Sarah shifted the sacks and pushed through the antique swinging door between the rooms, its warm russet grain a comfort.
The kitchen was empty of people, but littered with debris.
Sarah grimaced, shifted piles of mail and old newspapers, then set the groceries on the table before she headed upstairs, calling Rita’s name. A glance out the landing window showed Gino still asleep on the bench seat of the F-250. The driver’s-side window was cracked open, but she didn’t dare leave him long untended. A good dog, but young. He could get into mischief without direction.
Calling Rita’s name once more, Sarah crossed the upstairs hall and twisted the knob on her sister-in-law’s room. “Reet? You sleeping?”
A slight movement revealed her sister-in-law’s presence on the bed. Sarah stepped in, reached for the light, then rethought her choices. “I brought a few things. Where are the kids?”
“Movies. Liv took them.”
“Nice. What did they go to see?”
Rita shifted, then rolled, a pillow clutched to her chest. “Some animated thing.”
Sarah blinked. There was no animated movie playing in town. Did Liv take the car? Drive to Canton? She was two years shy of her license but she’d pulled some interesting deals recently. Sarah scanned the driveway through the nearby window. “Is the car in the garage?”
Rita’s old-fashioned garage was behind the home, not visible from this angle.
“In the drive.”
Sarah bit back words of recrimination. Obviously Liv had taken off with the car and the kids, with Rita clueless as to their whereabouts. Dear Lord, she prayed, trying to ignore the dank smell of despair. The room reeked of hopelessness. Loss of faith. A keen smell, the mix of body salts, sweat and sour breath.
“Come downstairs, Reet. I’ll make us a quick supper.” Then I’ll tackle my niece, she promised silently, her anger rising. Couldn’t Liv see her mother’s desperation, the depression that seized her?
Of course she could. In her own adolescent way, Liv was trying to fill the shoes her parents vacated. The same thing that pushed Sarah to buy a farm on Waterman Hill instead of south of Albany like she’d planned. Rita and the kids needed sensible family around, and that was a scarce commodity in the North Country.
Sarah grasped Rita’s hand. “Come on, Reet. Come down and talk to me; I’ll straighten up the kitchen while we chat.”
“Go away, Sarah.”
The response brought Sarah’s chin higher. “Won’t work, not with me. That’s the one part of Slocum that bred true. I’m stubborn as an ox and you need to eat. Embrace the sunshine. It’s almost spring, Rita. Let’s go down together. Please?”
Rita clutched the pillow tighter. “I can’t. I need to rest.”
All you do is rest, thought Sarah, impatience rising. That’s all you’ve done for over a year.
“You can. You have to. Liv, Brett and Skeeter are counting on you.”
“Not anymore.”
“Reet—”
“Sarah, I’m tired.” Rita’s gaze shifted to the curtained window. She blinked as if the shade-mellowed light hurt her eyes. “So tired.”
The first months following Tom’s death had seemed almost normal. Rita had gone on, looking neither right nor left, as if everything were okay.
But then the insurance company rejected Rita’s claim because of a two-year “no suicide” clause. It had been eighteen months since Tom changed companies.
His smaller policy was intact, but the monetary value was minimal compared to the loss of his income. He had developed a retirement portfolio of stocks and mutual funds outside of his illicit investments, but they were inaccessible to Rita because Ed Slocum’s name was included on the portfolio. Without Ed’s blessing, the fund’s worth remained out of reach until retirement. Twenty-plus years, give or take. And Ed had no intention of divesting the portfolio, regardless of Rita’s financial situation.
Rita had crashed with that realization. Just slid right down into oblivion. Rita, who made eyes widen and mouths water with some of the most beautiful and innovative cakes and pastries the area had ever seen, now lived in a hovel, with ovens that hadn’t been fired up since… Well, probably since the last time Sarah cooked a meal.
Watching the prone figure, Sarah felt overwhelmed. How do I help her, God? How do I ease her out of the pain, out of the darkness?
No answers came in the fetid room. Rita lay still, eyes open but unseeing, wrestling demons Sarah could only imagine. And had no desire to.
A scramble of feet and voices headed toward the kitchen a short time later. The door burst open. Gino, comfortably ensconced on the back porch, ambled to his feet, watchful and curious.
“Hey, Aunt Sarah!”
“Hey, yourself, Skeets. Come here.” Arms wide, Sarah enfolded her youngest niece in a hug, then pressed raspberry kisses to the little girl’s neck. The answering squeal and giggle was justified reward. “Gotcha.”
“That ticklth.” Skeeter’s giggle displayed a gap in her teeth.
“They both fell out, huh?”
“Yeth. Brett says I look like a vampire.” Augmenting the words, she bared her teeth and hissed.
“Oooooo… Brett’s right. You’re positively terrifying. How about setting the table for me?”
“Really? By myself?” Skeet’s excitement quickened Sarah’s heart. Such a little thing, to help a grown-up. Did Skeeter remember such things with her mother? The good times they had? Half her life had been clouded by her parents’ choices. Olivia burst through the door, nose twitching at the smell of food. Brett followed.
“Something smells good. Hey, Gino.” Approaching slowly, Brett let the dog give him a once-over, allowing space and time. Gino offered Brett a measured look, then a good sniff, ending in a typical Maremma token of acceptance. He licked Brett’s face.
“Yuck.” Livvie frowned, disgusted.
Brett grinned, accepting the dog’s ministrations easily. “You’re just jealous ’cause he likes me best.”
“Yeah. Right. Hey, Aunt Sarah.” Liv moved to the stove, her brows lifting in interest. “Smells great.”
“Good.” Sarah eyed her adolescent niece and stirred the extra pot of gravy. Chicken and biscuits were a favorite, but biscuit topping robbed the gravy beneath. Extra was never a bad thing. Shifting her attention, she complimented Skeeter for setting the plates, then turned back to Liv. “What movie did you see?”
“Jinx, the Wonder Dog. It’s about a dog that turns into a cartoon action hero.”
“Really?”
Her tone put Liv on the defensive. “Yeah. Why?”
“Was it good?”
“It was really good,” interjected Skeets, setting forks and knives in random fashion. Sarah re-directed her, showing her where each utensil belonged.
“How did you get there?”
“Drove.” Opening the fridge, Liv pulled out a jug of juice and tipped some into one of the few clean glasses.
Sarah hiked a brow Liv’s way as she set out a fresh green salad. “When did you get your license, Liv?”
“I didn’t drive.” Liv laughed, emphasizing the pronoun. “Shannon Connors did. She got her license in February. They moved into the old Rafferty house.”
“She drove your mother’s car?”
“Sure. Her parents both work and our car just sits here. Mom said it was okay,” she added.
Sarah fought the sigh. No doubt Rita okayed the trip, then promptly forgot she’d given permission for someone to use her car. How long would it take two normal adolescents to realize the advantage they had when their one authority figure lay motionless, hour upon hour?
“She’s a careful driver?”
Liv shrugged her dislike at being questioned. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”
Sarah changed the subject. “Supper will be ready in ten minutes. Anybody need help with homework?”
“I don’t have any.” Skeet’s lack of teeth swirled the words together. Sarah smiled.
“Got mine done in study hall,”
Brett confirmed, his hand buried in the ruff of Gino’s coat.
“How about you, Liv? Anything I can help you with?”
“For starters, you could stop playing mother.” Her harsh tone brought Brett and Skeeter’s heads up. They stared. “I’m tired of people showing up out of the blue, telling us what to do. We manage on our own.”
Her anger reminded Sarah of herself at a similar age, her mother recently buried, her family divided. Oh, yeah, she had no trouble identifying with Olivia, but she wasn’t big on placating mouthy teens. “Really? That’s good to know. But it would be more convincing if the entire house didn’t resemble a dump.” Sarah cast a look around the kitchen. She’d made some headway. The dishwasher hummed, the counters were clear and the table set. The floor still needed scrubbing, but all in all, the room looked better.
Liv glared. “Maybe we have better things to do than clean up after her.”
“You’re mad that your mother’s sick?”
“She’s not sick, she’s…” Liv hesitated, stumbling over words. “Lazy,” she filled in. “Feeling sorry for herself. Look at this place.” Liv waved her hands, half spinning, half pacing. “It’s gross.”
Sarah opened her mouth, but Liv kept ranting.
“Skeets wet the bed the other night and went to school smelling like pee. Mrs. Besset pulled me aside in the lunch-room and said the elementary school nurse wanted me to make sure Skeets takes a morning shower if she wets at night. I have to be at school at seven-fifteen,” the girl expounded, staring at Sarah. “How am I supposed to make sure Skeets is up and clean for an eight o’clock bus when Brett and I leave an hour before?”
“Who puts Skeeter on the bus?”
“Mom. Or no one.”
Groaning inwardly, Sarah figured the likelihood of no one. Skeeter’s rapt expression said she understood too much. “Brett, can you take Skeeter into the living room while Liv and I finish up?”
“I want to hear the rest of the fight.” He darted a look from his aunt to his sister.
“We’re not fighting,” Sarah corrected. “Your sister needs to vent. It’s perfectly understandable.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Liv stalked to the door and put the flat of her hand against the warm, cherry tones. Sarah was surprised to note the contrast, how pale Liv’s skin had become. “You’re not some social worker who thinks I’ll work out my aggression by molding a lump of clay for thirty minutes a day. You’re a sheep farmer. A smelly sheep farmer who wasted a good education to clean up animal crap.” She pinched her nose to make her parting shot more pointed as she pushed through the door.
Ouch. Sarah said a silent prayer for patience, then one of gratitude for lack of available weaponry. Strangling one’s niece because she insulted your pungent profession wouldn’t sit well.
Definitely not worth it. Besides, who would watch the sheep?
She turned back to Brett and Skeeter. “Wash up, guys.
Supper’s ready.”
Skeeter sidled up to her. “Aunt Sarah?”
“What, sweetcakes?” Sarah bent down, cradling Skeeter’s cheeks in her hands.
“If Mommy never gets up, can we come live with you?”
Sarah’s heart froze. Brett went still as well, his hands immobile beneath the water. Eyes down, he listened for her answer, just like his little sister.
Rita, get down here. See your children. Feast your eyes. Delight in the gifts of the Lord, your God.
No gentle footfall answered her prayer. No warm motherly presence brightened the dark corners of the room. Sarah pulled Skeeter in for a hug. “Farms do get stinky. Sheep aren’t the freshest smelling animals I’ve ever met.” Sharing a wink with Skeeter, she rose and guided the little girl to the table. “But there’s always room for you guys.”
“Even if I wet the bed?”
Sarah made a mental note to buy protective mattress covers for the twin beds in the room adjoining hers.
“Everybody wets the bed when they’re little,” she comforted. Turning slightly, she noted Brett’s stance. Silent. Still. “If your Mom needs extra help, of course you can stay with me.”
“But you live in a different district.” Brett turned, eyes wary. The faucet gurgled behind him.
“I can get you back and forth if need be, Brett. I promise.”
Hopefully a promise she wouldn’t need to keep. Come on, Rita. Enough’s enough. These guys need you. They’ve already lost one parent. Let’s not make it two.
Fear stabbed her. The look of Rita upstairs, clutching her pillow instead of her faith, seeking total solace. What would be more complete than to end it all, like Tom did? Unsure what to do, Sarah pushed down the frustration, made heavier by the events of the day. Gino’s painful confrontation with a sharp-quilled beast, Craig Macklin’s disdain and Rita’s loss of control.
Shoving it all aside, Sarah drew a deep breath and mustered a smile. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”
Chapter Three
The ginormous “Welcome to Doyletown” banner waved in the early spring breeze as Craig angled his SUV into a parking spot at the elementary school. Deceased for nearly a decade, Myra Doyle had created the Doyletown concept when Craig was a boy, and the Potsdam district continued the event in her honor. Children picked a pretend identity and profession, then approached a similar local professional to spend the day and talk about their work. Honored to be chosen by his nephew Kyle, Craig blinked back nostalgia as he approached the entrance.
He remembered his Doyletowns like they were yesterday, and having Kyle request his presence today? Sweet.
He walked into the huge gymnasium and paused, taking in the spectacle of cardboard and balsa wood storefronts, the smell of kid paint and craft glue tunneling him back.
He grinned, caught Kyle’s eye, waved and threaded his way through various exhibits. “Uncle Craig!”
“I’m here, bud.” Craig noogied the boy’s head, laughed at the expected reaction, turned and looked straight into the chocolate-brown eyes of Sarah Slocum.
A waif of a girl clutched Sarah’s fingers. The child eyed Craig, wary, and slid further into Sarah’s side. Her actions went beyond normal shyness, her gaze almost furtive, as if she’d rather be any other place in the world.
“I’ve assigned groups,” the classroom teacher called out, drawing their collective attention. “Our class will do morning exhibit tours first, followed by lunch in the cafeteria, then professional presentations from our invited guests, then play time.”
Talking briskly, she announced each group followed by six names. Kyle Macklin was followed in quick succession by Braden Lassiter, Glynna McGinnis, Jacob Wyatt, Carly Arend and Aleta Slocum.
Kyle groaned. “Not her. She smells.”
“Kyle,” Craig scolded, embarrassed. He turned, wishing he didn’t have to, knowing he had no choice. “Apologize. Now.”
Sarah’s expression appraised him, one hand cradling the girl’s dank hair, cuddling her, trying to assuage the hurt. “Sorry.”
Craig cringed inside. The sad awareness on the little girl’s face broke his heart, regardless of her last name. Determined, he stepped forward and thrust out a hand, wishing he could undo the last three minutes. But if he possessed those powers he’d have hit reverse a long time ago and erased the adolescently stupid financial advice he’d given his grandfather a decade back. Maybe then…
Craig bit back a large ball of angst. There were no do-overs, unfortunately. Not in real life. The best he could do was set a better example for his nephew. He bent to the child’s level. “Nice to meet you, Aleta.”
She shrank back.
Determined, he stood and met Sarah’s gaze. “Sarah.”
“Dr. Macklin.” Cool disdain colored her tone and Craig realized it looked like the apple didn’t fall very far from the family tree, an assessment that bore some accuracy at the moment. Kyle grabbed his hand and tugged.
“It’s almost our turn.”
Chagrined, Craig dropped his gaze. “Kyle, you’re being
rude.”
The boy’s face crumpled, but Craig refused to cave. No time like the present to offer a show of good manners. He turned back toward Sarah. “Are you presenting today?”
“Yes.”
“About?”
“Farming.”
Duh.
She offered no help in the conversational court, but he deserved that. And more, no doubt. “Bring any sheep?” He swept the room a searching glance.
A ghost of a smile softened seal-brown eyes, the irises dusk-tinged. No hints of ivory or gold softened the deep tone, but the hinted smile brightened the depths from within.
Tiny laugh lines crinkled, then smoothed as she regained control. “I did.”
Craig let his arched brow note their absence, then he bent low, catching Aleta’s eye. “Do you see any sheep?”
A tiny grin eased the earlier discomfort. “No.”
Craig slanted his gaze up to Sarah. “I think Bo Peep here has got herself a little bitty problem.”
Aleta giggled. The laugh offered a glimpse of the pretty little girl hidden beneath a rumpled surface.
Sarah’s expression softened, noting the girl’s more relaxed countenance, but when she turned his way, her look flattened. “Live exhibits are penned out back.”
“Ah.”
The teacher’s direction interrupted them and for the better part of an hour, Craig found himself on one side of the tour group while Sarah and her niece were on the other. Intentional on her part?
Most assuredly. Somehow he knew Sarah could command a situation as needed. Like any good strategist, she flanked the outer edges, skirting the perimeter, maintaining her distance.
Until lunchtime seating put them side by side.
Resigned, she stared at the small placard as if willing it to read something besides his name.
No such luck.
Craig pulled out her chair for her.
Her immediate reaction was half dismay, half surprise with a sprinkling of pleasure.
A very small sprinkling.
But it was a step in the right direction. After all, this young woman wasn’t responsible for Grams’ current circumstance, despite Sarah’s family ties. And the fact that Tom’s little girl sat alongside them, her innocent face shadowed by affairs beyond her control, piqued Craig’s protective instincts.
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