by Judy Duarte
Maria blew out a weary sigh.
“He called me a girl,” the child added, crossing her arms across her chest.
“You are a girl, honey.”
“I know. But Danny said it like it was a bad thing.”
She supposed the squabble wasn’t a big deal, but Danny had once been so sweet and helpful, and in the past month he’d grown surly and difficult. No matter what she did, what she said, he seemed to slip further away from the child he’d once been.
Holding back another weary sigh, she slowly got to her feet. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I get your little brother out of the bathtub and help him put on his pajamas. In the meantime, go get your nightgown and a towel. It’s your turn for a bath.”
“Oh, o-kay.” Sara turned and stomped off in a huff.
As her daughter padded down the hall, Maria reached into the bathtub and pulled out the plug to drain the water.
“No!” Wally screeched. “I’m not done.”
Maybe not, but Maria was. She lifted him from the tub, and he kicked and whined in a last-ditch attempt at defiance. Then she stood him on the floor and draped the towel around him as water pooled onto the floor.
What she wouldn’t give to have someone with whom she could share the parent load, especially in the evenings, but she’d been on her own for nearly four years now. And nights were the worst.
Not that she wanted her ex-husband back.
Her children’s father had been her teenage crush, but he’d proven to be anything but family oriented. And even if he’d wanted to be a solid and dependable part of their lives, he still had several years left to serve in prison following a fatal altercation with the jealous husband of the woman he’d been seeing.
He wrote occasionally, but only to Danny, since Maria had not only refused to provide him with a phony alibi, she’d let him know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want anything to do with him.
She really didn’t want him contacting their son, although she understood why he would. Still, that didn’t mean she had to share those letters with an eleven-year-old. So each time she received one, which wasn’t all that often, she would put it away for a time when Danny was older and better able to deal with one of the dark realities of life.
“Mommy!” Sara shrieked. “He’s saying it again! And this time he’s calling me a dumb girl.”
What was she going to do with that boy?
Maria lifted the towel-bundled toddler and carried him out of the bathroom, down the hall, and to Danny’s room, where the eleven-year-old lay stretched out on his bed, his hands resting under his head, his gaze on the ceiling.
“What’s going on?” she asked, shuffling Wally in her arms.
“Nothing.”
Maria supposed she shouldn’t be overly concerned about Danny calling Sara a dumb girl. After all, there were a lot worse things he could have called her. But something niggled at her, suggesting there was more going on in her son’s life than she realized, something she ought to be aware of.
The fact that his father was in prison could cause him some concern, but he seemed to have gotten over it fairly well, once they’d moved out of town and away from the whispers in the community about a crime of passion that had gone awry.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked her son.
“Nope.” He didn’t even turn his head.
She’d expected the teen years to be rough, but wasn’t that surly attitude striking a little too soon?
“Did your sister do something to annoy you?”
“Yeah.” He finally turned his head, albeit briefly. “She won’t leave me alone. And I don’t want to play with her and her stupid dolls.”
Maria tried to tell herself that the squabble was typical of siblings, that Danny was growing up and wanted some privacy, that her uneasiness was for naught.
But she couldn’t help stressing anyway. Shouldn’t a good mother try to “fix” whatever was bothering her child?
The telephone rang, drawing her from what was fast becoming an unpleasant nightly routine. If it was another telemarketer, she was going to scream.
She set Wally on the floor and told him to go find his Pull-Ups and the jammies she’d laid out for him. Then she hurried to her bedroom to answer before the caller hung up.
“Hello?”
“Maria, this is Barbara Davila.”
“Oh, hi.” Maria took a seat on the edge of the bed.
“How’s Mother doing?”
Ellie had more bad days than good ones, and today hadn’t been easy. But Maria didn’t want to complain. Not to Barbara, the woman whose relationship with her mother had always been strained. “She’s all right.”
“Good. I just wanted to let you know that we think we found a tenant for the house today.”
So soon?
“Do you know anything about them?”
“Not really. Just that the woman is a single mother with one child—a little girl. I’m not sure when she’ll move in, but she’s supposed to sign the lease and take possession tomorrow.”
“But the house isn’t empty….” Maria paused, hoping she hadn’t overstepped her boundaries.
“The woman volunteered to pack up my mother’s belongings for us, and under the circumstances, I jumped at the offer.”
“I would have done that for you,” Maria said.
“I’m sure you would have, but you have your hands full, don’t you think?”
That was for sure.
“Well, I’d better go,” Barbara said. “I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”
“How’s Joe today?” Maria asked. Barbara’s son had suffered a heart attack a couple of weeks ago, and there’d been complications.
“He’s frustrated by his slow recovery, but the doctors think he’ll pull through. It’ll just take time.”
Time.
Maria glanced at the small alarm clock on the bureau. It was after nine. The boarders had already turned in, but the kids should have been in bed an hour ago. Would this night ever end?
Why had she offered to pack Ellie’s things? Where would she have found the time to do it?
And why did she feel bad that she couldn’t? It really wasn’t her place.
“Well, I’ll let you go,” Barbara said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if you would keep an eye on the place and let me know if anything seems…well, if things are out of sorts.”
Ellie Rucker’s home had fallen into more disrepair than Maria’s had, and to be honest, Maria was surprised they’d managed to rent it so quickly.
“Sure, I can do that. Maybe I’ll take some cookies or a coffee cake next door when I see that she’s moving in, and then I can introduce myself.”
“Good. That will be one less thing for me to worry about.”
And one more thing for Maria to heap on her plate. But Ellie Rucker had been a good friend, and she’d gone out of her way to welcome any newcomers to the neighborhood.
It was, Maria decided, one way to pay it forward.
But, Lord, how she could use a few extra hours in her day.
Eddie Gonzales was stretched out in the recliner, watching the evening news, when the phone rang.
Who could be calling at this hour?
He glanced at the time displayed on the cable box—it was almost ten o’clock—and reached for the portable receiver that rested on the lamp table. “Hello?”
Ramon, his brother, responded. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No. What’s up?”
“I just got a call from the property manager at Fairbrook Realty. He’s got a job for us on Sugar Plum Lane. I’m up to my neck with the Sanderson project, so would you mind going over there and giving them a bid?”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“Ron said the yard had once been a showcase, but it’s been neglected for years. He thought it would take a week or more to get it back into shape, especially since we’re shorthanded right now. He thinks we’ll have to repair the
sprinkler system, too. But I’ll let you make that call.”
Eddie appreciated his brother’s trust, but they’d both grown up on the Rensfield estate, where their father had been the gardener. And they’d learned the landscape trade early on, although Ramon was the one who actually owned the company.
“I’m tied up until about noon,” Eddie said, thinking about the yards he mowed on Tuesdays. “But I’ll take a look at it when I’m finished.”
“Thanks.”
Ramon didn’t have to thank Eddie for anything. Not after Ramon had gone to bat for him with the parole board. His brother’s connections with law enforcement, along with a job offer and family support, had been instrumental in getting him an early release.
“Hold on a minute.” Eddie brought the recliner to an upright position and stood, careful not to step on Roscoe, the bushy-haired dog sprawled out on the floor. “I’ve got to find a pen.”
He headed for the kitchen counter, where he kept his keys, cell phone, and daily log. Moments later, after he’d written down the address, as well as the name of the owner, he ended the call and returned to the living room.
Roscoe looked up, stretched out his big, lanky body, and yawned.
“You ready to go out before we turn in for the night?” Eddie reached for the leash he kept near the entrance.
The dog barked and got to his feet, his tail swishing back and forth with more excitement than he’d shown all evening.
Eddie ruffled the top of the mutt’s head and rubbed his ears. Roscoe had to be one of the ugliest dogs he’d ever seen. The first time he’d laid eyes on him, he’d been a stray hanging out near the ball fields at Mulberry Park and begging for food from anyone who’d brought a picnic lunch. Eddie had given him a chunk of his bologna sandwich, but some of the mothers near the playground weren’t so nice.
When Roscoe accidentally knocked a toddler to the sand and started licking peanut butter off the kid’s face, the mother freaked out. Once she’d shooed the dog away and saw that her child was okay, she’d called someone and reported a dangerous dog on the loose.
But Roscoe didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’d just been starving, and not just for food. The poor guy only wanted a little human companionship, but no one at the park seemed to care.
When the animal control officer arrived, Roscoe bolted, almost as though he’d already had a couple of run-ins with the doggie law and knew that the uniformed man wasn’t the kind of human friend he’d wanted.
Eddie had found himself silently cheering the stray’s attempt to escape, but eventually the officer had cornered him. While he was being restrained, Roscoe had looked at Eddie, imploring him to help.
Talk about weird connections. Eddie had felt an inexplicable tug at his heart.
“What are you going to do with him?” he’d asked the officer.
“I’m taking him back to the animal shelter. Normally, after a bath and a medical exam, we put them up for adoption. You’d be surprised at the transformation some of these dogs make with a little soap and water. But in this case?” The officer turned to the mangy mutt. “I’m not betting on any big miracles.”
Eddie had never been what you’d call an animal lover, but for some crazy reason, he’d followed the truck to the shelter. A dog as ugly as Roscoe wasn’t likely to be adopted soon, and Eddie’d had a feeling the dog’s days were numbered.
He’d had one last sobering thought about heading back to work and leaving the shelter alone, but when Roscoe had peered at him through that cage, as if saying, “Hey, buddy. How’d you like to be in here?” Eddie had given in and put down a deposit to hold him until he’d been cleaned up, neutered, and deemed adoptable.
So here he was, a reluctant dog owner.
Eddie snapped the leash onto Roscoe’s collar, then opened the door only to see two men walking up the sidewalk.
Roscoe strained to rush forward—to greet them warmly, no doubt—but Eddie held him back.
“Going somewhere?” the taller of the two men asked.
Eddie stiffened at the sound of his parole officer’s voice. “Just taking my dog for a walk.”
“We were in the area and thought we’d stop by for a visit,” Dale Kingsley said.
Eddie would never get used to the “visits” of virtual strangers who would rifle through his drawers and closet, usually leaving his house in shambles.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to make yourself at home while I let the dog take care of business,” he said, but he’d been out of prison long enough to know the routine. He’d be cuffed while the men searched his house, looking for anything that might be a parole violation.
They wouldn’t find anything, though. He’d hated every second behind bars, and he wasn’t going to risk ever going back again.
“We’ll wait,” Dale said. “And I’d rather you kept that dog outside. I got bit by a Rottweiler once, and I’m not about to take any chances.”
Dale didn’t need to worry about Roscoe doing anything other than licking him to death, but Eddie clamped his mouth shut.
It was one of the lessons he’d learned at Donovan Correctional Facility.
It was best to keep to yourself.
The next morning, Amy sat in front of Ron Paige’s desk at Fairbrook Realty, a small, storefront office just two doors down from Parkside Community Church.
Ron had already run a credit check, and as expected, Amy had passed with flying colors. But she’d known she would. If there was one thing to be said about Brandon, it was that he was not only driven to succeed at the office, he was also determined to keep their FICO scores high.
“So far, so good,” Ron said. “The only thing I need to do now is to check on your rental history.”
“I own the house I’m currently living in. If you take a closer look at the credit report, you’ll see the mortgage has always been paid on time.”
Ron glanced at the pages in front of him. “Oh. You’re right.” He furrowed his brow, then looked up. “If you own a home, why do you want to lease the Rucker place?”
As a child, Amy used to tattle on herself, so she’d never been good at deception. Yet she managed a truthful response that would satisfy his curiosity without revealing her real motive. “I’m going through a divorce.”
He nodded, as though that answered everything. Then he glanced back down at the paperwork in front of him and added, “You’re lucky.”
She didn’t feel very lucky and couldn’t help asking, “How so?”
“I’ve worked with people in the past who were in your situation, and their credit scores were usually a disaster.”
Yeah, well, he didn’t know Brandon.
And he didn’t know Amy, either. She hadn’t wanted a big fight; she’d just wanted out. And since she’d heard horror stories of year-long litigations in family court, she’d suggested they get one attorney and divide things right down the middle.
Not wanting a divorce in the first place, as well as the expense and hassle of one, Brandon had agreed to her terms.
All of them, actually. But then again, she’d tried hard to be fair.
“I gotta hand it to you,” Ron said. “It sounds as though you two are dealing exceptionally well with your split.”
Amy supposed they were. Yet again, her efforts to tiptoe around the truth and her hope that Ron would buy her explanation warmed her cheeks.
Apparently, she’d been able to pull off the deception, because by eleven o’clock she’d signed a six-month lease and had been handed the keys to the Rucker place.
“I’ve contacted a landscaping company to mow the lawn and trim the bushes,” Ron said. “Mrs. Davila said her mom had always prided herself in a beautiful yard, but the place has been going steadily downhill for years.”
Amy supposed she’d talk to the landscaper about staying on while the lease was in effect. Something told her she’d be too busy inside the house to worry about the yard.
Fifteen minutes later, she arrived on Sugar Plum Lane. She parked h
er car in the drive, removed several empty cardboard boxes from the backseat, and carried them down the walkway to the front door, intending to follow through on her part of the bargain. Somehow, that made what she was doing seem right.
The lockbox had yet to be removed, but she used the key she’d been given to enter.
Once inside, she inhaled the scent of dust and age, along with the hint of stale sugar and spice. She was tempted to open up the windows and air out the old Victorian, yet she also felt compelled to leave everything just the way it was.
She was reminded of the dozen or so two-story clapboard houses that had been relocated from various sites in San Diego to Heritage Park and refurbished, the interiors decorated and furnished just as they’d been a hundred years ago, with a rope stretched across the doorways of the rooms to block people from entering or touching the displays.
But Amy was free to walk through the rooms of the Rucker place, to touch each item that had once passed through the fingers of the great-grandmother she’d never known.
She dropped the boxes onto the floor in the entry, then placed her hands on her hips and scanned the living room, with its faded blue walls edged with a floral wallpaper trim. Her gaze was drawn to a soot-stained red brick fireplace, where several framed photographs were displayed on a carved oak mantel.
Curiosity urged her to take a closer look at the people who’d meant something to Mrs. Rucker, and she crossed the room. As she lifted each frame, she studied the smiling images in an effort to see her mother in one of them.
There was, she supposed, a family resemblance. Or maybe she just wanted there to be one.
She lifted a brass frame that held a black-and-white photograph of a smiling young couple. The man had on an Army uniform, and the woman, an attractive blonde, was wearing the style of clothing worn in the 1940s.
There was something about the woman that reminded Amy of Betty Grable, the popular pinup girl during the war years. And while it was a stretch to see Jimmy Stewart in the fair-haired soldier, his tall, lanky build and a down-home grin lent credibility to her musing.
“Who are you?” she whispered. Friends of Mrs. Rucker? Other family members?
She returned the picture to its place on the mantel, and even though she supposed the framed photos were the sort of personal effects she should be wrapping in tissue and packing away, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she took a long, lingering look at each person.
