Raising Connor

by Loree Lough

  Maybe insomnia was a good thing after all, he thought as they rode along in silence, because he could put those hours of sleeplessness to good use…

  …trying to figure out what really was best for Connor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DEIDRE, CONNOR AND BROOKE were the only relatives in attendance at the funeral service. That might have been a sad fact if not for nearly a hundred others—coworkers, neighbors, folks from Beth’s church—who crowded first into the funeral home and then into the tiny chapel. It touched Brooke to see how many people now stood under the green canvas tent that shaded twin graves, shivering in the raw late-March wind.

  When the praying and singing ended, the pastor invited the congregants to step up and share memories of Beth and Kent. It amazed Brooke to see how quickly a line formed. As the first man started speaking, Deidre grabbed Brooke’s hand. “Did you know about this?”

  Brooke shook her head. During their brief meeting the day before yesterday, the preacher had promised to handle the services, in the church, at the funeral home and here at the cemetery. And since Beth had always refused to discuss anything even remotely related to death or dying, Brooke had quickly agreed to let him.

  “I’m trying hard not to make a scene,” Deidre said, “but I don’t know how I’ll hold it together if all these people share fond memories of Beth and Kent.”

  Brooke gave her grandmother’s hand a gentle pat as the man at the podium cleared his throat.

  “For those who don’t know, I’m Isaac Nelson. Kent and I met when we were seventeen,” he began, “and ended up in the same attic room at the Kardens’ house. It was my first foster home, but Kent had been in the system for years…and had the scars to prove it. He taught me which rules I could bend and which would earn me a swift kick in the pants.” He pressed a palm to the nearest casket. “This guy saved my bacon on more than one occasion. Yes, he did. He’d give you the shirt off his back and go without himself, he would. I loved this big galoot like a brother.” He put his hand in his pocket, meeting Deidre’s gaze, then Brooke’s. “He was good people,” he told them, “so I’m sure you’ll miss him even more than I will.” Then, head bowed, he quickly walked away.

  Brooke recognized the young woman who took his place—Ivy McDaniels, her sister’s across-the-street neighbor.

  “Sorry,” Ivy said, rummaging in her purse. “I would have sworn I put my notes in here….”

  Amid the quiet laughter, Ivy searched her coat pockets…and Brooke remembered the day when Beth called to share the news that Kent had proposed. “You’ve just got to come home,” she’d gushed, “so you can meet him. I know you’ll love him as much as I do!” Beth had spent the next half hour telling Brooke all about the man she planned to marry, but not a word was said about his years in the foster-care system.

  Now Brooke looked around her at the dozens of friends gathered to mourn his passing. Had they seen a side of him that Brooke hadn’t, or tolerated his brusque behavior for Beth’s sake, as she had? Sadly, neither scenario freed her from the ugly truth: if she hadn’t been so wrapped up with work, with her on-then-off love life, she’d know the answer.

  Finally, Ivy found her notes.

  “I can’t tell you,” the young woman said, “how many times I showed up at the Sheridans’ house unannounced. No matter how busy she was, Beth always, always, made time to listen to my troubles, to deliver pep talks, to let me cry on her shoulder.” Ivy bit her lower lip before continuing. “She’d set aside whatever puzzle she was working on—oh, how that girl loved word search!—or put down the newspaper and distract me with a news story, a weather alert, a recipe. And no matter how poorly the Orioles or Ravens were performing, Beth never said a bad word about them. Or about anyone else, for that matter, because that’s just the way she was.”

  Half a dozen more speeches followed Ivy’s, but Brooke barely heard a word. Her thoughts had turned to the days when she and Beth shared the back bedroom at Deidre’s, whispering in the dark across the space between their twin beds about homework and chores, the latest movies, and the cute counselor at summer camp. When had Beth become a fan of puzzles and sports?

  Tears pooled in her eyes as Brooke thought of all the time she’d wasted caught up in her own self-interests and mired in loathing Hunter Stone. It’s time you thought about someone other than him…other than yourself for a change. Deidre and Connor were counting on her, she thought, swiping angrily at the tears, and she was no use to them this way.

  And where was Connor? Last time she’d seen him, he’d fallen asleep in Hunter’s arms…after crying nonstop for half an hour straight. How Hunter had quieted the baby, Brooke couldn’t say. But Beth had been right when she’d said that Connor and Hunter shared a one-of-a-kind bond.

  Brooke hadn’t wanted to bring Connor here today, but Deidre had been unbending: “When he’s old enough to ask questions, he’ll never forgive us if he finds out we kept him away from one of the most important days of his life.”

  Brooke caught sight of Hunter and Connor standing side by side on the ornate little bridge across the way. Hunter pointed out a row of mallards bobbing beneath them on the water’s surface, and for the moment, the ducks held Connor’s attention. But the minute they floated out of sight, he began to wail again. Squatting, Hunter placed big hands on tiny shoulders and said something that captured the baby’s full attention…and immediately calmed him.

  Hunter looked up just then, caught her staring. She looked away quickly as Deidre jabbed an elbow into her side.

  “Honestly, Brooke. I’ll be long gone when Connor is old enough to ask what happened here today, and he’ll be counting on you to tell him. Pay attention!”

  Like an obedient child, Brooke faced front as those assembled near the coffins took turns at the podium.

  “He was the most honest man I knew.”

  “She had a heart as big as her head.”

  “He was generous to a fault.”

  “Oh, how she loved her family, especially her big sister!”

  The only way the woman in the red hat could know a thing like that was if Beth had told her. Brooke held her breath, determined not to cry.

  A strong, warm hand rested on her shoulder.

  Hunter….

  He leaned near her ear. “I know you’re holding it together for Deidre and Connor,” he whispered. “Admirable.”

  When he straightened and walked away, regret throbbed in her heart. And right behind it, exasperation. She was behaving like a fool, unable to make up her mind whether she despised the man who’d let her mother die…or liked him.

  She blamed exhaustion. Grief. Her constantly growing list of regrets. Blamed Hunter, too, because after thousands of bitter thoughts about him, she’d allowed a few kind words and gestures to soften her resolve.

  The pastor led the mourners in song. Deidre gave Brooke’s hand a tiny squeeze, the signal that had meant “behave, or else” since she and Beth were children. Connor wrapped his arms around her knees. “Conner up?”

  She picked him up. “Shhh. It’s okay,” she murmured. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  He bounced in her arms, pointed at the closed coffins, where photos of Beth and Kent reminded everyone of happier times.

  “Conner see Mommy?”

  Her heart lurched as she realized what he was asking. “Aw, sweetie,” she said around a sob, “how ’bout we go home instead, get you some lunch and a nap.”

  “No nap,” he insisted. And pointing again, he repeated, “Conner wants Mommy!”

  Even if she could get her feet to cooperate, Brooke wouldn’t know what to say or do once she got him over there.

  She felt Hunter’s warm hand on the small of her back. “Want me to take him?”

  Brooke thought of Deidre’s earlier comment, that someday Connor would ask about this day.

  “No, I’ll do it.” She could do this. Had to do this.

  “Open,” Connor said once they reached the front of the tent.

&n
bsp; He looked away from the photos, and when he met her eyes, it felt as though he were looking straight into her heart, reading every memory and fear and regret written there.

  He tilted his head slightly. “Aw, Brooke cry?”

  “No, sweetie.” Brooke blinked back the sting of fresh tears. “I’m not crying.”

  Connor touched a tear, then showed her the tip of his glistening fingertip.

  She buried her face in the crook of his neck. No more lies…not to you, not to myself.

  That seemed to satisfy him, and as Brooke prepared to walk away, he pointed over her shoulder. “No nap!” he cried. “Conner see Mommy! Open…open!”

  Brooke looked up at Hunter. If he’d told Connor that his mommy and daddy were in these boxes…

  “I didn’t say a word,” he told her, hands up as if in surrender.

  She followed his gaze, saw that the wind had toppled Kent’s picture.

  Hunter righted it, and when he spoke, a fog of grief and confusion tinged his voice. “How does he know?”

  Funny. Brooke wondered the same thing.

  “Open,” Connor repeated.

  Brooke wrapped her free hand around his. “We can’t open it, sweetie. It’s…it’s broken,” she fibbed.

  He looked up at Hunter, who agreed with a shrug and a slow nod. “Sorry, buddy. Broken.”

  For the longest time, Connor stared at the coffins. At the wind-rattled photographs atop the gleaming lids. At fluttering flower petals. As he stuck his thumb into his mouth, tears puddled in his eyes. He blinked, and one tracked slowly down his cheek. Then he inhaled a ragged, shuddering breath and quietly laid his head on Brooke’s shoulder.

  “Oh, look!” Ivy said, tilting her face to the slate-gray sky. She caught a snowflake on an upturned palm and showed it to Brooke. “You remember how much Beth loved the snow….” Looking heavenward again, Ivy smiled past her tears. “It’s a sign,” she whispered. “She’s telling us that she’s up there.”

  “Snow,” Connor said, trying to grab a fat flake.

  Yes, Beth had loved snow. And Kent had, too. Brooke remembered the big glass pickle jar where they’d tossed loose change, money they’d spend on a winter vacation at Wisp, where they hoped to teach Connor to ski.

  “Snow,” he said again.

  She pressed a kiss to his temple. “Don’t worry, sweet boy. I’ll teach you—”

  “Teach him what?” Deidre asked.

  “Nothing, really, just—”

  “If you’ll let me,” Hunter said, “I’ll help.”

  Deidre piped up with, “Help with what?”

  You don’t have to explain was the message he sent Brooke by way of his hazel eyes.

  Brooke couldn’t have explained even if she’d wanted to as she swallowed over the lump in her throat. But since pretending that she’d accept his help—teaching Connor to ski—was the same as telling a lie, she couldn’t do that, either. She’d made a promise to Connor and aimed to keep it.

  She faced Hunter. “Thanks, but we’ve already imposed on you enough.”

  Hunter flinched as though she’d slapped him. In a way, Brooke supposed she had…with a dose of reality.

  “Wish I could have done more.”

  Brooke had no reason to doubt his sincerity. “You did more than most neighbors would.”

  “Good grief, Brooke,” Deidre said. “He’s far more than a neighbor, and you know it.” She linked her arm through his. “Let’s go back to my house. I think we could all use a good strong cup of coffee.”

  Frowning, Hunter shook his head. “Maybe some other time. I have a punch list to check for a job that finishes tomorrow.”

  Deidre clucked her tongue. “All work and no play,” she said, wagging her forefinger like a metronome. “Have you forgotten that you drove us over here in my car? You have to take us home, pick up your truck anyway.”

  Brooke held her breath, hoping he’d remember something else he needed to do.

  “Okay,” he told Deidre, “but just one cup.” Then he faced Brooke. “I’ll take Connor.” And he did. “It’s an uphill walk from here to the car, and he’s a hefty li’l fella.”

  “I need to write your mother a thank-you note,” Deidre said before Brooke had a chance to reply.

  “Thank-you note?” He grinned slightly. “For what?”

  “For raising such a bighearted, thoughtful young man.” She looked at Brooke. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

  “Yes. Thoughtful.”

  As she and her grandmother trudged up the hill behind him, Brooke glanced over her shoulder. Two workmen were already busy disassembling the big green tent while another fiddled with the controls that would lower the coffins into the ground. The sight stopped her in her tracks.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Brooke patted Deidre’s hand. “Oh…nothing. Just tired, I guess.”

  “Don’t give me that. You’re having a hard time, same as me, leaving our girl here alone, aren’t you?”

  “She isn’t alone, Gram.” Brooke gave the graves one last glance. “Her husband is right there beside her.”

  By the time they reached the car, Hunter had buckled a kicking, screaming Connor into his car seat. Standing beside the open door, he shook his head. “First thing Monday morning,” he said, “maybe we can make that phone call.”

  “What phone call?” Deidre wanted to know.

  “To find someone who can help us explain things to Connor in language he’ll understand,” Brooke explained.

  Deidre slid into the backseat beside her great-grandson. “That,” she said, “is the best idea I’ve heard since this dreadful ordeal began.”

  “Hopefully,” Hunter said, closing the rear door, “we won’t have to wait too long for an appointment.”

  A week ago Brooke might have lashed out, told him in no uncertain terms that he could drop the we. Things were different now—though she didn’t quite understand why. Earlier she’d admitted to herself that Connor adored him, that he felt the same way about the baby. She’d also admitted that it was time for her to start putting others first.

  And she’d start, right now, by setting aside her resentment, just far enough to make room for Hunter in Connor’s life.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DEIDRE CAME IN from the kitchen and groaned. “Sorry, but we can’t have coffee after all. My cupboards are as bare as Mother Hubbard’s.”

  “How’s that possible, Mrs. Hollywood,” Hunter said, “when your pantry is bigger than my entire first floor?”

  “Mrs. Hollywood?” she echoed. “Brooke, will you please tell this handsome rascal the difference between Tinseltown and Broadway?”

  Hunter tensed when Brooke pointed. At him. It had been a demanding day, physically and emotionally, and he had no idea how she might respond.

  “He’s right there,” she said, smiling softly. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  Earning straight As had been easy for Hunter until his English teacher added Yeats, Joyce and Whitman to the mandatory reading list. Allegory, hyperbole, onomatopoeia… Deciphering poetry wasn’t easy, and he’d steered clear of it since high school. But when Brooke spoke just now, something clicked, and he understood what the poets meant when they described the music of a woman’s voice.

  “He’s heard it all before, right, Hunter?”

  “Too many times to count.”

  Deidre pulled Connor into her lap, and he quickly snuggled close. “Did I also tell you about the band I used to sing with—before my Broadway days?”

  “That’s a new one,” he said, wondering how she’d connect the information to his retort.

  “The drummer had a sign on his base. ‘Nobody Likes a Smart Aleck,’” she said, drawing quote marks in the air. Smirking, she added, “Billy used a more colorful word, but I think I’ve made my point. Think about that next time you decide to sass an old lady.”

  “Guess I saved you the bother of writing that thank-you note to my mom, eh?”

  She leaned back in he
r chair. “Silly goose.” Turning toward Brooke, she asked, “How many people do you think showed up today?”

  “I’m not sure. Ninety? A hundred? I’ll have to ask Pastor Daniels when I drop off the check on Monday.”

  “The check?” Deidre asked, stroking Connor’s rosy cheek.

  “For the pastor. And the organist.”

  “How can they in good conscience take money at a time like this?”

  Brooke shrugged, and Hunter said, “They gave up a big chunk of their Saturday to help us say goodbye to Beth and Kent. The church has bills to pay, too, don’t forget.”

  Deidre harrumphed. “I thought that’s what the dough people throw into the collection plate was for.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brooke close her eyes. To block out another of her grandmother’s inappropriate comments? Or to hide the misery and sadness of the day?

  He watched her straighten already-straight doilies on the arms of her chair, adjust the folds of her gauzy skirt, finger the chunky turquoise pendant buried in the soft ruffles of her blouse. Then she crossed her cowboy boots at the ankles. What Hunter knew about fashion he could put in one eye, but he knew this: he liked what he saw.

  “What will they do with all those beautiful flowers?” Deidre wondered aloud.

  “I arranged to have them delivered to Howard County General,” Brooke told her. “Mr. Turner told me the volunteers will give them to patients who haven’t received any.”

  “That’s so sweet. I remember walking the halls when Percy had his stroke, passing some rooms that resembled florist shops, others that were bare as…as my pantry.” She looked at Hunter. “Isn’t Brooke just the most thoughtful little thing?”

  “That she is,” he said. “Wish I’d thought to do something like that after my dad died.”

  He half expected Brooke would react with self-depreciating humility, shyness, anything but wide-eyed alarm. Hunter followed her gaze to Deidre’s face. The woman had passed out. No wonder her last few sentences hadn’t held their usual punch.

  He crossed to her side of the tiny parlor in one long stride and eased the sleeping Connor from her lap. “Think she skipped breakfast again?”