New Hope, Old Grudges Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement

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I didn’t come home for the death of my father or the birth of my first niece. It was understandable that my brother didn’t want to see my face. What wasn’t understandable was that my mother didn’t seem to be mad at me at all. She had every right. Not that that was my mom’s style. I hadn’t seen her angry, not once. Not at me, not at my father, not at my brother. And as much as I held him on a pedestal, I knew the man was not perfect, and there were plenty of opportunities for my mom to get mad at him for long hunting trips, for the smell of his cigars, for leaving socks around, for doing the various things men—even great men like my father—did in marriage.

So no, my mother was not mad at me.

But my brother was.

“You’re a piece of work, and Dad would be ashamed of you. I’m ashamed to call you my sister.”

Those were the last words he’d spoken to me before he hung up on the phone call we had last Christmas, the first one without Dad. I deserved his anger. And more.

My stomach had been in knots all morning as I helped my mother prepare Thanksgiving food. There was a lot to do since she also made meals for a handful of retirees who lived around the mountains, dropping them off before we all sat down to eat. Well, that’s what usually happened. There was a storm forecast, a particularly nasty one for this time of year, and it looked like our annual food delivery wouldn’t be happening. Still, we made the food. The pumpkin pie, sweet potato casserole, the turkey and the Tofurky my mother pretended she ate and no one called her out on.

Even with the busy hands, my mother’s spiced apple cider and Perry Como playing on the record player, I couldn’t escape my nerves. Who was I kidding? It was because of that combination that I couldn’t escape my nerves. All of them were Thanksgiving traditions, held on throughout all the years even though I hadn’t been home for the holiday.

What wasn’t there was the scent of my father’s cigars. His booming voice, singing along to the songs and him dancing around the kitchen with my mother.

His presence was everywhere in my memories of the holidays, which meant his absence was everywhere.

My entire body stiffened as the sound of a car crunched over the record playing, signifying my brother’s arrival.

“They’re here!” my mother announced unnecessarily, clapping her hands and letting the ladle clatter against the pan as she dropped it in order to run to the door.

You would’ve thought she hadn’t seen her son or grandchild in years. When in reality, she went over there every morning to give Harry’s wife a break, time to go to Pilates, to do whatever she needed to do that didn’t require being a wife and mother.

Mom had offered for me to come over with her every day. I’d been too much of a coward, although I’d been dying to meet my niece.

Today was the day.

“Oh my god, she’s more darling than she was yesterday!” my mother gushed from the front door.

I placed the ladle on the holder, wiping my hands on my apron before taking a long sip of my cider. It hit my stomach then almost came back up.

Almost.

I heard them rustle at the door, taking off their coats and boots, Mom fussing over the baby.

When I walked into the living room, Mom was holding what could objectively be called the cutest infant to exist. I immediately fell in love. She regarded me with dark blue eyes and a serious gaze that had belonged to my father.

“Meet your aunty,” my mother declared, thrusting the drooling, now smiling baby at me. Though I didn’t have any experience with babies, I took her, not too sure about how to hold her.

“You don’t have to support her head, my darling,” my mother informed me. “She can do that.”

I jostled her and looked into her wide blue eyes. My father’s eyes. “Hello, little baby,” I said awkwardly.

I received a drooling smile and a coo in response.

“Sarah,” I said, greeting my sister-in-law. I didn’t know her well; I had come back for the wedding but not long enough to bond. Even if I had been around, I wasn’t really the type of person who ‘bonded’ well with others.

She smiled warmly at me.

“You make really cute babies,” I told her, an understatement.

Her eyes lit up. “Don’t I know it.” She breezed in to kiss the baby, then surprisingly, me on the cheek before going into the kitchen.

“Harry.” I turned to the man shrugging off his jacket. The man who had my father’s coffee-colored hair, his dark brows, his long nose.

It hurt to look at him. Even more so when my brother did not have a warm smile for me like his wife. He had something very close to a scowl on his face as he took me in. Then his mouth opened, and I got the feeling he was going to say something to match that scowl. But his eyes stuttered on the baby in my arms, veering toward my mom who was somehow oblivious to the disdain on my brother’s face and was smiling with tears of joy shimmering in her eyes. Both her children together, for the first time since her husband died.

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