Page 95 of Making Over Maris

“Yes?”

Displeasure churned in her gut. Why did she have to explain this? Why couldn’t he just know? “Something you’d rather do than spend the evening with me.”

“Oh.” His ears went pink at the tips. “I didn’t say that. I would much rather spend the evening with you—doing whatever it is you have planned.” She ignored the relief flooding through her. It was far too soon for relief. “But today is September thirtieth.”

“And?”

“I have a standing engagement on September thirtieth.”

Her annoyance flared. “A date?” With whom?

“Kind of.”

“With whom?”

He folded his fingers together and studied them for a long while before he answered. Anger prickled the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck. She’d begun to think he wasn’t going to answer at all—was ready to say “fine” again—when he spoke.

“Mr. Winston.”

“Mr. Winston?” Who the hell was that?

Jack nodded. His throat worked. “It’s his birthday, you see.”

“Who is Mr. Winston?”

“It’s a long story.”

Sara snapped her laptop shut. “I have time.”

“Okay…” He didn’t say anything else but Sara could tell he was working through the details, so she let his mental computer process. “I don’t know if you remember but when we were in high school, my dad died.”

Her heart clenched. She shook her head. She hadn’t paid much attention to the details of Jack Maris’ life in high school other than he always seemed to be around. And he always seemed to be there when she needed him.

“I’m…sorry.” Outrageously belated but it needed to be said. She was sorry. She truly was. Sorry he’d had to go through that. Sorry she’d not bothered to know him better.

But Jack negated her sympathy with a slash of his hand. “He wasn’t much of a father. But when he died, I went to live with my aunt Linda.”

She stilled. “What about your mom?”

His lips worked. “I never knew my mom.”

Oh. God. Poor baby.

Sara’s mom was her rock. Her champion. Her hero. And he’d never had a mom.

She’d never even known. Never cared enough to ask. “I’m sorry.” She was. In oh so many ways.

“She died.” He flicked a glance at her. Sara winced at the wounded expression in his eyes. “Aunt Linda said…” His throat worked. He rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes.

“What did she say?” A whisper.

“She said it was my fault. I killed my mom.” He cleared his throat. “So I always assumed she died in childbirth.”

“What did your dad say?”

Jack barked a laugh but there was no humor in it. Sara could tell he was hanging on by a thin thread. “Dad never talked about her. He never talked about much of anything. He was kind of a drunk.”

“I’m sorry.” Again. She was. She’d had no idea.