"Tasha being…?"
"His daughter."
My breath caught in my throat. I knew Duncan had lost his wife and child in an accident. I just didn't know the little girl's name.
"I'm sure it hurts him to see Celia. Tasha would have been the same age."
"I sensed there was a deeper reason to his reluctance," I said, feeling sorrow pressing against my chest. He knows, I thought. He knows the same heart-wrenching loss.
Though I didn't know what would be worse. To have Celia swept completely from my life, or living, as I had, with the regret and the steady reminder of what I couldn't have.
"He has to be made to see his responsibility," Cora continued. "It's not just him, it's…it's us as well. I know Celia is adopted, but she's as much our granddaughter as Tasha was. I can't lose…can't lose Celia—" Mrs. Tiemstra stopped there, her voice trailing off.
I buried my own pain, touching her gently to make a connection.
"You need to know that I agree with you," I said, fighting down old longings, feeling as if I were betraying Celia, even as I did what I knew was best for her. "I also don't think I should be taking care of my…of Celia. I agree that Celia should stay with your family." I spoke slowly, laying my words down like leaves on a stream. Deliberate and careful. "Duncan is in a better position to take care of her than I am. Much as I'd love to…to take her back with me to Vancouver, I can't."
I swallowed again, fighting for self-control, blaming my fragile emotions on my grief.
Mrs. Tiemstra frowned at me, as if she didn't comprehend what I was saying.
"I am not exercising my guardianship to Celia," I said, keeping my voice quiet.
Her eyes widened in shock and she raised one hand to her trembling lips. "Oh, my goodness. This is…this is wonderful news. I was so afraid…" She blinked away the moisture I saw gathering in her eyes. Then she nodded decisively, as if underlining my decision. "This is the right thing to do."
Then why does it feel so hard?
"You are a good person," she said, reaching out and grasping my hand, squeezing it gently.
I wasn't, but I still appreciated her affirmation.
"I'm just trying to do what's best for Celia. She needs stability and a home. I can't…" My own voice broke again, and I stopped, wishing I didn't feel so vulnerable. For a few glorious moments, I had allowed myself some 'what ifs' when it came to Celia. But I had to think only of her. Why I gave her up was still woven into my past and present, and I couldn't hand that legacy to her. My mother had clung too long and hard to me - had turned my life around with her selfish demands. I wasn't going to be that mother. I wanted to do what was best for my daughter.
I cleared my throat. "Like I said, I can't give her what you all can here."
"I'm sorry for you," Mrs. Tiemstra said, still holding my hand. "Losing Jerrod, your foster mother…so many blows in such a young life. I'll be praying for you."
I pressed my lips together, fighting, again, a surge of grief. And as she held my hand, for a moment, I didn't feel so alone.
"Thank you. That means a lot. My mom—foster mom—always prayed for me. I feel like it's been awhile since I was on anyone's list."
"Well, you're on mine now." Mrs. Tiemstra cleared her throat and gave me another squeeze, then drew her hand back. "And now we have to figure out what to do about Duncan."
I had no idea, but I was sure she did.
For now, I was content to follow her lead.
Chapter 5
Duncan turned down his driveway, exhaustion pulling at him. He'd stayed later than he liked at work, but at least the skidder was fixed and pulling trees again. He'd grabbed a bite to eat at the diner before it closed. Caught up with Terra who was working today, chatted a moment with Cor and Father Sam, and then left.
Now, he was looking forward to a few moments of reading the news, nosing through the Ritchie Brothers’ website for equipment, and checking out that saddle he'd seen advertised on the horse-and-riding forum he frequented.
Another barnburner of an evening, he thought with a vague smile as turned the last corner. Living the dream.
But his house, which should have been dark, blazed with light, and as he came closer, his heart sank when he recognized his mother's car.
And right beside it was Francine and Jerrod's SUV.
Frustration with his mother and her meddling bubbled up inside of him, followed, surprisingly, by a tiny spark of anticipation at the thought of seeing Miriam again.
Which he immediately stifled. He wasn't looking. Besides, he looked like five miles of bad road after working on equipment all day. He probably had grease stains on his face and he needed a shave.
He grabbed his Thermos, his lunch box, and gloves, and got out of his truck. The same icy wind that had bedeviled him all day while he worked on equipment, swirled snow around him as he trudged through the drifts on the sidewalk to the house.
What was his mother doing here? She usually called ahead, giving him enough time to toss the books under the couch, wash the piled-up dishes, and create some semblance of order in a house that was decorated in Twenty-first Century Bachelor.
Find that on your Pinterest boards, he thought, as he pulled open the door and stepped into bright warmth, trying not to feel embarrassment at the thought that Miriam was seeing his house in its natural state.
His mother's tall leather boots, gleaming and polished, stood at attention just inside the door. A pair of worn, and battered boots stood beside them. Miriam's, of course. And Celia's small Sorel boots lay in a heap beside them.
He dropped down on the worn deacon's bench Kimberly had picked up at a yard sale. She'd paid way too much and had pouted when Duncan had said she got taken. He felt like a heel for stealing her joy, and his penance was to scrape fifty years of bad painting decisions off the surface. Tasha always climbed up on it to reach out to him—
Pain seized him and he closed his eyes, riding out the discomfort resurrected by his sister and brother-in-law's death.
Thankfully, that was followed by anger, an easier emotion to face. He jerked his boots off and dropped them beside his mother's, hung up his coat, tossed his gloves and toque into the bin above the coat rack. Before he entered the house he drew in a long, slow breath, preparing himself, and slid open the pocket door separating the porch from the rest of the house.
He set his lunch box and Thermos on the table just inside the door, and quickly scanned the kitchen ahead of him, guilt stabbing in his gut. The last four days' worth of dishes were cleaned up. The counter shone, and his taps gleamed.
A woman's touch he thought, steeling himself to face his mother, his niece, and the girl that had danced in and out of his thoughts the past few days.
And, of course, as he stepped into the living room, Miriam was the first person he saw. She was hunkered down by the wood stove, carefully feeding another log to the fire, her long, tawny hair spilling down her back in a shining wave.
"Be careful," his mother warned as she tidied up the magazines and newspapers that had once covered the couch. "You don't want to burn yourself."
"I've stoked a few stoves in my life," Miriam was saying.
Celia sat on the couch, tying a scarf around her doll's neck, the same heartbreakingly lifeless expression on the girl's face. "Well, you're home later than usual," his mother said when she noticed him.
"Had some trouble with the skidder again," he said vaguely, looking past her to Miriam who stood, running her hands down the sides of her blue jeans in a nervous gesture. "What is going on? Everything okay?" Then he felt ice slither through his stomach. "Is it Dad? Is he okay?"
"Yes. He's okay. Cor is visiting with him right now. They're playing crib and sharing old-time bush stories." His mother gave him a quick smile that only served to shift his nervousness.
"So…why are you here?" he asked, as he walked over to the kitchen sink and made a quick stab at washing his hands, trying in vain to work the grease out from under his fingernails.
His mother glanced over her shoulder at Miriam, who was looking at Celia, who was looking at her doll.
"Mother? What are you doing here?" he prompted, drying his hands on the tea towel that hadn't been there before he left. In spite of the thorough washing, he left a few dark stains on the towel, which he tossed in the sink to deal with later. He scrubbed his hands through his hard-hat hair, wishing he didn't care so much what he looked like.
His mother clasped her hands in front of her and took in a quick breath. "As you know, it's Celia's birthday next week. And we asked her what kind of birthday party she wants." His mother walked over to Celia and knelt down in front of her. "Celia, darling, can you tell Uncle Duncan what you told me and Miriam?"
Celia didn't look up, but continued tugging on the doll's scarf. "Jane wants a horse party."
Duncan's panicked gaze flicked from Celia, to his mother, then landed on Miriam who was watching him, concern etched on her features.
"I told you I won’t have time,” he protested, wondering how much more he should have said when his mother first brought it up.
His mother walked toward him, her hands up in a placating gesture. "You won't have to do much," she said. "Miriam and I will take care of the birthday stuff. We just want you to take the girls out on a sleigh ride with the horses. Nothing more than that."
Duncan dragged his hand over his face. He felt shanghaied. He didn't have time. But how could he say no with Celia sitting right there, a sudden ray of hope shining in a face that had looked so blank and unemotional the past week.
Then his mother took a step closer, lowering her voice, and Duncan knew she was hauling out the big guns.
"Celia is in a hard place," she said softly. "And we need to do whatever we can. I know it's difficult for you, but I am hoping you can put your needs aside for her sake."
And didn't that make him sound like the most selfish uncle in the world?
Trouble was, part of him knew she was right, even as his survival instincts kicked in. When his sister and her family moved back to Holmes Crossing, he found that every time he saw Celia, he had to fight down a bitter ache at the stark reminder of what he had lost. Keeping his distance had been the only way he'd found to keep his own grief at bay.
And now he was dealt a new sadness, when he hadn't yet handled the old.
"Your niece has lost everyone important to her," his mother continued. "And you know yourself how hard that can be. She's just a child."
His mother's words were like a chisel, pick, picking away at his stony resistance.
And she wouldn’t quit until she got what she wanted.
"Okay, okay. I'll help,” he said, giving in. “But you'll have to get everything ready and set everything up at your house. She and her friends will only come here for a sleigh ride." He gave her a hard look, underlining his comment. "And only that much." He knew his mother was an artist when it came to blurring boundaries.
"I didn't expect that you would do anything else," she said, patting him on the shoulder as if he were only ten, instead of thirty-five. "We'll take care of everything." Then she shot a surreptitious glance at her watch, and grimaced. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. I promised your father I wouldn't be long."
At least the visit had been short. And Miriam had kept her distance, which was also helpful. She was too pretty, and he was too lonely, and he knew she was going back to Vancouver. All in all, a dangerous combination.
"Good. Let me know what you want and when," he said as his mother walked over to Celia and gave her a kiss. Celia didn't even look up.
His mother looked crushed, but then pulled herself together and stood.
"I'll let Miriam tell you what is happening," his mother said, as she picked her coat up off the couch and slipped it on. "She and I discussed how we'll do this."
"Pardon me?"
"What?"
He and Miriam spoke at the same time, both questions directed at his mother, who was already hurrying out of the room, waving at them both.
"I have to run. Sorry. I trust you two can manage."
And then, before Duncan could register a protest, she was gone.
Silence descended and for a moment, Duncan had no clue what to do next.
He turned to Miriam, who now sat on the couch with Celia, watching him, her expression one of puzzlement. "Did I just get roped into something?" she asked.
"Welcome to Manipulationville. Cora Tiemstra, Mayor-in-chief."
Miriam chuckled, easing his resentment over his mother's maneuvering.
"Sorry about that," he said, trudging over to a chair across from her and dropping into it. His hand rasped over his whiskers, and once again he wished he looked more presentable. "If you want to leave, that's fine. Mom can tell me what I need to do."
"I'm here now, I may as well let you know what we arranged," she said.
Which created a small feeling of anticipation.
"So, what did you want me to do?"
Miriam pressed her hands between her knees. "Your mother and I thought we could have three of Celia's good friends come to Francine and Jerrod's…" Her voice trailed off. She cleared her throat and continued. "Have them come to the house. We would do the cake and gifts there, and then come here after that. Your mother said you had some horses you could hitch up to a sleigh?"
"Yeah. Bonnie and Clyde."
"Is the fact that they're named after bandits any indication of their character?" she asked with a light laugh.
"They're reformed. And broke to harness. Very compliant, unlike their namesakes."
"That’s reassuring."
"So the sleigh ride is the only thing I'd have to do?"
Miriam nodded, then turned to Celia. "What do you think, sweetie? Would you like a sleigh ride with Uncle Duncan and his horses?"
Celia gave Miriam a disdainful look. "I don't want the sleigh ride, Jane does."
"So, Jane, do you think you'll like it?" Miriam asked, her tone reasonable, but Duncan could see the difficulty in her expression as she talked to the doll.
Celia held the doll's head close to hers, then nodded. "Jane said she will love it." Then Celia slid off the couch, walked across the room, and trudged up the stairs.
"Celia, come back," Miriam said. "This isn't your house." But Celia kept going, and Duncan had to fight down his own resistance to his niece's intrusion.
"I'm sorry. I'll go get her," Miriam said, getting up.
He clenched one fist even as he waved off her comment with his other hand.
"It's okay," Duncan said, even though Miriam had no idea what it cost him to say that.
No one had been upstairs since his mother cleaned out Kimberly…and Tasha's…things.
Miriam sighed, as Celia turned at the top of the stairs into the hallway. "I probably should have asked Jane to come back."
Duncan heard the anxiety in her voice, and saw the weariness on her face, and he felt a flicker of concern.
"Are things going okay for you?" he asked. Abruptly coming to Holmes Crossing, a place where she didn't know anybody, couldn't be easy.
"Yeah. I'm fine." But he could see she was anything but. His practical side told him to leave it at that, but he felt sympathy for her. She'd had her own loss and now she was responsible for this little girl.
She doesn't need to be.
But even as he entertained that thought, Duncan's chest heaved, and he knew he had to keep his distance. Old emotions were already crowding too close to the surface.
He sucked in a breath, but at the same time, he couldn't ignore what Miriam was dealing with.
"I just asked 'cause you look really tired," he said. But as soon as the words left his mouth he felt like doing a face-palm. His sister always accused him of being too blunt, and he knew telling a woman she basically looked haggard was not the way to win points.
"Was your first clue the oversized luggage under my eyes?" Miriam said, scraping her hair back from her face. "I should probably get charged for that."
"Act
ually, you look pretty good for looking tired," he said, realizing too late that he had just jumped straight into the fire.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"I guess that's what I was trying for," he said releasing a frustrated sigh. "Sorry. I'm not so good with the small talk."
"Probably better at the medium talk?"
"Don't know about that either."
"Well, I'm not so good with the birthday party stuff. I'm glad your mom is making the plans."
"Hope she wasn't too overbearing. She can be kind of pushy."
"She was helpful, though she did try to convince Celia to go with a princess theme. She thought I could draw some pictures for her. Like from the book."
"The ones you illustrated?"
"Yeah."
"I should have a look at these books," Duncan said, dropping his head onto the back of the chair as he watched her. She sat half on the couch, half off, as if she was ready to launch herself out of her seat on a moment's notice. "I've never met an illustrator before."
"Well, we're even. I've never met a cowboy logger before. I didn't even know there was such a thing." She gave him a small smile that brushed lightly over his heart.
"The two don't really belong together," Duncan said, surprised at his reaction to her. "It's not like I rope trees."
"Now there's an interesting concept." She looked past him as if considering the idea. "That would make a cute story."
"You said you don't illustrate anymore. Why not?"
She looked down at her hands, now twisted around each other, a frown creasing her forehead. "I had my chance but then…well…I needed to pay bills."
"Don't we all," he said.
Her eyes rested on his, and for a moment, their gazes held. He felt, once again, a low thrum of awareness, an echo of older emotions. Wondered if she felt it too.
Behind that came a wondering if she ever thought of him after their almost-romance. They had gone on a couple of dates after Francine and Jerrod's wedding. He thought things were moving along. Then he returned to Holmes Crossing, she went back to the States, and didn't reply to any of his texts.
This Place: Holmes Crossing Book 3 Page 7