Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,46
of her boys. Unlike Bailey, who hadn’t been allowed near a stove, or “dangerous” household chemicals and appliances. After leaving home, she’d taught herself everything she needed to know from reading books.
“Can-Do Casserole sounds so Grady.” Laughing, she pointed at the restaurant across from them. “Good Earth Café. Hopefully, we’ll find something more palatable.”
The refrigerator inside the café was loaded with treasure. Bailey stuffed bags with sourdough rolls, sliced cheddar, a big, moist chunk of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting for herself, and a generous piece of Con’s favorite apple pie. Con used his Swiss Army Knife to coax open a vending machine. If he wasn’t such a great cop, he could have a stellar career as a cat burglar. Vegetable soup, cocoa and coffee were still warm inside the insulated compartments.
Trying not to feel like a looter as they hurried back toward Outdoor Outfitters, Bailey mentally calculated the cost of the food to add to her notebook tally. She shifted her bag for better balance. “I love hearing about your adventures growing up. Your rowdy, dominantly male household was so different from mine.”
“Life with your mom and Nanny Nightmare was suffocating, huh?”
Suffocating was the exact word to describe her stilted existence with her mom and the Wagnerian Valkyrie German nanny Ellen Chambers had insisted on hiring to ease the burden of being a single parent. When Bailey had protested she was too old for a live-in baby-sitter, the strict, humor-impaired woman had been dubbed her “tutor.” Bailey had then been force-fed German.
She wrinkled her nose. “Oh yeah. Frau Herrman was about as cuddly as one of those frozen meat patties.” Bailey had endured the dour woman’s stranglehold until she had turned eighteen and determinedly struck out on her own.
Con’s dark eyes warmed with sympathetic golden lights. “I’m sorry you had such a rough time, sweetheart.”
“Hey, compared to kids with real problems, I had nothing to complain about. I was fed, healthy and cared for. Tell me more. When it was your turn to cook, what was your specialty?”
“Guess.”
“Spaghetti and tossed salad with garlic bread?”
“Got it in one.”
He’d cooked spaghetti dinners for her before. Served with Chianti and candlelight, the simple meal had become one of her favorites. The food was even more delicious because Con lovingly prepared it with his own hands. “What about Liam and Aidan?”
“Liam went for the preparation ease and one-pot cleanup of chili dogs. Aidan enjoyed mucking around with ingredients and recipes, and unlike Grady, actually possessed some talent. Other than Mom’s cooking, which can’t be beat, we got our most tasty meals from Aidan. His macaroni-and-cheese isn’t half bad. And he makes a mean meatloaf.”
She longingly pictured the O’Rourke clan gathered around Maureen’s sturdy oak dining set. Teasing and laughter would have accompanied banter about the day’s events over filling, homey foods. As she’d told Con, she had no reason to complain. She’d never gone hungry. However, after Bailey’s dad died, meals at the Chambers’ household became damask and china affairs with menus designed for sophisticated palates. With emphasis on intelligent conversation and using the proper fork.
Ellen Chambers had invested considerable energy into raising Bailey in preparation for what she called “marrying well.” A serious, refined, Armani-clad financier or respected corporate lawyer would do nicely. Blech again. That kind of stiff sounded less appetizing than Grady’s Can-Do Casserole.
Bailey, who’d escaped her rigid, no-nonsense home life through books and make-believe, had always had a thing for gallant knights in shining armor.
Con gestured with his bag. “Here we are.”
He retrieved the packs and blankets from their hiding spots beneath a wooden bench inside the doorway. “Let’s set up camp in one of the big tents in the back. It will be warm, dry and hidden.” He piled the supplies on the bench and indicated for her to do the same. “Safety first. Come with me.”
He strode out to the mall walkway and yanked down a length of fir swag from the balcony railing. He detached a handful of glass ball ornaments from the swag and passed them to her. Then he grabbed another handful and began throwing them to the floor outside the store. The shards tinkled musically over the faux marble. “Start chucking Christmas balls, darlin’.”
She watched him, her brows knit in puzzlement. “You get a sudden, inexplicable urge to commit vandalism?”
“Listen.” He stepped on the shards, and they made a distinct crunching sound under his boot soles. “Early warning system. We can cozy up in a tent in the back, and if anyone