Confessions. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
damn, damn and double damn!” she swore, her little car hugging the corners as she headed back to town. She frowned as she guided the Chevy beneath the railroad trestle bridge that had been a Gold Creek landmark for over a hundred years. Hayden Monroe! As handsome as ever and twice as dangerous. She steered through the side streets of town and stopped at the Safeway store for groceries. Christmas trees were stacked in neat rows near the side entrance, fir and pine trees begging to be taken home, but she didn’t succumb. Not yet. Not with the windfall she’d so recently received. Just in case she never finished the job. The trees would go on sale later. She picked up a few groceries, then climbed back into her car again, heading to the south side of Whitefire Lake.
She was irritated at having been caught by Hayden again, and was discouraged by the heady feeling she’d experienced when she’d stared into his blue eyes. But she was over him. She had to be. It had been years. Nearly thirteen years!
She only had to deal with him for a week or two. She rolled her eyes and bit her lower lip. Fourteen days suddenly seemed an eternity.
She had no choice, so she’d just make the best of it and avoid him as much as possible. She would simply grin and bear Hayden Monroe with his sexy smile, knowing eyes and lying tongue until the job was finished.
Then it was sayonara.
Veering off the road that circled the lake, she drove down a single lane that served as a driveway to several small cabins built near the shore. She slowed near the garage, a sagging building filled with cut cordwood and gardening supplies, and snapped off the ignition. Grabbing both sacks of groceries and her purse, she stepped onto her gravel drive. “Boys!” she sang out, not really expecting to hear a response as both bikes, usually dropped in the middle of the driveway, were nowhere to be seen and the raucous sound of their voices didn’t carry in the cool mountain air. “Boys! I’m home.”
Nothing.
Well, it was early. They were probably still pedaling from the sitter’s.
Juggling the groceries, she reached into her purse for her keys and opened the screen door, only to find that her sons had, indeed, been home from school. The back door wasn’t locked and book bags, sneakers and jackets were strewn over the couch and floor.
She left the groceries on the counter, then headed back outside. “John? Bobby?” she called again, and this time she could hear the sound of gravel crunching and bike wheels spinning.
She was carrying her mops, buckets and cleaning supplies into the house when she heard the sound of tires slamming to a stop.
“You’re a liar!” Bobby’s voice rang through the house, and Nadine walked to the window in time to see her youngest son, his lower lip thrust out stubbornly, throw a punch at his brother.
John, older than Bobby’s seven and a half years by a full eighteen months and taller by nearly four inches, ducked agilely away from Bobby’s wild swing and managed to step over Bobby’s forgotten bike. Wagging his wheat blond head with the authority of the elder and wiser sibling, John announced, “I don’t believe in Santa Claus!”
“Then you’re just stupid.”
“And you’re the liar.” John leered at his brother as Bobby lunged. Sidestepping quickly, John watched as Bobby landed with an “oof” on the cold ground near the back door.
Leaning down, John taunted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire, hang them on—”
“Enough!” Nadine ordered, knowing this exchange would quickly escalate from an argument and a few wild punches to a full-fledged wrestling match. “Look, I don’t want to have to send you to your rooms. Bobby, are you okay?”
“We only got one room,” John reminded her.
“You know what I mean—”
“John’s makin’ fun of me,” Bobby wailed indignantly. A shock of red-blond hair fell over his freckled face as he looked to Nadine as if for divine intervention. “And I saw Santa Claus last year, really I did,” he said earnestly.
“Tell me another one,” John teased, sneering. “There ain’t no such thing as Santa Claus or those stupid elves or Frosty or Rudolph, neither!”
Bobby blinked hard. “Then you just wait up on Christmas Eve. You’ll see. On the roof—”
“And how am I s’posed to get there—fly?” John hooted, ignoring the sharp look Nadine sent him. “Or maybe Dancer or Vixen will give me a lift! Boy, are you dumb! Everything comes from Toys ‘R’ Us, not some stupid little workshop and a few lousy elves!”
“I said ‘enough!’” Nadine warned, wondering how she would survive with both boys for the two weeks of Christmas vacation that loomed ahead. Right now, her sons couldn’t get along and Nadine’s already busy life had turned into a maelstrom of activity. John and Bobby seemed hell-bent on keeping the excitement and noise level close to the ozone layer and they couldn’t be near each other without punching or kicking or wrestling.
“You’re not really gonna send us to our room, are you?” Bobby asked, biting on his lower lip worriedly.
“Well, not yet—”
“He’s such a dork!” John called over his shoulder as he found his rusty bike propped on the corner of the house. “A dumb little dork!”
“John—”
“Am not!” Bobby screamed.
But John didn’t listen. He peddled quickly down the sandy path leading to the lake. His dog, a black-and-white mutt named Hershel, streaked after him.
“I’m not a dork,” Bobby said again, as if to convince himself.
“Of course you’re not, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that!” He pulled himself up, dusted off his jeans and kicked angrily at the ground. His eyes filled with tears and dirt streaked his face. “John’s just a big...a big jerk!”
This time Nadine had to agree, but she kept her opinion to herself, and hugging her youngest son, asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” But his hazel eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“You sure?” Nadine asked, though she suspected little more than his pride had been bruised. “How about a cup of cocoa, with marshmallows and maybe some cookies?”
“You got some at the store?” he asked, brightening a bit.
“Sure did.”
He blinked and nodded, sniffling as he tagged after his mother into the house.
Nadine heated two cups of water in the microwave while Bobby climbed into one of the worn chairs at the scratched butcher-block table. When the water was hot, she measured chocolate powder into one cup and said, “And as for Santa Claus, I still believe in him.”
“Do you?”
“Mmm-hmm. But Oreos won’t do for him. No siree. You and I’ll have to bake some special Christmas cookies and leave them on the hearth.”
Bobby sent her a look that said he didn’t really believe her, but he didn’t argue the point, either. “Thanks,” he muttered when she handed him a steaming cup and a small plate of Oreos. “John can’t help us make the cookies, neither.”
“Well, if he has a change of heart—”
“He won’t. He’s too...too...dumb!”
Nadine blew across her cup, not wanting to condemn her eldest quite yet, but needing to placate Bobby. “Look, honey, I know how tough it can be with John. I’m the youngest, too, you know,” she said, thinking of Ben and Kevin. A knot of pain tightened in her chest at the memory of Kevin, the eldest of the Powell siblings, a golden boy who’d once had it all, before his dreams and later his life had been stolen from him. Now there was just her and Ben, she thought sadly, then, seeing her son’s expectant face, she