Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses) (9 page)

Some liking. For him, his hot chocolate, his lectures on proper nutrition, and for the grieving boy he’d been.

He closed the distance for her, taking her hand and giving it a firm shake. “You’ll let me pay their board?”

Well.
End
of
sharing
time.

“How much?”

He named a figure, no hesitation, and the amount was enough to make Sid wish he had eight other horses lurking on the back forty.

“I’ll ask Adelia if that’s a fair price,” she said. “Luis has a lesson tomorrow, and she and Neils can tell me whether to agree to this.”

“I understand. They might also be willing to have Luis do some weekend work for them, and reduce or eliminate the price of his lessons accordingly.”

Of course, Sid had to look the gift horse in the mouth. “Why would they do that?”

“Because I’ll tell them he works his butt off for the right motivation, and they always need help on weekends.”

The slight undertone of regret was gone from his voice, and Sid was relieved to hear it go. Whatever the motivation, she did not like to see MacKenzie Knightley at a loss.

“Luis is already thinking of asking the tenant farmer if he has any work for a teenage boy this summer,” Sid said.

“You mean the guy who farms your land?”

“His name is Hiram Inskip, and Luis says he lives over that way.” Sid gestured with her chin. “Who names a kid Hiram on purpose?”

“I know him. He’s my brother James’s neighbor, and getting on. He also farms James’s land, and his own boys are grown and gone.”

“Is there anybody you don’t know in this valley?” Sid got up to take her mug to the sink as a funny look crossed Mac’s features, a little amused, a little exasperated.

“I don’t know the new people.” He shifted a couple of feet to the left, while Sid turned on the spigot. “With the exception of present company.”

Mac was close enough that she caught a whiff of cinnamon and clove from him again, and had to stop herself from leaning closer. Cinnamon, clove, and something else, something absurdly enticing on a guy who stood nearly six and a half feet, and wore work boots, faded jeans, and a flannel shirt.

Gay guys typically had the corner on the designer scents. Sid stopped that thought before it could wander any closer to admitting she missed her brother.

“You get the saddest look in your eyes sometimes.” Knightley’s voice was soft, while he reached over and turned off the water. “Let me know if you’re keeping the horses. Otherwise, I’ll be putting up a load of fencing on James’s property.”

“What about your own property?”

“I have some acreage, but James is a horseman. Speaking of horsemen, I thought I’d spend some time with Luis this afternoon. He might enjoy learning to drive a team.”

Not subtle. “
If
I decide they can stay.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you decide they can stay.”

Mac’s eyes weren’t exactly dancing, but warmth lurked behind the solemn blue. Sid gave the spigot an extra twist and tried not to smile.

“I’ll call you when I’ve spoken to Adelia and Neils,” she said. “Luis apparently has your number.”

Mac pulled out a worn wallet and extracted a card. “That’s my cell. Feel free to use it.”

“We’re listed,” Sid said, then regretted it. That was almost the same as giving him their phone number, and while it shouldn’t mean anything, she hadn’t given a man her number in ages, not for any reason.

“I’ll be going.” Mac slipped his wallet back into its pocket. “Call me if you need anything, Sidonie. Whether you keep the horses for me or not, we’re still neighbors.”

He left, not letting the screen door bang. Sid turned around and hiked herself up to sit on the counter, Luis-style.

Sidonie.
She liked his hot chocolate, his cool blue eyes, and worst of all, she liked the sound of her name on his lips. Mac gave it just the slightest French inflection, like Luis had when he’d first been placed with her.

No, this was not good at all.

Hannah Knightley was a happy woman. At the beginning of the year, she’d married a man she couldn’t help but love—and desire. In Trent Knightley she’d found the man of her dreams as well as a father to her little girl, and gained a stepdaughter to love as well.

As if that weren’t enough, Trent came with two brothers whom Hannah and Grace both adored.

Trent had the polish. He was good on his feet, smooth, subtle, effective, and efficient. In the courtroom, other people said he was damned good. To Hannah, his courtroom presence was sexy-good.

James had the charm. If he had to confront, in the courtroom or elsewhere, he was every bit as lethal as his brothers, but his preference was to flirt and cajole, to commiserate and tease and reason. With any luck, he was about to charm his Vera to the altar.

That left MacKenzie, who had the…fathomless blue eyes. Mac was still a puzzle to Hannah, but his ferocious loyalty to his brothers would have endeared him to her if his attentiveness to his nieces hadn’t already.

And Mac was knocking on her office door, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.

She came around her desk. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I never did take you to lunch when you signed on.” Mac had his suits tailor-made for him by some little Amish guy up in Pennsylvania, and bought his shoes, ties, and accessories on his occasional trips to New York. He never looked anything less than dressed to the teeth in the office, and he never seemed to appreciate what an impression he made.

“So we’re going to lunch?” Hannah asked.

“Do you have time? I can ask another day if you and Trent have plans.” Mac was staring out the window across the parking lot. Hannah had seen him in the same pose any number of times in James’s or Trent’s offices.

“I’ve been abandoned so Trent can meet with a client before a shelter care hearing this afternoon. We can play hooky as long as you want, but I warn you, I don’t share my desserts.”

“Nor do I.” He smiled at her, a brief flash of teeth that reminded her of James more than Trent. “Where would you like to go?”

“Some place quiet.”

He took her to the Knightley menfolk’s favorite steak joint, which was subdued and not cheap. The food was excellent, and Mac proved to have more conversation than Hannah might have guessed.

He asked her about Grace and Merle’s adjustment to a blended family situation, asked her how the horseback riding was coming since Trent had bought both Grace and Hannah their own mounts. He listened to her fret about the approach of summer, and the demands that would inevitably make for extra supervision of the girls. By the time Hannah’s chocolate mousse was sitting in front of her, she still had no idea what Mac’s true agenda might be.

“You’re not having dessert?” she asked.

“James gave me one of Vera’s recipes,” Mac said, “and I’ve got a stash of brownies at home to show for it. May I ask you something?”

“I was wondering when you would.”

“What was foster care like?”

Hannah’s spoon clattered into the ceramic bowl holding her mousse.

“What was it like?” She studied Mac as she parroted the question, but the guy had a phenomenal poker face. “Why do you ask?”

He smoothed his hand over the tablecloth in front of him, turned his water goblet exactly three hundred and sixty degrees, then turned it back again, precisely to its starting point.

“You heard I got kissed?” he asked.

Kissing in the passive voice. Interesting. “I overheard James and Trent remarking on it. They clammed up when I walked into the room, though.”

He looked relieved, then pained. “I took a horseshoeing client and her foster son out for pizza, or they took me. They might be boarding some horses for me.”

“Daisy and Buttercup, the wayward draft mares. That part, Trent let me in on. What do you want to know, Mac? And, no, I will not repeat every word to Trent, though I won’t lie to him if he asks me, either.”

“No lying,” he said, lining his water goblet up with the end of his knife. “I’m not even asking you to fudge, Hannah. Repeat every word to Trent, just tell me what it was like being raised in foster care.”

Fudge. One of the best criminal defense attorneys in the state, and he used the verb
to
fudge
.

Hannah had to think, to consider and discard words and phrases, because nobody had asked this question before—not even her husband.

“Have you ever seen that Photoshop card of a fox trying to fit in with a bunch of sheep?” she asked. “You have to look twice to see what doesn’t go, because the angle of his nose is exactly the same as the sheeps’, the height of his head, the slope of his neck into his shoulders. He’s a fox-shaped sheep, at first glance. It was like that. Always feeling like I had to fit in, always knowing I didn’t.”

Abruptly, Hannah had had enough mousse.

“What was the worst part of it?”

Mac’s question suggested her brother-in-law had a degree of fortitude she hadn’t appreciated. Answering was simple, also difficult.

“The hardest part was watching the little kids get adopted,” Hannah said, “and being truly happy for them, but knowing I couldn’t stay, I could not
accept
that I wasn’t as lovable, as cute, as whatever they were that I wasn’t. Then I convinced myself I didn’t want to be adopted.”

How painful the memory was, even half a lifetime later.

“Why didn’t you want to be adopted, Hannah?”

This mattered to him. For Mac to wade into such personal waters, this had to matter to him a lot. Hannah pushed the chocolate mousse to his side of the table.

“Because I’d lost faith by then, Mac. I could not stand to have my hopes raised one more time, then dashed by yet another family.”

He ignored a perfectly luscious dessert. “So you hated your foster parents?”

“No, I did not hate them. Some of them I resented. Most of them I genuinely liked. It can’t be easy, treating a kid who’s essentially a stranger as if he’s family, especially knowing all that kid wants is to get back to the family who abused or neglected him. I didn’t consider the parenting angle of the equation until Grace came along, though.”

“Would you ever consider doing foster care?”

“Trent and I have discussed it,” she said, which might be a small violation of marital confidentiality. Very small. Trent and his brothers had few secrets from each other. “We have our hands full with the girls, and we’d like more children when the time is right. We didn’t rule it out, though.”

Mac said nothing, and Hannah saw wheels turning within wheels in his thoughtful expression.

“Was there something else you wanted to ask, Mac?”

“Yes. Were you ever in a single-parent foster home?”

“By default, twice. In one home, the foster dad died, in another, the couple split up. I ended up living with the wife in both cases.”

“How was that?”

“They were nice ladies. They tried to make it a hen party, but finances eventually got the better of the situation, or emotions. In both cases it was the breadwinner who’d died or left the home. The state takes a dim view of adults supporting themselves on a foster care stipend that’s supposed to be for the kid. The placements, as they say, disrupted.”

Mac made a face, apparently not liking that euphemism any more than Hannah did. He picked up his spoon and rearranged the mousse into the center of the bowl.

“The laws have changed a lot since I was in foster care, Mac. There’s a lot more emphasis now on getting kids into a permanent situation sooner, either back at home, or in an adoptive home, or with relatives, if necessary. In general, the system has improved. Are you thinking of becoming a foster parent?”

A wild guess, a hunch, but the way Mac’s spoon paused amid the mousse suggested the idea had crossed his mind.

“With my schedule?” He sat back, leaving the spoon in the bowl. “Single parenting is hard. I saw that when my father died and Mom was left with James, who was a good kid, but all boy all the time. I’ll be content to enjoy my nieces. A nephew or two wouldn’t go amiss either though.” He spoke contemplatively, as if he were already picking out the exact fishing hole he’d take his nephews to for the first outing.

“Not you too. James has been hinting, and Trent just smirks at him.”

“Trent’s obnoxiously happy these days.” Mac’s expression became more fierce. “I appreciate that, you know. He wasn’t always such a cheerful guy.”

“He had his brothers. He’s told me how much he leaned on you and James, and how instrumental you were in helping him get custody of Merle.”

Mac waved at the waiter. “He’d do the same for us. Do you want your mousse back?”

“All yours.”

Mac polished it off in about two bites, not even attempting to make conversation while he did. When they were getting up to leave, he held Hannah’s coat for her and ushered her through the doors, out into the spring day.

Mac paused as he opened the passenger side of his truck, a big, no-nonsense rig that would ensure he never had trouble getting to court, no matter the weather.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that not feeling appreciated, Hannah. Not feeling wanted.”

Hannah hardly knew what to say as Mac’s arms came around her. She’d danced with him at the Christmas party, and she knew he was as graceful in his long bones as Trent and James were, and she’d hugged Mac in passing, but she and Mac had never…embraced.

“You’re ours now, you know.” Mac’s lips grazed her forehead, gentle as a breeze. “We look after what’s ours, no matter what.”

His arms slipped away, and he stepped back, waiting for Hannah to climb in. She was still smiling foolishly when he started up the engine and turned the truck for the office. James flirted, Trent had exchanged vows with her, but Mac…

Mac said the words, the simple, sweet words that took heart and courage and meant so much. And she hadn’t even known she’d needed to hear them.

* * *

“But, Mr. Mac, they wasn’t my pants.” The client looked hopeful, painfully so, expecting his lawyer to buy that ration of horseshit.

“Whose were they?” Mac asked, stifling the urge to glance at the desk clock sitting beside school pictures of Grace and Merle.

“There was this guy, name was Leroy. Ain’t never seen him before, but he was over at Doobie’s hanging, ya know?”

Another hopeful glance, while the client furrowed his brow as if trying to recall details. “I think he was a friend of Shay’s. You know Shay?”

“Street” names being what they were, Mac had to guess. “Charlemagne Harold?”

“Yeah, that Shay. You got him off that time on the B&E. Anyhow, there was this Leroy dude, and we were grillin’ some steaks, and Shay and Little Alvie got to horsing around in the backyard—we was drinkin’ beer, you know. It was Doobie’s backyard, and it’s a free country—and they got a little enthusiastic.”

Mac did look at the clock. Wrigley Hanford St. Cloud—a.k.a. Wiggles, The Hand, and Cloudy—was a handsome, skinny, dark-haired bad liar who might have twenty years to his name. To blow a .24, he’d been soaking in his
beer
for days. And this little yard party had included OxyContin and a significant quantity of high quality weed.

“They got enthusiastic,” Mac said, “about breaking the law.”

“Nah, Mr. Mac. I’m telling you. They were just joking around, but they grabbed the ketchup and the mustard and shit and started squirting each other. Leroy got me with the mustard right on the…” Wiggles gestured toward his crotch. “So the dude says to me, ‘Trade you pants.’ We traded, and they were Leroy’s pants I had on when I got arrested. Honest.”

Such creativity would be wasted down at Roxbury. “Why is there no mention of Leroy in any of the co-defendants’ statements?” Mac asked.

“I think he’s from New York.” A hint of honest—well, genuine—anxiety flitted across Wiggles’s face.

“If Leroy is Doobie’s out-of-town connection, Wiggles, then why did Leroy have a script pad from the local free clinic in his pants pockets?”

“I dunno, Mr. Mac. Maybe he picked it up for Alvie’s sister. Tina’s real good at…” Now the client was looking anywhere but at Mac. “Maybe he got it for someone else.”

Mac stood, feeling a need to put distance between himself and the mess that was Wrigley’s life. Leroy’s magic traveling pants had been a treasure trove of evidence: a pipe with THC residue in the bowl, a bottle of pills with no prescription label, a bag of excellent weed, rolling papers…

“You want to do some work for the narcotics task force, Wrigley?”

“No, sir.” With an emphatic shake of the head.

“Could you piss clean now?”

“Yes, sir. I’m out on bail. I know better than to party when I got a court date.”

“I need to talk to Alvie’s sister,” Mac said. “Why wasn’t Leroy on the scene when the cops showed up?”

“Went right over the back fence as soon as Tina began screaming. Never saw a man move like that, but Alvie said Leroy’s into martial arts or some shit.”

This had an incongruous ring of truth. Mac had been to the scene, and there was, indeed, a back fence.

“Do you know where Leroy bought the pants?”

A long shot. Mac let the question hang in the air as hope dawned in Wrigley’s eyes.

“Now that you mention it, Mr. Mac, fucker bought his pants in New York. Some little boutique in the Village, I think he said.”

“Let’s hope he didn’t rip out the label. You were in possession of the pants, though, so you were in possession of everything in them. That doesn’t give me much to work with, Wrigley, but your record isn’t that bad, and you don’t have any violent offenses. You going to meetings?”

“Ninety in ninety. I know the drill, Mr. Mac.”

Not that the twelve-step waltz had done a thing for the vast majority of Mac’s clients. “You’re in treatment?”

“I went to that place you sent me, and they’re real nice. Alvie’s been there too.”

Rehab was often old home week by another name. Somebody needed to figure out why that was.

“You stay away from Alvie.” Mac glared down at his client for emphasis. “You stay away from him, Tina, Shay, the whole crowd. They aren’t your friends until I get you an acquittal or you do your time. We clear on that?”