by Arlene James
“Yes, um, assuming your aunts are the Chatam sisters.”
“Yup. And Pastor Hub is my uncle.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
He flashed a stunning smile. “I’m sure it does.” Dropping his gaze, he asked, “And who do we have here?”
Stepping back, she pushed the children forward. “This is Nathan,” she said, dragging him in front of her. “He’s nine.” He shrugged and wiggled out of her grasp. She then placed both hands atop his brother’s slender shoulders. “Tucker. He’s seven. And last but not least...” Reaching down with one hand, she cupped her daughter’s cheek as the girl’s head pressed against her leg. “This is Grace, who’s four.”
Phillip gave the children a smile and lifted his gaze to Carissa once more. Typical, she thought sourly. No man had any interest in another man’s children, as she had learned the hard way.
“Well, come in. Hilda’s in the kitchen.”
Cautiously, Carissa followed him, sweeping the children along in front of her so that they formed a buffer between her and this too-attractive Chatam. She’d long ago decided to keep her distance from such men. Several times since her husband Tom’s death, she’d let herself be drawn to men with the same rough masculine appeal as her late husband, only to find herself unceremoniously dumped as soon as they realized that she wasn’t going to settle for anything short of marriage. She’d finally learned her lesson when the last guy had informed her that a man might marry a woman with one kid or even two, but never three. That very day, she had resigned herself to the realities of widowhood and resolved to keep temptation at a safe distance.
If she hadn’t been running late, she would never have taken the chair next to Phillip. Only as the brief introductions had been made had she realized her mistake. Those copper eyes, set deeply into a lean, bronzed face heavily shadowed with a dark beard and carved with dimples and a cleft chin, had taken her breath away. Hair the color of coffee and a nose that showed signs of having been broken at some point added the very type of ruggedness that appealed to her. Combined with his long-limbed height—at least three or four inches over six feet—and broad shoulders, he was definitely one of the best-looking men she’d ever met. She’d decided right then to forget all about grief support, no matter what her family said—only to find herself face-to-face with the man this morning.
He led them down the hallway to a swinging door, which he pushed wide, calling out, “Hilda, you have company.”
A clatter of metal heralded her aunt’s appearance in the doorway. Swathed in a damp apron over a voluminous dress made of some small, gray-brown print almost the exact color as her thin, straight, ear-length hair, Hilda exuded the aromas of a bakery.
She reached over the children to envelop Carissa in her hefty arms. Stooping, she did the same with the children, all three at once. “I’ve set up the sunroom for the kids. But first, how was the meeting last night?”
Phillip Chatam shifted beside Carissa. She felt his interest, and that made this discussion all the more difficult. Managing a tiny smile, she recalled the words that she had prepared earlier in anticipation of this moment.
“You’re right, Aunt Hilda. Pastor Hub is a very wise man. I especially liked what he had to say about helping others.”
“As a way of getting our minds off our own sorrows,” Phillip supplied.
Hilda’s narrow gaze sharpened. “You were there, too, Phillip?”
“Yes. The aunties thought I would benefit.”
“Seems we were both there at the urging of family,” Carissa said drily.
“I know it’s going to help,” Hilda exclaimed, throwing out her arms. Hooking one mighty appendage about each of their necks, she gave both a squeeze. Carissa winced as her head knocked against Phillip’s.
The wretch chuckled. “Hilda, you’re priceless.”
The good-natured cook chortled then let them go.
Carissa looked away—and caught her eldest son’s disapproving frown. She couldn’t think of anything that Nathan did approve of these days, but she couldn’t really blame him. Since they’d lost the house, they’d had to move into her poor father’s tiny two-bedroom apartment. There was no space for a growing boy to take a deep breath, let alone play. Her father’s illness didn’t help, either, though he never complained about the noise or chaos. Nathan, more than the other children, understood what his grandfather’s illness meant. It was no wonder he wasn’t happy.
She thought of her aunt’s and uncle’s urgings to get the children into church again and wondered if that would help. They’d gradually fallen away after Tom’s death. She had struggled to get an infant and two rambunctious little boys dressed in their Sunday best and out the door week after week on her own, but what was her excuse now that the children were nine, seven and four?
A clock chimed somewhere, bringing Carissa out of her thoughts.
“I need to get to work. Let me help you settle the children.”
“This way. This way,” Hilda urged, waddling off down the hall. She began detailing the preparations she’d made: coloring books and crayons, games, puzzles, toys. She even had a box of dress-up clothes gleaned from “Miss Odelia’s big closet upstairs.” Little Grace beamed with delight.
Carissa marched the children into the room, hugged each one and thanked Phillip Chatam for his assistance. Ready to focus on what lay before her, she began to mentally plan her workday as she started back down the long hallway. She just needed one good day without distractions to ensure her job for another month. She knew her stuff; she could sell enough tech support to see her family through the immediate crisis. One good day on the telephone without three children bouncing off the walls of a too-small apartment—that was all she asked.
Thanking God for an aunt and uncle willing to help out, she tried not to worry. Hilda could manage three small children, and it was a very large house. Surely they would be all right for one day. With a man like Phillip Chatam around, she dared not risk more, and the same went for grief support meetings.
She didn’t need those meetings anyway. Tom had been gone for four years now; emotionally, she’d come to terms with his loss long ago. Aunt Hilda and Uncle Chester were trying to help her prepare for what was to come, of course, but Carissa didn’t believe in borrowing trouble. After all, didn’t the Bible say not to worry about tomorrow? Each day, according to Matthew, had enough trouble of its own. She could certainly vouch for that. It seemed to her that it was time for things to go right for a change, if only for one day.
Just one day...
Chapter Two
Tiny Grace Hopper possessed a miniature version of her mother’s face, framed by board-straight, light red hair cut raggedly just below her ears. That and her mother’s rich blue eyes made for an adorable combination. Phillip couldn’t help being entranced, just as he couldn’t help being dismayed that Carissa Hopper was the mother of three kids.
Children had never figured into Phillip’s life. He didn’t have anything against them, he just didn’t feel any particular need to have them. Plus he knew less than zilch about them, even though his mother was a well-respected pediatrician. Still, he knew cute when he saw it, and Grace Hopper was cute with a capital C. He laughed when, upon spying a small basket, Grace hopped up and down, clapped her dainty hands and squealed, “Muffins!”
Her brother, the one without the glasses, ran across the room and tore into the ginger muffins with all the finesse of a starving hooligan. Before Hilda could stop him, the older boy did.
“Stop it, Tucker! That’s rude.”
“Ginger muffins. Mmm...” Tucker argued, his mouth full of the same.
Phillip watched as Hilda quickly parceled out the muffins then shook his head as she trundled toward him.
“You,” he teased, “are a woman of mystery. I know you have a son and daughter and grandchildren
, but no one ever said anything about nieces.”
The fiftysomething cook waved a hand. “Silly man. Chester’s brother Marshall has two girls. Carissa is the oldest.” Hilda sobered then, quietly confiding, “No one has a clue where the youngest, Lyla, is. Crying shame. Marshall isn’t well. Lung cancer,” she whispered.
“Sorry to hear that,” Phillip murmured.
“I’m going to tell!”
The pounding of small feet accompanied the threat. First one small head then another dashed past Phillip and out the door.
“Tucker! Nathan!” Hilda scolded. “You come back here.”
Phillip stepped out of the way, but before Hilda could squeeze past him, the boys shot through the central corridor and into the back hall. Huffing, Hilda sent Phillip an aggrieved look that he read too well. Wryly, he went after the boys. They had caught Carissa Hopper before she’d even made it out of the house and were arguing loudly about a stolen muffin.
Phillip broke into a jog as Carissa ordered, “Lower your voices. Now.”
“He stole my muffin!”
“You weren’t going to eat it!”
Arriving on the scene, Phillip quickly intervened. “There’s plenty for everyone. No need to argue.”
The older boy whipped around, snarling, “It ain’t none of your business.”
His mother gasped. “Nathan Alexander Hopper,” she rebuked firmly. “You apologize this instant.”
Sullenly, the boy dropped his head, but after a moment he muttered, “Sorry.”
“I expect you to look after your brother and sister, not misbehave,” Carissa went on. “You know I depend on you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Tucker, you mind your manners,” she instructed the younger boy.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Go now, both of you.”
After some grumbling, the two boys reluctantly started back down the hallway toward the sunroom. Carissa gave Phillip an exasperated look, as if he were somehow to blame, and spun sharply on one heel.
“Now, wait a minute,” he began, piqued.
“I’m sorry,” she snapped as he fell into step beside her. “It’s just that I have to work.”
“And that,” he said, as they reached the door, “makes me the bad guy?”
“No,” she answered drily, drawing out the single syllable even as she reached for the doorknob.
“Great,” Phillip said, putting up an arm to block her way. “Then maybe you’ll tell me what sort of work do you do.”
“Telemarketing,” she answered succinctly, folding her arms but refusing to look at him.
Phillip waited. She glanced up and huffed.
“My husband was a software engineer. He taught me everything he knew. He believed that good computer skills would ensure anyone a job. Unfortunately, in a lousy economy, without the diploma to back up those skills, no one will give me the time of day, even if I can write code better than anyone, which is why I sell tech support over the telephone rather than perform it.”
“So you’re good with computers, then,” Phillip said.
She tossed her head, fixing him with a narrow stare. “If by ‘good’ you mean I can tear down a computer to its most basic elements, fix any problem, put it back together again and write the software that operates it, then yes, I’m good with computers.” She parked her hands at her hips. “Now, what about you?”
“Oh,” he answered cheerfully, “I can turn on a computer, click a mouse, even type, if you’re not in a hurry.”
One corner of her mouth curled in a reluctant smile. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”
“Ah. Nothing, at the moment. I used to climb mountains, but I am, as they say, between jobs.”
“And I am trying not to be,” she said pointedly.
He dropped his arm, opened the door and stepped out of the way. She swept out onto the redbrick stoop and went quickly down the steps. He had closed the door behind her before it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her vehicle parked beneath the porte cochere.
Suspecting that Hilda had told her not to park there for fear of blocking his car, he hurried through the house to the front door, stepping out onto the deep front porch in time to see Carissa Hopper climb into a battered little minivan with a missing rear hubcap and rusty passenger door handle. She drove away without so much as a wave of farewell. He wandered back into the foyer and leaned against the curled banister at the foot of the marble staircase, thinking about what she’d told him. The sound of a distant crash had him breaking into a run as a plaintive cry rose from the vicinity of the sunroom. It would only be the first of many.
Over the next two hours, Nathan and Tucker would manage to knock over a table, two chairs and a potted plant the size of a grown man. After the first altercation, Phillip decided to pitch in with the kids. Otherwise, he feared that no one would get lunch. Hilda’s husband, Chester, his aunts’ houseman, had driven Aunt Hypatia—or Auntie H—into town. Kent, Aunt Odelia’s husband, had gone down to his pharmacy to help out his young partner, while Odelia—Auntie Od to her adoring nieces and nephews—was taking a “spa day” in their suite, and Aunt Magnolia—affectionately known as Mags—was puttering around in the flower beds, as usual. If Hilda was going to get into the kitchen, Phillip had no choice but to watch over the scamps.
The boys kept him so busy that he didn’t realize Grace was missing until they did.
What could he do then but take them to look for her?
* * *
Humming to herself, Odelia Chatam Monroe swanned through the lovely mauve-and-cream sitting room of the suite that she shared with Kent, her husband of almost a year, and on into the purple bedroom, where the silk bed hangings, drapes and spread provided an appropriately romantic theme. They’d waited fifty years to marry, and they meant to enjoy every moment left to them. Pausing beside the antique Queen Anne dresser, she twitched a few gladiolus blossoms in a tall crystal vase into perfect position, before continuing into the enormous fuchsia-and-yellow bathroom to remove the cold cream from her face. After tossing aside the cucumber slices that she’d placed over her eyes, she next applied a judicious layer of makeup on her face. Finally, she removed the curlers from her thick, white hair and combed it out.
True, she was no girl, but Kent thought her beautiful. How she adored him. She took a moment to thank God for blessing her with such a husband in the twilight of her long, happy life before venturing into her closet, her favorite room in the whole house.
She noticed that she’d accidentally left the light on, but the crystal chandelier gave her such pleasure that she didn’t dwell on it. Of the many material gifts that Kent had given her—this gorgeous suite, the ostentatious ring on her finger, the pool in the backyard, to name a few—the closet was her favorite, for he’d had the walls painted in color-coded stripes so that her eclectic wardrobe could be stored in a somewhat orderly fashion. She did so love clothes. Giggling, she wondered what she ought to wear for lunch. Wouldn’t a gladiolus theme be fun?
An answering giggle surprised her. Odelia considered the possibility of an echo, but common sense—oh, yes, she did have some, no matter what others might say—told her that could not be so. For one thing, the racks were stuffed with clothing. For another, the room simply wasn’t large enough. That meant she must not be alone.
Looking around, she said brightly, “Hello?”
To her surprise, a little head wreathed in the aqua chiffon of one of her favorite skirts popped out from a row of dresses. “Hello.”
For a long moment, Odelia could do nothing but stare. The little one clomped into view, wearing a pale green knit short set, as well as a pair of Odelia’s pumps over her own canvas shoes and anklets. At second glance, she also wore other bits and pieces of Odelia’s wardrobe, including a gold belt worn sash-style over one shoulde
r and a feathered boa.
“You got snappers on your ears,” the little one said.
“Snappers?”
“Turdles. Snappers turdles.”
Odelia touched her earlobes, feeling her earrings. They had seemed appropriate after her gardening-mad sister had complained at breakfast that a box turtle had been snacking on her rhododendrons. “You mean, snapping turtles, I think.” She had forgotten about them.
“Yep. You got ’em on your ears.”
“So I do, and you have on my things.” Odelia recognized a scarf and a pair of old gloves that she’d given Hilda earlier. Puzzle pieces tumbled into place. “Ah. You’re Hilda’s great-niece.”
The girl nodded. “We’re playing dress-up.”
Odelia smiled, recognizing a kindred spirit. “What’s your name, child?”
“Grace.”
“Grace is not a full name,” Odelia admonished gently. “For instance, I am Odelia Mae Chatam Monroe.” Frowning, she pressed a finger against the cleft in her chin. “Or should that be Mrs. Kent Monroe? Mrs. Odelia Monroe?” Hypatia would know. Odelia waved a hand. “You may call me Miss Odelia. Now then, your name? Your full name, if you please.”
“Grace Amanda Hopper,” the imp said, wobbling in the shoes.
“So, you like to play dress-up, do you, Grace Amanda?”
“Best of anything.”
Odelia grinned and clapped her hands. “So do I!”
Just then, a frantic male voice cried out, “Grace! Grace, where are you?”
“In here,” Odelia trilled.
Phillip arrived, breathless, one boy in hand and another trailing behind with a scowl on his bespectacled face.
“Thank You, God!” Phillip gasped, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Slumping against the doorjamb, he huffed out a breath and sucked in another before fixing Grace with a baleful glare. “Young lady, you scared the life out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” Grace said contritely, going to take his free hand in hers.
Odelia watched all six foot four inches of her nephew melt like so much marshmallow over a campfire. Interesting.