The Mommy Quest

by Lori Handeland

  Stella followed Dean to the door. “If you need anything—” she began.

  He turned and her breasts brushed his chest. Taking a step back, she tripped over the same damn lump in the carpet.

  This time he grabbed both of her elbows to keep her from falling. Stella caught her breath, and the movement rubbed them together all over again. His gaze lingered on her lips, and for a second she thought he might kiss her. For a second, she wanted him to.

  He released her so suddenly, Stella had to focus on not losing her balance.

  “I won’t be needing anything from you, Ms. O’Connell.”

  She could still feel the heat of his hands, a sharp contrast to the chill in his voice. What was he so mad about?

  Dean reached for the doorknob, and she flashed fourteen years into their past.

  “You told me you never wanted to see me again,” she whispered.

  He hesitated, and for an instant she thought he might speak. Then he just shook his head and walked out.

  The night before she’d left for college they’d met on the football field to say goodbye. Instead Stella had told Dean she’d stay in Gainsville—marry him, have his children, become a farm wife.

  She remembered the hope and the love that had filled her as she’d said the words, then the mortification and the pain when he’d laughed and said she’d been a fling, nothing more. None of the pretty party girls had been willing to put up with his broody, moody disposition for long. Not when there were four other Luchetti brothers who were a lot less trouble.

  But Stella had been drawn to Dean’s darkness. She’d thought she could bring him into the light. Just as she’d thought she could bring so many others.

  She hadn’t been any more right about them than she’d been about Dean.

  “COME ON, KID, you’re sprung,” Dean said.

  Tim didn’t have to be told twice. He jumped up from the chair next to Laura and danced out the door on Dean’s heels.

  “Am I in really bad trouble?” Tim asked once they were in the truck.

  “Who started it?”

  “Not me. No, sir. Uh-uh.”

  Tim started bouncing. Luckily the seat belt kept him from hitting the ceiling.

  “Try to walk away?”

  “That’s when I got this.”

  Tim held up his right arm, where new finger-size bruises had begun to form. Dean rubbed his forehead.

  “How about talking to them?”

  Tim pointed to his skinned knees, then to his bloody nose.

  “The guy gave you a bloody nose, then you slugged him?”

  Tim squirmed, looked out the window, up at the sky, down at his shoes. “Not exactly.”

  “You didn’t slug someone?”

  “I did. But he wasn’t the one who gave me the bloody nose.”

  “What did he do?”

  Tim’s lips tightened, and the mulish expression of stubbornness usually reserved for a plate of brussels sprouts spread over his face. “Don’t matter.”

  “Does. Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Was he calling you names?”

  “Some.”

  “Sticks and stones, Tim.”

  Although Dean knew as well as anyone that names could hurt.

  The boy squirmed again—a sure sign that there was either more to say, or he had to pee.

  “What else?” Dean asked.

  “He said you—”

  Dean waited. Tim bounced.

  “I what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “This kid said something about me that you didn’t like so you slugged him and got kicked out of school for two days?”

  “So did he,” Tim muttered.

  “I don’t need you to defend me, kid. I’m a big boy now, and I don’t really care what a Janquist has to say.”

  “He said you were stupid,” Tim blurted.

  The cab was silent, broken only by the hum of the tires as they turned onto the gravel road that led to the farm.

  Huh, Dean thought, names could still hurt.

  “Not like I haven’t heard that before,” he said.

  He just hadn’t figured his son would have to hear it.

  “You’re not stupid. You’re not!”

  “Of course I’m not. Neither are you. The people who use words like that are usually scared that they are.”

  Tim’s face scrunched in thought. “You mean Jeremy’s afraid he’s stupid?”

  Dean didn’t think Jeremy had the brains to know what stupid was, but he didn’t say so.

  “Maybe. But I wouldn’t bring that up to his face.”

  “That would be stupid.”

  “Mmm.”

  “So all those guys who call the other guys gay, they’re afraid that they are?”

  Dean shot a quick glance at Tim. “Kids say that?”

  The expression Tim turned Dean’s way was far too wise. “Kids say all sorts of things, Dad.”

  Dean remembered that very well, and most of what they said wasn’t nice. If the public schools weren’t equipped to handle kids like Tim, who needed a little extra help to “get it,” Dean would have been unable to stifle his daily urge to not send Tim there at all.

  “I forgot you had a new principal,” Dean ventured.

  Tim made a face.

  “You don’t like her?”

  “Why? Do you?”

  Way too much, Dean thought.

  He’d never gotten over Stella, probably never would. But he’d been able to go for weeks at a time without thinking of her since she wasn’t around to remind him of all the things he couldn’t forget. Now what was he going to do?

  “We went to high school together,” Dean said.

  “You’re that old?”

  “What?”

  “Ms. O’Connell, she looked old.”

  She’d looked hot to Dean. Sure she’d worn a business suit, but the shade had brought to mind autumn leaves and fields upon fields of pumpkins, a time when she’d just left and he’d been missing her.

  The skirt was short, her heels were high, the sheer stockings only emphasized that her legs went on forever. The V of the jacket had revealed just a hint of white lace peeking out above her incredible rack.

  Dean blinked. His gutter brain was going to get him into all sorts of trouble. Thinking about his son’s principal’s rack—what kind of a father was he?

  One who’d slept with this particular principal more times than he could count. Thank goodness no one knew about that but him and Stella.

  “Ms. O’Connell isn’t old,” Dean muttered.

  “You didn’t date her or anything?”

  “What? No.”

  They hadn’t dated, they’d snuck around.

  Her friends had considered him an imbecile, his had thought her a geek. Her mother had glared at him as if he were a coyote loose in the henhouse. And her father…

  Stella’s father had had big plans for his little girl— ones that didn’t include her life being ruined by Dean Luchetti. The man had made that quite clear on the single occasion the two of them had spoken.

  So Dean and Stella had spent the summer after graduation lying to their family and friends. The only person who might have noticed Dean’s absence would have been his best friend, Brian Riley. But Brian had been too busy falling in love with Dean’s sister and doing his level best to get into Kim’s pants.

  Luckily the two of them were married now, and Dean didn’t have to kill him. He had beaten the crap out of Brian once he’d learned the truth, which had served to clear the air between them.

  Good thing Stella didn’t have a brother.

  “What kind of lady do you like, Dad?”

  “Huh?”

  Dean took the turn into the long, rutted gravel lane that led to the Luchetti farm. The pickup bounced along the rough road, nearly tossing Tim into the dashboard. The seat belt yanked him back.

  “What kind of lady do you like?” Tim tilted his head, and his hair swung over one eye. “You do lik
e ladies.”

  “Don’t be a smart guy.”

  The boy grinned. He’d lost another tooth. Dean couldn’t remember if he’d paid for that one yet or not. Since Tim had caught him shoving cash under his pillow one night, Dean had begun exchanging a dollar for a tooth whenever one fell out. Not much magic in the transaction, but Tim didn’t seem to care.

  “Man to man, Dad, what kind of lady do you like?”

  Dean immediately thought of Stella’s dark cap of hair.

  “Blond,” he blurted.

  Her long legs and ample breasts.

  “Short. Flat—I mean small.”

  Her college degree and her white-collar employment record.

  “Just a plain, hometown girl.”

  “’Kay. There’s lots of ladies like that around here. How come you never go out?”

  “Most of the women in Gainsville know me.”

  “Then they should love you.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I love you.”

  Warmth spread through Dean’s chest as it did every time Tim said those words. Considering what the kid had been through before coming here, it was a wonder he could love at all.

  “Same goes,” Dean said. “But I’m not what you’d call a great catch.”

  “You can catch. Real good.”

  Dean parked the truck in front of the main house and turned to look at his son. Tim loved football— would play every minute of every day if Dean let him. He worried about Tim joining the peewee football team this year. The boy was so damn small.

  “Not that kind of catch. I meant, I’m not exactly a fun date, or good husband material.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m crabby. I have no patience. And I’m a farmer. I’ll never be rich.”

  “You’re not crabby, you’re funny. You have lots and lots and lots of patience with me. ’Sides, who needs to be rich? We’re happy.”

  Tim threw himself into Dean’s arms, and Dean caught the scent of little-boy sweat.

  Kid smelled just like sunshine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  STELLA WALKED INTO the house. Like every other door in town, her parents’ was unlocked. The television chattered in the den; dishes clinked in the kitchen. Stella had missed dinner.

  A typical occurrence in the life of an administrator. She’d had several meetings with teachers after school, then stayed to look in on cheerleading practice and band rehearsal.

  When she’d lived alone, no one had been there to care if she didn’t show up by a certain time. Now she’d only hear how foolish she was for trying. Why had she come home again?

  Stella set her briefcase and purse on the hall table. Let the canned laughter from the television and the cool breeze from the window wash over her.

  Oh, yeah. She’d wanted to find some peace. Foolish to think she could find it here. Even without Dean Luchetti appearing in her office.

  “Stella?”

  Her father. The man had ears like a bat.

  She moved to the doorway. “Hi.”

  He swirled the Scotch in his glass, making the ice cubes clink merrily. The merrier the clink, the angrier he was.

  Clink, clink, clink.

  Uh-oh.

  Stella stepped into the room. She might as well get this over with. Then she could escape to a warm bath, good book and even better glass of wine.

  “You’re late.”

  “I left a message.”

  “What kept you?”

  “Meeting, meeting, meeting, cheerleading, band.”

  “Why is it your responsibility to oversee everything?”

  Stella turned a snort of laughter into a cough. She patted her chest, cleared her throat and tried to speak with a civil tongue. “Because that’s what my responsibility is. You asked me to take this job, Father.”

  “Take, not obsess over.”

  Stella shook her head. If she was going to do something, she was going to do it right, not blow off her duties because the school wasn’t up to a certain standard.

  “I hear there was trouble today,” he said.

  How did he get information so fast?

  Stella sighed. Because this was Gainsville, and everyone knew everything, sometimes even before it happened.

  “You expelled the child, I assume?”

  “Expelled? Hardly.”

  “He doesn’t belong.”

  “Janquists have been here since Gainsville was a truck stop.”

  “I didn’t mean him, and you know it.”

  Clink! Clink! Clink!

  She knew.

  “Tim Luchetti deserves the same treatment as every other child.”

  “He isn’t a Luchetti.”

  “He will be.”

  “Did you know he just turned up a few years back, along with the illegitimate daughter of a Vegas stripper? She was a Luchetti by blood.”

  “Dean?” Stella asked, as her chest tightened.

  Her father shot her a quick, annoyed glance. He’d caught them together that one time, but he’d ordered her never to see Dean again and she’d pretended to agree. He’d never mentioned “the incident” again.

  Still, she’d often wondered how much he knew about that summer. Couldn’t have been much, or Dean would have sported a shotgun-size hole in his chest. Her father might be a card-carrying elitist, but he still kept his granddaddy’s shotgun handy in case someone got fresh with his women. Dean had gotten a lot more than fresh.

  “The stripper’s daughter was Aaron’s.”

  “Aaron,” Stella echoed. “I thought he was a priest.”

  “Not even close. He married the stripper and opened a home for runaways in Las Vegas.”

  “Sounds like Aaron.”

  Her father merely swirled his Scotch even faster. Stella had looked at Tim’s file after he’d left. Most of the entries were clinical. Notes from Tim’s doctor, information about his meds, results of psychological, physical and intelligence testing.

  The kid wasn’t crazy; he was healthy and really quite smart. Tim needed guidance, stability, two things he appeared to be getting from the Luchettis. With specialized help from the school he’d do fine.

  Stella had dealt with a thousand kids who had been diagnosed with ADHD. The increase in drug use and teen pregnancy had produced a resulting increase in the disorder. Schools, especially public schools in large cities, overflowed with students in various stages of Ritalin consumption.

  Most of those children could be charming—they learned to get along by their wits. Tim was no different.

  “Don’t go getting any ideas,” her father said. “You aren’t keeping that dead-end job.”

  This from the man who’d insisted she take it. Of course, she’d never been able to figure out George O’Connell. Never been able to please him, either, so she’d stopped trying.

  “I want that drug baby out of our school system.”

  “What drug baby?”

  “You called him Tim.”

  “He’s not a baby and he’s not on drugs.”

  “His mother was.”

  “You knew his mother?”

  “No.”

  Stella gritted her teeth and counted to ten. “Maybe you should tell me what you do know.”

  “There isn’t much.”

  “How unlike you.”

  Her father was the biggest gossip in town.

  He ignored the jibe; maybe he hadn’t heard it. From the level of the Scotch in his glass, he’d been doing a lot more than swirling tonight. Must have had a bad day at the Bank of Gainsville. Perhaps some teller had misplaced ten whole dollars.

  “No one knows anything about the child, not even the Luchettis.”

  “How could that be? Social services should have a file.”

  “They do, but there’s precious little in it. He doesn’t even have a name.”

  “It’s Tim.”

  “He chose that himself. The stripper’s girl found him in an alley in Las Vegas.”

  George’s lips pursed at
the mention of a place he considered the third ring of hell. What sane person would throw away good money on the turn of a card?

  “He was abandoned?” Stella asked.

  “So he said. He has no recollection of his parents, or any city before Las Vegas.”

  “How long was he on the streets?”

  “He doesn’t remember anything but that.”

  Stella frowned. Tim was lucky to be alive. “What about shelters, social services in Nevada?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No one’s claimed this child?”

  Except Dean.

  “No. Who knows what you’re getting with a street kid? I hear he’s defective.”

  “He’s fine,” she snapped.

  Her estimation of Dean went up. Adopting a child with ADHD wasn’t easy. Adopting a child without a past, giving him a future was downright saintly. She could almost forgive him for breaking her heart.

  Almost.

  “Explains why the adoption isn’t final yet,” she murmured.

  “Why?”

  “No records. They’re probably trying to find out who he is and if someone’s looking for him.”

  “What if they do?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  If Tim’s mother showed up, or even his father, a court just might turn him over. She couldn’t imagine the devastation that would cause the people who loved Tim. Dean was putting his heart on the line for the good of a child who wasn’t even his. Another reason to admire him—not that she needed one.

  Stella frowned. She didn’t dare fall for Dean Luchetti again.

  She’d barely survived the last plunge.

  AS THEY DID nearly every night, Dean and Tim walked through the cornfield separating their house from his parents’. His mother insisted it was foolish for Dean to make dinner for two at his place and her to make dinner for two at hers. She was used to cooking for an army. Dean wasn’t used to cooking at all.

  “Do I have a birth certificate?” Tim asked.

  He’d been coming up with all sorts of questions this afternoon. Dean had tried to work the snot out of the kid, both in punishment and in an attempt to shut him up, but it was damn near impossible to wear Tim out. Contrary to popular old wive’s tales, exercise didn’t curtail hyperactivity—and sugar didn’t increase it. Go figure. “I’m sure you have one.”

  “You just don’t know where it is. Like my real mom and dad.”