No Kind of Hero (Portland Devils Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  He ignored the whistling and the grin, picked up his tools, and got to work, and if he put in an extra hour and a half that evening? This was a priority job, and of course he wanted to satisfy the client. That was the roof over his baby girl’s head. It didn’t have anything at all to do with somehow making himself good enough for the Schaefers. He wasn’t going down that road again.

  By the time he finally got to his mom’s at six-thirty, she had Gracie over her shoulder, and his daughter had a fist stuffed in her mouth and a look of misery on her face. When she saw him, she smiled, started crying, then smiled again, like she wasn’t sure which one to stick with.

  “Good,” Angela said, handing Gracie over with a sigh. “She’s got a little cold. Going to be fussy tonight. She sure has been today.”

  “Have you?” Evan asked Gracie, holding her up high overhead the way she liked, then letting her down and giving her some snuggle time. “You got a snuffly nose and being a monster for your grandma?” In answer, she grabbed hold of the sunglasses he’d shoved into the collar of his T-shirt and did her best to stick the end into her mouth. “That’s how you get germs, you know,” he told her, handing her a giraffe rattle from the couch and taking his sunglasses back. “Thanks,” he told his mom. “Sorry I was late.”

  “Nah, it’s just Bunco night. They can start without me.”

  He smiled. “I appreciate you, you know that?”

  She’d been putting dishes into the dishwasher, because the kitchen was a little bit of a disaster area—like it had been a Fussy Baby Day—but now, she turned around and studied him. “What?”

  “What what?” He grabbed for the box of Kleenex on the coffee table and wiped Gracie’s nose. “You’re kind of a mess, squirt,” he told her. This time, she hit him with her rattle and wiped her nose some more. On his T-shirt, which made him smile again.

  “What’s got you in a good mood?” his mom asked. “Did you scratch off the winning numbers or something?”

  “Could be.” He bounced Gracie, since she was making fussy noises. “Hey, some good news. We’re stepping out painting the old theater. Going to be a peacock thing. Pretty sweet.” He explained the scheme to her. “And I’ve got a woman question. Maybe you could help me out with it.”

  She started wiping down counters. “Last I checked, I qualify. Shoot. Tell me it’s your love life and get double points.”

  He ignored that. “What do you think about Zodiac signs in the bathroom stalls? Would you read that? Something about your sign? Would you think it was fun, or just . . .” He shrugged. “Strange?”

  “Sounds all right to me. Better than graffiti. Is that Dakota’s idea? That and the peacock?”

  “No. The peacock’s mine. I suggested it, and the owner liked it. The horoscope was . . . ah, somebody else’s.”

  His mom stopped wiping counters, eyed him some more, and said, “Ah. Well, you’ll tell me when you’re ready, I guess. I sure do like to see you smiling again.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek, something he didn’t do often enough, and said, “I love you.” Something else he didn’t do often enough. “Best mom in the world,” he added. It was what he’d always used to say growing up, knowing it made her happy. It was even true. When had he stopped saying it? “Thanks for teaching me how.”

  In response, she gave him a squeeze and said, “Any time. Watching your kids be good parents is about the best present a parent could ask for. Especially seeing you know how to be a dad. Can’t tell you what that does for me.”

  She almost never mentioned Evan’s own father. When Evan’s brother Grant, always angrier and louder than Evan, had asked why way back during their teenage years, she’d said, “I didn’t want you boys to hate him in case he showed up again.” Which he hadn’t, but Evan admired the sentiment. He hoped he could do that. He wasn’t so sure.

  And being a dad wasn’t so different, surely, from being a mom. You changed diapers and fixed bottles and got up in the middle of the night just the same, and that squeezing around your heart when you were snuggling that trusting little person who loved you best of all and counted on you to keep her world safe—that was probably the same too. And when you were the only one there every night and the only one paying the bills, and you knew it was all on you? He’d bet his mom knew all about that one.

  He had to wipe Gracie’s nose again when he put her in the van, which made her twist away, shove at his hand, and squawk. She was fussy, and he was hungry. Starving, in fact, and with Gracie like this, how long would it be before he got dinner? He climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled out of the forested lot where his mom’s doublewide had stood since forever, and told Gracie, “You know what we’re going to do? We’re going to go buy you a humidifier for that nose, because don’t tell anybody, but I might watch baby care videos sometimes while I eat my lunch. Just to pass the time, of course. If you spill the beans on me, I’ll deny it, but they say humidity helps, so we’re doing it. After that, we’re going through the drive-through and getting burgers. If you decide you don’t want yours, I’ll eat it.” He stuck the Kidz Bop CD into the van’s ancient sound system, because it kept Gracie happier in the car, and headed to the hardware store to the accompaniment of extreme perkiness.

  If he bought two burgers and a couple packs of fries in the drive-through, well, he was hungry enough for it. It was only a few blocks out of his way to swing by Russell’s, too. He hadn’t mowed the lawn over there for almost two weeks. He’d better check it out. He wasn’t driving slowly by a girl’s house and hoping she’d be outside so he could stop and pretend he hadn’t realized she lived there. That would be stupid. Also juvenile.

  When he turned the corner, there she was. Her hair back in its braid, but all of her way too messy otherwise to be Beth. She was standing in the middle of the lawn peering at an upside-down electric edger and didn’t even notice him, so he parked a little short of the driveway and told his daughter, “Looks like our lucky day, squirt. Your dad gets to be a hero.”

  Beth kept on not noticing him until he was almost on top of her. And when she did see him, she jumped.

  “Need a hand?” he asked.

  “I want to say no,” she said with a sigh, letting the edger fall to the ground in clear disgust and wiping her face with her tank top, exposing all of her midriff, which wasn’t the worst thing Evan had ever seen. “Hi, Gracie.” She smiled at the baby, and Gracie smiled back. “I won’t swear,” Beth told her, “because you’re very young. But I’m hoping your dad notices that I can’t figure out how to get the roll thingie to stay in. This plastic . . . cord. Cutting thread. Thingie. And that he fixes it without making me feel stupid.”

  Oh, yeah. He could do that. “I’ve got this,” he said, bending to pick up the edger and the coil of white cord, which had fallen a little distance away. “If you want to take Gracie while I do it.”

  “While you show me how it fits in there, sure,” Beth said. “But I can do it. The edging, I mean. I read how. I just had an angry moment there.”

  “Ever done it before?” He handed the baby over. She could be picky about the company she kept, but he’d already noticed she liked Beth.

  “No.” She got Gracie snuggled up the way the baby liked, and he’d been right. Gracie didn’t seem to mind. “But like I told you, I researched it. It’s not rocket science. And this is my trade.”

  “Uh . . . what’s your trade? You taking up landscaping?” Beth’s parents’ dog Henry had come over now, wagging his tail, and Gracie was making put-me-down-now noises and reaching for him.

  Beth smiled. “Ha. That’d be some stretch goal. No, I’m cleaning up the yard and the house in exchange for staying here.”

  “Right. You asked if you could stay, and Dakota said, ‘As long as you earn it.’ Why don’t I believe that?”

  “No. I said that. Do you want the New Me or don’t you?”

  That wasn’t a very tough one. “I want the new you.”

  “Then,” she said, “hurry up and fix my tape—wir
e—cutter thingie for me so I can get back to work.”

  He did, which took about two seconds, and then he said, “If you’re bound and determined to do the edging, how about if I rake these grass cuttings?” He didn’t mention that she could’ve just attached the bag to the back of the mower and avoided that step. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be well received. Women were funny that way, getting all offended just because you offered them a helpful tip for doing the job more efficiently. So he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Do you have to do everything, or can a guy give you a hand with this New Beth project?”

  “You already gave me a hand. You already got me on my way, trust me.” She’d crouched down with Gracie and was helping her pat Henry. Evan wanted to grab Gracie out of there, but the dog was wagging his tail gently, his ears relaxed, standing still, so maybe . . . Evan was halfway between “stay” and “go” when Beth saw him looking and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. He loves kids.” She stood up anyway. “I should have asked you, though. Sorry.”

  “Seems OK,” he said. “And yeah, I remember giving you a hand. Worked out just fine for me, and I want to give you another one. I’m getting the rake.”

  “What about Gracie?”

  “I’ll get her blanket and her toys, and she can sit in the shade and supervise. Also,” he said, picking up the grease-stained paper bag he’d nearly forgotten about and waggling it in a tempting fashion, “I have burgers and fries. When you do blue-collar work, you bring your lunchbox.”

  Beth didn’t do a perfect job on the edging. In fact, there were a couple fairly enormous scars afterwards, places where she’d gotten a little enthusiastic and “edged” all the way down to the dirt. But then, Russell’s place wasn’t exactly Buckingham Palace. The main thing was that she’d stuck to it, a frown of concentration on her face, doing her best as always. And when she was done? She coiled the cord neatly around the edger, came over to where Evan was finishing bagging up trimmings, hunkered down in the tank top and short shorts that were a whole lot more sweat- and grass-stained than they had been a few hours earlier, and held the garbage bag for him.

  He got the last piles of cuttings in there, tied it closed, gave her a hand to pull her to her feet, and didn’t let it go. Instead, he ran his thumb over the scratched knuckles and said, “You’re one hell of a hard worker. And I like your redneck style.”

  “So you think it was a good move, coming here?” she asked. “My mom didn’t. Surprise.”

  He would have answered that, but Gracie, who’d been stacking her cups on Henry’s back, since the dog was lying so conveniently close beside her in the shade, had now decided to crawl on top of him by using his ear as a handhold. Evan got there in a couple strides to swoop her up and told Beth, “Maybe we won’t push his good nature.”

  Gracie was drippy again, and when he reached for a cloth diaper and wiped her nose, she banged on his chest some more, squawked, and reached for Henry. He told her, “I don’t think so. Bath, bottle, and bed for you, squirt.”

  “Does this mean I have to eat my burger by myself?” Beth asked. “I might not be your dream girl at this moment, but I did buy beer this morning, and we could put those burgers in the oven. If you don’t like forward women, we could call this the ‘friends’ part of the day. I could scrub the tub, too, if you wanted to give Gracie a bath here.” She crouched down as she spoke, put Gracie’s toys in the diaper bag, and concentrated on folding up her play quilt. Like she’d said too much. Like she’d cared too much.

  “Nah,” Evan said. “I like forward women. I like beer, too, and Gracie likes Russell’s tub. And no matter what I said back when I was stupid, the ‘friends’ part works for me.”

  “Oh. Uh . . .” She stood there holding his diaper bag and a baby blanket, looking messy as hell and just that confused.

  “Wait,” he said. “I mean it works too. Not that I don’t want the other part.” He shook his head. “Man, I’m way out of practice. Here’s the deal. I’m thinking that once I give Gracie her bath, you might want to take a shower yourself. And I’m wondering what your robe looks like, and thinking you might curl up on the couch with me and watch a little TV while we eat those burgers. I’m guessing that could be pretty sweet. And I want it.”

  She smiled, nice and slow and happy, her hair a mess and grass stains on her knees, not like any wound-tight, held-back, too-thin Beth Schaefer he’d seen lately, and said, “I could end up with my legs in your lap. I like to stretch out. But I like romantic old movies, and I’m sure you like hockey.”

  “Hockey season’s over,” he said, ignoring that dangerous warmth around his heart. “Put me to the test. I bet I’ll pass.”

  Nothing about this evening, Beth thought a half hour later, was anything she’d conjured up for her breakdown. No French-accented playboy leaning across a white tablecloth in his perfectly cut black suit coat, pouring her another glass of red wine and smiling into her eyes. No New Zealand ski instructor complimenting her on her daring on the slopes, then bringing her an Irish coffee in front of a crackling stone fireplace. And definitely no cleansing, no meditation, and no journaling.

  It was so much better, because instead of some nerve-wracking game player or a bunch of navel-gazing she’d never have managed anyway, it was real. It was Evan. Evan, who, when she came into the living room to join him, looked up from the couch where he was giving Gracie her bottle on the couch and said, “No robe.” His eyes dropped, and he didn’t say “No bra.” But he was sure looking.

  “Nope. Sorry.” She never flounced, but she flounced a little now in another ribbed tank—white this time, which was perhaps unfortunate, or fortunate, from the “transparency” standpoint—and some very tiny gray fleece shorts. She tossed her still-wet hair over her shoulder like no woman she’d ever been and said, “I’m sure I shouldn’t say this in front of Gracie, but I don’t wear anything to bed, and I don’t wear a robe. But you must want to take a shower too,” she added before he could react to that. “I just put the burgers and fries in the oven. Maybe I could finish feeding Gracie, if you want to get more comfortable.”

  “I could have a quick one and grab a T-shirt and some shorts out of Russell’s drawer, I suppose,” he said. “Since we’re making ourselves at home. If you’re going to put your legs across my lap, I could want to be clean for that.”

  “You could. Or I might not do it, and wouldn’t that be sad?” She took Gracie from him, and the little girl opened her big blue eyes, smiled around the bottle, then settled down to the serious business of finishing her evening meal as Beth sat on the couch, tucked one foot under herself, and got comfortable.

  Evan headed off, and in a minute or two, Beth heard the water running in the shower and wondered if it had sounded as homey to him when she’d been in there as it did to her right now. Just knowing you weren’t going to be alone tonight. Although he wasn’t alone, not like her. He had Gracie.

  Surely, though, that could make you feel even more alone sometimes. How scary would it be to love somebody as much as he loved Gracie? Somebody this precious, and this helpless?

  The baby had her eyes closed and was stroking her own hair as she drank, rubbing her hand over it as if she too loved the silky-softness of it. Her toes curled and uncurled like she had to express her pleasure with her entire body, and her thighs were so perfectly and deliciously chubby. Beth took one of those pumping feet in her hand and rubbed gentle fingers over the tiny toes, and Gracie smiled again without opening her eyes. That was security.

  The plastic bag inside the bottle was empty, so Beth set it on the coffee table. She didn’t know how to do this, except that maybe she did. More or less. Gracie was snuffly again, so Beth pulled a tissue from the box and wiped her nose. There. That wasn’t so hard. Gracie rubbed at her eye with a fist, squirmed, and made a complaining noise, and Beth asked her, “You sleepy? Huh? Time for bed?”

  You rocked babies, but there wasn’t a rocking chair here. “You know what,” she told Gracie, who was doing some more squirming, “
we’re going to improvise.”

  She didn’t have a bad voice, but she didn’t have a good voice, either, which was why she saved her singing for when she was alone. But a baby who snuggled, warm and solid, into your arms as you swayed and danced across the living-room carpet? A dog who’d curled up in the corner, but opened one brown eye and tapped the very end of his tail just because you were looking at him? They wouldn’t mind your singing.

  So she sang. She closed her eyes, held Gracie close, and opened the locked box inside her heart. She let herself remember that whole last summer, her memory of it forever scented by the roses Evan had brought her every single time they’d been together. Every time he’d stood beneath her window, every time she’d met him at the movie theater or at the beach in the midsummer twilight. A white rose or a yellow one. Pink or red or lavender, all of them cut at the nursery where he’d worked a second job that summer. The flowers he’d picked for her.

  She’d loved how good he’d been to her. She’d loved his roses, the way he’d kissed her, the way he’d touched her hand. And at some level, the level where you had to face the truth, she knew she’d taken him for granted. She hadn’t thought about his feelings enough, and she hadn’t let herself look into the future. He’d been so strong, and she hadn’t thought about the ways he might need her or the ways she could hurt him. Not until it was too late.

  She swayed, and she sang. “Big girls don’t cry.” A song whose lyrics she knew by heart, because she’d played it over and over again back at the University of Washington during those first weeks of law school. When she’d cried enough tears to fill an ocean of regret, had tried to cry away her cowardice and Evan’s pain and the loss of both their dreams. And had known that there weren’t enough tears in the world.