“You haven’t touched your cake.” He motioned toward her dessert.

She summoned up a brief smile. “You did manage to get ahead of me.”

“Why don’t you tackle it while I finish what I was telling you when the phone interrupted us?”

His tone was calm. Conversational. Impersonal almost. As if what he was about to say didn’t matter in the least.

But it did.

Not only to him, but to them.

Trust was everything in a relationship, and his willingness to continue after having a chance for second thoughts spoke volumes.

Spirits rebounding, she picked up her fork, broke off a bite of the cake—and waited.

He took another sip of coffee, set the mug down, and looked at her. “My grandmother always baked a cake for my birthday. Once a year I got to lick the knife.”

Once a year.

Somehow she knew that simple fact was significant.

Twin crevices dented his brow. “I don’t know why I made that comment tonight about licking the knife. Instead of bringing back happy memories, it reminds me how sterile and empty my life was the other 364 days of the year—including Christmas. After church, I opened a few practical presents like socks and shirts. Later, my grandmother fixed dinner, my grandfather disappeared into his study, we ate, and I read in my room until bedtime.”

Eve tried to imagine that sort of subdued holiday, where everyone in the family passed most of the day in solitary pursuits.

Failed.

The Reilly Christmas always meant mounds of presents, laughter, board games by the fireplace, joyful holiday carols playing in the background, and a sense that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

“I’m sorry, Brent.” She gentled her voice. “A child’s Christmas should be filled with the makings of happy memories.”

He shrugged. “I got used to it—and got past it.”

No, he hadn’t, or it wouldn’t be haunting him two decades later.

But she left that unsaid.

“Did you have any friends while you were growing up?”

“Yes.” The shadows on his face brightened a shade. “Adam Moore was my best bud in grade school. Still is. His family always welcomed me whenever my grandparents let me visit. I was there often enough to recognize what I was missing in my own home and to get exposure to a normal family situation.”

“Thank God you had that.”

“I did—and do—every day.”

“When did you leave your grandparents’ house?” Calling it home would be too much of a stretch.

“College. I went to an out-of-state school and never lived in their house again.”

Their house—not our house.

Her heart ached for the little boy who’d never felt welcome in his own home—and for the grown-up man who bore the scars.

“Did you stay in touch?”