The sharp angle of his cheekbones looked more pronounced and a dark smudge rimmed his eyes as though he’d been working harder than ever. His gaze met hers. Not a hint of a smile touched his mouth.
Nothing had changed.
Mitch waved an arm toward the furniture. “Have a seat.”
Her parents settled on the couch. Jaye expected them to pull out their smart phones and start working, but they looked around in quiet curiosity.
A quick visual check of the room found nothing lacking. Granted, Jaye was extremely biased, but Mitch’s home was large for a one-story ranch. The living room looked terrific—they’d given away Mitch’s old couch and filled the space with Jaye’s sofa and chairs. The warm neutral color on the walls turned a cinnamon hue in the evening. She had purchased a couple of lighted pedestals to display some of Mitch’s glass sculptures and he insisted on hanging her photographs on the wall. The room flickered with firelight from the hearth.
“You have a beautiful home,” her mother said, her dark eyes drawn to the built-in shelving flanking the fireplace. She pointed to a clay sculpture. “Did you make that, Mitch?”
“Yes. I wanted to remember what Jaye looked like asleep on my couch. The night I found her that way, she had no idea I was crazy about her.”
In open-mouthed amazement Jaye stared, baffled he would talk to her parents after they’d rejected him so cruelly. He acted like he wanted them around, which was the polar opposite of how she felt. She itched to walk out of the room but didn’t dare leave Mitch alone with the two people who’d made their disapproval of him so obvious.
A warm hand clasped hers, and Mitch led her to the love seat perpendicular to the couch. Jaye sat beside him and released the warm, reassuring weight of his palm.
Her mother engaged in small talk, a skill honed to perfection after years of hosting fundraisers and cocktail parties. “How long have you lived here?”
“About ten years. The house needed a lot of work, but the property stretches for thirty acres toward the base of the mountain. We see fox, deer, and small game in our back yard.” He nudged Jaye. “Remember the bear?”
She wished the bear would amble into the room right now so she’d have the perfect excuse to run away screaming.
“I can’t believe your home needed much work.” Her mother’s discerning eye admired the crown molding around the room. “Everything looks brand new.”
“I’ve remodeled most of the interior. Now I’m waiting to see what Jaye wants to add so this place feels like hers, too.” Mitch turned to her father. “Too bad you didn’t get here for the last quarter of the game. The Bills scored three touchdowns in the space of seven minutes.”
Jaye couldn’t believe Mitch’s staggering generosity. He was willing to make amends even after her father rejected him so heartlessly.
Her father’s stoic face transformed into a curious frown. “Who won?”
“The Bears. Thirty-one to twenty-eight.”
“Close game. Sorry I missed it.” Simon leaned his forearms on his thighs and cleared his throat. “You played middle linebacker at Alfred University, didn’t you?”
Mitch nodded. “I was recruited to play safety but coach moved me to linebacker after our starter wrenched his knee.”
“I heard you were an All-American,” her father offered.
“Who told you?” Jaye crossed her arms, knowing full well her father knew everything about Mitch’s college days. A detailed background check would’ve provided the name of his fraternity, how much weight he could bench press, and what size jock he wore. “Didn’t you get most of your information from a private investigator? Or did you talk with Mitch’s coach? How deep did you dig when you searched for dirt about my husband?”
Mitch gave her thigh a gentle squeeze. “Your father had no choice but to run a background check. He had no idea who I was.”
Simon stared at the lonely chicken wing sitting on a platter. “I asked Ted Wingate to help.”
“Of course. Ted is the best in the business for digging up dirt on felons and psychopaths.” Jaye glared at her father, a tightness growing in her chest. “Who better to investigate the man I married?”
“I had to know who we were dealing with.”
“Why didn’t you have a real conversation with Mitch?” Sickened by her father’s actions, Jaye stood. “No matter how many report cards, credit reports, and background checks you studied, you still have no idea who I married.”
Simon bowed his head. “I know he’s a gifted artist who won a number of prestigious awards.”
“You might be able to list every contest he won, but you have no idea Mitch isn’t the type to crow about his achievements.” Jaye snatched two empty glasses off the table and carried them into the kitchen.
Now that no wall blocked off the space, she saw her mother rise with characteristic grace, lift the mostly-empty platter, and approach. Jaye rinsed out the glasses, making no effort to fill the awkward silence. Why bother? Nothing would shake her mother’s loyalty to her father.
Cecilia placed the dish on the counter with care and offered a small smile. “You’re growing out your hair.”
“Yes. I’m no longer willing to play the part of a son.” Her dry remark must’ve hit a nerve, because a ruddy streak stained her mother’s perfect cheekbones like someone had gone a little crazy with a blush brush.
“You look pretty. Then again, you always do.” Cecelia plucked the dishtowel off the counter, smoothing her hands across the crisp cotton. “I—I wanted to thank you for the gifts.”
Jaye eyed her mother. “What gifts?”
“The box of stemware you mailed at Thanksgiving. You also sent a beautiful glass pitcher at Christmas.”
Jaye glanced across the
