Meant-to-Be Mom

by Karen Templeton

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” Not really hungry—and not awake enough yet to face the woman who’d regularly invaded his thoughts and dreams way too often the past week—Cole glanced around the room. “Wow. This is...strange.”

  “Gonna be even more strange after we paint and Bree does her thing with the place. Still mostly neutrals on the walls, but some of the stuff she’s stashed in the garage...” Shaking his head, Matt took a screwdriver to a set of ancient miniblinds over the window. “Apparently she kept running things by Kelly—you haven’t seen our house yet, but ‘subtle’ is not a word I’d use to describe my wife’s decorating style—” Amazing, how much love could be packed into two little words. My wife. “—and between the two of them...” He released an exaggerated sigh. “There will be color. And...sparkle.”

  Cole chuckled. “Where’s your gang?”

  “The kids, you mean? The older two spent the night with their grandmother. Their dad’s mom.” He grinned. “And the baby’s a little young to be put to work just yet.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Out for his usual morning walk. Because God forbid he alter his routine.” The newly freed blinds clattered to the floor, flooding the room with early morning light through the now-bare window. Matt bent to gather the blinds, strangling them with their own cord.

  “If you don’t wanna eat, grab that roll of painter’s tape and let’s get the room prepped. Gotta leave at two—it’s my day to work with the kids over at All Saints—which is why we needed to start so early. Sorry.”

  Cole started taping around the hundred-year-old marble fireplace that had survived God knew how many children over the years before he asked, “Work with the kids?”

  “What? Oh. Yeah. One of the priests there is this young guy—well, like our age, that’s young, right? Anyway, dude got the youth group up and running again for the first time in years. Kids from all over Maple River, all backgrounds. It’s in the church, but it’s not about the church, if you know what I mean. If the kids want to talk about religion, that’s fine, but things tend to stay pretty ecumenical.”

  “Sounds cool.”

  “What it is is one of the most positive things I’ve seen happen in this town, to this town, in years. In any case, word got out that Father Bill needed adults to help. You know, teaching classes or coming in and shooting some hoops, whatever. Not a whole lot to do around here, as I’m sure you remember. Especially for those kids whose parents maybe can’t shell out the bucks to let them do organized sports. Or who aren’t interested. Of course, you never know who’s going to show up. Some days, nobody. Other days, I swear it’s like half of Jersey is there.” Matt swiped a wet sponge across the grungy windowsill, tossed it into a sudsy bucket. “Gets really loud.”

  “I can imagine—”

  “There you are,” Bree said, appearing like a genie in the wide archway separating the living and dining rooms. She was wearing a pair of those oddball pants that couldn’t seem to make a commitment whether to be long or short, and what Cole guessed was one of her father’s old shirts. And yet, with her hair loosely pinned up so that half of it feathered around her face, she still looked hot. Even with the dark circles under her eyes that told of a sleepless night. “What? You can’t come say hello? Eat my doughnuts? I bought enough to feed the block.”

  “No. Thanks,” Cole said, and he saw understanding bloom in her eyes. Along with embarrassment, maybe.

  “Coffee, then?” she said gently. From the back of the house, he heard his kids laughing. And another laugh he couldn’t place. So he and Bree wouldn’t be alone. Good.

  “Sure.”

  “Then, follow me.”

  However, on the way she ducked into the sunroom to retrieve an abandoned glass, only to be then diverted by a robin splashing in a stone birdbath a few feet out in the yard. Cole stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets as he watched her, aching for her sadness and wondering why there weren’t cheat codes for relationships. A list of shortcuts to help you avoid the bombs and the traps and the monsters waiting to knock you on your ass.

  Or send you back to Level 1.

  Sucking in a breath, Cole scanned the glowing room. “Didn’t this used to be a porch?”

  “Pop fixed it up for Mom,” Bree said, scooping a crumpled napkin off the sisal rug, a plate from the coffee table. “When she got sick.”

  “Your mom was great.” He paused. “But then, your dad’s not exactly shabby, either.”

  “Says the person who didn’t have to live with him,” Bree said on sort of a laughed sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the old guy. Always have. Most generous man on the fricking planet. But some of us had a harder time dealing with his parenting style than others. Or rather, he had a harder time dealing with our personalities. Like Tyler’s.” Her mouth pulled to one side. “And mine.”

  Cole grinned. “You have to admit, you were a bit like a jack-in-the-box. Poor guy probably never knew when you were going to go all blah! in his face.”

  “Heh. That’s one way of putting it.”

  “And now?”

  “We’ve both mellowed, I think. He seems to have, anyway. And I’ve gotten better at controlling the explosions. At least, I’m no longer my hormones’ bitch. I might feel the dramatics bubbling inside me, but I don’t indulge them as often. And God, I’m sorry...” Balancing the dishes against her middle, she started out of the sunroom. “Didn’t mean to...whatever this was.”

  “Have a conversation?”

  Her mouth thinned. “Revert to old patterns.”

  “And maybe some of those patterns weren’t so bad. Once upon a time, we were good. Good friends, I mean,” he added when her eyebrows lifted. “Maybe you don’t think we can go there again, but I don’t see why not.”

  And, yes, that was the sound of his earlier resolve crumbling like dry sand. Because back before things went south between them, he’d never felt her equal, never felt he had any way of paying her back for everything she’d done for him. That had been the real Bree. As was this one, a woman whose love for her family—even her father, he thought with a slight smile—shimmered through her words. And then there was her affection for his daughter, natural and unfeigned, born out of who she simply was. That other Bree had been an aberration. A phantom. An illusion.

  But the one standing here now needed him to return a long-overdue favor. Whether she knew it or not.

  “And maybe I don’t see why you’d want to,” she said.

  Taken by themselves, her words might have sounded like a slap in the face. Except from the wretched look on hers, Cole guessed they were directed far more at herself than him. And it killed him, to hear what almost sounded like defeat in her voice. Killed him more to not wrap his arms around her. Simply to hold her. Not like back then, when he’d been a startled, horny, fumbling mess, but like he wanted to now. Like he could now.

  However, all he did was shrug, as if it was no big deal. “Maybe because I’m curious to see if our upgraded software makes the interface run any more smoothly.”

  At that, she snuffled a laugh. “And what does it say about me, that I actually got that? Except...I’m not going to stick around, you know.”

  “So you said.”

  “And I can’t—”

  “Friends, Bree. That’s all.”

  “Okay,” she breathed out, before finally heading for the kitchen.

  Which, even on the second viewing, was a shock, the gleaming space refusing to jibe with his memory of it. Scarfing down doughnuts and orange juice, the kids were seated at the granite island across from a ponytailed blonde who looked barely older than Brooke, although Cole knew she had to be in her midtwenties.

  Abby grinned. “You ever feed these two?” she said in a low, scratchy voice as Sabrina sidled up to Brooke and snitched a piece of the kid’s chocolate-glazed doughnut, earning h
er an indignant, but good-natured, squeal...and a glower from Wes.

  “Only on Tuesdays and alternate Saturdays,” Cole said, deadpan, ignoring the glower, and Brooke’s mouth sagged open.

  “Dad. Really?”

  Cole chuckled. “I take it you’re on the painting crew?” he said to Abby as Bree handed him a mug of steaming coffee.

  “Only part-time.” The blonde clutched her own coffee to her chest before glancing at her sister. “I assume those guys told you about Tyler and me having this salvage business?” When Cole nodded, she grinned. “Those cousins from HGTV are over there filming today. They’re using the place as a resource for a house they’re redoing nearby. Otherwise Ty’d be here, too. He says the place is crawling with camera dudes and producers and such.”

  “That’s awesome. But you didn’t want to be on TV?”

  “Me? No way—”

  “So anybody gonna help me out here, or what?” Matt called from the living room, and for a moment Cole warped back to his adolescence, the warmth and laughter and good-natured ribbing that had always been part of the Noble household. Despite knowing the reprise was only temporary, it felt good, being back. Damn good.

  Never mind his son’s death glares every time Cole even looked at Bree, or every time Brooke laughed at something she said. Or that—her cautious surrender to the idea of their being friends again notwithstanding—it was obvious that what was broken between them was still beyond any real repair. And probably always would be. Even if they patched things up, they’d always be able to see the scar.

  And he already had enough of those, thank you.

  As did his kids. Which he’d do well to remember.

  * * *

  Stretching out her lower back, Sabrina surveyed her handiwork—four walls in a sagey green the agent had apparently sworn to Pop was the “in” color for living spaces these days. Whatever. By the time the floors were refinished and she added those hot-pink-and-coral throw pillows to the safe beige sofa Mom had bought the year before she died, maybe nobody would notice the color made everyone’s skin tone look as if they’d tangled with some bad sushi.

  Pop would periodically stick his head in and frown—although at the booming rock music from Matt’s docked iPhone or the paint color, Sabrina wasn’t sure. But she guessed the only way he’d get through this was to pretend it was happening to someone else’s house.

  At least the morning had passed quickly, with two freshly painted rooms to show for it—Matt and Sabrina and Brooke tackling the living room, while Cole, Wes and Abby polished off the adjacent dining room. Probably a blessing the music had prevented any real conversation, even if the pounding beat had done nothing to quiet Sabrina’s overactive brain.

  Because the disapproving looks Wes aimed in her direction whenever she and Brooke got to laughing about something nearly killed her. At first she’d chalked up his grumpiness to being a thirteen-year-old boy who’d been dragged out of bed too early, but she finally couldn’t deny that, nope, it was her.

  Still.

  And again.

  “And that’s a wrap,” her brother said, hammering the lid back on the last paint can. “You guys ’bout done in there?” he called over to the others, finishing up in what looked like a permanent pool of sunshine from the dining room’s custard-colored walls.

  “Pretty much,” Cole called back, and despite her muddled mental state, Sabrina had to smile—there was nearly as much paint on him and Wes as the walls. Then his gaze snagged in hers, and she remembered why she’d frankly been grateful they’d ended up on different “crews” this morning. Because that chitchat earlier? The patience and understanding in those soft gray eyes? Honest to God, she’d practically had to hang on to something to keep from being sucked into his gravitational pull. Because all she wanted, right then, was to feel those now-solid arms around her, to wrap her own arms around his waist and hold on tight.

  And that would be bad, bad, bad. For so, so, so many reasons. Two of whom were now trying to attack each other with paint-soaked rollers.

  “Guys, honestly,” Cole said wearily over his daughter’s shrieks, and Sabrina smiled.

  Because this really wasn’t about attraction—

  Yeah, right, she thought, watching him stretch to paint the dining room’s window trim, the soft cotton of his T-shirt clinging to actual muscles. Between their history and his hotness and her horniness, her hormones were downright salivating. Kids or no kids. But much, much more than that, it was about this aura Cole had always had about him, making her feel safe. That no matter what, she could trust him.

  And safe was about the most unsafe thing she could feel right now. Because who she didn’t dare trust was herself—

  “Hey,” Matt said beside her, making her jump. “Have you heard a word I said?”

  “What? Oh. No. Sorry.”

  Her brother shook his head. “I was saying, you should go with me to All Saints. Meet the kids.” When she frowned, he said, “The girls, they’d be beside themselves getting to talk to somebody in fashion. Some of ’em might even be up for a makeover. Like Cole said you did for Brooke?”

  “Oh. Uh...”

  “Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “there’s a few who could maybe stand to tone it down a little in the makeup and show-everything-you-got department. I’m talking thirteen-, fourteen-year-old girls trying to look like they’re twenty-five. Not to mention act like it.”

  She laughed. “Honey, Jersey girls are born flamboyant. I think it’s something in the water—”

  “This goes beyond that. A lot of the girls come with their brothers—their older brothers—and I can tell they’re looking to hook up. And before you get on my case, I don’t think that dressing sexy necessarily means a girl—or woman—is ‘asking’ for it. Or that a guy has the right to assume she is. Which is part of what I talk about with the boys, about self-control and respect and boundaries.” He smirked. “Until they’re probably sick of hearing me run my mouth. Same stuff Pop drummed into our heads when we were kids.”

  “Heh. I got the same spiel, you know. From Mom, but whatever.”

  “Except not all of these kids are lucky enough to get those spiels. And the problem is, some of these girls are asking for...whatever they think dressing like that will get them. Because they think that’s all they’ve got. All they are.”

  Sabrina looked out the window toward the front yard as her brother continued. “And it’s been bugging me for some time,” he said, “how to handle it. Father Bill, too. Father Bill, especially. Not exactly what he had in mind when he started the program up again. I mean, nothing happens at the center, but outside of it...I don’t know. And it seems to me you’re someone they could relate to. Because you’re young and cool and you always look good. To me, anyway.”

  Blowing a laugh through her nose, she faced him again. “Young?”

  “Compared to the old ladies who stop by to deliver cookies and juice? Definitely. And you obviously get on good with kids. Seriously, Brooke hardly left your side the whole morning. So, please? Just go talk to them, okay?” Matt said, giving her shoulder a squeeze before he walked away, his request churning in her head.

  Not to mention her stomach.

  Because, she thought as she watched Cole gather up his painting gear, she’d been such an exemplary teenager herself, right?

  Chapter Seven

  Having already cleaned his own brushes and rollers outside, Cole followed the sound of running water to find Bree washing her hands at the kitchen’s oversize stainless steel sink, frowning at something outside the window. His paint-spattered kids, he saw when he came up behind her, both sprawled on a pair of chairs on the deck as if they’d just finished running a marathon.

  Bree jumped. “Cripes...give a person a heads-up.”

  “Sorry.” He ripped a paper towel off the nearby sta
nding holder and handed it to her. Her mouth pressed tight, she roughly scrubbed the towel over her hands, slam-dunked it into the trash. “Hey. You okay?”

  Her arms crossed, she stared back out the window. “Matt asked me to help out at the center.”

  “Yeah? Me, too.”

  “He suggested you give the girls makeovers?”

  He softly laughed, even as he wondered why her brother’s request had so obviously upset her. “No,” he said, leaning back against the counter with his fingers in his pockets. “Computer tips. I pointed out, however, they probably all navigate the web better than I do. Diana’s brats were computer savvy by three. Crazy.”

  Still not looking at him, she said, “So you said no?”

  “Actually, it might be a another way for Wes and Brooke to meet other kids their age. So I said I’d think about it.”

  When she didn’t respond, Cole went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Same as he used to, when this kitchen had been like Penn Station. Even if that old fridge could have fit inside this one. Twisting off the cap, he looked back at Bree, his forehead cramping at her almost-tormented expression as she kept looking out the damn window.

  “Bree? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Friends, remember? So give it up, dude.”

  At that, she smiled, but a long moment passed before she said, “What Matt was saying, about the girls...it brought back a lot of not-so-good memories. Of me at that age. God, I was so messed up.”

  “Who among us wasn’t?”

  “Yeah, but Matt has no idea how messed up I was.” She paused. “What it led to.”

  Memories stirred, of previous conversations. Conversations his pathetic, lonely, younger self had endured only because he couldn’t think of any other way to keep the connection. Except, again, the quietly conflicted woman in front of him didn’t even seem related to that histrionic teenage girl who’d seemed determined to blame everyone else for her problems. Had that been the case, the new improved Cole would have handed her a tissue, patted her on the back, said, “Laters,” and walked away.