“Why not try to make things work the way they are now?” Richard suggested. “Go see Jane Warner. Meet your niece and nephew. Make it immediately clear that you have no intention of taking the children and—”
“But I do.”
“Would you shut up and listen to me?” Richard demanded.
Pete turned to face him. “I’m listening.”
“What would you do right now, this very moment, if you had sole custody of the twins? If someone walked through that door and handed them to you?”
Pete shrugged. “Take them home. Take care of them . . .”
“Really?” Richard asked, leaning back in his chair. “Do you have car seats? Do you know what they eat? Do you have any idea of their schedule or the care they require? I told you Mark has already had open-heart surgery. Do you know what medicines he takes, how to administer them? Who his doctor is?”
“No,” Pete admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “But I’m certain that, given the right information, I could be an adequate father. I’ve been operating a fifteen-million dollar machine for the past twelve months. I think I can handle two babies.”
“I’m sure you can,” Richard said, though he didn’t sound all that convinced. “But wouldn’t it be easier if you had someone to help you? After all, who’s going to watch them when you return to work?”
“I’ll hire a nanny.” Peter began pacing across the office.
“Why not think of Jane Warner as a nanny?”
“Because . . .” Pete said. He withdrew the letter from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “I don’t think that’s what my brother had in mind.” He nodded to the letter. “Read it.”
Richard picked up the paper, put on his glasses and began reading. “Hmm,” he said, looking up when he finished. “You know, Paul was pretty sick the last time I saw him. It’s very probable that he wasn’t in his right mind when he wrote this.”
Pete stopped pacing and returned to his chair. “So you don’t think he was trying to fix me up? You don’t think this Jane woman is expecting me to marry her or something?”
Richard chuckled. “She’s hardly expecting that. She didn’t even know you were in the picture until I had the misfortune of telling her.” He handed the letter back to Paul.
It was Peter’s turn to be unconvinced. “You sure it wasn’t an act? I mean, she’s had a pretty neat package dropped into her lap.”
Richard nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought, and when she got upset after I told her about the money being put into an account that has both your names on it, I thought for sure I was right. But since then . . .” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I feel differently.” He glanced at his watch, then rose from his chair. “Sorry, Pete, but we’ll have to cut this short. It’s my wife’s birthday, and I’m taking her out to dinner.”
Peter stood. “I’ll walk you to your car and you can tell me why you changed your mind.”
“I don’t want to tell you too much. You can form your own opinions about Miss Warner.” Richard took some papers from his drawer and placed them in his briefcase. “Here—I almost forgot.” He handed a file to Peter.
“What’s this?” Pete asked, opening it.
“Your first assignment. Holland versus Holland.” Richard shook his head. “A sixteen-year marriage ending in divorce. You represent Mrs. Holland. She wants to move out of state and wants full custody of their three children. He’s protesting it. Weston’s his attorney.”
“Uh-uh,” Pete said, trying to hand the folder back to Richard. “I don’t do custody, remember?”
“I remember,” Richard said, grinning as he walked away from Peter and the file in his outstretched hand. “I thought this might be a good reminder why. Besides, we’re swamped right now. It’s good to have you back.”
Pete sighed. “I don’t know that I am back. Word was, before we even left for the States, that reserve units are being recalled after only a few months at home.”
The smile left Richard’s face. “I’ve heard that on the news. You ought to think about getting out when your time is up. You’re a father now. Those children need you.” He opened the office door and stepped through, holding it for Peter.
“First you make me feel like I’m totally inadequate, and now you’re telling me I’m needed?” Peter shook his head. He walked past Richard to Joan’s desk, retrieving the luggage he’d left there earlier. “Any chance I can get a ride?” he asked Richard. “I haven’t picked up the Jeep yet.”
“Sure,” Richard said. “Though maybe I’d better drop you off at a car dealership. Jane has refused to use any of the money left to her. She recently sold her car to pay Mark’s doctor bill, and now she drives the Jeep.” He turned to his secretary. “Good night, Joan.”
“Good night, Mr. Morgan. Good to have you back, Mr. Bryant.”
Peter managed to nod and give Joan a wan smile before following Richard to the elevator.
“She has my car, too?” he asked, exasperated.
“Yep,” Richard said as he pushed the level-one button. “Remember, you left it with Tamara, and then Paul drove it. Jane has no idea it belongs to you, and I wouldn’t advise taking it from her.”
“Of course not,” Pete grumbled. “At least she doesn’t live in my house—does she?” he asked, an alarmed look on his face as he glanced at Richard.
“No,” Richard said, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from lifting. “She lives behind it.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Hello, Karen?” Jane called as she walked through her sister’s family room and onto the adjoining deck.
“Hi,” Karen answered, looking up from the Primary manual she was reading. “How was the appointment?”
“Same as last time. Mark’s heart is still holding its own, and he has to grow more before the second surgery.” Jane put Mark’s car seat down and walked across the deck to the playpen. She reached down and picked Madison up. “Come here, cutie.”
“Any word from Iraq?” Karen asked, setting the manual aside. She took a soda from the patio table. “Want a drink?”
Jane shook her head. “No thanks, and I haven’t heard anything from Paul’s brother.”
Karen took a sip of her soda and set it down again. “Maybe you’ll never hear from him. Maybe he isn’t interested in the children, or maybe something will happen while he’s—”
“I’ve thought of that,” Jane said, looking grim. “And then I’ve thought what a terrible person I am to think such a thing.” She frowned. “I don’t wish anything bad for him, I just hope he’ll continue to leave us alone.” She looked across the yard at Karen’s husband Scott, who was measuring a length of the lawn with a tape measure. “You guys putting in a garden?”
Karen laughed as she glanced in Scott’s direction. “Are you kidding? The yard wouldn’t even get mowed if it weren’t for the boys.” She folded her arms and frowned as she watched her husband. “No. Scott is measuring for a basketball court. Apparently the driveway isn’t good enough anymore. We’re using our tax return to pay for it.”
“Ah—of course,” Jane said, nodding. Poor Karen was never going to get that cruise she kept talking about. Every year it was the same story—Scott had some project, all sports related.
“What are you going to do with the play fort?” Jane asked, watching as Scott measured around the attached swings.
Karen shrugged. “I guess we’ll put it in the paper—free for anyone who will come and get it. The kids haven’t used it for a couple of years, and Caroline’s family just got one last summer. I’d offer it to Emily or Michael, but they’re both in condos right now.”
“I’m not,” Jane said, excitement in her voice.
Karen looked at her. “Are you kidding? What would you want with a big swing set? And in that awful rental?”
“That awful rental isn’t so bad anymore,” Jane said, choosing to ignore her sister’s thoughtless comment. “I can attach a couple of those cute baby swings, and the twins can be out
side more when I’m working in the yard.” She imagined the fort with a fresh coat of stain and a new awning. And best of all, beneath the fort was a sandbox for the children to dig in. They would grow up, sand squishing between bare toes, running through the sprinkler on the lush lawn and loving the outdoors. Jane looked at Karen hopefully.
“Well . . .” Karen began. “You’d have to take it apart yourself.”
“Done,” Jane said. She walked past Karen and picked up Mark’s car seat and the diaper bag. “Can I just leave the playpen here? I’ll go home and feed the twins, change, get my tools, and be back this afternoon.”
“Uh, sure,” Karen said.
“Thanks,” Jane called, feeling like a kid on Christmas morning as she went out the front door.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Peter grabbed a carton of orange juice from the Styrofoam cooler. Replacing the lid, he took a stale muffin from the bag on the kitchen counter and sat carefully on the only piece of uncovered furniture—an old rattan barstool that had been in his mom’s kitchen as long as he could remember. Opening the juice carton, he lifted it to his lips and took a couple of swallows. His laptop lay open in front of him as he glanced around the combination kitchen/dining room. What a mess. And he wasn’t just thinking of the house. Though, after being closed up for more than two years, it needed some serious help too. But he wasn’t feeling too motivated to clean, at least not unless the power got turned on sometime in the next forty-eight hours. Right now, he had more pressing matters—like meeting his niece and nephew . . . and Jane Warner.
Peter leaned over to the sliding glass door and adjusted the vertical blinds so he could see into the backyard. He stared out past the recently mowed grass—he’d paid a company to take care of it while he was gone—to the sagging chain-link fence that separated his backyard from the one behind it. The gate in the middle was still there, and Peter remembered the many afternoons he’d walked through it to play with his friend Greg. Peter wondered what Greg was up to these days and if his parents still owned the house. If so, Paul had certainly worked a sweet deal with them for rent. Even in these older neighborhoods, seven hundred dollars a month was unheard of. And Richard suggested that Paul wasn’t in his right mind when he wrote that letter. Ha. Pete would bet his life that his brother had known exactly what he was doing.
He turned away from the window and reached for the folder next to his laptop. He wasn’t ready to go back to work, wasn’t even adjusted to the time change yet, but a sticky note on the inside of the folder had shown a scheduled appointment with Mrs. Holland next Wednesday. Knowing he was fortunate to have a job to come home to, Peter focused his attention on the file and sat reading and taking notes for the next twenty minutes until a noise outside caught his attention.
Lifting his eyes from the screen to the sliding glass door, he looked out at the backyard, glanced down at his watch, then looked outside again. It was six fifteen in the morning, and a woman in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, jeans, and work gloves was dumping gravel from a wheelbarrow into a corner of the yard. Jane Warner? If so, he was surprised. One of the few things Richard had said about Miss Warner was not to judge her by her nail polish. This woman pushing the wheelbarrow in the predawn light didn’t strike him as someone who would be concerned with her nails.
Pete watched as she emptied the wheelbarrow, then turned around and headed out the side gate. Curious, he stood and went to the kitchen window where he could see better.
It was a good five minutes before she reappeared, the wheelbarrow full again. Once more, she emptied it, but this time parked the wheelbarrow and went into the garage. A few moments later she returned, dragging a heavy beam. This pattern repeated itself four times before she began carting other supplies into the backyard as well.
More curious than ever about the woman and what she was up to, Peter went into the living room and looked through his duffel bag for his binoculars. He’d been so exhausted after Richard dropped him off last night that he hadn’t bothered to unpack anything and had fallen asleep on the couch.
Tossing aside his clothing, shaving kit, and the religious book his friend Shane had given him at the airport, Peter located his binoculars. He returned to the kitchen and watched, realizing that the woman was unloading the makings for a rather elaborate swing set—the great big wood kind with a fort, fireman’s pole, and the large yellow slide he saw her struggling with now.
A sudden thought struck him. He left the kitchen, went upstairs to the bedroom, and looked out the window.
“Nooo,” he groaned, lowering the binoculars. The woman had transported all that stuff in his Jeep. He watched as she unfastened a bungee cord, carelessly letting it spring onto the other side of the car, and pulled more wood from the roof.
She had his car. She had to be Jane Warner. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes again, concern for his vehicle momentarily overtaken by his curiosity about the woman.
He watched as she hefted the wood onto her shoulder and carried it into the backyard. Dumping it by the other supplies, she returned to the side yard, where lay an enormous pile of lumber and parts he hadn’t noticed before. Pete had to admit he was impressed by her determination to unload it—albeit one piece at a time. She was not a large woman, but apparently what Jane Warner lacked in muscle, she made up for in determination. Not that she didn’t have any muscles, he amended as he watched her shed the sweatshirt in favor of the short-sleeved T-shirt underneath. As she lifted a bag of concrete and carried it to the corner of the yard, he realized her biceps were just fine.
It suddenly occurred to him that he ought to help her, that working together might be the perfect opportunity to break the ice—so to speak. Because another thing Richard had said was to be prepared for ice.
Peter ran downstairs, grabbed his shoes from the living room, and went to the kitchen for another quick drink of juice. Fortification.
He swallowed and watched as she brought the last item from the garage—a pink, compact toolkit. No way she’s gonna use that thing to assemble a swing set, he thought. But it appeared she was planning to do just that. She opened it up and reached for the bag of screws attached to one of the beams.
Choking back laughter, Pete began to cough and splayed orange juice across the sink. A popular credit card commercial came to mind as he used a napkin to wipe up the mess.
New paint job for his Jeep—$1,500
Binoculars—$65
Watching your neighbor attempt to build a fort with a pink toolkit—Priceless.
He tossed the napkin aside and, still smiling, headed to the garage for his tools.
* * *
Jane sat on the ground by the pile of wood and supplies she’d hauled into the backyard. Over half the lumber and the bags of concrete were still out front, but she had what she needed to get started. Opening her toolkit, she removed the pink-handled scissors and began cutting up the instructions she’d downloaded from the company’s website. With her little pink stapler, she moved across the lawn, attaching pictures and instructions to the corresponding beams and bags of screws, nuts, and bolts. When that was done she stood up, brushed off her jeans, and returned to the garage for her cordless drill and circular saw. She had a better collection of power tools than any other female she knew, and she took great pride in knowing how to use them. By doing much of the smaller work herself on her landscaping jobs, she’d been able to keep costs down and keep in shape—or justify eating more chocolate, anyway. Jane smiled, happy that today it was her yard and project she was working on. But just as she walked through the garage door, she heard cries on the baby monitor.
“Six forty-five. Right on time, Maddie,” Jane said as she glanced at her watch. She tugged her gloves off and tossed them on the patio table. Picking up the monitor as she went into the house, she told herself she’d get to the posts later today—though it would have to be much later.
By the time she had the twins fed, changed, and dressed, it would be time to go to work. A thrill of hope shot thro
ugh Jane as she thought about her nine o’clock appointment. Last month the Sweviecs had hired her to landscape their yard. Now their neighbors were interested in having their yard done as well. If the couple accepted the plans she presented today, she’d have her expenses covered for another month.
Madison’s cries increased in volume, and Jane stifled a yawn as she hurriedly washed her hands. Her day was off and running. It would easily be midnight before her head hit the pillow again, but that was okay.
Being tired and busy meant there was no time in her life to be lonely.
* * *
Marsha Warner hung up the phone and made a neat check by the first item on the list Jane had left for her.
“Next,” Marsha said, pleased that she’d so easily found a good price on sod. Set up mulch delivery from AJ and Sons Ground Covers, she read on the line below. Adjusting her bifocals, she scanned the address, delivery date, and other details. With a sigh she picked up the phone again. Usually when she babysat for her daughters, they asked her to do things like bathe the baby or fold laundry. Once, when her son-in-law Scott had been unable to tear himself away from bowl games, she’d painted a bedroom with Karen and helped her assemble a crib.
But assembling furniture and painting seemed like normal grandmotherly things compared to the requests Jane made. She needed help locating exotic plants, scheduling backhoes, and finding special sprinkler heads. It seemed an unusual way for a woman to make a living, but, Marsha conceded, as of late it looked like Jane might just make a go of it. If only she would do well enough to hire a secretary, Marsha thought. She looked at the babies playing on the floor and, anxious to get down to the real business of being a grandmother, returned to Jane’s list.
* * *
Peter glanced out the sliding glass door as he buckled his tool belt and picked up his drill from the table. Outside there was no sign of Jane Warner, only the pieces of the play set that lay strewn across the yard—abandoned. She’d probably given up already.
Counting Stars Page 19
