by Loree Lough
Grinning, Noah handed Bobby the butter dish, and snickering, the boy passed it down to Dara. She took it and, tucking in one corner of her mouth, said, “Thank you. May I have the salt shaker?”
This time Noah sent the pepper by way of Angie, whose mischievous grin made it apparent that Dara had been included in some sort of family game. She put the pepper shaker beside the butter dish and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Angie.” And eyes on the girl’s father, she tried again. “May I please have the salt?”
Smiling wider than ever, Noah put the plate of toast into his son’s hands. And a moment later, the sausage platter, the pancake plate, even the jelly jar, sat in a tight cluster around Dara’s place mat…everything except the salt.
Noah raised his left brow, looked at Angie, then Bobby. “She doesn’t seem like the type who’d hog all the food,” he said, feigning disgust, “but would you look at that?” He shook his head. “Didn’t your mother teach you to share, Dara?”
Shoulders hunched, and hiding behind their hands, the children giggled.
“Funny. Very funny, you guys,” Dara said, trying hard not to laugh herself. “And yes, my mother taught me to share.” She stood, headed for Noah’s end of the table. “She also taught me to take care of myself,” she added, snatching the salt shaker. Calm as you please, she returned to her seat and sprinkled her eggs with the seasoning. “When I asked for the salt,” she added, “I didn’t think you’d assault me with everything but!”
The Lucases laughed as she put the shaker down with a solid thud, and aiming a perfect Stan Laurel smile at Noah, Dara speared a slice of sausage. “Mmmm.” She closed her eyes. “Dee-lish-us.”
“So what do you think, kids?” Noah began. “Isn’t Miss Mackenzie pretty first thing in the morning?”
“I think she’s pretty all the time,” Bobby admitted.
He tousled the boy’s hair. “When you’re right, son, you’re right.”
Dara felt the heat of a blush brightening her cheeks, and wished for a legitimate excuse to leave the table, at least until the color faded. Unable to think of one, she tried a different tack. “After we get the breakfast dishes cleaned up, what say we go outside and build snow forts.”
“Snowmen, you mean.”
Dara gave Angie’s hand a gentle squeeze. “No, sweetie. I mean snow forts. First we’ll make big bricks, then stack them one on one. We’ll build two walls and make a whole pile of snowballs and split up into teams, and—”
“I get it!” Bobby hollered. “We’ll duck down behind the walls and throw the snowballs at one another!”
“You mean…like a pretend war?”
“Oh, no-o-o, Angie. Not a pretend war,” Dara replied in a deliberately serious voice. “I play to win!”
“Then I want to be on your side!” Bobby yelled.
“No,” Angie protested. “I want to be on her side!”
Laughing, Dara sat back in her chair. “Kids, kids,” she said, waving her hands like white flags. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more wanted in my life, but there’s enough of me to go around. Here’s how we’ll solve our little dilemma.”
“What’s a…a dalemon?” Bobby wanted to know.
“Not dalemon, silly.” Angie sighed. “Dih-lemma. It means problem.” With a smug smile, she looked at Noah. “Doesn’t it, Father?”
He nodded, then focused on Dara again. “So what’s the solution to our dih-lemma, Teach?”
“First, it’ll be the boys against the girls, then Bobby and me versus you and Angie.”
“Then the grown-ups against the kids!” Bobby started packing food into his cheeks like a chipmunk storing up nuts for a long, hard winter. “Hurry up!” he mumbled around a mouthful. “Let’s finish breakfast so we can go outside!”
Frowning, Angie groaned. “He’s behaving like a nasty little pig. Tell him not to talk with his mouth full, Father.”
Her scolding didn’t seem to have fazed Bobby. Grinning impishly, he stuffed even more food into his mouth. “Better make that ‘piglet.’”
“Piglet?” Angie echoed, crossing both arms over her chest.
He swallowed, washed down his mouthful with a swig of orange juice. “Well, you said I was acting like a baby, now you say I’m acting like a pig. And a baby pig is called…” He lifted both shoulders and held out his hands, inviting his sister to finish the sentence for him. When she didn’t, he climbed off his chair and carried his empty plate to the sink. “Thanks for the flapjacks, Miss Mac—I mean, Miss Dara.” And slinging an arm over his father’s shoulder, Bobby added, “Thanksgiving is next week, isn’t it?”
Noah nodded. “I believe it is. Why do you ask?”
Bobby wrinkled his nose. “’Cause…I remember last Thanksgiving, that’s why.”
“And the one before that, and the one before that,” Angie put in, “when you burned the turkey and the stuffing was all mushy and—”
Laughing good-naturedly, Noah held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”
“So I was just wondering…” Bobby smiled at his Sunday-school teacher. “Can Miss Dara cook our Thanksgiving dinner?”
Silence blanketed the table as Noah’s gaze met Dara’s. “I think…I think that’s a great idea,” he started. “Providing she doesn’t already have other plans.”
You and your great ideas, Noah Lucas, she thought as they all stared, waiting to see if she’d accept or decline the invitation. As recently as yesterday morning, she’d wondered whether to eat her turkey dinner at the Westview Inn or pop a TV dinner into the microwave. Her grandparents had all joined the Lord decades ago, and since her parents had both been only children, Dara had no family to spend the holiday with. “I, ah, I’d love to.”
“You’ll have to make me a list,” Noah said, standing, “things I’ll need to pick up at the grocery store.” And stacking plates, he added, “And we’ll help, won’t we, kids?”
Beaming, both children nodded.
“If it’s all the same to you…”
It was as though someone had come along and wiped their smiles away with a vigorous washcloth. They think you’ve changed your mind, she realized. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do the shopping myself. Sometimes I have a memory like a noodle strainer, I don’t want to take a chance on forgetting something on the list.”
Three sighs of relief wafted around the room as Noah put the plates beside the sink. “It’s all settled, then,” he said, gathering silverware. “But you’ll have to let me reimburse you for the food.”
Two flapjacks, three sausages and an egg were left over. She put them on a clean plate. “I don’t have to, Mr. Lucas.”
“‘Noah.’”
Her heartbeat doubled as she read the warmth in his eyes. She shot him the Stan Laurel grin again. “So where do you keep the plastic wrap, Noah?”
Chapter Six
“Everything was delicious,” Noah said as together, they cleared the dishes. “And the table looked as though it was set to welcome the queen of England.”
“I wonder why I always eat like there’s no tomorrow on Thanksgiving,” she asked, pretending she hadn’t heard his compliments.
“Maybe because you eat like a bird the rest of the year? You couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet.”
“One hundred fifteen,” she admitted. “And for your information, certain species of birds consume as much as five times their own weight every single day.”
“Horses and cows…and birds, too, eh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Horses eat oats, cows eat—”
“Oh. That.” Dara shrugged, remembering the conversation they’d had the night she was snowed in. Sliding the leftover turkey onto a platter, she explained, “I read a lot. And watch cable TV.”
“Watch a lot of cooking shows? That turkey looked picture-perfect.”
Wrapping the leftovers in aluminum foil, Dara laughed. “The secret to that is an oven that heats evenly and some olive oil, brushed on the breast every half hour.
”
“Olive oil? Not butter?”
She shook her head.
“And what about that stuffing? I thought I tasted cloves in there.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t expect me to reveal all my kitchen tricks, do you?” A second ticked by. “And you’re right. But just a pinch.”
Noah smiled. “I was just about to say that a woman has a right to certain, ah, secrets.” He was on his knees in front of the refrigerator, rearranging the contents to make room for the holiday leftovers. “Thanks for sharing. And by the way,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ve been meaning to tell you since we sat down to eat…”
Dara braced herself for another meal-related compliment.
“You look gorgeous today.”
She’d arrived at nine sharp, wearing sneakers and a pale gray sweatsuit. Noah and the kids helped her carry ten bags of groceries into the kitchen but hadn’t noticed the small rucksack in her trunk. Once the bird was in the oven and the rest of the meal well under way, Dara had sneaked outside to grab it. Minutes later, in the powder room just off the kitchen, she washed up and unpacked a long, flowing skirt of deep red silk and a cream-colored shirt with puffy pirate sleeves.
“More like gorged,” she said, in an attempt to ignore the compliment.
As usual, she’d worn an assortment of southwestern-style jewelry: dangly earrings made of hammered brass, a black rope-style necklace carrying a wolf’s head carved from jade, a sleeping wolf cub hanging from a silver bracelet She’d dusted a thin layer of mossy green shadow on her eyelids, stroked a bit of brick red lipstick on her mouth and, bending at the waist, fluffed her chin-length curls. It had taken fifteen minutes to complete the “look,” but Dara hadn’t expected him to comment on it.
“What color would you say your hair is?” he asked, interrupting her reverie.
“My mother said auburn. I say brown with red highlights.”
“Reminds me of the chestnuts my motherin-law always roasts at Christmastime.” Standing, he shut the refrigerator door. “And what about your eyes?”
“What about them?”
“What color are they? I mean, they’re not brown or green, and they’re sure not blue.”
“Hazel.”
“But…I always thought hazel was more golden, like a lion’s eyes.”
She shook her head. “Ever seen a hazel tree?”
“I’m not sure.”
“They’re in the birch family, and their nuts—filberts to some—are a light reddish brown.” She shrugged and smiled, as if to say, Hazel, get it? “Chestnuts, hazelnuts…guess you’d have to say I’m as nutty as they come.”
He chuckled.
“Father!” Angie’s scream put an abrupt end to their friendly banter. “Father, come quick!”
Dara knew in an instant that the cry had not been inspired by playful roughhousing. And Noah knew it, too, as evidenced by the fact that his playful expression had turned to stone. “Father!” Angie called again as Noah and Dara raced for the foyer. “Fa-ther!”
“Angie,” Noah said, rounding the corner. “What is it?”
“B-B-Bobby,” she sobbed, pointing at the floor. “He was r-r-running a-a-and he slipped on the r-r-rug.”
Bobby lay, still and quiet, in a rumpled heap on the slate. Instinctively, they got onto their knees, Noah cradling his unconscious son in his arms, Dara trying to comfort his hysterical daughter.
She noticed it the instant he lifted Bobby’s head from the floor…a tennis-ball-size pool of bright red blood. So as not to alarm Angie or Noah, she touched Noah’s arm and with a nod indicated the spot.
Eyes widening when he saw it, Noah immediately inspected the back of Bobby’s head. “We’d better get him to the hospital, get some X rays done. Could be a concussion or—”
“Should I call 911, Father?”
“No time for that.” Noah reached out, squeezed her hand. “Be a good girl and bring me the big quilt off your brother’s bed, will you?”
She was off and running before he could thank her, and the instant she was out of sight, he turned to Dara. “I hate to impose, after all you’ve already done for us today, but would you go with us to the hospital, hold him while I drive?”
“Of course,” she said softly, squeezing his arm. “I’ll get a cloth for his head.”
Dara ran to a nearby bathroom, where she quickly wet a hand towel. After padding it up, she handed it to Noah, who applied it to the back of Bobby’s head. Dara was relieved to hear the child softly moan, though he did not totally regain consciousness.
In the month since she’d met them, Dara had grown to love the Lucas children almost as much as if they were her own. They reminded her of little flowers, wilted after being left too long in the sun without water. Some tender loving care, a bit of her motherly attention, and they seemed to spring back to life, bright and beautiful as ever. She’d always been the kind of teacher who considered the kids in her classes hers, but these two were different, special, and they had been, right from the start.
Angie thundered down the stairs, dragging the comforter behind her. “Please don’t run, sweetie,” Dara said, holding out her arms. The girl spilled into them as Noah wrapped the thick quilt around his son.
They got to their feet simultaneously. Dara pulled Angie’s coat from the hall tree, helped her into it, then draped Noah’s leather bomber jacket over his shoulders. The last time she’d been here, Dara noticed that he kept his keys in a carved wooden bowl on the foyer table. Shrugging into her own coat, she grabbed them with one hand and yanked open the front door with the other.
Noah, cradling Bobby close, half ran onto the porch. The minute Angie was out the door, Dara followed, slamming the door behind her. She ran ahead, helped Angie into the back seat, then slid into the passenger seat. “Don’t forget to buckle your seat belt, sweetie,” Dara called over her shoulder as Noah gently deposited Bobby into her waiting arms.
Noah raced around to the driver’s side, and froze, looking helpless and confused, worried and afraid, as he patted his pockets in search of the keys.
“Right here,” Dara said, jangling them in the air.
He breathed a heartfelt “Thank God,” and climbed into the car. “Thanks,” he said, voice hoarse and tense as he made several unsuccessful jabs at the ignition.
She laid a comforting hand on his left arm. “Don’t worry, Noah. It’ll be all right,” Dara whispered understandingly.
He took a deep breath and revved the motor. “I hope so.”
They sped over back roads and boulevards en route to the hospital, emergency flashers blinking, headlights burning bright, horn honking. “Where’s a cop when you need one?” Noah demanded of no one in particular.
“Should we pray for a police officer to stop us, Father?”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled stiffly. “No, sweetie, that’s all right. I’m just blowin’ off a little steam is all. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
Hugging Bobby tighter, Dara pressed the hand towel against the gash in the back of his head. Sweet Jesus, she prayed, be with us.
“Our Father who art in heaven,” she prayed aloud, “hallowed be Thy name.”
“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,” Angie joined in, “on earth as it is in heaven.”
“Give us this day our daily bread,” came Noah’s ragged baritone, “and forgive us our trespasses…”
They prayed fervently, the three of them, all the way to Howard County General. And halfway through the second recitation, as if in answer to their prayer, the hospital’s slant-roofed emergency entrance came into view.
“Praise God!” Noah shouted as he wheeled the car to a screeching halt near the red curb.
Dara didn’t hesitate for an instant. She was out the door, Bobby’s limp body pressed close, even before Noah could suggest that she head on in while he parked the car. “Stay with your dad, Angie,” she said, shoving the door shut with the heel of her shoe. “I’ll see you inside in just a minut
e.”
She looked back in time to see the girl nod, her wide, frightened eyes brimming with tears. Father in heaven, Dara prayed as she rushed through the ER doors, please watch over these little children. As the double doors hissed shut behind her, she remembered Noah’s worried, terrified face and quickly added, Watch over their father, too.
Three hours and four foam cups of vending machine coffee later, Noah found Dara and Angie huddled together in the dimly lit waiting room. “He has a concussion,” he said, slumping into the chair beside his little girl. “The doc says it could be serious.”
Angie climbed into his lap and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “Oh, Daddy,” she sobbed, “it’s my fault. It’s all my fault!”
She hadn’t called him Daddy since she was in diapers. Francine always said it sounded too middle class, too juvenile, and began insisting she call him “Father,” instead. He’d hated it from the get-go, and the one time he said so, his wife had pitched such a fit that he’d decided the new title wasn’t nearly as painful as the price he paid complaining about it. “Aw, Angie, honey,” he said, heart throbbing with an odd mix of joy and relief at hearing the simple word, “it isn’t your fault.”
“B-but…but he tripped on the rug. It was my idea to run around and make him chase me.”
Noah held her tighter, stroking her hair. His heart hammered with love and dread. “No, darlin’,” he told her, “it was not your fault. It was just an accident. You mustn’t blame yourself. Promise?”
His quiet words seemed to calm her slightly. Nodding, she took a dragging, shuddering breath. “Is he going to die, Father?”
Back to “Father” again already, are we? he thought with a pang of regret. “Of course n—”
“If he dies, he’ll go to heaven, won’t he? To be with Mother?” She seemed to shrink into the chair’s nubby blue upholstery. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, she began to cry. “Well, I don’t care! I—I don’t want him goin’ to Mother,” she blubbered. “She has God and the angels to keep her company. She always got what she wanted. What’s she want to go an’ take Bobby away from us for?”
