Page 137 of I’ll Be Watching You

Cal knew when it happened. He liked her from the minute she slipped his tail in September: He’d been following her because one of her investigations hit upon one of his cold cases. He had been impressed. Then, when he first got a good look at her, he was attracted. She was cute, curvy, and confident, three big pluses in his book.

He liked her boldness, how she was straightforward and blunt.

But two things happened that had him teetering on the precipice of falling for her.

First, when she, Tess, and their mom had been held hostage at their office. Margo handled herself like a pro, but there was a moment when he saw her restrained that his heart pounded with the realization that the world, his world, would be lesser if she wasn’t in it.

Then, the next day, when he kissed her. He knew he wasn’t going to walk away, that he would do anything to keep this woman in his life.

Food was his love language. He loved cooking for people he cared about. Margo might not have realized that yet, but she would.

He didn’t plan on telling her he loved her right now, but he wasn’t going anywhere, and the right time would present itself.

He loved her family. The enormous Morales-Angelhart clan. His family was tiny in comparison. More, his family had taken the tragedies life gave them and wallowed. Margo’s family took their tragedies and blossomed. It was rather intoxicating to be around them.

“You can help in the kitchen anytime, Cal.”

Tom Morales, Ava’s brother, came over to where Cal was prepping the salad. Tom owned a restaurant and had brought over turkey, ham, and roast beef in one of his food trucks, where they were slowly roasting and would be hand carved right before dinner.

Between family and friends, Cal figured there were upwards of fifty people here for Thanksgiving.

“Tossing a salad is not rocket science,” Cal said with a grin. “Now, if you let me make the stuffing next year, I’ll show you perfection.”

“Hmm, I might take you up on that, but you have big shoes to fill,” he said. “My mom always makes the stuffing.”

Mrs. Morales came over to them. She was a spry eighty-one with strong hands and wide hips. Her dark gray hair was done up in a bun that added at least two inches to her short stature. She wasn’t as petite as Ava Angelhart, but she would still need a step stool to reach the second shelf in the kitchen.

“Next year,” she said, “come over the day before Thanksgiving and you show me your tricks. But I also make the pies, so you’ll be helping with that.”

“I look forward to it,” Cal said honestly.

He hadn’t known his grandparents well. His father’s parents were divorced and not in his life, sending Christmas cards and a hundred dollars for his birthdays and high school graduation. His grandmother had died, his grandfather on his third wife and living in Florida. He knew his mother’s parents a little better. They’d visited for a couple weeks every summer when he was a kid. They lived in Colorado, where Cal’s mom had grown up. They had passed, first his grandpa then his grandma, six and ten years ago, and Cal now wished he’d made more of an effort to stay in contact with them after he went to college. But because they’d moved so often when his dad served, those connections were harder to maintain.

And his mother wasn’t close to her parents for reasons Cal never understood.

Cal saw here in this house what happened when family put family first. When generations stayed in the same community. While it would be a bit of a trek, he could walk to Margo’s house from here, and it was an even shorter walk to the Angelhart home.

This was what he had been waiting for all his life. He wasn’t going to lose it.

Margo came back into the house without her parents, and there was contentment in her expression. She looked over at him and smiled; he smiled back. She started toward him, but was waylaid by two boys of about eleven who grabbed her hand and led her down a hall.

Father Rafe Morales approached him. “Cal,” he said. “Glad you could be here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.

Rafe watched Cal watch Margo, and Cal felt a little squeamish. He finished slicing the veggies and now four large salad bowls filled with fresh vegetables were displayed on the counter in front of him.

“Your family does this every year?”

“Yes, but this year, we especially have a lot to be thankful for.”

“I’m glad it worked out. Really.”

Rafe nodded.

Cal kept expecting him to ask what his intentions were toward Margo, and that was silly. They were both grown adults and Rafe wasn’t even Margo’s dad. But he was a priest, and while Cal had been raised Catholic, he hadn’t been to church in years. Decades. Except for funerals. Which seemed damn depressing to think about right now.

“I’ll see you later, Cal,” Rafe said and walked away.