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“It is?” She couldn’t believe her ears. “Just like that?” She snapped her fingers.
“If you’d just give me a chance.”
“Oh, please—”
His lips compressed. “Look, Tiffany, this isn’t easy for me,” he said, his voice firmer. “I’m not the kind of man who likes to admit to his mi
stakes. Hell, I know I fouled up with your ma. With you. I don’t blame you for hating me, but I’m here because deep down, whether you want to admit it or not, we’re family.”
“Family isn’t about blood ties,” she retorted, standing as she blinked against the hot tears filling her eyes. “It’s about love, sharing, commitment. It’s about being around when you’re needed, about sharing the good and the bad, helping bear the pain. Family isn’t just about being together at weddings and births and funerals, it’s about supporting each other every day of your life.”
She stared at him and he managed to look ashamed for a second. “What can I say?” he asked, staring into his cup again and shaking his head. “I’ve changed. I nearly died after that last heart attack, and I realized, then, what’s important in life.” Clearing his throat he looked at her, and she bit her lip to keep from crying. “You are, Tiffany. You and your children. I won’t lie to you and say that I loved your ma. Lord knows, we were never meant to be together. But you and the grandkids, that’s a different story.”
There was a snort from the vicinity of the stairs, and Tiffany glanced over her shoulder to find Stephen, his black hair rumpled and sticking out at odd angles, his good eye still a slit, his injured one swollen shut, standing on the landing.
“Oh. Stephen. Uh, you know John Cawthorne.”
“Yeah.” Stephen straightened a bit and walked down the remaining steps. “Grandpa.” He spat the word as if it tasted bitter.
“Yes. He’s your grandfather.”
John managed a tight smile and extended his hand. “How’re ya, boy? What happened there?” He nodded to Stephen’s black eye as the boy crossed the foyer, shook his hand for a mere instant and shrugged.
“A fight.”
“Did ya win?” One of John’s gray eyebrows rose expectantly.
“No one wins in a fistfight,” Tiffany interjected.
“Sure they do.”
Sullenly Stephen lifted a shoulder again. “I did okay.”
The room was tense, suddenly devoid of air. “There’s breakfast in the oven. Waffles.” At that moment Christina barreled into the room. Syrup was smeared over her lips and across the scrapes on her chin. A few strands of her hair were stuck to her cheek.
“I see you’re busy,” John said as he set his cup on a table. “Just remember I’d love to see all of you at the wedding tomorrow.”
“You mean that?” Stephen asked.
“Absolutely.”
The boy looked at his mother. “We goin’?”
“No.” She wasn’t going to change her mind.
“Give it some thought,” John countered, and for a ridiculous second, Tiffany felt sorry for him.
“I can’t imagine I’d change my mind.”
If possible, Stephen’s eyes narrowed more suspiciously. Christina asked, “What wedding? You mean with brides?”
John grabbed his beat-up hat and bent down on one knee. “That’s right, but only one bride. Her name’s Brynnie, and she would think it was just great if you were there,” he said to Chrissie, then straightened. “If all of you were there.”
Stephen’s head tipped to one side as he eyed the stranger who was his grandfather.
“Don’t count on it,” Tiffany said, but the ice in her voice had melted, and she felt a ridiculous stab of guilt for being so cold. “We’re busy.”
“Sure.” He smiled sadly but didn’t accuse her of the lie. “I’ll be seein’ ya.”
