The Promise of Christmas. Tara Quinn Taylor

      Not that she’d been all that communicative, either. She’d spent most of the afternoon listening to Clara. Helped deal with the myriad details of closing down a life. And spent a couple of hours on the phone with Nancy, checking on details at work.

      “Rocks or no?”

      He didn’t glance up from the fire.

      “Rocks, please.”

      After getting his drink, she poured herself a glass of Riesling. Her mother had redecorated this room since Leslie had lived at home. It didn’t look anything like Leslie remembered. And still, she was uncomfortable here.

      Shrugging off things that had no rightful place in her life, or mind, she handed Kip his drink, losing herself for the briefest of seconds in his compassionate brown gaze.

      Until she had to look away. She curled up on the end of the plush rose-colored sofa closest to the fire, instead. She hadn’t been warm since she’d arrived in Ohio.

      “I keep thinking about those kids in foster care….” Kip’s voice trailed off as he once again stared into the gas flames that bounced almost rhythmically, creating the same splashes of amber and gold color over and over again.

      “Foster care?” She hadn’t meant to come across so defensively, but his comment took her completely off guard.

      He turned holding the bourbon he’d asked for but not yet touched. “Isn’t that where orphan children go these days? Into foster care?”

      The chill that had been surrounding her for days intensified, leaving her adrift, alone in an Alaska-like wilderness.

      “You don’t intend to honor Cal’s wishes.” All day long, in the confusing array of possibilities that had tortured her mind, she’d never once considered that they wouldn’t somehow provide for Cal’s children.

      He sat on the edge of a maroon-flowered armchair, his feet on the intricately designed wool rug that covered most of the beige-carpeted floor, his bourbon glass held with both hands between his knees. “Do you?” He sounded as surprised as she felt.

      Leslie took a sip of wine. Set the glass on the table. Clasped her hands together, shoulders hunched, and shivered. “I honestly don’t know what I think,” she told him, meeting his eyes. “The problems are so vast I can hardly even begin to make a list of them. I live in Phoenix. You live here. The kids would be separated. If I took Kayla, my mother would only get to see her once or twice a year. Aside from the fact that I’d lose a job I love and my means of support as well, I absolutely cannot move back to Ohio. My home—hell, my life—is not equipped to handle a toddler. The smell of vomit makes me vomit. I know plenty about the world of finance and nothing at all about potty-training. I work long hours, travel. I’ve been known to swear on occasion….”

      Hearing herself, Leslie flushed.

      Kip was grinning at her. “I don’t think that last one disqualifies you from much of anything—including sainthood.”

      In spite of herself, her state of mind and inner turmoil, she smiled back. She’d always loved the times Kip was in their home.

      “My brother knew me well,” she said. “He knew there’d be no way in hell I could turn my back on a two-year-old orphaned child, let alone one of my own flesh and blood. Add to that my only brother’s dying wish that I care for his beloved daughter.” She took another sip of wine. “If I desert that child, I’ll lie in bed every night hearing her cry and feeling Calhoun turning over in his grave.”

      “You’re one intense woman, you know that?” Kip asked, taking a sip of bourbon. “And you have a way with words, too.”

      “So, am I wrong?”

      He shrugged. “How would I know how you react to vomit?”

      Leslie swirled the wine left in her glass. She had a one-glass-a-night rule, but tonight she’d already given herself permission to break it.

      “The thing is, I’m also fully aware that any decisions I make affect you, too.”

      “How so?”

      She watched him for a moment, trying to remain impartial to the way his short dark hair tried to curl around his head, to the broad shoulders and the muscled thighs in the tight jeans he’d changed into when they got back here that morning.

      Leslie was still wearing the gray wool suit she’d had on. She was comfortable in the persona her work clothes gave her.

      “You going to tell me it wouldn’t give you a few bad nights if I decide to take Kayla and you turn Jonathan over to the state?” she asked. “I know you, Kip Webster. There’s no way you wouldn’t be thinking of that little boy, not only orphaned and abandoned, but separated from his little sister, too.”

      His reply was to finish the rest of his bourbon in one long swallow. Before she could offer him another, he was walking over to the bar.

      “And if you do take him and I take Kayla to Phoenix, we’d eventually feel compelled to provide opportunities for them to see each other. We’d have to decide how to handle communication and visits and maybe even have to spend some time together at Christmas. Or at least arrange to let the kids do so.”

      She had no idea where any of this was coming from—she supposed from that subconscious part of her mind Juliet was always telling her about. It was leading her to other difficult conclusions, too.

      Like the possibility of taking Jonathan as well as Kayla if Kip really didn’t want him. Realistically, how could she even consider that?

      When Kip came back with a full glass, he settled on the other end of the couch.

      “And there’s another whole issue we haven’t even touched on,” she said slowly, frowning. “It affects our decision, either way.”

      “What’s that?”

      “These kids are of mixed race. That can create psychological problems if they’re not given the right kind of emotional support.”

      “I guess so, but how do you know that?”

      Leslie smiled fleetingly. “I spend a lot of time on planes. Reading magazines because I can’t concentrate on business when half my energy’s consumed with keeping the plane in the air.”

      “You didn’t read on the way here.”

      She could hardly remember the trip. She owed him for her ticket, she was sure, as she didn’t remember buying it, either.

      “I took a sleeping pill.”

      He sat forward, elbows on his knees as he stared into the fire again. “So tell me what you think about this whole mixed-race thing.”

      Leslie leaned an arm against the side of the couch, tucking her feet underneath her. “I haven’t thought about it all that much,” she told him honestly. “Except that I know there’ll be issues. I realize you’re seeing more mixed-race marriages these days, but there are still a lot of small-minded people and raised eyebrows.

      “The little I know about black culture is fairly stereotypical and probably not very accurate. African-Americans have their own concerns that we can understand intellectually but not emotionally. These kids face the risk of not being accepted by either group—whites or blacks.”

      Kip glanced sideways at her, nodded. “And if we take Kayla and Jonathan, we’ll be facing that risk with them.”

      “I wouldn’t even know how to comb Kayla’s hair!”

      “I wonder if Abby celebrated Kwanza with them.”

      “People might stare. The bigoted ones might show disapproval.” She couldn’t even begin to contemplate the struggles Jonathan and Kayla could encounter in their lives. “And I wonder if being of mixed race could lessen their chances of being adopted. Especially Jonathan, since he’s older. At the very least, it could reduce the available choices, since