Page 159 of My Merry Mistake
“Rowena,” I say. “Cinnamon rolls were good, for once.”
She smacks my hand away. “You been out to the stables yet, lazy?”
“Uncle Finn! Don’t stop!” The girls both giggle, and Jordy calls out, “Giddy-up!”
“Not yet,” I say to Rowe. “Show me the new mare after lunch?”
She sticks out her chin at me and nods.
The side door opens and West, walks in. “Anyone know whose car that is?”
“Boots off,” Momma points at him without looking up.
“Ma’am,” West calls out, like a sous-chef acknowledging he heard the direction from his boss. He kicks one of his shoes off, and it hits the wall.
“Weston Thomas!”
“Sorry, ma’am!” He’s mid-kick with the other one and it flings down the hall.
Boone winces and nudges the boot toward the boot mat. He walks over to the front window. “Who do we know with a—” he squints. “What is that? A Taurus? Camry?”
My mom frowns. “Nobody.”
“Everyone we know drives a truck or an SUV,” Rowe says.
West sees me for the first time and pulls me into a bear hug. Hecanlift me off the ground—and he does. Easily.
“Little bro. Welcome home. Looking a little slow out on the ice last week.”
“It’s the Chicago pizza, chubs.” Boone calls, still staring out the window.
“Let’s see you keep up, old man.” I pull out of West’s grasp and pinch his belly.
He wriggles back and gives me a shove—something that would normally escalate but doesn’t, only because West is still trying to figure out why there’s a sedan parked outside.
“There’s someone in the car,” Boone says, peeking out the window. “A woman?” He tips his head toward the front room. “Any one of you knuckleheads ask for a woman for Christmas?”
A throw pillow comes flying into the kitchen, and Boone ducks.
Momma’s eyes dart to mine, and I know what she’s thinking.
Eileen.
Is she crazy enough to come to our house? On Christmas Eve? I thought I made myself clear.
“I’ll take care of it.” Momma unties her apron, wipes her hands on a towel, then tosses it aside and pulls on her rubber boots. She grabs a jacket and walks out the back door, probably trudging through the yard like an angry neighbor sick of people tearing up her lawn.
I’m the only one not at the window now, because if it is Eileen, I don’t want to risk going back on my decision to forgive her—and if I have to see her right now, I might.
Forgiveness isn’t a one-and-done thing, I guess.
“Who the heck isthat?” Boone asks.
“She’s pretty,” Libby says dreamily.
“Ooh, sheispretty,” Rowe says. “Means she’s not here for any ofyou,” she cracks. “Probably needs directions.”
I frown. Eileen is in her late fifties with wiry blond hair and frumpy clothes. I can’t imagine my niece and sister would describe her as “pretty.”
