The Christmas Secret. Lee McKenzie

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СКАЧАТЬ terms, but now as she watched this delicate woman intent on finding the puzzle’s flat-edged border pieces, Sam had a hunch that a man had to be behind her mother’s illness. Men were nothing but trouble.

      On the weekend, Tildy had been as delighted as a child on Christmas morning when Sam brought the six new puzzles home. This one—a photograph of a castle somewhere in Europe—had immediately captured her mother’s interest. It also had a thousand pieces and would easily keep her busy all day while Sam was at work.

      Sam dismissed the guilt pangs. When she wasn’t working, which was rare these days, she tried to get her mother out of the apartment or at least encourage her to do something other than puzzles, playing solitaire or watching television. But when she had to leave her here alone, she worried less knowing she was occupied, and she knew Tildy would work tirelessly on the puzzle until it was finished.

      This morning Sam’s very existence felt a lot like those scattered bits of cardboard. Broken pieces of what had been, until yesterday, a whole picture, albeit a tenuous one. Much as she disliked puzzles, she would give almost anything to stay here and lose herself in the mind-numbing activity of putting that picture back together. Instead she had demons to face, and AJ Harris was one hell of a demon.

      He’d inherited an incredible house but it needed a lot of work. Still, if she worked long hours and brought in a couple of assistants to help with the painting and wallpaper removal, she should be able to finish in three weeks. Barring any unforeseen problems. To her question about potential problems like mold or termites or faulty wiring, AJ had given one of his silent shrugs. Huh. The privileged pretty boy with the perfect home and an adorably cherub-faced, at least according to Kristi, little boy knew nothing about construction. No surprise there.

      There might have been a time when she could have forgiven him for getting his father to do his dirty work, but knowing he’d then gone ahead and had a child with another woman while she’d had to give up hers? That was unforgivable. That was the agony she’d have to endure every day for the next three weeks. To make matters worse, he worked at home now. Somehow she would have to guard against drowning in the depths of his dark, soulless gaze. Keep her heart from hammering its way out of her chest every time she watched him cross a room, because to save her sanity she couldn’t stop picturing his magnificent male form, completely unclothed.

      She jumped up from the table. Do not think of him naked. AJ Harris is not the most heart-stoppingly handsome man in the universe. He’s the arrogant jerk who ruined your life. An arrogant, adulterous jerk who’d been screwing her while he’d been busy getting his wife pregnant. Well, to hell with him. Sam had coped with a lot of crap in her life, and she would find a way to cope with this, too.

      She gathered up the breakfast dishes. The soggy remains of her mother’s cereal went down the drain—she’d eaten a few mouthfuls, at least—and then Sam quickly washed her breakfast dishes and put them in the drain rack on the counter. Her mother’s head was still bent over the puzzle pieces. “More coffee, Mom?”

      “No, thank you, dear.” She snapped another puzzle piece into place. “Look at this. The top edge and one side are almost done.”

      Sam dried her hands on a towel and hung it on the handle of the oven door. “I see that. You’re doing great.”

      “It’s always best to start with the outside edges and work your way in.”

      While Sam pondered that as a possible metaphor for her life, she packed two bottles of water, a sandwich and an apple in her insulated lunch bag. “I left some tuna salad in the fridge for you, and Mrs. Stanton said she’d drop by to see you at lunchtime.” Mrs. Stanton was the neighbor across the hall. Years ago Sam had given the woman a key so she could come in at lunchtime to make sure Tildy had something to eat. Sam so often dreamed of moving into a decent apartment, maybe even a house with a back garden that might tempt her mother out of her reclusive existence, but what if the upheaval was the tipping point for Tildy’s fragile mental state? That worried her, and more important, there’d be no Mrs. Stanton to keep an eye on her.

      Sam retrieved her work boots from the tiny hall closet, slipped into her jacket and picked up her clipboard from the hall table. “I’m leaving for work, Mom. Do you need to do anything before I leave?”

      “Oh. I’m afraid we’re out of milk. The queen is coming this afternoon and she likes milk in her tea. Not cream. It has to be milk, you know.”

      Sam sighed and returned to the kitchen. “I bought milk yesterday.” She opened the refrigerator. “It’s right here, see?”

      Tildy’s glossy red lips spread into a smile. “Oh, thank you, dear. The last time she came, she caused a royal fuss because there was only cream.”

      Sam never bought cream, but that was the thing about fictional events. A person’s memories could be anything she wanted them to be.

      “She liked the cucumber sandwiches, though. And I’m out of cigarettes. Could you pick some up for me on your way home?”

      “Sure.” As soon as hell freezes over. Her mother had been out of cigarettes for fifteen years. Sam had stopped buying them after her father left because they couldn’t afford them, she was tired of smelling like an ashtray and she worried her mother would set the place on fire.

      From time to time Tildy still asked for them and it was simpler to say yes than to remind her that she didn’t smoke anymore.

      Sam slipped an arm around her mother’s narrow shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. This morning she was still wearing her chartreuse satin dressing gown but as always she had teased her thinning silver hair into a poofy do and rouged her cheeks to match her lips. The tang of hair spray that shellacked her mother’s hair in place made Sam back away. “What are you doing today?” she asked. Aside from entertaining Her Majesty. “Any plans?”

      “I’ll finish the puzzle.” She turned her attention back to the jigsaw pieces spread across the kitchen table’s worn Arborite. “And then I have to get ready for tea. I’ve decided to wear the green-and-gold plaid silk. You don’t think it’s too flashy, do you?”

      Not if the queen is color-blind. The dress her mother referred to wear was every bit as hideous now as it had been forty years ago. “Everyone loves your plaid dress, Mom. You’ll look beautiful,” Sam lied, carefully sidestepping any mention of Elizabeth II.

      “Yes, I’m hoping she’ll like it, too,” Tildy said. “It’s in terribly bad taste to upstage the queen.”

      Of course it was.

      Her mother’s delusions were richly populated with royalty and Hollywood stars, and occasional appearances by the Pope. Sam could almost understand her mother’s preoccupation with the likes of Robert De Niro and Steve Martin, even the British monarchy, but the significance of those papal visits eluded her. Her mother wasn’t even Catholic, although she could almost pass for pious in the habit she’d fashioned from an old black robe, a dingy white pillowcase and a rosary of pink plastic beads.

      “I’ll see you tonight, Mom. If I’m late, Mrs. Stanton will drop by again.”

      “That’s nice.” Tildy straightened then and stared down at Sam’s feet. “Why are you galumphing around my kitchen in those boots?”

      “I’m going to work, remember?”

      “Will you be back in time for tea?”

      “Sorry. СКАЧАТЬ