by Loree Lough
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Listen to the pot calling the kettle black. You’ve been running around like a chicken without a head for weeks.”
“Apples and oranges, O Mistress of Clichés. I’m not the one with a brand-new job and an active toddler to take care of.”
“I’m fine,” Brooke said. “Honest.”
“You might as well tell me what’s bugging you….”
“In other words, ‘Talk, or I’ll nag you till you cry uncle.’”
Deidre chuckled. “Something like that.”
“It’s no big deal, really. Except…it’s been two weeks since I filled out those forms.”
“If memory serves, that nice young woman from Child Protective Services told you it could take three or four weeks. Right?”
“I sent them two weeks ago yesterday.”
Deidre groaned, and when Connor mimicked her, the women laughed.
“Brooke, don’t you know by now that nothing happens fast when government red tape is involved? It took nearly two years, if you’ll recall, to get my second husband’s name deleted from my accounts.” She tapped her chin. “What was the old runaway’s name…?”
“As if you could forget.” Brooke shook her head. “Malcolm. His name was Malcolm Hooper.” The poor guy hadn’t run away. Deidre had driven him away with her insults and surly attitude.
The thought reminded her of something Hunter had said, when he’d wondered if she’d inherited some of her grandmother’s not-so-stellar qualities. Shame reddened her cheeks, because the things Deidre had said to Malcolm? She’d thought them all—and then some—about Hunter.
“Well, we’re here,” she said, parking alongside the curb. “But we’re early.”
“Early? Early for what?” Deidre read the restaurant’s sign aloud. “Duesenberg’s Café.” She turned to Brooke. “What’s going on?”
“How about while I park the car, you ask the hostess to seat you at a table for four. I’ll explain when I get inside.”
“Four?” Deidre got out of the car, then leaned into the front seat. “You’d better not be playing matchmaker, young lady!” she said, and slammed the passenger door.
“Gram thinks it’s a blind date,” she said, laughing to herself. “Priceless!”
While she parked in the lot across the street, Connor did his best to repeat the word. And when they entered the café, Brooke politely turned down the hostess’s offer of a high chair. “We’re just here to keep my grandmother company until her friends arrive,” she explained.
She hadn’t even situated herself when Deidre demanded, “All right, out with it. Tell me all about this old dude so I’ll know what to expect. I’d hate to lose my lunch even before I order it!”
“Gram,” Brooke whispered, “I think sometimes you forget how far your voice carries.”
“Fiddlesticks. Without proper projection, you’re doomed as a stage actress!” Deidre fluffed her gleaming white curls and struck a pose.
“But you’re not on stage.” Brooke drew her grandmother’s attention to the stares of diners seated nearby.
“Pish posh,” Deidre said with a dismissive wave. “They’re probably just trying to decide whether they remember me from Cabaret or Camelot. Or Bye Bye Birdie!”
Connor pointed at a tall dark-haired man across the way. “Uncle Hunter?”
“No, sweetie, not Uncle Hunter.”
“Speaking of whom, I haven’t seen the man in days. You didn’t hurt his feelings again, I hope.”
“No, Gram. I haven’t hurt your precious Hunter’s feelings.”
“Is that why you’re in such a sour mood? Hunter has been making himself scarce?”
If not for those brief daily visits with the baby, she wouldn’t have seen him, either. “For your information, I see him nearly every day. When he comes to see Connor.”
“Then you’d better put those documents out of your mind. They’ll get here when they get here, and worrying won’t make them get here any faster.”
“But…but what if something awful happens to me while I’m waiting? What’ll become of Connor?”
“Why, Hunter will take him, of course.”
Deidre had said it so quickly, so matter-of-factly, that it almost seemed rehearsed.
“Uncle Hunter,” Connor said, pointing at the stranger again.
Brooke handed him the stuffed car she’d tucked into his diaper bag.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” Deidre said, “it’s Maureen and Rachel!” She waved them over. “And Susan, too?” She smiled at Brooke. “Is this why you brought me here?”
Brooke didn’t have time to answer, because the women were already exchanging hugs and hellos. They fussed over Connor, told Brooke that she looked just like her grandmother had at her age, and promised to get her home safely.
“Lovely offer, girls, but I’m not going home after lunch,” Deidre said. “I need to stop by the theater. Rehearsal starts today, you know.” She returned Brooke’s hug, then walked with her to the door. “I’ll probably get in late, so don’t sit up watching for headlights to come up the drive.”
“Conner go home?” her nephew said.
Home. Last time Brooke had one, she was sixteen. Gram and Gramps had welcomed her and Beth with open arms after their dad’s suicide, but their house had never quite felt like home. Although she’d redecorated every room in her Richmond condo, it fell short of the mark, too. Following the Donald fiasco, she’d left Virginia and moved into Deidre’s guest room, and then it was on to Beth and Kent’s to babysit Connor while they were away. And despite everything she’d done to turn the apartment into a cozy home for Connor, it didn’t feel that way, either.
“Are you sure you don’t need me to pick you up after rehearsal?”
“No, but thanks, honey. Felix will be there since he’s in the show. And it isn’t like he has far to go after dropping me off!”
Even her grandmother’s grizzled handyman had a home…in the three-room guesthouse at the rear of Deidre’s property.
“He’s playing the part of Mitch in our rendition of Streetcar,” Deidre said. “Some might say he’s a little long in the tooth for the role, but with good makeup and lighting, the audience will never notice.” She gave Connor a sideways hug. “Now scoot. Looks like this little man could use a nice long nap.”
“No nap,” Connor said, pouting. “No nap!”
Deidre frowned slightly. “He never used to fight bedtime. Do you suppose he dreams about them, and that’s why he fights sleep?”
“Good question. I’ll ask Dr. Rosen during our next session.”
“And how’s that going?”
She glanced over Deidre’s shoulder, where her sorority sisters sat, sipping tea and pointing at their menus. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Now you scoot. And have fun!”
“Scoot,” Connor echoed. “Have fun!”
“It never ceases to amaze me how well he talks,” Deidre said, kissing a pudgy finger. “You make your old Gram look like a big fat fibber, because your big fat vocabulary makes it hard for people to believe you’re only eighteen months old!”
Brooke smiled. “Let’s go, li’l Einstein.”
“While you’re at the post office, check my box, will you?” Deidre asked, walking away. “And if it isn’t too much trouble, could you put my mail on the kitchen table?”
Brooke and Connor spent the next hour picking up groceries, then stopped at the post office on the way back to the apartment.
“How frustrating,” she muttered, tucking Deidre’s mail into an outer pocket of Connor’s diaper bag. “Gram gets this huge stack and I get two lousy catalogs?”
The baby grabbed at one of the colorful sales brochures. “Mine,” he said, wrinkling the cover. “Mine.”
“All right,” she said, heading for the car, “enjoy them while you can.” Because the minute you’re belted in, they’re going straight into the trash.
His stuffed car didn’t do the trick of distracting him this time, so Brook
e handed him a teething toy shaped like a key ring.
After unloading the groceries, she and Connor walked hand in hand to Deidre’s to deliver her mail.
“Blink-blink,” Connor said, pointing at the answering machine’s red light. “Blink-blink.”
She balanced him on one hip and grabbed paper and pencil, then leaned in to let the baby push the message button.
“Hey, Deidre. It’s me, Hunter. Hate to bug you, but Brooke must have turned off her cell phone. Again.” He chuckled. “When you see her, ask her to give me a call, will you? I need to ask her something about the kitchen over here. Thanks.”
Strange, Brooke thought, because she’d already listened to the two messages he’d left on her cell phone explaining that he needed her help choosing the floor and countertop materials. Connor’s face puckered. “Uncle Hunter…”
“Aw, don’t cry, sweetie.” Brooke hugged him tighter and, pointing, said, “Look, your favorite, toy. Gram’s rocking horse!”
He wailed for a full minute, and then as quickly as his tears had started, they stopped.
“Down?” he said, reaching for the wooden horse.
Brooke sat cross-legged on the floor, arms extended to catch him in case he lost his balance.
A week ago, when Hunter had delivered the plans and paperwork, his officious attitude had touched a raw nerve. To prove that she didn’t need his charity—and that he couldn’t control her—she’d gone to the bank first thing Monday morning and cashed in one of her grandfather’s bonds. Not a fortune, but more than enough to defray the cost of printing blueprints and filing for permits. His parting comment asking her to trust him was the main reason she hadn’t called before now. Once Connor was down for his nap, she’d get it over with.
But she’d brought files home from work, and read one of four patient advocate handbooks her mentor had loaned her. Washed three loads of laundry and tidied the apartment. And before she knew it, the afternoon sun was high in the sky.
When Connor woke up, she took him outside for some fresh air, and as they made their way to Deidre’s house, Connor noticed an early-blooming butterfly bush, covered with swallowtails, monarchs and Angelwings. “Look, Connor…a Baltimore Checkerspot,” she said. “See the pretty butterflies?”
One flew near his head, and he giggled. “Butterfly,” he said, swatting at it.
Deidre joined them on the flagstone path beside the flower bed. “You were about Connor’s age when a butterfly landed on the back of your hand. Gramps and I cringed, worrying you’d crush it.” Smiling, she met Brooke’s eyes. “But you were gentle as a lamb, even then.”
Gentle. That was what Donald had called her…right before he announced that he’d been seeing someone else.
“I think your kindness is responsible for every one of your breakups,” her grandmother continued. “It makes you too eager to please, too quick to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Everyone except for Hunter, of course.” Deidre shook her head. “If you’d shown them a tenth the vitriol you’ve hammered Hunter with over the years, those fellows might have treated you with a modicum of respect.”
Brooke took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
Deidre plucked a flower from the shrub and handed it to Connor. “Not in your mouth, now, or Gram will take it away….”
Whew, Brooke thought, saved by the blossom.
“I should have taught you and Beth to have more respect for yourselves. Maybe then you’d both have been more discriminating and wouldn’t have been so quick to settle. Then again…”
Connor had tired of watching the butterflies flit from bloom to bud. “Down,” he said, folding himself in half. “Conner down.”
The instant his feet hit the ground, he filled his hands with newly mown grass and pulled. “Rain!” he said, tossing both handfuls into the air. “Rain, rain, rain!”
Brooke laughed. “Why is it I never have my camera when he does adorable things like that!”
“You can’t change the subject that easily, you sly girl, you.” Deidre wiggled her eyebrows. “If you ask me, you need a man like Hunter. And before you start in with your tired old ‘he killed my mother’ spiel, let me remind you all he’s done for us lately, despite the despicable way you’ve treated him all these years. He has proven himself to me.”
He’d proven himself to Brooke, too. She just wasn’t ready to admit it out loud. Yet.
“He isn’t always thinking of himself, doesn’t spend every waking moment trying to think up ways to take advantage of someone’s good heart, the way your so-called boyfriends did. Hunter is a good man with a big heart and a generous nature. Why else would he put so much time and energy into opening Last Chance, that school for troubled boys?”
“What? I never heard anything about that.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. When would he have had time to tell you about it, when you keep him so busy fending off your ill-timed attacks?”
“Hunter and I have been getting along fine…lately.”
“Because he’s bending over backward to help us out. More proof of how generous and thoughtful he is. Not just with us, mind you. Last I heard, he was working with the county executive, who’s trying to help him finalize a deal that will let him buy that abandoned canning factory down on Main Street. Hunter wants to turn it into a technical school where he can teach kids the trades, like plumbing, electricity, welding, carpentry, so that when they graduate—or quit school, as so many do these days—they’ll have some practical knowledge and skills to fall back on.”
“How noble of him.”
“I’d stake my life—and yours and Connor’s—on this, he’d never hurt you like Donald and the rest of those bozos did.”
“He already hurt me. Fifteen years ago.”
Deidre’s hard stare softened. “You worry me, honey. These black moods you get into, the way you’ve held on to this grudge all these years? I’m so afraid you’ll end up like your father.”
That was a low blow, but Brooke chose not to respond to it.
Connor ambled up to her. “All gone,” he said, tossing the wilted flower to the ground. Before Brooke or Deidre could stop him, he plucked a new one. “Mine, mine, mine!”
Brooke scooped him up. “I can hardly wait until those papers get here,” she said, kissing his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, “so you’ll be mine, mine, mine!”
“Your aunt is the master of distractions, Connor,” Deidre said, fanning herself with one hand. “It’s too hot out here for me. I’m going inside for a refreshing glass of iced tea.” Halfway down the walk she stopped and faced Brooke. “You coming, honey?”
“I’d love to, but this poor kid needs an N-A-P,” she spelled.
Deidre shrugged and muttered something unintelligible. “I’ll just say one more thing, and then the subject is closed.”
For how long? Brooke wondered. A minute? Five?
“Mark my words. Someday, you’ll regret your spiteful attitude.”
Spiteful? For putting the blame where it belonged?
Connor yawned, and Brooke seized the opportunity. “Maybe we’ll pop over after he wakes up?”
“We’ll sit out back and watch the sun set.”
“I’d love that. And I love you, you opinionated old woman,” she teased.
“Ditto, you pigheaded whippersnapper.”
It was a private joke that they’d shared for years, and Deidre was still laughing as the screen door closed behind her.
An hour later, while Connor snoozed in the playpen, Brooke opened the closet door and stared at the battered box positioned between the vacuum cleaner and the broom. She’d found it in Beth’s front hall closet and brought it to the apartment, hoping if she didn’t unpack it, it might serve as a good-luck charm of sorts that would get her and Connor back into the house sooner. Since Hunter made it clear that repairs could take months, she decided it was time to find out what her sister stored in the carton labeled Keepsakes.
Under a stack of how-to manuals and recipes torn fr
om magazines, she found two cookbooks and miscellaneous photographs. Beneath that, Beth’s high school diploma, Kent’s college yearbook, a dog-eared paperback copy of White Fang, Beth’s favorite novel.
Her cell phone buzzed, interrupting the search.
Hunter, calling with more bad news about the house, no doubt. Brooke let the call go to voice mail because she needed time to process Deidre’s warning. Mark my words, Deidre had said, someday you’ll regret your spiteful attitude.
Brooke removed a big yellow envelope from the box, and, tucking it under one arm, checked on Connor. Oh, to conk out that way when I climb into bed, she thought, settling onto the sofa.
Brooke pried open the envelope’s metal clasp and peeked inside. A fat pink diary—its tiny key secured to the cover with an X of clear tape—lay atop Beth’s graduation photo. Why would her sister have kept two journals?
She peeled back the tape and inserted the key into the minuscule lock and thumbed through the book: Kent surprised Beth with a candlelit dinner; Beth finally finished sewing new curtains for the kitchen; Deidre’s laryngitis kept her from singing in the dinner-theater production of Phantom; Brooke was coming home for good…punctuated by six exclamation points; then an entire page filled with Beth’s girlish script….
Poor Kent worries so about our finances. If only I could help out by putting my teaching degree to use. If only we could afford the cost of recertification. If…the biggest little word in the English language!
And a few pages later, “Why do I feel so helpless and inept when Connor gets sick?”
Three quarters of the way through the book, more of the same.
Or so she thought.
*
I can hardly wait to walk hand in hand on those white-sand beaches with the love of my life. I’ll always be grateful to Brooke for putting her move on hold to watch over my sweet Connor.
The date—two days prior to their departure for the islands—hit Brooke like a blow to the jaw.
Anger surged through her. Why hadn’t Beth talked Kent into drafting a will to protect Connor? Surely her sister had been aware of the defective wiring; how could she have tolerated Kent’s foot-dragging knowing it might pose a danger to her precious boy?
