Home for the Holidays

Over the past two weeks he’d watched her at The Watering Hole. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d been unable to help himself. The moment she walked in the door she exerted a gravitational pull on his senses that he found impossible to ignore. She came in twice, maybe three times a week. She had a beer, sometimes two, played a couple of games of pool with her biker friends, then she left. She never got drunk, never flirted, never let the guys win to make them feel good about themselves. Watching her interact with them, he was almost certain she wasn’t sleeping with any of them. Although why that was any of his business he had no idea.

She’d let Ruby help her twice since his knee-jerk reaction. Both times Ruby came home with greasy fingernails and clothes and conversation peppered with lots of “Hannah saids.” Through his daughter he’d learned that Hannah was restoring an old Triumph Thunderbird, that she planned to take off on a round-Australia road trip as soon as she had enough money saved, and that Hannah couldn’t stand Brussels sprouts, turnips or radishes.

He couldn’t work her out. She was gorgeous, yet she spent most of her time alone, up to her elbows in oil and grease. He’d finally discovered that her mother owned the house next door and that Hannah was living with her, and not the other way around. Yet Hannah didn’t strike him as the kind of person who would cling to her mother’s apron strings.

She was a mystery. One that his mind kept mulling over, again and again.

He climbed the steps to the house, shutting out thoughts of his provocative neighbor along with the cool night air as he closed the front door. He had no business speculating about her, just as he had no business fantasizing about what she looked like naked or how her skin would feel against his own. It was a dead end, and he didn’t have time or energy to waste on dead ends.

He locked the door then did his nightly check on the kids before heading to bed. Ben’s door was closed, but Joe eased it open and stepped into the room. His son looked much younger than his thirteen years when he was sleeping, his face more rounded, his chin less determined. Joe backed out silently then made his way to Ruby’s room. Her door was ajar and he swung it open quietly. Unlike her brother, Ruby was twisted in her quilt, one hand flung up near her head on the pillow. He crossed to the bed to untangle her and frowned when he saw the damp patch on her pillow. Her eyelashes were spiky with moisture, her cheeks flushed. She’d been crying, had cried herself to sleep, in fact. That was a blow to his solar plexus. It was one thing for him to be around while his daughter cried, to be able to comfort her and talk to her, but it was another thing entirely to know she’d been huddled in her bed, crying her misery into her pillow all on her own.

He wanted to wake her and reassure her and make her world right again. Instead he crouched beside the bed and smoothed the hair from her forehead. She looked more and more like Beth every day. She was going to be beautiful like her, too.

Because there was nothing else for him to do, he straightened her quilt, making sure she was warm enough. His fingers encountered something where the bed met the wall and he pulled out a crumpled ball of paper. He waited until he was in the hallway and the door was closed before smoothing the page. It was a flyer, sent home from Ruby’s school.

Elsternwick Primary School invites entries for its annual Mother and Daughter Fashion Parade. All funds raised will go toward the new gymnasium …

Joe swore under his breath and let his hand drop to his side. No wonder she’d been crying.

“Damn.”

Life was going to be full of moments like these for his children. Casually delivered school notices, other children’s birthday parties, a myriad of other social and community events centered around families. He couldn’t protect Ben and Ruby from them all, no matter how much he wanted to. But God, how he wanted to.

He walked slowly to the kitchen and placed the flyer on the counter. He stared at it, trying to work out how to handle the situation. Wait until Ruby brought it up? Mention it himself? Did the fact that Ruby hadn’t said anything to his mother tonight and instead chose to cry alone in her room mean he should tackle this more vigorously or give her more space?

He was truly clueless. He rubbed a hand over his face. Then he folded the notice in half and slid it into the junk drawer. He would talk to Ruby in the morning, see if she mentioned the fashion parade. If she didn’t … He would cross that bridge when he came to it. If she did, he would offer what comfort he could. Maybe his mother would be an adequate substitute. Or maybe he could offer to do something special with her the night of the parade and turn it into a father-daughter event instead of an occasion of sadness and grief.

Maybe. It was becoming the most overused word in his vocabulary.

THE NEXT DAY, HANNAH exited the workshop and waited for a pause in the traffic before crossing to the small group of shops opposite. She could see there was already a queue forming in the bakery, but she knew Ian would bitch and moan all day if she didn’t bring him back the doughnut he’d requested for morning break.

Resigning herself to a long wait, she joined the line and dug her hands into the pockets of her coveralls, jingling her change in the palm of her hand. She was glancing idly out the front window when she saw a dark-haired boy walk past with a couple of taller, older kids. She’d have to be blind not to recognize the younger boy as Joe’s son—she’d seen him coming and going from the house often enough.

She checked her watch. It wasn’t even close to lunchtime, which meant Joe’s kid had no legitimate reason for being on the street during school hours.

Unless he was ditching, of course.

She turned her attention to the menu board behind the bakery counter and concentrated on choosing between a Danish and a vanilla slice for herself. So what if Joe’s kid was sneaking off from school with what looked like older, meaner kids? It was none of her business.

It was harder to stick to her decision when she exited the bakery and spotted Joe’s son emptying his pockets near the corner while the older kids inspected his haul. It had been a while, but Hannah recognized the classic signs of shoplifting when she saw them. The furtiveness, the repressed excitement and fear. She could imagine how it had worked, too—the older kids distracting the shopkeeper while the younger, more innocent-looking kid played mule and stuffed his pockets.

She hesitated on the curb, watching the smaller boy shake his head in response to something one of the older kids said. Joe Junior or whatever his name was looked a lot like his old man—same dark hair, same blue eyes. No doubt he’d grow up to be as big and strong, too. As though he felt her regard, Joe Junior looked up and for a moment they locked gazes. He looked away first, but not before she saw the sadness in him. Another thing in common with his father.

She crossed the street and reentered the workshop, tossing Ian the bag with his doughnut in it.