Texas Heroes_ Volume 1(141)

She fumbled for her planner. “What time?”

“You choose.”

How about never? “Noon?”

“Fine.”

Silence spun out.

Then they both spoke at once.

“Dev, I don’t think—”

“If you need to call—” He paused, like her words had just registered. “Look, this doesn’t have to be painful. A simple picnic, that’s all. For a good cause.”

It will be painful. It can’t be anything else. But she was too much Margaret DeMille’s daughter to say so, and the cause was important. One hand pressing against her stomach, Lacey spoke again. “I have a three o’clock tennis match at the club. That shouldn’t be a problem, do you think?” There. She’d put a time limit on it. Two hours, max.

How would she ever get through two hours alone with Dev?

A wry chuckle sounded in her ear. “Tell you what. I’ll just give you my cell number so it’s easier for you to cancel.”

“I won’t cancel.”

“I won’t hold my breath.” He gave her a phone number with a Dallas area code. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d cancel by Friday so I don’t have to make the drive.”

“I won’t cancel, Dev.”

He paused before he answered. “Then you’ll surprise me.”

His tone turned impersonal again. “I’ll call you when I get to town, and we’ll work out logistics.” Then he hung up without even saying goodbye.

“I won’t cancel, Dev,” she whispered once more, into a silent phone.

She wouldn’t. But oh, how she wished she could.





Chapter Three





Dev knocked on the door of the frame house that his mother had lived in for twelve years.

Muffled by the door, a voice called out, “Come on in.”

He turned the knob and stepped inside, bracing in reflex. Waiting…always expecting his mother’s four-month sobriety to have come to an end.

But the scent of coffee, not liquor, greeted him on this Sunday morning after his return from Houston.

Coffee…and the sight of his mother sitting on the living room floor surrounded by boxes, holding a tie in her hands, a wistful smile on her face.

Monique Marlowe looked up. “Do you remember this? Your father called it his lucky tie. Wore it whenever he had to deal with IRS or a difficult client.” She held it out to him.

Dev stepped over boxes and squatted down beside her, worried at the moisture glistening on her lashes. “You could leave this stuff to us, Mom. We’ll go through it.”

Her once-black hair had gone snow-white suddenly, as if her battle with the bottle had drained everything from her. “No, Devlin. These are my memories. It’s taken me almost twenty years to face them. I need to deal with them myself.” She stroked one finger down the tie, an unremarkable regimental in shades of navy and burgundy.

And suddenly, Dev did remember it, knotted around Patrick Marlowe’s neck. For one instant, he could feel his father’s hand clap his shoulder, could see the green eyes he’d inherited sparkling with pride as his father spoke. Will you look at this boy, Monique? He’ll be as tall as me soon. Our Dev is growing up.

Dev had probably been twelve, three years away from the worst day of his life.

At least, the worst day until he and Lacey—

“Would you like to have the tie, Devlin?”

“No.” He saw the hurt in her eyes at his curt tone. He shook his head and exhaled. “I’m sorry. I drove in from Houston, got here just before seven.” And still couldn’t get any damn sleep. “You have any coffee made, Mom? Then I’ll give you a hand here.”

His mother held out a hand for assistance, and Dev tugged her to her feet, the grace she’d never lost, even at her worst, still evident.

Monique Marlowe had been a lovely drunk. She’d never turned slovenly, had coped—in her own way. If she couldn’t handle four children or the realities of a life of poverty, still she’d held on to the one thing that had always been hers—her beauty. At sixty-two, she bore some lines of age, but she was still too beautiful to be a grandmother.

But thank God she was. Dierdre’s child had been the surprising magic that had transformed her. Had given her what her children could not: a reason to stay sober.

“Poor Devlin,” she murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “You work too hard.” The lovely blue eyes turned uncertain, and she looked down at her hands. “All this has made me think about a lot of things. I—I’ve never apologized to you, son. It wasn’t right what I did when Patrick—” Her eyelashes batted rapidly, but a single tear spilled over.