Memories: A Husband to RememberNew Year's Daddy (Hqn)

by Jackson, Lisa

  “Sprained thumb,” the nurse replied. “I have some forms you’ll have to—”

  “We’ve got to get you to a specialist. Oh, baby, does it hurt?” The woman went on and on, and her daughter, under control a few minutes before, began to fall apart. Her lower lip quivered and tears drizzled down her cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. Mommy’s here and we’ll get you out of this awful place.” The woman’s diamond earrings flashed in the wavering light from the fluorescent tubes mounted high on the ceiling.

  Bryan rolled his eyes at the woman’s flair for the dramatic—so like Sylvia, his mother.

  “See, it could be worse,” Travis whispered into his son’s ear. “Wanda could be taking you home with her.”

  “Ugh!” Bryan almost cracked a smile before he tried to move his leg and sucked in his breath in a hiss of pain.

  “We’ll take care of that,” Travis promised. “You’ll be okay.”

  “You think so?” Bryan retorted. Scowling down at the brace surrounding his knee, Bryan gritted his teeth. “No matter what you say, Travis, this Christmas is going to be the pits!”

  Chapter Three

  “WATCH OUT, MOMMY.” Amy gave the toy tugboat a push and it plowed through the high mounds of bubbles surrounding Veronica as she soaked her tired muscles. Amy was standing on tiptoe on the bath mat, leaning over the side of the tub, precariously close to falling face first into the suds and drenching herself all over again.

  “You watch out,” Ronni warned.

  Already bathed, her hair still damp from her recent shampoo, her body snug in red-and-white elf pajamas that Ronni had found on sale, Amy was happily splashing the warm water.

  “You’re getting soaked!”

  Amy giggled.

  “Come on, let’s get out of the bathroom.” So much for the relaxing bath. “How about a hot cup of lemonade?”

  “With strawberries?”

  Ronni plopped a mound of suds onto Amy’s tiny nose. “If that’s what you want.”

  Amy’s impish grin stretched wide. “Hurry, Mommy, get out!” Amy cried, already scampering into the living room, the red-and-blue tugboat forgotten.

  Ronni pulled the plug and reached for a towel. She rubbed the water and suds from her body and called after her daughter, “First the lemonade, then will you read me a bedtime story?”

  Footsteps echoed from the hallway and Amy stuck her head around the corner. “You’re silly, Mommy.”

  “And so are you.” Rotating the kinks from her neck, she dropped her towel into the hamper and stepped into a thick terry-cloth bathrobe. Amy was off again and Ronni heard the distinctive click of the refrigerator door opening.

  “Wait for me,” she called as she cinched the belt of her robe. Barefoot, she followed Amy’s trail of forgotten and dripping toys. Scooping up each sodden piece of plastic, she smiled. Amy was so innocent; such a joy. Ronni couldn’t imagine her growing up and developing into a teenager with an attitude like the boy, Bryan, who’d been injured today. Not that he was all bad. Veronica had seen through his bravado and witnessed the pain in his eyes, the fear contorting his features when she’d helped him off the mountain.

  His father was a different sort, she thought as she lifted her hair away from her neck and tied it with the ribbon she kept in the pocket of her robe. It was clear he’d been torn between anger with Bryan for his rude remarks and relief that the kid was in one piece. There was something about him that nagged at her and it wasn’t just the fact that he was so sensually masculine. Though she’d tried to deny it earlier, she couldn’t lie to herself. He was tall and lean, with wide shoulders, thick neck and blade-thin lips. His hair, unruly from a stocking cap, was a deep brown and straight, his nose slightly crooked, his eyebrows thick and harsh over intense eyes. Handsome, yes. Sexy, undeniably. And trouble of the worst order. He looked like the kind of man who barked out orders to underlings.

  But he did care about his kid. That much was obvious and that won him points with Ronni. Big points. Not that she’d ever see him again. So what was it about him that was so disturbing, so fascinating, if that was the right word? For what had remained of the afternoon, she’d thought about him, unable to shake his image from the corners of her mind. Had she seen him before somewhere? Certainly she would have remembered such a take-charge individual. What was it about him? “Stupid woman,” she muttered. What did she care?

  “Who’s a stupid woman?” Amy asked, her cheeks flushed as she made the drawers into stair steps and climbed onto the counter.

  “Your mama, she’s the stupid woman, but only sometimes. Hey, you know you’re not supposed to do that. I’ll get the lemonade.” She reached for the tin and spooned healthy tablespoons into a couple of mugs before adding water and placing both cups into the microwave.

  Travis Keegan had been all business, worried about his son and seeming a bit lost with this aspect of fathering, as if he was more at home at the head of a boardroom table than dealing with a teenage boy.

  She plucked a couple of last year’s strawberries from a bag in the freezer and, once the lemonade had heated, dropped the frozen berries into the now-steaming cups. “I’ll carry,” she said to her daughter. “You go pick out the book.”

  Amy was off, sorting through a basket of toys and books as Ronni settled into a corner of the couch. She placed the lemonade on the coffee table as Amy returned dragging five of her favorite bedtime stories.

  “We don’t have the tree decorated yet,” Amy complained as she stood on the couch and pressed her nose to the windowpane. The tree they’d picked out from a local stand was propped against the rail of the porch. Amy’s breath fogged the glass as she peered at it.

  “I know. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Now.”

  “Not now. I just got clean from taking care of the horses. If I started fooling around with the tree, I’d probably get pitch all over me, and so would you. Besides, you wanted some strawberry lemonade.”

  Amy wasn’t really listening. Once she got an idea in her head, that particular notion was set in concrete. “Katie Pendergrass’s daddy did theirs after church on Sunday.”

  “Do you think he’d come and help me with ours?” Veronica teased, touching her daughter on her crown of silky curls.

  “Why not?”

  Veronica laughed, then sipped from her cup. “He probably has a dozen reasons.”

  “You could call him.”

  “No way, José. Tomorrow we’ll put up the tree and we’ll manage alone.”

  Amy’s face fell in on itself and a sly look came into her round eyes. Veronica braced herself. Though not yet five, Amy had already learned about feminine wiles and how to wheedle to get what she wanted. It was annoying—being manipulated by a four-year-old. “But I want a tree.”

  “You’ll have one. That one.” Veronica tapped on the window with her fingernail and pointed at the rugged little fir. She couldn’t help noticing that the lights were on in the Johnson place again and she wondered if she had permanent neighbors or people who were just hanging out at the old lodge for the holidays. She still thought they might be trespassers, people camping out and gaining free rent. Or maybe they’re here to stay.

  “I want one today,” Amy insisted, drawing Ronni back to the conversation about the Christmas tree. She picked up her lemonade, took a sip and lost interest again.

  “Tomorrow,” Veronica said firmly. “I’ll tell you what, though, we can put up the stockings tonight.”

  “Can we?” The storm clouds in her daughter’s eyes suddenly disappeared.

  “Mmm. See if you can find them.”

  “In one of the boxes?” Amy said, already squirming from the couch, her feet in motion as they hit the floor.

  “That’s right.”

  Amy started rummaging through the old cardboard crates. Ronni took a final sip from her cup, then stepped into her slippers and cinched the robe a little tighter around her middle. By the time she crossed the room, there were ornaments, tinsel, strings of lig
hts and tissue paper all over the floor.

  “Hey, slow down,” she admonished, eyeing the decorations and frowning. “I know they were in a white box with—”

  “Here they are!” Amy yanked two stockings out of a box and held them up proudly. One was red with felt-and-sequin angels, holly and hearts on it, the other green and decorated with a miniature baseball bat and glove, Santa face and reindeer.

  Veronica’s heart wrenched painfully. Memories assailed her and she remembered Hank had worked overtime for two months each evening that first fall after they had married. While dinner was simmering on the stove and she was waiting up for him, she’d spent her evenings watching television and working on her secret projects, lovingly sewing the felt pieces and sequins together by hand. The red stocking was hers, the green had belonged to Hank. She’d never had the heart to throw his away. “Oh, honey…well, isn’t there another one—white, I think?”

  Amy dropped the first two on the floor and tossed out the Christmas-tree skirt before discovering the third stocking—white felt decorated with a rocking horse, teddy bear and mistletoe. Sequins glittered under the lights. “Here’s mine!” Amy cried, waving the stocking like a banner while Veronica picked up the scattered decorations.

  “Let’s hang yours and mine on the mantel,” Veronica suggested, her voice thick as she placed Hank’s stocking back into the box. She closed the lid and her memories of their first Christmas with Amy, who, barely able to sit up, had stared at the lighted tree with wide, wondrous eyes.

  Together, Veronica and Amy draped the stockings from the nails that were permanently driven into the mortar just below the mantel and Veronica tried not to notice that one nail was vacant, a reminder that their family was no longer three.

  She tucked a damp curl behind her ear. Maybe Amy was right. They could get a puppy this Christmas and in the coming year she could construct the dog’s own stocking so that it wouldn’t be quite so obvious that there was a void in their lives.

  “They’re beautiful, Mommy,” Amy said proudly as she gazed at the glittery socks, their toes nearly touching the curved top of the fireplace screen.

  “And think how nice they’ll look when we put the fir boughs and holly on the mantel. Come on, now, time for bed.”

  Amy went through her ablutions, standing on a stool while brushing her teeth, wiping her face and extra toothpaste onto a wet towel, then climbing the stairs to the loft. At her bed, she fell to her knees and began to pray, saying the usual “God Blesses” for Aunt Shelly, Uncle Vic, her twin cousins and Veronica. She paused a moment, then added, “And please, God, bring me a puppy for Christmas and a new daddy so my mommy won’t be so sad. Amen.” Scrambling off her knees, she climbed into bed and slid between the covers.

  Veronica didn’t move. Her heart felt like lead in her chest. “Oh, honey,” she whispered around a lump of tears caught in her throat. “Mommy’s not sad. I’ve got you.”

  “But you miss Daddy.”

  “I’ll always miss him,” she said, kissing Amy’s crown of dark curls, “but that’s okay. Besides, you remind me of him every day. Aren’t we happy together?”

  “Happy,” Amy repeated around a yawn as she threw an arm around her one-eyed stuffed tiger.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” Veronica smoothed a hair away from Amy’s face and sighed. It was time to stop grieving, time to let go. Hank was gone, his life lost on the slopes of Mount Echo, and for the past few years Ronni had held her grief and anger inside, blaming herself, blaming the mountain, blaming the company who’d sent him the new bindings and demo skis, trying to find a reason that her husband, not yet thirty years old, had been stolen from her.

  Determined to start over and push the pain of losing Hank into a dark, locked part of her heart, she walked down the stairs from the loft and eyed the pile of paperwork on her desk. Letters to be answered, orders to be filled, invoices to be paid. She should be thrilled, she supposed; her cottage business was taking off. Ronni did most of the legwork finding new items, putting together the catalog, locating new outlets, while her sister Shelly handled the day-to-day business of boxing and filling orders. Between the business, her part-time job at the mountain and Amy, Ronni didn’t have time to house-train a new puppy, let alone search for a new man. Not that she needed one. She could be both mother and father to her little girl.

  Then why was Amy praying for a new daddy?

  *

  “He’ll be okay,” Travis said, assuring his ex-wife that their son was still in one piece. He’d made the call from the first phone booth he’d found near the hamburger joint where they’d had dinner. “The doctor on the mountain thought the injury was more serious than it was, but the specialist we saw tonight in Portland is more optimistic. Bryan will be laid up a week or so because the tendons are stretched and there’s some damage to the ligament, but it’s hanging together and the cartilage damage doesn’t look as bad as was originally thought.”

  “You’re not just trying to make me feel better?” Sylvia asked in her pouty, accusing voice.

  Travis closed his eyes and didn’t give in to the urge to ask her why a woman who’d walked out on her son and husband years before would feel guilty or bad about the kid’s latest injury. “No. I just thought you’d want to know.” God, what time was it in France? Why was she still up?

  “Why didn’t you call earlier? The accident happened, what—sometime yesterday?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, we didn’t really know how laid up he’d be.”

  “So you wait until the middle of the night?” she said around a yawn.

  “Sorry.” Travis glanced to the dark sky. He couldn’t explain that he’d been too busy to call. Things had changed since Bryan’s injury; the old “fixer-upper” lodge was no longer quaint. He’d spent hours with contractors and movers, making the house as livable as possible.

  “Can I talk to him?” Sylvia asked.

  Rain pounded on the small, open telephone booth. Travis gauged the distance to the Jeep and nearly laughed. “Not right now. I’m in a phone booth and he’s in the car, but I’ll have him call you as soon as the phones are installed at the house.”

  “Tell him I love him,” Sylvia ordered.

  “Will do.” Travis hung up and sighed. Ducking his head against an icy gust of wind, he strode to the Jeep and climbed inside where the radio was blasting some bass-throbbing hard-rock song. Bryan sat slumped against the passenger window and was staring through the glass. Traffic roared by, splashing water and dirt into the parking lot of the fast-food restaurant where they’d stopped for burgers after a lengthy session with the orthopedic surgeon. Though he would have to take it easy for a few weeks, Bryan would heal quickly. Things were looking up—or should have been, though Bryan had slipped back into his sullen you-can’t-make-me-care-about-anything mood.

  “Okay, cowboy, let’s go,” Travis said, turning the volume-control dial of the radio so that the riff of an electric guitar didn’t threaten to burst his eardrums. Twisting in his seat, he watched for other traffic as he backed the vehicle out of the lot. Shifting into first, he nosed the Jeep into the steady stream of cars, trucks and buses heading east toward the ridge of mountains that weren’t visible in the dark. “Your mom sends her love.”

  Bryan made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

  “She wants you to call her when the phone’s hooked up.”

  “She can call me.”

  “Bryan—”

  “She took off. Not me,” he charged angrily.

  “It’s ancient history,” Travis said, but didn’t add anything else. Obviously, Bryan still felt abandoned, though his perspective wasn’t quite on the money. True, Sylvia had packed up and moved to Paris, but she still cared about her son—in her own, odd way.

  “And I’m not a cowboy,” Bryan grumbled.

  Travis wasn’t about to argue as he concentrated on the drive. Red beams of taillights smeared through the wet windshield as the traffic cruised along, s
teadily climbing through the forested foothills and across bridges spanning icy rivers. They drove through several small towns along the way and eventually the rain turned to snow that stuck to the pavement and gave a white glow to the otherwise black night.

  Traffic thinned as vehicles pulled off at two ski areas that were lit up like proverbial Christmas trees. Night skiers were racing down the slopes, one of which was visible from the highway.

  Soon they were nearly alone on the road. The quiet, snow-blanketed hills were soothing to Travis and he wondered why he’d clung to big-city life for so long, why chasing the dollar had been so damned important to him? When, exactly, had he lost touch with what was really meaningful in life?

  “Tell me about the woman who helped you down the mountain,” he said, wondering why he’d thought about her several times in the past couple of days.

  “What about her?”

  “Her name is Veronica, right?”

  Bryan scowled. “Ronni.” He reached for the volume-control dial, but a sharp look from Travis caused him to settle back against the cushions. A permanent scowl was etched across his face. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I think I owe her a thank-you.”

  “So send her a card.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Oh, brother. Why?”

  Good question. One that had been bothering him ever since she’d flashed that blinding smile of hers in his direction. “Just curious, I guess.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for her.”

  “A thing?” Travis couldn’t help the amusement in his voice.

  “She’s not your type,” Bryan muttered.

  “My type?” Travis grinned in the darkness of the Jeep. “Who’s my type?”

  Bryan glared through the glass, watching as snowflakes were batted away by the wipers. “You know, Dad, I don’t really think you have a type. Or maybe you shouldn’t. Your track record with women isn’t all that great.”

  Travis couldn’t argue the point. The few dates he’d had since his divorce from Sylvia could only be described as nightmares. But then, he wasn’t looking for a woman to go out with. He just wanted to tell Ronni Whatever-her-name-was that he appreciated her helping his injured son. That was all there was to it. Nothing else and certainly nothing romantic.