it,” she shot back, sniffling into the tissue she had wadded into her glove. “If I didn’t volunteer, you really would be up on this thing all night.” She looped a coil of lights in her hand, grabbed the sides of the ladder and leaned back, the better to glare up at him. “I suppose you expect your seventy-five-year-old aunt to come crawling up here and be your gofer.”
“Hey,” Janet yelped from the ground. “I’m not seventy-five. Hazel is. I’m seventy-two.”
“I was speaking in round figures,” Katie said, swiveling her head to shower one of her glittering, disarming smiles down on his aunt. Jacob felt a small, unwelcome twinge of regret that she wasn’t going to be smiling when she looked up at him again. Her smiles were really marvelous, something to behold.
“Not round enough,” Janet responded and laughed. Katie laughed, too. Her laugh was even more infectious than her smile. When she laughed she reminded him the least of Katherine. His wife had been a passionate and caring woman, but her emotions were always under control. Katie X—he’d taken to calling her that in his thoughts—wore all her emotions on her sleeve.
“I was trying to make a point,” Katie said, hooking her arm around the rung of the ladder in front to feed Jacob another few feet of lights that he looped through hooks set permanently under the eaves of the house.
“You succeeded.” Jacob tugged hard enough to cause the fragile colored-glass bulbs to bang together dangerously.
“You have no sense of humor,” Katie said. Provocatively? He couldn’t be sure. She tilted her head, watching him, challenging him. The lights were tangled just below his reach. Janet had stepped away from the base of the ladder to answer an urgent plea for help from the twins. He was alone, twenty-five feet in the air, with Katie X. He reached down for the string of lights just as she lifted them toward him. Their gloves hands met, but it was as if the barrier of cloth didn’t exist. He felt a jolt of sensation go through him as strong and as real as if the Christmas lights had shorted out in his hands.
“I lost my sense of humor and everything else three and a half years ago,” 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.
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