The Best Little Joeville. Anne Eames
Читать онлайн книгу.
She stared out the window, no longer seeing anyone. She wasn’t in the mood to answer that question, but then she never was. Billy was staring at her, waiting, his eyes filled with concern. She swallowed hard, then began. “M-my father left us before I was born.”
“So did mine,” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “But mama always seemed happy. She said we were so lucky to have each other.”
Jenny kissed Billy’s forehead and could smell the sweet scent of his shampoo. “Your mama was very special, Billy.”
“I know,” he said, a smile curving his small mouth.
Jenny heaved a sigh of relief, thinking the topic had been exhausted, but then Billy spoke again.
“Did she tell you about your dad?”
“A little.”
He lifted his head and stared at her again. Details. He wanted details and Jenny wanted to pretend the man never existed. She could feel the tightness in her chest and decided to give him the shortest response possible. Certainly there were other things they could talk about. Safer things. Billy was still watching her face and she could feel herself getting angry. She wanted to tell him it was none of his business. But he was a child—an adorable one at that. And she had no reason to be angry with him.
“She told me he was a full-blood Crow Indian and that—” she hadn’t thought about this part in years and it suddenly struck her as eerie “—and that he was from Montana originally.” Suddenly she wondered where in Montana. Was it close by? “He told her he was leaving to visit his sick father and that he’d be back...but she never heard from him again.”
“Is that why you don’t like Buck?”
She met his steady gaze, surprised with his question. “Who said I don’t like Buck?”
Billy shrugged. “Nobody. It’s just that you’re different when you’re around him. You’re real nice to everybody else—” he looked at his lap “—well, except maybe Uncle Shane sometimes.”
This kid didn’t miss a thing. But were her actions so transparent? Obviously they were, if an eight-year-old could see through her. After an awkward silence, she lifted his chin with her finger and looked him in the eye. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re much too wise for such a young man?”
“Uh-huh. Dad and Savannah.” He smiled at last, apparently pleased with Jenny’s observation. “Sometimes Grandpa Max, too.”
“Well, I guess you can add me to that list, Billy Malone.”
He snuggled back under her arm and watched the tree decorating outside. So did Jenny, relieved that the boy’s questions had finally ceased.
The silence lasted less than five minutes.
“I wish my mama was with me, but there’s no place better in the world to live than here at the Malone ranch with Dad and Savannah, Grandpa Max and all the others.” He glanced up at her again. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so sad if you stayed here, too.”
“Enough, young man. I am not sad.” She forced a big smile that she could see did not convince him. He turned back to the window and fell silent again till Ryder plugged in the lights. Then he gasped.
“Oooh. Look, Jenny. Isn’t it neat?”
Through bleary eyes she looked from the twinkling tree to the awe on Billy’s innocent face and she knew one thing was for certain.
Leaving this place wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought.
The men rose slowly from their seats around the television, stretching and rubbing their stomachs as they inhaled the flavorful scents wafting from the festive dinner being set on the table in the next room. The Detroit Lions had barely beaten the San Francisco Forty-Niners, but Jenny and Savannah were milking the victory for all it was worth.
“What a great bet you came up with, Jen,” Savannah said loudly, finding a spot for the cranberry gelatin mold.
Josh was the first to react “She was just kidding. That wasn’t a real bet.”
Hannah deposited the golden brown turkey in front of Max’s place for the traditional carving. “Huh! It didn’t sound like a joke to me. All you guys get to clean up while we women watch a movie. That was the bet and I heard it. And ya better not break one of these here pieces of china or crystal, either...or you’ll have me ta answer to.”
There was some good natured groaning from the men as they settled into their places around the table. Shane and Ryder were the last to enter the room.
“It’s all Joe’s fault,” Ryder grumbled, dropping into his chair.
“Yeah.” Shane nodded, fiddling with the sound on the CD player before joining him. “If Montana was still quarterbacking, the Forty-Niners would have won for sure, right Billy?”
Billy laughed. “It’s so much fun to live in Joeville during football season, Uncle Shane. Did you know all the kids at school call this town Joe, Montana.” He giggled again.
“Yep. Did you know your dad was the one who started that tradition?” He noticed Billy’s eyes growing wider as he looked at Ryder with new admiration.
“Really?” Billy asked as Ryder smiled and nodded. “Could you and Uncle Shane teach me how to play football someday?”
Satisfied with his music selection, Shane walked to his seat and stood behind it. He eyed the young boy who looked with wonder at Ryder. Would he ever have a child look at him that way? Shane wondered. Would he even have a child? He was nearly thirty-four and he didn’t even have a woman in his life. Yet at times like this, feeling the warmth around the table, he wished he had his own young family. He pulled out his chair with a loud sigh and sat down at one end of the table, opposite Max.
“Football, football, football.” Hannah stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen, her hands on her hips. “We women slave for days to put this feast before ya, and all you guys can do is talk about some silly pigskin.”
Max reached out for Hannah’s hand from his seat at the end nearest the kitchen. “You’re right, Hannah. Now come and join us.” He motioned to the chair next to him, which on very rare occasions Hannah reluctantly occupied. She pushed wiry strands of gray hair behind her ears and smoothed the front of her white apron with her hands, looking very uncomfortable sitting with the family instead of in the kitchen as was the norm. She looked up shyly and Shane winked at her and lifted his glass.
“I propose a toast to Hannah, Savannah—” his gaze moved slowly to his left “—and Jenny.” Their eyes met and held a moment before he finished. “For your labor of love that we are all about to enjoy. Thank you very much, ladies. And Happy Thanksgiving to all.”
“Here, here.” The others lifted their glasses and drank.
Max said grace and then began carving the turkey as others passed platter after platter around the long table, conversation coming easily over the joyous sounds of Handel’s Messiah drifting from the living room. Everyone made sounds of appreciation as one dish after another was sampled and enjoyed.
From the corner of his eye, Shane could see a pink tinge on Jenny’s neck when the compliments didn’t stop. She kept her head down and continued eating, but he could feel her embarrassment. He wanted to add his own praise, yet he held back, seeing her discomfort. His own ill ease manifested itself under the table. If he moved his left leg a few inches to the left, he was certain it would touch hers. It felt as though a magnet was attached to his knee, the pull so great that he had a difficult time concentrating on the food in front of him. To his relief, he heard his father clear his throat and knew he was about to speak.
“After this marvelous meal I hesitate to bring this up. I’m sure the food won’t be nearly as good, but the university is having a special banquet two weeks from tomorrow... and, well—” he drank some wine