The Mommy Quest

by Lori Handeland

  Once they’d moved to the cottage, Tim had even stopped creeping into Dean’s room in the middle of the night. He’d stopped sleeping at the foot of Dean’s bed, trying to make sure Dean wouldn’t disappear like every other adult in Tim’s life.

  Before he’d met Dean Tim had figured he was un-lovable. Sure he was cute, which was why people took him in. But once they knew him, they always threw him out. Except for the Luchettis.

  Gramma Ellie said once you were a Luchetti every other Luchetti loved you forever no matter what. Just look at Dean. He was the biggest pain in her behind since a horse had kicked her when she was five, and she loved him to pieces.

  Gramma always punctuated this statement with hugs, kisses and tickles so that Tim knew she loved him, too, and always would.

  Until today, he wasn’t sure if he’d really believed that. But when Cubby had eaten the cake, then tracked chocolate all over the floor, and Gramma had yelled and chased them, she hadn’t caught them and she could have.

  Gramma might say she was old, but she was quick, and Tim knew it.

  He’d been yelled at, chased and threatened with the spatula.

  Tim was definitely a Luchetti now.

  AFTER DEAN HAD CLEANED the kitchen and watched the news, he sat on the porch and wished he still smoked. He’d probably be wishing that for a long time, but he wouldn’t subject Tim’s lungs to the secondhand fumes, nor risk getting cancer and leaving Tim without a dad.

  Unease came over him. Life was iffy at best. There were a lot of ways to die on a farm. Heavy machinery fell on people all the time. Bulls got loose. Haymows collapsed.

  If those things weren’t enough—Dean’s gaze flicked over the impossibly flat land—tornadoes were as common as corn. He needed to get that adoption put through and fast. He had to make certain that if Tim didn’t have him, he’d always have someone. Luchettis stuck together, they took care of their own.

  The sound of tires on gravel drifted from the road. Dean recognized Brian Riley’s green pickup truck even before it got close enough to see a color. He’d been expecting him.

  Brian greeted Dean with a nod, then tossed a beer into his lap and popped the top on his own. He set the other four cans on the porch between them and took the remaining chair.

  “Gonna be an early winter,” Brian observed.

  “Who says?”

  “Farmer’s Almanac.” Brian took a long pull from his beer. “Usually right.”

  Dean grunted and opened his can. Then he waited. Brian only came over these days with a good reason.

  For years Brian had been as alone as Dean. They’d spent their twenties becoming the farmers they’d always dreamed of being. Then Kim had returned, and Brian had lost his mind. Not that Dean wasn’t glad his sister and his best friend were married. But Kim had broken Brian’s heart, and Dean had been the one left behind to pick up the pieces. It hadn’t been pretty.

  Luckily worrying about Brian had helped Dean get over his own shattered love life. Although, now that Stella was back, Dean realized he’d never gotten over her at all.

  Brian drained his beer and popped another. Must be a serious problem.

  “You still want her,” Brian said.

  Slowly Dean lifted his can, drank, then lowered it. “Who?”

  Brian merely took another sip and didn’t bother to answer.

  Dean sighed. “You knew?”

  “Always.”

  “Kim?”

  “I think she’s suspicious now, but not then. Then all she thought about was—”

  Brian broke off. They might be guys and best friends, but one thing you didn’t mention to your wife’s brother was how his sister had been unable to keep her hands off you when they were kids. That was the quickest way to a fat lip, and they’d been in that direction before.

  “How did you know?” Dean asked.

  “You were happy.”

  Dean, who had lifted the beer halfway to his mouth, lowered it. “What?”

  “Face it, Dean, you were never a jolly fellow.” Brian toasted him and drank. “But that summer you smiled too damned much.”

  “That’s a crime?”

  “Not a crime, but a concern. Add to the overabundance of grinning the fact that you disappeared a lot, then came back with straw in your hair, dust on your pants—”

  “Maybe I was working.”

  “Is that what you called it?”

  “I loved her,” Dean snapped, then wished he hadn’t when Brian’s eyes went shrewd.

  “Really? I always wondered what happened. Why she left, why you let her.”

  “Why do you think? She didn’t belong here any more than Kim did.”

  Brian winced. Oops. Still a sore spot. Dean could hardly blame him. Kim had wanted nothing more than to get out of Gainsville. Not even Brian’s love could keep her down on the farm.

  “Kim didn’t belong here then,” Dean hastened to add. “But she does now.”

  “Exactly. And maybe Stella does, too.”

  Dean frowned. “Huh?”

  “Things change and so do people.”

  “Not Stella. You saw her. She’s allergic to hay for crying out loud. She’s afraid of dogs. She wore a suit and heels to a dairy farm.”

  “Kim used to do that.”

  “Just to be annoying.”

  Brian grinned. “She is cute in heels. I kind of miss them.”

  “Spare me.”

  “You still love her,” Brian accused.

  Dean had been contemplating the cornfield, but at that he turned his head in Brian’s direction. “It shows?”

  “Big time.”

  “Son of a cock-a-doodle-do.”

  Brian choked mid-swig and sprayed beer all over the porch. “Sorry, but your cuss words are killing me.”

  “The not-cussing is killing me.” Dean rubbed his forehead. “Do you think she knows?”

  “That you love her? I’m thinking no, since she took off this afternoon like she was never coming back. What was that all about?”

  Dean wasn’t going to share with Brian his theory that Stella had been hurt in L.A.—it was only a theory—so he improvised.

  “I told her I never loved her.”

  Brian’s eyes widened. “I take it back—you really are as dumb as you look.”

  “Stella and I—we—” Dean wished again that he could curse. “It wouldn’t work.”

  “You haven’t tried.”

  “She was never meant for this place, man. She always wanted something more.”

  “She wanted you.”

  “She wouldn’t have for long. She’d have wound up hating me as much as she hated Gainsville. Things aren’t any different now. She isn’t going to stay. I can’t go.”

  “You sure about that?” Brian asked. “That she’s going? Yes.”

  “That you have to stay.”

  “I don’t think there are too many dairy farms in L.A. Besides, I don’t care if I’m alone for the rest of my life, Tim isn’t living in a big town ever again.”

  “You’re right.” Brian nodded slowly. “Tim belongs here.”

  “And I belong with Tim.”

  “Impasse. Unless you told her the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you’re desperate to get laid, and she’s the woman you’ve been waiting for all of your life.”

  Dean considered throwing the remainder of his beer into Brian’s face, but he hated to waste good beer. “You’re a moron.”

  “I know.” Brian grinned. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. I’ll stay with Tim.”

  Dean wanted to talk to Stella, but not to tell her he loved her. He wasn’t a moron. He wanted to ask about L.A.

  Dean stood and tossed his empty beer can over his shoulder, smiling when Brian caught it. Then he climbed into his truck and traveled the still-familiar path to Stella’s house.

  THE DAY HAD BEEN as dull as Stella remembered. Nothing to do but read or watch TV. Stella
suggested a movie, but her mother wasn’t interested in seeing anything that was showing at the Gainsville Duplex, and neither was Stella.

  Stella’s father had never come home, which was worrisome, though her mother didn’t seem upset. In fact, she’d seemed kind of glad.

  Her parents’ marriage had always been one of polite disinterest. Stella had never understood why they’d stayed together.

  Of course, divorce in Gainsville was rarely done. The divorce of the bank president and school board member—not happening.

  Stella’s mother had very few options if she left. She’d gone to college but received a degree in art history. She’d never had a job. Carrie was better off living in her house, working her garden, pretending everything was fine and being taken care of in the manner to which she was accustomed.

  Just because Stella wanted to shriek and bang her head against the door didn’t mean her mother felt the same way. In fact, her mother didn’t seem to feel much at all. Stella was starting to wonder if she was heavily medicated.

  No doubt her parents’ lack of affection, to her and to each other, as well as the overly polite state of their marriage, was what had drawn her to Dean in the first place. He’d been so alive, so passionate, so damn different.

  Every man she’d dated since had been the complete opposite of him, which might explain why she’d been bored out of her skull by them.

  Stella went to bed early—tired in mind, but not body—hoping that the next day would be better than the last. But first she had to get through the night, and that proved a lot more difficult than she’d expected.

  Stella had a dream—a long, dark, heart-pounding terror of a dream. She came awake with a gasp, blinking at the room of her childhood, believing for an instant that she’d retreated to a place of safety in her mind, even though her body still resided in her apartment in L.A.—or maybe a nearby psych ward.

  Then she heard the distant chug of a train and understood she was in Gainsville, and for the first time since she’d returned, she was glad.

  A quick glance at the clock and Stella groaned. The dream had seemed to go on and on, yet she’d only been asleep for half an hour. Now she was sweaty, shaky and wide-awake.

  Stella climbed out of bed, changed her nightgown and washed her face, then headed downstairs. Hesitating on the landing, she listened to make sure no one else was awake. She did not want to talk right now.

  The house was silent, still. However, what should have been peaceful was, in the wake of her dream, creeping her out. The place was stifling, so she moved toward the front door, grabbing her mother’s sweater and wrapping it around her long, white granny nightgown.

  Quietly, Stella shut the front door, then stood on the porch, uncertain. The psychiatrist she’d seen in L.A. had recommended meditation for stress relief, and she’d tried, really she had. But each time Stella tried to clear her head, her mind rebelled, instead filling with every thought she’d pushed away, her brain roiling like a lake beneath a thunderstorm.

  She descended the steps and moved into the middle of the yard, enjoying the sensation of cool grass against her hot feet, a light breeze stirring her damp hair. Throwing back her head, she stared at the sky.

  One thing about farm country, the heavens were clear, the stars and the moon almost painfully bright. In L.A. she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to see more than the faded twinkle of a handful of stars pulsing dully beyond the smog.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Stella caught the sparkle of the moon off the hood of a vehicle parked in her father’s space on the far side of a storage building. She didn’t give it a second thought, momentarily consumed with joy that she wouldn’t have to worry he’d show up and ruin her new mood.

  Staring at the sky, breathing in and out, listening to the silence, she started to experience the sense of peace the psychiatrist had promised. Her pulse slowed; her chest eased; the pain in her shoulders melted away.

  Slowly Stella lowered her gaze from the indigo sky. She turned, and her heart gave a solid, painful leap. A man lurked in the shadows.

  Her gasp split the night. Her dream had come alive. She wasn’t sure if she should scream or run. She discovered she could do neither. She began to tremble and she hated herself.

  “Stella?”

  Dean’s voice.

  The shadow separated from the night, stepping into the silver glow of the moon.

  Dean’s face.

  She was so relieved, she got dizzy with it. So dizzy, she had to sit. Right on the ground.

  “Hey!” He hurried across the grass, dropped to his knees next to her. “You sick?”

  She shook her head, only realizing that tears marred her cheeks when they flew free at the movement. Taking a breath, she was horrified to hear a hitch in the middle, as if she’d been crying for hours.

  “That’s it,” Dean growled. “You’re telling me what happened in L.A., and you’re telling me now.”

  “N-nothing happened.”

  Nothing she was going to tell him, anyway. He might have been closer to her than anyone on the planet fourteen years ago, but those days were gone along with part of her sanity.

  Dean reached out slowly, as if he understood that fast moves scared her. Cupping her chin, he tilted her face. The wind cooled her tears; the light of the moon glistened off the tips of her damp eyelashes.

  Dean used his thumbs to wipe the last droplets from her cheeks. Their gazes held; the awareness that had always been between them hovered. His eyes lowered to her lips, and for an instant she thought he might kiss her. For an instant she wanted him to.

  Until she came to her senses.

  Kissing Dean would lead to one thing, and she didn’t need to start an affair with the father of one of her students. Wouldn’t that look spectacular on her employment record?

  Besides, Dean had broken her heart once, she didn’t think she could survive his breaking it again. She was in bad enough shape as it was.

  But there was one thing she was in desperate need of.

  “I could really use…”

  “Hmm?” Dean leaned forward, his breath brushing her lips, promising things he’d always delivered.

  “A friend,” she said. “A friend?” He inched back, dropping his hands from her face.

  “Yes.”

  Stella held her breath, hoping Dean would agree. He didn’t love her, had never loved her, and that hurt. But he had always made her laugh. He’d made her live. When she’d hung out with Dean, she’d been happy, and she wanted to be happy again.

  Dean glanced away, staring at his truck parked in her father’s spot. Then he gave a short, sharp laugh and glanced back.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’d like to be your friend.”

  DEAN COULDN’T BELIEVE he’d agreed to be Stella’s friend. Whenever he came near her, all he could think about was what they’d done together fourteen years ago. And he wanted to do it again, and again, and again.

  He’d felt the same way tonight, until she’d looked into his eyes and told him she needed a friend. He could see that she did. So much more than she needed a lover.

  Maybe being her friend would help him get over her. Remembering what they’d shared, dreaming of the scent of her hair and the taste of her skin certainly wasn’t working.

  “Why me?” he blurted.

  “What?”

  “Why do you want me for a friend? I’m sure you’ve got plenty.”

  She gave a sad smile. He really didn’t care for that smile, but he had no idea how to get the other one back.

  “None of my friends from high school are here anymore.”

  “Oh, right. But what about L.A.?”

  “They aren’t there, either.”

  Duh.

  “Tell me what happened there,” he demanded.

  She started again and he wanted to smack something, but that would only scare her more.

  “Why do you think something happened?” she asked.

  “Stella, you had nerves
of steel when we were kids, and considering your old man, that’s saying a lot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He shouldn’t have brought up her father. That was dangerous territory.

  “Your father scared everyone, except you. With a dad like him I’d have thought you’d be a nervous, skinny bird child.”

  She glanced at the house. “Like my mother.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Although now that she had… Her mother was so quiet and ghostly, sometimes he forgot she had one.

  “You never let your dad push you around.” Dean let his head fall back as he gazed at the sky. “I admired you for it.”

  She didn’t answer, and he lowered his gaze to hers.

  “I’m not like that anymore,” she whispered.

  “You let him push you around now? He must love it.”

  “Amazingly, no.” At Dean’s confused expression, she continued. “He asked me to take Mrs. Little’s job, yet when I did, he wasn’t happy. He called me a nose wiper.”

  Dean’s fingers curled into fists. Her dad was still a dick. Imagine that?

  “Let’s forget about him and get back to L.A.”

  “I wish I could,” she said wistfully.

  Dean contemplated Stella. She appeared so young in that white nightgown. Like Wendy from Peter Pan. Except Wendy didn’t have—

  Dean yanked his gaze from Stella’s chest. Lucky for him she’d put on a ratty old black sweater. The pajamas might cover her from toe to neck, but he could still see the sway of her breasts whenever she moved.

  “What happened?” he asked again.

  “I’m fine.” She looked away.

  “I never said you weren’t. But something happened there, Stella. Something that made you run back here, and that means it was pretty bad.”

  Her eyes met his, and Dean knew she wasn’t going to tell him—friend or not. Maybe she couldn’t.

  As a “friend” he shouldn’t push it, even though he wanted to. When she was ready, she’d tell him, or at least he hoped she would. For now, he’d move slowly, talk quietly, let her heal and try not to go mad wondering what, or who, had hurt her.