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For the first time since they’d entered adulthood, Billie felt more centered and mature than her big, rough-tough marine brother.
“Sorry I misjudged her,” she admitted. “Sorry I wasn’t there for you, too.”
Billie slid an arm around his waist and simply held him, and after a moment, Troy disentangled himself and got to his feet.
“You sure it’s okay if I crash here for a while?”
“Stay as long as you need to. Tomorrow I’ll give you a copy of the front door key.” She looked up at him. “Have you told Mom and Dad where you’ll be?”
“I’ll call them tomorrow.”
Billie stood, too. “And what about Victoria? Does she know where you are?”
He nodded. “She’s going to call once the house is sold.” Troy gave a halfhearted chuckle. “Ironic, isn’t it, since I only bought the place because she was so crazy about it.”
It seemed to Billie he must have loved Victoria, at least at first.
“I guess she’s taking a page from your book, Billie—sell, move forward, don’t look back.”
“And so should you. Whether you want to admit it or not, what you did was a gesture of love.”
“How so?”
“Some guys might have waited until after the wedding, when a child or two might be involved. She’s hurt now, but someday she’ll realize how much more it would have hurt if you hadn’t been honest.”
“How’d you get so smart?”
“Runs in the family, I guess.”
Troy yawned and stretched. “Well, I’m beat. Think I’ll turn in.”
“Good idea. You know what Mom says....”
“Things always look better in the morning,” they said together.
Laughing, Billie gave him a shove. “See you tomorrow, then...y’big softie.”
“Better watch it, tough girl. I still have fifty pounds and eleven inches on you.”
At the guest room door, he kissed her forehead. “You’re a lifesaver, kid.”
“Guess that runs in the family, too.”
Troy nodded.
“If you need anything,” she said as his door swung closed, “make yourself at home.”
“Thanks. I will.”
The latch clicked as she whispered, “Sweet dreams.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“SWEET DREAMS,” NOAH whispered, pulling Alyssa’s door closed.
He headed for the kitchen, taking care to avoid the loud squeak just outside her room. Three years ago, she could sleep through her mother’s book club meetings, his late-night phone calls, even thunderstorms. Since her mom’s death, it seemed his daughter slept with one eye open and one ear cocked. He understood that, because Jillian’s murder had all but turned him into an insomniac.
A gentle early autumn rain pecked the windows as he checked the back door, which had leaked like a sieve during the last downpour. So far, so good, he thought. But just to be safe, Noah tucked several towels near the threshold. Tomorrow, after dropping Alyssa off at school, he’d walk over to Kaplan’s Hardware for weather stripping.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then popped a CD into the stereo and settled into his well-worn recliner. He dimmed all the lights except for the one beside his chair, and as Bonnie Raitt’s haunting, husky voice filled the room, the mood was set.
Noah pried open the brass clasp on the manila envelope. Inside, three smaller envelopes held letters from his parents, his brother and sister.
A quiet knock at the French doors startled him. It didn’t surprise him to see Max through the slight opening between the curtain panels. What did surprise him was that he hadn’t heard her climb the long narrow staircase that led to the apartment.
When he opened the door, she pointed at the porch swing. “Oh, man, I’ve always wanted one of those! Is it new?”
“Yes and no. Taylor’s was having a sidewalk sale, and Alyssa went crazy over it.”
Max hung her leather jacket on the hall tree as he dropped the envelope onto the coffee table.
“And of course,” she said, making herself comfortable, “you couldn’t say no.”
“I just popped a beer,” he said. “Want one?”
She tucked long, copper-red curls behind her ears. “Sure. Why not. I’m off duty.”
He went into the kitchen for a bottle, and when he returned, Max was admiring the porcelain-faced baby doll he’d bought on the same day as the swing.
“I don’t remember seeing this before.” She thanked him for the beer, then leaned the doll in the sofa’s opposite corner.
The recliner creaked when he dropped onto its seat. “It kinda came with the swing.”
Max took a swig, then shook her head.
“What?” Noah said.
“You’d better learn to say no, that’s what, or that adorable kid of yours will be so spoiled by the time she’s sixteen, you’ll find yourself working a second job to pay for her pink Corvette. And a pony. And—”
“No way.”
“You forget how long I’ve had this ‘agent’ gig, Preston. I’ve seen it before. That’s how I know you’ll be sorry if you don’t soon get a handle on your yes-man tendencies.”
He didn’t want to talk about Alyssa, or how hard it was to deny her anything. The 9x12 envelope sat on the coffee table, and he was anxious to read the letters from his family.
Max followed his gaze and picked it up. “So my sources at the agency were right. You did get mail today.” Fingering the envelope’s flap, she added, “So what’s up in the Windy City these days?”
“Don’t know. I was just about to read the letters when you showed up.”
In typical Max fashion, she gave an unladylike snort. “Well, don’t let me stop you.” She toed off her high-heeled cowboy boots and propped both black-socked feet on the table. “Can’t remember when I last heard a Bonnie Raitt tune. Lord, but that woman can sing!”
She leaned into the backrest and closed her eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas?”
Noah sighed. The woman knew just about everything else about him. Why not add Watch me fall apart...again to the list?
His mom had stapled a newspaper clipping to her note, and he read the headline out loud. “Gina Judson Takes Six Blue Ribbons in Baking Category.” Beneath it was a full-color photo of his mom, standing in front of the DuPage County Fairgrounds entrance. “Man. I haven’t seen that in years.” He put the article on the coffee table, and while Max looked at it, he read his mom’s letter. Amos Miller next door had finally chopped down the messy mimosa tree that stained his mom’s prized brick driveway, she’d written, and the last of her tomatoes were ripening on the sunporch.
He could picture them, lined up in tidy rows on the glass-and-rattan table, could almost hear his mom scolding his dad for swiping the ripest for a sandwich, instead of leaving it for her famous tomato-watermelon salad.
“She has lovely handwriting,” Max said when he handed her the letter. “You just don’t see that anymore, what with email and texting and social networking.”