Page 29 of The Forever Christmas Tree

She laughed, although he could tell that her mind was still snagged back there on a twelve-year spat between the old ladies. “Crotchety equals grinchy in my book. Surely she’s not on that list of nominees.”

“She actually is. One vote from a difficult customer. But mostly, she’s just grumpy with me.”

They exchanged a smile, and it was nice. Friendly. But then, he recalled his daughter’s words of that morning, a Wendy kind of love, and knew that he and Wendy would never be friends.

“You’re frowning,” she pointed out. “Something I said?”

“Nah. Just a lot on my mind.” Where the hell was Tony? Now, Laura, he knew, was probably pulling a deliberate ploy to make him squirm. She’d had it in for him ever since . . . well, for a long time.

“Is it your daughter? Aunt Mil told me that she has some physical problems, and I noticed the wheelchair yesterday.”

He stiffened. No way was he going to discuss Cassie with this woman who probably thought he’d been carrying a torch for her all these years, that he regretted everything that had happened with Beth Anne. How could he, when that one-night stand had resulted in his precious little girl? “Cassie is fine. It’s just a busy time of the year for me, with the tree farm, and then this business with the bell factory.” He shrugged.

She didn’t look convinced.

“Look, Wendy, this is really awkward, and it shouldn’t be. We have a history. Big deal! I don’t love you anymore, in case you’re thinking that I’ve been pining away over you, and—”

“Pining?” she sputtered with a laugh. “What kind of word is pining?”

It was the kind of word his grandmother would use. He should have laughed, too. Instead, for some reason, her laughter ignited a spark of bitterness that he must have been harboring all these years because he added, “—and you sure as hell never loved me.”

He immediately regretted his words when he saw the hurt in her eyes, those beautiful brown eyes flecked with gold that were glistening now with tears . . . tears he’d caused.

“Don’t . . . you . . . dare . . . say . . . that!” she half whispered.

“Ah, Wendy,” he said, and pulled her into his arms, right there in the middle of the Cracked Crab restaurant. She fit just right, like always, with her face tucked against his neck, smelling of lilies of the valley, or some summery flower. Then, when she lifted her face to say something, he almost kissed her. It was a reflex, something he’d done so often over so many years.

But not lately.

Not for twelve years.

Have I lost my mind?

He jerked back, dropping his arms, and murmured, “Sorry,” before turning, about to walk away.

That apology covered a whole lot of sins. He hoped.

But then, none of that mattered because three men walked into the restaurant, causing a stir. Everyone in the place turned or craned their necks. It was almost as if a bomb of silence hit the place, causing a momentary lull. No clatter of silverware. No shouting of orders. No hum of conversation.

The three men, who stood in the dining area, scanning the crowd, did not wear uniforms. Nor did they sport military haircuts. But it was as clear as the skies on an Outer Banks summer that these were lean, mean fighting machines of Uncle Sam. Maybe special forces. Probably Navy SEALs, he concluded when one of them spotted Wendy and waved, calling out, “Hey, Flip.”

She smiled as if she was about to be rescued by Uncle Sam’s finest.

Rescued from what?

Me?

That is just great!

The background Christmas music changed from “Jingle Bell Rock” to “Deck the Halls.”

He would like to deck something.

He had no idea what the “flip” reference was, but assumed these must be some of her houseguests. A Hispanic man with a ponytail, a baby-faced stud with the body of an extreme athlete, and an Italian- or Greek-looking guy who probably posed for statues on the side.

Shiiit!

Wendy met them halfway, giving each a warm hug of greeting. He couldn’t help but overhear their conversation from several feet away, even though the diners and wait staff resumed their business, only half eavesdropping.