Two days later, Christmas Eve, late afternoon
“Darling! You’re so thin.” I immediately regretted the comment. I’d always been thinner than Mallory, and she’d perceived that as an unspoken criticism. And for that to be the first thing I said on opening the door—shame on me. “The dress you’re wearing is very flattering. It’s a beautiful choice, sweetheart.” I kissed her cheek, but her shoulder was tense under my hand.
“You look lovely, Mother.” Mallory met my gaze and held it for a heartbeat before brushing past me.
Something was different. She always said I looked lovely. She was a good girl, and I’d raised her with a modicum of manners. But this time—I felt my eyes burn a bit—this time she meant it.
Much as I peeked around the front of the house at the drive, I couldn’t spot her date.
She glanced over her shoulder and caught me checking. “It’s just me. My friend Alex drove separately. He’s running late.”
She looked rather put out by the fact. Especially considering that she was calling him a friend. Not her boyfriend. Not even her date.
I shut the door then tipped my head. “Work? On Christmas?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.” She seemed to consider the question then nodded. “It might be. Alex does some work as an emergency responder.”
That conjured all variety of possibilities. Firefighter? Paramedic? Not Mallory’s usual type, but whoever could hold my daughter’s interest must be fascinating, whatever he did. And there were all those calendars with all those bulging muscles, so maybe he was interesting in that way.
“When are you expecting Wembley?”
“I really don’t understand why you call him that, dear. His name is Jefferson.” I patted the back of my French twist. “I’m sure he’ll be here shortly. Jefferson is always on time.”
“Okay. I just wondered, because he left our place at least a half an hour before me.”
I could feel my cheeks tingle. Most certainly I could expect a lovely arrangement for the table or a festive bouquet for the credenza in the hallway. Jefferson always did the right thing. I was sure that was what had detained him. I’d expected them to arrive yesterday, and I hadn’t any idea where he might be retrieving them, because no florist was open the afternoon of Christmas Eve.
As Mallory hung her jacket in the coat closet, her lips twitched. “I thought you didn’t approve of women dating younger men. When Francesca had her fling with that twenty-nine year-old, you thought she’d lost her mind.”
“Not her mind, dear, her sense.” I touched my neck and hair again, only recognizing the fidget after I’d already ascertained that it was as neat as it should be. “Besides,” I added in an airy tone, “I haven’t a clue about Jefferson’s age. It hasn’t come up.”
Mallory started to cough. She covered her mouth and gasped for breath. Maybe she was coming down with something. Maybe she truly had been sick before. Maybe her immunity had been shattered by all the drugs she was doing. Oh, God.
I rubbed her back, trying to sneak a closer look at her mouth when she lowered her hand. Some of the pictures I’d found online, oh my, appalling.
When she caught her breath, she said, “Wow, Mom, no need to look so worried. I’m fine. I’m not getting sick, I just, ah, I swallowed wrong…or something.” Her voice trailed away to nothing, and she averted her eyes.
That girl was hiding something, and before she left tonight, I was going to find out what.
The ring of the doorbell had me switching to hostess mode, so it would have to wait—for now.
When I opened the door, I discovered a slightly disheveled, very tall man on the doorstep. No, on second glance, not disheveled. He had more than a shadow of scruff, perhaps a week’s worth of beard, but he was attired as one ought to be for a family Christmas dinner. Slacks, a button-down shirt, a beautiful tie, but no jacket. He simply had a rakish air about him that his refusal to shave reinforced.
My warmest hostess smile in place, I extended my hand. “Hello. I’m Evelyn Andrews, Mallory’s mother. Welcome to my home.”
He accepted my hand and shook it with exactly the right amount of pressure, neither so briefly as to slight nor so long as to be forward. “Alex Valois. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
That voice. If my daughter wasn’t interested in this man, she should be.
“Please come inside.” I opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter.
“Thank you for having me. I appreciate being included in your family dinner.” He handed me a bottle of wine as he crossed the threshold.
Hm. Perhaps they’d just begun to date? Those didn’t sound like the words of a man in a committed long-term relationship. “You’re more than welcome, Mr. Valois—”
“Alex.”
I nodded. “Alex. We’re both very happy to have you. And thank you for the wine.” I glanced at the label then looked again. Alex Valois had expensive taste in wine.
Before I could impress—with some subtleness, of course—how welcome a man was in my daughter’s life, at least so far as her mother was concerned, the doorbell rang again.
With a touch on his shoulder, I pointed to the bar. “Please, help yourself.”
He removed his coat and handed it to Mallory, and I had to peel away my attention from shoulders that had been revealed as surprisingly broad and the lovely shape of his derriere. It was always delightful when a man could fill out a pair of pants nicely.
After depositing the bottle of red wine on the credenza, I opened the door. The doorway was filled with a gorgeous bouquet of white, green, and a pinch of red. Now that would have to go in the hallway. It would make the entryway smell lovely for days. I accepted both the bouquet and a kiss to the cheek before ushering Jefferson inside.
“Mallory, darling, take Jefferson’s coat while I put these in a vase. Aren’t they gorgeous?” I leaned closer as I passed by. “And your friend Alex brought a divine bottle of red.”
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” Jefferson asked.
I paused en route to the kitchen and gave him a very pointed look. If he couldn’t interpret the clear signs of “not now” and “speaking will result in your castration,” then he was blind.
“What have you done now, Wembley?” my daughter asked.
“Ah. You two should consider speaking about—” My daughter’s glare derailed him, and after a substantial and quite noticeable pause, Jefferson said, “Things.”
Mallory flushed, and I noticed, not for the first time this evening, how impeccably she’d applied her makeup. She looked ten years younger. “I don’t want to talk about things, Wembley.”
Jefferson’s gaze darted between the two of us, and I caught a calculating look in his eye that wasn’t at all familiar.
“All right,” he said, nodding and looking much too agreeable. “Just so you’re aware of your mother’s concerns and the possible stress that she’s under—” Surely he wouldn’t dare, but I tried to catch his eye, just in case he would. He ignored me and continued, “I’ve refused to answer her questions about a burgeoning drug problem she’s concerned you might have.”
My hand flew up to pat my perfectly coiffed hair, and I knew the small gasp I heard was my own.
Talented tongue and magical hands notwithstanding, I might just have to kill that man.