerly, swinging his little feet beneath the table. Any faster and Cris was certain he’d take off like a miniature helicopter.

  “No, Ricky, I was just trying to correct your grammar. And no, you can’t go with Shane. You have homework to do and I’ve got more dinners to serve, so we’re both grounded.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shane pause at the dining area’s threshold, turn around and wave to her and Ricky. She waved back, as did her son.

  Cris stood there, firmly telling herself that her stomach hadn’t just leaped up in response, that if anything, it was only reacting to something she’d eaten earlier in the day.

  But she knew she was making excuses. Poor ones, at that. They certainly weren’t convincing her of anything other than the fact that Shane’s proximity created mini tidal waves in her stomach.

  Cris forced herself to focus on the immediate situation: she needed Ricky escorted back to his grandfather.

  Glancing at the boy, she had a feeling that if she sent him off on his own the way she normally did, he would probably race after Shane and attempt to talk his way into going to the shelter with him. Most likely he’d tell Shane he had her blessings.

  So, grasping his hand firmly in hers, Cris waved and managed to catch Stevi’s attention as she finished jotting down an order.

  When Stevi crossed to her, Cris told her sister, “Take him to Dad. Ricky’s got some homework to do before he’s a free man tonight.”

  “Okay. Trade,” Stevi bargained, handing over the old-fashioned order pad she had in her hand. “That’s from Ms. Carlyle,” she said, referring to their one permanent resident, Anne Carlyle, a retired elementary school teacher who had been coming to the inn since before their father had taken over managing it from his father, Kent Roman.

  This was a trade that she could readily live with, Cris thought.

  “Deal,” she declared, and handed off her son to her sister.

  CHAPTER SIX

  RICHARD ROMAN LET the swinging door into the kitchen close behind him. “A penny for your thoughts,” he said to the only other occupant in the room.

  The dinner rush was over and cleanup already done. Jorge had left the premises.

  His daughter was standing in front of the industrial range, for once not a vision of perpetual motion. Her mind was definitely elsewhere.

  It wasn’t like her.

  Cris startled and turned away from the range to look at her father.

  She offered him a bright, affectionate smile as she played back his words in her head. “Sorry, Dad, a penny doesn’t buy anything these days.”

  Richard laughed softly—and just possibly with a bit of nostalgia. “Don’t I know it.” He paused for a moment, then drew a step closer, his eyes intent on hers.

  His fatherly intuition, which had taken time for him to cultivate, told him that something was off. He even had a gut feeling he knew what that “something” was. But for now, he kept that to himself. Things always worked out better if Cris was the one who volunteered the information.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked in a voice that was infinitely sympathetic.

  She shook her head a little too quickly, a little too casually. “No, I’m just thinking.”

  His eyes continued to hold hers. “About?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing that’s worth taking up your time,” she told him. This wasn’t a topic that was easily discussed—or even understood. She needed to work it out in her own head first before attempting to say anything to her father or anyone else in the family.

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he replied. “And for the record, everything that concerns you and your sisters is worth taking up my time,” he reminded her. “Just because none of you need me to braid your hair or drive you off to the mall anymore doesn’t mean I’m bowing out of your lives or stepping away from the father business.” He patted her cheek affectionately. “Face it, Cris. You’re stuck with me. I’m going to be your dad until they lay me to rest beside your mother.”

  “Which is not going to be for a long, long time,” Cris insisted with feeling. She knew her sisters still thought of their father as a dad. And he was the invisible glue that held the family all together.

  “Absolutely,” Richard agreed. Then his playful tone receded. “Is it the wedding?” he asked kindly, voicing what he had intuited.

  He knew that despite their occasional flare-ups, his daughters loved one another fiercely, that they would defend one another with their last breath and that no significant jealousy flowed between them.

  But he was also sensitive to the undercurrents in their relationships in certain situations. While he knew that Cris was more than happy for Alex because her older sister was marrying Wyatt, he also felt the impending marriage had to stir up memories for Cris. Both the good ones and the bad.

  When Cris had married Mike, the vows they had exchanged had included the phrase “till death do us part.” No one had expected death to enter the equation for decades to come.

  But it had.

  As had his Amy, whom Richard felt had been taken from him far too soon, Mike had been forced to break his vow with Cris. “Forever” had turned out to be finite.

  Unlike Amy, Mike had not been buried in the family cemetery. His wealthy, upper-crust parents had insisted that Mike be laid to rest in the mausoleum where the rest of his family for generations back was buried. Out of respect for their wishes, Cris hadn’t contested the matter. But Richard knew that his daughter missed being able to visit Mike’s grave whenever she wanted to, the way he did with his Amy.

  “No, it has nothing to do with the wedding,” Cris assured him. “Really, I was just taking a little mental break from everything, that’s all.”

  She uttered the words as convincingly as she could. Cris didn’t want her father to suspect what she’d really been thinking about: Shane and coming to terms with what she admitted in the privacy of her own heart was a mysteriously unsettling attraction to him.

  Feeling such an attraction somehow seemed disloyal to her. Disloyal to Mike’s memory. Yes, Mike was gone and had been for five very long years, but she had expected to go to her grave loving only him. Her one short-lived venture into the world of dating had reinforced that reality for her.

  Rising onto her toes, she brushed her lips against her father’s cheek.

  “Really, Dad, you worry much too much. You need to stop thinking about us all the time and get in a little socializing while you’re still young enough to really enjoy it.”

  “I’m doing just fine and don’t go trying to change the subject on me.” He laughed. “I’m on to you, Christina Roman MacDonald.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she told him. “Honestly. I didn’t know there was a subject.”

  “Actually, there is,” he confessed, remembering the conversation he’d had with Ricky that had sent him looking for her earlier. “What’s this I hear about a mini-expedition to find a real Christmas tree for the inn’s main room?”

  Well, there certainly were no secrets around here, not even for a few hours, Cris couldn’t help thinking. She wondered if her son had told her father about the change in plans the second that the little boy had run into the room.

  “I take it Ricky’s been bending your ear.”

  Her father laughed. That was putting
it mildly. They all knew how the boy could talk nonstop for what seemed like hours on end.

  “Ricky has been talking about nothing else but that for the past hour,” her father told her. “I finally had to turn him over to Andy to get him ready for bed. That boy’s got too much energy for me—my ears are still ringing.”

  “You’ve got to save that energy for the ladies, Dad,” she said with a wink.

  “I don’t intend for there to be any ‘ladies,’ Cris,” Richard reminded his daughter firmly.

  Cris crossed her arms before her as she leaned back against the cold stove. “Rosemary will be very disappointed to hear you say that.”

  Richard blinked. “Rosemary?”

  Boy, talk about being in denial, she thought. How could he miss all the signs? “Rosemary Cambridge. Our neighbor. The lady who comes in to occasionally lend me a hand whenever you or Alex manage to book a mini-convention at the inn.”

  “I know who she is,” Richard answered with just a trace of impatience. “What I don’t know is where you got this completely strange idea that Rosemary would have any feelings one way or the other about my socializing—or not socializing.”

  “Dad, look at the lady sometime,” Cris declared. “If that woman were any more taken with you, her eyes would have little hearts in them like those characters in those vintage cartoon shows you like to watch with Ricky.”

  Richard shook his head, dismissing her observations. “You’ve been standing over pots of boiling water for far too long, Cris. The vapors have infiltrated your brain.”

  “I’m not the only one who’s noticed the way Rosemary looks at you, Dad, and the others aren’t anywhere near pots of boiling water. Face it, you have a fan.”

  Richard waved a hand at her, signaling an end to the discussion. “The subject was Christmas trees,” he reminded her. “Ricky told me that he, you and our general contractor were going to go hunting for ‘the perfect Christmas tree.’” He looked at Cris intently. “Are you?”

  She didn’t want her father to think she’d put the boy up to it, was using Ricky as a shill for something that she wanted. That wasn’t how she did things and she was fairly certain her father knew it.

  But just in case he’d forgotten, she said, “He’s just talking, Dad. Seems he told Shane he wanted us to get a real tree and Shane told him that he liked real trees, too, but—”

  Richard cut short her explanation. “So do I.”

  Cris stared at him, bemused. “I thought you said a real one wasn’t practical.”

  “No, Alex said a real one wasn’t practical,” he corrected. “Alex likes real trees, also. She’s just looking to save the inn money in the long run,” he told Cris. “As far as I’m concerned, that isn’t the way to do it. We’ll find other ways to economize if it comes down to that again. For the time being,” he continued, never fond of making predictions that went too far into the future, “things are going well.

  “So you, my overly bouncy grandson and that contractor friend of yours can feel free to bring back a really nice specimen. You can start the hunt right after Thanksgiving is behind us,” he added.

  That was when they normally went tree shopping. “In other words, business as usual,” Cris said.

  Richard smiled at that. “Those words have a nice ring.” He made to leave the kitchen but paused for a moment longer. “You’re sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?” he queried, just in case.

  “I’m sure Ricky talks enough for all of us, Dad,” she answered evasively. “In my opinion, what you need is a little me-time.”

  “Later,” he said, dismissing the notion. He liked filling his days with family, not deliberately emptying them. “As for now, two ears, no waiting.”

  As she regarded her father, Cris thought he was looking at her as if he expected her to tell him that there was something she needed to get off her chest or just talk through.

  “And very nice ears they are, too,” she replied glibly. “Now get out of my kitchen—” she pointed toward the swinging door “—so that I can close down. Go be Dad to Alex—have that birds-and-bees talk with her you never got around to,” she advised with a wink.

  Richard tried to bank a sudden wave of anxiety. “You don’t mean—”

  Cris laughed. She hadn’t meant to get him flustered. “No, Dad, I don’t mean—Alex is fine. We’re all fine,” she assured him. “Put your feet up and take a Dad-break. The night’s clear and crisp. Sit outside and absorb some of that fresh air.”

  He tried to extract a promise from her to appease his conscience. “And you’ll talk to me if something’s on your mind or bothering you?”

  “You have my word,” Cris said, holding up her right hand as if taking a solemn vow. “You will be the first person I run to if I’m suddenly having a crisis or an anxiety attack—or bursting with a secret,” she added. “Good enough?”

  He inclined his head. “I guess it’ll have to be.”

  As Richard turned to leave, he recalled something he needed to share with his second born. “Oh, I almost forgot. Alex asked me to give you this when I saw you.”

  Cris eyed her father curiously, but there was no need to ask what “this” referred to since he was holding out an envelope to her.

  As she took it from him, Cris had only to glance at the front of the envelope to realize who it was from. She recognized the handwriting and because she did, she could feel something suddenly stiffening inside her. Involuntarily, she braced herself, although she couldn’t have really said for what.

  Richard saw the change immediately. “Cris?” her father said in response to the fearful look that came over her face. “What is it?”

  “Most likely nothing,” she replied even as she felt her breath growing short and had the ominous feeling that she was about to read something that would upset her in some way.

  Richard wasn’t about to stand on ceremony and wait for her to tell him—or not tell him—as she saw fit. Cris was his daughter, and if something had frightened her, he deserved to know so that he could protect her emotionally—and physically if need be.

  “Who’s it from?” he asked, since she obviously knew who’d sent the envelope, despite the absence of a return address or even the sender’s name scribbled in the corner.

  “Mike’s mother.” The words felt like dry cotton in her mouth. They stuck to every corner, making her gag.

  The relationship between her and Mike’s parents was polite, but strained at best. The few times she’d been in their company—they’d visited their grandson on several occasions—she’d felt uncomfortable. Though they’d never said it to her in so many words, she knew that in their eyes, she didn’t measure up to the kind of woman they felt their son should have married. Mike used to tell her they had all the warmth and flexibility of stalagmites.

  Ignoring the fluttering butterflies in her stomach and taking a breath to prepare herself for whatever she discovered inside the envelope, she opened the envelope and extracted the single folded sheet of paper inside.

  It read almost like a business letter—short and to the point.

  For her father’s benefit, she read it out loud.

  “Dear Christina,

  My husband and I are coming down to San Diego the first week of December to see you and our grandson. It’s time we had a serious conversation about his future.

  Sincerely yours,

  Marion MacDonald.”

  Cris pressed her lips together as she carefully refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. The fluttering butterflies in her stomach had turned into Boeing 747s.

  Raising her eyes to her father, she did her best to still the queasiness that threatened to overtake her. “What do you think she means by that?”

  “Maybe they just miss seeing Ricky,” her father suggested kindly, “and she’s saying
they want to adopt a more hands-on approach to Ricky’s future.” He offered her an encouraging smile. “After all, he’s a lovable kid—a lot like his mother,” he added kindly.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Cris agreed, doing her best not to allow her fear to seep into her voice.

  “You don’t think so, do you?” Richard asked gently.

  “Do you?”

  He had always been honest with his daughters. Now was no different. “Frankly, I’m not sure what to think. Maybe Marion and Arthur feel guilty they haven’t taken a more active part in Ricky’s life. Mike’s death had to have hit them hard. He was their only son,” he reminded Cris.

  “Then they should have been nicer to him when he was alive,” Cris cried, her emotions getting the better of her. She remembered the stories Mike had told her when she finally got him to talk to her about his childhood. He’d always felt that nothing he did was good enough, that all his parents cared about was the family image, so eventually he just stopped trying to measure up to their standards and went his own way. But she knew that their disappointment in him had hurt him, even though he’d never said it in so many words.

  “Maybe they regret the past and have come around. The only way they know how to make up for it is to take more of an interest in their grandson,” her father proposed.

  They would have been hard-pressed to take less of an interest in Ricky, she thought. And that had certainly not been her fault. “I did my part. I tried to maintain ties, Dad, I really did,” she told him. She’d deliberately turned a blind eye to their tacit disapproval of her. “I sent them pictures of Ricky, I remembered their birthdays and sent cards for all the holidays. I kept them abreast of Ricky’s progress from being a three-pound premature infant with less-than-good odds to survive to his being the darling chatterbox he is today. And they sent back cards with their names printed on the inside, like some corporation, along with checks. A few personal words instead of checks would have been more appreciated,” she told her father.