Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,37
pain is still fresh.
I reach out and squeeze her slender fingers. It doesn’t escape my notice that she’s still wearing a slim gold wedding band. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Jamison.”
Teary-eyed, she gives me a grateful smile. “Call me Ingrid, please. And thank you, Ian. I appreciate your kind words very much.” She squeezes my hand back. “Would you like to help me make some chocolate chip cookies for you and Tyler to take home with you?”
“I’d love that.”
“So would I. You know, when Tyler was in high school, I always hoped he’d bring home someone special for me to do things with. Someone to go shopping with, someone to bake cookies with. But that never happened. I guess he just wasn’t ready.”
While Ingrid gets two mixing bowls down from the cupboard and grabs a cannister of flour, she says to me, “Would you mind getting the butter and eggs from the fridge?”
Then she opens a cupboard drawer and pulls out two aprons, handing me one and slipping the other over her head.
I’m awed by the way this woman has so graciously welcomed me into her life. “You’re okay with me?” I ask her. Because I really need to know. “With Tyler and me?”
She gives me a curious look. “Of course, dear. Why wouldn’t I be? You make my son happy, and that’s all that matters.”
I feel myself choking up. “It is.”
She starts adding the dry ingredients to a large bowl. “Tyler’s father and I suspected he was gay by the time he was a young teenager. He never really paid any serious attention to girls, not like his friends did. His friends would go on and on about this girl or that, but he never did. Later in high school, he started dating girls. His dad and I assumed we must have been wrong about him. But he never stayed with one girl for long. And he never brought anyone home.” She smiles as she reaches out to brush my hair back from my forehead. “Not until you.”
About the time we slide the first tray of cookies into the oven, there’s a knock at the door.
A moment later, we hear a female voice call out. “Mom? It’s me.”
Ingrid’s eyes light up. “Beth! We’re in the kitchen, sweetheart.”
Beth McIntyre—Tyler’s much younger sister—comes strolling into the kitchen, her one-year-old, blond-haired baby boy perched on her hip, despite the fact that she’s seven months pregnant.
Right behind her is Sam who, in addition to being her full-time bodyguard, is most likely her best friend in the world.
“Hey, Ian.” Sam offers me a fist bump. “Good to see you again.”
When Luke catches sight of his grandmother, he squeals as he reaches for her. Ingrid wipes her hands on a kitchen towel before taking the baby from her daughter.
“Hi, Ian,” Beth says as she gives me a hug. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“What brings you here, dear?” Ingrid asks her.
“Tyler texted to let me know that he and Ian would be stopping by your place this afternoon. I didn’t want to miss out on a chance to visit with my family, so here we are.”
“Did Shane come, too?”
“Yes. He’s outside talking to Tyler.”
Then we hear another knock on the door.
“Come in!” Ingrid calls.
A moment later, a mountain of a man walks into the kitchen, his broad shoulders practically filling the doorway. He’s big—not just tall, but also muscular. This must be Joe Rucker, the retired heavyweight boxer who is now Beth’s driver. His buzzed cut white hair and trim white beard contrast dramatically with his brown skin and dark eyes.
Ingrid’s eyes widen and her cheeks flush. “Joe.” She’s speechless for a second before her impeccable manners kick in. “How lovely to see you. Welcome.”
“Hello, Miss Ingrid,” he says, in a deep southern drawl. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“No, of course not. It looks like today is my lucky day, with my family and so many friends stopping by.”
Sam helps himself to a slice of the iced lemon bread. Then he takes Luke, who’s jabbering eagerly as he points at the back door. “I’ll take the little guy out back to see the ducks.”
“Can I get either of you anything to drink?” Ingrid says to her daughter and the chauffeur, who’s standing awkwardly in her tiny kitchen. With his hands stuffed into his pockets, he looks uncomfortable and a bit out of place.
“I’ll get myself some lemonade, Mom,” Beth says as she retrieves a glass from the cupboard.