The Mommy Plan

by Susan Gable

  A red sweatshirt lay draped over the top of the oak dresser, and a small pair of sneakers sat on the floor beside the closet as though the young owner might walk through the door at any minute.

  Rachel hovered by the bed, hands fluttering nervously before she opted to smooth the pillow. “I’m sorry. It’s not exactly a…girlie room.” Her voice caught, then she bit down on her lower lip.

  James found himself struggling with the overwhelming need to comfort her.

  Molly looked up from checking out the bookshelf. “That’s okay, Miss Rachel. I like it.” She pulled a book off the shelf and waved it in the air. “Jack Prelutsky. I love his poems.”

  “Me, too.” Rachel offered his daughter a tentative smile. “And Shel Silverstein’s, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  James set Molly’s backpack on the floor. “Time for you to brush your teeth and get ready for bed. It’s late, and it seems like Rachel has plans for us tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  James raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on her uncharacteristic compliance. Downstairs, something beeped.

  “My cake.” Rachel brushed past him. “Come down when you have Molly settled.”

  Ten minutes and four Prelutsky poems later, he ambled down the kitchen steps. Passing the fridge, he noticed a painting hung with magnets—a big yellow shape with four black blobs along the bottom. He didn’t need the neat, perfectly formed teacher’s printing across the top to know it was a school bus and created by Daniel.

  Rachel inverted a cake pan over a cooling rack. As she set it on the white countertop, he sidled up behind her and sniffed deeply. “Smells terrific.”

  “Chocolate cake. I’ll make vanilla icing in the morning.”

  “I was talking about you.” He pushed aside her ponytail, dropped his mouth to the back of her neck and nuzzled the soft skin there. “Mmm. I’ve waited two weeks to do that. And this.” Turning her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her flush against him, then kissed her properly.

  Rachel’s muscles relaxed. She allowed herself to get lost in the pleasant sensations of his lips on hers, his fingers drifting along her spine. One part of her remained aware, listening for any signs that Molly was still up, but the rest of her let go and simply enjoyed the warmth of this man. When he broke the kiss, she smiled up at him. “It was worth the wait.”

  “I think so, too.” He went on to explain how busy he’d been at his practice, catching up, and giving his partner time off for a vacation of his own. Rachel cleaned up the mess from baking the cake while they chatted. Eventually they moved to the living room. James paused in front of the gas fireplace that occupied the short wall between the two archways. He lifted down the picture frame with Daniel’s bronzed baby shoes. The photo showed her little boy in a pair of red-and-green-plaid flannel pajamas in front of a Christmas tree, clutching a teddy bear.

  James pointed. “He definitely had his mother’s smile.”

  “That was taken the Christmas before—” Rachel cleared her throat “—before he died. It’s my favorite picture of him.”

  He set it back on the mantel, centering it carefully. Taking her hand, he led her to the sofa. “It’s a great picture. Rachel,” he said softly, “how often do you clean his room?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. “At first, I closed the door and didn’t go in there. Didn’t let anyone else go in there, either. But on the anniversary of his death, I went in with a package of berry wine coolers and his photo album, got totally plastered and fell asleep on the floor.” She offered him a wry smile. “Woke up with the imprint of a Lego block on my cheek. Decided then to tidy up, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to get rid of his stuff. Just not—”

  “Ready,” he finished for her, reaching for her hand.

  “Right.”

  “Well, when you decide you are, if you want some help, or just someone to be there with you…” He tightened his fingers around hers.

  She bit her bottom lip. How had she managed to find a man like this? Exactly where their relationship was going, or how to define it, she didn’t know, but for now, she was grateful. “Thanks.”

  The phone rang. Rachel crossed the living room to her oak rolltop desk on the far side. She peered down at the caller-ID and cursed, something far stronger than her usual “sugar cookies.”

  “What’s wrong?” James asked, rising from the sofa.

  “It’s Roman.” She grabbed the cordless receiver from the cradle. “Dammit, Roman, I don’t want to talk to you, so quit calling me!” Jabbing the off button did nothing to placate her annoyance, so she slammed it back into the base.

  James wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You’re trembling. How many times has he called since the night we went out for dinner?”

  “A couple. Usually hangups on my machine, ’cause even if I’m here, I don’t pick it up. But I’ve had enough.”

  “Have you talked to the police? Rachel, stalking isn’t something to be taken lightly.”

  “Stalking?” She wriggled from his embrace and turned to face him. “He’s not stalking me. Roman isn’t like that. An annoying pain in the ass, yes, a stalker, no. He’d never hurt me or anything.”

  “Then what does he want?”

  “I don’t know. Jerry said Roman just needs to talk to me.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to come to terms with Daniel’s death, too? Looking for some closure?” He stroked her cheek.

  Closure? Was that really possible when you’d lost such an important part of your life? Rachel shrugged, as much in answer to her own unasked question as to James’s. “I don’t know. It’s not my problem, is it? I’m busy enough trying to get myself together without worrying about him.”

  “Well, I’m worried about you. If he does seem unbalanced or if he doesn’t get the message and stop calling, promise me you’ll contact the police?”

  Using her index finger, she rubbed gently at the tension lines in his face. “Stop worrying. I’ll be fine.” The mantel clock softly chimed eleven. “It’s late. Since you’ve insisted on sleeping down here on the sofa bed—”

  James groaned. “Rachel, I’d love nothing more than to share your bed upstairs, but not—”

  “With Molly in the house.” She pressed her lips briefly against his mouth. “I know, and I understand.” Understood, but she didn’t like it. The idea of spending the whole night in his arms was not only erotic, but strangely comforting. “I was just teasing you. I’ll be back with some pillows. I put clean sheets and blankets on the bed this afternoon.”

  When she returned with his sleeping supplies, she paused on the landing, enjoying the view as he smoothed out the bedding on the sofa.

  He straightened up and turned, catching her watching him. She dropped the pillows on the end of the bed, then crooked her finger. “Give me something to think about all night, ’cause I doubt I’ll be sleeping, knowing you’re down here.”

  The kiss he gave her definitely qualified as something to think about. Dream about.

  “WHAT ARE YOUR INTENTIONS toward my daughter?” Steven Thompson pointed a metal spatula at James’s chest, brandishing the cooking tool in a confident manner that implied he expected a satisfactory answer. Burgers sizzled on the grill, their pleasant aroma filling this little corner of Steven’s backyard. James realized that being asked to help cook meant a grilling for him, as well as the food.

  His silver-white hair in a short buzz cut, and still fit and trim with muscular shoulders, the Sarge reminded James of Richard Dean Anderson from Stargate.

  “Sir?” The respect came automatically. Hell, Rachel’s father carried himself in such a way that you couldn’t help but want to snap to attention and salute. No wonder she’d kept so much emotion hidden in order to please this man.

  “You have a daughter, James. I’m sure you can understand a father’s desire to protect his little girl.” Genuine concern filled the man’s hazel eyes, then was quickly replaced with a stern expression designed to
intimidate. Not that it did. The psychologist in James had this man’s number. He loved his daughter tremendously, and this was his way of showing it.

  “I can understand wanting to protect your child, yes.”

  “Good. Because my daughter’s been through a lot lately, and I’d hate to see her hurt again.” Steven’s jaw set in a firm line, and he returned his attention to the burgers.

  “I have no intention of hurting her, sir.”

  “No one ever does.”

  “Where’s Rachel?” Sloan, Rachel’s older brother, trotted up onto the brick patio, face lined with tension. He had darker hair than his sister, but they shared the same blue eyes. And right now, they were sparking with mixed anger and anxiety.

  “I think she’s in the house with Molly and Ashley, putting the finishing touches on the cake.”

  “Why?” James asked.

  “Because Roman just drove up.”

  Steven cursed and shoved the spatula into James’s hands. “I’ll take care of this.” He briskly strode from the patio, Sloan on his heels.

  James slapped the metal tool onto the redwood picnic table and raced after the other men. Did they know Roman had been hassling Rachel? He darted around Sloan’s four-door pickup with Texas plates and pulled up short at the driver’s door of the Goat. The two Thompson men stood near the front bumper, arms folded across their chests. Between father and son, there was enough muscle and testosterone to more than take care of one ex-husband.

  “Sarge. Sloan.” Roman removed his wraparound sunglasses and slipped them into the pocket of his suit jacket. With his shoulder-length dark hair neatly pulled back into a short ponytail, the man was not what James had expected. He had a badboy aura that didn’t mesh with the sweet image of Rachel. No wonder her father had wanted to know James’s intentions. This man was the total antithesis of Rachel. James moved forward to stand at Steven’s other shoulder.

  Roman held out his hands. “Look, guys, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just here to talk to Rachel. Five minutes, that’s all I need.”

  “You’ve got five seconds to get your ass out of here before I kick the shit out of it.” Steven popped his knuckles, either in warning or preparation.

  Sloan rolled his neck. “I don’t think my sister has anything to say to you anymore, Roman.”

  A blue Taurus squealed to a halt at the curb. The front door popped open, and a man with a rolling gait, more of a hobble than a limp, rushed toward them. “Roman! What the hell are you doing?”

  The dark man turned. “Trying to talk to Rachel, Uncle Jer, just like you told me to.”

  “Here? Do you have a death wish or are you just plain crazy?”

  Roman shook his head. “Neither. Forget it.” He yanked his sunglasses back out of his pocket and jammed them on his face. “I’ve got a business meeting out of town. I’ll be gone for a few days. I’ll call you when I get back.” Stiffly, he stalked to a charcoal Lincoln Town Car. He pulled away from the curb and took off at high speed.

  “You gotta do something about him, Jerry, or I’m going to,” Steven said.

  “He really needs to talk to her, Sarge. I swear to you, I have Rachel’s best interests at heart. You know I love her, too. I wouldn’t BS you.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Daniel?” James asked.

  They all turned to look at him as though he’d appeared out of nowhere. Steven shook his head. “I don’t give a damn what it has to do with. I will not allow that man to upset my daughter any further.”

  Sloan and Jerry nodded. After a moment, James did, too. Rachel’s father was not a man to be argued with. But the psychologist in James couldn’t help thinking that confronting Roman might be good for Rachel. Especially if she could do it where her family—and James—could support and protect her.

  MOLLY WATCHED BROOK THOMPSON apply makeup, torn between envy and horror. Green eye shadow only accentuated the silver stud poking through Miss Rachel’s niece’s eyebrow. And the black lipstick…yuck. “Did it hurt a lot to get your eyebrow pierced?”

  “Of course it did.” The girl globbed on mascara.

  “So why’d you do it?”

  The thirteen-year-old laid the tube on the dresser and glanced at Molly in the mirror. “To get my father’s attention.”

  “Did it work?” Sheesh, Molly was always trying to avoid her father’s attention. Molly and Brook had quickly discovered a common bond—the lack of a mother. Brook’s mother had been killed in a car accident three years ago. She and her little sister, Ashley, who was only four now, lived in Texas with their father.

  “Yeah. He went through the roof.” Brook smirked.

  “Do you wish you had a mother?” Molly rolled over onto her stomach on the double bed in the small but tidy guest room Brook was sharing with Ashley. Propping her chin on her palms, she kicked her feet in the air.

  “Hell, no. What would I want another mother for?” Brook scowled.

  “I want one. I’m hoping Miss Rachel can be my new mom.”

  “You know what my father says?” Brook whirled to face her.

  Molly shook her head.

  “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”

  “So? Why should I be upset if I get Miss Rachel for a mom? I like her. She’s cool.”

  Brook’s laugh was sharp. “Mental case is more like it. Besides, you don’t want to be part of our family. We tend to lose people. My grandma, my mother, my cousin, Daniel… We’re hard on family around here. It’s a curse.”

  “That’s just stupid. Sometimes people die.”

  “That’s right, tiger. Sometimes they do,” her dad said softly from the doorway. “And it hurts. But we have to keep moving forward. And speaking of moving forward, lunch is ready. You need to wash up.”

  Molly scrambled from the bed, hoping her dad hadn’t overheard the start of that conversation. He wasn’t supposed to know that she’d wished for Miss Rachel to be her new mom. “Okay, Dad.”

  “Your father said for you to come down, too, Brook.”

  “Whatever.” Brook moved back to the dresser. “I’ll be there when I get there.”

  Molly followed her father into the hallway, realizing that despite his stupid cleaning stuff, and all that, her dad was a pretty cool guy and she was lucky to have him.

  With Miss Rachel, they’d make a complete family.

  And everything would be perfect.

  SHRIEKS OF CHILDREN’S laughter rang across the backyard. Several of the neighborhood kids—three boys and a girl—had come over. After a spoon-and-potato race, organized by Sloan, the group was now involved in a lively game of tag. Molly appeared to be having a great time. Brook watched from the sideline, doing her best to appear nonchalant, but sometimes not able to keep the longing from her green-shaded eyes.

  James and Sloan had commiserated on how hard it was to raise girls by themselves, and Rachel’s brother had warned him that things only got worse, that the terrible teens made the terrible twos look like a cakewalk.

  Little Ashley was conked out on her dad’s lap. Sloan cradled his younger daughter against his chest, absentmindedly stroking her chestnut hair. All the adults were slumped in lawn chairs on the edge of the patio.

  “I still can’t get over it,” Jerry muttered.

  “Over what?” Rachel asked.

  “The fact that little Molly has had a heart transplant.” Jerry faced James. “I’d never have known.”

  “Thanks. She’s doing great.”

  Jerry leaned over and grasped Rachel’s hand. “See? Aren’t you glad that you donated Daniel’s organs? Somewhere out there are kids who can run and play today because of what you did.”

  “Yeah, Jer. I’m glad.” Rachel gave his fingers a quick squeeze, then pulled her hand free. But she wasn’t. Nothing could ease the pain in her own heart, the wish that Daniel still ran through his grandfather’s backyard with the neighbor kids. She could feel her father’s intense gaze on her.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Rising from the chair, she headed for the picnic table. “I think I’ll take a few of these things back into the house and put them away.” The mustard bottle tipped over as she reached for the leftover potato salad.

  “I’ll help.” James followed her into the kitchen, arms laden with the condiments and the cake. He plunked them down on the counter, removed the big plastic bowl from her arms, and set that down, too. He pulled her into an embrace. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” she mumbled against his chest, content to once again draw comfort from his strength.

  “No, you’re not. Every time you get upset, you do that thing with your nose.”

  “What thing?” She tilted her head and looked at him.

  “This thing.” He gently pinched the upper portion of her nose.

  Rachel offered him a halfhearted smile. “Busted. You’re very observant, counselor.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Rachel?”

  “Actually, yes. Would you…I haven’t been to Daniel’s grave in a while, and I don’t want to go alone. Would you go with me?”

  His eyes widened, as if she’d knocked the breath right out of him. “I…uh—”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, no, I’ll go with you. It’s just…what about Molly? I’d really rather not take her.”

  “She can stay here with the kids. My father and Sloan will watch her. We won’t be gone long. The cemetery is only about ten minutes from here. Please?”

  He exhaled deeply. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A LIGHT BREEZE RUSTLED the pair of Mylar balloons Rachel clutched in her hand as James followed her from the car. One balloon bore the words I Love You; the other had a truck on it. Flowers, Rachel had explained, were for girls in Daniel’s opinion, so she always brought balloons when she visited. The small cemetery on the outskirts of town had an understanding caretaker and few rules when it came to gifts left at gravesites.