Dear Santa. Karen Templeton
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“Uh, yeah. Sure.” She waited out the twinge of hurt, of uncertainty. “It’s been a strange couple of years,” she said, fingering the glass’s rim. “Lots of changes for both of us. So we didn’t see each other as often as we used to. Before, you know, she married you. Especially once I left the firm.”
Another image blossomed in her mind’s eye, Justine hooting with unladylike laughter in the middle of the sidewalk, making strangers—in Manhattan!—smile. Deep inside, grief stirred and stretched. Not yet! Mia thought, swallowing it down. “But I’d never had a friend like Jus.” After a moment’s contemplation of her drink, she took a sip, then said, “Although I suppose that was due as much to timing and circumstance as anything. You know,” she continued at Grant’s speculative look, “both being the new kids at the firm at the same time, not to mention new to the city, neither of us having a sister…”
Her hand shook when she lifted the glass again. “But I always knew I could count on her. Trust her. And I can’t believe…” Her eyes filled. “I can’t believe she’s g-gone,” she whispered.
And the floodgates gave way.
Chapter Two
Grant’s stomach clenched as Mia’s hand slammed over her mouth, although not quickly enough to stifle either her moan or the torrent of tears that followed. Clearly horrified at breaking down in front of him, she struggled to her feet and stumbled to the other side of the room, although whether to get away from him or in some vain attempt to escape her own grief, he couldn’t say.
Her meltdown came as no surprise, although her having held it together as long, and as well, as she had, did. Apparently, Mia Vaccaro was made of sterner stuff than he’d given her credit for, based on the few times he’d been in her company after he married Justine…a thought which in turn provoked the faintest whiff of memory, a brief impression, an obvious misapprehension. Rebuffing it—as well as his usual antipathy to waterworks—he snatched a box of tissues off an end table and carried them over to her.
“You’ll make yourself ill,” he said, softly, behind her quaking back. She jumped slightly, then turned, snatching three tissues in quick succession from the box and glaring at him through swollen eyelids.
“So s-sorry,” Mia lobbed at him between sobs. “I d-don’t know any other w-way to cry! If it b-bothers you—” she swatted in his direction with the tissues “—go away!”
So he did. Only to return a moment later with her forsaken glass of water.
“I’m n-not finished yet,” she said, honking loudly into the tissues.
“I’m not rushing you. Come on, sit back down,” he said, and she actually let him lead her back to the chair to finish her cry. In short order the sobs turned to sniffles, the sniffles to shudders, and the shudders to a small, trembly, “Sorry.”
“Feel better?” he asked, picking up his drink from a small side table.
Mia blew her nose, tucked her arms against her midsection, then nodded.
He took a sip. “Now. Aren’t you glad that didn’t happen somewhere in the middle of I-95?” When she glared at him, he added, with extreme patience, “So sue me for guessing you were ready to blow.”
After a moment, Mia sucked in a breath and sat up straighter, scrubbing her palm over first one cheek, then another. “Point to you,” she said, then shivered. “God, I must look like hell.”
She did, actually. Justine’s tears had always been delicately executed, just enough to trickle down a flawlessly made-up cheek, to spike her eyelashes. No red-splotched cheeks or raccoon eyes, ever. “Now that you mention it, you might want to avoid mirrors for the next little while.”
“Boy, you really are a gem among men, aren’t you?” she muttered, then waved away the comment. “Rhetorical question, no response necessary.”
Grant looked at her for a moment, then walked back to his desk, gently swirling his drink in his glass. “You weren’t at all surprised when our marriage fell apart, were you?”
“Once I got to know you? No.”
“Know me?” Unaccountably irritated, Grant let his gaze drift back to the splotchy, puffy-eyed woman still quietly hiccupping in his favorite leather chair, one foot now tucked up underneath her backside. “How often have we been in the same room, Mia? A half-dozen times?”
“Often enough to confirm what I’d already suspected—that you and Justine weren’t a good fit. But let’s clear something up right now,” she said, her brow pinched. “I didn’t take some sadistic pleasure in your marriage breaking up. It wasn’t about me being right, it was about my best friend being happy. If she’d been able to find that happiness with you, I would have been the first person to toast the two of you on your fiftieth wedding anniversary. But how we feel about each other is neither here nor there.” Her expression softened. “The only thing that matters now is getting Haley through this.”
Grant eyed her steadily for a moment before silently setting the glass on the desk. Facing her once more, he folded his arms across his chest. “Haley talks about you a great deal.”
“We’re best buds,” she said quietly. “There’ve been nannies, of course. And Jus had her in preschool during the day. But the three of us would hang out…” Her voice broke; after a couple of deep breaths, she continued. “And I’d sit for her from time to time, when Jus had to work late.” At Grant’s frown, she rolled her eyes. “She was on the fast track to becoming partner, Grant, she couldn’t exactly clock out at five on the dot every night. As anyone struggling for purchase in a huge law firm knows all too well.” He thought he saw a slight shudder before she continued. “Although Jus did take work home with her as much as she could, to do after Haley was in bed. Your daughter wasn’t neglected, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Clearly,” he said softly, even as he thought, At least, not by her mother. “Still. That was a lot to ask of you.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t ask, I volunteered. I love kids and I’m crazy about the squirt. And the nannies…well. They came and went. Even if I didn’t see Haley that often, at least I was some sort of constant in her life. After her mother, I mean. And anyway—”
Grant noted her pointed exclusion of him from that equation.
“Considering everything Justine did for me…” Her eyes filled again, but she held up one hand, sucking in a steadying breath. “Babysitting was the least I could do to return the f-favor—”
At the wobbly last word, Grant plucked the box of tissues off the desk, but she shook her head. Then her words sank in. “What favor?”
“Okay, maybe ‘favor’ isn’t the right word. Support, then. When I walked out on my law career to start my party-planning business, not only was Jus one of the very few people who didn’t seem to think I’d lost it, she even got on the horn and called everybody she knew, lining up more work for me than I could have ever found on my own.” She almost laughed. “In some ways, she seemed more determined to see me succeed than I did. And then…”
“What?” he prompted when she hesitated.
Mia screwed up her mouth, as though trying to decide how much to say. “Around the time of your divorce, my fiancé broke up with me. You met him once, he was out here for dinner. Anyway, it was a few weeks before our wedding. I was a mess. But even though Jus was still dealing with the aftereffects of her own…stuff, there she was, literally and figuratively holding my hand through one of the worst periods of my life.”
Totally unaware that Grant’s drink had turned to vinegar in his stomach, Mia unfolded her legs, stretching the previously trapped foot in front of her and wiggling it. “She’d call or e-mail me to ask how I was doing, suggest we go shopping or to the movies, or go to the museum or zoo with Haley…ouch! Damn, my foot fell asleep!”
Leaning