First and Again

by Jana Richards

“Leslie, why don’t we put out glasses and plates for everyone while Rebecca and your dad wash their hands?”

  “First rule of the kitchen!” she said gleefully.

  Jack stopped to stare her, looking puzzled. Rebecca rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. That’s just my mother turning Leslie into a clean freak like her. She tried it on me but it didn’t work.”

  “That’s because Leslie is a much better student than you are.”

  He sent Bridget a look filled with amusement and something that looked like gratitude. In his smile, she also detected the heat she’d felt earlier from him, and her cheeks began to flush.

  Damn. Being thrown into a state of arousal every time Jack looked at her was exhausting.

  “Let’s go wash up, Becky,” he said. “Maybe if we’re good we’ll get two cookies.” He winked at Bridget.

  A few minutes later they sat at the kitchen table having cookies and milk. Leslie regaled Jack with her cookie-baking adventures of the afternoon. Rebecca was in high spirits as well.

  “Guess what, Mom? We found a spot where the fence was down and the cattle got out. Candy and I got to round up some steers with Jack and his horse. Jack said he’s going to teach me how to rope, isn’t that right?”

  He sipped his coffee, an amused grin on his face. “I sure will. Those steers won’t know what hit them.”

  “I even helped Jack fix the barbed wire fence. He said I was a big help, right Jack?”

  “You bet. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “We even saw some fox holes. We didn’t see the foxes because Jack said they come out mostly at night. Do you think we could go out after dark sometime to see them?”

  “Maybe in the spring, if it’s okay with your mother. It’s about to get pretty cold after dark very soon.”

  Bridget watched the easy exchange between Jack and her daughter with amusement and something bordering on amazement. She’d never heard Rebecca speak with her father in such a relaxed fashion. Ben was usually too busy to really listen to her, or too eager to point out her faults. With Jack, Rebecca didn’t have to try to impress or fight for his attention. She could just be herself.

  She’d always known he’d be a wonderful father.

  The thought of the children they’d never had together made a lump form in her throat. She blinked rapidly and looked away, making a great show of checking the time on her watch.

  “We’d better get going. It’s almost four and Grandma will be wondering where we are.”

  Rebecca got up from the table. “Thanks for the ride this afternoon, Jack. It was great. Do you think we can do it again sometime?”

  “If it’s okay with your mom we’ll try to get in as many rides as we can before the weather turns cold.”

  She vowed to make sure her daughter rode as much as possible. “I’m sure we can work something out.” She found her sweater in the closet at the back door and slipped it on. “Bye Leslie. I’ll see you soon.”

  To her surprise Leslie launched herself at her, holding tight to her waist. She hugged her close, surprised by the surge of love and protectiveness she felt for her. The feeling was so sudden and unexpected it brought tears to her eyes.

  Leslie pulled free and grinned up into her face. “I like you, Bridget.”

  A lump formed in her throat. She stroked Leslie’s soft hair for a moment, too overcome with emotion to respond immediately.

  “I like you too, Leslie. Now, do you think you can show your dad how to put the dishes in the dishwasher?”

  She puffed out her little chest. “Yes! I’m really good at that!”

  Bridget laughed and glanced at Jack, thinking he’d laugh as well. But his face was set in serious lines, his mouth unsmiling. Had she done something to upset him?

  She and Rebecca left a few moments later. Rebecca continued to chatter about Candy and her ride with Jack all the way back to town. She listened with half an ear. What was going on with Jack? She didn’t remember him being so hard to read, or so moody. One moment he was laughing and carefree, sending her heated looks that made her long-dormant libido sit up and take notice. In the next moment he cooled faster than an Arctic wind. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d changed in the last twenty years.

  Chapter Seven

  Jack brushed Leslie’s hair, carefully untangling the knots that so easily formed in the fine strands. He’d become a master at brushing his daughter’s hair, along with dressing her, bathing her, feeding her and looking after her every need. He’d had ten years of practice as a single parent. Bridget couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be solely responsible for a child with Down syndrome.

  Why was he so angry with her? After all, she’d been kind to Leslie.

  Too kind.

  He’d been down this road before. He’d long ago stopped bringing women to the ranch and introducing them to his daughter. Women were either repelled by her and beat a hasty retreat, or they thought of her as some sort of cute exotic pet. They’d hang around until they discovered some of the harsh realities of raising a differently abled child. Jack suspected that Bridget fell into the second category. Where would that leave Leslie when she decided she’d had enough?

  He knew she thought he was being overprotective of his daughter, but he didn’t care. Leslie’s health had been too fragile, and her awkwardness had caused her to hurt herself too many times for him to take any chances. Bridget had no idea what it was like for him. She had a healthy, normal daughter.

  “Ow, Daddy!” Leslie cried, batting away the brush. “That’s too hard.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.” He soothed her with a kiss, chastising himself for his lack of attention. After kissing her good-night, he tucked her into bed and turned off her lamp, flicking on her night-light before leaving the room.

  He went to the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of tea. Bridget made him feel things he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for a very long time. She made him remember how full of hope they’d been when they were young, how endless the possibilities seemed.

  She made him remember what it was like to be in love.

  He dated occasionally, but kept things light. Any woman he slept with was under no illusions about happily ever afters.

  Could he keep things light with Bridget? Could he work with her and still maintain his distance, emotionally and physically? He already found himself making excuses to touch her. Could he stop himself from going further?

  He took his tea into his office and sat behind the desk in his large leather chair. He hated feeling all churned up like this. Until Bridget had blown into his life again, his world had clicked along at a nice even pace with no big surprises. Just the way he liked it.

  The chances of her taking up permanent residence in Paradise were remote. This was a temporary stop for her. She’d soon be back on the road and out of their lives. He couldn’t let Leslie get too close to her. She’d feel abandoned and hurt when she left. Just like he’d been twenty years ago.

  He closed his eyes against the painful memories. Both he and Leslie needed to keep their distance from Bridget.

  This time he wouldn’t be the one she left behind.

  * * *

  Martha hummed as she used a knife to cut the block of shortening into dice-sized bits. A moment later she switched to a pastry blender and began to mix the flour and shortening with surprising strength. She attacked the mixture with enthusiasm, working her way around and to the bottom of the bowl in a fast chopping motion.

  “My mother used to say you had to be quick and fierce to bake a good pie.”

  “I see what you mean,” Bridget said. “I never thought of baking pies as an aerobic activity before.”

  Martha laughed. “You can mix the next batch. I’m nearly worn-out already.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you all right? You’ve been standing for too long. I’ll get your wheelchair.”

  “No, no, don’t fuss,” she said. “I can rest later. Right now we have work to do. Get me a glass
of ice water.

  “Now, watch carefully,” Martha commanded, after Bridget handed her the glass. Her hands shook slightly as she added the ice water to the flour and shortening mixture, a tablespoon at a time, in different spots in the bowl. She handed Bridget a fork.

  “Here, you try it. Stir as hard and fast as you can.”

  She stirred vigorously as Martha supervised.

  “If you have enough water the dough will start to form a ball,” she said. She added another tablespoon and nodded her head in satisfaction.

  “That should do it.”

  She was right. By some miracle, the mixture now resembled something approximating pie dough. Martha took the dough into her hands and shaped it into a more uniform ball before cutting it in half and placing half on a plastic pastry sheet sprinkled generously with flour.

  “The fewer strokes you use to work the dough, the flakier it will be.”

  After flattening the dough a little with her hand, Martha covered it with a piece of waxed paper and began vigorously rolling with a wooden rolling pin. Bridget marveled once again at her stamina as she worked quickly and with some strength, starting from the middle and pushing the dough out in all directions. She soon formed a thin circle of pastry.

  “Now the moment of truth,” Martha said. She peeled off the waxed paper, then gently folded the circle of pastry in half. Lifting the folded half over a pie plate, she carefully unfolded the pastry over the plate.

  “Beautiful.” She gently worked the dough to the bottom and sides of the pie plate and then took a sharp knife to trim the excess.

  Gladys brought a bowl of filling to the table. “This is my mother’s recipe for apple pie filling. She always made wonderful pies.” She spooned the filling into the empty pie shell while Martha began rolling the top.

  When she finished rolling, Martha placed the top over the filling, crimped the edges together with her fingers, and then cut small vents in the top in the shape of bird tracks. Bridget took the pie to the preheated oven. She’d taken meticulous notes and was anxious to sample their creation and see if it passed the taste test.

  Rebecca and Leslie breezed into the kitchen, holding hands and giggling. Bridget had made arrangements for Rebecca to hitch a ride on the school bus with Leslie after school. Martha chuckled and pointed a bony finger at the girls.

  “There’s two more strong pie makers. Wash your hands and come help us with the next batch.”

  Leslie cheered while Rebecca’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But I don’t like cooking.”

  Martha waved away her objections. “You like to eat, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah but—”

  “Then if you plan on feeding yourself, you need to learn to cook.” She sat ramrod straight in her wheelchair and gave Rebecca an imperious wave. “Now go wash up.”

  The look of horror on her daughter’s face made Bridget laugh. “You heard the lady. Go wash your hands.”

  Gladys took Leslie by the hand. “Come with me. We’ll soon get you cleaned up and turned into little kitchen helpers.”

  Rebecca followed them to the washroom, throwing her mother a doleful glance as she left. Bridget chuckled when she disappeared around the corner. “Now if I’d said that to her she’d likely stomp off and spend the rest of the afternoon sulking.”

  “That’s one good thing about being as old as I am,” Martha said with a wheezing laugh. “No one will dare argue with you.”

  The girls soon emerged from the washroom and Gladys found each of them a bibbed apron. Bridget hid her smile at the picture they made. Leslie pranced excitedly in the apron that covered her from her chin to her ankles, while Rebecca looked as if she’d rather be mucking out stalls.

  “There now, you look like you’re ready to go.” Martha wheeled her chair next to the table. “Bring your ingredients over here. The counter’s too high for me.”

  The girls obediently did as they were told. As Bridget made her next batch of pastry at the counter following the directions Martha had given her, she listened and watched with amazement as both girls followed instructions. She wasn’t surprised at Leslie’s enthusiasm but Rebecca’s transformation was nothing short of remarkable.

  “Work it harder, girl! The faster you mix it, the flakier it will be.”

  “Like this, Mrs. Kowalchuk?” She could see Rebecca’s arm energetically working the dough.

  “Just like that, dear. We’re going to make pie makers out of you girls yet. And call me Martha. Everybody does.”

  An hour and a half later they sampled the fruits of their labor. Bridget closed her eyes and sighed as the pastry melted in her mouth. The filling was sweet without being cloying and was just the right texture. Perfection.

  She smiled at the two older women and the two young girls. Apparently it took a village not only to raise a child, but to teach her how to bake a pie.

  * * *

  When Jack stepped into his kitchen, the delectable scent of baking pies filled the room. Gladys washed dishes at the sink while Martha sat in her chair next to the kitchen table having a cup of tea. Bridget looked up at him as she swept the floor.

  “Judging by the good smells, your baking session went well,” he said.

  She smiled broadly, clearly pleased. “It was awesome. These ladies bake a mean pie.”

  Her smile transported him twenty years back. She’d smiled at him like that a lot in those days. He’d thought they’d always be together, that she’d always have a special smile for him.

  But in the end she’d left him. He needed to remember that.

  Leslie entered the kitchen and beamed at him, fairly vibrating with excitement. She grabbed his hand. “Daddy, come see!”

  He followed her into the dining room. The table had been set with his good china, the dishes his ex-wife hadn’t deemed high-quality enough to bother taking. His best crystal wineglasses and water goblets graced the table along with his best silverware. Tall candles in brass candlesticks were set at either end of the table with a dried flower arrangement in fall colors acting as the centerpiece. The effect was stunning. They could have been in an elegant five-star restaurant instead of his ranch house.

  “I set the table all by myself,” Leslie said proudly.

  He stared at her. It wasn’t like Leslie to lie.

  “Leslie, I know you didn’t do this. I don’t like when you don’t tell the truth.”

  Her bottom lip turned out in a pout. “I did so do it.”

  “She’s not lying, Jack. She did set the table.”

  Bridget wiped her hands on her apron as she entered the dining room. Her curly hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, though several unruly strands escaped to lie against her face and neck. A smudge of flour dotted her left cheek and he had the insane urge to brush it from her face and feel her smooth, warm skin under his fingers. Though he’d been annoyed with her the other night for sticking her nose into his family’s business, and only a moment ago he’d warned himself to be cautious where she was concerned, all he wanted to do was to kiss her senseless. But the scowl on her face told him that kissing him was the furthest thing from her mind.

  “I put out one of the place settings and then Leslie did the other seven exactly the same way.” Bridget laid a maternal hand on his daughter’s shoulder, a gesture that looked protective. Was she trying to protect his daughter from him? “She never dropped one thing, not even a napkin. We put the candles on together.”

  Leslie puffed out her chest. “I did good.”

  “You sure did, sweetie.” Bridget laughed.

  He looked at the elegant table again and then at his daughter. He lifted his gaze to Bridget in confusion.

  “Leslie set the table like this?”

  Her eyes softened a little. “She can do a lot of things. She only needs guidance and a little supervision, just like any other kid.”

  Jack grit his teeth. He’d lived with Leslie, looked after her, sheltered her, all her life. He knew what she was capable of and what she wa
sn’t. No matter what Bridget believed, she would never accomplish things on her own, or live like a normal person. She couldn’t fix Leslie. His daughter was just a baby, and always would be.

  “Leslie, go to Gladys in the kitchen. I want to talk to Bridget for a minute.”

  She looked up at him uncertainly. “Are you mad at me, Daddy?”

  He drew her close and hugged her tightly. “No, of course not, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”

  She hugged him back, but her earlier enthusiasm was gone. He closed his eyes, angry that Bridget had made him the bad guy with his daughter. A moment later she pulled away from him, giving him one last doleful glance as she silently left the room.

  He turned on Bridget, his hands shaking in anger.

  “I don’t appreciate you making Leslie believe she can do things when she can’t.”

  “Obviously, you’re not paying attention, Jack.” She swept her arm toward the table. “She did a fine job of setting the table. She was so proud of herself. Why did you have to spoil it for her?”

  “Don’t get any grand ideas.” His voice came out harsher than he had intended. “Leslie’s not some kind of monkey that you can train to perform tricks. You can’t make her into something she’s not, and you sure as hell can’t make her normal. She’s my daughter and I know what’s best for her. Is that clear?”

  He immediately regretted his words. Bridget’s mouth opened in astonishment. Anger flushed her face.

  “I certainly don’t think of Leslie that way. If you do, I feel very sorry for both of you.”

  She turned and marched out of the dining room, her back stiff.

  “Damn.”

  He shook his head, disgusted with himself. He hadn’t meant to argue with her, or to say the things he had about Leslie. But at least he’d made it clear that he was the one in charge of his daughter’s care.

  A few moments later he left the house through the front door to avoid the kitchen. The last thing he needed was another confrontation with Bridget.

  * * *

  After she finished washing the floor, Bridget gave the granite countertop a thorough wipe, making sure every bit of pie dough had been erased from its pristine surface. She’d sent Gladys home and promised to finish cleaning the mess left behind by their marathon baking session. It was the least she could do after all the help she’d given her with the baking. In typical Gladys fashion, the older woman had waved off Bridget’s thanks and offered to drive Martha back to the nursing home and Rebecca to the motel. She’d said she’d already promised to drive Leslie to her grandmother’s house for a sleepover, and a couple of more stops wouldn’t make any difference.