Mackinnon 03 - The Bonus Mom

by Jennifer Greene

  “Hey. Should we call you Mrs. MacKinnon? Or Miss MacKinnon? Or Rosemary? Or what?” Lilly was clearly the one who wanted to know the rules.

  “You can call me Rosemary. And I’m a Miss, not a Mrs.”

  “How come?” That was definitely Pepper. No boundaries on Pepper’s tongue.

  “Because I was happy being single.”

  “Oh. Okay. Can we look around, while we’re waiting for my dad? It’s about the most beautiful house I can remember.”

  “Yes, you can look around...except in the first room down that hall. For a long time it was a utility room, but I turned it into a dark room to develop photographs. When that door’s closed, you’ll see a red light next to the knob, and that means you shouldn’t open the door.”

  “You really develop pictures? Yourself? Right here?”

  It had been a while since she’d “awestruck” anyone...much less had anyone treat her like a goddess. Her family—at least her parents—rarely had a pleasant word to say to her. Since June, whenever they called, it was invariably to make sure she knew her Terrible Mistake hadn’t been forgotten, and probably never would be. Her two brothers would have defended her against the world—and always had—but even they skirted around the question of why she’d done such a “damn fool thing.”

  The girls talked her ears off—and asked more questions than a teacher on a test. But after being raised with two brothers—and working alone all these months since June—Rosemary didn’t mind. She inhaled all the girl talk.

  She never heard a knock on the door, never heard anything until the girls both squealed, “Dad!”

  They’d ended up in the kitchen—both girls had chosen to ignore the table, and instead sat on the counter with their legs swinging—some body part always seemed to be in motion with them. They’d somehow conned her into wrapping up three more cream puffs to take home with them. Possibly she’d been easily conned. Besides, she’d made the full recipe, and even sugar-greedy as she was, couldn’t possibly eat a dozen.

  “Dad! We’re having so much fun! Can we stay a little longer?”

  And then, “Dad, this is Rosemary. Rosemary, this is Dad—”

  “He’s not Dad when you’re introducing him, dummy. He’s Whit. Dad, this is Rosemary. Rosemary, this is Whit. Wait until you taste these cream puffs! Rosemary’s giving us some to take home.”

  “She has a darkroom, Dad. And she has a gun. A big rifle. That she owns. It’s all hers. Everything!”

  Over the bouncingly exuberant girls, their eyes met. She was both laughing and rolling her eyes—there was no shutting the girls up, no chance to temper their exuberance. And his eyes were filled with humor, too....

  But somehow she’d expected the girls’ father to be...well, fatherly looking. A lot older than her twenty-seven. Sure, she’d expected him to be reasonably good-looking, because the girls were adorable, but he’d been married awhile. He should have looked more staid, the way settled down guys tended to get, more safe, less...how would a woman say it?...less hungry.

  Whit radiated all the safety of a cougar just freed from a cage. He was tall, rangy and sleek. He had the shoulder and arm muscles of a guy who was physical and exceptionally strong. He wore an old canvas jacket, jeans and country boots.

  His hair was sort of a dusty blond shade, rumpled from the wind, a frame for the rugged bones in his face. The haircut was the choice for a guy who didn’t waste time on grooming. Straight eyebrows set off his eagle-shrewd eyes—shrewd, except when he looked at his daughters.

  Then his gaze turned into a helpless puppy’s.

  “Did they drive you crazy?” He said it under the relentless stream of eleven-year-old chatter.

  Oh, right. Like she’d kick a puppy in the teeth. The girls were obviously the sun and the moon to him. Besides, even if they had driven her a little crazy, they’d been fun. “They’re wonderful,” she said.

  “Yeah. I think so. But...”

  “I never had a chance to give them the ‘bear’ talk. They should know...you don’t run from a bear. You don’t leave food in the wild, ever, and if you make loud noises, he’ll likely turn tail and take off. A bear doesn’t want to hurt a human—unless it’s spring and it’s a female with cubs. Or it’s fall, and he’s filling up on every berry he can find. So if they spot one from a distance, just move away. Make noise. Trust me, he doesn’t want to eat you. He just wants you out of his space.”

  Pepper had been listening, but she wasn’t buying this advice wholesale. “But what if he’s crazy? You know. What if it’s a people-hater bear. Like the bear in that movie, where the model’s in Alaska—”

  “If he’s crazy, you’re up a creek. But the population of black bears around here doesn’t have a bad reputation. If a crazy one showed on the radar, DNR and rangers would be all over it. So if you just use common sense and do the regular safe things, you should be fine.”

  “Dad, do you see how much she knows? Even about things like bears? And she’s a girl.”

  “I noticed that.”

  Her head whipped toward him again. There was nothing suggestive in his tone. Just in his eyes. There was just something there that sparked a sizzle in her pulse...and Rosemary was too darned practical to feel sizzles—in her pulse or anywhere else.

  “I think it’s time we got out of this nice lady’s hair.”

  “But she likes us, Dad. She said so.”

  “Of course she likes you. You’re the angels of the universe. But we’re still giving Rosemary her life back and going home. It’s already dark.”

  “You sure didn’t call us angels when we put the red and green in our hair. Even though we told you and told you and told you it’d wash out. And everybody does it.”

  The adults barely exchanged another word—they had no chance. Rosemary was amused—and surprised—by the violent silence when she closed the door after them. She was used to silence. Or she should be. She was happy living alone.

  Or that’s what she’d been telling herself for six months now.

  Maybe she’d been telling herself that her whole life. If you’re waiting for someone else to make you happy, you’re waiting for a spit in the wind. It has to start on the inside. Being content with who you are.

  Rosemary always thought she was. Content within herself. Until last June, and since then she couldn’t seem to fit in her own skin.

  She turned away from the window, fed the fire and turned her attention back to things that mattered. Another cream puff, for starters.

  And what a hunk of a man that Whit was. Maybe she could have a hot, steamy dream about him tonight. He was the kind of guy that looked all sexy and dangerous when he was sweaty.

  Not that Rosemary was attracted to sweat and oiled shoulders and bad boys.

  But losing a wife and raising two young girls alone—that was a tough road. Tougher than her own problems, by far.

  Which was probably why she couldn’t get him off her mind.

  Chapter Two

  Whit opened the refrigerator and stared at it blankly. He’d bought a truckful of groceries. The fridge was full. He just couldn’t seem to find anything to eat.

  At least anything that didn’t involve cooking and dishes and cleaning up.

  “What are you hungry for, you two?” He called out to the living room, and then wondered why he’d asked.

  The answer came in joyous unison. “Mac and cheese. From the box.”

  Followed by, “And don’t burn it this time, Dad.”

  He still had two boxes, thank God. All the green stuff he’d bought was going to waste. But the sugary cereals, the mac and cheese and the ice cream—after two days, he was nearly out of those. He could probably feed the kids on five bucks a day—if they had their way. Instead he’d spent better than $500 on stuff that was good for them.

  Wh
y wasn’t that in the parenting rule book, huh? That short of putting an eleven-year-old in a coma, there was no way to get anything fresh and green down them without a war that involved pouting, door slamming, dramatic tragic looks, claims of being misunderstood, claims of being adopted, claims of child abuse...and...that torture could go on for hours. Sometimes days.

  He scrounged for a pan, and filled it with water. Read the directions on the mac and cheese box for the millionth time. When he turned around, Lilly was leaning on the blue-and-white tile counter.

  It was a trick, since he knew she hadn’t come in to help. He was in trouble. He just didn’t know over what. And the truth—which Lilly possibly knew—was that he’d do anything she asked. Anything.

  He was terrified of both daughters, but Lilly more than Pepper. Lilly had stopped talking after her mom died. She’d just lain there, in that hospital bed next to her sister, but where Pepper would cry and shriek, Lilly just carried that silent look in her eyes. Grief too deep to understand, grief that made her go still, as if in any motion, no matter how tiny, could tip her over the edge. She couldn’t take more.

  Eventually Lilly started talking again, but it went on and on, that grief of hers. She answered questions, and talked about things like school and dinner, but it was months before she volunteered anything. Months before that unbearably sharp grief started to fade. Months before he won a real smile—and he’d done everything but stand on his head and grovel, to bring her beautiful smile back.

  “What?” he said, when she kept leaning there, looking at him, kind of rolling her shoulders.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking....”

  That was the other problem with Lilly. Pepper, thankfully, said anything that was on her mind. It came out like froth; he never had to work to figure out where her head was. But Lilly was the thinker, the one who stored hurts on the inside, the one who never said anything he could anticipate. Nothing in the universe could make him feel as helpless as Lilly.

  And he’d have to kill anyone who dared cause her any grief again.

  “Didn’t you think she was pretty?” She asked him as if his answer was of no consequence, while idly scratching the back of one knee with a slipper.

  “The lady?”

  “Rosemary, Dad. You heard her name. And yeah. Didn’t you think she was pretty?”

  “Sure.”

  Lilly rolled her eyes. It was a default response when Whit did something inadequate on an eleven-year-old’s terms. “Something’s wrong with her.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s pretty. And she’s spending Christmas all by herself. And she’s working, she showed us some stuff on orchids. But you’d think it was July or June or something. There’s no tree or presents. No stuff. No lights.”

  “Maybe she’s of some other religion.”

  “You mean like Buddhist or Muslim or something? No. It’s not that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know.” Another default answer, usually accompanied by, “I’m a girl and I know. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Maybe she’s Jewish?”

  “Dad. We know five Jewish people. And they do Christmas with presents and trees just like we do. Except that they get to do their Hanukkah holiday, too, so they get even more presents. In fact, I was thinking about turning Jewish.”

  “Were you?”

  “Hey, people fight wars all the time over religion. I think they should stop fighting wars and concentrate more on giving presents. Especially presents for their kids.” Possibly out of boredom, she plucked a raw carrot from the glass of carrots and celery on the counter. It was the first time he’d seen her eat anything nutritious since they’d come up here. “But back to Rosemary. The thing is...she’s our neighbor. In fact, as far as I can tell, she’s our only neighbor up here. At least the only one we know about. So maybe we should do some Christmas stuff with her, so she’s not alone.”

  “Honey, she may be alone by choice. She may not want company or neighbors around.”

  “Well, then, why were her eyes sad?”

  The water started to swirl and bubble. He dumped in the dry pasta, asked Lilly to get some milk and butter from the fridge and called Pepper to set the table. Then he did what he always did when he needed a diversion. He called dibs on the TV as of eight o’clock.

  That immediately raised the decibel level in the great room to rock concert levels...and for sure, diverted Lilly.

  But Rosemary’s face flashed back in his mind. She did have sad eyes. At first...well, at very first, he’d only seen his girls, because he’d nearly had a heart attack about their bear encounter. No matter what they’d claimed on the phone, he had to see them both in flesh and blood to breathe again.

  Still, the minute he realized the kids were both fine, he swiftly turned on Rosemary. First, he noticed her vibrancy. With three females in the same room, naturally all three of them were talking at once, with volume, and were all in constant motion besides. But over and above his twins’ chatter, he caught...the energy of her. The life-lover zest.

  Her build was lithe and lean, a woman comfortable with her body, used to doing physical things and spending time outdoors. Even in December her nose had a hint of sunburn, with a thin spray of freckles.

  Her eyes were faded blue, the color of a hot sky in summer. She wore her hair grass-short and styled wash-and-wear, not all that much different than his, but no one would ever mistake her for a guy. Everything about her was soft and female. The long sleeved T-shirt in navy blue, the battered-soft jeans, the sculpted fine bones in her face. None of her clothes were fancy but distinctly feel-good styles, easy to move in, easy to live in. She wore no makeup—of course, since she lived alone, why would she paint her face? But it was more than that. Her skin had that wind-fresh, sun-friendly wholesome look. Her breasts were small and pert; her hips barely held up her jeans. There was no vanity in her. No embellishments. Just...beauty.

  The real kind of beauty.

  The kind that rang his chimes. Only no one—real or not—had rung his chimes since Zoe died.

  Sooner or later, he figured he’d get his libido back. He’d always been overcharged, not under, but Zoe’s death seemed to kill something off in him.

  He’d never identified it that way. Never thought of it at all.

  Yet one look at Rosemary, and his libido showed up and started singing bass. With drums.

  And yeah, the sadness in her eyes touched him—maybe should have warned him. But that sadness wasn’t her. It was about something that had happened to her. And...

  “Dad! You’re burning the mac and cheese again!”

  He glanced down at the pot. How had that happened again?

  By the time they sat down at the table, Whit realized that something was up. A father of twins learned some things the hard way. Two children were just two children—but twins were a pack. Like wolves. Or badgers.

  Especially like badgers.

  “Listen, Dad.” Pepper shoveled in the mac and cheese, but took time to offer him a beguiling smile. She was always the troublemaker.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’re really happy up here. It’s awesome and all. And we know you want us to forget Mom this Christmas.”

  He frowned. “No. No, you two, not at all. I just thought this Christmas would be extra hard without your mom. By next year, we could do the holiday completely differently. Make a point of remembering your mom, in fact—like making some of her favorite holiday dishes. Remember her strawberry pie? Or putting the tree in the corner where she thought it looked best. I don’t ever want you to forget your mom, I just—”

  “Dad, wind it up.” Pepper again, using her impatient tone. “We’re okay with all that. You don’t have to go on and on.”

  “But here’s the thing.”
Lilly, always the pacifier, jumped in when she thought her sis was being abrasive. “We don’t know Rosemary very well. But she’s alone. And we’re alone this Christmas, too. Like you said before, maybe we’d be an intrusion. But maybe not. I mean, what if we just—like when we’re cutting down our own tree tomorrow—cut one down for her, too?”

  Pepper started her fidgety thing, dropping a napkin, then her fork. “And then we could just bring her the tree—and see if we’re in her way or if she really needs to work or something. Because maybe she really wants some company around. Especially us girl company. She said she loved girl talk.”

  “It’s not just that,” Lilly interrupted again. “You know when I was little—”

  “As compared to your being an old lady now?”

  “Quit it, Dad. We’re having a talk. No joking.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “When I was little, I remember the neighbor who came over for Christmas. Mom said she was alone because she lost her husband. So she asked her over for Christmas dinner. Mom said, and then you said, that Christmas isn’t just about presents. It’s about people being together. Sharing something good.”

  “Sometimes you two worry me. You have this tendency to use things I’ve said against me.”

  “Come on, Dad. We can take Rosemary a tree tomorrow, right?”

  Whit couldn’t imagine how they could just show up at Rosemary’s back door with a tree out of the complete blue. But at least temporarily, he couldn’t figure out a way to say no that would make sense to the girls.

  * * *

  Rosemary bent over the corkboard. Heaven knew how she’d gotten hung up on the sex life of wild orchids in South Carolina. The subject would undoubtedly bore most people to tears. But when she needed her mind off stress, she’d always been able to concentrate on work.