The Prodigal Valentine

Mercy and the cat exchanged a glance, then she shrugged as well. “I have to help Ma take her stuff down on New Year’s day, I figured I’d get a jumpstart on my own, since the weather’s nice and all. And they’re saying we might have snow tomorrow. Although I’ll believe that when I see it. Not that there’s much. Which you can see. I still have my tree up, though—”

Shut up, she heard inside her head. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Her mouth stretched tight, she crossed her arms over her ribs.

“And why are you over here again?”

“I’m not really over here, I’m out for a walk. But you looked like you could use some help, so I took a little detour. Damn, that’s a big cat,” he said as she finally gave up—since Ben was obviously sticking to her like dryer lint—and dragged a plastic bin down off a shelf, dumping the lights into it.

“That’s no cat, that’s my bodyguard.”

“I can see that.”

Mercy glanced over to see the thing rubbing against Ben’s shins, getting dirt all over his jeans, doing that little quivering thing with his big, bushy tail. Ben squatted to scratch the top of his head; she could hear the purring from ten feet away. “What’s his name?”

“Depends on the day and my mood. On good days, it’s Homer. Sometimes Big Red. Today I’m leaning toward Dumbbutt.”

The cat shot her a death glare and gave her one of his broken meows. Chuckling, Ben stood and wiped his hands, sending enough peachy fur floating into the garage to cover another whole cat.

“Because?”

“Because he’s too stupid to know when he’s got it good. If he sticks around, he’s got heat, my bed to sleep in and all the food he can scarf down. But no, that would apparently cramp his style. Even though the vet swore once I had him fixed, he wouldn’t do that. She was wrong. Or didn’t take enough off, I haven’t decided. In any case, he periodically vanishes, sometimes overnight, sometimes for days at a time. Then he has the nerve to drag his carcass back here, all matted and hungry, and beg for my forgiveness.”

Silence.

“You wouldn’t be trying to make a point there, would you?”

Mercy smiled sweetly. “Not at all.”

“At least I’m not matted,” he said, his intense gaze making her oddly grateful the garage was unheated. “Or hungry. My mother made sure of that.”

“How about fixed?”

He winced.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” She turned to heft the lights bin back up onto the shelf. “But you’re not getting back in my bed, either.”

Funny, she would have expected to hear a lot more conviction behind those words. Especially the not part of that sentence.

“I lost out to the cat?”

There being nothing for it, Mercy faced him again, palms on butt, chest out, chin raised. As defiant as a Pomeranian facing a Rotty. “You lost out, period.”

They stared at each other for several seconds. Until Ben said, “You know, I could really use a cup of coffee.”

“I thought you were out for a walk?”

“Turned out to be a short walk.”

More gaze-tangling, while she weighed the plusses (none that she could see) with the minuses (legion) about letting him in, finally deciding, Oh, what the hell? He’d come in, she’d give him coffee, he’d go away (finally), and that would be that. She led man and cat into her kitchen, hitting the garage door opener switch on the way. Over the grinding of the door closing, she said, “I’m guessing you needed a break?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You could say.”

“I don’t envy you. God knows I couldn’t live with my parents again. What are you doing?”

He’d picked up her remote, turned on the TV. “Just wanted to check the news, I haven’t seen any in days. You get CNN?”

“Yeah, I get it. And you’re gonna get it if you turn it on.”

On a sigh, he clicked off the TV, moseyed back over to the breakfast bar. “You still don’t watch the news?”

“Not if I can help it. Feeling overwhelmed and helpless ain’t my thang.” She pointed to one of the bar stools. “Sit. And don’t let the cat up—” Homer jumped onto the counter in front of Ben “—on the bar.”

Long, immensely capable fingers plunged into the cat’s ruff, as a pair of whatchagonna do about it? grins slid her way. On a sigh, Mercy said, “Regular or decaf?”

“What do you think?”

No, the question was, what was she thinking, letting the man into her house? Again. When no good would come of it, she was sure. And yet, despite those legion reasons why this was a seriously bad idea, the lack of gosh-it’s-been-a-long-time awkwardness between them was worth noting. Oh, sure, the atmosphere was charged enough to crackle—surprising in itself, considering her normal reaction (or lack thereof) to running into old lovers and such. That was fun…next? had been her motto for, gee, years. So who’d’athunk, that in spite of the unexpectedness of Ben’s reappearance, the sexual hum nearly making her deaf, in the end it would be a completely different bond holding sway over the moment, lending an Oh, yeah, okay feeling to the whole thing that made her feel almost…comfortable. If it hadn’t been for that sexual hum business.

Which led to a second question: If yesterday—shoot, this morning—she’d been totally over him, what had happened since then to change that?

Digging the coffee out of the fridge, she glanced over, noticed him looking around. Then those eyes swung back to hers, calling a whole bunch of memories out of retirement, and she thought, Oh. Right.

“Cool tree,” he said.

Grateful for the distraction, Mercy allowed a fond smile for the vintage silver aluminum number she’d found at a garage sale. Some of the “needles” had cracked off, but with all the hot pink marabou garland, it was barely noticeable. Well, that, and the several dozen bejeweled angels, miniature shoe ornaments and crosses vying for space amongst the feathers. This was one seriously tarted up Christmas tree, and Mercy adored it. “That’s Annabelle. You should see her at night when I’ve got the color wheel going. She’s something else.”

Ben shook his head, laughing softly, and yet more memories reported for duty. Including several that fearlessly headed straight for the hot zones.

“I just met Mattie and Jake,” he said.

Whew. “Yeah? Aren’t they great? That Mattie’s a pistol, isn’t she?”

“She is that.” He sounded a little awestruck. “Took to me right away.”

“Don’t take it personally, the child doesn’t know the meaning of ‘stranger.’ A second’s glance in her direction and you’re doomed. Drives my sister nuts.”

“She wouldn’t…Mattie knows better than to go off with someone she doesn’t know, I hope.”

“With Anita for her mother? What do you think?”

Ben’s shoulders seemed to relax a little after that, before he said, “I can’t believe you’re still here. In this house, I mean.”

A shrug preceded, “Why not? It’s home.” She spooned coffee into the basket; took her three tries to ram it home. “It’s just me, I don’t need a huge house. And the landlord gives me a good deal on the rent.”

“You’ve made some changes, though.”

“Not really,” she said, wondering why she was flushing. “Oh, yeah, those lamps by the sofa are new—Hobby Lobby specials, half off. And I did paint, about three years ago. During my faux-finishing phase. That lacquered finish was a bitch, let me tell you.”

“Huh.” He paused. “The walls are certainly…red.”