by Terry Odell
Frankie set the milk aside and grabbed her close. "Of course not. I was scared. Everyone was scared. Sometimes people look angry when they're scared."
"Mr. Snuggles is gone. He saw a pretty leaf, but then he fell into the water and I couldn't catch him." The trickle of tears blossomed into hiccupping sobs.
For the first time, she noticed the absence of the ever-present toy. She stroked Molly's back. "Maybe we can find him tomorrow." Soon, she'd have to talk to Molly about using the dog to avoid blame for her escapades. "I want you to stay right here while I take a shower, okay? Drink your milk. Let's both be glad you're all right. Can you promise me?"
"Promise." The tone held little conviction.
Frankie kissed Molly's cheek. "That's a good girl."
Frankie found sweat pants and another sweatshirt in the dresser. She carried them into the bathroom, took a fast shower, dried off, and tugged them on. Outside, the wind howled. She padded to the window. White flakes danced in a light from under the eaves. She envisioned the photograph she'd been taking. Remembered her camera. If it was ruined, she didn't know what she would do.
Camera? How could she be worried about that? Jack was out there, trying to help her. He'd already waded into the stream, carried her daughter goodness knows how far. And he'd been limping. No matter that he said it was nothing, guys always said that, didn't they?
"Mommy?"
"Coming." Frankie adjusted the drawstring on the sweats to fit her waist, found a pair of heavy socks in the dresser, pulled them over her now cold feet, and went to her daughter.
"I can't get glad, Mommy. Does the man have a timer? I need a grumpy time."
Frankie's heart twisted. She'd been wallowing in herself when Molly was the one who needed help. "I don't know, Peanut. Let's go look."
Chapter 9
Ryan left Frankie's Cavalier under a tree behind the house, away from the barbequed carcass of his Mustang. Bile still rose whenever he caught a glimpse of it. As soon as Ryan opened the car door, Wolf bounded out and raced up the steps. Ryan's pace was less exuberant. His knee ached again, along with almost every muscle in his body. He shivered, trying to ignore the growling from his stomach. He dragged himself up the steps, then stopped. Through gaps in the curtains, he saw silhouetted figures moving around the room in some sort of marching dance.
Good. He'd told Frankie to get the kid moving. He grabbed Wolf by the ruff, eased the door open and blinked. The two of them were stomping around the living room, pounding fists into palms, chanting a vocabulary that sounded most un-Frankie like.
"I'm mad, I'm angry, I'm grumpy. I'm grumpy, I'm angry, I'm mad."
A high-pitched voice rang out over Frankie's, and he bit back a laugh at her kindergarten curse words.
Until he heard fuckit added to the mix. He glanced at Frankie, but she didn't seem fazed by the expletive, which the youngster was now rhyming with bucket. Maybe if he'd stomped around while he swore, he could have saved some money.
"Hi," he said, hanging his parka on a peg by the door. "Can anyone join in?"
"Okay," said the child, not missing a step, "but only until the timer dings. Then you have to be happy again."
Bewildered, Ryan released his grip on Wolf, telling him to stay. The dog flopped down next to the door. Ryan crossed the room and sat on the couch. Familiar cooking aromas teased at the memory centers in his brain, but he couldn't quite identify them. Josh's kitchen timer sat on the coffee table, with about a minute to go.
Frankie gazed at him over her daughter's head, lifted her eyebrows and smiled, but kept on chanting and stomping. His sweatshirt dwarfed the kid, and the sweats Frankie had borrowed didn't fit her much better. She'd rolled thick cuffs on both the shirt and pants. Somehow, face scrubbed, almost every inch of her hidden beneath baggy cotton, she looked sexier than in her Three Elks getup.
When the timer sounded, the show stopped. The two hugged, kissed, and he caught a glimpse of the friendly child he'd first met.
"Okay, Peanut. Time to go home," Frankie said.
"Um, I don't think so," Ryan said.
Frankie's head whipped around. "Is something wrong with my car?"
"No." Not if you didn't count the engine that missed every now and then, the temperamental heater, or the tires that could use a little more tread. "But you've both had a long day, it's snowing, and getting worse. It's not safe on the road."
He watched Frankie's expression go from indignation to frustration to—was it relief?
"We can't impose," Frankie said. "You've done enough already."
He heard the hesitation. "You two can have the bedroom. I'll take the couch. I'm sure the weather will clear by morning."
"A sleepover, Mommy. Like Gramma and Bob." The kid's smile faded and her chin quivered. "But Mr. Snuggles. I need him to sleep, or I might have bad dreams."
Yeah, Ryan thought. Nearly dying could do that to you. He mustered a smile. "You said that you didn't need him every single night. Since you're five now."
She didn't look convinced.
"Tell you what," he went on. "How about if I let you have something better than Mr.…Snuggles?" God, how could a grown man say that out loud? He gave a low whistle, and Wolf trotted over. "This is Wolf. Do you remember him? He's real good at keeping the bad dreams away." He raised his eyebrows at Frankie, hoping he hadn't done anything against her rules.
The kid was already burying her face in Wolf's fur. "Can I, Mommy? A real, live doggie."
Ryan winced at someone calling Wolf a doggie. Frankie crouched next to her daughter and embraced the dog. "I think that will be fine for tonight. Let's get him dried off, though." She looked at Ryan. "Towels?"
"Bathroom cabinet."
The kid skipped toward the bathroom, then stopped. "I don't have a toothbrush."
"There are some new toothbrushes in the bathroom drawer," Ryan said.
At Frankie's lifted eyebrows, he said, "This is my brother's place. He keeps it stocked." And then wondered why he felt the need to explain.
Too tired to move, he leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds coming from the bedroom as Frankie murmured things to her daughter, praised Wolf. He envisioned her sitting on the edge of the bed, telling a bedtime story, brushing her lips against the kid's cheek, tucking her in. He wondered where the father was.
He flashed back to the car explosion, to his father. He'd convinced Pop to spend an extra night in the hospital, thinking he and Dalton might discover who—if anyone—was behind the crash. But they had nothing concrete, and Dalton was gone. He thought about his parka hanging by the door, his gun in the pocket. Suddenly, he felt naked.
"Hey." Frankie stood above him. "I'd say 'penny for your thoughts,' but I think you've got more going on in there than a penny's worth."
He blinked, rubbed his jaw, surprised to feel stubble instead of his beard. "Not really. The kid settled?"
"Wolf's with her, but I think she's exhausted enough to sleep without a dog, stuffed or otherwise."
"I know the feeling."
"Oh. Of course. You're tired. I saved you dinner, though, if you're hungry."
"I can probably stay awake a little longer." He pulled himself off the couch and couldn't hide the grimace when his knee locked. He bent to rub it.
"Sit." She pushed on his shoulders, and he caught a whiff of soap. He knew it didn't smell that good on him. Come to think of it, right now, he was probably rank. He sank back onto the couch.
She hovered over him. "What can I get you for your knee? You have a bandage? Brace? Anything?"
"Ice, if you don't mind."
"Mind? You save my daughter's life and you wonder if I'd mind bringing you some ice? You stay right there. Don't move. I mean it."
"Yes, ma'am." Moments later, she was back. "Here you go," she said. She handed him a plastic bag filled with ice. He set it on his knee, hoping it would take the swelling down. Or at least numb it enough so he could walk without swearing.
"Thanks."
"I me
ant to ask. Where's Dalton?"
So, she wanted to see Dalt. "He had to get back to work. Hope you're not disappointed."
Shit. He'd practically barked at her. He sounded like a jealous fool.
"Why would I be? I'll have your food in a jiffy," she said.
She hadn't noticed his reaction. Or didn't give a damn what he thought. He closed his eyes, dealing with the fact that he obviously wasn't stirring up her insides the way she was stirring up his.
He half dozed, listening to Frankie in the kitchen. He knew if he leaned forward he could watch her at work, but for now he was content to imagine her reaching into the fridge, stretching to reach a high shelf, or bending for a low cabinet. He sensed her return and opened his eyes.
"I brought you some dinner—not really dinner, but there wasn't much to work with, not that I can create much even with a full restaurant kitchen, but Molly likes it, and—"
"And it'll be fine." He sat up. Frankie moved away and he saw a bowl of tomato soup and two grilled cheese sandwiches. He stiffened.
"Oh, dear. You don't like it. I know it's kid food, but that's about all I cook."
"No. It's perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"It's… you didn't look all that happy when you saw it. And after what you did, it should probably be steak. Oh, dear. Wolf. He deserves steak, too."
"Frankie. Wolf is fine. He's with your daughter, and he knows he did good. And the food—it took me back, that's all."
"One of those childhood things? Mine, too. Mom always—oh. Your mom?"
He nodded, unable to talk about how the memories had inundated him. How tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich made rainy days sunny, healed skinned knees and bumped heads, erased being the last one picked for the team, and made everything right in a gangly eight-year-old's world. Normal memories, but tonight, they overwhelmed him.
"Sit down," he said. "Relax."
She wobbled, reaching behind her for the chair. "I guess…now that it's over…everything's okay…I feel kind of …"
Shit. She was white. "Sit down. Head between your knees. Now." He shoved the icepack aside and clambered to his feet.
"Oh, my," she said.
He caught her right before she hit the deck, eased her to the couch. He brushed a strand of golden hair from her face. With her blue eyes closed, he noticed her nose, tilted up just enough to give her an impish look. Her chin narrowed to a triangle, adding to the effect. But her lips. Rich and full, they were anything but impish.
Frankie opened her eyes. "Don't tell me I passed out." She struggled to sit up. "I've never passed out."
He held her down. "Stay there for a minute. It's not an unusual reaction. Your body was running on adrenaline, making sure everything was okay, and once everything was okay, it crashed for a minute."
"I'm so embarrassed. I've never fainted."
"Did you eat?"
"I had a little soup with Molly. I wasn't hungry. Nerves, I guess."
He handed her half a sandwich. "Here. Eat."
She took a tentative bite, chewed it slowly. "Not bad." She giggled, and her eyes twinkled. She took two more huge bites, nothing tentative about them. When her tongue peeked out to sweep an errant crumb from her lower lip, he imagined that tongue on his lips.
"Feeling better, I take it?" The huskiness in his voice surprised him.
She nodded. "Now, you finish your dinner. Can't have you passing out, too."
Uncomfortably aware of his body's reaction to her nearness, he took his food to the chair. Frankie ate the last of the sandwich, licked her fingers, then leaned across to pick up a napkin from the coffee table. He found it hard to reconcile this carefree woman with the panic-stricken one he'd seen only a short while ago. Or the maternal one of a few minutes before, for that matter.
For a moment, the lone sound in the room was the click of his spoon against the soup bowl. Aware that she was watching him as if she expected something, he broke the silence.
"May I ask what you two were doing when I came in?"
"That was our grumpy time out."
"I'm not familiar with the term." He picked up the sandwich and took a bite, the cheese still warm and stringy, the buttery bread toasted crisp. Mayberry time again.
"It's something we do. Life's too short to waste time brooding about the negative. So, every now and then, we set aside a time to gather up all our anger, frustration, or grumps, as Molly calls them, and get them out in the open. It's amazing how hard it is for a five-year-old to stay grumpy for ten minutes—and after solid ranting, you can't be upset anymore." She lowered her head, and a flush rose from her neck to her cheeks.
He wiped his fingers on a napkin. "Does the ten minute thing work for you, too?"
"Most of the time. I've been called a Pollyanna, but truly, it's much easier to go through life happy."
"So nothing gets you down?"
She sobered. "Lots of things." Her smile returned. "But only for ten minutes."
He couldn't hold back a smile of his own. Frankie stood and gathered the dishes. While she was in the kitchen, he retrieved his Glock, stuffing it under the couch cushion. He sat, extended his aching leg and reapplied the icepack.
Frankie returned and flopped down in the chair opposite him with a sigh. "I totally forgot—did you find my things?"
Her eyes were full of hope, and he was damn glad he could give her a positive answer. "Right where you said they'd be. Got 'em before it started snowing. They seem fine."
She looked around, her eyes scanning the room.
He started to rise, but she interrupted. "Stay put. Tell me where they are, and I'll get them."
"Beside the coat rack."
She almost skipped across the room. "Thank you so much. I really owe you."
Seeing such unabashed optimism was payment enough, but he didn't know how to explain it—not without going somewhere he didn't want to go.
"Oh, you found my tote, too. I'm so glad. Molly's treasures were in there. At least she didn't lose everything."
She snatched the camera bag. After checking her camera, she set it aside and peered into the canvas carryall.
"And you found Mr. Snuggles! Where was he?" She held up the soggy and torn toy.
"Wolf found him. I'm afraid he's a little the worse for wear. I didn't want to say anything. If he's a lost cause, I didn't want her to know."
Frankie examined the bedraggled toy. "A needle and thread, a trip through the washing machine, and I think he'll make a full recovery." She set the stuffed dog alongside the tote and crossed to the chair. Her step was heavy and her shoulder slumped.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I don't know. Molly seemed to be making the adjustment—the move from Boston was out of the blue, but she's a friendly kid, and seemed to be fitting in. But maybe she's unhappy. She's become so attached to Mr. Snuggles. She takes him everywhere. In Boston, he lived on her bed."
"It's probably just a phase. Lots of kids have security blankets, teddy bears, whatever."
She smiled. "And you?"
He scratched his head. "Pancho. Nobody could see him but me. I blamed an awful lot of mischief on him."
Frankie leaned forward. "I think that's what Molly's doing with Mr. Snuggles. She tells me that he wants to do all this stuff. As if she's using him to avoid the consequences of her actions. Like falling into streams. She told me Mr. Snuggles wanted to see a pretty leaf. I'm worried she's upset I dragged her away from her friends, and she's trying to fight back."
"Testing limits sounds like a normal kid thing to me, especially if you can blame someone—or something—else. But I have to tell you, my knowledge of kids could be written on the head of a pin."
"I'll bet you can write really, really small." She got up and paced the room. "I should talk to her about it, but she was so scared this afternoon, I didn't have the nerve. I don't want to punish her, but I have to make her see that she's the one calling the shots, not her toy."
"It must be hard raising a kid. What abo
ut her father?" He stopped, aware he'd crossed a line.
Frankie tossed her head. "She doesn't have a father. I mean, of course, she has one, but he's out of the picture. It's Molly and me. And if anything happened to her—like today, I don't know what I'd do. How did I let it happen?" She paced at warp speed now, and her voice cracked.
He watched her make three circuits of the living room. "Please. Come sit down. You're making me dizzy."
She shook her head, and he knew ten minutes wouldn't be enough to get over this one. He struggled to his feet and limped to her side. When he took her hand, she followed him back to the couch and sat beside him.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to cry," she said. "I never cry."
He believed her.
She went on. "Crying wastes time when you could be finding the bright side. That's my specialty, you know. Finding the bright side."
When she burst into sobs, he reached for her.
*****
Frankie sucked in a deep breath and buried her face in Jack's shirt. She couldn't meet his eyes. He must think she was a total baby. His hand stroked her hair.
She wheezed, hiccupped and pushed away. "I'm sorry. I've been nothing but trouble."
"I didn't check my watch," he said, "but I think you have at least nine and-a-half minutes of grump time left. Or don't your rules cover crying jags?" He thumbed a tear from her cheek.
Frankie traced her fingers over his hand, then took it in hers. He covered it with his other hand and leaned forward. Her heart pounded, and her face flamed. She jerked away. Then laughed. "I wouldn't know. I told you, I never cry."
He stared at her for a moment. "I need a shower. Will it wake her if I get some clothes from the bedroom?"
Relieved that he seemed to be ignoring her embarrassment, she stood. "I doubt it, but tell me what you need, and where. That way, if she wakes up, I can get her back to sleep. Besides, I should check on her."
"There's a laundry basket in the closet. Bring out the whole thing. They're clean, but I don't seem to get to the putting away stage."
Frankie crept into the bedroom. Wolf raised his head. Molly's arm was flung over his back, her breathing deep and even. In lieu of a nightlight, Frankie had left the closet light on and the door ajar. Opening it enough to squeeze inside, she hoisted the plastic laundry basket to her hip and returned the door to its almost-closed position. Wolf's eyes shone in the reflected light.
