Celebration's Bride. Nancy Thompson Robards

long time, even though the sheriff did a good job of scaring them both.”

      His mom looked tired. Under the kitchen’s fluorescent lights he could see the creases etched into her face. There was a weariness about her that he’d never noticed before.

      “After everything settled down and we had a chance to talk about it calmly, Lucy admitted she had been in way over her head with that boy that night. Apparently, he got a little handsy.” Deena shook her head. “I think it scared her. Like it scared me to death.” Deena was wringing her hands. “Just think of all the things that could’ve happened. I told her nice girls have no business out after midnight. That’s why she has a curfew. Nothing good happens past midnight.”

      Miles winced at the irony of his mom’s words. He half expected her to chuckle and say, “Sorry for the pun. I loved your movie, honey. Even if it was a little too scary for my taste.”

      Obviously, she hadn’t realized what she’d said because she shuddered and gave her head a quick shake as if clearing it of the what if cobwebs.

      “How are things now?” Miles asked instead of agreeing that nothing good had happened since Past Midnight. “Lucy seemed to hop-to when you asked her to set the table.”

      Deena’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Yeah, if you don’t count the preamble of sassiness. Well, she’s not allowed to date or wear makeup until she turns sixteen. Unless we make a special dispensation like we’re doing this weekend. She’s going to a dance—with an age-appropriate boy, who does not drive. His parents are taking them. And really, she’s been working hard at school and helping me around the house, basically keeping her nose clean and out of trouble. She’s invited her daddy to speak at career day next month. That made him so happy. He’s been working on his speech since the moment she asked him.” His mother sighed again. “She made a mistake. I really want to believe she learned from it. You know what we’ve always said. Only new mistakes.” Miles felt his father’s presence before he heard him enter the room. Because when he turned around, Miles Mercer III was standing in the threshold between the family room and the office where he’d been holed up since Miles had arrived. He was regarding his son with a look that fell somewhere between neutral nonchalance and general irritation.

      That’s why Miles Mercer IV was shocked as hell when his father walked over, extended a hand and said, “It’s been a long time.”

      Chapter Four

      Deena Mercer had always maintained that Miles and his father were too much alike and that’s why they clashed in such an explosive way. However, Miles couldn’t stand the thought of being as stubborn and jaded as his old man. So, most of his life he had taken great pains to go the opposite direction.

      That’s why they clashed. Because he wanted to be nothing like his father. Then again, “clashing” hinted that two people were close enough to careen off each other. Their problem resembled something closer to being drawn and quartered.

      While last night’s dinner had started out amicably enough with the handshake, his father had seized every opportunity to land a passive-aggressive verbal punch in Miles’s direction.

      For his mother’s sake, Miles didn’t take the bait. He ignored his dad’s caustic remarks about Hollywood’s fruits and nuts. When his father asked him when he was he going to settle down and get a real job, Miles had laughed it off. He’d also let it roll right off his back when his dad threw the barb about Miles’s last two movies being flops.

      “Can’t win ’em all.” Miles had shrugged it off, refusing to be goaded into a verbal altercation. He also decided there was no way in hell that he would admit to his father that he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of making horror films for the rest of his life. He was restless and discontent and looking for his next project­—preferably something in another genre. That’s why he was happy to have this breather working on Catering to Dallas.