Raising Connor

by Loree Lough

  “‘Be careful what you ask for.’”

  “What did you ask for?”

  “Proof.”

  Remembering the whole fingerprints explanation, Hunter nodded.

  “Well, I got it, and then some, didn’t I?”

  She seemed on the verge of tears. He could walk around to her side of the table, take her in his arms, and this time, he could take a little comfort while giving it.

  It was a stupid, crazy, dangerous thought, and he squelched it by reminding himself how much she loathed him…and why. Listening to his heart instead of his head had led to his downfall more times than he cared to admit. This time, it could cost him in ways he couldn’t predict. Worse, it could cost Connor.

  As if on cue, the baby’s voice crackled through the monitor.

  Brooke was on her feet in an instant.

  “Oh no. He’s up early….” Halfway to the hall, she stopped, leaned on the doorjamb and hid behind her hands.

  And I have no idea what to tell him, he finished for her.

  If Connor were already in his care, how and when would he deliver the news? It didn’t seem fair to let Brooke deal with it alone considering that in a few days, a week, maybe, he’d pull the rug out from under her.

  “What would you say to seeing an expert,” he began, “before we break the news to Connor?”

  When she didn’t disagree, he added, “Just so we’ll know the right way and the right time to tell the poor kid that…about…you know.”

  She was silent, which made him wonder if she was gearing up to blast him for saying we.

  “Yeah,” she said, “that’s not a bad idea.”

  Relief sluiced over him. Why couldn’t she be this calm and rational all of the time?

  Hunter decided he wouldn’t follow her to Connor’s room; soon enough he’d be with the boy pretty much 24/7.

  She met his eyes, a vacant, disconnected stare that, for a blink in time, took him back to the convenience store. Again. Right now he’d give anything to be as far away from her as he could get. This up-close-and-personal stuff was downright unnerving.

  She left the room without a word, heightening his uncertainty.

  If he knew what was good for him, he’d step up his boxing skills…because something told him that once she saw that DVD, he was in for the fight of his life.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DEIDRE FROWNED. “First chance I get, I’m sending Felix over here to do something about this lawn before your neighbors start complaining.” She shook her head. “That handyman of mine is an artist with hedge shears. I’ll bet he can do something with that boxwood hedge. It was Kent’s pride and joy. If he saw the mess it’s in, he’d roll over in his grave.” She clucked her tongue. “If he had one.”

  There were so many things wrong with her grandmother’s statement that Brooke didn’t know where to begin. First, this wasn’t her neighborhood. Second, she’d tried starting the lawn mower during one of Connor’s afternoon naps, but her arms had been too short for the pull cord. And that crack about Kent’s grave! Brooke would blame it on advancing age…if Deidre hadn’t always been so proud of her bluntness. Like during last year’s Christmas service when Deidre spotted a sorority sister sitting with her new beau: “Do you think those two are having sex?” When heads turned to see who’d made the loud crude comment, Brooke said, “Gram! We’re in church!” And Deidre, being Deidre, blurted, “Oh, fiddlefarts. God invented sex!”

  Now Deidre pointed at the ankle-deep grass beneath her Mary Jane–style sneakers. “You know what it means when dandelions bloom in March, don’t you?”

  What Brooke knew about dandelions could be summed up with a word: weed.

  “This happened a few years ago. We had a terrible, fierce spring. Thunderstorms, derechos, tornadoes—”

  Just what Connor needs, Brooke thought, weather-related storms in his life, too.

  “—and a long humid summer that broke every weather record in the book.” She turned toward Brooke. “Remember?”

  No, she didn’t, because she’d spent the past five years in Richmond, where every summer seemed endlessly sticky. But admitting that would only inspire another “if you had stayed home, where you belong…” speech. Her grandmother meant well and probably had no idea how upsetting it was to hear the list of hardships Brooke’s move south had caused: she hadn’t been there when one of Deidre’s tenants left the garage apartment in shambles, when another forgot to close a window before a long business trip, and hornets built a basketball-size nest in the closet. She wasn’t there to see Deidre’s directorial debut in the little-theater production of Our Town and had never gone with her to place flowers on Percy’s grave. Once, out of frustration, Brooke had suggested that Beth would probably love helping out. “Beth,” Deidre had said, “has a family to take care of.” Translation: Brooke had no responsibilities.

  Well, she had her share of them now.

  “Yeddow,” Connor said, pointing at a dandelion. He squatted and picked the flower, then carried it to Brooke. “Yeddow?”

  It was the closest he’d come to smiling in two days, and she felt like celebrating. She bent down to kiss his forehead. “Yes, yellow. And pretty, too!”

  “Pitty,” he echoed, toddling into the backyard.

  His pronunciation of the word seemed beyond ironic, because losing his mommy and daddy at the same time was a pity.

  He tripped on a clump of weeds and landed on his diapered rump. Ordinarily, he’d giggle, get right back to his feet and continue on as if nothing had stopped him. Not today. He cried for nearly ten minutes straight, quieting only after Brooke tossed aside the lid to the sandbox so he could play.

  “Poor li’l guy,” Deidre said.

  “He senses something is wrong,” Brooke agreed. “He just doesn’t know what. It’s as though he knows somehow that Beth and Kent should have come home before yesterday.”

  “You need to tell him. And soon.”

  “Tell him what, Gram? That his mom and dad are gone? He’s only one and a half. Kids his age have no concept of death.” She remembered Hunter’s suggestion about talking with an expert who could help them explain things in terms Connor would comprehend. The idea was sounding better and better.

  Deidre stared at Connor furiously banging his blue plastic shovel on a red fire truck. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Once the funeral was behind them, she’d call Connor’s pediatrician. Surely he could recommend a good child psychologist. For now, she’d just have to exercise patience as Connor expressed his confusion in the only way he could: tantrums.

  “You look tired,” Deidre said.

  No surprise there. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since before the deputy’s phone call. Connor hadn’t slept well since that night, either. If only she could blame a cold or the flu for his grumpy behavior.

  “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You need healthy food and a couple good nights’ sleep.”

  “Once Beth and Kent are home and…” It might have been easier to say “once they’re buried” if she knew that was their preference. Brooke had rifled through every drawer and cubby in the house searching for their will. With nothing but good intentions and guesses to go on, burial had won out over cremation. “Things will be over soon, and then I’ll sleep.”

  “Soon, my foot. You’re his mother now, like it or not, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and start acting like one. You’ll have to learn to organize your time better so that you don’t wear yourself out, because if you keep up at this pace, you’ll topple like a tree in the woods.”

  The “If a tree falls, would anyone hear it?” adage came to mind, and for a moment, Brooke thought back to her critical-thinking class: if philosophers, poets and scientists like George Berkeley, William Fossett and George Ransom Twiss hadn’t been able to solve the riddle, surely she never could. But…like it or not? Sorry for herself? Brooke hated the tragedy that put them all in this position, and she loved Connor more than life itself. What had she sai
d or done to make her grandmother think she wasn’t up to the job?

  Deidre took her hand and led her to the sandbox. “Sit down before you fall down. I’m pretty spry for an old gal, but I’m not strong enough to pick you up.”

  Fourteen years ago Gram and Gramps opened their home to her and Beth after their father’s death. It couldn’t have been easy having his children underfoot, reminding them that they’d lost him forever, especially under such tragic circumstances, but they’d done it. Respect and gratitude kept Brooke from snapping back.

  Deidre picked up a tiny blue shovel. “What time is your appointment with the bank manager?”

  “Two o’clock. And at four I meet with the funeral director.”

  Sprinkling sand into a matching bucket, she said, “I’m glad you’re not bringing this munchkin with you….”

  “No one could expect him to sit still and keep quiet, least of all men in suits talking about balance transfers or coffins.” Brooke scooped up a handful of sand, watched it slowly rain from her fingers. “Hunter volunteered to stay with him while—”

  “Hunter?” Deidre leaned closer. “Hunter Stone?”

  That had pretty much been her reaction, too, when she’d said yes to his offer.

  “I didn’t know you two were even on speaking terms.”

  Memories of the way she’d fallen into his arms like a Victorian damsel in distress made her grimace, but Brooke put it out of her mind. “He stopped by the other morning. I’m not sure why. To offer his condolences?” She shrugged again. “We got to talking. One thing led to another. And when he offered to help with Connor, I decided to let him.”

  Smiling, Deidre raised an eyebrow.

  Good grief, Brooke thought. She loved her grandmother to pieces, but her notion that having a man in your life could right every wrong, well, that wasn’t so easy to love.

  Connor sighed and tossed his truck aside. “Look at those big sad eyes,” Deidre said. “Why, it really is as if he knows. Did you tell him his uncle Hunter is staying with him? That might put a smile on his face.”

  At the mention of Hunter’s name, Connor crawled over to Deidre. “Huntah?” And when she didn’t answer fast enough to suit him, he leaned into Brooke’s lap. “Huntah?”

  “Yes, sweetie, he’ll be here soon.”

  It had never sat well with her that Beth allowed Hunter to get close to her, and then to the baby. But as Beth had once pointed out, “Even you can see that they’re crazy about one another. If it makes Connor happy…”

  Being around him had made Beth happy, too.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Deidre observed.

  “I was just thinking. Guess Hunter finally figured out how to stay awake on assignment. Otherwise Beth and Kent wouldn’t have let him spend so much time with Connor.”

  Deidre aimed a bony forefinger. “Shakespeare wrote that sarcasm proves a lack of wit, you know. I’m paraphrasing, but you get my drift.”

  Would Deidre be less sarcastic, Brooke wondered, if she hadn’t memorized all those savvy lines during her years on the Broadway stage?

  “I used to call them the Three Musketeers,” Deidre continued, “because they were like siblings…until Beth came to her senses and married Kent.”

  The not-so-veiled hint wasn’t lost on Brooke.

  “Frown all you like. It’s the truth and you know it.”

  It seemed her grandmother was determined to pick a fight. She blamed it on the fact that, just as Brooke had lost a sister, Deidre had lost a granddaughter…one she’d raised as her own child.

  “These past years haven’t been easy on Hunter, either, you know.”

  “They shouldn’t have been easy!” And Deidre of all people should know why.

  “Have you ever considered all that Beth gained when she forgave him?”

  Brooke huffed. “A babysitter who lives just two doors down?”

  “Tsk. Listen to yourself.”

  “I almost forgot. She got a babysitter who minds Connor for free. And someone who knows how to hammer nails into plaster walls without cracking them, fix leaky faucets, hang storm doors. Oh. And wait. Beth also gained a confidant. A genuine friend.”

  “You sound as though you think those are bad things.”

  “They are…if you have to trade them for self-respect.”

  Deidre’s eyes widened. “Is that what you think? That by letting go of the anger and bitterness, Beth and I handed over our dignity?”

  Yes, that’s exactly what Brooke thought. And it should come as no surprise to her grandmother, because they’d had this conversation no fewer than a dozen times over the years.

  “If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t feel that way.”

  “I know enough. I know he couldn’t stop that gunman in time because when the robbery began, he was asleep in the squad car.”

  Deidre harrumphed. “You talk as if you’re the only one on the planet who ever suffered a loss.”

  Brooke didn’t know how to respond to that. Deidre had buried two husbands. And when Brooke’s dad couldn’t face life without her mom, he’d closed himself in the garage and turned on the car. And now, Beth.

  “But Hunter did stop that gunman, Brooke, permanently. And he’s had to live with that, too, all these years. That’s the truth, like it or not.”

  She did not.

  Brooke glanced at her watch. “Well, I have just enough time to feed Connor and put him down for a nap before Hunter gets here.”

  “Aw, let him play. He’s having fun for the first time in days. I’ll keep an eye on him. You go on inside. Touch up your lipstick and mascara, run a brush through your hair. And if you have any of that dark-circle concealer in your makeup bag, you might want to use it.”

  “Wow. Aren’t you good for the ego.”

  Deidre shrugged. “I calls ’em as I see ’em. Now go. Make yourself presentable for Hunter.”

  “I honestly don’t care what Hunter thinks of my appearance. And since the bank manager and the funeral director are only interested in money, they won’t even notice that I look like a worn-out old dishrag.”

  “Man,” said a smooth DJ-like voice, “Beth hit the old nail on the head….”

  Hunter…

  “You really are too hard on yourself.”

  How much of the conversation had he heard? It annoyed her that Deidre hadn’t given her a heads-up, since she’d been facing that direction. Traitor, Brooke thought as her grandmother wrapped Hunter in a welcoming hug. In reality, she was far more annoyed with herself: she’d come home from Richmond at least once a month. Had she really been so centered on her own trifling matters that she hadn’t noticed how deeply he’d embedded himself into her family?

  As if to underscore his importance in their lives, Connor ran to him. “Up,” he said, clutching at Hunter’s pant legs. “Conner up?”

  Oh, how she’d love to tell Hunter that he had a lot of gall using feigned friendship with her loved ones to ease his guilty conscience!

  But in the time it took to pick the baby up, his stance, his smile, even his voice changed. Caring was the only word she could think of to describe it. Which raised an important question: If someone else’s child could incite such a transformation, why didn’t he have children of his own?

  “How’s my li’l buddy?” he said, scrubbing his whiskered chin across Connor’s palm.

  The baby snickered, and envy coursed through Brooke. She’d done everything but imitate a monkey swinging from the chandelier and hadn’t roused so much as a giggle. Jaws clamped and fists clenched at her sides, she stared at her shoes, remembering how Beth used to say that people could read her moods just by looking at her. She took a deep breath, then met Hunter’s eyes.

  “You’re early.”

  He checked his watch. “You want me to go out the gate and come back in again?”

  Beth had occasionally accused her of pettiness, but for all she knew, Beth had shared that with Hunter, too, and Brooke had no desire to prove it to him.

&nbs
p; “My watch must be slow, then.”

  “So tell me, Hunter,” Deidre began, smiling sweetly at him, “what prompted you to offer your babysitting services today?”

  “When my dad died last year,” he said, propping Connor on one hip, “I was the only son who wasn’t working swing shifts. So I made all the arrangements. Dad hadn’t left a will, which put my mom in a tough position, legally and financially. It was hard for her.” He caught Brooke’s eye. “I just want to help.”

  Deidre nodded. “I seem to remember your sister-in-law telling me at your dad’s memorial service that if it hadn’t been for you, your mother would have lost everything.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, cheeks reddening.

  Bearing in mind how boldly he’d invaded the O’Toole world, his humble attitude surprised her. What invited it, Brooke couldn’t say, but just as surprising was the way she remembered him, crawling around on all fours to help scoop up melting ice cubes. If Beth and Deidre knew of other messes he’d cleaned up, no wonder they had fallen so easily for his nice-guy routine.

  Connor snuggled closer to him and whimpered.

  “Aw, what’s the matter, kiddo?”

  It was all Brooke could do to keep from groaning out loud. She resented Beth for starting the “forgive and forget” ball rolling, resented Kent for keeping her at arm’s length while letting Hunter get so close, resented Deidre for not understanding that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him off the hook as easily as they had.

  Connor yawned, and like an indulgent dad, Hunter began rocking side to side. “I don’t want you to worry about him,” he told Brooke. “He’ll be fine.”

  She only nodded.

  “And don’t worry about anything else, either. What you’re facing is hard and painful stuff. But you’ll get through it. And the sooner you put obituaries and grave markers and bank statements behind you, the sooner your life—and more importantly, Connor’s life—can get back to normal.”

  “Normal? When I’ve lost my only sister? And the man I was going to marry deceived and humiliated me? When Connor and Deidre—the only family I have left—think you hung the moon? There’s nothing normal about any of that!”