In a total tactical reversal, Sarah went on the offensive.
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded. Dismay flickered across her sister-in-law’s face, but Sarah let it slide, for once not shielding her emotions. “You’ve got three beautiful children and the rest of your life ahead of you. Who cares about my brother? Get over it, already. I’m tired of everything in our lives dating from Tom’s death. Right now I hate him, and I’m not all that fond of you.”
“You sound like Livvie.”
A wry note colored Rita’s voice, but Sarah was on a roll. “Well then, the girl’s got more common sense than her mother. At least she gets her feelings out and moves on rather than shutting herself up, drinking herself to death. Is that what these kids need? Another suicide? Because that’s where you’re headed, Reet.”
Rita’s face paled.
Sarah pushed harder. “I dread the day I walk in here and find you dead from alcohol or depression. And I’m tired of it,” Sarah continued. “What’s gotten into you? Can’t you see the beauty around you? The stars, the trees? Don’t you know they’ll all be here, watching and guarding long after you and I are dead and gone? Praise God, girl, there is beauty everywhere you look if you’d just open your eyes. Drink it in. Instead of the eighty-proof stuff you’ve pickled yourself with.” Sarah pounded her fist once more before noting the hopeless expression on Rita’s face. With effort she softened her tone.
“I need you. The kids need you. But I can’t take this any more. Coming over here, seeing you like this. I go home and all I do is worry about you. Pray for you. Beg God for help so I know what to do. But I haven’t got a clue. I don’t know how to help you on top of everything else I’m supposed to handle. The farm. The kids. The accounts. The house.” That last brought a groan as Sarah realized the state her own house was in. Before she’d left she’d made a list for Brett and Liv, threatening their extinction if it wasn’t carried out. If they shrugged it off, that would be another confrontation, and frankly, she was tired of butting heads. She drew a breath and turned her attention back to Rita.
“I’m through playing games. When I walk out this door, I won’t be back. Not until you’ve made steps toward getting better. All the mental health visits in the world will be for nothing if you wallow in whiskey.” She leaned against the door, her heart heavy. “The ball’s in your court, Reet. I’ve got your kids, and I have no intention of letting their last memories of their beautiful mother be this.” She waved a hand, including Rita and the porch clutter. “It’s the booze or the kids. There is no third choice.”
Rita sat, impassive. She stared beyond Sarah, eyeing nothing, lips pressed together, hands clutching the arms of the deck chair. Sarah watched, waiting, but Rita made no move. After long moments, Sarah turned. Quiet, she made her way through the kitchen and the hall, past the living room that smelled of decaying fruit and mildewed sneakers. Reaching the front door, she turned the handle with more force than necessary, bit her lip and yanked, fighting the urge to slam it in her wake. “Sarah.”
Sarah almost didn’t hear the voice, a spoken whisper, faint and feathered.
“Sarah. Please.”
She turned. Rita stood in the arch of the russet door, one hand extended. “Help me. Please.”
Sarah hesitated, gripping the knob. Rita blinked. Drew a breath. “Please.”
Sarah stayed planted, her fingers clamped around the smooth, gold handle. “I’m not messing around, Rita.”
“I know.” Rita took a short, ragged breath, then nodded. “Neither am I.”
“No more drinking? You’ll join AA?”
Another breath widened Rita’s eyes. Sarah wasn’t sure if it was the idea of going public or the infusion of non-alcohol laced oxygen to her bloodstream. While AA was labeled “anonymous”, everyone in Potsdam knew why you were headed in or out of St. Luke’s basement on Tuesday nights, the downside of small town living. Rita hesitated, then dipped her chin, decisive. “Yes.”
She came forward. Reaching out both hands, she moved toward Sarah. “I’m scared. So scared.”
Releasing the door, Sarah closed the distance between them. “Of what?”
“Everything.”
Nothing vague about that. Sarah drew a deep breath. “One day at a time, Reet. That’s all I ask.”
“I don’t know what to do about money. The bills. How to provide for the kids.”
“Doesn’t God provide for the sparrows of the air? How much more worthy are you than a bird? He’ll take care of us, Rita.” She emphasized “us.” “You’re not alone.”
“There’s so much,” murmured Rita, her glance taking in the condition of the house. Fluttering hands indicated her appearance. Ragged. Slovenly. “I don’t know where to start.”
“You just did.” Hugging her, Sarah patted her back much as she would Skeeter’s. “I’ll call Dr. Roth. Get things moving.”
“No.” Rita took a deep breath and reached for the phone. “I need to do it.” Even better.
Sarah moved back. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Chapter Eight
“She’s a drunk,” Liv acknowledged, flat and sharp.
“An alcoholic,” Sarah corrected.
“A skunk by any other name still smells like a skunk,” Liv shot back. Her eyes flashed disgust. She spun, ready to leave the room.
“Don’t move, Liv,” Sarah warned. “We’ve got things to discuss.”
“Will she live in the hospital?” Brett asked.
“Just for two weeks. They have a special program, but it’s not like your mom has to stay. She stays because she makes the decision to do it each day. And she’ll join Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“What’s that?” asked Brett.
“Drunks-R-Us,” retorted Liv.
Brett scowled at Livvie. “I don’t think it’s nice to make fun of Mom.”
“I agree,” Sarah told him. “But Liv has a right to be mad with all that’s gone on. She’s had to shoulder a lot of responsibility these last two years, and that’s not easy.” Lifting her shoulders, she shrugged. “I wish I could tell you it’s all over. That everything will be better.” She reached out a hand and tousled Brett’s hair. “I can’t do that. But I think we’re on the right track.”
“What if she starts drinking again?”
Sarah refused to make false promises. These kids needed assurance and honesty, two things they hadn’t experienced for a long time. “Then we start again. But we’re going to pray that doesn’t happen.”
Sarah saw the lesson for the two-edged sword it was. Openness meant the opportunity for Rita to get well. Conquer her dragons.
It also meant public knowledge. Kids knowing Livvie’s mother was a member of AA, one of those close-lipped secrets everyone knew. It wasn’t enough that their father bilked money from innocent people then hung himself upon discovery. Oh, no. Toss a drunken, depressive mother into the mix and see how popular the Slocums were.
Sarah pushed away from the table. “You guys did okay with the housework while I was gone. Thanks for seeing to it. I’ve got to take care of some things in the barn. Who wants to help me and who wants to watch Skeet?”
Silence met her words, then Brett jerked a shoulder. “I’ll help you. I checked on Molly earlier. Nothing yet.”
“Thanks for doing that.” Sarah smiled her appreciation. Molly was her soon-to-deliver Border collie. A wonderful dog. They’d made a nesting stall for her at the opposite end of the barn from Lili, the Maremma with the current litter. Under normal circumstances the dogs got on well, but new mothers were unpredictable. “We’ll check her again when we’re done outside.”
Brett nodded. Sarah eyed Liv. “Pizza for supper?” The idea of cooking after barn work held little appeal. “In town?”
Saying yes would push Sarah’s evening work late, but Liv’s hopeful note made her decision easy. “That’s a great idea. You and Skeeter get cleaned up while Brett and I do chores, then we won’t have to fight for bathroom space. Deal?”
“Yup.”
“Liv, will you do my hair? Make it pretty?” Skeet’s voice danced with excitement.
“Sure. And we can listen to Taylor Swift full blast.”
Sarah grinned at Brett’s look. He might appreciate the young superstar’s other attributes but couldn’t get into lyrics that spouted the attributes of Romeo and Juliet. Romantic he wasn’t, and just as well at this age.
Liv and Skeeter knew the songs verbatim and thought nothing of letting them fly at the top of their lungs.
Marc DeHollander’s red Herefords complemented the spring green of his broad upper pasture. Shaggy ivory heads sat proud atop thickset, ruddy forms, a great contrast against the thick new grass they foraged. “Looking good, Marc,” Craig noted to his friend. A third-generation farmer, Marc had branched into beef cattle. His years of hard work were finally paying off. “Everything’s up to date. When the new bull arrives, give me a call. We’ll give him a once-over.”
“He’s a beauty,” Marc responded, latching the gate. “Brings Diamond Back bloodlines into the group. Stocky form, quick growth, easy birthing.”
“Every cow’s dream.” Craig grinned and clapped the other man on the back. “How’s your dad?”
Marc’s expression tightened. “All right. The treatment’s pretty rough, and the long-term prognosis is iffy, but he’s tough. He’ll be okay.” The shadow in his eyes belied his optimism.
Craig took the words at face value. “Good.”
Pete DeHollander was a fine man. A good farmer. Moreover, he was a strong proponent of change, not always a welcome thing among old-time farmers. Craig had been saddened by the news of his cancer. “Give him my best.”
“I’ll do that. How’s the house coming? You tired of sheep yet?”
Craig laughed. The idea that he’d found his home site in the middle of sheep country amused Marc no end. “Not yet. I’ve moved my parents’ camper on-site and hooked into the electric lines so I can stay there, but work’s been busy.”
“Pays the bills.” Marc eyed the SUV. “Nice wheels. Babe magnet.”
Craig swiped a finger across the pervasive coating of farm dust. “Yeah. Beating them off with a stick.”
“Well, one anyway. The nurse. The current nurse, that is.”
Craig made a face. “Overzealous.”
“Because you messed with the three-date maximum,” Marc noted. “It’s your own fault.”
They had connived a formula during a fairly long night at a local country and western hangout years before. Unless your intentions included a gold band, three dates was the max. By the fourth date, women were imagining veils, envisioning nurseries. It wouldn’t do to leave a trail of broken hearts in the North Country. If there was no ever-after spark by date three, the warning knell sounded. Craig frowned. “You’re right. Somewhere in that cockeyed formula lay a glimmer of common sense.”
“Which is amazing, considering how long we hung out that night.”
Craig grinned. “True. I distinctly remember dancing to ABBA at one point.”
“Fearsome memory right there,” Marc noted. “ABBA or a pack of hungry wolves?” Marc offered the choice in jest, an old comparison game they’d devised as boys. Most everything paled in comparison to a pack of hungry wolves.
But not always.
“The wolves. Definitely.” Craig tapped a finger along the fence rail. “Unless I’m totally over the top and the girl’s got long, blond hair.”
“Factors affect outcome.” Marc shot him a knowing look. “Perfectly understandable. But you deserve whatever you get, Macklin, for dating women who’ll never make it in farm country.”
“Some of them could be adaptable,” Craig argued. “You might want to broaden your horizons yourself, old man.”
“You’re kidding, right? When and if I get serious, I want someone who works with the farm, not against it. Marriage is tough enough without increasing the odds of failure by ignoring the obvious.”
Craig contemplated that, remembering Marc’s mother. Her exodus from the farm and her family. How rough that was for the DeHollanders, dealing with the gossip and speculation. “True enough.”
“And with your new convenient location, you might not be able to pass as many sheep duties on to Hank.”
“Which amuses Hank, of course.” Craig’s tone said it was anything but amusing.
Marc grinned, then arched a brow. “You near Sarah Slocum?”
Craig’s internal radar hiked up. His shoulders tightened. “Across the street. Why?”
Marc shrugged, easy. “No reason. I was just surprised she set up here. There wasn’t much love lost between the older Slocums and Sarah. Tom and Ed gave Sarah a real tough time when she was a kid.”
Craig’s adrenalin surge pumped higher. “She’s their sister.”
“Not on Slocum terms. I don’t have to fill you in on their mind-sets, do I? Look at the girl.”
Craig envisioned Sarah. Small, latte-toned. Huge, expressive eyes. Thick, blue-black hair braided against her head. For just a moment he wondered what it would look like without the braid, the thick fall of hair tumbling around narrow shoulders. Her small waist. What would it feel like, the weight of her hair in his hands?
“Not exactly their version of all-American,” Marc continued, interrupting Craig’s thoughts. He blew out a breath. “They made her life rough. I didn’t think she’d ever come back, much less settle here.”
“How well do you know her?”
“A bit. I was two years ahead of her in college. We had a business law class together. Did some studying.” Marc shifted his weight, remembering. “She’s quiet, but she shared enough for me to see she was different from the rest. And to realize what growing up with Tom and Ed must have been like.”
Pushing off the fence, Craig pondered Marc’s words. What kind of family acted like that? Not his, certainly. He turned to Marc and stuck out his hand. “Call me when your new investment arrives. I’m anxious to view the future of DeHollander Hereford Holdings.”
Marc grinned his pride at the direction his venture was taking. “Me, too.”
Appointments done, Craig pulled into the municipal parking lot of Grasse Bend. Cade’s police office anchored the west side, offering a good view of the town center and passersby.
A street of shops bordered the eastern edge. Craig swung open the door to North Country Woodcrafters, the entry bell announcing his presence. Brooks Harriman raised his chin and smiled a welcome. “Afternoon, Doc.”
Craig grinned. “Hey, Brooks. Thought I’d see you about some furniture.”
“Your place is coming along?”
“Yes.” Craig ran his hand along the level planes of a corner cupboard. The wood felt cool despite the afternoon sun. “I like things that look strong. The house is post and beam, so it’s got a country feel.”
Brooks inclined his head. “Which room are we talking? Living room? Kitchen? Bedroom?”
“Bedroom first. Nineteen by sixteen. Southern and western exposures, third level.”
“Good view?”
Craig laughed. “Once the windows are cut in.”
“Sloped ceilings?”
“Not in this room.”
“It can handle something substantial.”
“Yes.”
Brooks motioned Craig to follow him. “I’ve got head-boards and footboards out here. Generally the bed dominates the master bedroom and the dressers accent that. My advice would be to pick a bed style that suits; we’ll create furniture to match it.”
Could it be that easy? Inspecting the samples in the elongated showroom, Craig’s attention was caught by a northwoods display. “That’s it.”
“The northern white cedar?” Brooks eyed the Adirondack-style bedstead. “That would work.”
“It’s perfect,” noted Craig, running his hand over the smoothed logs. “Rough and rustic.”
“Male.”
Craig grinned. “Yeah. Can we stain it darker?”
“Of course. You might wa
nt to consider—” The entry bell cut Brooks short. Both men looked up. Maggie stepped down and moved toward them.
“I thought that was your SUV out there,” she bubbled to Craig. “Cade said he hadn’t seen you, so…” She laughed and shrugged. “I came here. Looking at furniture?”
Craig’s collar tightened. His palms itched. “Thought I’d nose around. See what worked.” He carefully didn’t ask her opinion.
She gave it anyway. “Wouldn’t this cherry look good? Cherry has such an old world grace.” She traced the tapered edges beneath her fingers. “How nice that would be if you did the kitchen in cherry as well. Don’t you think so, Mr. Harriman?”
Brooks cleared his throat. “Cherry’s nice.”
Craig shot him a “what are you thinking?” look. Brooks grinned.
“I’m partial to oak and hickory,” admitted Craig. “Deeper grains.”
“But oak’s sooo overdone,” the young woman observed. “Oak this, oak that. Like there wasn’t any other kind of tree. Please. Cherry has a certain ambience. It says class without being ostentatious.”
Craig bit back a retort and sidestepped the issue. “It’s hard to make a decision with the house unfinished. And something I’m going to have to live with better be well-thought.”
“I agree,” interjected Brooks. “It pays a man to know the difference between veneer and solid wood. What lasts in the long run.”
Craig had no trouble understanding the double entendre. He faced Brooks. “You’re right. Veneer’s got its place, but I’m a hardwood kind of guy.”
“Post and beam does that to a man.”
Maggie glanced from one to the other. “That’s still hard-wood, right?”
Craig eased toward the door. “Brooks, thanks for the help.”
“Anytime, Doc.”
Outside, Maggie hugged herself, warding off the late-afternoon chill. “It was so warm in there.” She eyed Brooks’ window, filled with rustic offerings to tempt potential buyers. Lodge stuff, total northwoods. A sure draw to the northern traveler.
Waiting Out the Storm Page 6