Beneath the Lights by Taralynn Moore

Author:Taralynn Moore [Moore, Taralynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781733829731
Publisher: Beach Cove Books
Published: 2019-12-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Two Years Later

“What do you mean you’re not coming?” I smiled through gritted teeth, hoping the forced sing-song rhythm of my voice masked the anger behind it. Alex and Finn gyrated in the living room of Old Man Jones. A big open space, sunken both physically and in time, with wall to wall carpeting and a cheerful fireplace. One I’d be much more apt to enjoy if I didn’t have a screaming headache. It was Christmas Eve. Sugar and Santa made the perfect combination for the kids’ holiday bliss, but also for my blistering migraine.

“All the flights have been delayed. Snowed out. You know Chicago,” Marc rasped. He sounded exhausted. Too. He sounded exhausted too.

There was no point to an I-told-you-so. It wouldn’t get him home in time. I dug through my purse, finally found the tiny bottle of aspirin at the bottom, quickly swallowed two.

“He’s not going to make it?” Mr. Jones was leaning forward in his rocker, fully enjoying the display of carols the kids were putting on for him. Whoever said he was a curmudgeon all those years ago was wrong. For a new widower at Christmas, he couldn’t have been more jolly.

I was the grump.

Shaking my head, I held a finger to my lips. Waiting to tell the kids would be better. He nodded with understanding and went back to watching their jingle bell dance.

Marc sighed on the other end of the phone. What was I supposed to say?

“Look,” I breathed. “There’s nothing we can do about it at this point. We’ll make the best of it.”

“Yeah. I guess. When does your dad get there?”

I looked at my watch just as the doorbell rang. “Looks like now.”

Mr. Jones eased out of his chair, once again proving his years were merely a number, and went to get the door.

“Marcus,” I hissed out a whisper. “How am I supposed to pull this off?” I glanced at the kids, now turned TV spectators. “The two-wheeled contraptions aren’t going to build themselves.”

“Jones will help you. And your dad.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “My dad?”

Marcus jostled the phone. “Well, he’ll try anyway.”

“Yeah.” I let my head rest against the couch pillow, thankful the aspirin had started to take effect. “At least Old Man Jones won’t be alone tonight.”

“And you aren’t trapped in a house entirely packed in boxes.”

“True.” We’d listed our house on a whim when the market peaked. We’d never expected a full offer on day one. It was a blessing, a financial windfall really, but a whirlwind experience. Now we were scrambling to find a place, invest the money wisely. I was used to designing the epic homes of others, but the idea of dipping into that end of the pool myself had never occurred to me as a possibility.

The deep rumbles of laughter travelled up from the corridor. “It sounds like the guys are already hitting it off.”

“Good.” Marc’s reply, garbled.

“Coffee?”

“Yup.” He exhaled, far more contented than moments before. “Okay, so, the bikes? Just ask Jones to help.

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