A Second-Chance Proposal. C.J. Carmichael

minute or so after she’d rung the doorbell, he leaned over her shoulder and pressed the buzzer impatiently several more times.

      “I told you we should have called.”

      Cathleen toed her brown riding boot against the edge of a raised planter. The row of small globe cedars planted within looked dry and spindly. That surprised him. His mother was a formidable gardener.

      Still no one answered the door. Bored, Dylan opened the mailbox and began sorting through the letters and flyers.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Just passing time.” Leaning against the stucco wall, he noted the return address on one manila envelope, then replaced the package in the mailbox.

      Cathleen stepped back impatiently. “Let’s go. She’s not going to let us in.”

      “Not so fast.” Dylan hooked her at the waist, stopping her midstride. “Let me try the door.”

      He put a hand to the pewter handle and it immediately swung open. He gave her a wink. “Well?”

      “We can’t—”

      As he pulled her over the threshold, a white cat made an attempt to dart outside. Dylan caught the feline with one hand, then nudged the door shut with the heel of his boot.

      “Mom? I’m home!” His masculine voice was loud and incongruous in the sparse perfection of the two-story foyer. Archways led on either side to a living room and den. Ahead, polished wooden stairs coiled to the upper rooms.

      He began to worry. Were the rumors right? Was his mother too ill to get out of bed? From what Cathleen and Jake had said, it didn’t seem likely that she was out.

      About to march up the stairs, he paused at the sound of a door closing from one of the upper rooms. The white cat scampered out of Dylan’s arms and bolted around the corner.

      Finally, a slender feminine form appeared at the top of the stairs. “Where’s Crystal?”

      The white cat reappeared from its hiding place, zooming up the stairs to Rose Strongman’s waiting arms.

      “There you are, precious. You scared me. I heard the door and was afraid you’d run outside.”

      Rose began to descend the stairs. Dylan felt strange standing there; he wasn’t sure if his mother had even seen him. In a way it was good. Frankly, he needed the moment to gather his composure.

      He’d always thought of his mother as delicate. But dressed in a silk housecoat wrapped tightly around a too-narrow waist, Rose Strongman, née McLean, was now fragile to the point of brittleness. She had to have lost fifteen pounds, at least, since he’d seen her last. Her auburn hair had gone gray, and her skin sagged in grooves around her eyes, nose and mouth.

      The changes were nothing unusual for a woman in her seventies or eighties. But his mother was fifty-seven.

      As she came closer, Dylan saw more. The trembling in her hands, the watery film over her pale blue eyes, the crooked line of lipstick tracing a once-smiling mouth.

      His mother had hurt him badly when she’d told him that she held him responsible for Jilly’s death. The night before his and Cathleen’s scheduled wedding she’d said he had no right marrying a wonderful girl like Cathleen and tainting her future with his past. She’d intimated that they’d all be much happier if he just made himself scarce.

      Knowing that the source of these opinions was his stepfather, Max, hadn’t helped him deal with the pain of her attack. He just couldn’t understand why she would believe her husband over her own son. Couldn’t she recognize manipulation when she saw it?

      Dylan had stored up a lot of resentment toward his mother. Now he forgot all of it and just held out his arms.

      “Mom…”

      “Dylan?” Rose paused, which was a good thing, because otherwise she might have tumbled down the stairs. She transferred the cat to one arm and clung to the banister with the other. “You’ve come back.”

      “I have.” He stood his ground and waited for the slightest sign that she was happy to see him.

      “Why? This isn’t your home anymore.”

      Dylan dropped his arms to his sides. He should’ve known. “Can’t a son drop in to see his mother? I heard you’ve been under the weather.”

      Rose raised her chin. No faulting her posture. “I’m perfectly well.”

      Too concerned to bother with tact, he shook his head. “You don’t look it.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.” The words themselves were strident, but they lost their effect when delivered in Rose’s wavering voice.

      “Rose, you do seem a little weak,” Cathleen said. “Would you like us to help you back to bed?”

      “Of course not. Please stop this. I hate fussing.” She squinted, making Dylan wonder if the moisture he’d seen over her eyes was really early-stage cataracts. “Is that you, Cathleen Shannon? What in the world are you doing here?”

      Cathleen eyed him quickly before answering. “I’ve been meaning to drop by for a visit. You don’t get out much anymore. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen you since—”

      Rose blinked rapidly. “You’re right. I don’t go out anymore. How can I?” She focused on Dylan. “A mother has to take responsibility for how her children turn out.”

      A sickening mixture of guilt and anger twisted Dylan’s gut. His mother had become a recluse because of him? Instinctively his hands curled into fists, but there was no one to fight. A good strong left couldn’t touch public opinion.

      “Can we just sit down and talk for a minute?” Cathleen suggested.

      It was a good idea, but where? Glancing around, he couldn’t see a place to get comfortable. All the rooms looked formal and pristine. “Maybe in the kitchen?”

      In the old days, when his father was alive, his family had practically lived around the old oak table that had sat by the window overlooking the east pasture. Following Rose to the back of the house, he wasn’t surprised to see a new wrought-iron set in the showpiece kitchen. The entire room was beyond what he could’ve imagined. Custom cherry cabinetry, beautiful marble countertops and restaurant-quality stainless steel appliances all vied for attention in the large space.

      “Please sit down.” A trace of Rose’s old hospitality surfaced as she beckoned them to the thickly cushioned chairs.

      “How about I put on the kettle for some tea,” Cathleen offered.

      “Good idea,” Dylan said. “Maybe I can find some crackers and cheese to go with that.” His mother was so frail he wondered if she ever ate. She used to have a good appetite, a love of delicious food. He went to the built-in fridge and saw no shortage of supplies. He picked out a nice hunk of Brie.

      “No!” his mother said. “That’s for Max. He likes it with a glass of wine after dinner.”

      Oh really? Dylan eyed the trash compactor, but Cathleen snatched the cheese from his hands before he dared. She returned the Brie to the fridge and substituted Cheddar.

      He pulled himself together. It was only cheese, after all. Crackers were in the pantry next to the fridge. While Cathleen prepared the tea, he sliced the cheddar and placed it on a plate with the Wheat Thins.

      His mother was staring out the window, holding the cat, stroking her compulsively. For a second Dylan had the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn’t quite there mentally. And then abruptly, she focused on him, with eyes suddenly bright and alert.

      “Why’d you come back, Dylan?”

      “Cathleen asked me the same question last night. I’m beginning to think no one wants me.”

      “Really? You’re so sensitive,” Cathleen muttered.

      “It