Greg gave her a sarcastic look that said, I’m forty years old, and it’s a kid’s parade.
“Who was that man playing Santa?” Skye asked. She swirled into the kitchen high from too much coffee. “Even with that fake beard, I could tell he was hot, hot, hot.”
“Makes sense, I think he’s one of the volunteer firemen,” Gwen said, manually mashing the potatoes instead, fearing she’d be electrocuted.
Skye had been single since her relationship with singer Miles Benjamin ended. Skye loved the man despite his faults and the complications of dating someone in show business. If anyone could have tamed and handled music’s bad boy it was Skye. But her disarming beauty and hometown good-girl charm from growing up in Darling Cove weren’t enough for Miles.
Martin came in soon after and embraced Gwen. A trace of sweet smoke from nearby fireplaces lingered on his collar. His cheeks felt refreshingly cold against her warm skin. The stove top and oven had been making her sweat.
“What can I do?” Skye asked.
“Can you go to the diner and get the pie?” Gwen answered, handing her dad a beer he didn’t want to ask for.
“You got it. Greg, go to Sadie’s and get us the pie.”
He grunted and put on his coat. “Are you sure you don’t want to come and leer at more hot firemen today?” Greg snapped as if he never looked in the mirror or noticed women gawking at him.
“Oh, please. I don’t leer at men. Besides, I’m single. I’m allowed to look.”
Martin stared at his bickering children and lost it. “What the heck are you two doing with your lives, anyway?” He pointed to Gwen. “At least your sister’s been married. Which is more than I can say for the two of you.”
“Dad, I’m still getting over this thing with Miles,” Skye quickly defended herself. “Besides, my law practice is keeping me busy.”
“Oh, save it. You do real estate closings. I drive by your office at night and it’s dark.”
Martin’s eyes drifted to Greg, who’d been rocking on his heels. “Don’t either of you want kids someday? I never thought my youngest would be my best chance to have a grandchild.”
“Me?” Gwen gasped, feeling the farthest away from having a child, since her heart had broken over Andrew. At least Skye and Greg had clear enough heads to find love again.
“I was supposed to be married. In case you all have forgotten,” Greg said bitterly.
Maybe not.
“You were left at the altar years ago, Gregory.” Martin waved his hands, dismissively. “Get over it.”
Gwen wisely chose not to mention she’d seen Faith on the train, or question if he knew she’d moved back to Darling Cove.
“Since when do you want grandkids anyway?” Greg asked his father with a questioning look.
“Based on the women I see leaving your house, fat chance of you giving me any.” Martin looked at Greg in a way Gwen hadn’t seen before making her brother turn white.
“Ho, ho,” Skye released a chuckle under her breath, happy the spotlight had been taken off her for a moment.
Greg pressed his lips together, but said nothing to Skye. Instead, he kept his eyes on his father.
“Are you spying on me now?”
“It’s called patrol, Gregory.” Martin cracked open his beer. “Are there no available women under fifty in this town anymore?”
“Under fifty?” Gwen interjected. “Greg, what’s he talking about?”
“Oh, our brother’s been dating ladies on the older side,” Skye whispered.
“Really? Have you now?” Gwen stared at her brother.
Before he could respond, Skye began laughing. “He probably figures if they’re using a walker, they can’t run off the way Faith did.”
“Why am I just hearing about this nugget of gossip now?” Gwen hated how her family kept so much from her while she’d been dealing with mammograms and biopsies.
“Because that’s my private business, Gwen,” Greg responded.
“This coming from the people who hover over me like a busted parade balloon.” She smashed at the potatoes in the pot so hard a lump came flying back out at her.
“Gwen, come on, it’s only because we love you.” Skye rubbed her back.
“Yeah, well like Dad said, go find someone else to love for a while.” She cleaned herself up.
“And will someone go pick up that damn pie.”
“Sheesh. Greg, come on.” Skye grabbed his sleeve to drag him out of the house, before they both got yelled at again. “I’ll buy you a scone.”
After her brother and sister left, her father stood watching her with a concerned look on his face.
She recognized it all too well. Here we go.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I’ve just been...stressed at work.”
He took a long breath. “I know you hate when we keep things from you.”
“I don’t want to be treated differently. Mom didn’t want that either.”
The pained look on her father’s face had Gwen ready to backtrack, but he lifted his chin and said,
“Okay. Here’s something you don’t know. You want to know everything.”
“Dad, what is it?” Alarm shot through her fearing it had to do with Skye.
Martin put a hand on her arm. “Your sister knows, and of course, Greg.”
“They know what?” Fear drove Gwen’s heart into quick staccato beats.
“The state prosecutor is re-opening my shooting case.”
“Okay,” she answered then cleared her throat. “But the first two prosecutors found nothing. I’m sure this one will look at all the evidence and make the same determination.”
“We’ll see, pumpkin.” Martin took his beer and fell into the shit-brown loveseat to watch football. “We’ll just have to see.”
Gwen leaned against the counter and turned away from her dad. She thought her problems were serious.
Besides Andrew, Gwen’s biggest dilemma was what the hell to do with all these damn leftovers.
Maybe that hot Santa fireman and his buddies could use a nice meal.
THANKSGIVING DAY MEANT nothing in Italy, but after going through reports with Marcello all morning, Andrew ate lunch and left work early.
Casper had been coming and going at his own leisure. With no one to eat dinner with, Andrew chose to walk the streets of Milan’s shopping district. Anything to fill the hours.
In Italy, it was just another Thursday. But for Black Friday, even the smallest of merchants were gearing up.
Every day felt black without Gwen.
Andrew jammed his chilled hands in his pockets. He played a daily game of watching New York’s temperature, looking out for snow. His gut twisted, waiting for Gwen to experience the magical New York City holiday weather without him. Italy felt like forty thousand miles away, not four thousand.
His cell phone ringing drew out a long sigh from him. “Hi, Ma.”
“Happy Thanksgiving!” His mother sounded chipper calling from Bermuda.
When he’d told his parents he’d be in Italy for the holiday, Sarah pouted for a week. She’d gotten over the sting and dragged his father out of town for a long weekend.
“Is Dad at least enjoying the pool?” Andrew asked.