believe in her heart that her birth mother was a couldn’t and not a wouldn’t, Clementine was sure her heart would break in a thousand pieces. Sometimes, when she thought about Lacey Woolen, it was the only thing that kept Clementine okay.
“I can only talk about my particular situation and how I feel about it,” she said. “I completely understand how you feel, Logan. The parting gift, the walking away, the grenade, I get it. God, what a bombshell.”
“Why didn’t my parents tell me?” he asked quietly. “How could they let me live a lie?”
“Probably because deep down and no matter what, you were Haywood Grainger’s son, and that was no lie. It was their truth, Logan.”
“But not the truth,” he said, shaking his head again.
She wanted to go over and wrap her arms around him, but she didn’t dare. “It’s complicated.”
He took another sip of his coffee. “Let’s change the subject. How’d the boys do tonight?”
She smiled. “Great. They now can sing the first line of ‘Jingle Bells’ without a hitch. And that’s only after one night of rehearsal.”
“Isn’t the first line just ‘Jingle Bells’ twice?”
She laughed. “Yes. But they’re only three years old.”
“They’ve missed you. I’m glad they can spend time with you.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “At least I know now why you fired me, why you pushed me away. You were all torn up.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry, Clementine. You deserved better than that.”
So come over here. Kiss me again. Take me in your arms. Let me in now that I know. Maybe I can help.
He did none of the above. “I don’t know who the hell I am,” he added grimly. Am I even Harry’s and Henry’s uncle if I’m not a Grainger?” He shook his head. “That’s dumb. Even if I’m just half, I’m still their uncle.”
She put down her mug. “You are, no matter what.”
“I hate this,” he said. “I hate it all.”
She bit her lip and let out a breath. “Have you verified that this Clyde T. Parsons is telling the truth? Have you seen the photographs he mentions in the letter?”
He explained about the call this afternoon, about the picture of Clyde Parsons being a dead ringer for him. He picked up one of the manila envelopes, reached in and pulled out a photograph of a man without looking at it, then handed it to her.
She took the photograph and stared at it. Oh wow. Clyde Parsons looked very much like Logan Grainger. They had the same features—except Clyde’s eyes were hazel—the same hair, and there was something so similar in their expressions.
Her heart went out to Logan. How hard this must be. So much to take in, so many questions, no answers.
“Maybe Parsons has family,” she said softly.
He shot a glance at her. “His family has nothing to do with me.”
She wasn’t so sure she agreed, but now wasn’t the time to talk about that anyway. “I just mean that maybe you can find out who Clyde Parsons was, what he was like. You could do some poking around about him.”
“Don’t I know everything by his actions? He walked out on his pregnant girlfriend. He let another man take responsibility.” He set his mug down hard in the sink. “You know what? I’m done talking about this. Done thinking about it. Haywood Grainger was my father—he raised me. That’s all I need to know.”
Except the whole thing was tearing Logan apart. So it wasn’t all he needed to know. It was what he wanted to know, but for closure, for peace, he’d have to do more than ignore the truth.
Clementine glanced at her watch. “Oh no, I’m late. My shift starts at six and you know how crazy busy Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen gets on a Friday night. “By the way, my sister Annabel told me that tomorrow’s special is Gram’s famed macaroni and cheese. Maybe you can bring the boys in for lunch. Oh and practice ‘Jingle Bells’ over breakfast.”
He nodded. “Will do. And maybe we will come in for lunch tomorrow. I’d like to thank your grandmother for the po’boys. The twins love Hurley’s po’boys.”
And hadn’t had them for the three months he’d been avoiding her, hung in the air between them.
“Logan, if you need to talk about this, you can call me or come see me anytime. You know that, right?”
“I’m done talking about it,” he said, his blue eyes stony. “But...thanks,” he added, his expression softening just a little.
She headed toward the door, wishing she could stay, wishing she could rush over to him and hug him tight. It took everything in her to walk to the door and leave him alone with his thoughts.
Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen was open from 11:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. every day but Monday, and since Clementine was the head waitress, managed the waitstaff and helped in the kitchen between her shifts, she had little time to work on the Creole sauce she’d been trying to perfect for Hurley’s special Christmas dinner menu. Hurley’s wouldn’t be open for usual business on December 24. Every Christmas Eve, Gram created a free buffet for those who might be alone for the holiday or unable to afford dinner.
Clementine loved her grandmother so much. The woman was always thinking about others, those who didn’t have much money or family. At holiday time especially, she wanted Hurley’s to be a place where people could come, alone or just hungry, and share in a special meal. Every year, Clementine invited her birth mother, who she knew lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment above the library down Blue Gulch Street and kept very much to herself. Every year, Lacey Woolen was noncommittal. Twice she’d shown up. Once, she peeked her head in, then quickly left, clearly uncomfortable. The other time, three years ago, she’d gotten as far as sitting down at a table with others but hadn’t filled her plate and left after ten minutes.
Now, in the big country kitchen, Clementine yawned as she added chopped onions and garlic to the big pot for her Creole sauce. She’d spent a fitful night thinking of everything Logan had told her about the letter he’d received, the contents of the PO box and everything they’d talked about, including her birth mother. She’d thought Logan was a wouldn’t all these heartbreaking months. But it turned out that he was a couldn’t. Right now, Logan was dealing with the reality of having an answer to a question that had been tormenting him for three months. A man other than his beloved dad was his biological father.
Yes, right now, Logan was a couldn’t.
As Clementine stirred her sauce, she wondered if Lacey would ever swing from couldn’t to could and come to the Christmas buffet, if she’d finally give Clementine the one thing she wanted from Lacey: just the slightest, barest, most tenuous start of a relationship of some sort. They were two people with a fundamental connection, and since Clementine was a twenty-five-year-old adult, it seemed perfectly reasonable to Clementine that Lacey finally acknowledge that connection, open up in the slightest, share something about herself, anything, something. But she never had. It used to hurt Clementine terribly, in her bones. Now, it just drove her insane. Come on, already, lady.
“Um, Clementine? You’re stirring your sauce kind of hard.”
Clementine’s hand stilled on the wooden spoon and she glanced up. Dylan Patterson, the eighteen-year-old line cook, was smiling gently at her.
“Don’t all the best cooks, you included, Dylan, say you should put your emotion into your cooking?” Clementine asked.
“Not anxiety,” her sister Annabel whispered with compassion in her voice as she passed by