“And then there was the time you wanted to drive to Nashville to accost his philosophy teacher for giving him a C.”
“Randy said—”
“Or the time you wanted to go after the boy who got the job at the supermarket instead of Randy. You glared at that child every time he bagged my vegetables.”
“He bruised the eggplant.”
“Tyler.”
He gave a bad-tempered shrug and stabbed his fork into his pancake. Wasn’t it bad enough he’d blown things with Rita over his brother? Now he was getting a lecture for it.
“Is this going to go on much longer?” Tyler asked, aggrieved. “If so, I need more pancakes.”
All it took was a single arched brow for Tyler to offer his plate, along with a “Please.”
“It could go on all day, now couldn’t it? The point is, you have to stop jumping to Randy’s defense. He’s not a skinny, helpless little kid any longer.”
“So you’re saying I should just let Randy get hurt?”
“I’m saying that the things you think are a big deal usually aren’t.”
Appetite gone, Tyler stared at the fresh stack of blueberry goodness on his plate.
“But—”
“Tyler, do you want to live your life or live Randy’s?”
His sigh was worthy of his ten-year-old self, which was how old he’d been the first time he’d heard that question.
And finally, eighteen years later, he got the message.
A faint hope glimmered in his heart. Tracing a pattern in the syrup with his fork, he stared at his plate for a few moments, wondering if he was crazy.
Then he realized it didn’t matter. Crazy or not, he had to try. He needed Rita.
“Just so ya know,” he told his mom as he got up to carry his plate to the sink, “I’m probably bringing someone home for Christmas dessert.”
Elizabeth’s swift intake of breath showed she knew the significance. But in her usual, unflappable way, she tilted her head and only asked, “Anyone I know?”
“Rita Cole,” he said, his jaw jutting out as he waited.
Her smile melted away his last doubt. “Rita Mae? Oh, how is she doing? I hear from her mama all the stories of her travels and can’t wait to see her again. What a fun girl she was. And—” she stopped gushing to give her eldest son a shrewd look “—perfect, I think. For you, that is.”
“You and Rita’s mom are on speaking terms?”
Elizabeth smiled, amused. “After your prom, I felt it necessary to meet the possible mother of my future grandchild.”
“Shit.”
She laughed, patting his hand in that indulgent mom way. “Despite that, Amanda and I have become good friends over the years. She even helps out every once in a while at the antiques store.”
A lightbulb shaped like a peace offering flashed in Tyler’s head.
“Rita is perfect,” he acknowledged. “But I screwed up a little. Will you help me fix things?”
THERE WAS NO PLACE LIKE home on Christmas Eve. Rita sighed, cupping her hands around the steaming cup of cocoa, and breathed in the delicious comfort of her mom’s favorite cure-all.
Just like the cocoa meant home, so did the music playing a gentle holiday medley in the background. All Rita’s life there had been music. Always. Other than their devotion to each other and their daughters, Eric and Amanda’s main focus in life was music. After years of performing, they were now happy to teach and pass their love on to others.
Which was why Rita had wanted to give them music for Christmas. Special music. Music that would not only show how much she’d appreciated them, but prove that they no longer had to worry, stress or wonder where they’d gone wrong with her.
And what’d she spent the money on? A plane ticket home. Why? Because she’d been so freaking stupid.
So again this year, her holiday offerings would take on the equivalent of a grade-schooler with some glitter and tasty paste.
“Rita?”
“In here, Mom.”
Amanda Cole came into the room, a smaller, leaner version of her daughter. She shot Rita one quick, encompassing glance, then flipped the tree lights on so the eve-darkened room was drenched in celebratory color.
“Making Christmas wishes?” her mother asked with a smile as she settled next to Rita on the couch.
“I’m not sure what I’d wish for,” Rita said, since murder and dismemberment seemed so unholidaylike.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?”
Rita started to offer up one of her typical lines of BS. Some “can’t worry Mom at the holidays” fluff that would pacify her worries and leave Rita to be miserable in private.
But the steady look in her mother’s green eyes, their shape and intensity so like her own, froze the words in Rita’s throat.