The Prodigal Valentine. Karen Templeton

then she returned to the kitchen, collecting their mugs.

      “You’re angry.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.” The dishwasher shuddered when she banged it open. “It was just a thought.”

      “Merce. A half hour ago you gave the very distinct impression you’d rather eat live snakes than start something up again with me. So why the sudden change of heart?”

      She slammed the dishwasher shut, turned around. “That was my wounded pride talking. So good news—guess I’m a faster healer than I realized.”

      “And I’m just getting started,” he said, and her brows plunged. “Honey, I’m not rejecting you. I’m rejecting the past. Because I don’t want to pick up where we left off. Because, yeah, I want you so much I can’t think straight, but it’s more than that with you.” His throat ached when he swallowed. “It was always more than that with you.”

      In the space of a heartbeat, her expression changed from confusion to stunned comprehension to bemusement. The cat jumped up on the counter beside her, bumping her elbow to be petted. Being obviously well-trained, she obeyed, then said, “You remember the scene early in It’s a Wonderful Life where Jimmy Stewart finds himself in Donna Reed’s living room, and her mother hollers down the stairs, asking her what he wants, and Donna Reed says, ‘I don’t know,’ then turns to Jimmy Stewart and says, ‘What do you want?’ and he gets all mad because he doesn’t really know?” She cocked her head. “Well?”

      “I don’t know,” Ben ground out, stuffing his arms into his jacket. “But I can tell you I’m not looking for the same things I was before, either.”

      Then he strode to her door and let himself out, not even trying to keep from slamming the door.

      The forecast had called for a slight chance of snow on New Year’s Eve—pretty much an empty threat in Albuquerque, which, Ben mused as he listened to his mother fuss at his father at their bedroom door, rarely had weather in the usual sense of the word. Muttering in Spanish, his mother trooped down the hall, all dressed up for her night on the town.

      “You sure you’re going to be okay?” Juanita said, wrapping a soft, fuzzy shawl around her shoulders, half concealing the glittery long-sleeved dress underneath. Her eyes sparkled as brightly as the diamond studs in her ears—his parents and Mercy’s were spending the night at one of the fancy casino resorts on a nearby Indian reservation, and she’d spent most of the day primping in preparation. When he’d been a kid and money had been tight for both families, “doing something for New Year’s” meant getting together to play cards, or, later, watch videos. Apparently, though, their parents had been celebrating in grand style for some years now, and seeing how excited they were tickled Ben to death.

      “I imagine I’ll muddle through somehow,” he said with a smile.

      The doorbell rang; his mother opened it to let Mary and Manny Zamora inside. “Luis!” she tossed over her shoulder as Ben and the Zamoras shook hands, exchanged hugs and small talk. “They’re here!” She minced to the end of the hallway in high heels she wasn’t used to wearing. “What are you doing?”

      Grumbling under his breath, his father appeared, still adjusting the ostentatious silver-and-turquoise bolo on his string tie. After a burst of chatter, the Zamoras and his father headed back out, but his mother lagged behind.

      “Now there’s plenty of food in the refrigerator,” she said, “and you know how to use the microwave—”

      “Juanita! Per Dios!”

      “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

      Ben stood in the doorway, watching them drive off, the headlight beams from his father’s brand new Escalade glancing off a handful of tiny, valiantly swirling snowflakes. As he was about to close the door, he noticed Mercy’s Firebird in her driveway, its lightly frosted roof glistening in the light from the street lamp several houses over. Ben frowned—the quintessential party girl, alone on New Year’s? Now that was just wrong.

      Close the door, Ben. None of your business, Ben. Stay out of it, Ben…

      A minute’s raid on the family room bar produced a bottle of Baileys he hoped didn’t predate Nixon. If nothing else, they could spike their coffee.

      Or, he considered as he stood on her doorstep, ringing her doorbell, she could—justifiably—tell him to take his Baileys and stick it someplace the sun don’t shine—

      “No!” he heard Mercy say on the other side. “Never, ever answer the door without first making sure you know who’s on the other side!”

      The door swung open (because clearly Mercy didn’t take her own advice, which provoked a flash of irritation behind Ben’s eyes). From inside floated the mouthwatering scents of baked chocolate and popcorn. “Ben! What are you doing here?”

      Her hair sprouting from the top of her head in a fountain of ringlets, the party girl was dressed to kill in a three-sizestoo-big purple sweatshirt that hung to midthigh, a pair of clingy, sparkly pants, and blindingly bright, striped fuzzy socks. Not surprisingly, considering the way they’d left things the day before, her eyes bugged with total astonishment, which pleased Ben in some way he couldn’t begin to define.

      “I, um, didn’t like the idea of you being by yourself on New Year’s?” he said as Mattie, swallowed up in a nearly identical outfit and crying, “Uncle Ben! Uncle Ben!” launched herself at his knees, adhering to him like plastic wrap. Then she leaned back, giving him her most adoring, gap-toothed smile.

      “Aunt Mercy an’ me’re watching Finding Nemo but Jake doesn’t wanna, he says it’s a sissy movie.” The squirt latched onto his hand and dragged him across the threshold. “Wanna come watch with us?”

      Ben’s gaze shifted to Mercy, who shrugged. The sweatshirt didn’t budge. “Welcome to Mercy’s Rockin’ NewYear’s Eve. I’m babysitting,” she said, standing aside to keep from getting trampled as Jacob yelled from the back of the house, “I’m not a baby!”

      “Get a job and we’ll talk,” Mercy called back as they all returned to the living room.

      No reply except for the muffled pings and zaps of some video game.

      “Popcorn’s ready,” she yelled again, plopping a plastic bowl as large as a bathtub in the middle of that trunk with identity issues. Over in her corner, Annabelle shimmered red…blue…green…red as the color wheel did its thing, while a small fire crackled lazily in a kiva fireplace in the opposite corner, and Ben felt a chuckle of pure delight rumble up from his chest.

      Mercy reached up to adjust her hair, her hands landing on her hips when she was done. Her nails were as red as her walls, with what looked like little rhinestones or something imbedded in each tip. Amazing. Ben’s gaze shifted to her face; she looked more befuddled than ticked, he decided. “We’ve already had the first course—brownies—but I think there’s still a few left in the kitchen.”

      “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Um…” Ben slipped off his jacket, flinging it across the back of a chair. “Are you okay with this?”

      One eyebrow hitched, just slightly. “That you crashed my party? Yeah, I should’ve had the dude at the door check the guest list more carefully. But hey, no problem, we’ve got chaperones and everything.”

      “What’s a chaperone?” Mattie asked.

      “Somebody who makes sure nobody does something they shouldn’t,” Mercy said, never taking her eyes off Ben’s, the eyebrow hiking another millimeter. Okay, definitely not ticked. Not that having the kids here meant a whole lot in the tempering-the-sexual-tension department. Apparently.

      “What’s that?” the little girl said, latching on to the Baileys. “C’n I have some?”

      “Not if you want your mother to ever, ever let you come here again,” Mercy said, taking the bottle from Ben and nodding in approval. “Later,” she