Keeping Christmas. Marisa Carroll

he said bluntly. He yanked on the lights again. The tangle came loose and he started back up the ladder to the peak of the roof.

       “That’s when your wife and child were killed?”

       “Yes,” he said. The word was scarcely more than a growl.

       “Was your child a boy or a girl?” She wasn’t going to let him alone until she had the information she wanted, it seemed. He remained silent for a long moment, hooking the lights with mechanical efficiency, searching his heart for any weak spots in his defenses before he spoke again.

       “A boy.”

       “How old?” Her voice was soft, caring, but he refused to hear anything but the prying words.

       “Eighteen months.”

       “Near Kyle’s age,” she whispered, but he heard her, anyway.

       “Yes.”

       “His name was Kent Jacob.” It was a combination of Katherine’s father’s name and his own. He was surprised he’d been able to say it out loud.

       “How did it happen?” She passed him another loop of lights and he started methodically stringing them down the far side of the roof peak, as far as he could reach.

       He considered telling her to mind her own business but somehow he knew it would do no good. Katie X was nothing if not single-minded.

       “It was a freak accident,” he mumbled, tightening a green bulb that had come loose in its socket with more force than necessary. “They were sitting in the car, in our driveway, waiting for it to stop raining when lightning struck a tree next door. Half the damn tree came down on top of the car. They were both killed instantly.”

       “I’m sorry,” Katie said, so softly he could barely hear her.

       “Being sorry doesn’t help.” He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He never wanted to talk about it.

       “My husband died very suddenly, too,” she went on, ignoring his bad manners. “A little less than a year ago. On Monday he said he didn’t feel well. On Wednesday he collapsed. On Friday he was dead.” She sounded as unbelieving as he had been when he learned of what had happened to his wife and son. “It was pneumonia. Some kind of virulent strain.”

       “No one dies of pneumonia anymore.”

       “Michael did. And now Kyle and I are all alone.”

       “Except for whoever you’re running away from.” He glared down at her, wanting to make her suffer a little in return for making him answer her questions.

       “We’re not running away from anyone,” she said so quickly he knew immediately she was lying. The color drained from her face, leaving two round spots on her cheeks and her nose bright red. She looked as if he’d hit her in the stomach with his fist. He felt just as lousy as if he had.

       “We’re not running away,” she repeated, staring up at him with frightened, defiant eyes. Brown eyes, the color of spice or café au lait, rimmed with long, sooty lashes. What was the old cliché about eyes like that? Bedroom eyes. Jacob crushed the thought with a silent curse.