by Loree Lough
“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” she said.
“Didn’t sleep well last night.” Thanks to you.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No big deal. After fifteen years of insomnia, I’m used to it.”
Was it his imagination, or did he sound like a whiny, sympathy-seeking brat to her, too? Would she put two and two together? Realize that his inability to sleep started on the night her mother’s life ended? Hunter had no answers. Didn’t need them. Because after today, he was done. D-O-N-E, done.
He parked in the driveway, as close as possible to the long narrow staircase that hugged Deidre’s garage wall. Connor had nodded off in the backseat, so he said, “Might as well let him sleep, since one or both of us will be able to keep an eye on him until we’ve off-loaded your stuff.”
Before she had a chance to object, he added, “How ’bout you unlock the door while I grab a few cartons.” He got out of the truck and took care not to slam the door. She sat in the front seat for a moment, probably mulling over the message his attitude had just sent her: you’re not holding the reins anymore.
He’d never seen her move at anything less than breakneck speed, so it didn’t surprise him when she raced up the stairs in less time than it took him to drop the pickup’s tailgate. Hunter slid three cartons from the truck bed and, peering around the tower of boxes, saw Brooke standing stock-still on the white-painted 5 x 5 landing.
“What’s wrong?” he called. “Did you lose the key?”
She came to life, but only enough to shake her head. She said something, too, but he couldn’t make it out from this distance. He left the boxes on the tailgate and jogged across the lawn. It sure would be a blessing when he didn’t have to babysit her anymore.
When he reached her, she pointed, and he knew in a blink what she had muttered earlier: Spider.
In his work as a contractor, he’d found raccoon dens, bats, bird nests, snake skins—some with the snakes still in them—and rats the size of small dogs during the demolition phase of home-improvement projects. He’d seen his share of spiders, too, but never one like this.
It skittered to the edge of its fly-dotted web, as if daring them to enter.
Brooke backed up as far as the railing would allow. “My cell phone is in my purse. On your front seat. Do you have yours with you?”
“It’s on the dash,” he said without taking his eyes from the spider. “Why? Who you gonna call, Web Busters?”
“I was thinking of taking its picture and sending it to the Guinness people.”
“To the…” He stifled a laugh. “Seriously?”
If her indignant expression was any indicator, she was.
“The thing is huge, but I’ve seen bigger. Not that it matters. It won’t live long enough to pose for a photograph.”
She gave an indifferent shrug. “I know there’s a broom in the kitchen, but to get it we have to go through that.” Brooke pointed at the huge web.
“I keep one in the truck. For sweeping up sawdust and whatnot.” He started down the stairs. “If it moves—”
“—we’ll find out if I can fly.”
Grinning despite his foul mood, he headed for the pickup, and while he jostled packing boxes and trash bags stuffed with clothes and toys, peripheral vision told him she hadn’t budged. A minute later he was at her side again, holding the broom like a rapier. “Maybe you should wait downstairs. In case I miss.”
“That would hardly be fair. You’re only here because—”
“Because I want to be.” And because her eyes flashed guardedly, he tacked on, “For Connor.” He stabbed at the web, which clung to the broom’s bristles.
And so did the spider.
It dashed up the handle, stopping a few inches shy of his fingers. In a blink, Brooke squashed it with her bare hand.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” he said, giving her his handkerchief.
“I’ll get you a new one,” she said, grimacing as she tossed it into the trash can on the landing. “Because I am not washing that with the rest of my laundry.”
Why did she always have to even the score?
“Don’t bother. I have dozens.” He used the broom to knock down the remnants of the web. And once the doorway was clear, Hunter added, “Now that you’ve slain the eight-legged dragon, I guess we can get busy.”
They heard Connor shrieking like a banshee in the backseat of the pickup.
“I’d better get him over to Deidre’s,” she said, “before he shatters the windows in your truck.”
He watched as she raced down the stairs to free Connor from his car seat and continued watching as she balanced him on one hip. From this distance, he couldn’t hear what she was saying, but whatever it was inspired a full-blown smile on the baby’s face. And a hug.
“I won’t be long,” she called up to him. “At least, I hope not.”
“Take your time. I have plenty to keep me busy.”
He watched her walk up the flagstone path, stopping now and then to jump or blow kisses into the crook of Connor’s neck or spin in a dizzying circle that made him giggle until he was breathless. It was such a happy, hopeful sound that it brought tears to Hunter’s eyes. He loved that kid like his own, and it hurt like hell when the formerly cheerful toddler turned into an ill-tempered mess.
The baby’s laughter faded as Brooke carried him deeper into the house. It seemed as though Dr. Rosen had been right. He hadn’t voiced his opinion, but at the start, he’d been suspicious of the direction Dr. Rosen wanted to take Connor. Maybe she wasn’t a quack after all, prescribing a slow approach to the baby’s problems. Clearly showering him with love, affection and plenty of attention was working. And Brooke had doled out more of all three than he and Deidre put together. The result? Connor’s behavior was improving, hour by hour.
Hunter felt grateful…but wary. Harry had warned, “It often takes longer to adopt a child than to have one by natural means,” the lawyer said, “especially in cases like yours. Are you sure you want to move forward with these proceedings?” Hunter hadn’t needed help decoding the question: if he was going to do this, he had to do it soon and push the paperwork through the system as quickly as possible. Because in another nine months, Connor’s attachment to Brooke would be as strong as it had been to Beth. It wouldn’t matter that from the age of two months, Connor had spent two or three days a week at Hunter’s house. Moving him yet again might send him into another downward spiral, and this time, the boy might not find his way out.
By the time Brooke returned, Hunter had moved all of the boxes into the apartment. “Good grief,” she said, looking around the living room, “did you leave anything for me to do?”
An aluminum bucket dangled from the fingertips of her left hand and the handle of a sponge mop rested on her right shoulder, making her look more like a girl on her way to the fishing hole than a nearly thirty-one-year-old woman. Hunter caught himself gawking and stood up straighter.
“I left plenty,” he said. “Wait until you see the inside of that refrigerator. And the bathroom.” He expelled a two-note whistle. “Hope there are some powerful cleaning supplies in that pail.” Her shoulders sagged. But only a little. And only for a moment. Grudging admiration made him question Kent’s opinion of her and his motives. Again. On occasion, when the guy went on a Brooke rant, Hunter had had a notion to dig deeper, find out what was really behind the surly attitude. But it had been easier to shrug it off as typical in-law rivalry, like the kind that caused hard feelings between his brothers’ wives from time to time. Besides, much as he hated to admit being so petty, it felt good hearing Kent tear down the woman who consistently questioned his own basic decency.
Brooke lined the counter with furniture polish, dish soap and an array of other cleaning supplies. “Gram usually pays a service to get an apartment ready for a new tenant. She said giving me the tools to do the job is cheaper than hiring someone,” she explained, filling the bucket with hot water. “Lucky me, huh?”
Maybe he was losing it. Not five minutes ago, he’d finessed his plan to take Connor from her. Now here he stood, feeling bad for all she’d been through lately. Admiring her pluck.
He slapped a hand to the back of his neck. “I have no idea where to start.”
“You’ve already done more than enough. You must be exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” he said, “and I’m here.” He spread his arms wide and grinned.
One look at her “I can handle it alone” expression was enough to tell him she was gearing up to reject his offer. But he couldn’t let her. She was Connor’s main caretaker. Yes, she’d handled things pretty well these past few weeks, but according to Beth, she had a definite breaking point. Hunter didn’t know how much more it would take to expose it, but he knew this: he didn’t want Connor around when it happened.
He reached up, stuck his finger into a cobweb. “And I’m staying,” he said, wiping it on the back pocket of his jeans. “So what’s the plan?”
“I’ll start here in the kitchen,” she said. “After I load the dishwasher with as much as it’ll hold, I’ll scrub the cabinets and the appliances. By the time the dishes have gone through the dry cycle, I should have the bathroom under control, too.” She squirted something green into the bucket, then emptied the contents of the silverware and serving-utensils drawers into it.
“I’m fine,” she said, quoting him. “Really. You don’t need to stay.”
“You won’t be fine for long if you keep going at this pace. Leaving Richmond, losing Beth, the prospect of starting a new job, moving in here, all while dealing with a kid whose emotions are out of whack?” He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Accept it.”
Brooke stacked plates, cups and tumblers into the dishwasher as he added, “Look at it this way. The sooner we’re finished, the sooner you can get rid of me.”
“Well,” she said, grinning, “when you put it that way….”
What’s going on here? he wondered. If he didn’t know better, Hunter would have to say Brooke actually liked him.
“I hate to vacuum,” she admitted. “And if it doesn’t offend your male ego, maybe you could dust the furniture afterward?”
He couldn’t afford to go soft now.
He vacuumed the living room rug, then rearranged and polished the furniture. Next he set up Connor’s crib and gave the bureau a scrubbing that would have earned a thumbs up from his hard-to-please drill sergeant.
In the mirror above Connor’s dresser, he saw Brooke across the hall, spritzing glass cleaner onto the bathroom faucet. The way she worked reminded him of a favorite childhood cartoon character. Only instead of the chaos and destruction created by the Tasmanian whirlwind, Brooke left orderly calm in her wake. He caught sight of his own reflection then, and decided it was good that she had her back to him, because if Brooke had seen the dopey look on his face, she’d know what he’d tried so hard to deny until that moment: He was falling, and falling hard.
For the next two hours, Hunter did his best to avoid her. Polishing bookshelves, knocking down cobwebs, wiping months of grime from the mini-blinds and sweeping grit from the tiny front porch kept him busy, but couldn’t distract him from the whorl of confusion and indecision spinning in his brain.
He was at the sink washing his hands when Brooke asked, “Are you as exhausted as I am?”
Actually, he was dog tired, but because he suspected her question was rhetorical, he let it go unanswered. As he turned to toss his paper towel into the trash can, Hunter saw her sprawled on the couch.
She lay on her stomach, left hand under her cheek, right knee pointing into the room, reddish-brown curls splayed across the sofa arm. The sight froze the breath in his throat, because that was almost exactly how her mother had landed that night in the convenience store. He took note of his damp palms and pounding pulse.
He needed air, and needed it now. “The, ah, the cooler is still in the truck,” he stammered, one hand on the doorknob.
“I hope there’s something cold to drink in it.”
Hunter nodded dumbly. “Bottled water. Couple of sodas, I think.” Get out of here, you bonehead, he thought, before you say something you’ll regret.
Brooke levered herself onto one elbow and studied his face. Probably wondering what had come over him all of a sudden.
Hunter couldn’t get out the door and down the stairs fast enough. He walked around the truck a few times, muttering, cursing under his breath, punching right fist into left palm. He looked up at the apartment she’d call home for the next few months. He’d been happy to help her make the place livable, but after seeing her on the sofa that way…
She had no way of knowing how often a simple gesture, a well-chosen word, a look could remind him of that night. Part of him didn’t want to go back to the apartment and take the chance that he’d see her lying there.
“You’re an idiot,” he growled, grabbing the cooler’s handles.
Lately, as he watched her, listened to her, interacted with her, the “Brooke’s Positives and Negatives” list he’d been tallying in his head had grown considerably plus-heavy. No wonder he’d been having such crazy thoughts. No wonder he’d begun to doubt his decision to adopt Connor.
It had to stop. He needed to harden his heart. Needed to get tough.
The funerals were over. Soon, she’d start her new job. Connor had a safe place to live. It was time they all got back to square one. He’d spent half a lifetime searching for ways to earn her forgiveness. Hunter wasn’t happy about it, but he knew himself well. Knew the signs, too. If he didn’t back off, way off, he’d end up wanting a whole lot more than forgiveness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DEIDRE’S YARD HADN’T seen a crowd this big since her retirement gala ten years earlier. Everywhere Brooke looked, people laughed and talked, some balancing plates piled high with picnic foods, others sipping iced tea or lemonade from frosted glass mugs, all while children batted at colorful balloons and crepe-paper streamers tied to the porch railings.
But Deidre wasn’t fooling Brooke. This so-called birthday bash was, in fact, a fund-raiser where her grandmother hoped to target friends with deep pockets to fund her latest pet project.
Brooke had just poured herself a glass of lemonade when a woman stepped up beside her.
“Brooke? Brooke O’Toole? How lovely to see you!”
It had been years, but Brooke recognized her right away. “Good to see you, too, Mrs. Stone.”
“Please, call me Constance.” She leaned back slightly. “You just get prettier and prettier.”
Brooke smiled, remembering that she’d met Hunter’s mom only once, at one of Beth and Kent’s backyard get-togethers. She searched for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t involve Hunter. When none materialized, she said, “May I freshen your drink?”
“Just a splash,” she said. And as Brooke added lemonade to her glass, Constance pointed at Deidre. “Your grandmother is an inspiration. I hope I have half her energy when I’m her age.”
Brooke laughed. “I wish I had half her energy now!”
“I took the liberty of inviting my ladies’ club today.” She leaned in close to whisper, “I’m sure they’ll contribute to her theater fund. We all think it’s wonderful that she hopes to introduce underprivileged children to the arts.”
“Yes,” Brooke said, handing her the glass, “wonderful.”
Connor toddled up just then and, whimpering, threw his arms around Brooke’s legs.
“Aw, what’s wrong, sweetie?” she said, putting down her glass to pick him up. “You look all tuckered out. You ready for a nap?”
He rested his head on her shoulder. “No nap. No nap!”
“Sorry,” Brooke said over his shoulder. “He still hasn’t fully adjusted to life without…”
Constance tilted her head and sent Brooke a sympathetic smile. “I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’re doing for this adorable little fellow. You’re so young and lovely—and single—so I’m su
re it hasn’t been easy putting your whole life on hold to take care of a child who’s too young to understand that he’s grieving.”
“Anyone would do the same in my position.”
“No, they most certainly would not. But I suppose it is a little easier for you…with Hunter at your beck and call, willing to help any way he can.”
At her beck and call? Yes, he’d stopped by to see Connor every evening since she’d moved, but Hunter had barely said three words to her directly. Besides, she hadn’t asked for his help. Not once. Ever. Where had Constance gotten such an impression?
“Hunter couldn’t love that boy more,” Constance continued, smiling at the baby, “and I know he’s grateful that Connor is in such good hands.”
Brooke scanned the yard, and when she spotted Hunter, squinting one eye as he lined up his horseshoe with the stake across the way, her heart skipped a beat. The reaction made no sense given their history. He stood taller than the other men and, despite their various-size bellies, probably outweighed them by twenty pounds of pure muscle.
Constance was looking at him, too, Brooke noticed.
“It’s so good to see him smile,” she said. “Really smile. He’s been a mess since, well, you know….” The woman sighed. “Can’t sleep, nightmares, afraid to commit to a woman for fear he’s destined to let her down the way he let his partner down, the way he let y—” She cleared her throat and blinked back tears. “Breaks my mother’s heart, I tell you, watching him punish himself all these years for something that wasn’t even his fault, that could have happened to anyone.”
Where had she heard that before? Brooke thought, glancing at Deidre.
Constance gave her forearm a gentle squeeze. “You probably have no idea what a huge weight you’ve lifted from his shoulders by…just by being nice to him. I can’t thank you enough.” Smiling sadly, she traced the contour of Connor’s jaw. “But I’m sure you understand exactly how I feel now that you’re a mommy.”
A mommy. She watched as Constance joined her friends, thinking that under the circumstances, a mommy is exactly what she was. And Hunter is his part-time daddy, she thought, glancing toward the horseshoe pit. He must have sensed her watching, and when he looked at her, the sixty-plus-foot distance separating them shrank to mere inches.