by Susan Meier
Her baby sister, the little girl her mom had called a miracle baby and her dad had called a mistake, had been hit so hard that Missy had taken her to the hospital. Once they’d fixed up her arm, a social worker had peered into their emergency room cubicle.
“Where’s your mom?”
“She’s out for the night. I’m eighteen. I’m babysitting.”
The social worker had given Missy a look of disbelief, so she’d produced her driver’s license.
When the social worker was gone, Althea had glared at her. She wanted to tell the truth.
Missy had turned on her sister. “Do you want to end up in foster care? Or worse, have him beat Mom until she dies? Well, I don’t.”
And the secret had continued....
Her breath stuttered out. Her mom was dead now. Althea had left home. She’d enrolled in a university thousands of miles away, in California. She’d driven out of town and never looked back.
And their dad?
Well, he was “gone,” too. Just not forgotten. He still ran the diner, but he spent every spare cent he had on alcohol and gambling. If he wasn’t drunk, he was in Atlantic City. The only time Missy saw him was when he needed money.
A little hand fell to her shoulder. “What’s wong, Mommy?”
Owen. With his little lisp and his big heart.
She pulled her face out of the pillow. “Nothing’s wrong.” She smiled, ruffled his short brown hair. “Mommy is fine.”
She was fine, because after her divorce she’d figured out that she wasn’t going to find a knight on a white horse who would rescue her. She had to save herself. Save her kids. Raise her kids in a home where they were never afraid or hungry.
After her ex drained their savings account and left her with three babies and no money, well, she’d learned that the men in her life didn’t really care if kids were frightened and/or hungry. And the only person with the power to fix that was her.
So she had.
But she would never, ever trust a man again.
Not even sweet Wyatt.
* * *
Wyatt walked through the back door of his gram’s house, totally confused.
Somehow in his memory he’d kept Missy an eighteen-year-old beauty queen. She might still look like an eighteen-year-old beauty queen, but she’d grown up. Moved on. Become a wife and mom.
He couldn’t figure out why that confused him so much. He’d moved on. Gotten married. Gotten divorced. Just as she had. Why did it feel so odd that she’d done the same things he had?
His cell phone rang. He grabbed it from the pocket of his jeans. Seeing the caller ID of his assistant, he said, “Yeah, Arnie, What’s up?”
“Nothing except that the Wizard Awards were announced this morning and three of your stories are in!”
“Oh.” He expected a thrill to shoot through him, but didn’t get one. His mind was stuck on Missy. Something about her nagged at him.
“I thought you’d be happier.”
Realizing he was standing there like a goof, not even talking to the assistant who’d called him, he said, “I am happy with the nominations. They’re great.”
“Well, that’s because your books are great.”
He grinned. His work was great. Not that he was vain, but a person had to have some confidence—
He stopped himself. Now he knew what was bothering him about Missy. She’d stood him up. They’d had a date graduation night and she’d never showed. In fact, she hadn’t even come to his grandmother’s house that whole summer. He hadn’t seen her on the street. He’d spent June, July and August wondering, then left for college never knowing why she’d agreed to meet him at a party, but never showed.
He said, “Arnie, thanks for calling,” then hung up the phone.
She owed him an explanation. Fifteen years ago, even if he’d seen her that summer, he would have been too embarrassed to confront her, ask her why she’d blown him off.
At thirty-three, rich, talented and successful, he found nothing was too difficult for him to confront. He might have lost one-third of his company to his ex-wife, but in the end he’d come to realize that their divorce had been nothing but business.
This was personal.
And he wanted to know.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEXT MORNING Wyatt woke with a hangover. After he’d hung up on Arnie, he’d gone to the 7-Eleven for milk, bread, cheese and a case of beer. Deciding he wanted something to celebrate his award nominations, he’d added a bottle of cheap champagne. Apparently cheap champagne and beer weren’t a good mix because his head felt like a rock. This was what he got for breaking his own hard-and-fast rule of moderation in all things.
Shrugging into a clean T-shirt and his jeans from the day before, he made a pot of coffee, filled a cup and walked out to the back porch for some fresh air.
From his vantage point, he could see above the hedge. Missy stood in her backyard, hanging clothes on a line strung between two poles beside a swing set. The night before he’d decided he didn’t need to ask her why she’d stood him up. It was pointless. Stupid. What did he care about something that happened fifteen years ago?
Still, he remained on his porch, watching her. She didn’t notice him. Busy fluffing out little T-shirts and pinning them to the line, she hadn’t even heard him come outside.
In the silence of a small town at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning in late April, when kids were in school and adults at work, he studied her pretty legs. The way her bottom rounded when she bent. The swing of her ponytail. It was hard to believe she was thirty-three, let alone the mother of triplets.
“Hey, Mithter.”
His gaze tumbled down to the sidewalk at the bottom of the five porch steps. There stood Owen.
“Hey, kid.”
“Wanna watch TV?”
“I don’t have TV. My mom canceled the cable.” He laughed and ambled down the steps. “Besides, don’t you think your mom will be worried if you’re gone?”
He nodded.
“So you should go home.”
He shook his head.
Wyatt chuckled and finished his coffee. The kid certainly knew his mind. He glanced at the hedge, but from ground level he couldn’t see Missy anymore. It seemed weird to yell for her to come get her son, but...
No buts about it. It was weird. And made it appear as if he was afraid to talk to her...or maybe becoming an introvert because one woman robbed him blind in a divorce settlement. He wasn’t afraid of Missy. And he might not ever marry again, but he wasn’t going to be an emotional cripple because of a divorce.
Reaching down, he took Owen’s hand. “Come on.” He walked him to the hedge, held it back so Owen could step through, then followed him into the next yard.
Little shirts and shorts billowed in the breeze, but the laundry basket and Missy were gone.
He could just leave the kid in the yard, explaining to Owen that he shouldn’t come to his house anymore. But the little boy blinked up at him, with long black lashes over sad, puppy-dog eyes.
Wyatt’s heart melted. “Okay. I’ll take you inside.”
Happy, Owen dropped his hand and raced ahead. Climbing up the stairs, he yelled, “Hey, Mom! That man is here again.”
Wyatt winced. Was it just him or did that make him sound like a stalker?
Missy opened the door. Owen scooted inside. Wyatt strolled over. He stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“Sorry about this.” He looked up at her. His gaze cruised from her long legs, past her jeans shorts, to her short pink T-shirt and full breasts to her smiling face. Attraction rumbled through him. Though he would have liked to take a few minutes to enjoy the pure, unadulterated swell of desire, he squelched it. Not only was she a mom, but he was still in the confusing postdivorce stage.
He didn’t want a relationship, he wanted sex. He wasn’t someone who should be trifling with a nice woman.
“Owen just sort of appeared at the bottom of my steps so I figured I’d better bring him home.”
She frowned. “That’s weird. He’s never been a runner before.”
“A runner?”
“A kid who just trots off. Usually he clings to my legs. But we’ve never had a man next door either.” She smiled and nodded at his coffee cup. “Why don’t you come up and I’ll refill that.”
The offer was sweet and polite. Plus, she wasn’t looking at him as if he was intruding or crazy. Maybe it was smart to get back to having normal conversations with someone of the opposite sex. Even if it was just a friendly chat over a cup of coffee.
He walked up the steps. “Thanks. I could use a refill.”
She led him into her kitchen. Her two little girls sat at the table coloring. The crowded countertop held bowls and spoons and ingredients he didn’t recognize, as if Missy was cooking something. And Owen stood in the center of the kitchen, the lone male, looking totally out of place.
Missy motioned toward the table. “Have a seat.”
Wyatt pulled a chair away from the table. The two little girls peeked up from their coloring books and grinned, but went back to their work without saying anything. Missy walked over with the coffeepot and filled his cup.
“So what are you cooking?”
“Gum paste.”
That didn’t sound very appetizing. “Gum paste?”
Taking the coffeepot back to the counter, she said, “To make flowers to decorate a cake.”
“That’s right. You used to bake cakes for the diner.”
“That’s how I could afford my clothes.”
He sniffed. “Oh, come on. Your dad owns the diner. Everybody knew you guys were rolling in money.”
She turned away. Her voice chilled as she said, “My dad still made me work for what I wanted.” But when she faced him again, she was smiling.
Confused, but not about to get into something that might ruin their nice conversation, Wyatt motioned to the counter. “So who is this cake for?”
“It’s a wedding cake. Bride’s from Frederick. It’s a big fancy, splashy wedding, so the cake has to be exactly what she wants. Simple. Elegant.”
Suddenly the pieces fell into place. “And that’s your business?”
“Brides are willing to pay a lot to get the exact cake that suits their wedding. Which means a job a month supports us.” She glanced around. “Of course, I inherited this house and our expenses are small, so selling one cake a month is enough.”
“What do you do in the winter?”
“The winter?”
“When fewer people get married?”
“Oh. Well, that’s why I have to do more than one cake a month in wedding season. I have a cake the last two weeks of April, every weekend in May, June and July, and two in August, so I can put some money back for the months when I don’t have orders.”
“Makes sense.” He drank his coffee. “I guess I better get going.”
She smiled slightly. “You never said what brings you home.”
Not sure if she was trying to keep him here with mindless conversation or genuinely curious, he shrugged. “The family jewels.”
Missy laughed.
“Apparently my grandmother had some necklaces or brooches or something that her grandmother brought over from Scotland.”
“Oh. I’ll bet they’re beautiful.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve yet to find them.”
“Didn’t she have a jewelry box?”
“Yes, and last night I sent my mom pictures of everything in it and none of the pieces are the Scotland things.”
“So you’re here until you find them?”
“I’m here till I find them. Or four weeks. I can get away when I want, but I can’t stay away indefinitely.”
“Maybe one of these nights I could grill chicken or something for supper and you could come over and we could catch up.”
He remembered the afternoons sitting on the bench seat of her grandmother’s picnic table, trying to get her to understand equations. He remembered spring breezes and autumn winds, but most of all he remembered how nice it was just to be with her. For a man working to get beyond a protracted divorce, it might not be a bad idea to spend some time with a woman who reminded him of good things. Happy times.
He smiled. “That would be nice.”
He made his way back to his house and headed to his grandmother’s bedroom again. Because she’d lived eight months of the year in Florida and four months in Maryland, her house was still furnished as it always had been. An outdated floral bedspread matched floral drapes. Lacy lamps sat on tables by the bed. And the whole place smelled of potpourri.
With a grimace, he walked to the mirrored dresser. He’d looked in the jewelry box the night before. He could check the drawers today, but he had a feeling these lockets and necklaces were something his grandmother had squirreled away. He toed the oval braided rug beneath her bed.
Could she have had a secret compartment under there? Floorboards that he could lift, and find a metal box?
Looking for that was better than flipping through his grandmother’s underwear drawer.
He pushed the bed to the side, off the rug, then knelt and began rolling the carpet, hoping to find a sign of a loose floorboard. With the rug out of the way, he felt along the hardwood, looking for a catch or a spring or something that would indicate a secret compartment. He smoothed his hand along a scarred board, watching the movement of his fingers as he sought a catch, and suddenly his hand hit something solid and stopped.
His gaze shot over and there knelt Owen.
“Hey.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Hey. Does your mom know you’re here?”
The little boy shook his head.
Wyatt sighed. “Okay. Look. I like you. And from what I saw of your house this morning, I get it. You’re a bored guy in a houseful of women.”
Owen’s big brown eyes blinked.
“But you can’t come over here.”
“Yes I can. I can get through the bushes.”
Wyatt stifled a laugh. Leave it to a kid to be literal. “Yes, you can walk over here. It is possible. But it isn’t right for you to leave without telling your mom.”
Owen held out a cell phone. “We can call her.”
Wyatt groaned. “Owen, buddy, I hate to tell you this, but if you took your mom’s phone, you might be in a world of trouble.”
He shoved up off the floor and held out his hand to the little boy. “Sorry, kid. But I’ve got to take you and the phone home.”
Wyatt pulled the hedge back and walked up the steps to Missy’s kitchen, holding Owen’s hand. Knocking on the screen door, he called, “Missy?”
Drying her hands on a dish towel, she appeared at the door, opened it and immediately saw Owen. “Oh, no. I’m sorry! I thought he was in the playroom with the girls.”
She stooped down. “O-ee, honey. You have to stay here with Mommy.”
Owen slid his little arm around Wyatt’s knee and hugged.
And fifty percent of Wyatt’s childhood came tumbling back. He hadn’t been included in the neighbor kids’ games, because he was a nerd. And Owen wasn’t included in his sisters’ games, because he wasn’t a girl. But the feeling of being excluded was the same.
Wyatt’s heart squeezed. “You know what? I didn’t actually bring him home to stay home.” He knew a cry for help when he heard it, and he couldn’t ignore it. He held out her cell phone and she gasped. “I just want you to know where he is, and I wanted to give back your phone.”
She looked up at him. “Are you saying you’ll keep him at your house for a while?�
��
“Sure. I think we could have fun.”
Owen’s grip on his knee loosened.
She caught her son’s gaze again. “If I let you go to Mr. McKenzie’s house for a few hours, will you promise to stay here this afternoon?”
Owen nodded eagerly.
Her gaze climbed up to meet Wyatt’s. “What are you going to do with a kid for a couple of hours?”
“My grandmother kept everything. She should still have the video games I played as a boy. And if she doesn’t, I saw a sandbox out there in your yard. Maybe we could play in that.”
Owen tugged on his jeans. “I have twucks.”
Missy gave Wyatt a hopeful look. “He loves to play in the sand with his trucks.”
He shrugged. “So sand it is. I haven’t showered yet this morning. I can crawl around in the dirt for a few hours.”
Missy rose. “I really appreciate this.”
“It’s no problem.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Missy stood by her huge mixer waiting for her gelatin mix to cool, watching Owen and Wyatt out her kitchen window. Her eyes filled with tears. Her little boy needed a man around, but his dad had run and wanted nothing to do with his triplets. Her dad was a drunk. Her pool of potential men for Owen’s life was very small.
Owen pushed a yellow toy truck through the sand as Wyatt operated a pint-size front-end loader. He filled the back of the truck with sand and Owen “drove” it to the other side of the sandbox, where he dumped it in a growing pile.
Missy put her elbow on the windowsill and her chin on her open palm. She might not want to get involved with Wyatt, but it really would help Owen to have him around for the next month.
Still, he was a rich, good-looking guy, who, if he wanted to play with kids, would have had some by now. It was wrong to even consider asking him to spend time with Owen. Especially since the time he spent with Owen had to be on her schedule, not his.
She took a pitcher of tropical punch and some cookies outside. “I hate to say this,” she said, handing Owen the first glass of punch, “but somebody needs a nap.”
