Shelter Me, page 16
She leaned in to lick the spoon, her eyes closing as she swallowed with an appreciative hmmmmm.
His temperature spiked. Only the cooking food kept him from reclining her on the island and playing out that caramel fantasy. “You like it?”
“Very good. Thank you,” she said as he returned to the stove. “You never told me how you learned. You always just said you picked it up out of necessity. So . . . ?”
“Watching television cooking shows.” He winked at her. “I’ve always had a secret crush on Julia Child.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Please don’t take offense if I call out for Rachael Ray next time we’re in bed together.” Next time? Damn straight.
“You’re wicked.”
“I am.”
“So seriously, no joking”—she hitched up onto a barstool and leaned on the counter—“tell me about learning to cook. I want to know.”
“My grandmother slept in mornings,” from late nights at casinos. He saw the concern flickering across Sierra’s face and found himself justifying before he could stop. “She was supposed to be a grandmother, not a parent, ya know? And honestly, I preferred my own food. When she cooked supper, her repertoire pretty much consisted of meat meets a can of soup.”
“I thought men were happy with food. Period. But then . . . Wait. You said when she cooked.” She frowned. “Your grandmother didn’t feed you?”
He wasn’t comfortable with her sympathy, but he was already neck deep in the conversation. “She kept stuff in the pantry—”
“Mike—”
“But I wanted to learn to cook the things I saw on TV, and I needed extra ingredients.” The next part of his story was trickier to navigate. “Our budget was tight so I couldn’t ask her for extra cash for my cooking experiments. I tried winning money at bingo like my grandmother, but that didn’t work. Guess I don’t have the family lucky touch with the daubers.”
“What did you do?”
“One day I was walking home from school and I saw this guy in the subway playing his guitar with a jar for money.” He slid the toast from the pan to two plates. “I didn’t have the money for a guitar, but I signed up for the choir at school.”
She grinned. “You were in the choir as a kid? I bet you were adorable.”
“Adorable? Really?” He shuddered and leaned to kiss her nose. “Since there weren’t many boys who actually volunteered—ones that could also sing on key—the chorus teacher made a point of helping me so I would stay. I took guitar lessons from her and she loaned me a guitar in exchange for recruiting more boys to join the chorus.”
“She sounds like a good teacher.”
She was. That guitar had changed his life by giving him something positive to do with his time—and a way to earn his own money. “By spring break I could play well enough to earn Easter dinner with my subway tips. By the summer, I made enough to feed us three square meals.” A big deal once the school lunches stopped for three months.
Sierra frowned. “You worked in a subway? That doesn’t sound very safe. What did your grandmother say about it?”
“She didn’t know.” Not because he was particularly sneaky, but because she wasn’t that observant. But he left that part out. There were already enough barriers—differences between them.
“Where did she think you went?”
“A friend’s house. The library.” He’d lied so she wouldn’t want a cut of his earnings. He figured she got plenty because she ate what he cooked. Strange how she never asked him how he got the food. Did she think he was shoplifting?
Hell, he couldn’t imagine anyone getting away with that here at the McDaniel house. Even old Alzheimer’s Gramps would have caught a glimmer, which likely would have led to another conversation on condoms.
Had the old man been more savvy about Mike and Sierra than it seemed?
Already this whole conversation was hitting a few too many nerves for his comfort level. “Breakfast. Eat up.” He nudged a plate toward her. “And go easy on the caramel sauce. I have plans for the leftovers.”
* * *
A HALF HOUR later, sated with French toast, Sierra leaned across the island to kiss Mike, savoring the taste of syrup and caramel on his tongue. “Breakfast was awesome, but can I take a rain check on the extended time with caramel sauce?”
Mike slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head, kissing along her cheek to nip her ear. “Are you sure I can’t entice you to stay longer?”
“I have to help Mom out.” She picked up her plate and stood. “Later, though?”
He reached to take the dish from her. She held on for a second, tugging him closer until she leaned forward and kissed him. She wanted to stay but needed some space of her own to process all he’d told her. It wasn’t so much what he’d said but the fact he’d never shared these things before. That made her question everything from their relationship before, and until she had that sorted out, she didn’t know how to move forward. She ended the kiss, then kissed him once more. Briefly. Then she let go of the dish.
With a sliver of air between them, she said, “A lot happened here last night. I need space. I think you do, too. Having your help here has been a godsend, but it’s also almost as if we’re . . .”
“Living together.” His forehead fell to rest on hers.
“If we’re not careful, this could get messy fast at a time when we’re both raw after what happened to my dad.”
Mike flinched. There was no missing it. She felt that instinctive cringe all the way to her bruised heart.
“Later, okay?”
He just nodded, letting her go. Without another word, she finished dressing and slipped out the door. The fresh Tennessee air swept over her with the scent of farm fields and the first hint of a scorcher of a day to come. Her one day off since they’d worked all yesterday at the adoption event. Except there was no such thing as a day off here. She didn’t have time for a “boyfriend”—especially when that relationship came with so much potential for an implosion.
She sagged against the closed door for a second before regaining her balance. She just needed to slip into the house and get a shower, return her life to normal and then figure out what to do next when she had a clear head. Away from the temptation of licking caramel sauce off each other’s bodies.
Steeling her resolve, she raced down the steps, checking the yard carefully for her mom. At the sound of Sierra’s footsteps, the dogs started barking even though feeding wasn’t for another hour.
Her sandals slapped the grass, early morning dew squelching with each step closer to the house. The back porch fans were already churning, which could be an accident. Her family forgot to turn them off all the time.
Or someone could already be awake.
Not that it should matter. She was twenty-three, staying at home to help, not living at home. She paid her own bills and helped her mother out when the rescue made things financially tight.
So why did she feel like a teenager slipping in after hours?
Seeing her mom on the porch, Sierra considered bolting back to Mike’s apartment—her apartment. Or making her way around to the front door so she could slip into her childhood room like a delinquent.
God, that sounded lame. And truth be told, she could use some advice. Or if nothing else, some sign of how to deal with what happened last night.
Shaking off the urge to run, she walked to the screened back porch where her mother sat in a wrought iron chair with a fat floral cushion. The fairy-tale-named pit puppies played in a pen in front of her. Watching them while they romped and rolled, Lacey tucked her legs to the side, still wearing her yoga pants and a loose T-shirt. She sipped a crystal flute of orange juice, a muffin on a plate beside her.
Her mom lifted her drink toward Sierra. “Would you like a mimosa? I actually have a matching flute. These didn’t get broken in the moves like most of the other crystal.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Sierra sat in a wrought iron porch chair next to her mother. They used to have wicker but the dogs chewed it. So Sierra went to rummage sales and found assorted pieces, and painted them all different bright colors. “Feels strange—you offering me a drink—especially at seven in the morning.”
“You’re over twenty-one. We’ve had wine with dinner before.”
“Still seems . . . odd.” Maybe because it was breakfast. She thought back to her mom’s wineglass the night Trooper arrived. “Are you planning to go to church toasted?”
“One drink. Not toasted.” She sipped, sticking a toe through the wire playpen to tease a puppy. “What about you?”
“Thanks, but I’ve already had breakfast.” Memories of her and Mike feeding each other in between caramel kisses sent her sinking into the chair. “What kind of muffin are you having with the mimosa?”
“Apple nut. I guess I should eat it.” She set aside her glass and pinched off a bite of muffin.
“I would agree. You skip too many meals, Mom.” Sierra leaned into the pen and picked up a puppy . . . Rapunzel, a blond little girl who liked to snuggle.
“I’m having trouble scrounging up the energy to face the kitchen. I’ve cooked for over twenty years. I’m tired.” She picked up her mimosa again, the bubbles rising to the top. “Nathan’s still asleep, so I’m not a bad influence. Your grandfather is in the shower. And how’s Mike?”
Well, there it finally was, out in the open. Sierra cuddled the puppy up under her chin, the warm little body curling against her with a sweet sigh. “Aren’t you going to tell me I should be smart about seeing him?”
“You’re an adult, completely capable of supporting yourself, only staying here because I can’t manage life on my own.” She spread her hands to include everything around her. “I don’t think I’m in any position to lecture you on squat.”
The cynicism in her mother’s voice caught Sierra off guard. “Mom, are you okay?”
“Not even remotely.” She tipped her head back blinking fast and gathering her tangled curls to shove them behind one shoulder. “But I’m working on it.”
“I’m here if you need to talk.”
“Honestly, I’m totally talked out . . .” She pulled a scrunchie off her wrist and secured her hair into a loose ponytail as if seeking to add some kind of order to her world. “You talk. Tell me about you, your love life, like a normal mother and daughter chat.”
“Normal?” She lifted the puppy, rubbing noses. “Mom, you may not have noticed but we live in a zoo.”
“Normal doesn’t have to be boring.” She tossed a squeaky toy into the puppy pen.
The four pups pounced on the toy while Rapunzel licked Sierra’s nose.
“This family is at no risk of being called boring.” Sierra placed the puppy back in the pen, on top of the toy.
“So.” Lacey leaned back again, reaching for her drink. “Is he good?”
“What?” She couldn’t be hearing what she thought. She’d wanted relationship advice. Not sex advice.
“Mike,” Lacey clarified. “Is he good in bed?”
“Sheesh, Mom.” She looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. I don’t need details, just curious.” She shrugged. “Chalk it up to my pathetic love life.”
Sierra’s heart squeezed with guilt. All her problems and grief were nothing compared to what her mother faced. And there was little she could do to make that better other than try to offer a lighter moment, a brief respite. “We were, uh, playing Scrabble.”
“Scrabble?” Her mother laughed. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”
She grinned sheepishly. “Really, really good Scrabble?”
“Ahhh, finally, you appease my curiosity.”
Sierra scratched a tiny patch of rust on the iron chair, a purple one, her favorite of the hodgepodge colors. “I thought mothers didn’t want to know these sorts of things.”
“I just want to be sure you’re being treated well. That you’re appreciated.” Something whimsical chased through Lacey’s green eyes.
Happy or sad?
Sierra brought her thoughts back to the question at hand, trying to figure out how to answer. “Sometimes I think he appreciates me too much.”
“And what is the problem with being placed on a pedestal?” Lacey picked up a magazine and fanned herself, the morning heating up past the power of the ceiling fans. “Clue me in. Because honestly, there are plenty of women who would appreciate a little more adoration from the man in her life.”
“I’m not sure Mike sees me, the person. He keeps seeing differences between our upbringings.” Barking in the distance reminded her the dogs needed feeding soon, kennels needed cleaning. This chance to talk uninterrupted was short. “It’s setting us both up for failure again, even bigger this time when he finally sees me as a regular person, flaws and all.”
“I’m still not understanding the problem here.”
“I’m being serious about this, Mom.” She clasped her mother’s wrist. She wanted—needed—her mom’s help in figuring this out. “He and I broke up before because he had this messed-up idea he couldn’t give me the rich life. Now he’s got a scorching case of survivor’s guilt on top of everything else.”
Her mom whistled softly, then downed the rest of her mimosa in one gulp. “Now that is problematic. What about you? How do you feel?”
The truth was scary and she wasn’t even sure she should say it. She chewed her lip before confessing, “I’m afraid of living your life.”
Lacey blinked slowly, exhaling hard as she slid both legs to the floor. “Well, hell, I didn’t see that coming.”
“I’m not trying to be mean, Mom.” Already she regretted sharing. She should have kept her mouth shut. “You’re an incredible person, and I admire all you manage here, keeping things together through Dad’s constant absenteeism. Then to go through all of that and have him die? I don’t know how you manage to keep your sanity.”
Laughing weakly, Lacey pressed a hand to her chest. “Who says I’m sane?”
Sierra leaned forward, clasped her mom’s hands in hers, tightly. “You are completely levelheaded and you know it. You’ve handled more than any one person should have to face, and I admire you for it.” Even if she made it through all the long separations, she couldn’t bear the thought of someday getting that knock on the door with the military notifying her that . . . She swallowed hard. “But honest to God, Mom, I don’t want my tombstone to read, ‘Here lies Sierra. She was strong.’”
Lacey sighed. “Sure you don’t want a mimosa after all?”
Maybe. Probably. But first, she needed to explain—hell, figure it out as she spoke. “Since dating Mike, I see you with different eyes. Military life for a wife is strange in ways I didn’t understand until I tried to envision myself in that role. You always made everything so normal for us, but I think that is because you were our normal.”
Tears welled up in Lacey’s eyes. Her hands trembled. Sierra half wished she could call the words back. Instead she slid from her chair and wrapped her mom in a tight hug. She couldn’t hold back her own tears, the sting and the emotion building. She heard her mother sniffle once before Lacey pulled back with a brittle strength.
Sierra didn’t bother to hide her tears. She just squeezed her mom’s hand, but couldn’t push any words past the knot in her throat.
Lacey laughed softly and squeezed back. “If I was normal, then heaven help you and Nathan both.”
Eleven
LACEY GRIPPED THE steering wheel of her SUV, weaving in and out of Sunday lunchtime traffic on her way to the local Animal Control shelter to pull new additions to her rescue. Families filled the other cars. Young families. Multigenerational families. But it was seeing the senior couples that hurt the most. Each silver-haired man and woman reminded her of the future she’d lost.
After four months of grieving, she would have expected to shore up some defenses. But everything still made her think of Allen’s death. Today images of their life together bombarded her, from memories of their first time making love to the day they’d bought the house here with plans of living out their golden years in Tennessee.
Maybe she was just particularly raw after seeing her daughter’s face blushed with happiness and . . . well . . . the afterglow of good Scrabble.
Running on fumes after yesterday’s event and a sleepless night, she still hadn’t found her balance after her conversation with Sierra. She knew the military lifestyle growing up had left marks on her family. But she hadn’t realized how deeply until she heard her daughter explaining exactly why she’d broken up with Mike initially. Lacey hadn’t pried during the breakup, telling herself she was respecting her daughter’s privacy.
Or maybe she’d used that as an excuse to keep from facing how messed up her own relationship was. She and Allen had loved each other. He had a funny, laid-back approach that offset her frenetic way of barreling through life. At least, they used to balance each other out before they spent so much time apart, working or parenting, which left little time to be a couple. What time they did spend together? Their marriage was a series of reunions. She would clean the house, cook his favorite foods and dress up. He brought gifts from around the world. He made sure to show up for major events whenever possible in party mode—first communion, graduations, special concerts. But they hadn’t shared much in the way of day-to-day life, the routine chores and joys. They hadn’t shared burdens. Conversations over the phone couldn’t get too complicated or he would have a “bad connection.”
She was independent because she had to be.
And to be fair, it was easier to do things herself than to try and integrate the man that came home. If she pushed too hard, her funny, easygoing husband turned moody. So she let him keep those superficial walls in place. It was simpler than pushing through, even though she’d grown damn weary with holding down the home front alone. So as years went by, she chose the easier route in her marriage and hoped they’d have time to work things out. Now, she would never have the chance to change that, to see if she and Allen could have waded through their problems to find what they’d once dreamed of having as they grew old together.
