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I narrow my eyes and give her a suspicious look. “Wonderful or . . . ?”
“Interesting?” she amends with a laugh.
“Better,” I say, though I’m surprised to find that I’m smiling back. I was prepared to hate her, but she seems . . . perfect. For him.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your accident. What awful timing,” Lolo says. “How are you feeling?”
“Good!” I say, my voice so high that out of the corner of my eye, I see Tom start in surprise at the unfamiliar pitch.
“So, so good!” I babble on. “Headache’s better. Back’s a little itchy where the stitches are, but all good. Just so good.”
Tom looks full-on alarmed now, but I studiously avoid his gaze.
It’s not like I lied. My head really does feel better. My back too.
My heart, though? Quite honestly, I’m increasingly worried I’ll never be able to put that back together again.
THIRTY-FIVE
KATHERINE
December 24, 2:30 p.m.
The Walsh house is noisy on the best of days. On Christmas Eve, the excited chattering is nearly deafening, and it takes me a minute to find a quiet corner. With a cell phone borrowed from Tom’s younger sister Kayla in hand, I duck into Bob’s study on the far side of the house. I doubt there’s much I’ll be able to accomplish on Christmas Eve, but at least I can start the process of canceling my credit cards, ordering a new phone, and—
“Oh!” I put a hand over my pounding heart. “Bob. You scared the crap out of me!”
“Sorry,” Tom’s dad says with a smile. “Don’t mind me. Here. In my own office.”
I wince. “Right. I’m the interloper.”
“Never,” he says, giving my shoulder a fond pat as he crosses to the sideboard. “I don’t suppose I should offer you a drink, given that bump on your head?”
“If you don’t, I might cry,” I reply, setting Kayla’s phone on an end table and curling up in one of the cozy wingback chairs I’ve always loved.
Bob joins me, handing me a glass and sitting in the chair beside me. We clink glasses and I take a sip, but several moments of companionable silence pass before he speaks.
“So. Nancy convinced you not to go to Boston?”
I give him an arch look. “It’s Nancy. Did I ever really have a choice?”
He smiles fondly. “There was no way she was going to let that happen. She called Irene the second Tom told her your escape plans.”
“Escape plans,” I repeat, swirling the Scotch. “That’s a telling choice of words.”
“It is, isn’t it.” He gives me a sly smirk.
“I’m too exhausted to think about going to Boston, but . . .” I sigh and set the glass aside. “I can’t stay here. Not tonight. Surely everybody knows that.”
Bob’s smile dims. “Yeah. Yeah, we know that. Doesn’t mean that we couldn’t all hope, though. And maybe convince you to stay. Just until dinner? You could be long gone before . . .”
The midnight proposal.
“I can’t do that to Tom. And Lolo. This is their day. Their Christmas,” I say. “I’ve already done enough damage. In any other circumstances, though, you couldn’t drag me away,” I add. “I’ve missed you guys. Especially you.” I reach over to squeeze his hand. “This time of year has always been hard for me, but you . . . you always took care to make it a little easier for me.”
Bob flips his hand over so that he’s holding my hand, which he squeezes back. “I’ll never be the dad you lost. But it was fun getting to try for a little while there.”
I blink back tears, but they’re the touched, bittersweet variety that seems to be creeping up on me more and more often lately.
I swipe at one. “God. If the people back in New York could see me now. The Grinch is turning into a big old softy.”
“You’ve always been a softy,” Bob says. “Just with a hard candy coating.”
I laugh. “A euphemism if I’ve ever heard one.”
I take a sip of my drink and close my eyes, resting my head back against the chair.
“Where is Tom?” Bob asks. “Kitchen with everyone else?”
I nod but don’t open my eyes. “He’s finally getting his Bolognese.”
“Lolo’s a vegetarian. Didn’t touch it.”
“Lots of people are vegetarian, Bob,” I say gently, as though I didn’t spend much of yesterday finding things to criticize about her as well.
“I know,” he says with a long sigh. “And she sure seems like a nice girl.”
There’s a silent but at the end of his sentence, and I don’t touch it, even though I know he wants me to. Katherine from yesterday morning might have relished things to pick apart about Tom’s perfect girlfriend.
New me just wants . . .
“I want Tom to be happy,” I say aloud.
“Your Christmas wish, huh?” Bob asks.
I let out a startled laugh. “Sure. We can go with that.”
