That musical laugh again. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I think we get to see kids at their best because they’re not tired or hungry or being told to do their chores. Kids are pretty good at playing Mom and Dad against each other. They know they won’t get away with quite so much in an environment like the daycare setting.” She sounded like a professor giving a lecture on childhood development, and he scrubbed hard at an already-dry frying pan, trying to keep a straight face.
She seemed not to notice but rinsed the last dish, setting it in the drainer. “Where do you keep your dishtowels? Mine’s a little soggy.” She held it up as if he’d need proof.
“Oh, they’re in the laundry room. Here…I’ll get you one.” He ducked through the doorway of the enclosed porch that served as the back entry and utility room, praying he could unearth a not-too-wrinkled dishtowel from the clothes dryer.
“Who’s the artist?” Her voice behind him startled him. She’d followed him to the door and stood looking past him at the easel with his half-finished canvas perched on it.
He shook his head. “That would be me—using the term artist very loosely. I thought I wanted to try my hand at oils. Took some art classes Jack Linder was teaching last fall. Discovered I probably wouldn’t want to quit my day job.”
She laughed, and he appreciated that she didn’t try to dispute him—or comment on his work at all. He didn’t know why he’d told her all that anyway. She probably didn’t give a rip.
He brushed past her, and she followed him back to the sink. Together they finished drying the dishes and she wiped off the few empty spaces on the kitchen counters. He desperately needed to recruit the kids to clean this place up. Maybe Saturday.
Harley toddled into the kitchen, looking cherubic in footy pajamas a couple sizes too big, thumb suctioned to her mouth. She popped her thumb out though, when she saw Mickey, and came at her with her arms up.
He quickly intervened. “Here, Harley, let Daddy—”
But Mickey lifted the baby into her arms as if she were on daycare duty. “Well, don’t you look cozy. Are you all ready for bed, sweetie?”
Harley started wagging her head back and forth. “Uh-uh. No bed. No bed.”
“We’ll see about that,” Doug said, reaching out for her.
“Uh-oh, I guess that was the wrong thing to say.” Mickey gave Harley a hug before she handed her over to Doug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie. You’d better go to Daddy now. Miss Mickey needs to go home.”
Harley came to him happily, and Mickey looked thankful for a graceful exit.
He walked her to the door, suddenly embarrassed that she had to pick her way through a minefield of toys and junk in the living room. Six kids—five kids—could mess up a house in nothing flat, but Kaye would never have let things get this bad. Saturday, for sure. They’d get this place whipped into shape.
“Landon, turn down that TV. Are you done with your homework?”
“I have all weekend, Dad.”
Doug held the door for Mickey with one hand and snapped his fingers at Landon behind Mickey’s back. “See what I mean?” He gave her a sheepish grin.
She shrugged. “They’re angels for me.” Then looking uncomfortable, she took a step backward. “Well, good night.”
“Yeah, good night. Thanks again. For bringing the kids home…for helping with the dishes. I appreciate it.”
“Thank you for supper.” She waved over his shoulder. “’Bye, kids.”
They turned away from the TV long enough to return her wave. “’Bye, Miss Mickey.”
Doug waited at the open door until she was safely off the porch and in the van. The car engine revved and her headlights flashed across the driveway.
He closed the door and leaned against it, surveying the mess that was his home. A wave of longing—for Kaye—rolled over him, pulling him into its undertow.
Chapter 8
Harley had kicked her blankets off and Doug tucked them over her sleeping form. She was on her belly, thumb in her mouth, her round little bottom hiked in the air. Kaye always called her Mount Saint Harley when she slept in that position.
He pulled the door shut and went upstairs to check on the other kids. Landon was sprawled diagonally across his twin bed, the covers tangled between his lanky limbs. When had he gotten so tall? The kids had all grown and changed in the two months since he’d lost Kaye and Rachel. A vivid image formed in his mind of Kaye walking through the door, like she was coming home from a week in Florida with her mom. “Oh, my goodness,” he heard her say as clearly as if she were standing in the room beside him. “They’ve all grown a foot since I left.”
Doug shook off the vision, unsettled, yet strangely comforted by the memory of Kaye’s voice. It had started to bother him when he couldn’t remember what her voice had sounded like.
He disentangled Landon from the blankets and covered him back up, then scraped a path through the toys so the kid wouldn’t kill himself when he got up to go to the bathroom at 5:00 a.m. like he always did.
He went down the hall to check on the girls. Sadie and Sarah were curled in the middle of their bed, back to front like teaspoons in a drawer. He envied them each other’s warmth. It struck him that, in a house of six, they were the only two who had the comfort of the warmth of another body now.
He looked across the room at Kayeleigh’s bed and stopped in his tracks. There were two forms beneath the fluffy comforter. The image dragged him two months into the past, when their sweet Rachel had been Kayeleigh’s bed partner. For a minute he was disoriented. Had Kayeleigh invited a friend to spend the night? He didn’t remember that. But then, his memory hadn’t been exactly trustworthy lately. But surely he would have remembered an extra person at the dinner table.
Maybe one of the twins had crawled in bed with Kayeleigh. But a glance at their bed confirmed that he’d indeed seen two curly heads on twin pillows. He’d just seen Landon and Harley in their beds. Everybody was accounted for.
She’d better not have snuck one of the muddy dogs in to sleep with her. Squinting through the dim light that spilled into the room from the hallway, he tiptoed to Rachel’s side of the bed, trying to figure out who was in bed with Kayeleigh. Whoever it was had burrowed deep into the quilts.
Gingerly, he pulled the covers back. An empty pillow. He pulled the quilts down farther. Another pillow—this one turned the long way in the bed. Kayeleigh breathed deeply, asleep beside the row of pillows. Doug pulled the blankets back up over the Rachel-shaped form, then snugged them around Kayeleigh’s shoulders, aching for the daughter he’d lost. And, for the first time, realizing the depth of Kayeleigh’s loss.
She’d been so morose lately, and distant. It seemed he had to repeat everything he said to her at least twice because she was off in some la-la land daydream. He didn’t know whether to chalk it up to grief or simply preteen hormones. Kaye had been warning him for a year now that Kayeleigh would soon hit puberty and that they might be in for some rocky times with their sweet firstborn.
With a king-size lump in his throat, he crept back downstairs to his own bed. He didn’t want to lose another daughter. He had to find a way to reach her.
Harley stirred when he came into the chilly room, but she stilled and her breaths came evenly again after he put another quilt over her.
He turned out the lamp on his nightstand and settled under the blankets, trying to get warm. He rolled onto his back and lay staring at the ceiling, then flipped to his belly, punching his pillow into shape, unable to find a comfortable position. After ten minutes of tossing, he crawled out of bed and went into the living room.
He grabbed a bolster cushion off the sofa and carried it to his room. Throwing back the bedspread, he laid the cushion on Kaye’s side of the bed, gently bending it into a fetal position—the way Kaye slept on cold winter nights. He tucked the blankets around the lifeless form and climbed into bed beside it.
Kayeleigh hunched over in a back-row seat of the school bus. The yellow bus bounced over the county roa
d Mom always called Washboard Lane. She put her hands over her ears, trying to tune out Landon and the other rowdy elementary kids in the front of the bus. She didn’t know which was worse—having to go to daycare after school like a little kid, or riding the bus home to be babysat by Grandma Thomas. Why couldn’t Dad just let her be home alone for a few hours?
Okay, she knew why. He was afraid the same thing might happen to her that happened to Mom and Rachel. He was only trying to protect her and she loved him for it, but come on. She was responsible. She wasn’t stupid. Besides, she was almost a teenager, and he couldn’t protect her forever.
It seemed like Dad spent every spare minute these days fixing stuff. Since the day after the funeral, he’d come home nearly every night to march through the house on a mission, looking for something that wasn’t working right. Loose hinges, closet doors that didn’t shut right, the electrical short in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. All the stuff Mom had always been nagging him to fix. Well, it was too late now. He could fix everything in the whole stupid house, and it wouldn’t change anything.
The bus eased to a stop in front of their driveway. Landon jumped up from his seat behind her and smacked the back of her head. “Come on, dopey. Get your nose out of that book. We’re home.”
“I’m not reading, dummy.”
“Well, then wake up from your nap.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Landon ignored her and dragged his oversized backpack past her down the aisle. She watched through the window as he bounded across the front yard. Probably thought he could beat her to the last pack of Pop-Tarts in the cupboard. What he didn’t know was that she had her own secret stash in the laundry room. And she didn’t feel one bit guilty. It was the only way to make sure you got a snack around this stupid place.
She gathered her things and climbed down from the bus, waving over her shoulder at Mr. Turner, the bus driver. She stopped by the mailbox at the end of the driveway, but it was empty. Grandma must have already gotten the mail.
When she got inside, Landon had already parked his butt in front of the TV. He waved a shiny, empty foil wrapper in the air. “Ha! Too bad they’re gone.”
“So? Who cares? I didn’t want a dumb ol’ Pop-Tart anyway. I hope you get food poisoning.”
“Kayeleigh.” Grandma’s stern voice came from the kitchen. “That’s no way to talk to your brother.”
Landon stuck his tongue out at her.
She returned the favor and went out to the kitchen. “Hi, Grandma.”
She braced for a lecture on getting along with Landon, but Grandma only smiled and asked her how school was.
Kayeleigh shrugged. “It was okay, I guess. Did I get any mail?”
“Why, were you expecting something?”
“No…not really. Can I see what came?”
“It’s in on the dining room table. But there’s nothing there for you, honey. It’s all important stuff for your dad.”
“I know… I’m just going to look.”
“Well, don’t lose anything.”
“I won’t.” She went to the dining room table and found the newest stack of catalogs and envelopes. She riffled through the envelopes. A bunch of stupid credit card offers and what looked like bills. There was a card in a lavender envelope, too. Probably another sympathy card. The cards had come in an avalanche at first, mixed in with Christmas cards that were sometimes addressed to Mom, too. Some people—the ones who lived far away—hadn’t heard about Mom and Rachel yet. Those always made Dad sad. She could tell because he would read them, then sit there for a long time, staring at nothing.
But the cards had pretty much quit coming after New Year’s. She glanced over at the mile-high stack of opened envelopes and cards on the highboy. Dad kept saying he needed to answer them, but he never did. She’d heard him hint at Grandma to do it. But Grandma said she had her own stack to answer.
“Can I open this sympathy card, Grandma?”
Her grandmother appeared in the doorway, dishtowel in hand. “I don’t know…who’s it addressed to?”
Kayeleigh read the front of the envelope. “Doug DeVore. It’s probably a sympathy card.”
“Let me see it.” Grandma took the card. “Hmmm…no return address. It doesn’t look like a sympathy card. Looks more like an invitation.”
“Can I open it?”
“It’s not addressed to you, is it?”
“No, but Dad lets me open the cards,” she said hopefully. She could tell Grandma was dying of curiosity. She was too, now that it might be an invitation.
“Well, I guess…if your dad lets you open the cards. But don’t you tell him I let you.”
“I won’t.” She ripped into the envelope with her grandmother’s hot breath on her neck.
Inside the envelope was another smaller envelope. This one simply said Doug DeVore and Guest.
“And guest?” Grandma huffed. “That’s hardly appropriate.”
Kayeleigh didn’t know what she meant by that. She slid a glossy cream-colored card from the second envelope. “It’s a wedding invitation.”
Grandma peered over her shoulder. “Who is it from?”
Kayeleigh read the fancy printing. “Oh, it’s Vienne—from the coffee shop. She’s marrying that artist guy Dad took lessons from.”
“Jackson Linder. That’s right. I remember seeing their engagement in the Courier.”
“Mom said Dad probably saved Jack’s life when he fell off the roof of the coffee shop.”
Grandma nodded. “I was in Florida when it happened, but your mom told me. Your dad has saved a lot of lives.”
Except Mom’s and Rachel’s. Kayeleigh ignored the accusing voice in her head and turned the inner envelope over to read the address. “Why does it say ‘and guest’ on it?”
Grandma sniffed again, like she was disgusted. “It just means your dad can bring whoever he wants to the wedding.”
Kayeleigh gave a little gasp. “Me?”
Grandma’s frown turned into a chuckle. “Or me.”
“Grandma…” For a second Kayeleigh thought she was serious. She let herself breathe again when she saw the twinkle in her grandmother’s eyes.
But Grandma quickly turned serious again. “You let your dad decide about going, Kaye. He might not be ready for…something like that.”
Kayeleigh didn’t bother to point out that Grandma had called her by Mom’s name…again. Dad did that, too, sometimes. Instead she let herself daydream about going to the wedding with Dad. She could wear her pink satin dress. The one Mom had sewed for her for the Christmas Eve program at church. She’d never gotten to wear that dress. The program was only three weeks after Mom and Rachel died, and Dad didn’t think it would be right for them to go. She still wasn’t sure why.
It didn’t matter. She probably wouldn’t have been able to sing without crying anyway. But she’d tried the pretty dress on half a dozen times since then, dancing around her room in it after the twins were asleep, pretending everything was the way it was before the accident. Pretending Mom and Dad had come to the Christmas program to hear her sing “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming.” She could picture them side by side in the middle-school gym, Harley standing on Dad’s lap, clapping. She shook the fantasy away. She was starting to get mixed up about what had really happened and what she’d only wished for in her imagination.
What really happened was that Dad called Miss Gorman and told her Kayeleigh wouldn’t be back in school till after New Year’s. Her friend Rudi told her that when Miss Gorman found out she wasn’t going to be in the program, she’d given Kayeleigh’s solo to Lisa Breck. At least Lisa hadn’t rubbed it in the way she usually did.
She read the invitation again. The wedding was March 10. She would ask Dad if she could tack the invitation on the bulletin board above her side of the bed. But she’d take it to school to show off first. She bet Lisa Breck wasn’t even invited.
By March it would be spring. And surely by spring Dad w
ould be ready to start going places again. Maybe a wedding was exactly what he needed to remind him how much he used to like being around people, how much fun he used to be.
Chapter 9
Mickey filled the watering can from the kid-height sink in the corner of the playroom and looked out at the blustery March sky. She’d be glad when she could get some of these plants back in the ground in her garden. Plucking off the yellowed leaves of a leggy philodendron, she eyed the rest of the plants. They were starting to look a little peaked. She’d neglected them over the winter.
She soaked the soil in the clay pot and moved on to the next plant. Brenda teased her about babying her plants as much as she did the daycare kids. It wasn’t true, of course, but Brenda probably didn’t understand how much it meant to her to be surrounded by the leafy curtains of greenery—especially when the winter days grew short and sunshine was all too rare.
Brenda had kids of her own. She’d been a mom since she was twenty-one. She couldn’t know what it felt like to long to hold a baby of your own in your arms, but to have that wish denied year after year after year.
For as long as she could remember, Mickey had dreamed of having a big family like the one she grew up in. When she was in high school, it never crossed her mind that she might still be single at thirty.
And prospects in Clayburn were “slim to none,” as her brothers liked to say. Even though her brothers and their wives had all moved out of Clayburn after both parents had died, the Valdez clan still managed to get together the first Sunday of every month—usually at Rick’s house in Salina. She doted on her nieces and nephews. She had four of each, and Rick’s wife, Angie, was expecting another little girl any day now. But it wasn’t the same as having her own babies.
She pinched out a spiky flower from a coleus she’d brought inside for the winter. It was tempting to let the flowers bloom, but the colors of the leaves—the true beauty of the coleus—were more vibrant if the flowers were pinched off as soon as they appeared. That was one question she would ask God her first day in heaven. Why would He create a flower that was meant to be pinched out before it reached full bloom?
Yesterday's Embers (Clayburn Novels Book 3) Page 5
