by Liz Talley
He looked down at the three-year-old and nodded. “I loved sno balls when I was little. Your daddy and I once had a contest to see who could eat theirs the fastest. Gave us both horrible headaches. But since your tummy was upset, maybe we’ll skip sno balls today.”
“But I want one.”
“We’ll see.” He stood surveying the scene for a moment, wondering how one proceeded at a school fair.
“Come on,” his niece said, tugging the tail of his shirt and pulling him toward the field where the school had set up the Preschool Spring Fling. Something about the brightly colored tents and milling laughing families made him feel a bit lonely… and sad for Charlotte that she had to experience the event with an uncle she didn’t know rather than with her parents.
Ben.
If his brother pulled through, he’d face many obstacles with the loss of his leg. Ben had always taken great pride in being active—running marathons, training for triathlons, and hiking in the Ozarks—or so Lucas had gleaned from his mother. But even navigating a small school fair would be a challenge until Ben adjusted to a prosthetic.
That thought made Lucas’s sadness he felt over his brother more pronounced.
There was a gulf between him and Ben, wide enough to make Lucas doubt if it would ever be bridged. But it still hurt to think about how sick his brother was, about how unsettled he’d feel if Ben died without either of them attempting to extend the olive branch.
If Ben continued to worsen, Lucas might never have a chance to find forgiveness. If Ben recovered, there was no guarantee it would matter. Lucas wasn’t ready to forgive Ben or Courtney. Or maybe he was. He couldn’t sift through his feelings fast enough. Things felt too cluttered in his life at the moment. It was enough to survive until the next day.
“Hey, Charlotte’s uncle,” a voice from his left called.
He turned to find the woman who’d offered to buy him a coffee that first morning he’d attempted carpool and found himself on the receiving end of nun fury. It wasn’t Shannon, the bored housewife—she had red hair—but he couldn’t remember a name for this one. “Yeah?”
“Just saying hello. I’m Tara Lindsay, Sheldon’s mom. Remember?”
He nodded but didn’t want to encourage chitchat with the woman who wore tottering heels and carried a big purse he’d be willing to bet cost more than his truck payment. Yet he didn’t want to be a total ass. He held out a hand. “Lucas, and, of course, I remember. So I’m guessing I’m supposed to, what, let Charlotte play all the games? Never been to a Spring Fling with a three-year-old.”
“I’m gonna be four,” Charlotte piped up.
“I bet you haven’t,” Tara drawled, ignoring Charlotte, her voice flirtatious, her gaze likely illegal in three states. He squelched the inclination to twitch in jeans that suddenly felt too tight under her perusal.
“I wanna get my face painted,” Charlotte said, pointing toward a tent where high school-aged girls swiped paintbrushes against the cheeks of preschoolers. Maybe he should have brought Michael after all. The boy might find someone who made him smile. It could be a miracle at St. George’s.
“The tickets are over there.” Tara pointed a long professionally manicured fingernail toward a red booth. “I’ll walk with you. My ex is taking Sheldon around so I’m waiting for father and son time to wind down. I’m sure Sam will make sure he’s out of here as quickly as possible.”
Lucas didn’t have anything to say to that very personal revelation.
“Maybe seeing me with tall, dark, and cowboy will rub salt in a wound or something,” she continued, snaking a hand through the crook of his arm and steering him toward the ticket booth.
He took Charlotte’s hand. “Let’s get some tickets and then I’ll take you over to the face painting tent, okay?”
Charlotte didn’t pull away, though her blue eyes did dart to Tara tottering beside him. For some reason, he gathered Charlotte didn’t like the woman latching onto them. Maybe his niece was coming around to having him in her life. She’d even let him hold her after she’d gotten sick yesterday afternoon. Seems too many cookies and two glasses of milk was a bit too much for child her age.
“I want Addy,” Charlotte said as they stopped in the short line. “Why wouldn’t she come wif us?”
“She’s keeping an eye on your brothers. They’re helping her plant the flowers. They have to be put in soil or they’ll die.”
“And you gotta water ’em,” Charlotte said, nodding her head in a serious manner. “I’m gonna feed my worms when I get home. Addy said she’s gonna find out what they wike to eat.”
“Oh my gosh, she’s just so cute,” Tara trilled, refusing to let go of his arm even though they’d arrived at their destination. He really wanted her to let go. Looked weird to have her cuddled up to him when he barely knew her.
Lucas pulled his arm from Tara’s so he could remove his wallet from his back pocket. Ten seconds later and twenty dollars lighter, he had a strip of blue tickets and his arm back.
“I wanna butterfly with sparkles,” Charlotte said, dropping his hand and running toward the tents.
Lucas sighed and followed. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to spend his Sunday afternoon at the Spring Fling for Charlotte’s preschool especially when the Spurs were playing on TV. And with Tara tagging along touching him and cooing over Charlotte, he really longed for the recliner, a remote, and some Michelob time. Not that he’d likely get it in that particular household.
“So how is everything going? You seem to be doing okay with the kids… outside of the carpool incident.”
“It’s going okay. Taking care of three children isn’t for the weakhearted.”
“No shit.” Tara shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans making her breasts bulge against the T-shirt she wore. He’d give the woman credit for having a nice rack. Even though he wasn’t interested in Tara, he wasn’t dead.
To his right, he spied a concession stand offering beer and wine. Silver lining.
“If you’ll keep an eye on Charlotte, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Now you’re talking, cowboy.” Tara smiled and he noted she had a lot of teeth. Straight white expensive-looking teeth. She was pretty, but not his type.
“Beer or wine?”
“White wine,” Tara said, keeping her breasts front and center while rubbing together her glossy lips and sliding her gaze down his body.
Made him feel like a deer in a rifle scope.
Lucas double-checked on Charlotte who balanced on a small stool under the ministrations of a teenaged girl and slid off to grab a beer and white wine. A few minutes later he was back and Tara wasn’t alone. A slender man with a receding hairline and a glowering expression stood beside her, holding onto the hand of a boy whose face was smeared with cotton candy.
“Way to be obvious, Tara. You’re forty for Christ’s sake, and you’re dressed like a whore at your son’s school fair,” the man said.
“Shut up,” Tara hissed under her breath. “I’ve seen what you’ve been dating. You’re lucky you’re not in jail.”
“Ah, someone’s jealous… not to mention past her shelf date,” he returned, a mean smile playing about his lips.
Lucas wasn’t interested in Tara, but he could tell her ex-husband was a jerk. Something cruel lurked in the man’s eyes.
“Here you go, babe,” Lucas said, curving an arm around Tara’s waist. She stiffened before relaxing against him. The gratitude in her eyes in that moment was enough to outweigh the difficulty he knew he’d have convincing her he was not into her.
“Thank you, Lucas,” Tara said, smiling up at him.
“You ready to move to the duck pond? Charlotte’s finished,” Lucas said, nodding toward the ex-husband. The man’s self-satisfied smile vanished, and he stepped back quickly, releasing the boy’s hand. Tara reached down and picked up her son’s hand, rubbing some of the candy gunk off his chin.
“I’m Sam Lindsey,” the man said, holding out a hand.
Lucas took it and gave him a punishing handshake. “Lucas Finlay.”
Sam resisted wincing, but Lucas knew he’d gotten the message. Nothing Lucas hated worse than a bully. Sam had pretentious prick written across his forehead. In fact, it was almost a blinking marquee.
“Okay, let’s go,” Tara said, tossing her ex a smile that said, “eat shit and die.”
Charlotte ran to Lucas, skidding to a stop in front of him. Preening she put her little hands on both sides of her face. “What am I, Uncle Wucas?”
“A sparkling butterfly!” he proclaimed.
“Yes!” Charlotte bounced up and down… and nearly hit the dirt.
“Let’s go with Sheldon to the duck pond,” Lucas said to his niece.
Charlotte looked over at the boy who wore paper bunny ears and hadn’t stopped chowing down on his cotton candy and said, “This kid wooks weird.”
Sheldon dropped his cotton candy cone on the ground and slapped Charlotte right in the face. “You’re an asshole!”
Tara gasped, her eye going wide. “Sheldon! No, sir.” She yanked him back toward her.
Charlotte’s face crumpled before issuing a scream.
Then both kids started wailing.
And that’s how Lucas ended up not having to worry about Tara clinging to his arm. Because the woman took a screeching Sheldon home, and Lucas ended up spending another forty dollars to have his face painted—a tiger—and played games for an hour longer than he planned. They also ate sno-balls. Thankfully, a tired Charlotte did not throw up in his truck on the way home. His niece also didn’t tremble once the whole afternoon. Especially not after her “Uncle Wucas saved her from that weird kid.”
Addy tried to concentrate on the computer screen where the accounting program was doing its best to defeat her, but it was no use. She wasn’t in the mood to reconcile her bank statement… but then again who was ever in the mood to reconcile a bank statement? A psycho, that’s who.
Her mind kept tripping back to the day before and the strange intimacy she’d established with Lucas. Such an unexpected and somewhat exciting turn of events. Not to mention, the time she’d spent with the Finlay children had lessened the chokehold fear had on her. Charlotte had glowed from the attention, Chris had laughed and entertained, and even Michael had smiled… once. And that very afternoon, while Lucas had taken Charlotte to her school fair, working with the boys had filled her with an odd contentment.
The image of Lucas holding Charlotte’s hand at the school fair popped into her mind. He’d come to her house with a painted tiger face, and Charlotte fast asleep on his shoulder. Addy’s heart swelled and her ovaries may have exploded. Such a tough man creating such a tender moment.
Something about him reminded her of the sheriff in the naughty erotic romance she started reading the night before. She’d set aside the book with the sheik and helpless English virgin for the Western knowing she shouldn’t play with fire. But something about those wranglers and boots, about the hard line of his mouth she wanted to feel against hers, had her cracking open the new book featuring an iron-jawed sheriff with broad shoulders and a big, ahem, gun.
How would Uncle Lucas look tied up to Addy’s bed? Reclining against those ruffled pillows and lavender quilt? She could see his muscles, long and sinewy, beneath golden skin. She wanted to touch his hair, trail her fingers along his chest, down to—
The computer dinged signaling a message.
What was she doing fantasizing about a man who would mosey back to Texas soon?
But then again maybe Lucas was exactly what she needed in her life at that moment. What had Flora called him? Yes, a tall drink of water. Maybe Addy needed to take a sip of a man who wouldn’t want anything from her but a good time. The same way the good sheriff only wanted a no-strings attached roll in the hay with the Widow Taylor. And Madam Tiffany. And the new school marm. Sheriff Isaac Strong got around.
Or maybe Addy should stop trying to make her naughty books real life.
Addy pushed back in her rolling chair, just as Aunt Flora passed carrying her bedding down the hall.
“Hey, Auntie dearest, what are you doing with those sheets?” she called, rising and trailing down the hall behind her aunt.
“Washing ’em,” her aunt answered.
“Why? Did you spill something? You just washed them a few days ago.” Addy propped her hands against the door jamb of the small laundry room next to the kitchen.
Aunt Flora set the bundle of sheets in the wicker laundry basket and turned to Addy. “I didn’t wash my sheets a few days ago. A few days ago was Wednesday or Thursday. I never do laundry midweek. I’m too busy.”
Alzheimer’s reared its ugly head. Her aunt had done laundry mid-week after spilling an entire cup of tea on her bed. “I thought you had—” Addy snapped her mouth closed.
“Wait, did I?” Aunt Flora looked blankly at the sheets. “I could have sworn…”
“Well, it won’t hurt to wash them again. You’ll be back on schedule.” Addy offered her a wry smile.
“Don’t baby me.” Aunt Flora slammed the lid on the washer. “I’m not an idiot. I forgot. No use trying to spin it for me.”
Addy stood there silently, not knowing how to respond to the fact her aunt’s mind deteriorated more and more each week. The medicine had helped for a while, but over the past few months, her aunt had worsened. They needed to talk to the doctor about trying something different. “I’m not-”
“Yes, you are. I’m not a child. Don’t treat me that way.”
What could Addy say to that? She tried not to treat her aunt any different than before she’d been diagnosed, but she couldn’t ignore the signs… nor the fact her aunt’s forgetfulness made Addy feel vulnerable, feel as if she needed to check behind her. “I’m sorry.”
Addy turned to go.
“Wait,” her aunt said. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. At this stupid disease that’s making me feel so weak.”
Turning, Addy stepped toward her aunt and took the laundry basket from her. She grabbed her aunt’s hands and forced her to look at her. “You’re not weak. You’re the same person you’ve always been. I shouldn’t have said anything. Doesn’t hurt if you wash your sheets again. In fact, I wish you’d wash mine, too. I haven’t had time.”
“Please,” Aunt Flora muttered.
“Don’t overthink this, okay?”
Aunt Flora’s eyes reflected agony. “Why is this happening to me? All these years I’ve waited to turn the shop over to you, waited until I could do all those things on my bucket list—skydiving, driving out West to see the Grand Canyon, taking painting classes. I’d put all those things off until I retired, and now look at me. My mind is being eaten away, and I can’t even remember when I washed my damn sheets last. Or where they moved the dry cleaners I use. Or what the Harrington’s named that ugly dog of theirs.”
“Freddy Bear.”
“Huh?”
“Their pug’s name is Freddy Bear. Ridiculous, huh?”
“Yes. Very ridiculous.”
Addy squeezed her aunt’s hands. “Look. It sucks. No way around it. But you are still you. You’re not weaker or any less of a person. So suck it up, buttercup.”
Her aunt smiled at the adage she’d often muttered to Addy over the years. “I’ve never considered myself a buttercup kind of a gal.”
“No?”
“I’m a Bird of Paradise.”
“I can see that,” Addy said, giving her a quick hug before turning back toward the office and ledger awaiting her. “And wash my sheets while you’re at it… or come help me with balancing the books.”
“I don’t remember how to do the books. You’re on your own, kiddo,” Aunt Flora cracked, obviously finding the sense of humor she’d misplaced during her moment of frustration.
“Yeah, yeah,” Addy said, trudging down the hall. She wished she hadn’t said anything to her aunt about the stupid laundry. Should have let her pass without calling out and
reminding her of the disease that plagued her.
Aunt Flora had always been Addy’s soul mate. Growing up in a large family in a too small house in New Orleans East, Addy found Aunt Flora’s rambling, quiet Uptown house a refuge. Any time her mother came into the city to run errands, Addy begged to go to Aunt Flora’s. Her mother’s oldest sister had never married, electing to stay in the family house on Benjamin Street, and run the floral shop she’d bought from the gentleman she’d trained under for many years, and who her aunt had been in secretly in love with.
Addy had craved puttering in the garden with her aunt, learning the names of flowers, watching with interest as seeds sprouted, buds opened, and pretty stems mixed with other pretty stems becoming fabulous arrangements for which people paid money. Paired with butter cookies and sweet tea, gardening with Aunt Flora became Addy’s sanctuary. Seemed only natural she follow in her mentor’s footsteps.
After Addy had been attacked, she hadn’t wanted to move to Dallas for the job she’d procured in a marketing firm. She turned the offer down and took a job working in her aunt’s shop, much to her parents’ dismay and, to a degree, their relief. For weeks after the attack, Addy wouldn’t even leave the house. After years of therapy and obtaining her floral license, Addy had moved into the city with Aunt Flora. Up until a year ago when Aunt Flora had officially retired and sold Fleur De Lis to Addy, their arrangement had been ideal.
Not that it still wasn’t good.
But Addy worried about the ensuing years. Her mother refused to accept her older sister was slipping and that Alzheimer’s increasingly progressed despite the prescriptive medicines, therapies, and herbal supplements they researched. So Addy had no help in determining the future for the aunt she loved so.
As she stepped back into her office, a flash of color outside caught her eye. Pulling back the curtain, she saw Michael and Chris rolling around near her newly restored greenhouse beating the hell out of each other. Lucas was nowhere to be seen, and Michael decidedly had the upper hand… and he wasn’t going easy on his younger brother.