Dear Santa

“I also shouldn’t have strong-armed you into this,” he said suddenly.

“This?”

“Coming back,” he said, not looking at her as he slowly ground his knuckles into the palm of his other hand. “You’ve got that pained look people get when they’re forced to be someplace they don’t want to be. It’s just I was so desperate the other day, I reacted without thinking…. I apologize.”

Mia blinked, then laughed softly. “Believe me, Grant—if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. No apology necessary.”

Under hooded lids, his eyes slid back to hers…and her stomach flipped. Nothing had prepared her for the full force of that probing gaze, riddled with concern. It was almost as if…

Never mind, she told herself as, knocked flat on her mental butt, she looked away until she could right herself again. When she didn’t reply fast enough to suit him, he probed further.

“Then what’s wrong?” he probed further. “Is it work?”

“No!” she said, a knee-jerk reaction to the presumption implicit in the question. “Business is great, O ye of little faith.”

“Then what?”

She messed with a thread dangling from the hem of her sweater, then crossed her arms. “Not that you’d care, but…my building’s going co-op.” Her mouth pulled down at the corners. “I have to either move or buy when my lease is up. In two weeks.”

“They can’t give you only two weeks’ notice, for God’s sake!”

“They didn’t. It’s been in the plans for more than a year. But I’ve been so busy with work…and I kept holding out this tiny hope that we’d win the battle and the landlord would back down.”

“Never mind that that almost never happens.”

“I know,” she said on a stream of air.

“I take it you can’t afford to buy?”

She let out a dry little laugh. “Everything I have—had—is tied up in the business.”

“You used personal capital as seed money?”

“It’s not unheard of, Grant. Especially since I couldn’t get a loan to save myself. So you can stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m some dumb cluck who had no idea what she was getting into.”

“Did you even have a contingency plan?”

Tamping down the urge to slug the man, she said, “I left Hinkley-Cohen on very good terms. I could have gone back anytime.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Okay, Grant? Hard as this might be for you to believe, I did know the risks going in. I also knew, given time and a long enough lever, I could make it. And I did. Am. But I was already in up to my eyeballs when the whole co-op ball started to roll. Moving then wasn’t an option. So I took another risk, that the landlord’s plan would fall through. Since it didn’t,” she said, turning back, “I suppose I’ll figure something out.”

“In two weeks.”

“Twelve days, actually…. Hey, cookie,” she said softly as Haley approached. “What’s up?”

As much as it warmed Mia’s heart when the little girl wriggled up into her lap, she didn’t miss Grant’s scowl at having not been chosen. Well, bud, she thought, wrapping her arms around Haley’s waist, you’re the only one who can fix that.

“How’s Henry doing today?” she asked, her lips close to the little girl’s ear.

A shrug. “His mommy still hasn’t come back.” A pause. “He’s getting scared,” she said, ruffling the thing’s increasingly matted mane. “He says everybody keeps telling him she’s gone to heaven and she can’t come back, ever. That makes his heart hurt.”

As it did Mia’s. She hugged Haley more tightly. “I know,” she whispered, laying her cheek against the soft curls. “I know it does. So you have to hug Henry lots and lots to make him feel better.”

“I am. But he said it doesn’t help.”

“It will, lamb chop,” Mia said, her eyes burning, not caring if Grant’s were boring holes in the side of her face. “Eventually, it will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. You just have to keep reminding Henry how much you love him.”

“Like you love me?”

Mia thought her own heart would break. “Yep. Like I love you. And Etta and your daddy and your grandma—we’re all going to love you and love you until it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

A moment later, Haley cocked her head, as if listening to the stuffed toy. Then she slid off Mia’s lap and turned to her. “Henry wants to know if you’d push us on the swing.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Mia said, getting up and holding out her hand.

“Mia.”

Grant’s low voice brought her head back around. He’d stood, his hands in his pockets, his mouth a straight line.

“If you want to buy your apartment, I’d be happy to cosign for your loan.”

Her eyes popped open. As did her mouth. When the buzzing stopped, however, she leaned over to Haley and said, “Go on back to the swing, I’ll be there in a sec.” When she was sure the little girl was out of earshot, she looked back up at Grant, standing there looking like the Daddy of all Immovable Objects.

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“To say thank you?”

“Then you can send me flowers. Or give me a gift certificate to Bloomie’s. But I wouldn’t dream of letting you take that risk. Or myself. I really can’t predict my cash flow right now—”

“Not a problem.”

“For you, maybe not. For me, yes. Thank you,” she said softly, when he blew an obviously frustrated breath through his nose. “That’s incredibly generous. But no.” A piece of hair blew into her face; she pushed it back, angling her head. “My mommy always told me never to take financial favors from strangers.”

“We’re not strangers, Mia.”

Man, this dude did not give an inch, did he? “Uh, yeah. We are.”

Apparently accepting that they’d reached a stalemate, he said, “Then I suppose you’ll be looking for another apartment when you get back to the city.”

“That’s the plan, yep.”

“In less than ten days.”

“Rub it in, why doncha?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “There is one more option. If push comes to shove.” He nodded toward the guesthouse. “It’s sitting empty, anyway.”

“Oh! Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

“Think about it,” he said, then turned and strode back inside.

“I take it we’re not talking some rickety old shack you wouldn’t keep your dog in?”

Mia could count on Venus not to mince words, about this or anything else.

“Uh, no.” After Haley went down for her nap, Mia got the key from Etta to check out the guesthouse. Not that she was even remotely considering taking Grant up on his offer, but she figured she might as well know what she was turning down. “Two bedrooms,” she said into her cell. “Wood floors—well, carpet in the bedrooms—a kitchen big enough for a table and more than half a person in it at once—”

“Get out.”

“I know, I know. Of course, compared with the main house, it is a shack. Compared with what I’m likely to be able to afford in Manhattan, however, it’s a palace. But come on—it’s in Connecticut!”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you’re in Washington Heights?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what’s with the ‘uh-huhs’?”

“Think back. Way back. To the way you nearly broke something trying to get a better look when Grant walked by your office on his way to his appointment with that tax attorney—what was his name again?”

“I did not!” At yet another “uh-huh,” Mia sighed. “Okay, but that was temporary insanity by reason of immaturity. And anyway, my reservations have nothing to do with… that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Venus. I’ve met warmer cadavers.”

“Girl, you have got to get out more.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do. But may I remind you that particular cadaver just offered to co-sign a sizable loan for you? Not to mention save your sorry butt so you don’t end up out on the street?”

“Oh, please…this is a man who invests millions without batting an eye. And what skin would it be off his nose to let me live in this house?” Her gaze skimmed over the skuzz-free stove, the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator with a freezer large enough to hold more than a two frozen dinners, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a single ice cube tray.

“You’re tempted, I can tell,” Venus said.

“Of course, I’m tempted. I’m not made of stone.”

“We’re both still talking about the house, right?”

“And you so don’t want to give me a reason to rethink the raise I was going to give you.”

“He didn’t have to offer,” Venus said, completely unconcerned. “But he did anyway. And it’s been more than a year since that dirtwad dumped you and as far as I know you haven’t even looked at a man since, and here’s this good-looking dude being all generous and kind—”

“Kind might be stretching it,” Mia said. “And it’s not as if there’s no ulterior motive. And besides…”

“Yeah, I know—after what happened between him and Justine, blah, blah, blah. And a girlfriend doesn’t mess around another girlfriend’s man, never mind that they’d been divorced for more than a year and it’s not like she’s gonna know, anyway. And you know something else? It takes two, baby. Meaning I know you’re being loyal to Justine and all, but maybe she had something to do with the marriage falling apart, too. I’m just saying. Because you do have a problem with letting friendship blind you to who somebody really is. Take ours, for instance—you probably think I’m actually nice.”

“In general or at the moment?”

Venus snorted, then said, “But as far as the you-in-Connecticut-me-still-in-Manhattan thing…first off, seeing as half your clients are already up there, anyway, I’m not sure what difference it makes whether you’re schlepping up there from Manhattan, or down to Manhattan from there. And think of how much you’ll save in garage fees.”

She had a point there. Mia needed the van for her work, but she could support a medium-size developing country for what she paid to berth her car every month. Hey, maybe she could live in her car, skip paying rent altogether…?

“I don’t know, Venus. It sounds good on paper, but…I don’t know. Look, I need to get back. Etta and I have to figure out what we’re doing for this reception, since I seriously doubt people are going to show up with funeral food. As far as I know, I’ll be back in the city on Friday.”

“Yeah, but for how long?” Venus said, then hung up.

Leaving Mia standing in the middle of a puddle of brilliant fall sunshine gilding the living room’s polished oak floor, feeling very conflicted indeed.

Chapter Four

In his foyer, just outside the living room—where mourners alternately chatted and gorged themselves on Mia’s and Etta’s impressive spread—Grant stood sentry, almost daring Christopher Schofield to walk through his front door. Of course, Grant had seriously doubted the man would have had the cojones to show his face at his lover’s funeral reception—especially as he had to know Mia would be here—but he hadn’t been about to take the chance.

Not that Mia needed Grant’s protection, if one could even label his concern as such. Haley, however, did, and damned if Grant was about to let his child get inadvertently caught up in something that had nothing to do with her.

Sitting through the service, between him and his mother in a lace-collared dark-green dress she’d nearly outgrown, Haley had silently fidgeted through the proceedings with little outward reaction. Since Justine had been cremated, there’d been no casket, which—now that Grant thought about it—probably made it all even more confusing for the child. A suspicion borne out when, after they’d returned to the house, she’d begun running from room to room, upstairs and down, clearly looking for something.

Or someone.

For the past half hour or so, however, Haley had been settled in Mia’s lap, her brow occasionally puckering in response to this or that person’s awkward condolence. Now, watching those dark eyes solemnly taking it all in, Grant wondered if she was finally beginning to understand what had happened.

As much as any of them were, at least.

His attention drifted back to Mia, nicely cleaned up for the occasion in a full-skirted black dress that hugged her torso and pleasantly showed off black-stockinged calves, ending in very high heels. Assorted clips and things halfheartedly held her hair up off her neck, leaving assorted, shiny bits of silky brown floating around her face. She hugged Haley’s waist from behind, her chin resting on the child’s head, her placid expression belying the stress of the last few days. As much of a bulwark as she’d been for Haley—and Etta, when it came to pulling everything together for the reception—Grant wasn’t unaware of how often she’d slipped away, only to return a few minutes later with those telltale red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks.

In some strange way, part of him envied her ability to feel things so strongly, even if he couldn’t completely tamp down the irritation that, in this case, her grief was misplaced. The other, saner, part was profoundly grateful to have been spared that particular character trait. How on earth did those tenderhearted sorts get through life?

And what on earth had possessed him to offer her the guesthouse? Indefinitely, no less? Especially since her presence would only serve as a constant reminder of his gross miscalculation. His failure.

Then there was the challenge of keeping his mouth shut about Christopher and Justine. Not that he was particularly comfortable with that option, but the alternative—hurting her all over again before she’d had a chance to completely heal—was untenable.

And why was it bugging him to no end that she hadn’t yet made up her mind whether to stay or not?

“Grant.”

Squelching a sigh, he smiled down into pale blue eyes.

“Mother.” Noticing her hands were empty, he offered to get her a drink.

She shook her head. “No, thank you, if I’d wanted a drink I could have gotten it myself.” The archetype of the fit, privileged Connecticut matron in her slim-skirted charcoal-gray suit and double strand of pearls, she frowned in Mia’s direction. At least, as much as her chemically enhanced epidermis would allow.

“I still don’t understand why you’re fostering that relationship.”

“Because Mia has a way with Haley that I don’t.” Grant took a sip of his own tepid, watered-down Scotch and soda, lifting his other hand to ward off his mother’s inevitable protest. “And right now, she needs people around who are only thinking of her.”

“And I’m not? Honestly, Grant—she’s so…pedestrian. Who are her people?”

“Nobody you’d know, Mother,” he said quietly, his mother’s snobbery, misplaced though it may have been, the least of his concerns at the moment. “I believe her father’s a retired policeman. In Springfield.”

“That accounts for the accent, I suppose.”

“Yes, the Kennedys found their Massachusetts drawl a terrible handicap.”

His mother smirked, snagging a soft drink from a passing waiter. How Mia had managed a waitstaff on such short notice, he had no idea. “Be that as it may, she’s no Kennedy.” As Grant put a hammerlock on the comeback begging to be let loose, she said, “I mean, I know she graduated from one of the top schools—she’d have to for Hinkley-Cohen to hire her, wouldn’t she?—but has she made partner yet?”

“Actually, she left the firm. A couple of years ago. To start her own business.”

“Really? Doing what?”

Grant swallowed the sip in his mouth. “Planning parties.”

“Parties?” His mother snorted a dry, delicate laugh, then set her unfinished drink down on a nearby table. “Ivy League degree or not, the girl clearly doesn’t have a grain of common sense.”

“It’s her life, Mother,” Grant said, the heat in his words taking him by surprise. “What she does with that life is no one’s business but hers. And not only has she worked wonders with Haley over the past few days, but if it hadn’t been for Mia coming to the rescue with this reception, I’m sure Etta would have walked out the front door, never to be seen again.”

“Not that that would have been much of a loss,” Bitsy muttered. “And besides, it doesn’t exactly take a law degree to order a few cold cut trays from Katz’s.” Bitsy checked her watch, then patted him on the arm. “I need to get back, I’d invited the Hendersons for dinner weeks ago, it would have been beyond rude to cancel on them this late in the game. But if you need anything, let me know.”

How about a do-over on my childhood? Grant thought irritably as he watched her leave.

Although it wasn’t yet fully dark by the time the last guest left, Grant could tell the day had taken its toll on his daughter. In fact, when Mia asked her if she was ready for her bath, she’d given a nod that had clearly used up her last ounce of reserve. Mia—once divested of her Grace Kelly outfit that his mother clearly saw as just a thrift shop rag and back in her customary baggy jeans and sweatshirt—volunteered to do the honors. But a half hour later, she came downstairs and strongly suggested that Grant tuck Haley in.

Over the panic slicing through him, she added, “Especially since I’ve done it the past two nights.”

“I know, but…she’s more comfortable with you.”

“For the love of Pete, Grant—who put her to bed all those nights she spent with you?”

“Etta, usually.”

“That’s beyond sad. You know, my father drives all his kids crazy on a regular basis, but at least he tries to communicate with us. Even if half the time we’re not exactly thrilled with the message. Well, bud, you’ve got to start the bonding process sometime. And four years late is better than never.” Then she startled him by adding, “There’s a good father in there somewhere, Grant. It’s okay to let him out.”

Their eyes locked for an unsettling moment or two before, on a not-very-squelched sigh, Grant headed upstairs to Haley’s room. She was lying on her back in her bed, the toy lion propped on her tummy. From what he could tell they were having quite the conversation. When she noticed Grant, however, her head whipped around, a small wrinkle marring the space between her brows.

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