The Promise of Christmas. Tara Quinn Taylor

he’s left it to…to historic car research, we’ll all support his choice.”

      Clara patted Leslie’s thigh under the table, reaching for her daughter’s hand. “She’s right,” Clara added.

      Kip nodded.

      “He didn’t leave his assets—and they were considerable, by the way—to historic car research.”

      Leslie waited, honestly unconcerned with anything but enduring this for her mother’s sake and getting out of there, as soon as she could. She’d used an antique gold clip to pull her hair back, but wished she’d let it hang free to curtain her face.

      “He didn’t leave them to any of you, either.”

      “Calhoun felt the weight of responsibility for all he’d been given,” Clara said softly. “He knew that neither Leslie nor I needed his money. It truly is fine, Jim. I’d just like to know who he chose to help….”

      Let it be meaningful, Leslie thought. Please let his last grand gesture be full of heart and compassion.

      Jim tapped the tips of his fingers together, glancing down again. His gaze, when it met each of theirs in turn, was grave.

      “He left it to his children….”

      Leslie’s skin chilled. Her fingers, sliding from her mother’s, were clammy.

      “His…” Clara’s face was white, pasty-looking beneath makeup that no longer enhanced her skin, her lips thin and pinched.

      Calhoun had children. Leslie’s heart raced, filled with fear, and then settled into an uneasy pace. God, please let them be well-loved. Safe. Protected.

      She’d been all of those things.

      No! Let them be…oh, she didn’t know what. Please, God, let it be okay. If something happened to them, if I could’ve done something…

      “I should’ve known,” she muttered, “should never have stayed away so long.”

      “Your mother was right here in town and she didn’t know….” Jim’s voice seemed to come from far off.

      “It can’t be true,” Clara interrupted, sounding lost. “He would’ve told me. Cal was a loving son. Attentive. He was over for dinner every Sunday, took me to the theater, visited during the week. He would never have kept my grandchildren from me.”

      Jim cleared his throat. “He—”

      “He wasn’t even married!” Clara blurted, rubbing one hand up and down the skirt of her violet suit and pulling at the lapel of her jacket with the other. At seventy, Clara Sanderson was retired, but in her day, she'd been every bit as formidable in the business world as her daughter was now. Where Leslie’s forte was finance, Clara’s had been real estate.

      Leslie took her mother’s hand under the table, as much to still her own jitters as to calm her mother’s.

      “Be that as it may, your son had two children, Mrs. Sanderson,” Jim said, leaning forward as he spoke.

      “And he left them everything,” Kip said, as though trying to sum up what they’d been told and get them out of there. Or at least, that was what Leslie hoped he was doing.

      “Not quite,” Jim said, looking from Kip to Leslie. “He left the two of you something quite valuable, too.”

      Leslie didn’t want anything of Cal’s. She just wanted to get outside, breathe, figure out what to do next.

      “I can’t imagine what that would be,” Kip said, frowning.

      Cal had kids someplace and presumably Jim knew where. She had to find them. Hell, she didn’t even know how old they—

      “He left you the kids,” the attorney’s voice was like a loud crack in the silence. “To you, Kip, he left guardianship of his five-year-old son, Jonathan. And Leslie, he asked that you take two-year-old Kayla.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS ALL TOO incredible to believe. She was a mother. A mother! No, she wasn’t. She could be a guardian. If she chose to accept Calhoun’s final wishes.

      Chose to accept. She couldn’t turn her back on a two-year-old child!

      “I realize that you live in Phoenix, Ms. Sanderson, and expect you might need to get back soon. A temporary order can be issued immediately for you to take the child with you if that’s what you decide.”

      “Hold on.” Kip stood, his slacks a lot more creased than they’d been when he sat down less than twenty minutes before. “Who are these children? Where are they? Where’s their mother? Why haven’t we heard about them until now? Who’s taking care of them? Where do they live?”

      All questions she should have asked. Would have asked if she’d been able to think.

      Jim nodded, glanced at Clara and then directed his answer to Kip, who was standing by the window, gazing back at him through narrowed eyes.

      “A little over seven years ago, Cal met a woman while arguing a case in court. She was the bailiff. The way he explained it to me—just after Kayla was born and he set up a trust for the kids, and changed his will—he’d never met a woman like her. Her name was Abby and he said she made him feel complete in ways he’d never felt before. His actual words, if I remember them correctly—” he glanced at Clara and Leslie before returning his attention to Kip “—was that when he was with her, he felt accepted, forgiven for the parts of himself he wasn’t proud of. He didn’t tell me what he meant by that, what he’d done, or believed he’d done. But he said that with Abby, he felt worthy. Those were his exact words.”

      “That’s ridiculous,” Clara said. “Cal was a wonderful human being, always giving, thinking of others. I told him all the time how much I appreciated him. I heard other people say similar things. He didn’t suffer from feelings of unworthiness….”

      Her mother was breathing heavily, but otherwise she appeared to be taking the news a whole lot better than Leslie was.

      Jim shrugged. “I’m only telling you what he told me.”

      “So why wouldn’t he have told any of us about her?” Kip asked, coming back to his seat at the table.

      “She was…different from him….”

      None of this was making sense to Leslie. “Cal wasn’t a snob,” she said.

      “And he knew we weren’t, either,” Clara added. “We’ve always been an accepting bunch.”

      “Different, how?” Kip asked from over by the window.

      “Abby was African-American.” The shock of Jim’s words shot through Leslie, not because she cared about Abby’s race, but because her brother had always been so careful to behave conventionally. “The kids are biracial.”

      “So?” Clara didn’t even blink. “They’re my grandchildren.”

      She turned to Leslie then, grinning, tears in her eyes, her face pale. “I’m a grandma,” she said.

      “Yes, you are,” Leslie told her, finding a smile for the woman she adored. Clara might not have protected Leslie in all the ways Leslie would’ve liked, but she’d been the best mother she could be. Leslie had never doubted that she was loved. Cared for. Supported.

      “YOU SAID WAS.” Kip hadn’t yet found anything to smile about in the news they’d just been given. He needed facts.

      And a night with a good woman. He didn’t need a five-year-old child. Didn’t know the first thing about raising children. Could hardly remember having been one himself.

      Jim’s raised brow was his only response.

      “You said this Abby woman was African-American. I’m assuming she didn’t have a racial transplant.”

      He