Emily March - Miracle Road

The scent of cooking brussels sprouts hit her like a fist. Her stomach turned. Hope dropped the spoon, set down the lid, and clapped a hand over her mouth as bile rose in her throat.

She made it to the bathroom off the kitchen just in time to be wretchedly ill. Afterward, she stood over the bathroom sink and rinsed her mouth, and when she slowly straightened and stared at her pale reflection in the mirror, the knowledge she’d avoided for weeks could no longer be denied.

Lucca wanted to put his fist through the wall. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry or felt so helpless. That woman who stole Holly from Hope needed to burn in hell.

The look on Hope’s face when his mother had introduced her to Claire Steele broke his heart in two. Her big brown eyes appeared stricken, her smile forced and distraught. Every bit of color had drained from her face before her dash to the bathroom.

She was always so cheery, so positive. Idiot that he was, it hadn’t occurred to him that she might be extra sensitive today. He didn’t connect Thanksgiving with children, but that was stupid. Here he was surrounded by his big, sprawling family, and he’d never once considered how alone she might feel. When he’d heard Steele was bringing his granddaughter, he’d never thought to ask the girl’s age. “You ass,” he muttered.

When she’d remained in the bathroom for a good five minutes, his mother came up and asked, “Is she all right?”

When Lucca hesitated, she added, “She told me about her daughter.”

Relieved that he need not explain or dodge an explanation, Lucca exhaled a heavy breath. “She said that Richard’s granddaughter looks like her Holly. They’d be the same age. I hurt for her, Mom.”

“I know. I do, too.”

The ding, ding, ding of the oven timer sounded. Maggie squeezed his arm, then went off to the kitchen. He gave her a couple more minutes, then rapped on the door. “Hope? Can I help you?”

She didn’t reply, but he heard water running again. A moment later, the door opened. Hope stepped out of the bathroom but didn’t meet his eyes. “Well, that was embarrassing.”

“Are you okay?”

“I … well …” She closed her eyes.

When she wove on her feet, Lucca reached out to steady her. “Shall I take you home?”

“No,” she was quick to say. “It’s Thanksgiving. Stay with your family. I think … I just need some fresh air.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

“No, Lucca. I really need to be alone.”

“I won’t leave you alone, not today.”

She brought her hands up and rubbed her eyes. “Okay. Okay. I won’t leave. I won’t make a scene. I’ll stay for dinner. That’s what I do, isn’t it? I soldier on. I just … please … I can’t be with you right now.”

The words, the sentiment, hurt Lucca, and while he digested that reality, she turned and dashed for the back door. He stood staring after her, his hands fisted at his side. He wanted to comfort her, to soothe her. He’d never felt so impotent in his life. Why wouldn’t she let him help her?

“Lucca?” Celeste said, coming up beside him. “Is Hope all right?”

“I don’t know.” He looked down at Celeste and into her kind, peaceful blue eyes. “You’re good with people. She doesn’t want me around, but maybe you could see if she’d use your shoulder to lean on?”

“Of course. Let me get my jacket.”

“Let me give you hers, too.”

Lucca watched from the kitchen door as Celeste approached Hope, who had taken a seat on the bench around the stone fire pit he’d built. Hope looked up at her, her expression desperate, but she didn’t send Celeste away. Instead, the older woman sat beside Hope and listened as she began to talk. Quite animatedly.

Lucca couldn’t stand it. He wanted to know what she was saying. He cared about her. Dammit, he might even be in love with her!

Whoa. Where had that thought come from? Did he really just think that?

Yes, you did. And you do. You know you do. You love her and you’ve been running from that reality for weeks.

Okay, then. As the man who loves her, I want to know what the hell is going on.

So Lucca went upstairs to the bedroom above the fire pit. Quietly, he slid the window open, leaned forward, and without the slightest bit of shame, eavesdropped.

“My husband was right. I was a terrible mother. I gave my daughter to a stranger. I don’t deserve to be a mother.”

“Honey,” Celeste said sharply. “I don’t want to hear you using past tense when it comes to motherhood. Wherever she is, alive or, God forbid, passed on, you are and you will always be Holly’s mother. That is reality, and it doesn’t change. You can, however, use the past tense when it comes to Mark. He is your ex-husband.”

“He was right, though. I didn’t deserve her.”

“You didn’t deserve to have her taken from you.”

“What am I going to do? I don’t deserve a second chance. I can’t do this, Celeste.”

Do what? Lucca wondered, unease washing through him.

“Do what?” Celeste asked.

Hope buried her face in her hands. She mumbled something that Lucca couldn’t make out. Celeste reached out and enfolded her in her arms, and Hope sagged against the other woman.

What is going on?

The back door opened and Lucca’s sister called, “Celeste? Hope? Mom says dinner is on in five minutes.”

Lucca held his breath as Celeste murmured something to Hope. She nodded and Celeste called, “We’ll be right there.”

He didn’t step away from the window until the women—both women—rose and entered the house. Then, slowly, his thoughts in turmoil, Lucca descended the staircase, meeting Tony at the bottom. “There you are,” his brother said. “You know, bro, I thought you were smarter than this. The time to hide is after dinner when dishes need doing.”

“Right.” Lucca’s gaze trailed back toward the kitchen.

Tony gave him a hard look. As was the way of twins, he picked up on Lucca’s unease. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

Tony waited a beat, then handed Lucca one of the bottles of wine he carried. “Help pour while you figure it out.”

Ten minutes later, family and friends gathered around the food-laden table. Lucca sat next to Hope and across from Richard Steele, while his mother sat at the end of the table closest to the kitchen. She’d asked Celeste to take the seat at the head of the table opposite her, in his father’s usual spot.

Maggie tapped her spoon against a crystal water glass. “Before we say grace, I want to thank you all for joining me for the first meal here at Aspenglow Place. We are blessed to be surrounded today by dear friends and family. We also remember those loved ones who are not with us today.”

Lucca took hold of Hope’s hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. She closed her eyes. He couldn’t miss the tension in her body.

“My husband had a favorite Thanksgiving quote he invariably repeated as we sat down at the table,” his mother continued. “Lucca, would you do the honors?”

He tore his attention away from Hope. “Say the prayer?”

“No. I’ll ask Zach to lead us in our blessing. I’d like you to share your father’s favorite Thanksgiving saying.”

“That’s a nice way to remember a loved one at a holiday,” Celeste observed.

Yes, Lucca realized. It was. He cleared his throat and quoted not the Bible, nor an ancient philosopher, but the humorist Erma Bombeck. “‘Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Halftimes take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.’”

As one, Tony, Gabi, and Max said reverently, “Amen.”

And so, the first Thanksgiving dinner at Aspenglow began with laughter and a prayer.

Lucca kept a close eye on Hope. She took tiny little helpings and picked at those, eating just enough so that his mother wouldn’t be insulted or get her feelings hurt. But she engaged in conversation, mostly with Richard and his daughter-in-law, and as the meal went on, he noticed that she did relax. Once that happened, he was able to unwind and enjoy his meal, too.

The food was delicious, as always. Not for the first time, he wondered how it was that the culinary gene had managed to skip his sister entirely. He asked the question aloud, and Gabi threw a roll at him. Little Claire’s eyes grew round as saucers. She’d relaxed, too, he realized when he heard her chatting with his mother, and, he was glad to see, with Hope, too.

Well, that’s a positive development. Claire was a cute kid. The Steeles were nice people. Richard’s kids obviously thought well of him and, upon seeing that, the last of Lucca’s reservations about the man melted away.

When he’d eaten his fill, he sat back in his chair and observed the people around him. This truly was a day for Thanksgiving. I am so blessed. I have such a great family. And Hope … I can’t give her Holly, but I could give her this. She could be part of it. I could give her a family.

Would she marry me?

As the question popped into his mind, he reached for his wineglass at the same time Hope picked up her water. That’s when Claire Steele asked, “Do you have a daughter, Ms. Montgomery?”

Hope’s arm jerked. Lucca’s wineglass tipped. Ruby red liquid went flying onto Hope’s white shirt and across his mother’s peach-colored tablecloth. The crystal glass smashed against the floor.

Hope jumped to her feet. “Oh. Oh. I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

“My fault,” Lucca said. “Sorry, Mom.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Maggie insisted. “My mother always said that a stained tablecloth was a sign of a good meal.”