“Really, Mac. It’s okay. I’m just a little concerned about my brother.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He’s a teenager.”
His mouth twisted a little as he nodded. “I don’t envy you.”
She could understand that. Few men would willingly take on the responsibilities Sharon had shouldered. Even though she hoped to have her own place soon, she was realistic enough to know that she wouldn’t be able to completely distance herself from her family’s problems. Lucy was just too scatterbrained and disorganized to manage well on her own and definitely not firm enough to deal with Brad’s stubborn moods.
Lucy had indulged Brad too much, and for that matter, so had Sharon. They’d both felt that they had to make it up to him somehow because he’d lost his f
ather so young. Perhaps they’d gone overboard. It was difficult now to suddenly become a disciplinarian.
Mac looked around. “Where is your brother?”
“On the phone with Mom. Probably telling her what an ogre I am,” she muttered.
“Every teenager needs an ogre for a guardian.”
“You’re probably right.”
Taking a step closer to her, he reached out to trace her lower lip with a fingertip. “Since I’m not a teenager, perhaps you could save this stern frown for your brother?”
Realizing she’d been scowling since he’d arrived, she smiled slightly against his finger. “Sorry.”
“That’s better.”
Brad appeared at the top of the stairs just then. He was obviously displeased to catch them standing so close together, Mac’s hand still resting lightly against the side of Sharon’s face. The glare he gave them was almost cold enough to cause frostbite.
Mac dropped his hand and moved away, taking his time about it. “Hello, Brad. Nice to see you again,” he said casually.
“Hey.”
Sharon wasn’t exactly pleased with Brad’s curt response, but at least it had been audible. He knew better than to be blatantly rude to a guest in their home. At least, she hoped he did.
MAC DIDN’T TRY to push the boy into further conversation during dinner. He and Sharon discussed the anticipated progress of the renovation for the upcoming week, then turned the discussion to national politics, a subject that interested them both. Keeping his head down, Brad concentrated on his food, apparently content to be ignored.
Eventually Sharon seemed to decide it was time for her brother to join in. “How’s your food, Brad?” she asked pleasantly. “Do you need anything else?”
“It’s fine,” the boy replied without looking up from his plate. “Can I have some more bread?”
She passed him the basket of wheat rolls, which he accepted with a muttered, “Thanks.”
Because he could tell that Brad’s sullenness was disturbing her, Mac said, “This is really good, Sharon. I’ve always liked spaghetti.”
He was rewarded with a smile. “It’s my mother’s special recipe. She’s a very good cook when she pays attention to what she’s doing. Remember the time she accidentally used cayenne pepper instead of paprika, Brad? We nearly burned the linings out of our mouths.”
The boy didn’t share her amusement. “My mom’s a great cook,” he said, sounding defensive.
Mac shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes. My mother used to get distracted and burn the plantains. I started thinking of the smoke alarm as a dinner bell.”
“Plantains?” Sharon repeated. “I’ve never had them.”
“They look a little like bananas. In Puerto Rico, they’re often fried and served as a side dish.”
“What other Puerto Rican dishes did your mother make for you?”
He could tell she was relieved that the conversation was moving again, so he decided to expand a bit. “We had arroz con pollo quite often—that’s yellow rice with chicken, one of my favorite meals. And asopao, a heavy rice soup, with either chicken or shrimp. Paella. And for dessert, flan. No one made it the way my mother did. I still dream about her flan sometimes,” he joked, though it was the truth.