by Judy Duarte
Walter didn’t know for sure, but he had an idea that she was having a hard time making ends meet, even when she was receiving a full paycheck. So being on disability would put her in a real crunch.
He could offer to help her out, although he wasn’t sure if that would ruffle her pride or not. Maybe he’d have to feel her out about it first. He’d hate to put a strain on their friendship before it even had a chance to get off the ground.
After reaching into his pocket and pulling out a couple of quarters and the business card Sam Dawson had given him, Walter dialed the home number the attorney had written on the back.
Sam answered on the third ring, and Walter introduced himself. Then he shared the news the doctor had given him, which Sam relayed to someone else.
Claire, Walter realized. Good. That would save him a call.
Walter had also promised to keep Maria updated, too. So when the line disconnected, he slid his hand back into his slacks pocket and poked around, hoping to find the slip of paper on which Maria had written her number.
He patted down several pockets, including the one that held his wallet, but didn’t have any luck. Where’d he put it?
A few days ago, when they’d been chatting at the park, Hilda had mentioned that Maria lived in the old historical district of Fairbrook, which had caused Walter to sit up straight. “Oh yeah? Which street?”
“Sugar Plum Lane. She owns one of those old Victorian homes. Do you know where that is?”
“Sure do.” Even if Walter had been new in town, and he wasn’t, he would have known about that neighborhood. Each year, the folks who lived on Sugar Plum Lane got all caught up in the Christmas spirit and practically illuminated the entire town with their light displays of Santa Claus, the nativity, and scenes from the Nutcracker. Why, people from miles around made the trek during the holidays, just to see how pretty it was.
Walter wondered if Maria went to the same trouble. Probably. He suspected the others in the neighborhood would be up in arms if she didn’t.
Still, the cost of the December electricity bill would put a real crunch on anyone living within a budget. And hadn’t Hilda mentioned that Maria had been divorced recently? Of course, he didn’t know anything about her situation or her finances. Maybe her ex-husband was paying through the nose for his kids.
Not that it was any of Walter’s business.
He supposed he could drive by Sugar Plum Lane on the way home and try to spot the minivan she drove.
What else did he have to do tonight?
Fifteen minutes later, as Walter turned down the quiet, tree-lined street, a sense of nostalgia wrapped around him like a soft flannel quilt on a dark winter night. It was easy to imagine he was a boy again, playing stickball or kick-the-can with the neighbor kids. Or sitting by the radio listening to The Green Hornet or Jack Armstrong, The All-American Boy.
Sure enough, just as he reached the cul-de-sac, he recognized Maria’s minivan in front of a pale blue house with white gingerbread trim. So he parked the truck and strode up the walk. The doorbell didn’t sound when he pushed on the button, so he assumed it wasn’t working properly and rapped sharply.
“Who is it?” a woman—Maria—asked from behind the closed door.
“It’s Walter Klinefelter, ma’am. I lost your phone number and wanted to let you know that Hilda came through her surgery okay.”
“That’s wonderful news.” Maria opened the door wearing a blousy maternity top and a pair of shorts. She was a pretty little thing, with long dark hair and big brown eyes. “Would you like to come in?”
He didn’t want to be a bother, but truth was he’d always been curious about the houses in this particular neighborhood. “For a minute, I suppose.”
She stepped aside, and he entered the quaint and cozy living room, with pink, floral-print wallpaper he suspected had adorned the walls for years.
The hardwood floor, polished and clean, had been darkened by age and scarred from use. If anything, Walter thought it added to the charm, as did the antique furnishings.
“I really like your house,” he said. “It’s warm and homey. Reminds me of the place I used to live in when I was just a boy.”
“In Fairbrook?”
“No. In Escondido. It’s about thirty minutes north of here.”
Maria’s breath caught, and her hand went to her belly.
“You okay?” Walter asked.
She nodded, but rubbed her stomach and made funny breathing noises.
Dang. She wasn’t going into labor, was she? If so, he’d better hightail it home.
She arched her back and blew out a bone-weary sigh. “Sorry. I keep having those.”
“Pains?” he asked.
“They’re called Braxton Hicks contractions.”
As far as he was concerned, she might as well have been speaking a foreign language. When he squinted at the term, she added, “It’s just false labor.”
Since she already had two little ones, she ought to know. So Walter continued his trek into the living room, slowing next to an upright piano.
“That used to belong to my great-grandmother,” Maria said. “It’s nearly a hundred years old.”
Her breath caught again, and he froze in his tracks. Then he slowly turned to face her, slipping his hands knuckle-deep into the front pockets of his slacks. “You’re making me nervous, Maria.”
“I’m sorry. I still have nearly six weeks to go. And I’ve been having these off and on for quite a while. I’m sure they’re…”
She started that fool breathing again, which couldn’t be a good sign.
Walter combed his hand through his hair. “Maybe you ought to have someone come and stay with you tonight.”
“If I thought I was going into labor, I’d give my cousin a call. She lives in L.A. and promised she’d come and look after the kids when I go to the hospital.”
That was all well and good. But who was going to stay with Maria?
Having a baby, no matter how experienced a woman was, couldn’t be easy. Not that Walter knew squat about that sort of thing.
“Are you sure this is nothing?” he asked.
“I’m sure. I’ve had a lot of aches and pains with this pregnancy. Probably because of all the stress I’ve been under. My husband…” She grimaced, then started rubbing her stomach again.
Walter might not be an expert, but he’d seen this sort of thing in movies. And he didn’t like it when she stopped talking and started panting. Nope. He didn’t like it one little bit.
Surely this was a joke. The Ol’ Boy Upstairs must be having quite a laugh at Walter’s expense, but this wasn’t funny.
“Well,” she said, “let’s just say that after all the stuff I’ve been through I would have lost this poor kid months ago. And I didn’t.”
Maybe Walter ought to make an excuse and go home.
Why in blazes had he agreed to come inside the house anyway? It only made leaving more awkward.
“You know,” he said, “if you’re not feeling well, it might be best if I went home. You could probably stand to get a little sleep.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Good. He began to make his way toward the door. Just a few more steps and he’d be free.
“Oh!” she said to his back.
His steps faltered, his heart rumbled in his chest, and his adrenaline kicked into high gear. He wouldn’t bolt, but he was afraid to face her.
“I almost forgot,” she said. “I need to give you my phone number so you don’t have to drive all the way over here next time.”
Oh, yeah.
Relieved, Walter slowly turned and smiled. “Good idea.”
She walked to the lamp table nearest the sofa, then opened the drawer. As she fumbled around inside, she suddenly froze.
Oh, no. Not another one. This was not Walter’s night. He was going to suggest she call the doctor. Or maybe her cousin. Someone female and far more capable than he was.
After all, who was he? Some reluctant
patron saint of women in pain?
God, who was probably still enjoying a hearty chuckle, knew Walter was way over his head with this sort of thing.
But Walter hadn’t realized how much so, until Maria cried out, “Uh-oh,” and he followed her gaze to the floor.
There, a puddle of water pooled at her feet.
Chapter 13
By the time Claire drove home after having dinner with Sam and Analisa, it was nearly nine o’clock. She parked in the garage, but rather than close the automatic door, go inside and secure the house for the evening, she walked to the front yard.
Each night, the sprinklers kicked on just after dark but didn’t get enough water on the rosebushes that lined the walkway. Since it had been exceptionally warm the past couple of days, she suspected the plants were thirsty.
She took the end of the garden hose from the spindle on which it had been neatly wound and turned the faucet until a steady stream flowed.
Ron had known how much she loved roses, so he’d gone to the nursery on each of their anniversaries and purchased a plant. After he’d brought home the first, he’d smiled and said, “Any man can buy his wife flowers, but it takes a real romantic to tend a full-on garden.”
The bushes numbered ten now, and since he’d moved out, she’d had to hire a landscape service to look after them.
Her favorite was a hearty plant that produced blood-red flowers with a strong, mesmerizing fragrance. And tonight, it bore several new buds, one of which was opening beautifully.
When she finished watering, she retrieved the clippers from the garage, carefully cut the thorny stem and carried the flower into the house. Unable to help herself, she inhaled deeply, relishing the heady scent.
How long had it been since she’d taken time to literally stop and smell the roses? Or to notice the birds chirping in their nests, the splashes of color along the walkways at Mulberry Park?
She carried the rose into the kitchen, where she placed it in a single bud vase and left it on the counter—right where Ron used to leave them after he’d tended the plants. She hated to admit it, but sometimes she missed Ron. Or maybe she just missed having someone to talk to. Either way, he was dating someone now—a tall blonde named Dana.
The other day, Claire had run into them at the grocery store—one in which she didn’t normally shop. She’d turned the corner only to almost bang her empty cart into his.
“Claire,” he’d said.
That was it. Just “Claire.”
They’d studied each other for a moment, then her gaze had traveled to his companion. He’d introduced the two women, which had been a bit awkward.
“How’ve you been?” he asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“All right.”
Then they’d gone their own ways, just as they had the day they finalized their divorce settlement.
She’d thought about Ron earlier tonight, while she’d sat across the dinner table from Sam. And she’d been unable to refrain from comparing the men.
Sam was the better looking of the two.
That, of course, didn’t mean anything. Men and women needed to connect on an emotional level. Like she and Sam had done this evening.
As she turned away from the sink, she spotted the front of the refrigerator where Analisa’s picture of Erik the Angel and the blue-and-gray robot her son had drawn three years ago now graced the door. Completely different pictures and styles—just like the two children.
There was no reason to compare the drawings or the kids, as she’d done earlier with Sam and Ron, but while she studied the artwork, Trevor came to mind. Although she had no intention of comparing the boys, either, she couldn’t help thinking about the dissimilarities of their homes and upbringing.
She thought about her plan to take Analisa to the library tomorrow. Should she include Trevor, too?
Of course, she hadn’t spoken to Katie yet. Was it too late to do so now?
She glanced at the clock over the stove: 9:12. Whenever she’d had to make calls for the school, Cub Scouts, or sports, she’d tried to do so early. But if she wanted to talk to Trevor’s guardian, she’d have to find the woman at home.
Claire reached for her purse, which rested on the countertop. Then she searched inside until she found the number Trevor had given her.
The phone rang three times before the boy answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, Trevor. It’s Mrs. Harper. Can I speak to Katie?”
“She’s still not home.”
Claire’s stomach lurched. “I thought this was her early day at work.”
“It is. But she called a while ago and said she was going out with some friends.”
Leaving Trevor alone yet again?
Claire glanced out the kitchen window, where the trees in the backyard darkened the night with Halloween shadows.
“Are you okay with that?” she asked.
“It’s no big deal. I’m just watching television.”
Something appropriate for a child his age, she hoped. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Yeah. Chicken noodle soup and crackers.”
What kind of meal was that? Claire wrapped the curly phone cord around the length of her index finger. “Does Katie go out very often after work?”
“No. But I think it’s good that she has friends and all.”
And what about Trevor? Did he have friends? Was Katie concerned about him getting a chance to socialize with children his age?
“You don’t mind being alone?” Claire asked.
“No, I’m used to it.”
She feared that was all too true, and her heart ached for him.
“Besides,” he added, “I got the door locked. And I don’t answer it, even if someone bangs on it and says to open up.”
“Does that happen very often?”
“No. But it has.”
The tip of Claire’s index finger turned a dark red, and she slowly unwrapped the cord that hampered the circulation. “How old are you, Trevor?”
“Nine and a half.”
The age Erik had been when he died. Claire’s stomach, already knotted, twisted into a clump. “I was just wondering something. You said your father worked out of the country.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Which country?”
“Uhh…” He paused. “Colorado.”
“That’s a state, Trevor.”
“Yeah.” Another pause. “I mean Colorado, Canada.”
Claire knew a boy’s lie when she heard one. “I see. Will he be home soon?”
“I don’t know. He said he might.”
She again asked herself how involved she wanted to get in this child’s life, yet she didn’t have a ready answer. “Well, I’d better let you go. Will you be at the park tomorrow?”
“I guess so. There isn’t anything to do around here.”
“All right. I’ll see you then.” After disconnecting the phone, Claire held onto the receiver until the dial tone kicked into alert-mode.
What was with the whale’s tale about his father working in another country?
Her imagination took a couple of flying leaps, making her ponder all kinds of possibilities, most of them suggesting child protective services ought to be contacted.
Instead, she dialed her friend Vickie.
They made small talk for a while, which came easier than she’d expected. And before ending the call, they scheduled a day at the spa—but not until after the Little League season ended, of course.
Under normal circumstances, Claire would have thought about how much Erik had liked baseball and wondered if he and Vickie’s son would have been rivals or teammates. But her thoughts took another turn this time.
Had Trevor ever considered going out for sports? Would Katie make sure he got back and forth to practice or to games?
“August third works for me,” Vickie said.
“Good.” Claire made a note on her calendar, which was pretty bare on weekends. “I’ll call and make the appointments tomorro
w. Assuming I can get them scheduled around the lunch hour, why don’t we plan to eat at Café Giovanni that day, too?”
“Sounds fun. I’m looking forward to it. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
They did, but again Claire’s thoughts returned to Trevor. “Hey, Vick. Does your cousin still work for the Department of Social Services?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because I wanted to talk to her about this little boy I know.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t think he’s being cared for properly. And I thought she’d know who I should contact if I wanted to make a report.”
Vickie recited Marti Stephenson’s number, and Claire jotted it down on the notepad beside the phone.
She still didn’t know how far she wanted to take this. But at least she could learn her options.
Maria looked at Walter, her big brown eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m scared.”
She wasn’t the only one. Walter was darn near shaking in his lucky argyle socks, which were quickly proving to be not so lucky tonight. And why wouldn’t he be scared?
Times may have changed, but he was from an era when men were sent to boil water or to wait in the barn while women gave birth.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe we ought to call an ambulance.”
“My insurance isn’t all that good, although it’s better than nothing. And since I’m not sure if they’ll pay for an ambulance—especially if this isn’t technically considered an imminent emergency—I don’t want to risk it.”
Great. “I don’t suppose your doctor makes house calls?”
“I’m afraid not.” She glanced at the liquid pooled on the floor. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
He watched her disappear through a doorway, and when she returned, she carried a big, yellow towel and dropped it onto the wet hardwood floor. Then she attempted to mop up the puddle using her foot.
“Let me get that for you.” Walter gently guided her away from the mess.
“Thank you.” Maria arched her back, then rubbed her belly.
As he proceeded to mop up the floor, Walter felt as though he ought to say something. But what? When it came to childbirth, he was completely out of his league. Not that he was any more competent with bigger children. His stepsons had been eight and ten years old when he’d met their mother, and he’d always let her handle their day-to-day care.
