Home with You

by Shirlee McCoy

  “For my niece. Today is her tenth birthday,” Sullivan added. He didn’t seem intimidated by the shotgun or Minnie. As a matter of fact, he’d stepped across the threshold and was standing in the tiny foyer that separated the entry from the living room. Melting snow dripped from his hair onto the old linoleum, and he swiped moisture from his face. “I’m sorry I startled all of you. I tried to call but your voice mail is full, Rumer.”

  “Is it?” She knew it was. Jake kept calling about stupid things. Like whether she wanted the photos she’d hung on the wall in their living room.

  His living room now.

  She had her own place—a cute little apartment within walking distance of the school. She’d moved in three months before Lu’s heart attack, and she had no intention of filling it with reminders of the past.

  “It is,” he replied, his attention on Minnie, who’d put on the jacket and was buttoning it over her stained white apron.

  “I’m sorry about that.” Rumer grabbed his arm and tugged him back outside. “Thanks for bringing the jacket. Drive safely.”

  “Actually,” he responded before she could retreat, “I was hoping to discuss the position with you.”

  “Position?” she repeated as if she didn’t know darn well what he was talking about.

  The job she’d gone out of her way to apply for.

  The one she’d been thinking about most of the afternoon.

  The one she’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t take if it was offered, because she didn’t need that kind of trouble.

  “The one you interviewed for this morning,” he responded, flashing his dimple.

  “I’d love to discuss that with you, Sullivan,” she lied, “but, I have a cat to feed.”

  She walked back inside, and would have closed the door, but Lu was standing in the entry with a bag of cat food in one hand, Rumer’s coat in the other.

  “Hamilton hates to wait,” she announced, shoving both into Rumer’s arms.

  “I’ll go out the back door,” Rumer replied, but Lu refused to move.

  “It’s quicker out through the front. I’ll keep the porch light on, so you can find your way back. Go on now,” she insisted.

  So, of course, Rumer did.

  That was the way Lu had raised her. From age fourteen on, she’d been taught to respect authority, to follow the rules, to be responsible for her actions.

  So, yeah, she stepped back outside.

  Lu closed the door with a quiet thud, and Rumer was standing out in the cold with cat food in one hand and her coat in the other. She hadn’t even put on her snow boots.

  She set the bag of food on the old rocker that had been there longer than Rumer had been alive. She wasn’t surprised when Sullivan took the coat and helped her into it.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, sounding about as irritated as she felt.

  She knew what Lu was doing, because she knew Lu. Good-looking guy? Shove her granddaughter at him, because all the decades and generations of romantic failures by Truehart women couldn’t stop her from wanting at least one of them to have a happily-ever-after.

  “You’re annoyed,” he responded, pulling the collar of the coat up, his knuckles brushing the side of her neck and then her jaw. She refused to acknowledge the way her heart jumped at the contact, the way her entire body seemed to want to lean toward him.

  God!

  She was an idiot.

  “Not with you,” she replied, grabbing the cat food and heading down the slippery porch stairs.

  “With your grandmother?” he guessed, following her across the yard and around the side of the house.

  “You didn’t drive all this way to discuss my family problems,” she replied as they reached the wooden fence that separated the yard from the fallow field beyond it.

  The barn was just across it, a pale shadow in the swirling snow.

  “That doesn’t mean it has to be off the table,” he replied, following her as she opened a gate and headed across the field.

  “You came to offer me the job, right?” She didn’t want a personal discussion, and she didn’t want to drag out the inevitable.

  “Right.”

  “I can’t accept it.”

  “Okay.”

  Just that.

  No argument.

  No fishing for an explanation. Just okay, and she wasn’t sure what to think about that. She sure didn’t want him to beg or plead. She didn’t want him to give a dozen reasons why she should take the job, and she didn’t want to have to explain the reasons why she couldn’t.

  He opened the barn door, holding it as she walked inside.

  She caught a whiff of strawberries and cream as she walked past, found herself wondering how the celebration had gone. Wondering if they’d sung happy birthday to Twila, if she’d smiled, if the twins had managed to stay out of trouble for long enough to enjoy a slice of cake.

  “Not my circus. Not my monkeys,” she mumbled.

  “What’s that?” Sullivan asked.

  “Nothing.” She flipped on a light, illuminating the cavernous space. Horse tackle hung from one wall, saddles from another. Plastic bins of chicken and goat feed sat in the center of the space, discarded farm equipment piled near the back.

  A few mice scurried away from the pellets of food that had fallen near the bins. She could hear them scrabbling into their nests behind the walls.

  She walked to the back, knowing without looking that Sullivan was following.

  “You don’t have to hang around until I finish,” she said, opening a door that led into Lu’s office. The cat bowl was there. Right next to the spindle-back chair. Rumer had bought a comfortable office chair for Lu a few Christmases ago. It was in the stable, sitting near the entrance to the indoor riding arena. As far as she knew, Lu had never once sat in it.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “It’s snowing hard out there.” She poured food into the bowl, shaking it around to try to draw Hamilton out of his hiding place.

  “My SUV does well on snowy roads,” he replied, walking into the small room and looking around. She could almost see it through his eyes—the unpainted walls and card-table desk. The metal file cabinet shoved against a wall, one drawer opened a crack. No computer. No modern conveniences. Not even a space heater to keep it warm.

  “Even with a vehicle that handles them well, the roads will be difficult. It’s going to take time to get home, and the kids might get worried.” She shook the bowl again, eyeing the corners of the room and then the exposed rafters. Still no sign of Hamilton.

  “My guess is that they’re having a lot more fun with Renee Wheeler than they would be with me.”

  “She’s the church lady?”

  “The twins’ Sunday school teacher. She helped with the funeral and has made a bunch of meals for us. I think one of the boys let her know that I’m not much of a cook.”

  “So, it’s not just baking you struggle with?” she asked, and he grinned.

  “I can open a can and heat soup. I also make a mean grilled cheese. Other than that it’s precooked meals or takeout.”

  “Most kids love takeout.”

  “Sunday was all about wholesome, healthy eating. Every time I feed the kids McDonald’s, I feel like I’m betraying her.” He was still smiling, but some of the amusement was gone from his eyes.

  “I’m sure she’d understand.”

  “You’re right. And, that’s the problem. Sunday would understand. She’d tell me it was okay, that the kids would survive a month or two or three of less-than-nutritious meals. And, that makes me want to honor her wishes, make sure the kids have as many healthy meals as I can provide. Which, if it were totally up to me, would be none.”

  “It’s not that difficult to learn to cook.” She set the bowl down, determined to turn off the light and head back home. She didn’t want to stand in the tiny office listening to Sullivan talk about his sister-in-law, the kids, and his own desire to do right by all of them. It made it all too real—the little family
going through a horrible time, the uncle who’d stepped in to try to help, the tragedy of it all.

  “That’s what I’ve been told a dozen or more times.”

  “By Heavenly?”

  “She’s too busy giving me attitude to give me advice.”

  “Twila, then?”

  “Right. I keep telling her that I’d be happy to do a little culinary studying if I weren’t busy trying to keep up with six kids, housework, and my research paper.”

  “You’re in school?”

  “On sabbatical. I teach art history at the Portland State University.”

  That surprised her.

  She wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like she’d spent any time thinking about what he might do for a living. It was more that if she’d had to guess, she’d have guessed military or law enforcement. He had that look: tough, rugged, unflappable.

  “You’re surprised.” He spoke into the silence, and she shrugged.

  “I guess I’ve just never seen an art history professor outside his natural habitat.”

  He laughed, the sound ringing through the barn and chasing a few starlings from their nests in the eaves. “We do tend to keep close to our ivory towers. Only my tower is more like a broom closet on the third floor of the fine arts building.”

  “A broom closet, huh?” She was amused and shouldn’t be. He was just a guy who she happened to have crossed paths with. For an hour, their lives had converged. In a week, they’d both have forgotten the meeting.

  “It’s a little bigger than that but not much bigger than this. I do have a real desk, though. And, a nice chair.”

  “Lu had both. She gave the desk to Minnie and the chair is in the stables.”

  “She probably spends most of her time there.”

  “She did. Before her heart attack.” She reached for the light switch, ready to be done with the conversation because it felt too friendly, too nice. Too much like they could have continued talking forever and not gotten tired of it.

  “Hold on.” He grabbed her hand, and she was so surprised, she didn’t pull away.

  “What?”

  “I thought I saw something moving in the rafters.” He pulled her back, his attention on the ceiling.

  “There are dozens of mice in here. Birds. Sometimes raccoons. That’s why we have . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as Hamilton appeared, his oversize body perched on tiny paws. Even with his extra weight, he was graceful, leaping from one ceiling joist to another.

  “That,” Sullivan said, “is the fattest cat I’ve ever seen.”

  “Shhhh,” she responded, watching as Hamilton disappeared behind the drywall, “you’ll hurt his feelings.”

  “You sound like Twila. She’s always worried about the hog, scared it’s going to be too cold or too hot or eat something that’ll kill it.”

  “With what I saw coming out of your kitchen, that last worry isn’t too much of a stretch.”

  He laughed again, the sound fading away as Hamilton’s furry face appeared in a hole that was about as big as the palm of Rumer’s hand.

  “He’s not going to try to get out through that,” Sullivan said.

  “Watch him,” she responded.

  Sure enough, the cat stuck his head through the hole, his golden eyes and black-and-gray face framed by drywall. He meowed softly and somehow managed to shimmy his plump body through the small opening. Seconds later, he had his head in the bowl and was purring loudly.

  “I’ve seen a lot of things these past few weeks, but that was, by far, the most entertaining.” Sullivan squeezed her hand and then released it.

  Funny, she hadn’t realized he was still holding it until that moment.

  Or, maybe, it wasn’t funny.

  She’d never been a touchy-feely person. As a matter of fact, she’d been the kind of kid who’d refused hugs and barely accepted handshakes. She liked to keep distance between herself and others. Maybe because she’d spent so much of her childhood in tiny apartments or single-wide trailers or packed into an old car with all her mother’s crap.

  “Hamilton has eaten. I can tell Lu that I saw him consume half his weight in food. My job here is done,” she said lightly, flicking off the light and stepping out of the office.

  He followed, grabbing the bag of cat food on his way out and holding it as they walked back through the barn.

  His cell phone rang as they reached the door, and he pulled it out.

  “Damn,” he said so softly she almost didn’t hear.

  “Home?” she asked.

  “The hospital,” he responded as he answered.

  He didn’t say much. A question or two about treatment options. An assurance that he’d be there soon. Then he tucked the phone back in his pocket.

  “Bad news?”

  “Yeah. Sunday’s brain is swelling again. She’s going into surgery. I need to get to the hospital. Thanks again for everything you did today.” He was jogging, moving back across the field, snow still swirling in the darkening twilight.

  She could have let him go.

  That would have been the easy thing to do.

  It probably would have been the best thing, too, but she kept picturing little Moisey standing in the middle of the road in her oversize tank top and shimmering tutu. She kept remembering Heavenly’s scrawny frame shoved into too-tight clothes. She kept thinking about six kids whose lives had been upended, and no matter how much she told herself to, she couldn’t go inside and pretend she didn’t know that something horrible might be happening.

  She followed Sullivan to his SUV, the voice of caution and reason screaming in the back of her mind, telling her she was making a mistake. Warning her to retreat.

  Sullivan handed her the cat food and hopped in the driver’s seat. That was her cue to back away, to offer some easy platitude that would sound nice and mean nothing.

  “Are you bringing the kids to the hospital?” she asked instead, and he stilled, the key halfway to the ignition.

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “It might be good for the older ones to see her before surgery.” She didn’t say just in case, but she was pretty certain he heard the unspoken words.

  He raked a hand through his snow-damp hair and grimaced. “You’re right, but I can’t bring the older ones and leave the younger ones at home. I’ll take all of them. Except Oya. She’s not allowed in the ICU.”

  “Will the boys’ Sunday school teacher be willing to stay with her?”

  “Probably. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I get to the house.” He smiled but it was more of a grimace than anything else.

  “If you think you might need help,” she began.

  Don’t! her brain screamed. Do. Not. Say. It.

  “I could follow you over,” she finished, the words tumbling out.

  For a split second, she thought he was too busy starting the SUV to hear her.

  Then, he met her eyes, and she could see his fatigue, his worry, the weight of the responsibility he was carrying.

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” he said.

  “You didn’t. I offered.”

  “How about you ride with me, then? This thing can handle seven passengers, and it’s probably better on the road than your truck.”

  No! Just no! A thousand times no! her brain shrieked.

  “Give me a minute to grab my purse and put on some boots,” her mouth said, and then she was sprinting across the yard and up the porch steps, the cat food bouncing out of the still-opened bag as she barreled into the house and ran for her shoes.

  * * *

  Sullivan had always appreciated irony.

  He loved it in art, in books, in musical scores.

  He didn’t like it much right now, though, because Sunday looked better than she had since the accident. The bruises on her face were healing, fading from dark purple to green and yellow. The swelling was down, too, the broken bones slowly healing. The gash on her temple was a jagged purple line, dotted on either side fr
om the staples the doctors had used to close it. They’d been removed a few days ago, and now she had no staples, no stitches in her cheek or the side of her neck.

  She looked better, but she was dying.

  The irony of that nearly stole his breath.

  She’d been three years behind him in school, but they’d been in the same classes. She’d been smart, driven, and passionate about learning. She’d also been kind, generous, warmhearted. It hadn’t surprised him when Matt had fallen for her, but it had surprised everyone that she’d fallen, too.

  She wasn’t the kind of girl that anyone thought would go for one of the Bradshaw boys. They were trouble. She wasn’t.

  Somehow, it had happened.

  Somehow, she and Matt had made it work.

  Now, he was gone, and she was hooked up to machines that measured her pulse, her oxygen, that breathed for her because her lungs had been punctured by jagged pieces of her broken ribs.

  She was fighting for her life, the head injury she’d suffered causing her brain to swell. Again. This would be the second surgery to relieve pressure. If it failed . . .

  He didn’t want to think about that.

  He sure as hell didn’t want to have to make decisions about it. Especially not with Moisey sitting beside him, but the surgeon was asking about living wills, trying to be subtle because there was a child in the room. Sullivan and his brothers hadn’t been named guardians in the will, but they’d been named co-executors of the estate. They’d also been given medical power of attorney for all six kids and for Sunday and Matt.

  That had surprised all of them.

  None of them wanted the responsibility. None of them were willing to turn away from it. When his brothers had been around, they’d made decisions together, hashing things out, deciding what was best for all the kids and for Sunday.

  But, Sullivan was there now. Alone. He was the one who would have to sign on the dotted line, agree that if Sunday’s heart stopped, they would revive her.

  Or not.

  He’d already called Porter and Flynn. Neither had picked up. He’d sent texts. No response to those either. Not surprising. Flynn worked long hours in areas where there was very little cell phone reception. Porter worked private security for a company in Los Angeles. When he was on a job, he didn’t take calls or answer texts. Sometimes for days.