“Oh, sweetie.” Isaac crouched down and opened his arms to the girl. She jumped off the chair and snuggled in so quickly, she almost knocked him over. “No, it’s not your fault,” he whispered into her hair.
What was he supposed to say? Danielle and Evan had been arguing right in front of Gemma about her selective mutism, but as misleading as the term was, Gemma wasn’t choosing to not talk to her father just to manipulate him or to cause problems between her parents. And no matter what the problems were, no kid should feel responsible for the way her parents reacted to a trial.
“Your parents love you, Gemma. You’re a great kid. Parents argue sometimes, and it’s hard to listen to.” Boy did he know how that felt. Waves of guilt and shame from his own childhood blew over him like the ever-present Wyoming winds in the wheat fields. Times he’d disappointed his father, times he’d heard his mother defending him. “But it is never your fault.”
He needed to change the subject for both of them. “I could tell your mom didn’t feel good at work today—maybe it’s my fault she has a headache.” Gemma shook her head furiously. “Okay, if it’s not my fault, then you have to believe it’s not yours either, okay?” Gemma remained slumped in her seat. “I think what your mom needs is pizza. Pizza always makes me feel better, and I think it will make her feel better too. What do you think?”
“You didn’t bring her Hawaiian,” Gemma teased. Now that was the girl who’d charmed his heart.
“She’ll deal.” He smiled at his niece, his chest warming at her crooked grin. Most of her incisors had grown back in except for one still only halfway down. “Can you get us some plates, napkins, and cups? And I’ll go talk to your mom and see if she’s ready to eat. Okay, Garnet?”
Gemma wrinkled her nose. “What’s a garnet?”
“Another beautiful gem—exactly like you, only red.”
“So not exactly like me.”
Little snapper was smarter than was good for her.
Isaac knocked softly on Danielle’s bedroom door. “Hey, Dani, it’s me—your favorite brother.” He paused a beat. “Can I come in?”
Within a few seconds, Danielle opened the door. Her eyes looked tired, and she was dressed in sweats, but otherwise, she looked fine. “You can’t be my favorite if you’re my only brother.”
Isaac scowled at her. “I’d better be your favorite if I’m your only brother. Besides, I brought pizza.”
“Is it Hawaiian?” She stepped out, sweeping her long hair together and into a ponytail.
“Pepperoni.”
“Then you’re Gemma’s favorite uncle, not—” She seemed to reconsider what she was about to say. “Okay, you’re still my favorite brother.”
“Whew! That was a close one.” Isaac leaned against the wall opposite her, wanting to talk before going back to where Gemma would overhear. “I know you’ll eat pepperoni, too, and if it means you don’t have to cook . . .”
“You’re right.”
While on the outside, Danielle was only a little worse for the wear, Isaac knew her well enough that something was bothering her. “What’s up, sis?”
When she shrugged, her shoulders ended up lower than they had started. “You were there.”
He thought through recent events. Clearly, she was referencing Saturday night and the run-in with Evan as he’d expected. While it had to be disappointing that the father of her child could act that way, it wasn’t unusual by any stretch of near-memory. “What’s different this time?”
She looked down at the floor, sliding a sock along one plank in the wood.
“Have you talked to Cody?” he persisted.
Danielle blew out a long breath and shook her head, looking up to the ceiling. “He doesn’t get it.”
“What do you mean?” Had the guy said something insensitive?
“He doesn’t know what it’s like.”
“Wait a minute.” He loved his sister, but Danielle wasn’t being fair. “Didn’t he send you flowers today?”
“Yes.” Danielle’s voice was small, compliant. “But that was probably Brooke’s idea, not his.”
“You don’t know that.” Though the same thought had crossed his mind as well. The logo on the card indicated that they’d come from The Flower Girl, of course, but that wouldn’t be a shock. “Cody wrote the card all by himself, didn’t he?”
Danielle attempted a smile, but a tear dropped from one eye at the same time. “Unless Brooke has messy guy handwriting.”
Isaac laughed. “I’ve seen her writing, and we wouldn’t have to hire an expert to prove it wasn’t her.” Even through tears, his sister was a pretty woman, though her brown eyes, so much like his own, remained sad. “You told me he stood up to Evan for you, too, don’t forget.”
Danielle rubbed her forehead with both hands, covering her face. “I know. That’s part of the problem.”
Huh? “Why?” He scrambled to remember what she’d said about the interaction. “I thought you said that you liked that he was on your side.”
“Well, of course he should be on my side, but I also don’t want him to think I need saving, you know?”
Yes, he certainly did know. “Try not to push him away. He cares and he’s doing his best to show that to you.”
“How uncharacteristically romantic of you,” Danielle teased.
The thought made him squirm emotionally. “Not really. It’s practical. You don’t know if your relationship with him will work out until you have all the facts. He may not understand because he hasn’t experienced it, but you could help him. Explain it, show it, live it. You’ll never know if he’s a keeper unless you give him a chance.”
“Look who’s talking, my friend. Why are you over here with us instead of with Brooke? When are you going to up your game and admit you’re interested?”
Now it was his turn to shrug. “I needed to take care of my sister. Family comes first.”
Which was only part of the reason. He was perfectly fine encouraging his sister to search out a relationship, but the thought of putting himself in the position she was in at this very moment made him queasy. How blessed an unencumbered life could be. He didn’t have a child who had to wonder if she was the reason her parents were struggling. Or a significant other stressing over what they did or did not do wrong.
Danielle leaned against her bedroom door, suddenly as droopy as a neglected African violet. “If you don’t mind, I’ll grab a slice later.” She tugged the hair band out of her hair, slipped it around her wrist, and massaged both of her temples. “I’m going to take full advantage of you being around and rest for a moment since that’s what family’s for, right?”
“Exactly.” He didn’t mind spending time with Gemma. He wasn’t alone. “I might take Gemma to play on the swings or something after we eat. Take your time.” Isaac felt his own relief as the wrinkles on her brow faded. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“Just some time—so thank you for that, Isaac.”
Danielle slipped back into her room, closing the door softly behind her, and Isaac found Gemma sitting at the kitchen table rather patiently for a seven-year-old, though she did have the pizza box open when he turned the corner. She dropped it and sat on her hands.
“Caught you red-handed,” Isaac accused.
Gemma looked first at her palms and then turned them over to inspect the back of her hands. “Huh?” Confusion wrinkled one half of her face. “I don’t have any pizza sauce on me.”
Isaac ruffled her hair and sat down in the chair next to her. “You’re one silly girl.”
“Me?” Gemma looked offended. “You’re silly. I don’t have red hands.”
He dished out a couple of slices and poured some milk for each of them. “I love the sound of your voice, diamond-girl. You used to talk lots, didn’t you?” Watching Gemma slink back from the table, Isaac regretted bringing up the conversation, but he was curious what she might say.
She didn’t respond right away, and Isaac wondered if she would relegate him t
o the group of people she was not talking to. The threat ripped at his insides. She already had so few people she spoke to.
Instead, she surprised him by leaning toward him, placing her little index finger over his lips. “Shh!” she said, and then took a bite of her pizza as if nothing had happened. He was relieved that she didn’t look bothered.
“Why?” He stirred some chocolate syrup into his milk and offered to do hers as well.
Gemma shook her head. “Strawberry.”
He retrieved the strawberry powder from the pantry and added a couple of scoops to her milk, making it a shocking color of pink. The thought of drinking pink milk turned his stomach. “Why shh?”
“You have to be quiet.” It was almost disturbing how stoic Gemma remained.
Maybe Danielle had come in behind him, but their conversation was no louder than for any normal dinner. He looked around them, but they were still alone. This was Gemma’s response to him asking about her mutism, though. “But I don’t understand why. Can you help me? Why don’t you talk to your teachers or friends?”
Gemma took a few more bites, completely silent. Had he lost her? “My throat and mouth hurt at school.”
“But not now?” He knew Danielle and Evan had gotten her checked medically from head to toe when the symptoms were severe enough to show a pattern. But that was a couple of years ago. “Do you have a sore throat now?”
Gemma shook her head. “At school.”
“Every day?”
Gemma nodded.
How Isaac wished he could solve this problem. It felt so simple and yet so complex at the same time. If only they insisted that Gemma talk in public; if only she could see that it wasn’t so scary, that everyone else did it too many times to count every single day. If only Gemma could do it. Of course she wanted to. It wasn’t a matter of wanting or forcing, it was a matter of ability, and Gemma simply could not. How isolating that must be—for Gemma and for Danielle—and yet there just was no solution other than time and love, and perhaps a little counseling and medication.
He reached over and hugged Gemma to him, retraining himself from holding her too tightly. Love he could do. The girl was a precious gem whether she sparkled for the rest of the world or kept her light hidden for a select few at the moment. “I love you, kiddo,” he whispered into the crown of her head. “You know that, right?”
She nodded on his chest and for that one moment, all felt right.
* * *
If Isaac thought he’d been through brutal mediation sessions before, Thursday’s meeting on the Rowe case took him by complete surprise. Even with three levelheaded third parties—two lawyers and a mediator—the couple still managed to lob stinging words across the room that left welts of hurt. Despite protestations that they could hammer out parenting details and custody, the rifts of immaturity and blame between Steve and Victoria left them bereft of a settlement and quitting the meeting, rife with frustration. Isaac couldn’t possibly face a morning of ugliness similar to this one again, and yet he would be required to, since the case was far from over.
Isaac walked out of the building beside his client, Steve, not allowing his game face to slip in the least until the argumentative couple had ensconced themselves into their individual cars and driven off.
“Finally.” Isaac slumped in his driver’s seat, unwilling to return to the office. He thought for a moment, and then texted Danielle. Reschedule any afternoon appointments. He wouldn’t blow off his entire day, but paperwork was all he could handle. Something in which he could craft the words as he wanted rather than having others’ words wrangling him. And then you’re free to leave for the day, if you want. At this point, he would welcome an empty office. The silence sounded heavenly.
Or maybe not. Gloom descended upon him like a blizzard, blanketing him in claustrophobic despair. After a morning like his, he needed someone to restore hope in human relationships, and he wasn’t going to get that from Danielle. Not this week.
Absently, Isaac climbed back out of his car. He removed his suit coat jacket and loosened his tie, left his leather briefcase in the back seat, and locked the door. A walk, some food, and one particular person’s company was all he could focus on.
At Tony’s Diner, Isaac ordered a couple of Cobb salads to go. Waiting as the cook prepared them, Isaac pulled out his phone and popped in his earbuds. If any day merited wallowing in songs about broken-down tractors, bar fights, and failed relationships, this was it, and if Brooke—the woman who exuded sunshine, flowers, and happiness—liked country music, maybe there was something more to it. Choosing a random online country station, the first full song was a man’s answer to his wife wondering what his life would have been like if he’d never met her. It was beyond sappy-sweet romantic—and probably just the thing Brooke liked—but Isaac also had to admit that it gave him the slightest glimmer of hope. If one man could feel that way, maybe he wasn’t crazy to think he could too.
“Two Cobb salads to go.” Anthony handed Isaac a plastic sack with a nod of his head. “Forks and dressing are in the bag.”
A quick walk a couple blocks down Main Street landed Isaac at the doorstep of The Flower Girl. A seasonal wreath obscured some of the view through the window on the old wooden door, but not enough that he couldn’t see Brooke’s form dancing around in front of a worktable as she chose flowers from different tin buckets, deliberately arranging them—her own unique art form. He watched her for a few seconds, knowing it had to be country music as she two-stepped around, and for a fleeting moment, he considered stepping in and taking her hand.
Except he wouldn’t. For all he knew, she didn’t even want him here. They hadn’t seen each other since Saturday—the day she caught a glimpse into one facet of his dysfunctional family—and now with Cody and Danielle ripping at the seams, she probably wanted nothing to do with him.
Yet he couldn’t let one more minute pass before he talked to her again. As Isaac pushed the door open into a fragrant room, Brooke turned at the scraping of the door across the threshold.
“Hey.” Her voice was a welcome hug, and Isaac’s reticence to enter dissipated.
“Please tell me you didn’t eat yet.” Isaac held up the bag. “I don’t even know what time it is.” Brooke glanced at the wall above him and he turned to follow her gaze to the most unique wall clock he’d seen, constructed of repurposed ceramic, metal, paper, and fabric flowers. He was so stunned, he forgot to check the actual time. “Did you make that?”
Brooke went to the front window, her hair brushing across his arm as she stepped past. “It’s one of Frankie’s creations.” She indicated the storefront across the street and then turned back to face him. “Isn’t it great? She made it for my birthday in April.”
Isaac nodded. “A Frank and Signs original. I should have known.”
“But thank you for thinking me capable of making such a work of beauty.”
Brooke radiated happiness. The skin on her cheeks looked so soft, he wanted to touch them. Her hair shone so beautifully, he wanted to feel it against his chin. Her lips tipped up in a smile so tempting, he wanted to kiss them. If only he were bold enough to do even one of those things.
“So this is your shop, huh?” To a guy who knew nothing about flowers, the layout was an intriguing collage of fragrant color, seemingly random in its presentation but pleasing overall. “It is amazing.” And chaotic. He touched the velvet petal of a rose, but then pulled his hand back. Would touching it bruise the flower?
“Don’t tell me you’ve never once sent flowers to a girl.” Brooke placed fists on her hips like his grandmother used to do when she was upset with him.
“Umm, hello? Do we really need to go through that again?” Isaac thumbed at his chest. “Practical, not romantic.”
“Ha. You mean caveman, not civilized.”
“Ouch.” The lighthearted banter melted the coldness he’d collected during the non-mediation. “Thank you.”
He followed Brooke to two stools at one of the worktables
. She swept a smattering of cut stems to the side, clearing enough room for them to sit across from each other.
“Thank you for what? You brought me lunch.” Brooke sat down, placing her elbows on the table and cradling her chin on her palms.
Isaac set the bag on the table but made no move to unload it. Instead, he allowed himself to get lost in her eyes for a moment. “Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in the world. I have seen too much of its ugliness this morning—a work thing, so I can’t go into details—but, ugh. I can make people pay, but I can’t make them care.”
Or maybe they did care. Too much. Either way, it shook his faith in humanity to see love ripped from its moorings and capsized in a tidal wave of loathing.
Brooke reached across the table and clutched both of his hands in hers. “I’m sorry. That must be really hard. I wish I had some wise words of advice.” Her touch alone was more soothing than words would have been anyway. “And I’d offer a game of gin rummy,” Brooke teased, “except I’m more interested in what you brought me from Tony’s.”
“Or because you’re afraid you’ll lose. Again.” Isaac reluctantly lifted his hands from hers to extract the items from the bag.
“Ah, but talk is cheap, Mr. Hood. Now fork over the food.” Brooke pulled one of the napkin-wrapped forks toward her, holding it in her hand so that the end tapped the tabletop.
“Ha.” Isaac handed her the container with her salad. “So you admit my archery prowess by knighting me Robin Hood?”
“I didn’t call you Sir.” Brooke got up from the table and retrieved two lemonades from the fridge in the corner of the room. “And who said anything about Robin Hood? I meant Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.”
“Wouldn’t that make you—what did they call that horrid puppet? Lady Elaine?”
The Practically Romantic Groom (Cobble Creek Romance Book 2) Page 12
