Page 219 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“By trying to find information to change your sister’s mind. Did the detective find anything?”

“It doesn’t matter what the guy found. I already told Amanda what Lester did, and she doesn’t give a shit. She thinks the sun shines out of his ass.” I glance at Mrs. Rosa. “Sorry.”

But she just waves a hand in dismissal. “You’re entitled, dear.”

“No,” Roger says. “The issue isn’t that your sister doesn’t care. It’s that she doesn’t believe you. What if Mary found proof?”

That thought sinks into my head like an anchor in the ocean, plummeting all the way to my feet. What if shedidfind proof? She’d insisted she knew something that might make a difference, and I refused to even hear her out.

I had my head up my ass, assuming the worst of her, just like I was convinced she was assuming the worst of me.

I push out a breath. “It doesn’t matter. Amanda won’t want to see it. She won’t change her mind.”

Mrs. Rosa gives me a pointed look. “Mary doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who would let that stop her from trying anyway.”

A song starts playing from her pocket—Lizzo’s “Juice”—and her face brightens. “The cake’s done. Gotta go. But you think on what I said, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, thrown by the fact that Mrs. Rosa even knows who Lizzo is, let alone has her song as an alarm.

She reaches up and pats my cheek. “You’re a good boy. A little slow at times, but you eventually get there.”

Then she winks and walks out the door, the song still playing on her phone. I can hear her singing, “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” as she walks down the hall.

I’m still gaping when Roger says, “That song’s got a catchy beat.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah.”

“She’s right,” he says. “Think about it, then go grovel. But don’t take too long.”

“What?”

“Grovel. On hands and knees if that’s what it takes. That woman’s special. Don’t let her go, son. I’ve got a lifetime of regrets, but going after my wife was the one thing I got right. And it was the one thing that really mattered.” Then he gets up and walks out too, leaving me with the knowledge that one, he’s probably right, and two, he just called me son.

I grab my keys and go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MARY

Jace made it very clear that he doesn’t want to learn what I’ve discovered.

But what a person wants and what theyneedcan be two very different things. So even though tears are still tracking down my cheeks and I barely managed to get out of that ridiculous poodle skirt and change into my comfy UVA sweats, I grab a glass of wine—because I do have some sympathy for my broken heart—and sit down at my laptop. Dennis has already sent me his report, and I prepare to forward it to Jace.

My hands shake a little as they linger over the keyboard. What in the world should I write? In the past, I would have apologized, but Nicole is right. Apologies shouldn’t be doled out like breath mints at a restaurant. And the thing is, even though I hate being at odds with the man I care about, I’m not sorry I did it. Not even a little. If I’d told him what I wanted to do, he wouldn’t have let me, or he’d have insisted on spending money he can’t afford, and there’s no reason for him to go another day without being an uncle to Ben.

I’m still wary of Glenn’s motivations for suddenly wanting to see Aidan, especially since he didn’t once mention him in his voice message, but Jace?

I’ve heard the hurt in his voice when he talks about Ben, the raw edge of a pain that hasn’t dulled. And even if he’s decided I’m (a) a mess, (b) a control freak, and (c) utterly not worth the trouble, he deserves to have a relationship with his nephew. I want that for both of them.

I just wish it wouldn’t take him from Aidan and me too.

More tears escape my eyes, and I swipe them away, staring at the blank email. Feeling a weird sucking emptiness at the core of my being. When Glenn told me he was leaving, I didn’t feel likethis. It’s like my belly is full of broken glass but I’m ravenous, and the only food is more broken things.

Before I can write a word, a knock sounds at the front door, and I startle enough to spill the wine on both the couch and my shirt.

“Shoot. Shit. Shit.”

The knock sounds again, so I settle for swiping at the mess with my hand, which only makes the stain larger. I’m not going to be satisfied until I wash the cushion coverandmy sweatshirt—on hot—but someone’s at the door, dang it. Who’s here on a Saturday night, anyway?

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