Me: If you hadn’t gone on vacation, you’d know.
Emi: I AM AT A CONFERENCE!
Me: Kidding. But don’t worry. Everything’s okay. I think.
Emi: SO … NOT FIRED?
Me: Nope. And I got a second job. Wish me luck.
Emi: LUCK LUCK LUCK. BUT ALSO???!!!???
Me: Wouldn’t you like to know.
Emi: YES, THAT IS MY POINT!
Me: Let’s FaceTime tonight. I’ll catch you up.
I send her a string of kissy-face emojis. Then I grab my backpack and head to the curb. I’m early, but I want to be sure Mac Bradford knows I take my job seriously. He can’t be too hard to convince, though. He actually believed I quit teaching because I don’t like kids. And who knows? Maybe I won’t like Daisy Bradford. After all, she did throw plastic food at me. More than once.
I’m standing in the shade of a maple tree when a black RAV4 hums around the corner.
A new SUV?
Who are you, Mac Bradford?
Scratch that. I don’t want to know.
8
Mac
Brooke’s waiting in front of her building when Daisy and I pull up. We were supposed to be here ten minutes ago, but renting the car took longer than I thought. She’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder, and she’s wearing a purple sundress and matching Chuck Taylors. Her hair is in a loose braid instead of down like it was last night. I flash back to the moment in the truck when she brushed her hair off her neck. But then I quickly shake off the memory.
You can’t think about Brooke like that.
I hop out of the RAV and jog around to open the passenger-side door. “You’re late,” Brooke says before I can apologize.
“Well.” I smile. “Good morning to you too.”
She doesn’t respond. She’s just staring at the car.
“It’s a rental,” I say, shifting my weight. “Something safe and reliable for you to drive Daisy around in.” I shrug. “Figured you probably like Toyotas because of the Celica.”
Brooke cocks her head. “That’s probably correct.” She leans past me and pokes her head inside. The leather interior is the color of a baseball glove. Smooth and supple.
She sucks in a breath. “Gosh, I love that smell.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say. That’s when I realize she’s talking about the new leather. I’m talking about her shampoo.
“So are we heading to your house?” she asks.
My house. Right.
“Before we go,” I say in a low voice, “you should probably know, Daisy and I have been staying at my folks’ place this past year. It made things easier when my mom was helping us out. But now that Dad’s gone—and my mom left—I figure it’s time to head home.”
Brooke blinks. A flash of sympathy I’d been hoping to avoid. She steps away from the passenger seat and climbs into the middle row next to Daisy. That’s when I remember Daisy’s still covered in Tess’s lipstick. Big red smears across her face.
Brooke doesn’t say a word about it, though. She just opens her backpack and pulls a red marker out. Then she draws a giant clown mouth all over herself.
Daisy starts to giggle.
Wow. How about that?
I jog around to the driver’s side and check the back to be sure everyone’s buckled in.
“You ready?” I ask.
She smirks. “I was ready ten minutes ago.”
My place is about as far as you can get from McCoy Construction and still be in Apple Valley. At the time, I thought this location would make it easier for Gwen to forget she married a guy who didn’t want to be a CEO. I just wanted to be her husband. Have a bunch of babies. Live a quiet life.
About halfway to the house, when we’re stopped at a light, I check the rearview mirror.
Brooke catches me checking and sticks out her tongue. Daisy giggles. Again.
“Hey. What’s so funny, Daisy?” Brooke asks. “Did somebody tickle you?”
Daisy says nothing.
“By the way, you can call me Brooke.”
Daisy still doesn’t respond.
“Yep, I get it,” Brooke says. “You don’t know me very well yet, but I can tell we’ll be good friends. We’re going to have a great month together, I promise. And I never break a promise.”
Hearing that punches the air out of my lungs.
Daisy reaches out and pokes Brooke’s chin.
“Yep. That’s my chin,” Brooke says. “And you poking it means we’re best chin-friends now. No getting out of it.” She shrugs. “You’re stuck with me.”
When the light turns green, Brooke flashes me a look. “Eyes on the road, please.”
I shake my head and chuckle. “I see how it is.”
For the rest of our drive, Brooke asks Daisy a bunch of questions, waiting between each one like Daisy’s actually responding.
“Do you have a favorite toy?” Pause. “What kind of games do you like to play?” Pause. “Hide and seek? Chutes and Ladders? Candy Land?” Pause. “I can’t wait to see your bedroom.” Pause. “I’ll bet it’s pink. Or maybe purple. Like my shoes.”
Brooke’s still in a one-way conversation when I turn onto our street. My street now. The three-bedroom craftsman is small on square footage (just ask Gwen) but big on character (just ask me). The outside is butter yellow with a cherry-red front door. All the trim is forest green. Behind the property is a shallow creek that swells each spring. Pulling into the driveway, I park in the stretch of gravel between the house and the detached garage. I used to use that space for my furniture making, back when I had the time and heart for that kind of thing.
“Here we are,” I say. I cut the engine and turn around.
Daisy’s eyes are huge as saucers. My gut twists.
I feel it too.
Bringing Daisy here could be a huge mistake. But I figured if anything might get a reaction out of her—maybe even get her talking again—it would be coming home. I also figured if Daisy does have a meltdown, at least I’ll have Brooke around for backup.
“Nice place,” Brooke says. She meets my gaze, and I can’t tell if she’s smiling or frowning with all the red marker on her mouth.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s washable.” Did she read my mind?
I’d better watch myself.
Brooke helps Daisy out of the RAV, then waits for me to join them. Before I even get around the front of the car, Daisy takes off at a gallop toward the house.
“Slow down!” I call out. “The front door’s locked! You won’t be able to get in.”
Daisy freezes on the porch, waiting for Brooke and me to catch up.
“That backpack looks kind of heavy,” I say. “Want me to take it for you?”
“I can handle it,” Brooke says, hefting the pack up on her shoulder.
By the time we reach the porch, Daisy’s hopping up and down. I unlock the door and Daisy heads in first. Brooke follows her.
Here goes nothing.
The place smells like pine trees and dust. Like home. A wave of nostalgia washes over me. I look up and a spider scrambles up a wood beam. Brooke sees it too.
Her mouth slips sideways. “Charlotte’s web. Sweet.”
Daisy’s already through the front room, hurling her body onto our L-shaped couch. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and pulls her legs up under her.
“I forgot a couple bags in the car,” I tell Brooke. “I’ll be right back.”
Technically this is true. I did pack some snacks from my mom’s pantry, knowing the cupboards here would be bare. But I also need a minute to collect myself. I don’t want Daisy or Brooke to see me getting all misty.
That’s my business for now.
I take my time trudging to and from the car and try to calm my nerves. I tell myself hiring Brooke—and coming home—was a good idea.
Just don’t let it be the worst.
When I finally come back in through the house and catch sight of Brooke and Daisy, I almost drop my bags. Daisy has moved across
the couch within inches of Brooke. Practically on her lap. Brooke must have washed their faces because their skin looks freshly scrubbed. What’s most surprising about the scene, though, is that Daisy’s letting Brooke braid her hair.
For a year now, getting a brush near Daisy has been a huge battle for me. Now Daisy’s sitting there calmly, getting a braid to match Brooke’s.
“Wow!” I say out loud, and Daisy jerks her head. The braid goes taut and Daisy flinches. She makes a noise that sounds like ouch.
It’s barely a whisper. But I heard it. I drop the bags.
“Did you just say ouch?”
Rushing to her side, I fall to my knees. “Do it again, Daisy. Say ouch again!” Then I start pulling on my own hair and repeating ouch like some kind of lunatic. I’m making a total fool of myself. But it’s been months since I’ve heard Daisy speak.
I’d do anything to keep this going.
Daisy doesn’t keep going, though. She frowns.
Play it cool, Mac. Be cool.
Brooke catches my eye and nods in the direction of the kitchen.
“Hey,” she says. “Why don’t you go put whatever you’ve got in those bags away, and I’ll finish Daisy’s hair.”
“I can stay.”
“We’re good, Mac.” Brooke’s smile goes crooked. “Go on now. Shoo fly. Shoo.” She waves at me. “Buzz off.”
Daisy raises a hand and waves at me too. Then she puts her lips together and says, “Buzz!”
Loud and clear.
“Buzz! Did you hear that?” My heart leaps in my chest. “Daisy buzzed at me! Do it again. Daisy. Please!”
The corners of my eyes start to sting. So much for not letting anyone see me get misty. Brooke looks down at Daisy with that crooked smile still on her face.
This is a woman who doesn’t like kids?
“Buzz,” Daisy says again. She is staring at me now. I hang onto our eye contact like it’s a life preserver and I’m a drowning man. She must not like the attention, because she frowns again and points at Brooke’s brush.
“Oh. Should we get back to your braid?” Brooke asks.
Daisy flips around so Brooke can finish doing her hair. My focus bounces between Daisy and Brooke. I barely know this woman, but I’m starting to think she might be just what we need.
Daisy said buzz for her.
Yes, it was only one word. More like a sound. Just a buzz. But that’s enough for now.
Because I’m home. With my daughter.
Thank you, Brooke Wallace.
As if reading my mind again, Brooke glances up and nods. “I think we’re good, Mac. I’ll take things from here.”
Her first day on the job. And she can take things from here.
That’s one small step for Brooke.
One giant leap for Mac McCoy.
9
Brooke
Now that Daisy said ouch and buzz, I’m afraid Mac’s hoping for more breakthroughs. But the girl won’t be reciting the Gettysburg Address with me. Or doing calculus. (I can’t do calculus.)
Instead I unpack some books and we get comfortable on the couch. Daisy turns the pages. I read the words. Every once in a while, I go off-script and include crazy details that have nothing to do with the story. Daisy looks up at me, eyes wide.
She’s not talking, but she’s paying attention.
Mac keeps coming through the room, claiming he’s on the hunt for a hammer or batteries or glue. His face flushes each time I catch him staring.
Each time it’s … very cute.
Daisy and I move on to water color paintings. She makes a house, I make a rainbow. I tape our artwork to the refrigerator. Then it’s time for lunch. I fix us hot dogs and macaroni. Gosh, I love kid food. After our dishes are washed and dried and put away, I ask Daisy if I can see her bedroom. She leads me up the stairs and down the hall to the second door on the right.
Once inside, she makes a beeline for the toy box and picks out a stuffed animal turtle.
“Nice turtle, Daisy. What’s his name?”
She shrugs.
“Her name?”
Nothing.
“Can I hold your turtle?”
Daisy shakes her head, then tosses the turtle back into the toy box. That’s when Mac peeks around the corner. Again.
“Oh. Hey. Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “I’m just looking for my phone.”
“You mean the one in your hand?”
“Right.” He blushes. Furiously. Again. “I’m ordering an Uber to take me to the rental place. I’ve got to pick up my truck so you can take the RAV from now on.”
“Are you sure that’s not too expensive?”
He blushes harder. “I’ll figure it out.”
After Mac’s gone, I ask Daisy if she wants to play hide and seek. She hops and claps and scampers away. I’ll take that as a yes.
I count to fifty. Loudly.
“Where are you, Daisy?” I call out in that exaggerated voice you use with kids. I don’t find her in the guest room down the hall. And she’s not hiding in Mac’s room either. (I check there quickly so I’m not invading the man’s privacy. Much.)
Besides a few flannel shirts and the sweet smell of cedar, his closet is mostly empty. This makes sense since Mac told me he and Daisy have been living at his mom’s house.
A king-size bed, one dresser, and two nightstands take up the rest of the space. The comforter is a soft gray. Navy pillows rest against the headboard. A cream-colored blanket is folded at the foot. Under the bed are a couple of dust bunnies.
They make me sneeze.
“I’m coming to find you, Daisy!”
The upstairs bathroom has a row of rubber duckies in the tub and a tiny frog bathrobe hanging on the door. There is no makeup or perfume on the counter.
All the cabinets are bare.
If it sounds like I’m snooping, I’m not. Mostly. The thing is, the more I learn about the Bradfords, the better I’ll be able to help them.
“Daisy. Where are you? I’m coming to find you!”
Most of the pictures around the house are of Daisy. Baby Daisy. Daisy as a toddler with an older couple I assume are Mac’s parents. There are also portraits of Mac at different ages, along with three girls who look remarkably alike. The biggest picture over the mantle features a pack of kids on a porch overlooking a lake. They have crooked smiles. And twinkling eyes. Hair ranging from strawberry blonde to full blown red.
So. Mac’s part of a big, happy family.
Hmm.
“Daisy. Where on earth are you?”
Eventually I find her hiding behind the curtains in the dining room. She giggles and takes off running again, so I chase her around the house for a while.
By the time Mac returns, Daisy and I are back in the kitchen making animals from pipe cleaners. He meets my gaze and tilts his head.
His look says, Has Daisy talked?
My cheeks turn pink. Maybe I haven’t done enough. “We’re just having some quiet fun here. Aren’t we, Daisy?”
Emphasis on quiet.
“Anyway, I should probably head to the library.” I set down my pipe cleaners and stand. “Did you get your truck?”
He nods. “The RAV is all yours.”
Guilt claws at my throat. The Bradfords aren’t made of money, and I’m adding to their expenses. “Only until I can afford to get my car fixed.”
“On that note,” he says, “I’ve been thinking I could pay you every Monday. A thousand dollars for the previous week’s work for the next month. Sound fair?”
“Sounds fair.”
“In the meantime …” He comes over to me and presses some money into my hands. When our fingers brush, a chill runs up my spine. “That’s two hundred,” he says.
I bristle. “Um … why? It’s only Tuesday.”
“To tide you over for rest of the week. Big Macs and Filet-O-Fishes aren’t free.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t need charity.”
“It’s not charity.” He shrugs. “I
t’s your salary.”
As much as I hate to admit it, Mac is right. And I’m hungry. “Fine.” I straighten my shoulders. “Deduct it from my first thousand.”
Mac’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Wallace.”
I turn to Daisy. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Think about what you’d like to play so you can let me know in the morning.” Daisy keeps her eyes fixed on her pipe cleaners. I can’t tell if she’s sad that I’m leaving now, or that I’m coming back. Either way, I have to go.
I have just enough time to hit the McDonald’s drive-thru and clock in at the library before Gus clocks out. Lucy Devlin spots me high-fiving myself. So my awkwardness is still intact. Hooray.
Later, after work, I FaceTime with Emi from her hotel room. Her grin fills most of the screen. Her bubbly personality takes up the rest. With those long, blonde curls and her sky blue eyes, Emi Jones is a total Disney princess. Next to her I’m Wednesday Addams.
Altogether ooky.
“I think Mac wanted to give me the Nobel Peace Prize,” I tell her. My phone’s propped on the coffee table and I’ve got Mrs. Sprat’s pie in my lap. “Did Daisy talk more while you were there?” Emi asks.
“Nope. Totally silent. But when she likes something, she tugs on her braid. When she frowns, that means no.”
Emi chuckles. “Sounds like you two have worked out quite the system.”
“Mac kept coming around, pretending he needed something. Like a hammer. Or super glue. He was obviously checking up on us. Then he’d get all flustered and leave.”
“If you ask me, he sounds kind of adorable,” Emi says.
“I mean, sure. If you like dads.” An extremely hot dad.
“But seriously, though,” Emi says. “What does he look like? Besides a dad?”
“I don’t know. He’s a T-shirt and jeans guy. He’s tall. There are definitely muscles happening. I guess he’s got a lumberjack vibe going.” My stomach churns. Must be the pie. Because I’m definitely not interested in Mac Bradford.
“Lumberjacks are sexy,” Emi says. “Try to get a picture of him next time. Just a quick selfie with your phone.”
The Mostly Real McCoy: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Apple Valley Love Stories Book 1) Page 6
