Christmas Wishes and Mistletoe Kisses(12)

“I’m sorry you haven’t seen your dad.”

“According to my mom, he wasn’t in the best shape to care for me. He died before I could really talk to him and find out his side of things.”

The line was silent.

“Are you still there?”

“Uh, yes. I apologize. I’m just thinking about what you said.”

“I wish my memory was as good as yours. I have fuzzy memories of my dad, but I wasn’t quite old enough to really remember him. What bothers me the most is that my memories of him were good ones, and they didn’t paint the same picture my mom painted once I’d gotten old enough to hear her story.”

“What do you remember?”

“I remember his kisses before bed, the smile I got when he walked in from work, the way it felt to snuggle up next to him when I didn’t feel well… He was nothing like what my mother remembers.”

“What did she say about him?”

“That he was an alcoholic. Things could get heated… She wouldn’t allow him near me.” Abbey had never shared any of that with anyone before. “But Gramps was there for me every day. He taught me how to ride a bike, change a tire on my car, keep a checkbook… He was great.”

“I understand,” he said. “My grandmother spent a lot of time with us when we were growing up as well… Perhaps I’ll stop over and see her today.”

“She’d like that, I’m sure.”

“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’d like to be with your family. I’m glad you received the pies. Have a wonderful holiday, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said, self-conscious about opening up so much. She didn’t even know him, but he was a good listener.

“Goodbye,” he said.

“Bye.” She dropped the phone onto the bed beside her and stared at the ceiling. The room was drafty. Her toes were like ice in her socks and her arms had goose bumps. She grabbed a pillow—encased in a matching green and cream sham—and laid it across her chest to keep warm.

There was a knock at the door and Max peeked his head in. “Mama,” he said. “I cut you a giant slice of pie.” He was smiling, his eyebrows up in anticipation. “I’m waiting to eat mine until you come out.”

“You are?” she said, smiling.

“Yes! I want to see how much whipped cream you want on yours. I’ve covered my whole top with it! Nana said I could.”

With another grin, she got up and followed Max to the kitchen to be with her family.





Chapter Four





The short man that continued to answer Nick Sinclair’s front door was named Richard Smith. He was the house manager, and every decision regarding day-to-day happenings went through him. He’d sat Abbey down in Nick’s office with the promise that Nick would be with her shortly. Abbey welcomed the silence as she waited, facing his desk.

She’d left Max with her mother and felt a touch guilty because Gramps was in a mood, and she worried that Max would have to entertain himself. Her mom had insisted they’d be just fine. Truthfully, Abbey didn’t have any other options.

She’d had days like this one before—it was part of being a working mother—but this day was harder to swallow because she was leaving Max and burdening her mother in order to do something she didn’t really have to do. She could easily just be a nurse, tell Caroline she couldn’t do the decorating job, and apologize to Nick, but she kept thinking about how that money could change her family’s lives, so she had to make herself do it. Plus, there was that dangled carrot in front of her: the idea that maybe—just maybe—this interior design opportunity could lead to something bigger, something amazing: the start of a new career, a new life for her and Max.

She’d been frazzled before she’d even left her mom’s house, and, while the silence around her now was helping to calm her, her initial anxiety was being replaced by the zinging simultaneous excitement and fear of seeing Nick again.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said from behind her, as the sound of his footsteps got closer. She turned around. His gaze slid down to her sneakers, up her jeans, and back to her face. It wasn’t an appraising look; it was more inquisitive than anything else. There was no way she was going to move furniture and sit on the floor to sketch in different rooms wearing her fanciest clothes.

Nick had on jeans today, and a gray sweater, the collar rolled and held together with a button. She could tell the quality of his clothes by the way they fell on his body, and she wondered where a millionaire like Nick Sinclair shopped. Did he have to order them? Were there shops for the rich and famous hidden somewhere in the city?