The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(48)

“All Toby,” Iz told her.

“Shoowee,” Deanna replied.

Totally winding up to give me crap.

And then giving me crap.

“Dee-girl,” Charlie rumbled his warning.

“What?” she asked her husband.

He knew better than to fight it.

So he sighed.

Deanna looked to me. “Told you that storm would blow.”

I rolled my eyes.

“And it blew all over a street in Matlock,” she concluded.

“I have a feeling something also blew at Toby’s house today,” my good girl, straight-laced Iz put in on a hushed whisper.

They burst out laughing.

“Somebody kill me,” I muttered.

Izzy’s laugh turned to giggling.

Deanna grinned at me.

Charlie let out another sigh.

“I’ll arrange the tree skirt,” Margot declared.

“Woman, you get down there, you’ll never get up,” Dave said, and the temperature of the warm and cozy family room, with it’s burgeoning Christmas cheer and the fire in the fireplace that Toby had lit while everyone was arriving, dropped fifteen degrees when Margot shot Dave a glare.

“You keep running that mouth, David, you’ll be down in a way you’ll never get up either.”

It was hard, but I didn’t even let out a snort in fighting back my laugh.

“Dodo!”

My attention went back to Toby just in time to see him swinging my son into his arms.

I was a tough broad most of the time.

But that?

Every time.

Serious melt.

“Johnny, Margot gets that skirt down, will you light it up? I wanna see Brooks when it goes,” Toby said to Johnny.

“Sure, brother,” Johnny muttered, hunkering down to help Margot with the skirt.

It was then, I quit watching Toby holding my son close to his chest.

It was then, I glanced around.

Johnny and Margot arranging the tree skirt.

Tissue and newspaper all over the floor from unwrapping the ornaments.

Dave sitting on the arm of Izzy’s loveseat, monitoring the tree action.

Charlie in the couch next to Deanna, a beer to his thigh, a small smile on his lips, wisely keeping silent.

Deanna on the couch, and me and Iz cross-legged on the floor, ornaments all around.

Dapper Dan snuffling through the tissue and newspaper.

A fire crackling.

Roasting chicken filling the air.

Christmas music on low coming from the Bluetooth speaker Johnny and Izzy had brought over.

I looked to my sister, seeing her head tipped back and she was saying something to Charlie I wasn’t paying attention to.

She was getting married to the love of her life in August, plans were in full swing, her face was aglow with happiness, along with the fact that nothing on this earth, absolutely nothing, now not even me, weighed her down.

But Charlie was giving her away.

Because Mom was gone and Dad was barely even a memory.

This was her first Christmas with Johnny. They’d already decorated their house and tree, by themselves, as it should be.

But we’d never had this, all of this, not with each other, definitely not when Mom was alive.

There were no cheese balls.

What there had been was always the saddest sack tree on the lot, because Mom usually got it for nothing, or at the very least it was a steal.

There was no pumpkin chiffon pie or loving mature couple bickering. No cheap as hell because they were secondhand, but still beautiful garlands twinkling on the hearth and doorways because we never had a hearth and sometimes we didn’t have doorways.

My head turned, and I looked out the window beyond the tree.

I could see the golden-red glow of Toby’s lights filling the night, pushing out the moonlight.

“Babe.”

I stared at that light, feeling suddenly empty.

Mom would love Johnny.

But she’d adore Toby.

Her and me, we liked the bad boys. We were attracted to the edge.

Most of all, right then, she’d be dancing with Brooks in her arms, or flirting with Charlie or wise-cracking with Dave, or clucking with Margot out of sheer female camaraderie.

And she’d be beside herself with joy that these were the people around us and these were the lives that her girls were leading.

But she’d died before my son was even on this earth.

She’d never touched him.

She’d never even seen him.

“Baby.”

My body twitched, and my gaze went to Toby who was crouched down beside me.

“Mama,” Brooklyn said, reaching to me, then thinking better of it and latching on to Toby’s neck.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Mom would be happy.”

“Baby,” he whispered, lifting a hand to my jaw and gliding his thumb along my cheek.

“I’m okay,” I told him. “It happens. Usually when it’s me who’s happy. Just wish I could share it with her.”

He gave me a gentle smile.

Then he bent forward and touched his lips to my forehead.

When he pulled away, Brooks shouted, “Mama! Dodo!”

Who said toddlers didn’t cogitate?

I grinned at my son.

Toby straightened to his feet and moved away.