For a second he thought of Eli’s doctor, Acacia Lambert. She, like Leanna, had auburn hair and a wide mouth, but that was where the resemblance faded. Where Leanna had blue eyes, the doc’s were closer to green and sparked with intelligence.
He wondered about her, what she was doing on Thanksgiving and, as he drove the quarter mile to the Zukovs’ place, had the unlikely pang that he wanted to spend more time with her.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, turning off the plowed road and onto the rutted lane, where several cars had already parked around the Zukovs’ garage and pump house.
“What?” Eli asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking,” he covered up, nosing the truck into a space beneath a winter apple tree where clusters of red fruit were visible as they dangled on leafless, snow-covered branches.
“About what?”
“About what you’re gonna want for Christmas this year.”
“You said ‘Ridiculous,’ ” his son charged.
Trace cut the engine. “That I did, because I imagined you wanted a mountain bike.”
“Sweet!” Eli said, then paused and skewered his father with his concerned gaze. “Why would that be ridiculous?”
“Because you’re wearing a cast, kiddo!” He rumpled his son’s already unruly hair. “How dumb would that be to put you on a bike when you already have a broken arm?”
“I’ll be fixed by then!” Eli said, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for the handle of the door. He hopped down to the snowy ground and was racing to the front porch before Trace could climb out of the truck.
The boy’s exuberance was infectious, and Trace felt only a smidgen of guilt for lying to his son. But he didn’t want to admit the cold, hard truth to Eli. Nor did he really want to think it himself.
But the fact was, he’d been having trouble pushing Acacia Lambert out of his mind.
And that spelled trouble, plain and simple.
The kind of trouble he didn’t need.
CHAPTER 11
Kacey didn’t like the place.
No matter how many “stars” or “diamonds,” or whatever the ranking was as far as retirement homes went, Rolling Hills just wasn’t her idea of “independent” living. But it didn’t matter. Her mother loved it here in this lavish, hundred-year-old hotel that had been converted into individual apartments. Her mother’s place, a two-bedroom unit on the uppermost floor, had an incredible view of the rooftops of Helena and, farther away, on the horizon, the mountains.
There was a pool and spa, exercise room, and car service, if one preferred not to drive their own vehicle, though each unit came with one parking spot in an underground garage.
The building was spacious, the amenities top-notch, and still, when Kacey walked through the broad double doors and signed in at the reception desk, she felt a pang of sadness for the home she’d once shared with her parents, a little bungalow with a big yard.
That’s what it is, she decided. There was nothing wrong with Rolling Hills other than it wasn’t the place she’d grown up and this was the place where her father, after suffering a stroke, had died.
“She’ll be right down,” the receptionist, a petite woman with narrow reading glasses and lips the color of cranberries, advised Kacey. “If you want to take a seat . . .” She waved a hand toward a grouping of oversized chairs and a love seat near a stone fireplace that rose two full stories. Kacey crossed the broad foyer and stood before the glass-covered grate, where warmth radiated to the back of her legs.
For the past three years, ever since her divorce, Kacey had spent her Thanksgivings here, and she couldn’t help feeling a bit of nostalgia. Don’t go romanticizing your childhood. You know better . . . .
Maribelle, her mother, when invited to Kacey’s, had steadfastly refused, insisting Kacey make the trip to Helena instead.
“You must come here,” she’d intoned. “Chef Mitchell is a god when it comes to the menu, and neither one of us will have to spend hours cooking and cleaning. Besides, it’s just too much for me to get away.”
That had been a bald-faced lie. Why her mother wanted to play the age card when she was on the south side of seventy was beyond Kacey. Maribelle Collins had more energy than a lot of women half her age, and, for the most part, she was sharp as a tack. Kacey believed her mother was a bit of a queen bee at Rolling Hills Senior Estates and didn’t want to leave her position for a second.
But Kacey had decided making the trip would be simpler than insisting Maribelle come her direction.
“There you are, darling!” Her mother’s voice rang out across the grand foyer. Kacey snapped out of her reverie to spy her mother, shimmering in a silver dress and high heels, hurrying toward her.
Tall, thin, and striking, Maribelle smiled widely and clasped both her daughter’s hands as they met, which surprised Kacey as the last time she’d seen her, all she did was frown and complain. At sixty-five, she was spry and youthful, dressed as if she were going shopping on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Her hair was white, thick, and cut in a soft pageboy; her eyes were a sparkling blue behind fashionable glasses; her chin as strong as it ever was. “I’ve been so looking forward to this. Come, come!” She was already leading Kacey to the dining room near the back of the building. Garlands of pine boughs had been draped around the windows. White lights winked from beneath the long needles, while another fire burned brightly and the tables had been covered in white cloths and decorated with small poinsettias in red and white. A few other residents were scattered around the room, seated at tables, some as couples, a trio of friends, and a couple singles.