“I like American food,” Brad muttered.
“Like spaghetti?” his sister asked sarcastically, nodding toward Brad’s empty plate.
He flushed and ducked his head again.
A hint of apology in her expression, Sharon turned to Mac again. “Did you ever live in Puerto Rico?”
“No. I visited there once, but I was born and raised in Savannah.”
“Which explains the Southern accent,” she teased lightly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Well enough to make myself understood. I had to learn it pretty much on my own. My mother wanted English to be my primary language.”
Sharon tried again to pull her brother into the conversation. “Brad’s taking Spanish in school.”
“Only because I’ve got no choice,” Brad said immediately. “They won’t let us graduate without two years of a foreign language. Don’t see the purpose in it, myself. English is the only language I need to know.”
Sharon’s little brother was in danger of becoming a bigot, Mac mused, remembering some of the slurs he’d heard muttered behind him the evening he’d encountered Brad and his friends outside the arcade. Typical gang mentality. Band together against suspected outsiders. Create an image of superiority by perceiving and treating others as inferiors. Someone needed to get this kid away from that crowd before he got into trouble.
Not that it was any of his business, of course.
“I made brownies for dessert,” Sharon said, smoothly changing the subject. “I hope you aren’t allergic to chocolate, Mac.”
“I have no problems at all with chocolate.”
“Can I take mine up to my room? I want to read my new sports magazine.”
Sharon gave Brad’s request a moment of consideration. “We do have company.”
“Don’t let me keep you from your magazine,” Mac said with a slight shrug.
“Okay, Sharon?”
She gave in. “I suppose it’s all right.”
The boy practically bolted upstairs.
Sharon looked contritely at Mac. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what gets into him when he’s around you. I guess you intimidate him, for some reason.”
Mac, of course, knew exactly why Brad still resented him. The kid hadn’t gotten over being embarrassed in front of his friends. But he was just going to have to get over it. Mac wasn’t going to disappear—not until he was good and ready, anyway.
“Let me help you with the dishes,” he said, reaching for his empty plate.
“Oh, that’s not—”
“Sharon,” he cut in firmly. “This is the second time you’ve fed me. Let me help.”
She smiled and caved. “If you insist.”
Since Sharon admitted to being the clean-as-she-cooked type, it didn’t take long to load the dishwasher and straighten the kitchen. By the time they’d finished, a fresh pot of coffee had brewed. They carried their cups and plates of pecan brownies into the living room. They’d talked while they worked. Mac was surprised about how easily he conversed with Sharon. He usually found it harder to make small talk. But now he knew it was time to get down to the real reason he was here—or at least that’s what he told himself—to find out more about the McBrides.
“Trevor McBride seems like an interesting guy,” he said, keeping his tone light as he held his coffee cup and reached for a brownie. “He looks a lot like Trent, but I got the impression when he visited the site this afternoon that they’re not much alike on the whole.”
“Not a lot,” Sharon agreed from the chair she’d chosen near the couch where Mac had settled. “I always thought of Trevor as the more grounded brother. Like their older sister, Tara, he excelled in school—valedictorian, class president, that sort of thing. No one was surprised when he followed in his father’s footsteps and went East to law school. He made quite a name for himself in Washington, D.C., before moving back here to raise his children after his wife died so tragically young.”