Christmas On Nutcracker Court Read online

  So which was it?

  Oh, no, she thought, as another possibility crossed her mind. Did he have a confrontation with Mr. Tolliver? Had it escalated?

  Carly took a deep breath, then slowly let it out, hoping to regroup and tackle the questioning from another angle. “So did you take the dog home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did the dog hurt you?”

  “No, Hemingway’s cool. He and I are becoming friends.”

  Maybe so, since their paths seemed to keep crossing. But Josh certainly wasn’t a friend to the dog’s owner.

  “Did you have a run-in with Mr. Tolliver?” she asked.

  “Kind of.”

  A cool chill fluttered down her spine. If the dog’s owner had touched her son, if he’d hurt him, she’d . . . she’d . . . Well, she had half a notion to march up to his front door and let him have it. But that wouldn’t solve anything.

  She could, of course, call the police and report the incident.

  Again, she wrestled with patience and composure, but she managed to ask, “What did that man do to you, honey?”

  “Huh?”

  “What happened when you returned the dog to Mr. Tolliver?”

  “Nothing. I just put the dog inside the fence. And . . . and then I tripped and fell down and hurt my lip. That’s all.”

  He was lying. She knew it as well as she knew her own name.

  “Did that man threaten you?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Tolliver.”

  Another pause. Then he finally said, “Yeah. He told me to stay away from his yard.”

  Or what? “Did he say what he would do if you went back on his property?”

  “Not exactly. I guess he’d yell at me. Or he’d tell you, and then I’d be in trouble.”

  The boy was already in trouble, and he wasn’t making it easy for her to help him.

  At times like this, she wished their father was still around to be a role model and to help Carly understand the male point of view. But she had to admit that even when he’d been a part of their lives, he hadn’t been much help either way, so she was on her own with this one.

  “We’re going to talk about this again tonight,” she said. “Now give the telephone to Mrs. Evans.”

  When the principal was back on the line, Carly told her what little she’d learned and what she’d gathered by connecting a few dots.

  “Josh said that he fell down,” Carly told Mrs. Evans. “But last night, the dog’s owner called me to complain about the boys coming onto his property. It’s possible that . . . Well, I’d hate to think that a grown man would hurt a child, but it does happen. And that might be why Josh isn’t telling us the whole truth. It’s possible that he’s afraid of the man.”

  “Well, his shirt is torn,” the principal added. “And it certainly looks as though someone might have grabbed it at the neckline and given it a hard twist.”

  Carly’s stomach clenched up tight. “What legal options do I have if that man assaulted him?”

  “I’m not sure. You’d have to talk to law enforcement officers, but I’d think that you could charge him with assault if he actually hurt your son.” Mrs. Evans paused. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  And on her lunch hour, Carly planned to stop by Mr. Tolliver’s house. Then she would ask him the questions her son had refused to answer.

  The doorbell rang, rousing Max from his sleep. He would have rolled over in bed and placed a pillow over his head, but whoever kept ringing that darn bell was annoying the dog, too.

  And now, with Hemingway barking and howling up a storm, Max had no other choice but to get up and see who was at the door.

  Grumbling, he kicked off the covers, rolled out of bed, and reached for his bathrobe. He slipped his arms into the sleeves without taking time to pull it together and tie the sash. Then he made his way downstairs.

  “I’m coming!” he yelled, hoping that the blasted noise would stop—the ringing, the barking, the howling.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. He’d been up until dawn again last night, trying to rewrite a scene that just wasn’t coming together. Then, an hour after he’d finally turned in, Hemingway had whined and scratched at the door. So he’d put him in the backyard and had returned to bed. But around eight, the dog had put up a real fuss. And when Max had gone to see what was troubling him, he’d had to referee a couple of kids fighting in the street.

  And now this . . .

  He undoubtedly wore a scowl as he swung open the door, which didn’t bother him in the least. But when he caught sight of an attractive brunette standing on the stoop, and he stared into the prettiest green eyes he’d ever seen and caught a whiff of floral perfume, his foul mood dissipated into the lightly scented air.

  It was anyone’s guess who she was or why she’d come to his house, but it didn’t seem to matter one iota.

  With her silky brown hair styled picture-perfect, and a slight flush on her cheeks, she was stunning.

  And he was speechless.

  Of course, if she were smiling instead of frowning, his brains and tongue might have deserted him for good.

  She was, he realized, hot in every sense of the word—hot as in gorgeous and clearly hot under the collar.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, thinking she’d come to the wrong house and was looking for one of his neighbors instead.

  “Mr. Tolliver?”

  “Yes.” He pulled his robe together and reached for the sash that dangled along the side. After telling Hemingway to pipe down, he asked, “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “I’m Carly Westbrook, Josh’s mother.”

  Lucky kid, came to mind.

  “And I want to know what happened this morning,” she added.

  “Maybe you should ask him.”

  She stiffened. “I did. And now I’m asking you.”

  “For one thing, your son woke me up.”

  “And so you assaulted him?”

  “What?” Max tensed, and as his movement froze, the sash he’d been trying to tie around his waist slipped out of his fingers. “Are you crazy? Did your son tell you that I hurt him?”

  Her demeanor softened a tad, but she continued to stand her ground. “No, he didn’t actually say that, but he has a split lip and a torn shirt.”

  “Did he tell you anything about what happened?”

  “Just that he brought your dog home. He’s refusing to talk about his injuries. But I know that you don’t want him on your property, and I know that he’s afraid of you. So I thought I’d better get to the bottom of it.”

  “You’re making an unwarranted leap in the wrong direction,” Max said, both irritated at the woman and at himself for feeling even the least bit attracted to her.

  “You didn’t hurt him?” she asked.

  Max crossed his arms over his mostly bare chest. “I may be a lot of things, Mrs. Westbrook, but I don’t beat up on kids.”

  She didn’t appear convinced. Instead, she crossed her own arms over her chest, causing the fabric of her pink blouse to pull taut against the buttonholes.

  Forcing his gaze back to hers, Max said, “I can’t vouch for the part about my dog getting out, but I saw a big kid beating up on your son this morning. When I came out on the porch to see what was causing the dog to make all the racket, I yelled and the bigger boy ran off.”

  Her arms loosened, then slowly dropped to her sides, and the tension left her face. “Do you know who the older boy is?”

  “No, but he looked to be a couple of years older than your son and about forty pounds heavier.”

  “Does he live around here?” she asked.

  “I have no idea. I work nights and sleep days.” Max combed his hand through his hair. “At least, I try to sleep days.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip, then softened. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I . . .”

  Those spring-green eyes grew watery, but she managed to blink back the tears.

  Ma
x was grateful they hadn’t overflowed and spilled down her cheeks. He’d never been patient when a woman started crying. He’d seen plenty of them do that when he’d been a probation officer, both female defendants or the wives and girlfriends of the men. And he’d learned to draw back and be tough. But as hardened—and skeptical—as he’d become on the job, he found himself really waffling now.

  Finally, when she seemed to have pulled herself together, she blew out a weary breath. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. I’m a single mother trying to raise two boys. And it hasn’t been easy.”

  Max imagined it was difficult. His own mother had worked two jobs to support him and his brother.

  “Josh has always been up front with me in the past, so I’m not used to him clamming up.” She looked at him with those big green eyes again, drawing him into her troubles in spite of his resolve to mind his own business. “Do you have any idea why he wouldn’t want to tell me about getting in a fight?”

  “He might be afraid of repercussions from the older boy. And he might want to handle the problem on his own without hiding behind his mother’s skirts. As little boys turn into big boys, they start drawing away from their moms.”

  That’s what Max had done, and so had his brother.

  As Mrs. Westbrook—Carly—looked up at him, her gaze clung to his as though he held all the answers. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Rather than risk getting soft or any more involved than he was already, he circled the wagons around any compassion that swirled in his chest and slipped into probation-officer mode. “If I see that older boy around here again, I’ll try to identify him for you. I don’t like bullies.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. And again, I’m sorry for accusing you of hurting my son. It’s just that . . .”

  “You’re a mother. And you care about your kids.”

  In spite of her earlier efforts, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

  Aw, man. Don’t do that, he wanted to tell her.

  He probably ought to run through his mental Rolodex of social service organizations that might be able to help her, but he just stood there until she thanked him, then turned and walked away.

  Instead of closing the door and retreating to the privacy of his home, he watched her get into her car, feeling a bit guilty and not at all sure why.

  Chapter 4

  As storm clouds rolled in from the northwest, shading the midday sun, Susan parked her car along the curb in front of Helen’s house, a pale green Victorian with white trim.

  Before leaving home, she’d carefully styled her hair and applied her makeup, something that had become a daily habit since Hank had passed away.

  Not that she’d let herself go before. But these days she took extra care, especially when she was headed for Nutcracker Court. A couple of Helen’s neighbors were eligible bachelors, and Susan wanted to be ready for a chance meeting with one or the other.

  Both men were nice-looking and in the right age range, but more importantly, they each worked from home, which was an even bigger plus. Susan had once been married to a workaholic who’d spent most of his waking hours at the office, so she found a little detail like that to be especially appealing.

  But that didn’t mean she hadn’t been happily married to Hank. They’d had their share of good times and had made some special memories.

  Of course, there’d been the typical squabbles, slammed doors, and cold shoulders, too, but they’d loved each other and had been faithful to their vows.

  And there was a lot to say for that.

  Her only real complaint had been Hank’s overwhelming drive to be the best at everything he did. That and the fact that he hadn’t wanted to start a family until it was too late.

  But Susan planned to remedy that—God willing. All she needed to do was find the right man. So the hunt was on.

  Hunt? She scoffed at the poor word choice.

  Just last Thursday, when she’d finally mentioned that she was interested in dating, Lynette had made a joke about Susan being on a manhunt. Susan had chuckled right along with her poker buddies, but the comment had rubbed her the wrong way.

  It wasn’t as though she was desperate and would throw herself at the first man to toss a smile her way. She was going to be very careful when it came to choosing a second husband.

  In fact, she’d compiled a list of qualities she was looking for in a mate. And some of them were non-negotiable, like honesty, financial security, a kind and loving heart, and the desire to father a child or two.

  That was also why she wanted to get to know Max Tolliver and Grant Barrows a little better. She’d like to see if either of them was worth pursuing. And she wouldn’t know that unless she had an opportunity to chat with them.

  So, as she climbed out of her white Honda Civic, her thoughts weren’t on Helen’s cousin, Maggie. Instead, they were on the men who lived nearby.

  There were some notable differences between the two, particularly in looks. Max had dark hair and an olive complexion, which suggested he had some Latin blood—Italian maybe, or Spanish. He was also tall and solid, with a build that suggested he worked out regularly.

  On the other hand, Grant was several inches shorter, a little more slender, and as fair as Max was dark. His light brown hair appeared to be sun-streaked, even in the winter months. Whenever she spotted him out in his yard, she was reminded of a typical Southern California surfer, albeit one who was a little older than most. Of course, that could also be due to his wardrobe, which seemed to be limited to Hawaiian-style shirts, board shorts, and sandals.

  Either way, she’d made up her mind to instigate a conversation with whichever man she spotted first.

  As she slid out of the driver’s seat and closed the door, she noticed that Max’s blinds were drawn tight. She suspected that he might be asleep or hard at work on the novel he was writing. He was a bit of a recluse, she’d been told. But she loved books and thought it might be interesting to date an author.

  Especially one with such soulful brown eyes—the pensive kind that weren’t easy to read.

  A couple of weeks ago, Max had been outside walking his dog when Susan had arrived to play poker. She’d offered him a shy smile, and when he’d smiled back, a little zing had rippled through her veins.

  But since it didn’t appear likely that she would run into him again this afternoon, she glanced over her shoulder at the house across the street, the home Grant Barrows had recently renovated. The project, which had included all new landscaping in the front and back, must have cost a small fortune, but from what Helen had said, the man was loaded.

  Susan wasn’t exactly sure what Grant did for a living, and neither was Helen, but they both agreed that he must be very successful.

  After circling the car and opening up the passenger side, she removed the three-layer cake she’d made early this morning. Then she used her hip to shut the door.

  She took a moment to admire her carefully frosted handiwork, knowing that it was sure to impress Helen’s cousin, Maggie. And even Lynette, who was on a constant diet to maintain her Barbie-doll shape, wouldn’t be able to resist a slice.

  Before heading to the door, she took one last gander at Max’s house, hoping he’d open the shades or step out onto the porch. But no such luck.

  Maybe on her next visit she would bring a double batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies and deliver a plate to each of the bachelors. An unexpected gift like that would be a great icebreaker and was sure to set off a conversation.

  With a solid clever game plan simmering in her mind, she headed up Helen’s walkway, her steps light, her heart hopeful. When she reached the stoop, she shifted the cake plate to one hand and rang the bell with the other.

  Moments later, a fortysomething blonde opened the door wearing a pair of black slacks and a pale blue blouse.

  “You must be Maggie,” she told the woman. “My name is Susan. I’m a friend of Helen’s—and one of the Diamond Lils.”

  Cousin M
aggie broke into a smile that nearly lit the entry. And as her gaze lit upon the dessert in Susan’s hands, her sky-blue eyes widened. “Oh, my. Would you look at that?”

  “It’s my mango-coconut cake. And you haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until you actually take a bite.”

  “Please,” Maggie said, opening up the screen door. “Come inside. I’ll put on some water for tea. Or would you rather have coffee?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Susan said.

  “Then tea it is.”

  Minutes later, Susan was seated at the kitchen table, an antique made of oak. Maggie removed the pot of rhododendron that had been the centerpiece and replaced it with the mango-coconut cake.

  “Helen mentioned that her friends, the Diamond Lils, might stop by,” Maggie said, as she set the lush potted plant on the countertop. “And that you were dear friends.”

  “We’ve grown very close over the years,” Susan said.

  Maggie filled Helen’s red teakettle with water, placed it on the stove, then turned on the flame. “Why do you call yourselves the Diamond Lils?”

  Susan was a little surprised that Helen had mentioned them, but hadn’t gone into detail. “I’m not sure who came up with the name first, but because of our weekly poker games, it seemed to fit. And it just stuck.”

  “Weekly poker games?” Maggie’s movement stilled, and she cocked her head to the side. “Do you play for money?”

  Was Maggie a prude about gambling and that sort of thing? If so, it seemed odd that Helen would ask the Diamond Lils to befriend her.

  Either way, Susan wasn’t going to lie. “Having a little wager on the table makes it a lot more fun. But we don’t play for high stakes.”

  Maggie nodded, as though she understood. Then she removed two china cups and saucers from the cupboard and placed them on the table.

  “In fact,” Susan added, “each week, we save a portion of the kitty to use for something special.”

  Maggie’s eyes brightened. “That’s really nice. I’m sure there are a lot of worthwhile charities that can use some extra money, especially at this time of year.”

  “You’re probably right,” Susan said. “But we already have the fund earmarked for a trip to Laughlin. There’s going to be a big poker tournament on the fifteenth of January that’s part of a reality television show.”