A Father for Jesse

by Roth, Ann

  While his friends lazed away their post-high-school-graduation summer, then started college, pledged fraternities and dated cute coeds, Mac had looked after his brothers, worked on a construction crew and kept house. Not easy, but he’d seen Ian and Brian through eight years of school. By the time they finished high school, he’d started his own home-remodeling business. Money earned from that, plus proceeds from the sale of their parents’ house, had covered the twins’ college education. Summers they worked for him, earning a paycheck and learning the business. This past December they’d both graduated. Mac was proud as hell of them.

  And ready to realize his own ambitions. Finally, at the ripe old age of thirty, it was his turn. As soon as he finished redoing the Rutherford kitchen, he planned to travel around Europe for a few months. With no set agenda and no responsibilities, he could go wherever he wanted, as carefree as he’d always dreamed of being. He’d fly back in time for summer quarter at the University of Washington. Mac wanted the degree, which his parents had urged him to earn, and the kind of interaction you could only get in a classroom. He meant to get a bachelor degree in construction management. By doubling up on credits and taking classes year-round, he figured he’d finish in just under three years. While he was gone, his brothers would run the company and finance his education, just as he’d done for them.

  This time, nothing short of death would stop him. Nothing.

  “I’m tired,” he heard Jesse say.

  “I know,” his mother replied. “Let’s hurry and bring in the rest of the boxes before the rain starts again. Then we’ll return the U-Haul—if we get it back before five, we save money—pick up something for dinner and relax.”

  “I gonna relax now.”

  “There isn’t that much left to do. If we work together, we’ll finish in no time. Then you can goof off.”

  The boy crossed his arms and shook his head.

  “Please? Just a little more?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m quitting now.”

  “Come on, Jess, I really need your help.”

  “No. N. O.”

  Mac eyed the defiant boy, who clearly needed a firm hand. Which, judging by his mother’s pleading voice and expression, was something she didn’t understand.

  “What’ll it take to change your mind?” she asked in a soft voice. “Ice cream? A new T-shirt?”

  Jesse snorted and shook his head. “You can’t make me do what I don’t want to do. You can’t make me do anything.” His chin jutted out in challenge. “I hate it here. I want to move back home to Oakland, and my friends.”

  A loud breath huffed from Emmy’s lips, as if she was trying to hold on to her temper. “We’ve already discussed this numerous times. We’re not going back. This is our home now.”

  “Not mine. I never wanted to move, and I’ll never like it here. I. Want. To. Go. Back,” Jesse repeated, emphasizing every word.

  “If you just give Halo Island a chance, I know—”

  “You don’t know. This place is lame and so are you. I hate you!” He spit out the words. “You can just…go to hell.”

  Looking shocked and hurt, Emmy recoiled. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I hate you and go to hell.”

  The kid had just stepped over the line. Without stopping to think, Mac headed toward him and his mother.

  I HATE YOU and go to hell. Jesse’s stinging zinger sliced straight into Emmy’s heart. Crushed, appalled at his nerve and a little scared, she made her you’d-better-take-that-back-or-you’re-in-trouble face. Seemingly unfazed, he stared sullenly at her. She realized she’d completely lost the ability to control him. Dear God, what to do now?

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught a whir of movement. Mac strode across the yard, his jaw tight and his gaze narrowed on Jesse. As he closed the distance between them, her son dropped the tough pose. Suddenly a little boy again, he shuffled his feet.

  Mac stopped not a foot away, his big hands low on his hips. “No boy should talk to his mother like that,” he said in a quiet but commanding voice. In the cold, his breath formed sharp clouds. “You apologize to her.”

  To Emmy’s amazement, her rebellious son gave a meek nod.

  “Sorry,” he grumbled, chewing his cheek.

  She nodded.

  “That’s more like it.” Mac’s expression lightened. “Now do like your mother asked and help with those boxes.”

  Lips tight, Jesse hurried to comply.

  While Emmy was relieved to have his cooperation again, she was embarrassed that Mac had heard Jess’s awful words. She was also furious at this man she didn’t even know, telling her child how to behave.

  She waited until Jesse disappeared into the house, then rounded on Mac. “Just who do you think you are?”

  Clearly surprised, he put his hands up, palms out. “Hey, I was only trying to help. I know kids, and if you don’t make them toe the line now, you’ll lose them later.”

  How did Mac figure that? He was probably right. Heaven knew she wasn’t the best at making Jesse behave. That needed to change. But this virtual stranger disciplining her son—it was too much.

  “You don’t even know us, and you certainly have no right to butt into our lives,” she said, seething. “So butt out.”

  Mac flinched as if she’d slapped him. Verbally, she had.

  “It won’t happen again.” Turning on his heel, he walked away.

  Chapter Two

  For the rest of the weekend, while Emmy and Jesse grocery shopped, bought paint for Jesse’s bedroom and unpacked boxes, she thought about Mac and what he’d said. Also what she’d said. In hindsight she realized he’d only meant to help. Which he had—Jess had pretty much behaved since. And how had she thanked Mac? By bawling him out. She couldn’t stop thinking about the startled look on his face and how he drew back. Her uncivil behavior gnawed at her so that even when she fell into bed exhausted late at night, she couldn’t sleep.

  By Monday morning, sick of beating up on herself, she made a decision. When Mac showed up at the Rutherfords’ today, she’d march over there and apologize. The very thought salved her conscience.

  At the moment, though, there were bigger concerns—for one, convincing Jesse to go to school. After that one frightening moment Saturday afternoon, she no longer feared she’d lost control. She and Jess were back on track with their usual tug-of-war, but she did have the final say and he knew it. Thank goodness. Even if the constant arguing drained her.

  “Do I have to go?” he asked, head bowed over his still-empty cereal bowl.

  Like her he was tired, but that wasn’t the real reason for his balky behavior. Shy by nature, he didn’t adapt easily to change.

  Now in the small kitchen, sitting across the square wood table from him, Emmy sipped her coffee and tried to ease his fears. “Remember what Mr. Rutherford said? Mrs. Hatcher’s really nice.”

  “Then she won’t mind if I’m not there today.”

  “But she’s expecting you.”

  “Come on, Mom, second semester hasn’t even started yet. They’ll probably be reviewing for their finals. I already finished my first semester, so me going today is lame.”

  Not really. Jesse needed the time to adjust to his teacher and classroom, and hopefully start making friends. Emmy arched her eyebrows. “You’re going to school, period.” Hating that she sounded so stern, she added, “But if you want, I’ll drive you.”

  “No way!” He looked mortified. “I’ll catch the bus.”

  Which meant that he wasn’t going to fight her any more about school. She’d won the first battle of the day, a big relief. She glanced at the brass ship’s clock, a thirtieth birthday gift from her father that now decorated the kitchen wall. “Which will be here in less than half an hour. You’d better eat breakfast while you have time.”

  Jesse poured cornflakes into his bowl, then added sugar and milk. That he didn’t want a ride—didn’t want to be seen with his mother—was nothing new. He was growing up—way too fast for Emmy. S
he remembered herself at his age, wanting to be independent yet still needing her mother. A woman who was remote and distracted and only too eager to push Emmy out of the nest. Her father had been far more affectionate, but after her parents divorced when Emmy was six, he’d moved to the East Coast. Growing up, she only saw him a few times a year. Now, with money tight, she saw him even less.

  Jesse attacked his cereal as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Lately he was always hungry, yet never seemed to gain weight.

  Deep in thought, Emmy poured herself a smaller portion. She worked hard to be the opposite of her mother, to be here whenever her son needed her and also when he didn’t—just in case. To listen and help and be the mom she’d always wanted. She would explain this to Mac so that he understood, she decided as she ate. The man no doubt thought she was a shrew. Emmy cringed at that.

  Then again, why did she even care? She certainly wasn’t interested in him. No? Then why am I spending so much time worrying about his opinion of me?

  Because she wanted him, and everyone else in town, to like her. She wanted to fit in and set down roots here.

  Checking the clock a second time, she sprang into action. “The bus will be here really soon. Better wash your face and brush your teeth.”

  While Jesse did so in their microscopic bathroom, Emmy cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and sponged up her son’s dribbled milk and cereal. She probably should ask him to clean up his own mess, but didn’t want him to miss the bus.

  If you don’t make them toe the line now, you’ll lose them later, Mac had said. Did that apply to dishes, too? She’d make Jesse do the dinner dishes.

  How did Mac know that, anyway? Had he been a handful for his parents? Or maybe he had a child or two of his own. Was he married? Divorced? Emmy wanted to know, but wouldn’t ask—didn’t want him to think she was too interested.

  Jesse returned to the kitchen with his face washed and his hair gelled and styled like many boys his age. In contrast to his movie-star-cool hair, he wore the clothes Tyrell and his posse favored—a black oversize T-shirt with the Street King’s emblem of a hand-drawn red crown on the front and a red skull and crossbones on the back. His black jeans were so loose they could fall down at any moment and his sneakers were unlaced. Emmy hated that her son still owned the awful T-shirt. She detested the entire outfit, which was sure to make a poor first impression at school. They might even send a note home, asking that he not wear these clothes. Half hoping they would, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from sending Jesse back to his room to change—she didn’t want to fight this battle now, especially when he was running late—she handed him his lunch money.

  Jesse pocketed the three dollars and turned away. “Bye, Mom.”

  “Don’t I rate a kiss?”

  He was still a few inches shorter than she was, and Emmy bent her head. Rolling his eyes, Jesse gave her a quick peck. She fought the urge to pull him into a hug. He wouldn’t like that.

  Bypassing the walnut coat tree they’d brought from Oakland, he headed toward the door. Why did kids think it cool to go coatless and shiver all day?

  “Wait just a minute,” Emmy said. “It’s January. You need your jacket.”

  With an audible sigh of irritation, he grabbed his bomber jacket. He shrugged into it, then swung his backpack over one shoulder.

  Much better. Emmy smiled. “If you change your mind and want me to pick you up after school, call. I’ll be here, painting your room.” Her new job started a week from today, giving her seven whole days to spruce up the house and make it into a home. And five days to be here for Jesse after school, instead of making him come to the library and wait for her shift to end.

  “I’ll ride the bus back,” he said.

  “Would you like me to wait with you this morning?”

  He looked appalled at the very idea. “Mo-om.”

  “I was only offering. Bye.”

  He clomped through the door, banging it shut it behind him. Suddenly the cottage was much too quiet. Chafing her arms against a surge of loneliness, Emmy stood in the living room and peeked through a chink in the drapes, spying shamelessly as her son waited at the end of the driveway. The morning was damp, chill and gray, and she was glad she’d made him wear his jacket.

  Moments later the bus rounded the bend and rolled toward the house. As it screeched and stopped, Emmy noted several boys and girls seated inside. Would one or more of them become Jesse’s friends?

  She hoped so. “Be happy today, heart of my heart,” she murmured.

  The bus driver, a man with a round face and friendly smile, greeted Jesse. Emmy couldn’t see her son’s expression, but his shoulders were straight, instead of slumped—a positive sign, right? Jess boarded and disappeared inside.

  Not five seconds after the bus rumbled off, Mac’s white van pulled to a stop on the far side of the Rutherfords’ driveway. He certainly started work early.

  Emmy’s spirits lifted, which was ridiculous. At the same time, for some reason, she was suddenly nervous about apologizing. She continued to peek through the drapes, watching as Mac unfolded his long legs and exited the van. No jacket today, just a dark T-shirt. Good thing Jess wasn’t here to see that.

  He took the front steps two at a time, crossed the porch and knocked on the Rutherfords’ door. Shortly after Mac disappeared inside, Emmy’s landlords left the house and drove away. They owned Rutherford Boat Repair in town. Melinda had told Emmy about their shop and about leaving first thing in the morning when she’d stopped by yesterday with a welcome-to-the-cottage pound of coffee and the remodeling plans. Emmy could only dream of such a beautiful new kitchen, and wondered at the skill and effort required to create it.

  Mac returned to the van, and she absently fluffed her hair. He pulled open the sliding doors, then lugged load after load of materials onto the porch, his breath huffing in clouds and his biceps bulging. No wonder he looked so strong and fit. Probably had abs of steel, too. And his legs…Even in loose jeans she noted his powerful thighs.

  Hand at her throat, she blew out an admiring breath. What would Carla, her best friend in Oakland, say about Mac? No doubt she’d lick her lips and fan herself. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t?

  Emmy couldn’t see inside the van, but surely by now it must be nearly empty. She’d talk to him before he went inside for good.

  After putting on lipstick, then wiping it off—don’t want to give him the wrong idea—Emmy checked her hair. She slipped on her coat, then corralling her nervousness, headed out the door.

  HAULING SUPPLIES onto the Rutherfords’ porch was hard work, and after a dozen trips Mac had worked up a light sweat. His hands were cold, though, and standing beside the stack of drywall, he blew on his fists with clouded breath. And wondered when his brothers would show up with the Dumpster. Once they arrived, they’d start gutting the kitchen, a huge job sure to take the entire day.

  He started down the steps to get his circular saw and spotted Emmy Logan headed his way, her hair tucked behind her ears and her coat buttoned up tight. Like before, she wore jeans and ankle boots. No smile, but no frown, either. Which could mean anything. Remembering the other day and not about to get on her bad side again, Mac kept his expression carefully neutral and his mouth shut. She reached the van the same time he did.

  Cautious, his arms at his sides, he eyed her.

  “Um, good morning,” she said, stuffing her gloved hands into her coat pockets.

  “Morning.” During the seconds that ticked by, time he could be transporting his tools, he cocked his eyebrows. “Did you want something?”

  “I…” She glanced down. “I’m here to apologize for my behavior the other day.”

  He hadn’t expected this. “Really.”

  She nodded. “You were trying to help. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  She’d done more than snap. With her eyes flashing and her fearless, defensive stance she’d reminded him of a mama bear defending her cub. Who was no cub, but a boy badly in need of d
iscipline. In Mac’s book a big part of good parenting. But Emmy was a single mom, probably doing the best she could.

  “And I had no right wading in where I wasn’t invited. Apology accepted.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a bit. That and the relief on her face were another surprise. Was this apology so important to her?

  “You seem to know something about kids,” she said. “You and your wife must have one or two.”

  Either the sudden pink in her cheeks was from the cold or she was blushing. Interesting. “Never been married,” Mac said. “And I don’t have any kids. Don’t plan to, either.”

  “Oh. Well.”

  He could see that she had more questions. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “I’m wondering how it is that a single man without children knows so much about them. Not that it’s any of my business.” She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, as if flustered.

  For some reason Mac found that sweet—go figure. “It’s no secret,” he said. “Our parents died when I was eighteen and my twin brothers were ten. I raised them. That’s why I don’t want kids of my own. I’ve already played daddy.”

  “You took care of your two brothers all by yourself?” She looked at him, amazed. “I’m a thirty-year-old woman. Taking care of one child is hard for me. You were only eighteen, still a boy yourself. How in the world did you manage?”

  “By growing up real fast. There was insurance money. We used most of it to pay off the house. That helped.” But making ends meet, providing his brothers with food, clothing and school supplies, had been a struggle. Not to mention keeping them on the straight and narrow.

  “It takes more than money to raise kids. It can’t have been easy.”

  Her face radiated compassion. Nothing new there. Over the years Mac had heard his share of I’m sorrys and how sads from people who simply mouthed the words. Emmy’s sympathy seemed genuinely heartfelt. Maybe because she was a single parent with challenges of her own.

  “You have no idea,” he said.