Page 25 of Their Stormy Reunion

“I said, I like this. It feels like old times.”

I knelt up, blinking against the sun. The words caught me off-guard. For a second, I let myself believe her, even as something inside me braced for the inevitable. “I agree. It’s a beautiful day to be working in the garden.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve felt up to this. Seeing your father smile gave me the motivation. Inviting Harry, Mo, and Skip over was a good idea on your part.”

My shoulders tensed. Compliments from her were rare and often came with strings. I waited, like a rabbit sensing the hawk.

“That’s good,” I mumbled, my trowel digging into the soil.

“But you shouldn’t have made that fancy spinach dip. I told you to just melt the Velveeta. You should’ve listened to me.”

There it was. The put-down. I sighed, swallowing the urge to point out that the spinach dip had been nearly gone before we even stepped outside. Why bother? Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

“Michael was over while you were gone.”

That got my attention. My hands stilled. “He was?”

“Yes,” she said, brushing dirt off her dungarees. “He had a lot of complimentary things to say about the job you do in Chicago. Sounds like you’re important.”

I didn’t look up, just yanked a stubborn weed from its roots. What was I supposed to say to that?

“Michael showed us an article about you in some fancy magazine—your picture and everything. It was a nice picture, even with that bright red lipstick.”

“They had a makeup artist, Mom.” What the hell, why was I trying to defend myself? I was a grown-ass woman, for fuck’s sake.

She dusted off her hands and moved closer, sidling into my space even as I shifted away. “I meant it, Fallon. It was a nice picture.”

I kept my focus on the weeds, biting back a retort.

“What made you think to invite your dad’s friends over?” she asked, her tone softening.

“I read up on it. It was one of the suggestions I found.”

“What other suggestions were there?”

I glanced sideways, startled by the genuine interest in her eyes. She rarely lingered on anything I had to say. “Some easy hobbies he could do sitting down or in bed,” I said, a grin tugging at my lips. “Like knitting or building model airplanes.”

I nearly fell over when she giggled—a sound I hadn’t heard in years. It caught me so off-guard, I stared.

“What? You don’t think I can laugh?” she asked, still smiling.

“It’s just been a while.”

“You’re right,” she admitted. “It has. I laughed more when you lived here.”

“You mean when I lived here and Michael came over,” I corrected, my tone flat.

She frowned, sitting back on her heels. “You make it sound like I liked him better than I liked you.”

“That’s because you did. You do.”

Her expression grew sharp, but not unkind. “Fallon Jane, I never liked Michael better than you. I love you. You’re my daughter. If I seemed glad to see him, it’s because you were happy when he was around.”

“And because Dad was happy,” I mumbled.

Her gaze pinned me, steady and unyielding. “We’re not talking about your dad. We’re talking about me. I’ve always liked Michael Rankin, but I love you. You’re my daughter, Fallon. That’s never changed.”

I managed not to roll my eyes, but my skepticism must have been written all over my face.