by Jamie Beck
“I’ve got big shoes to fill.” He recalled the trips they’d taken to Central America, South America, and the Caribbean. Then his thoughts circled back to their last one.
It should’ve been him, not his dad, who’d rushed back into that unstable building in search of more survivors. If they hadn’t been locked in their own cold war—if he had acted instead—his mom wouldn’t have been a young widow. She wouldn’t be so alone in the world, and Ian wouldn’t live with such regret. He winced, shying away from the shame.
“Let’s change the subject.” He took a long swallow of soda through a straw. “I saw your friend Sara last night.”
“Oh?” She sat back after pushing the remains of her pie toward him. “Where?”
Ian polished off her pie while explaining the circumstances behind Sara’s call, and how he’d spent his night. Naturally, he omitted some details, like Gentry’s lacy panties that left almost nothing to the imagination. He’d been trying not to think of those all morning, actually. At one point during church, he’d been trying so hard not to think about them he was sure the devil himself would reach up and pull him under.
“Oh, the poor thing. New moms are overwhelmed. And a single mom, well, she’s also desperate.” Gloria smiled at her son. She’d said it so sincerely it almost made him believe there’d been a time when she hadn’t been competent and assured . . . if a little weary. “You’re a good man, Ian Crawford.”
He winked at her. “Thanks to you, maybe.”
“No maybes. For sure.” She set forty dollars on the table. “Sorry to rush off, but I need to get back to the Angel House. You okay?”
“Yeah.” He stood, reluctant to return to the no-man’s-land of the lonely motel, with its stiff polyester bedding and vinyl chair. A stark contrast to the suede sofa and walnut floors in Gentry’s condo, but an upgrade from most of the makeshift accommodations he’d called home while out in the field. “No worries. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
His mom kissed him goodbye when they reached her nine-year-old red Honda. After she put-putted away, he wandered next door to the convenience store and bought himself a local paper.
A bunch of older kids wandered the aisles, grabbing candy, chips, and soda while horsing around, oblivious to the advantages of these stores. Within arm’s length, you could buy first-aid supplies, nourishment, and oil for your car. People in impoverished countries might literally kill for this stuff that everyone here took for granted.
He shook off the thought and then strolled several blocks, newspaper tucked under his arm, enjoying the summer sunshine. He paused at Bilquist Elementary. The single-story brick-and-glass building hadn’t changed much, other than a new coat of royal-blue paint on sections of its exterior. He suspected the inside smelled exactly as it had decades ago and that those scents could unlock many memories.
How many schoolmates still lived around here? What might his life be like if his parents hadn’t indoctrinated him into the Crawford way? Questions without answers.
He sighed before continuing his stroll, unsure what had him so keyed up this morning. He didn’t miss Farrah—at least, not the way he should. In truth, they’d spent more time apart than they had together, which was why she’d dumped him, and probably why he didn’t mourn the loss like he should.
Ian mourned a different loss—that of the hope that he could have it all, like his mom believed.
He kept walking until he got to Heddie Notz Park, then took a seat at a picnic table shaded by a copse of maples. Forty feet away, several young kids scaled the jungle gym. Their moms conversed on the nearby benches or sat with their noses practically touching their smartphones.
A gentle summer breeze whistled through the leaves overhead, its peaceful sound often punctured by a child’s laughter or shout. None of those cheerful sounds drowned out the voices of two chatty moms.
“I’m glad Cindy’s not here droning on about her diet and yoga obsessions. For God’s sake, let me eat my brownie in peace, right?” The blonde sipped something topped with whipped cream, from Starbucks.
The brunette nodded. “She should focus her energy on Bobby. That kid needs help. He’s such a loner.”
“Not my problem. I’ve got enough to deal with at home with my three.” The blonde set her now-empty cup on the ground beside her feet. “Hey, who cleans your house? I need to find someone new, but I hate that search process.”
Ian snorted before he could stop himself, which drew a sharp look from the blonde.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
He shook his head, his gaze steady but pleasant. “No, ma’am. Allergies.”
She looked skeptical of his white lie, proving she wasn’t an idiot even if she seemed like a pill. She turned back to her friend, but not before he heard her mutter “Asshole.”
Yeah, well . . . maybe. Like many of his humanitarian compatriots, he struggled with an intolerance for whining, because he’d witnessed years of high-stakes pain and suffering. He might be a little worse than most, but come on, people.
The mothers in low-income and disaster-stricken countries didn’t have smartphones and cleaning crews. Yet somehow he knew they’d appreciate a sunny, carefree day enough to stay present rather than complain or scroll through Facebook.
Whatever. He had to focus on his own situation so he could get back to where he belonged. Turning his back on the women, he unfolded the newspaper on the tabletop and perused the headlines.
Not much had changed since the last time he’d been home. Another article about the much-debated coal terminal project along the Columbia River. A suspicious warehouse fire that, fortunately, hadn’t injured anyone. The seller-friendly residential real estate market. A typical week in a typical American city.
He tried to imagine staying put and reading that same news every day. Keeping a steady job at a local hospital. Waking up to an alarm clock instead of a rooster, rushing asthmatics to the ER, and making small talk at a cocktail party with women like the ones at his back. So-called normalcy had been something he’d wished for in the weeks before his father had died. Then his world had turned upside down, and he’d assumed his father’s mantle to cope with his grief. Now he could barely recall the young man he’d been or remember why he’d thought he’d be happier with a quiet life.
He flipped to the classifieds.
Hard to say what was more depressing—the lack of overall jobs or the lack of options for a guy like him. He’d hoped for a temporary home health-care position—sadly, those few ads sought at least a three-month commitment. That would kill the momentum he, Stanley, and Archer had going now. One month—max—would be ideal. He’d amass some money and do some networking, then head back to Jacmel.
He refolded the paper and tossed it in the trash. From the corner of his eye, he saw a redhead with a toddler enter the playground from the opposite side from which he was leaving. They reminded him of Gentry and Colt.
Gentry Cabot. He’d thought he had her pegged, but she’d surprised him in the nanoseconds she let her guard down. Or maybe her underwear had blinded him to her flaws. Guys were easy that way, and he wouldn’t pretend to be above those baser instincts when it came to women and sex.
He smiled, remembering the firm curve of her ass. That image would stay with him for quite some time, considering the lacy thong didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her legs were probably as long as his, too. And as stellar as her backside had been, it had been her chest that had made him nearly fall to his knees. Maybe because the too-small tank had covered just enough to allow his imagination to run wild. Or maybe because the cup of her breasts perfectly matched the curve of her bottom. Heavy, yet pert. He could almost feel them in his hands now.
He stopped and shook his head, stunned by the effect of the vivid daydream.
Now that—not his earlier snort—was the jerkiest thing he’d thought today. Objectifying a poor woman who could barely fend for herself, let alone deal with her fussy kid.
He wondered about Colt’s d
iagnosis, then wondered why he cared. In all probability, he’d never see them again. As much as curiosity poked at his conscience, he had his own troubles to sort out, and Gentry Cabot wasn’t one of them.
Chapter Three
Ingenious
According to Merriam-Webster: marked by originality, resourcefulness, and cleverness in conception or execution
According to me: me!
Dr. Evans—or the “Cucumber,” as Gentry thought of her, thanks to her cool temperament—kept one hand pressed to Colt’s head and peered into his left ear through her otoscope. She didn’t frown or hasten her examination despite his spastic wailing. “Mm.”
“‘Mm,’ what?” Gentry hovered, chewing her thumbnail, desperate for a diagnosis with a cure, unlike his colic. Seeing Colt shivering in pain, or fear—or both—made her want to scoop him into her arms. Did all babies look so cold in a doctor’s office?
The Cucumber remained focused, turning Colt’s tiny head to inspect his other ear, acting as if he weren’t causing a chain reaction of screams among the children in the adjoining exam rooms. Gentry half expected the life-size giraffe wall sticker to start curling at the edges.
Oh, Colt. What can we do for you, Boo?
“He’s got an ear infection.” Dr. Evans tossed the throwaway plastic tip in the trash before returning the instrument to the wall unit that housed that blood pressure cuff and other stuff. “You can dress him now.”
She then sank onto the black vinyl swivel stool and rolled to her desk where she retrieved a prescription pad.
Thank God. Medicine meant a cure. A cure promised some measure of relief for Colt . . . and possibly for her, too.
She managed to get Colt’s frenzied limbs back into his onesie, then cradled him to her chest and swayed. “How’d he get it? He’s hardly exposed to other people.”
“Babies are susceptible to a lot of things. He has a little cold, and that could’ve caused the infection. Infants are on their backs a lot, and because their canals are so small, they don’t drain as well. Given his colic, it’s no surprise you didn’t notice unusual crankiness sooner.” She tore the script from the pad and smiled.
Perhaps the Cucumber had intended to make Gentry feel less incompetent with that excuse, but it had the opposite effect. Other mothers—ones like Sara—would’ve known right away. Just like every day since he’d been born, Gentry had failed him in some way. Each day it became harder to stop second-guessing herself and her choices.
She glanced at the handwriting on the prescription. “I thought antibiotics weren’t good for kids.”
“If Colt were six months or older, I might recommend other options. But with infants, we like to knock it out before it gets worse. Hopefully, he won’t be prone to these infections in the coming years.” She placed Colt’s chart in the bin the nurses managed. “Antibiotics for ten days. He should start feeling better in a day or two. If you can raise one side of his mattress, that will help with the drainage.”
A day or two? Dear God, that sounded brutally long. She nuzzled her son’s fine hair, her heart sore from his pain. “So I guess I shouldn’t put him in day care until he’s better, huh?”
That meant no work for her. An image of Hunter’s disappointed scowl flashed. Gentry kissed Colt’s head, rocking him to no avail. Did he feed off her anxiety, or was it the other way around?
“Most centers prohibit kids with fevers. Colt’s temperature is still elevated, so I’d keep him home for a few days.” Dr. Evans’s tight grip on the doorknob subtly revealed that, despite her serene voice, her nerves were frayed from spending ten minutes with Colt. “Infants in day care tend to catch more colds than those at home. Some argue that it can build the immune system faster, but you want to take precautions, like disinfecting anything he plays with and such. Also, be on the lookout for sick kids when you go there. If the center you chose doesn’t manage that well, you might want to switch.”
Oh joy. Perfect setup for at least one “I told you so” from her mom.
“Thanks.” Gentry followed Dr. Evans out of the exam room, cradling her wailing son, and walked directly into the sight line of three other moms and their kids.
The women, dressed in stretchy yoga pants, and busy wrestling toddlers who were acting more like monkeys than kids, wore expressions ranging from contempt to pity.
Well, screw them. Colt may be loud, but he was still perfect.
She forced herself to smile, grateful that she’d managed to wear a chic summer Rag & Bone halter dress and kick-ass platform sandals. Chin up, she breezed by, beaming at Colt as if his cries were akin to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” and then headed directly to CVS.
After suffering through a Muzak rendition of George Michael’s “Father Figure” during a painful wait in the miles-long line at the pharmacy counter, she finally got home and administered the first dose. Thankfully, Colt had worn himself out. She put him down in his bassinet after raising one side.
Grabbing the remote from her nightstand, she then rolled down the blackout shades. Her eyes adjusted to the darkened room enough to allow her to enjoy watching Colt’s body and mouth twitch as he fell off to sleep.
The bottomless love in her heart terrified her. She’d never cared this much for anything. That made her fear of screwing up—something she’d never much worried about before—unbearable. Between Colt’s chronic pain and constant crying, she had yet to experience the sustained joyfulness that motherhood brought others. Someday. Soon. Please.
For now, she’d try to escape her bedroom without waking him. Something of a quandary, actually. Maybe she should nap instead of risk the door click waking him. Having slept well last night, she didn’t need a nap. She needed to solve her work problem pronto, and then finally frame those photos.
She crept from the bedroom on her tiptoes. Once she reached the living room, she flopped onto the sofa cushions, sprawling out like a lazy teen, and enjoyed the debris-free space.
Ian had been a godsend, and a gorgeous one at that. One that had stirred up all kinds of unsettling sensations. Like her son’s tummy trouble, hers she’d suffer without any cure. How long did one have to go without sex to be considered a virgin again? Now that was something to cry about. Abstinence-induced colic. She snickered.
Thinking of Ian reminded her of her promise to give Sara an update. Gentry might as well embrace the productive way to procrastinate about telling Hunter she wouldn’t be back at work tomorrow.
“Gentry, how’s Colt?” Sara answered without preamble.
“Ear infection.” Gentry closed her eyes, determined to sound confident instead of contrite, even in the face of proof that Colt might’ve been better off under Sara’s care. “You were right to suggest calling Ian. Thanks.”
“I’m glad he could help.”
Gentry doubted Ian had followed up with Sara or told her that he’d spent the night. “He was very helpful.”
It had been beyond wonderful to have an extra set of eyes and ears . . . and hands. Women with husbands or partners were lucky. She’d kill for that kind of support.
“I’ll tell him you said so,” Sara said.
“Oh?” Gentry sat up, alert and slightly hot. “You’re seeing him today?”
“Maybe.” A shuffling noise came through the phone, and Gentry could hear Ty in the background. “Hunter’s home to watch Ty, so I’m running errands, getting a haircut. I plan to swing by the Angel House with some donations, too. Ian might be there visiting his mom. If not, I can pass the message along.”
Ian’s cool green eyes and scruffy jaw from this morning flickered in Gentry’s memory. Her mouth went kind of dry. How stupid! Ian Crawford was a reputable man—almost too good—and in no way the right guy for her.
She’d detected a hint of wry humor beneath that serious demeanor, but he didn’t seem like a man who liked to have fun. Gentry craved fun and hopefully would have some, one day soon, before she forgot how.
Ian also had no sense of fashion. No money. And no interest in
her—well, no real interest. He had been a little affected by her near-naked body. But a man would have to be dead not to, she conceded. In any case, she’d be a fool to pine for a guy so obviously ill-suited to her lifestyle.
If she were to bring a man into Colt’s life, it should probably be Smith. But finding him when she had no idea where to begin could prove impossible. And there were risks. Normally, risks wouldn’t bother her, but when it came to her son, she couldn’t afford to be impulsive.
In the meantime, she could use help. If she recalled, Ian could use housing.
“Sara, do you have Ian’s number? I promised him an update, too.” A harmless white lie.
“Sure. I’ll text it to you.” Another loud noise rang out, followed by the sound of Hunter’s scolding voice. Ty must’ve broken something. A hint of things to come in Gentry’s life a year or two from now. Perhaps she should’ve decorated her condo with foam padding and shag carpets instead of glass and stone. “Oh, shoot. Gentry, I’ve got to go. If you need anything, let me know. I’m happy to help.”
“I’m good. Don’t forget to text me!” Gentry wasn’t sure if Sara heard that last part until five minutes later, when her phone pinged.
She stared at the number. It’d be bold—rarely a deterrent. He’d be shocked, which she usually enjoyed. Yet Ian was honest and an EMT. The best possible temporary nanny until Colt was well enough to go to Miss Linda’s.
Decision made, she dialed him. To her surprise, he answered, despite not recognizing the caller. What kind of person answered anonymous calls these days?
“Hello?”
His rich voice sounded sexier than she remembered, probably because she wasn’t distracted by her own appearance or embarrassment. Her gut responded with a chorus of flutters. She flexed her toes. “Hi, Ian. It’s Gentry Cabot.”