Unexpected Family

by Molly O'Keefe

  “I told you, I can’t be distracted. I can’t be torn when it comes to those boys and all you are is distraction.”

  She was breathless with pain. Eviscerated by his words. Her heart and guts spilling out onto the shadowed porch.

  She forced enough air into her body so she could respond. “So that’s it?”

  He shrugged. “It has to be.”

  Lucy wanted to protest but she knew it was pointless. She saw it in the chill of his eyes. He was gone for her. A million miles away.

  Without saying goodbye or looking back, she turned and walked away, back to her car.

  Funny how when this thing started all she’d wanted was distraction. Now what, she wondered, feeling nauseated and rejected, numb and cold in those places he’d warmed—could possibly distract me from this?

  * * *

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON JEREMIAH picked up Ben from school. Casey, amazingly, had agreed to stay home with Adele, the new housekeeper. It probably had something to do with the chocolate chip cookies Adele was planning to make. The boy had a thing about cookie dough.

  “I could have taken the bus home,” Ben said.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Ben gave no response to that, but it seemed as if the temperature in the truck had gone down a few degrees. Talk was synonymous with yelling. With a grounding, or extra barn work. Talk was a bad word at the Stones’ house.

  Dr. Gilman would be ashamed.

  “Where are we going?” Ben asked when they didn’t turn left at the grocery store toward home. Instead, they went right.

  “Rocky M.”

  “Am I in trouble again?”

  Ben kicked the dashboard and Jeremiah forced himself to count to ten. Pick your battles, he thought, remembering some old words of wisdom from Cynthia.

  “You wanted to help Walter,” Jeremiah said.

  “Yeah. But you said no.”

  “Well, now I’m saying yes.”

  Ben’s face waivered somewhere between happy and skeptical. Distrustful.

  “Why?”

  “Because you want to, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And it makes you happy?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ben looked away, as if hiding his happiness, a secret he had to keep in fear of Jeremiah taking it away. Jeremiah wondered how many times he had done that. Taken away the things that made Ben happy so that all that was left was unhappiness.

  “I want you to be happy, Ben.”

  “Yeah, right,” he sneered.

  “I do. I liked seeing you happy last night and if I had known that remembering things about your mom—that talking about her—would make you happy, then I would have done it more often. I’m sorry.”

  Jeremiah parked the car in silence, right in front of the Rocky M barn.

  Walter was sitting in the shade just inside the barn door and glanced up. A miserable old man, sick, getting sicker every day.

  What the hell am I thinking? Annie would skin me.

  But Annie wasn’t here and that was the problem.

  “Do you believe me? That I want you to be happy?” Jeremiah asked, watching his nephew, knowing the question was so weighted that the boy would have to say yes or risk some kind of deep conversation about happiness or lack thereof.

  Predictably, after a moment, Ben nodded.

  “Good.” Jeremiah popped open the truck door. “Now let’s go see if Walter still wants a nine-year-old nurse.”

  * * *

  JEREMIAH AND BEN GOT OUT of their truck but they didn’t head toward the house. They turned toward him instead.

  Uh-oh, was all Walter could think, but he kept rubbing the linseed oil on the old reins.

  “Hello, Walter,” Jeremiah said, pushing his hat up with his thumb, revealing dark curls matted with sweat. Lord knows the man puts in an honest day’s work between the boys and the ranch.

  “Jeremiah.” Walter nodded. “Ben.”

  “So.” Jeremiah cleared his throat. “About the, ah, the nurse thing?”

  “I don’t much like the word nurse.” Walter rubbed the reins with his thumb, harder than needed, but these days it was work hard or go back to drinking. And today the work was only barely saving him. His head burned for a drink.

  “Okay.” Jeremiah sighed. His patronizing tone made Walter take that imaginary swig. “What would you call it?”

  Walter shrugged.

  “‘Helper,’” Ben supplied. “That’s…that’s what Mom called me. Her helper.”

  Walter noticed the way Jeremiah stared at Ben, as if he were some kind of exotic animal that had sidled up and started talking. When Ben saw this, the hurt was right there on the kid’s face.

  When it came to the boy, Jeremiah was a blind man.

  Walter nodded. “‘Helper’ works.”

  “All right. We can all agree on that.”

  “Not sure why you need to be sarcastic,” Walter said. It was one thing when Mia was sarcastic, it was her mother tongue. She didn’t know how to talk without it. But he didn’t need it from Jeremiah. Not in front of the kid.

  Jeremiah took his hat all the way off and looked up at the sky as if talking to God. Walter looked over at Ben and winked.

  The boy smiled. Score: one point for Walter.

  “You’re right,” Jeremiah said. “I apologize. I have considered what you said and if you think Ben can help you and you want that help…I think it could work.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “But I’d want a couple of assurances.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like if your condition gets worse and you need real help, you tell me right away. No pride here, Walter. I won’t have Ben feeling overwhelmed or scared.”

  Walter looked over at Ben and wanted to say he’d never scare the boy, but his pride was often a problem.

  “I promise,” Walter said.

  “And every day I get a report on his behavior—”

  “I’m not a teacher, Jeremiah. The boy will work. If he doesn’t he won’t be welcome back. Past that, I don’t have much to tell you.”

  Jeremiah looked like he wanted to argue but Ben piped up. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

  Jeremiah ran a hand over his face, mumbling something that sounded a lot like “I cannot believe I’m doing this.” He dropped his hand. “All right. When would you like him to start?”

  “Right now suits just fine. You could go pick up the other boys and bring ’em back for supper. Sandra likes that.”

  The front door slammed and Jeremiah and Ben both turned toward the house. It had to be Lucy—Walter didn’t even have to look, he could see it on Jeremiah’s face. The man was as gutted as a fish.

  “I’ll be back in two hours.” Jeremiah took off for the car, nearly at a run. Lucy stood on the porch, her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun. She wore a green-and-white plaid shirt and looked so much like Sandra twenty years ago, Walter had to look away.

  “There’s a pile of reins in the tack room,” Walter said to Ben. “Go and grab ’em, would ya?”

  Ben nodded and vanished into the barn.

  A nurse, he thought, chewing over the word and the idea, surprised when the taste was sweet. The boy felt more like a second chance.

  And why, he wondered, with a dry mouth and sweaty hands, does that make me so damn nervous?

  * * *

  LUCY WATCHED JEREMIAH drive off and told herself she’d suffered worse rejections. But none had ripped her legs out from under her. After last night’s restless sleep she’d woken up resolved to forget Jeremiah, since that seemed to be the only thing she could do. But the second she saw his truck out the window, she’d entertained, for about half a second, the idea that he had changed his mind. About her. And she’d charged out the door like a lunatic.

  But it was Walter he’d been here to see and the disappointment was bitter.

  His truck kicked up dust as he charged away from the ranch and when it settled there were Walter and Ben, sitting in t
he shade, a pile of leather between them. Bits of metal flashing in the sun.

  She thought of her leather bracelet designs and realized that right under her nose might be the materials she needed. Carefully, unsure of being welcome, or truly what she was doing—only knowing she had to do something or lose her mind thinking about Jeremiah—she approached the two of them.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Walter looked up and then did a rather comical double take. “Lucy?”

  Ben just stared at her, the little turncoat. Really, she wondered, what did Walter have that she didn’t? Maybe I should find out, Lucy thought. Maybe I should find out why my own mother wants a “friendship” with this man.

  Maybe I should give him half a chance.

  “What…” She gestured limply toward the pile of beaten-up leather reins and bridles. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning,” Walter said.

  “Oh. Could I join you?”

  She laughed at the face Walter made. Oh, so funny that face. Horrified, he was utterly horrified at the thought of spending time with her. She couldn’t totally blame him, it’s not like she’d been overly pleasant to the man.

  “I guess not.” She started to turn on her heel.

  Surprisingly her support came from Ben. “You can stay,” he said.

  She turned back just in time to catch Walter glaring at the boy.

  “What?” Ben asked. “There are a lot of reins here.”

  “Actually,” she said, plunking herself down in front of the piles of leather, across from Ben. “I was wondering if I could look at the pieces you’re getting rid of.”

  “The garbage?” Walter asked.

  “You know what they say—one man’s garbage is another woman’s jackpot.”

  “Suit yourself.” Walter used his cane to push a small pile of beat-up leather straps at her. She dug into it with gusto, sorting pieces she could salvage and pieces that were too far gone.

  “So,” she said, needing to occupy her brain as well as her hands if only to fill the empty space Jeremiah used to fill. “What are we talking about?”

  Ben and Walter shared a look. Apparently there wasn’t a whole lot of talking going on yet.

  “Do you have any stories about my mom?” Ben blurted.

  “Do I?” Lucy cried, taking her own cloth from the pile to clean the ruined leather. Distressed leather was cool but distressed leather that smelled like horse—not so cool. “Your mom used to babysit Mia and me when we were kids.” She launched into the story about their epic and elaborate games of hide-and-seek in the barn.

  “And then…” she cried, lost in the memories, “when we’d hear Walter coming in, we’d—”

  She stopped, suddenly embarrassed. They’d been little shits to Walter when Mom and Dad weren’t around.

  “What?” Ben asked, wide-eyed, the leather forgotten in his lap.

  “Nothing—” She winced.

  “Go ahead,” Walter said, not looking up from his oil and cloth and the strip of leather he was working on. “Tell him.”

  “We’d hide Walter’s things. His glasses, his hat. We’d bury them in the hay. We’d move his horse between stables. We were…we were mean.”

  “Mom?” Ben asked, shocked and delighted at the same time. “Mean?”

  “It wasn’t ever her idea,” Lucy said. “It was always Mia and me.”

  An apology rose to her lips but she swallowed it down. Those little pranks had been righteous retribution for what Walter had let Vicki do to Jack when they were all kids. Lucy and Mia had hidden his things and felt like Robin Hood, righting wrongs.

  “Do you think I didn’t know?” Walter asked.

  Lucy blinked. “Did you… I mean, you never said anything. Or stopped us.”

  “I could hear you giggling while I dug through hay for my hat. I knew what you were doing.” He looked up and Lucy saw intense blue eyes, less runny and more startling these days. More piercing. “And why.”

  Lucy broke eye contact first, discomfited by the vulnerability in his eyes. Yesterday, Mia had said that Walter had paid for all his crimes and Lucy had dismissed the notion.

  But maybe she was wrong.

  * * *

  WHEN JEREMIAH SAW Dr. Gilman that week, he felt compelled to confess why he’d canceled last Saturday’s appointment.

  “Would you like to reschedule our meetings to a different day?” she asked.

  “No. Saturday’s fine.”

  “But if you’re going to be dating…?” She trailed off suggestively, nothing but hope and approval in her face. Jeremiah couldn’t meet her eyes so he stared at his hands, ran his thumb over a cut on his palm.

  “I’m not dating—”

  “Do you want to talk about this?”

  “No.”

  “Jeremiah—”

  “No. I don’t.”

  It was bad enough seeing Lucy when he came to pick up Ben, sitting cross-legged at Walter’s feet beside Ben, a pile of reins between them.

  He’d thought it was a one-off. There simply was no way Lucy was going to hang out with Walter and Ben every day. But yesterday, when he’d driven up, she was there laughing at something Walter had said. Her throat, pale pink and elegant, had been tipped back, her hair a dark spill over her blue shirt.

  Ben and Walter were staring at her like she was the sun and they’d just come out of a cave. He’d known exactly how they felt. And he’d wondered if she was doing it on purpose. Some kind of ploy to get him to reconsider their breakup. A way to get under his skin.

  “How is Ben doing?” Dr. Gilman asked.

  Jeremiah didn’t know how to answer that. There were no more tantrums. The running away had stopped, too. Yesterday his teacher had said that Ben was starting to take part in class discussions. Raising his hand even.

  Which was all great, but there was this obsessive collecting of stories and pictures. He was like an emotional hoarder. It couldn’t be healthy.

  “He cries at night,” Jeremiah said. “I can hear him through his door.”

  “Makes sense,” Dr. Gilman said. “He’s grieving.”

  “Yeah, but how long does this last?”

  Dr. Gilman put down her notebook and stared at him. The intent in her gaze felt like a razor against his skin. Sensing danger, his balls curled up into his belly.

  “Have you grieved?” Dr. Gilman asked.

  “For my sister? Yeah. Of course.” Cried like a baby through her funeral. Boxed up her clothes and sobbed. Had to call Cynthia to help him.

  “No. Have you grieved for your old life? For the rodeo? For the life you lived before you took over caring for the boys?”

  His stomach dropped and his brain felt too light. His skin painfully tight. Panicked, suddenly shaking with adrenaline, he glanced up at the clock.

  “Time’s up, Dr. Gilman.”

  “Jeremiah—?”

  He didn’t stop. Didn’t listen. He grabbed his hat from the stand by the door and slipped out the door. But his stomach stayed in his leaden legs and his skin itched like it wanted to come off.

  * * *

  ANOTHER WEEK WENT BY and Lucy found herself, gathering more steam every day, pulling herself from the black hole the past year had buried her in. And every morning she woke up expecting this to be the day she would leave. To head, if not back to Los Angeles, then into some new direction on some new adventure.

  But instead her eyes opened and she saw the familiar bedspread, the familiar sun falling through her window. The sound of her mother and sister talking in the kitchen. It all gave her that heady sense of home that she’d been missing for five years.

  This, her heart seemed to say, is exactly where I want to be. Here.

  It wasn’t to say the situation was perfect. She needed her own space, an apartment, maybe in town. And she’d cut off her own arm for some sushi and a proper latte. But she had peace and quiet, privacy to work, wide-open spaces to walk. When her head got tired of designing—a heretofore unheard of balance in her life th
at was unexpectedly and deliciously satisfying—she had honest ranch work to do.

  And for about ten minutes twice a week, she had Jeremiah.

  Every morning, after deciding she wasn’t ready to leave, she tested what remained of her feelings for Jeremiah. Like lifting the lid off a rain bucket, she checked the levels and to her great pain and chagrin, the levels stayed the same. The infatuation wasn’t ending. These feelings were not fleeting. Twice a week, her heart stopped at the sight of his truck in the driveway.

  And every day—at least twenty times per day—when her mind was the most still, when she was in the garden or tearing apart her jewelry only to rebuild it with leather and metal from scraps of tack, she hoped Jeremiah was okay. If she couldn’t be with him, she wanted the sacrifice to be worth something. If he was better off without her, so be it.

  Thursday morning, she awoke and felt sick of herself.

  The longer she lay there, the more it felt as if her chest was collapsing under the pressure of her yearning. Her longing to see him. Talk to him. Maybe today he’d stay long enough to talk, she thought, and then hated herself.

  Honestly, this is not you. Do not let that man turn you into this. Get out of bed.

  That seemed a bit extreme so she compromised by pawing around her bedside table for her cell phone.

  Within ten minutes she’d called her real estate agent and told her to put the condo on the market in earnest. And sell it, sooner rather than later.

  “What about your stuff? I put what was here in storage—”

  “I’ll come and get it in a few days.”

  Hanging up the phone on Los Angeles and her ties there felt liberating. As if she’d finally managed to get rid of the stony weight she’d been pretending wasn’t killing her back. She could go and pick up their stuff and then she’d put that city in her rearview mirror for good.

  Amber, she thought suddenly. And garnets. Oh, my gosh, in a bridal tiara.

  Sitting up, she grabbed the notebook she’d been keeping by her bed and found a blank page. She found one of the ten charcoal pencils she kept close by and frantically started to sketch. With delicate points of amber and garnet, it would be as if golden red rain had been caught in the bride’s hair.