Yuletide Hearts (6 page)

Matt set out spoons and butter knives like he'd been setting tables all his life, but the look he sent her was only half-
teasing and not at all unappreciated. “Cal, trust me on this. If we'd met before, I'd have remembered.”

She felt the blush rise from her chest, staining her face and neck, and despite her best military ways, she couldn't tamp it down. “Artful flattery, marine.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He smiled across the table as the older men lumbered through from the living room. “Two tours in Iraq taught me to plan for the future but live in the moment.”

“Good advice, son.” Hank nodded approval as he sank into the chair, breathing deep. “Cal, this smells wonderful.”

“It does,” Buck chimed in. “And I grabbed some ice cream this morning. It's in the freezer on the porch. I thought someone might like a sundae tonight.” He targeted Jake with a grin of appreciation. “There's fudge sauce in the cupboard 'longside the sink. And whipped cream in the fridge.”

Jake beamed. “Thanks, Buck. I thought you forgot.”

“No, sir, I did not.” Buck ladled his bowl of soup, set it down and passed the ladle on to Hank. “When this old soldier makes a promise, he keeps it and you worked hard to make that honor roll.”

“He sure did.” Hank smiled approval at the boy. “Hard work pays off. Got your homework done already?”

Jake waved toward Matt. “Matt helped me while Mom finished supper.”

“Ah.”

Her father's partial word said a lot, maybe too much, but Matt took it in stride. “The smell of this soup prevailed on me, sir. A good Marine does what he must to facilitate great food.”

“Amen to that,” added Buck. “And speakin' of amens, if you'd bless this food, Hank, we could commence to eatin' and I for one am mighty hungry after workin' rooftops all day.”

Hank offered his typical short, clipped blessing and Callie sent him an “Are you kidding me?” look.

He grinned and dipped his spoon into his soup. “No need to look at me like that, daughter, I spent my day praying on
that rooftop. God understands short and sweet as well as he does long and drawn out.”

“Can't have the biscuits cooling off,” Matt chimed in reasonably.

“Would be a cryin' shame,” added Buck as he slathered butter across his. “Though Callie's biscuits are fine hot or cold.”

“A good selling point,” Matt noted, grinning.

“Yet totally unnecessary when nothing's on the market.” Callie kept her tone light but directed a pointed gaze at Matt.

“Duly noted.”

“Good.”

“Did they come and switch up those shingles for number thirty-one?” Hank asked Matt, shifting the subject to Cobbled Creek, a change Callie welcomed.

“First thing in the morning. I'm glad you caught the mistake, Hank.” Matt shook his head. “I can't believe I almost missed it.”

“The three and the eight in the code looked mighty similar, but gray shingles in the midst of all these other homes?” Hank made a face. “That would have been bad. This way they're here in time and we don't waste a day. If the rain holds off.”

“And I can be here only Monday and Tuesday next week,” Buck explained, his tone reluctant. “We're headin' down to the daughter's place for Thanksgiving and won't be back until Saturday. Mother's got to have her shopping day with Jeannine while Bob and I hang out with the kids on Friday.”

“Family time's important.” Callie smiled at Buck, then shoulder nudged him lightly. “And you know you love wrestling with those boys.”

“Though they're too big for that now,” Buck admitted. “Tim's in sixth grade, and Tyler's a freshman in high school this year. Seems funny to have them that grown.”

“Family is meant to be enjoyed,” Hank assured him as he went back to the soup pot for seconds. “The good Lord wouldn't have it any other way.”

 

Hank's choice of expression struck Matt.

Nothing in his family had been enjoyable. Hank's words shone a new perspective on his parents' choices. Neither one held any belief system holy or sacred, neither one invested time in anything but themselves. Matt hadn't known the warmth of a candlelit church service until Gus took charge of him, and it took the rough stint in juvie to put him back on track.

But he'd done it. Finally. With help from his beloved grandfather.

He felt Hank's gaze on him, measuring. Assessing. That single look said Hank knew his past and understood his present, and Hank wouldn't have invited him to live under their roof if he didn't trust him, right?

But Hank knew Matt's stepfather, which meant he knew the clutch of drama surrounding Matt's parents. The two fathers left a legacy of drinking, gambling and womanizing. It wouldn't be a big leap to wonder if Matt carried either man's hard-hitting characteristics. Half the town knew Matt had been headed full-bore in that direction as a young man.

He'd stopped that train of self-destruction, but folks had long memories. His past would intrude on the present, which meant he had to make the here and now as pristine as possible, no hassles, no hurries, no mistakes.

And sitting at the Marek table, Matt never wanted anything more.

 

“Uh-oh.”

Callie peered at Hank as she shimmed a window from the inside while Hank and Buck adjusted the outside the following afternoon. “What?”

Hank jutted his chin toward their house, visible through the back opening. “Don's here.”

Callie followed his gaze. “And that's bad because?”

Her father made a face, then pushed out a breath that sounded long overdue. “He's Matt's father.”

“He's…” Callie paused, squinted toward the window, then faced Hank. “He's what?”

“Matt's father. Stepfather, actually. In a convoluted weird kind of way.”

“You either are or you aren't,” Callie corrected him. “It's a legal term. So, is he or isn't he?”

“Is he or isn't he what?”

Perfect. Just perfect.

Callie turned toward Matt's voice, mad at herself for talking about him when he wasn't there. Except he
was
there.

“Don's at the house.” Hank pointed toward the road. “I was just explaining to Callie…”

“No sense explaining what can't be understood.” Matt rubbed his hands against his jeans, two wet stripes darkening the denim. “I lived it and I still don't get it.”

“I'll go talk to him,” Hank said. He made a move toward the door and Matt caught his arm.

“I'll do it.”

“But you said—”

“I know.” Matt studied the view beyond the window, the older man climbing out of his truck, heading toward the house. “But there's no time like the present to have this said.”

“You sure?”

Matt shook his head and made a face. “Not by half, but I'll do it anyway.”

He strode out the door, climbed into his truck and drove the quarter mile, wind-whipped rain beating on his truck, the wipers slapping up and down in furious fashion. Callie turned toward her father. “I don't get it.”

“Neither do I,” Hank admitted. He turned his attention back to work. “But it's Matt's story to tell. I just happened to know some of it.”

She sent her father an incredulous look. “You're not going to explain this?”

“Nope. Sorry. Gotta ask him.”

That wasn't about to happen. She'd managed to keep personal conversations to a minimum so far and…

So far? You're on day five. Not exactly world record pace.

Oh, she got that. But it
was
significant because she'd fought off the inclination to share sweet banter with Matt, knowing he could get under her skin.

Worse, he recognized the ploy. She saw it in his gaze. The set of his chin. The tilt of his head, the tiny muscle that twanged now and again in his jaw.

Knowing his marine background and his patient demeanor, she'd sidestepped anything that might be of import conversationally.

But now, seeing him climb out of his truck and mount their side steps, she kind of wished she knew what was going on.

“I've got the rest of the windows unpackaged.” Buck's voice interrupted her wandering thoughts. “Callie, you need help?”

“I'm good, thanks.”

Buck stared out the window and then met Hank's gaze. “Uh-oh.”

“I said the same.”

Callie swept the pair a look of disbelief. “You both know what's going on?”

“Before your time, I expect.” Buck helped Hank balance the living room picture window as they lifted it into place from outside. “Cal, can you give us a hand here?”

Callie helped leverage the lower edge of the window into the expertly cut opening. “Nice job, Dad.”

“Thank you. And I'm still not telling you. A man's got a right to privacy.”

“She could ask him herself,” Buck supposed.

Like Callie needed to hear
that
again. “Or not.”

“Suit yourself.” Buck nodded approval of the window fit as Callie leveled it from inside. “Kind of nice to have an uncurious woman around. Refreshing, you might say.”

Uncurious?

No way.

But she refused to feed the gossip mills at anyone's expense. The thought that Don and Matt were related shouldn't be a surprise with the same last name, but lots of Irish had settled into the lower counties of New York State. Cavanaugh wasn't exactly rare.

But she'd noticed the pained look that crossed Matt's face before he hardened his jaw. That flash of emotion said the past colored the present, and Callie understood that reality tenfold.

“M
att.” The older man's face paled when Matt strode into the Marek kitchen, giving Don an unhealthy hue. Not that Matt cared.

“Don.” Matt kept his voice calm, his affect flat, and refused to use the term
Dad.
That title had been forever tainted in his mind by both men, but he was beyond letting their callousness affect the boy who lingered within. Most days. “No one's here right now.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Working.” Matt jerked a thumb west. “I bought Cobbled Creek from the bank. Hank and his buddies are helping me get things winterized.”

Don lifted his chin, surprised. “You own Cobbled Creek?”

“Yes.”

Don passed an aging hand across the nape of his neck. It didn't tremble. A good sign, Matt supposed. “Hank was hoping to buy it back himself.”

Matt stayed quiet, his silence punctuating the obvious.

“You need help over there?”

A part of Matt's gut seized. Another part froze. Did the guy who walked out on an eight-year-old boy who'd known him as dad just ask for a job?

Matt conquered his instincts and shook his head, wondering if he could locate a punching bag nearby. “Got it covered,
thanks. Hank's invited me to stay here.” He waved a hand, indicating the house. “Until I get the model certified.”

Don's expression hinted the sorrowed man within. But Matt had endured more sorrow than a kid should ever have to, so Don could just take his angst and—

“…forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…
?.”

The sweet words of The Lord's Prayer proved wickedly hard to follow right now. Matt would discuss that with God later, but for the moment… “I've got to get back to work.”

“Oh. Sure.” Don hauled his wet hat back onto his balding head with two hands. “I'll get on, then.”

He'd put on weight. And lost hair. And his teeth could use work. Matt saw all that and tried to equate it with the guy who played catch with him in the backyard. Who took him to Little League games to cheer on the home team. Who promised him the world until the day he realized he had no legal responsibility for Matt and walked out the door, never to be seen again.

Old anger resurged, too sharp to be considered controlled.

But Matt managed it. As he led the way out, he waved toward the subdivision again. “I expect this will take a while.”

“I see.”

Don's expression said he understood what Matt didn't say.
Keep your distance until I'm out of here.
He nodded. “Good luck on your project.”

Matt refused to acknowledge that. He didn't need luck; he had faith. He didn't need handouts; he needed workers. And God himself knew that Matt didn't need a pretend father hovering on the outskirts of his life, one who should have been holed up in Florida collecting unemployment checks until spring.

If I was a father…

Whoa. Matt put the brakes on that train of thought in whip-cord fashion. He carried enough bad genes to ruin a dining room table full of kids, so the idea of procreating?

Wasn't gonna happen.

Nope, he'd stop the craziness of passing on Neal's and his mother's self-absorbed genes right here. He had his work. His company. His service buddies. And a host of construction people in the northern section of Allegheny County admired him for his pledge of excellence and work ethic.

His brother, Jeff, and his new fiancée, Hannah, could produce the next generation of Brennan blood.

Guilt speared him as he approached 17 Cobbled Creek Lane. His grandfather had loved his Latino heritage. And he'd married an Asian woman who taught at a local preschool until her untimely death from ovarian cancer. Matt only knew her in pictures, but Grandpa's praise painted a rosy picture.

And his mother had been beautiful. But looks only go so deep, and if he had to hunt two generations back to find goodness in his family tree, that was too far. Being upfront about that saved a whole lot of wasted time and emotion.

He parked the truck, climbed out and ducked inside the house, damp chilled air surrounding him.

Comfort later. Work now.

That's how he got through the Corps. And through the early days of forging his own company. And through the lean times of project start-ups. He should be used to it by now.

“Need help over here?”

A new warmth stole over Matt. He turned.

Callie stood inside the door. She indicated the house across the street with a nod. “Dad and Buck have that one just about done and I figure we've got a couple of good hours of daylight left, even with the rain.”

“Did you have lunch?” Matt didn't remember seeing her leave or eat, so…

“Work first,” she told him, moving inside. “Plenty of time to eat once it gets dark and you stay warmer if you keep moving.”

A part of Matt respected her stance. Another part wanted
to bundle her in a blanket by a cozy fire and make sure she was warm. Fed. Comfortable.

Red alert. You've entered a “no cozy fire” zone. Proceed at your own risk.

“You're right.” He headed outside as she moved into the great room area. “Let's see if we can get this done before Jake gets home.”

Callie laughed. “He's spending the night at Cole's house, so I'd hope so. I figured that worked out well because we can't put the Christmas lights up in this rain. But maybe tomorrow.”

Matt wanted to help with that. He wanted to see Christmas through Jake's eyes, the eyes of a beloved child.

“We'll make sure they go up tomorrow, one way or another,” he promised. “I'm not afraid to get wet. As we're about to witness.”

“Thanks, Matt.” She smiled his way and the warmth that flickered when she walked in the door intensified. “I can manage the lights, but it's easier with two people.”

“Yup. Hank and me. You can make supper, or something.”

She sent him a “get serious” look as she unpackaged a window. “Keep the little woman in the house? Are you kidding me?” She flashed a glance around them. “You get what I do, right? Climbing a ladder to hang Christmas lights is no biggie.”

“Even so.” Matt double checked the window dimensions, snapped his tape shut and raised one shoulder. “It wouldn't hurt for you to be warm one day out of seven.”

A spark of pleasure brightened her eyes, but she quenched it pretty quick. Not quick enough, though, and Matt wondered how long it had been since anyone had taken care of Callie. Treated her like a woman. Treasured her.

Seeing Don must have lit some emotional fire within him, a flicker of flame that better get squelched quick. He needed the Mareks to make his dream happen. They needed him and his paychecks to survive their current situation. No one on
either side could afford to muck this up. So he wouldn't, plain and simple.

Although catching her gaze through the rough-cut window opening made him want to rethink his position.

Time to change the subject. “I figured church first thing. Then a few hours over here. Then Christmas lights and football.”

Callie laughed out loud. “After the week you've put in, I'd call football well-deserved entertainment.”

He winked in agreement. “Monday's weather looks clear. We can resume roofing then. And if we get this house enclosed by tomorrow night, we're better than halfway done.”

“And making sweet time.”

“Which brings me back to tomorrow's schedule.”

Callie helped stabilize the window as he lifted it into position from outside. “Yes?”

“You in an apron.”

She blushed, shook her head and slid thin wooden shims beneath the frame, eyeing her carpenter's level.

“With some kind of great Sunday afternoon meal going,” he continued, raising his voice to be heard through the window and over the rain.

“An apron?”

He widened his grin and flicked her outfit a glance. “Saves wear and tear on your flannel shirts.”

She didn't answer right away, and when he balanced the window and glanced down, she wasn't smiling.

“Hey, I was kidding. You can get your flannel shirts dirty if you want to. They're washable.”

Something flashed in her face, the pain he thought he'd seen the week before, as if…

He had no idea, but he felt bad. And stupid. “Hey, Cal, you don't have to cook.” Was her lower lip trembling?

No. She wouldn't do that, would she? Get girly on him?

“Actually, I'll cook,” he added hurriedly, anything to put off the possibility of a woman's tears. Nothing in the Corps
taught him how to deal with those, and that seemed downright wrong and maybe dangerous because he didn't know a male soldier that muscled up to a crying woman. “And put up the Christmas lights. And finish the windows. Just don't cry, okay?”

She scowled, blinked and shrugged, eyes down. “I don't cry.”

Right. Matt refused to argue the whole shaking-lip thing. He knew what he saw, but God had also given him a working brain and arguing with an emotional woman? Not smart. “Well, good. So I'll cook…”

“I'll be glad to cook.” She finished the shims, assessed the level, then whacked the excess shim board away with more energy than required. Like double that. “I like cooking. Occasionally.”

Something wasn't adding up. “Then why the long face?”

“No long face.” She straightened and sent him a reassuring look. “See?”

Oh, he saw all right. He saw a soldier that knew how to draw down the shield, a gallant woman who'd learned to quell emotion. And normally he'd praise that talent, a skill not easily attained, but here? Now?

He wanted to help. He longed to ease the flash of hurt and insecurity. Inspire her laughter. But seeing Don face to face left him fresh out of funny things to say.

 

Cut him some slack,
Callie's inner voice advised.
That meeting with Don couldn't have been the easiest thing in the world.
And something she'd like to know more about at some point in time. But not now, when she'd already gone girly and emotional over an innocent comment about her work clothes that should have been funny.

But it wasn't.

Callie moved to the next window, then drew up short. “Oh, I forgot.”

Matt checked the frame size before he looked up. “Forgot what?”

“You got a call on the house phone.”

“Oh. From?”

“Reenie.”

He sent her a puzzled look, one that almost looked sincere, and it wasn't as if Callie cared who called him. Or what they looked like. How they dressed. Really.

“What did she want?”

“Does secretarial pay come with the job?”

He grinned, which meant she let too much emotion creep into her voice, a trend that occurred regularly around Matt Cavanaugh. “Under ‘hazard pay' in the fine print. Better read your contract more carefully next time.” He held the window in place while Callie leveled it. “So?”

Silent, she winged a brow through the glass.

Matt heaved an overdone sigh, playing along. “Did Reenie leave a message?”

Callie was tempted to pretend she hadn't, except because she had no vested interest in Matt Cavanaugh, why would she even consider such a thing? “That she's fine with next week and your cell phone was out of service.”

He pulled out the phone, scanned his bars and made a face. “Signals get choppy down here.”

“Sometimes. That's why we kept the landline. Something to think about when you get your C of O on the model.” She bent low, then made a quick sure cut, her home-building confidence intrinsic. Her self-confidence?

Whole other kettle of fish, but she wasn't going to get into that with Matt. Hopefully he'd chalk it up to bad timing or whatever. And she could care less who Reenie was.

Liar, liar, pants on fire…

She stood back as he positioned the next window, shushed the inner voice, then nodded approval. “I've always loved
these house plans. Each one distinct despite the neighborhood similarities.”

“That's what drew me to Cobbled Creek.” Matt sent her a frank glance of approval. “Your dad has a great eye for manipulating design just enough to maintain a neighborhood feel but leave each house unique. And the hillside setting, leaving established trees in place.” Matt's appreciation for the aesthetics raised Callie's confidence a notch. “A perfect draw.”

Callie slanted up a knowing smile. “He had help.”

Matt read her inference and grinned. “You?”

She nodded. “I love that kind of thing. Setting. Blending. Coordinating.”

“Interior stuff, too?”

She shook her head. “Decorating's not my forte. But home design. Placement. Light filtration. And kitchen setup. That stuff I get.”

“That's a gift, Callie.”

“I know.” She moved to remove the casing from the dining bay windows. “And Dad was never afraid to let me use it. I love that about him.”

“So you do that with Jake.”

“Is it obvious?”

He nodded. “Definitely. You draw the best out of him, but don't smother him. You let him find his way. That takes guts.”

She shrugged, not wanting to explain too much, but grateful for Matt's compliment. “I want him to feel independent. It's hard for kids who need extra help in school. It gets embarrassing.”

“It sure does.”

His wry note drew her closer. “Don't tell me you struggled in school, marine.”

“Ha.” He moved to the east side of the house and measured, then remeasured before grunting satisfaction. “School came hard. That's why I think it's cool how you help Jake. Teach him. Coach him.”

Callie heard what he didn't say, that no one had bothered to
do that with him. Her heart pinched at the thought of his little boy struggles, how challenging it must have been. And yet he'd conquered those dragons. He must have, or he wouldn't be standing here today. “Somewhere along the way you caught up.”