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The idea of going out with him … his presence had a disconcerting way of sailing past her carefully constructed walls. Even now, she desired to snuggle next to him again, as if they were still at the party. She’d initiated the hand-holding because she loved the feel of his hand wrapped around hers. Had she also hoped it would replace repugnant memories? Thoughts of Rory had a way of relieving her pain. Imagining a happily ever after for their relationship had become easy. Vi scrambled out of the chair. The fairy tale had to stop.
Rory set his coffee cup aside. Her sudden departure didn’t seem to faze him, but the brief glimpse of longing tracking his features matched her own feelings.
“Cyrus, come,” she said needlessly. The big dog had already moved to her. She carried her cup to the wastebasket in the kitchen.
Rory waited for her at the door, hands in his pockets.
Slowing her exit enough to be courteous, Vi said, “Thanks. I enjoyed this.”
Surely, his molten eyes could see every single insecurity. He held his arms open. “May I have a hug? It’s Christmas Eve.”
She should resist, but her willpower faltered, then crashed in a heap. Her legs turned to jelly, even as she walked straight into his amazing arms and laid her head on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heart allayed her fear. When he cocooned her in a hug, her arms slid around his waist. His warm lips kissed the top of her head. The sharp, arresting scent of his cologne surrounded her. She felt secure. Protected. They stayed wrapped together for no short amount of time.
When she stirred, his arms loosened from around her, then he grasped her hands. “Truce?”
She shivered at the word, but he continued to hold her hands in a light grip.
“Truce,” she whispered, hurrying out the door.
A few more seconds, and she would have kissed him. Not on the cheek.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Violet, dear, your prospects would be so much better here in Houston. You should consider the idea of moving back. I don’t expect you to live with us. You’ll need your own place.” Vi, Mom, and her third husband, Rodney Marshall, sat in cumbersome dining chairs with gold brocade cushions. The table groaning under a traditional buffet could have fed a small village.
Vi forced her face into a mask as she gazed at the petite, well-dressed woman. On Christmas day, staying polite came with the territory. “Mom, you know it’s not going to happen. I’m having the house in Valiant remodeled and plan to live there.” She didn’t mention sheetrock allergies, illegal squatters, or safety issues.
“You could easily live here while it’s being done. High time you put that old wreck on the market.” Mom dabbed her lips with a cloth napkin costing more than Vi’s hourly massage rate.
Vi blew out a sigh, her patience level dipping into reserve. Did Mom ever hear anything aside from her own wishes? With effort, she staved off the anger itching to ignite.
Rodney, who had been quiet up to this point, intervened when Mom opened her mouth again. “It’s not what Vi wants, Tru. All your pushing isn’t going to change her mind.” He swallowed the last of his iced tea and pushed back his chair.
Vi shot him a grateful look. They’d never been close, but she appreciated the help. Rodney possessed a mind of his own, steering clear of Mom’s manipulation tactics. “I’m off to watch the football games in the downstairs den. I promise to answer questions requiring yes or no.” He turned to Vi’s mom, eyeing her with affection. “Excellent dinner, love. You have the best taste in cooks of anyone I know.”
Vi hid a smile as he left the room. She’d forgotten about Rodney’s superb sense of humor. A handy trait when living with Mom.
Mom’s smile thinned. “Why don’t we retire to a sitting room? I could use a cup of coffee, and you need to open your Christmas gift.”
Vi groaned inwardly. She hadn’t heard the last of moving to Houston, but Vi had zero interest in being Mom’s shiny new toy to show off at parties. Or the endless array of “nice men” she would arrange for Vi to meet.
She wove shaky fingers through her hair, casting about for a diversion. Cyrus needed a walk—a long one. Guilt burrowed deeper, remembering Mom’s less-than-enthusiastic reaction to the dog. Everything Vi did only created more tension. Knowing it would be this way, she had arrived at dinnertime and planned to beg off early.
“One cup of coffee, Mom. Then Cyrus gets a walk.” Vi glanced down at her one red boot and black broom skirt. A white blouse with long puffy sleeves and Rory’s earrings completed her ensemble. She traced a finger around one hoop. Her tight jaw relaxed, knowing a tiny part of him was with her.
Vi followed Mom to another richly furnished room, only this one had more comfortable furniture. A quaint place to talk. Or hide. Vi sat in an ornate upholstered chair, sinking deep into the cushions.
“This is pleasant, Mom. Do you come here often?”
The older woman pulled out her phone, sent a text, then set it aside. “It’s one of our favorite rooms. Rodney and I often sit in here in the evening and visit about our day.” A manicured hand smoothed her stylish coif.
Vi reluctantly engaged in small talk, nearly cheering when the maid entered with a full coffee service. The rich aroma mingled with a cinnamon Christmas scent. Unbidden, Rory stole into Vi’s thoughts again. She poured, then flavored her coffee, hoping Rory’s family day was smoother than hers. Briefly, she wished he were here. Vi envied the ease with which he’d handled Mom in the hospital.
Mom’s agenda seemed on hold, at least for the moment, while she tsked over Vi’s boot. Vi admitted to leaving it off in the evenings to build up her ankle. The constant ache had mostly subsided, depending on her level of activity.
“Ah, I almost forgot.” Mom reached into the end table drawer next to her. She pulled out a thick red envelope and held it out to Vi. “Merry Christmas, Violet.”
Vi eyed the envelope with suspicion. She’d bet the house and all its contents that Mom had this moment planned for weeks. Summoning courage, Vi took the envelope. She slid her thumb under the seal, then pulled out several pages of a legal-sized document. Her heart sank as she scanned the contents. A contract of sorts. “What’s this?”
