The variety of appliances on the kitchen counter surprised me. I think the only kitchen appliance my brothers could correctly identify was the toaster.
"Casey called," I continued. "I need to do some work, pick up some kids. I want one of you to go up to the house once in a while and see how Dad is doing. Maybe keep him company." I fidgeted with the strap of my briefcase, trying to avoid James's looking at me, but in spite of that, I was more aware of his presence than I was of my brothers. "I made bean soup. It's in the slow cooker."
"Can James have some?" Neil asked.
"Sure. Whatever."
"I thought this was your weekend off?" James asked.
"I did, too," I said, checking my cell phone to make sure I had enough juice in the battery. "But Casey seems to think I'm the only one that can do this job." I zipped my briefcase shut and finally looked up at him. He was sitting sideways, his elbow resting on the table, his hazel eyes holding mine.
"You should have told him you were busy."
I held his gaze a moment, surprised that he cared. "Maybe I should have." The only problem was, I hadn't been working long enough to accumulate sufficient years of experience to speak to any future employer. I was counting on my willingness to work when I could to balance that deficiency.
"Be careful you don't burn yourself out."
His words, spoken in a quiet voice, combined with the intent look in his eyes, softened my resistance to him and kindled a soft glow of pleasure. His concern was an unfamiliar experience for me.
Then I saw Carter nudge James's foot under the table and caught Neil giving James an elbow. Chip winked at
him.
"Thanks for the tip," I said icily. "I'll keep it in mind."
There it was again. A flicker of puzzlement that was either staged or real. I didn't want to spend too much time trying to decipher it. James was officially filed away as a mistake I wasn't about to repeat.
I left. But as I drove, I remembered his concern, staged or otherwise, wishing it didn't resurrect old yearnings and desires.
I knew I was a romantic, something that living with three brothers, a gruff father and a no-nonsense mother hadn't been able to root out of my life. I loved melancholy music, sad stories, fairy tales, ruffles, lace and delicate things. Sometimes I was convinced I wasn't really a Hemstead. That I had been switched in the hospital and somewhere there was an elegant woman who was dealing with a rough, tough tomboy daughter who hated dolls when she was young, chewed gum, and wore leather and denim.
My romantic nature, in spite of my rough and tumble upbringing, yearned for someone who would cherish and pamper me. Who would care that a foster kid had punched me in the face. Who would make appropriately sympathetic noises, give me a hug, and stroke my hair when I'd had an especially emotional day.
My brothers didn't always have time to hear my stories or the emotional space to care. My father used to listen but I could always tell that his mind was elsewhere.
Even Tracy didn't always understand.
Tracy had lived an independent life. Her mother had been an absent parent and Tracy had raised herself. When she moved to Holmes Crossing, we became friends, and after that she was at our house whenever her mother wasn't around, which was often. But Tracy was tough, and it had taken David's kindness to wear away that veneer and win her heart.
I grew up with guys who laughed at my tears and still didn't get my emotions. They would steal my Barbie dolls, tie ropes around their waists and hang them from the rafters of the old hip-roof barn, just out of my reach. They would use my lipstick to write notes, my hair straightener on their horses’ manes, and my fancy stationary to write lists of parts they needed for their various mechanic work.
Hence my desire for a man.
Hardly the goal that suffragettes and the women's movement had sacrificed for. But I didn't care. I had learned that no matter how tough the woman, no matter how difficult the life, many of them wanted the same thing I did.
Someone willing to put her first. Someone who needed her.
I picked up the court order for the apprehension from Casey and, just to be on the safe side, called Jack DeWindt at the cop shop on my way to the home. Just in case. He'd helped me a couple of times and I wanted to know I could get backup if things got ugly.
Casey's directions were erratic, to say the least. It took me seven stops to redefine the parameters of my search and by the time I got there, the sun was drifting toward the horizon. The family was living in a mobile home parked at the end of a gravelled road and I was thankful for the lack of neighbours. Usually I had spectators handing out all kinds of advice on what I could do with myself, my department and my decision to interfere with these poor people's lives.
So helpful.
My rap on the door yielded no response. The door was open, and all I heard coming from inside was the heartrending wails of a crying baby and another kid humming over the ubiquitous noise from the television.
The smell inside was sadly familiar. Alcohol, stale carpet and the funky scent of air that had been trapped in one place too long.
The mother of the two children lay sleeping or passed out on the couch. The baby girl was crying in a crib in one corner of the living room. Closer inspection showed me she was soaked from head to toe and the little boy sat naked on the living room floor eating a cold hot dog. No father or male partner was anywhere in sight.
Just another day in paradise.
Thankfully I had an emergency kit with me--disposable diapers, extra clothes and Gummi Bears--and dealt with the kids while Momma snored on. I woke her up and explained what I was doing, who I was. Showed her the paperwork.
She shrugged and rolled over to go to sleep again. I knew, from her file, that this was nothing new to her. The kids had been in care three times already. Mom was working her way to a permanent guardianship order.
I went to pick up the youngest, who I had changed already, when I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye. A huge shadow filling the doorway.
Please, Lord, don't let it be the partner or grandpa, I thought with dismay as I looked up.
But it was a large woman, wearing a dress that had the ever popular breaking-up-the-food-fight pattern seen on the runways in Milan this year. What caught my attention was what she had accessorized her outfit with. A large, wooden baseball bat.
It wasn't fair, I thought, glancing at my soft leather briefcase. All it held was a cell phone, some leftover candies, papers, and my car keys. Hardly an even match. I looked around for an exit, hoping I wouldn't have to use it. I also hoped I wouldn’t have to make that phone call to Jack.
"Who are you? Whatcha doin'?" Her voice was pleasant. Of course, she could afford to be affable. She had the upper hand, or rather, upper baseball bat.
I put on my sternest voice, hoping to intimidate with attitude where I couldn't with weaponry. "I'm a social worker. My name is Danielle Hemstead and I've been given the authority to remove these children from this woman's care."
She narrowed her eyes, but thankfully lowered the baseball bat. "You're not the same worker we've been seeing around here."
"No. That worker couldn't come." That worker was probably enjoying the usual Saturday night fun--laughing, socializing--all the while his cell phone turned off.
I needed to get myself more of a life so I could be busy when Casey was trolling the phone lines looking for likely suspects.
I pulled out my paperwork and showed it to her, then flashed her my ID and gave her my card. "You are welcome to call the RCMP and double check." I had called Jack, but I was keeping my eye on the baseball bat while she looked over my papers.
"Okay," she said, handing the whole business back. "I'm glad you people are doing something. It took you long enough."
Of course it did, I thought as I folded up a copy of the notice and slipped it in an envelope. If we waited too long to apprehend, we were negligent. If we came too soon, we weren't giving the mother a chance. If something really serious happened, it w
as our fault.
Never mind that Mommy dearest was laying on the couch in a stupor while her kids cried and scrounged for food. She was a victim. And Daddy? Well, he was where most of these guys are. Gone.
"My name is Theresa. I'll help you with the kids. They know me."
I was thankful for her help and even more thankful for her approbation. I'd often been seen as a representative of the Dark Side when, in fact, my entire focus was taking care of children.
We got the kids in the car with a minimum of fuss thanks to her telling the little boy, Clyde, that I was helping them and that she would take care of Mommy.
The little boy just nodded and as soon as I pulled away from the trailer, the baby started crying. Clyde sat in the car seat I carried with me in case of emergencies and stared out the window. Sorry as I felt for the little guy, I knew I couldn't have left him where he was. If he were older, I might have tried to explain that to him. As it was, all I could do was hand him a few Gummi Bears over the seat and try to tell him where we were going and what I was doing. If it registered, I don't know.
By the time I dropped the kids off at the receiving home, I had a splitting headache and I was feeling the weight of the world's sorrow. Sometimes I wondered if I felt too deeply. Other times I wondered if I was getting too hardened. Today felt like a combination of both.
I focused on the wonderful family of father, mother and older children who had come running out when I arrived--arms reaching for the little lost souls I had brought them. They were God's hands and feet on earth, I thought as I handed over the screaming baby and the puzzled toddler. When I drove away, I knew, for now, those little children would be loved and cared for. But I also knew the mother of the children would be given a chance to get her life back together. If things went well, the mother would take the chance given her and make a change. If they didn't, I'd be seeing those kids again in six months. Maybe less.
Which made me think of Juanita. Kent's foster parents had been a guiding force in her life. They had given Kent a safe place while Juanita learned to make better decisions.
And now my brother was dating her. I wanted to sit down with him and make it crystal clear what the implications of dating this fragile woman could be. Not to mention the real possibility that Steve, Kent's biological father, could come after him with a gun.
Oh, the glamorous life of a child welfare worker, I thought as I pulled into the driveway. As I passed the old house, I noticed that a light was on in James's room.
Probably reading poetry, I thought, parking my little car beside Chip's monstrously large tow truck. Or listening to Schubert.
I turned off the engine and blasted out a few sighs, releasing all the stale air, letting myself wind down. I was bone weary and wanted to have a shower, but didn't think I would have the energy.
I opened the door and got out of the car, taking a moment to stretch out my stiff muscles.
A voice broke out of the darkness. "Bad day?"
I screamed.
My heart leapt into my throat as I whirled to face this new menace, wondering what I could use as a weapon.
James stood by the back fender of my car, his hands up in a gesture of surrender, his features cast into shadows by the pale moonlight. In spite of that, I still saw the glint of his eyes and the faint smile of his mouth. "I'm sorry. I thought you saw me coming."
Stop heart. Slow down. But it wouldn't obey. Of course it didn't help that in spite of the nasty trick he and my brothers had played on me I still found him moderately attractive. Okay, very attractive.
I was not a credit to my species.
"I was in my car," I retorted, taking refuge in some semblance of anger. "How could I have seen you?"
"Rearview mirror?" he suggested, lowering his hands.
"I'm not that observant." I dragged in a long breath as my pulse down-shifted. One heart patient in the family was one too many. "Why are you sneaking around?"
"I heard your car drive up. I wanted to see if you were okay."
"You were checking up on me?"
He nodded, slipped his hands in his back pockets and rocked on his heels. "Did everything go okay?" he continued, his deep voice going soft. "I mean with the kids and all?"
I thought of the concern he showed before I left. Was he really good at this kind of thing or was he for real?
"It wasn't my best moment. I don't enjoy taking kids away from their parents." My run-in with the fashion maven was par for the course. At least she wasn't a relative threatening to sue.
"I imagine it can be difficult." He shifted his weight, moving closer to me. He raised his hand, then lowered it as if he had planned on touching me but changed his mind. "You look like you've been crying."
His concern sent me into a tailspin. Any of the men I had dated didn't want to talk about my job. My brothers assumed anyone who could stop pucks (I was always goalie when they played pick up games of hockey) ride bareback (never enough saddles to go around) and jump-start a car (cheaper than fixing a wonky starter) could hold her own against drunk and/or cranky parents. So they never asked how I was doing. Because... guys ...emotions...scary.
That's why we never, ever spoke about Wyatt. That's why the guys never, ever thought this might be a problem as far as Jigs was concerned.
"It's a regular thing in this job," I said casually, trying to shrug off his concern.
"But still, it's gotta be hard."
I was too tired to puzzle out intentions and read between potential pick-up lines. So I chose the direct route. "It is hard. Doesn't matter how lousy the kids are being taken care of and how poor the conditions, it's their home. They never want to leave their parents. In spite of how horrible the situation, it's the only life they've known. And what bothers me even more is their mother was probably raised the same way. Her kids will most likely go back to her as soon as she finds a good legal aid lawyer and a counsellor and tells them both that she's turning her life around. Again. So the kids will go back, and we know that unless she has a good support system in place she will fall back into the same bad behaviour. On a good day the kids will eat cold wieners, on a bad day they will be rooting through the garbage."
I was tired, stressed about my day, my dad, about my life. That was the only explanation I had for the way everything spilled out in my wobbly voice and how I was now seeing James through a shimmery curtain of unshed tears. I had done this countless times and though it made me sad, it rarely made me cry.
I looked down and blinked, embarrassed to feel the warm slide of tears down my cheeks. "Sorry," I mumbled, trying to figure out how to wipe them away without looking like I was wiping them away. Guys hated the tears. "I've been too busy. Working too much."
Then James was beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his fingers kneading my skin. "It's okay. It's a hard job. But it's important and significant. I admire what you do."
Now he was giving me a pep talk, complete with a brotherly slap on the back?
But even as I tried to dismiss his touch, I was too aware of the warmth of his hand that felt anything but brotherly, and the faint scent of fresh cut wood that lingered on his clothes. For a split second I wanted to move a little closer. To lean against him and let his arms surround me and be strong for me.
You are such a sucker, mocked the voice of my cynical alter ego. He tried the same thing on you a few days ago and you fell for it like a blind roofer.
I pulled away. I palmed my tears off my cheek and gave him a curt nod. "I better go."
I turned and trudged back to the house. He was still standing by my car when I shut the porch light off and in the half light of the moon I saw him walk back to his place.
As I got ready for bed, I still couldn't figure out what to make of his nocturnal visit and hoped I wouldn't have to put up with many more. I didn't need him wandering in and out of my everyday life. I had a plan, and he was a distraction.
I switched on my beside lamp, slipped into bed and was about to turn off my light when I caught sigh
t of my Bible. I hadn't read it much lately but after the past few days I figured I could use a little encouragement.
I turned to where I had finished reading the last time and read from 1 Thessalonians 5. "And we urge you, brothers, warn those who are idle, encourage the timid, help the weak, be patient with everyone." I stopped there a moment, thinking of the work I had done today. Like James had said, what I did was important work. But as for being patient with everyone, that was harder. Did Dad and my brothers fall into the "everyone" category?
My mother always said she understood my brothers more than me. Mom was a wife who pitched in and helped around the farm, assuming that most women felt the same, though she always said she felt more comfortable around men than women. When the boys drew moustaches and beards on the posters of my latest movie crush, my mother smiled and assured me they were just having fun. When they laughed at me for crying each time we watched my dad's favourite movies, Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows, she would ruffle my hair and tell me they were just being boys.
Somehow, I was never just being a girl.
I read on.
"...encourage the timid, help the weak be patient with everyone. Make sure that nobody pays back wrong for wrong, but always try to be kind to each other and to everyone else. Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
Give thanks in all circumstances. Not so easy when circumstances seemed to be arrayed against me. I wanted my brothers to be more mature now so I could leave Dad in their care and not worry that he would end up never leaving his recliner, and living off chips and pop.
I hardly dared project too far into the future because if I did, all I saw was my ghostly figure in an old worn housedress, wearing a hair net and sagging support hose, dusting around three brothers who were watching television and burping.
I needed to get out of here.
I closed the worn Bible, turned off the light and stared out the window. Moonlight bathed my room in a light glow casting faint shadows. As I stared out the night, I heard the muffled noise of a truck door slamming. It came from the other house. James must still be loitering about.
Any Man of Mine (Holmes Crossing Book 5) Page 8
