Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan
was it possible that his presence at Christmas upset her?
Luke and Trent were talking about their families and the threat of the rising drug problems. They both vowed to risk their lives to save their loved ones.
Scott slid his phone back into his pocket.
He knew, without a doubt, he would put his life on the line for Isabelle. But suddenly, he wondered if she had ever felt that strongly about him.
ISABELLE WIPED THE sweat from her forehead with her sleeve as she hoisted the stack of Christmas plates out of the cupboard in the storage room. After steadying herself, she placed the stack on the counter below and climbed down the ladder. When her mother had designed this storage area, Isabelle had praised her for it. She hadn’t realized that she’d be just about the only family member using this room.
It was always this way on holidays. Isabelle’s family talked for months about these big gatherings, the food they’d buy at the deli, the bakery, the butcher—nearly all premade since her mother, Connie, didn’t have time or the desire to cook for everyone. Neither did Sadie or Violet. All three boys were excellent at ordering takeout. Isabelle was the only one in the family whose culinary skills were self-taught. She was no gourmet, but she could get by. But she drew the line at preparing a feast when no one else seemed willing to lift a finger.
The food wasn’t the problem. Connie ordered turkey, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole from the grocery store. Pumpkin pies came from the bakery. Sadie made stuffing out of a box on top of the stove. Gravy came from a jar and was heated in the microwave.
But as had been the case for nearly all their lives, everyone left the rest of the details up to Isabelle. Today, she’d arrived at her mother’s house to find that not only had the table not been set, but the linens for it hadn’t even been laundered.
Isabelle felt like she was ten years old again, when all the household responsibilities and childcare had fallen on her shoulders.
That was the year her father had dropped dead at the age of thirty-six from a heart attack. The doctors told her mother that he’d had an undetected congenital heart condition. Isabelle had helped her mother dress the younger kids for the funeral. She remembered half the town showing up at their little house off Main Street where there was barely enough room for all of them, let alone guests. Her mother’s friends brought food enough to feed them for weeks.
Within a week, Connie had applied for a position as a receptionist at an architect’s firm. A few months later she bought a used drafting table to tinker with blueprints in the evenings. A few months after that she signed up for night classes at Purdue University. By the time Isabelle was thirteen, Connie’s talent and training had landed her a job as an apprentice architect. Nineteen years after the sudden death of her husband, Connie was now a partner in the firm and had helped finance portions of each of her children’s postsecondary education.
Yet this had come at a cost. Isabelle had become the housekeeper, the nanny, the errand girl, the stand-in parent and all-around Cinderella to her younger siblings. Though Connie often expressed her gratitude for all that Isabelle had done during those years, she’d also told Isabelle that she’d provided her with invaluable preparation for adult life.
Isabelle wished she’d been a little less ready for adulthood, with more happy memories under her belt. Instead, she had spent her teen years worried about her mother working so many hours. Overwhelming herself with extra design classes instead of enjoying summer picnics at the beach. If Isabelle had missed out on a great deal of fun, Connie had had even less.
Isabelle pulled the red tablecloth out of the dryer and brought it up to the dining room. Earlier, she’d clipped an armload of fir, spruce, cedar and pine branches outside. Once she’d spread out the tablecloth, she arranged the pines in the center along with silver and gold beads, red votive candles and shiny red balls. She scattered a bag of cranberries along the length of the table then made the place settings.
From the den, she could hear her brothers shouting as their football team executed another touchdown. They clinked their beer bottles together and high-fived each other.
“It’s beautiful, Isabelle,” Connie said as she hauled a precooked glazed honey ham out of the stainless steel convection oven. It only needed to be warmed. Ironically, when Connie designed this house five years ago, after finding a secluded three acres surrounded by forest and fruit trees, she’d installed a massive, high-tech, cook’s dream of a kitchen.
The house was one story, with red barn siding. Isabelle loved the glass walls that surrounded this section of the house, which contained the kitchen, living and dining areas; the vaulted wood ceilings and three-sixty-degree view made her feel like they were living outside. The only paintings were Isabelle’s water nymphs: one above the fireplace on the south wall and one above the built-in redwood buffet on the north wall.
Connie knew her craft well.
“Thanks.” Her gaze veered to the den. “You’d think just once somebody could help me. Volunteer at least.”
“C’mon, let them be,” Violet said, opening a can of jellied cranberry sauce. Violet was twenty-three and would be graduating in June from the University Police Academy in Bloomington. “They never get to all be together anymore. Football is a male bonding thing.”
“I like football as much as anyone. What if I wanted to watch the game and not help with the food, set the table, do the laundry...”
“Oh, Isabelle.” Sadie walked into the kitchen. She was wearing a University of Notre Dame sweatshirt, her dark hair in a ponytail. Sadie went straight to the stuffing that Violet was making and pinched a taste. “Yum.”
Isabelle poured heavy cream into a bowl and turned on the mixer. “And where have you been all day? You could have been helping, as well.”
Sadie’s green eyes matched Isabelle’s spark and brilliance. Isabelle always had a hard time staying mad at Sadie.
“I was with a client,” she replied haughtily.
“What, how? You only just started law school,” Isabelle countered.
Sadie tilted her chin defiantly. “I have an internship already. A prestigious Chicago firm. Actually, the job doesn’t start until next semester, but I’ll be working on real cases.”
Isabelle looked at her mother. “Seriously?”
“Dylan arranged it. Apparently, he has a lot of connections. He’s so proud of Sadie getting into Notre Dame,” Connie gushed. She put her arm around Sadie’s shoulders and scrunched her to her chest. “We all are.”
“This is great news!” Isabelle was thrilled for her younger sister. There was no question. Sadie was smart and quick and honest. She would do well as a lawyer. She threw her arms around Sadie and gave her long hug. “They must have you on a very fast track.”
“I put me on a fast track. That’s why I asked Dylan to help. If all goes well, I can test out of more classes and finish up law school sooner than the three years I’d planned.”
Then Sadie leaned over and whispered, “I’ll save Mom a bundle. Then I’ll pay her back for everything.” She winked.
“Sadie, you are the best,” Isabelle said. Though her mother’s job paid well and Connie had garnered a stellar reputation throughout the Midwest for her design and structures, paying tuition for her children had strained her bank account. Her brothers had already paid Connie back, and Isabelle had never borrowed from her, even when she’d taken art courses at universities across the region. Still, Isabelle was in awe of her mother’s generosity, the way she always just “made it work.”
And as much as Isabelle admonished her siblings for not helping with chores, she wanted the best for them. She wanted them to succeed. Though she sometimes wished her childhood had been different, she also believed