by Loree Lough
“Uh-oh,” Sam said, tucking the card into his shirt pocket. “Firing the lot of ’em already?”
“No. From what I’ve seen, they did great…for their first day. I just don’t want them here when I’m breaking the bad news about this dump. Tell them to get a good night’s sleep and be back here tomorrow, seven sharp.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Generosity,” Sam joked.
He’d been anything but generous when telling Brooke how he felt about her job.
“If Connor’s aunt gets here before I do, don’t say anything.”
“Don’t worry, Prince Charming.” Sam winked. “I’ll bring a chair up from the basement and steal a bottle of that water you bought for the boys. You can break the bad news and then come to her rescue when she keels over.”
Rescue? The only reason Sam could say a thing like that was because he knew very little about Hunter’s past.
If only he could say the same about Brooke.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BROOKE USED A blue-plaid tablecloth to hide the knicks and scratches on the claw-foot table and filled a blue delft vase with black-eyed Susans. White stoneware bowls sat on red plates, each with a bright yellow bread-and-butter plate at ten o’clock. White napkins cushioned pistol-handled forks to the left and matching dinner knives and spoons to the right. Big goblets for water and small ones for wine held the two o’clock spot.
She stood back to inspect her handiwork and, realizing she’d forgotten the pewter trivet to hold the Crock-Pot, placed it beside the centerpiece. “Take that, Martha Stewart!” she said.
Tonight, things had to be perfect, because Beth would have turned twenty-seven today, and Brooke decided it was time to celebrate her sister’s life, not her death. From now on she’d embrace Beth’s memory, not run from it.
And because tonight she’d confront Hunter.
Hopefully, the confrontation would bring things back into focus….
Brooke had needed someone to blame for the violent, senseless way her mother had been taken from her, and Hunter had been the easiest target. The bitterness had been with her so long that it felt like an angry old friend, and the new emotions born of his thoughtful gestures and acts of kindness seemed unsettling and scary because Brooke knew she hadn’t earned any of it.
Like this afternoon, when he’d been patient to the point of long-suffering, explaining everything that was wrong with the house. And though he’d nodded agreeably as she pressed a check into his hand, Brooke had got the distinct impression he’d never cash it…or any of the others she’d written.
His behavior was both remarkable and confusing and left her feeling off balance…especially in light of what Deidre had told her about his plans to help underprivileged kids.
So Brooke had invited him to supper. “Just a Crock-Pot roast,” she’d said. “Way too much for Connor and me.” Then she’d steeled herself for a rejection, because why would anyone accept such an off-the-cuff invitation? Instead, Hunter had thrown her further off balance by asking what time he should be there.
“I don’t get it. I just. Don’t. Get it.”
Connor stood in the playpen and held out his arms.
“Why has he been so nice lately?” she wondered, picking him up. “I understand why he’s good to you. The guy loves you as much as if you were his own little boy.” Hugging him tight, she kissed one cheek, then the other. “And who can blame him!”
Brooke carried him to the window.
“But why is he being so good to me after the abysmal way I’ve treated him all these years?”
“Car,” Connor said, pointing at Deidre’s big black sedan. Facing Brooke, he added, “Bye-bye?”
She kissed his fingertip. “Not tonight, sweetie.”
He pointed again, this time at the big house. “Gram house.”
“That’s right,” she said, looking across the yard at the grand old mansion. As executor of her grandmother’s will, she knew that one day it would be hers. But unless she had Connor to share it with, it would never feel like home.
Connor sniffled and rubbed his nose with a chubby fist.
According to Felix, the baby had taken a three-hour nap today, waking just a few minutes before she got home from work. But if that was true, why did he look so sleepy?
“I hope you aren’t coming down with a summer cold.”
Brooke deposited him in the high chair and buckled him in.
“This should hold you,” she said, sprinkling a handful of Cheerios onto the tray, “until your uncle gets here.”
“Uncle,” he said, nodding. “Uncle Hunter.”
He didn’t say it with his usual enthusiasm, but he seemed content enough, building and toppling a cereal tower. Dr. Rosen had warned her not to celebrate this apparent return to his former always-happy demeanor, because it could very well be short-lived…a precursor of deeper depression.
She crouched beside the chair. “That isn’t going to happen, right? You’re happy and adjusting and you’re going to stay that way, aren’t you!”
He allowed her to sprinkle his face with kisses…for a second or two. Grinning, Brooke straightened. “Well, thanks for indulging me, however briefly.”
She stepped into the powder room for a last check of her hair and makeup. She could see him in the mirror, giggling as handfuls of tiny Os pecked the linoleum. Then a flash of silver caught her attention—light reflecting from the silver wolf earrings Beth had given her last year for Christmas. Clutching the matching pendant in her fist, she remembered the way her silly sister had wrapped everything in separate boxes and stacked each, one inside the other. I miss you.
“You. Will. Not. Cry. Not on Beth’s birthday!”
Brooke took a deep breath and straightened the collar of her sleeveless blouse. Wouldn’t have killed you to take an iron to it, she thought, frowning at her reflection. But what difference did a few wrinkles make? Men didn’t notice such things. Hunter wouldn’t notice her wide belt—same shade of pink as the swirls in her paisley broomstick skirt—or the strappy white sandals she’d chosen, either. A good thing, since stereotypical male obliviousness would add believability to the last-minute “sound” of her invitation.
She flicked off the powder room light and, standing in the middle of the living room, asked, “Is it just me, or is it way too quiet in here?”
Connor answered with a silly laugh as another handful of cereal rained to the floor. Brooke pecked the keys of her iPhone and, after turning up the volume, hoisted the baby from his high chair. “The Eagles were your mommy’s favorite group,” she said, “so let’s do a birthday dance in her honor!”
He squealed happily as she whirled around the room, and when she dipped him, he giggled until he was breathless. “Oh-oh-oh-oh, sweet darlin’,” she sang at the top of her lungs.
“Oh-oh-oh-oh…” Connor copied. And then he pointed at the door.
There almost wasn’t time to feel embarrassed.
Almost.
“How long have you been out here?” she asked, opening it.
“Exactly long enough.” Hunter rapped on a frosted pane in the door. “Long enough to decide that next chance I get, I’m replacing these with clear glass.”
He was a contractor. Had he noticed a defect that she hadn’t? “Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing, except your little show would have been a whole lot more entertaining if I could have seen it clearly.” The grocery bags he carried crinkled when he leaned in to kiss Connor’s forehead. “Is it my imagination, or does he feel a little warm?”
She pressed her lips to the baby’s forehead. “It’s probably just all that laughing and dancing. But just to be sure, I’ll take his temperature when I change his diaper in a few—” The look on his face stopped her. “What?”
“You read temperatures…with your lips?”
Brooke led the way into the kitchen. “It’s more effective than a thermometer.”
Grinning, he winked. “Aren’t you medical pros all about science
and instruments instead of old wives’ tales and superstition?”
Now, really. How did he expect her to respond to that!
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said, putting a half gallon of Neapolitan into the freezer and an apple pie on the counter. “I brought dessert. And some teething biscuits for Short Stuff over there.”
Except for holiday dinners and special occasions, Brooke wasn’t big on dessert. And she would have told him that before he went shopping…if he’d asked.
He slid Connor’s cookies into the cabinet above the coffeepot. “Do we have time for a little nephew-uncle tomfoolery before we eat?”
Tomfoolery. Instantly, her ire dimmed. Who but Hunter could make the outdated word sound like everyday English?
“Supper should be on the table in, oh, fifteen minutes or so.”
He held Connor above the high chair and gave him a gentle shake. “You were hiding enough cereal in your lap for another snack,” he said, laughing as Cheerios rained onto the seat. He popped one into his mouth. “First bite I’ve had since last night.”
“You skipped breakfast and lunch? Why?”
He put Connor on the living room floor and upended the toy box. “Lots on my agenda today,” he said, stretching out beside the baby. “Tell her, sport, how your uncle Hunter works like a dog, and how he never would have made it here by five if he’d taken time out for doughnuts and coffee or a burger and fries.” He looked at Brooke and added, “I’m a busy guy!”
“Busy,” Connor said, grabbing a plastic key chain.
Brooke watched as the pair shared quiet laughter. Nose to nose that way, they could have been father and son. Same wavy hair. Same long-lashed eyes. Same quick smile….
Although Beth had put on a good show for outsiders, she’d been miserable after their dad’s death…until Kent came along. She might have been happier still if Brooke had ignored his flaws and treated him more like family for no reason other than he’d brought so much joy into her sister’s life.
A strange melancholy settled over her admitting that, because if there had been even a glimmer of truth in what Deidre had overheard…
Hunter must have read her shaky sigh to mean she wasn’t pleased about the pile of stuffed animals, rubber balls and tiny trucks strewn across the floor.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll clean it up before I leave.”
She wasn’t worried. In fact, Brooke rather liked the way the two of them looked surrounded by a mess of little-boy toys.
Nodding, she forced a smile and got busy opening and closing cupboard doors. How would she answer if he asked what she was looking for?
What she ought to be looking for was the reason she’d done a complete about-face when it came to Hunter. Or the best way to begin her unrehearsed speech now that she’d started seeing him as something other than the enemy.
“Table looks great,” he said, standing behind her.
“Good grief! You scared me half to death!”
“Sorry.” He shifted Connor to his other hip and touched a forefinger to the baby’s nose. “How come you never told me that your aunt Brooke is related to…” Facing her, he said, “What’s the woman’s name? Who wrote all the etiquette books?”
Brooke grabbed the loaf of French bread. “Amy Vanderbilt? Emily Post?” She dug around in the utensil drawer. “There are dozens of etiquette books, all written by different manners experts. Now, where is that bread knife?”
He used his chin to indicate the drainboard. “Is that the one you’re looking for?”
Grabbing it, she exhaled a breath of annoyance.
“What can I do to help?” he asked, raising his voice slightly to outtalk Connor’s cheerful babble.
You could leave right now and spare me the agony of baring my soul once Connor is asleep.
“How ’bout if I move Connor’s high chair into the dining room, and if you think of anything else I can do, say the word.”
Nodding again, she silently admitted that since the place crash, their hard-won civility had taken on a softer, sweeter edge. Would that still be true after she’d put the baby to bed…and said her piece? A girl can wish, she thought, because Connor needed them working as a team.
She arranged the salad bowl and tongs, water pitcher, bread and butter on a wooden serving tray, and in the midst of Connor’s happy squeals, a frightful thought flitted through her mind: What if, instead of clearing the air, what she planned to tell Hunter took them back to pre-plane crash days?
Was it worth the risk?
Brooke set the tray down with a clunk that made the ice clank against the ceramic pitcher. She’d waited this long to tell him. What could it hurt to wait until Connor was completely back to normal?
“You sure you don’t need a hand with anything?”
Brooke unplugged the Crock-Pot and put it beside the tray.
“I’m fine. Why do you keep asking that?”
“Because you look a little, ah, out of sorts.”
“I haven’t cooked a real meal in so long, I’m worried I’ve forgotten something, that’s all.
Something between relief and contentment beamed from his face as he settled Connor at the table.
“Smells fantastic,” he said, watching as she spooned a braised potato, one carrot, some green beans and a small chunk of meat onto Connor’s plate. She diced them into bite-size pieces, then held the plate under his nose.
“Blow,” she said, “just like Goldilocks!”
Connor’s lips puckered, and so did Hunter’s. Then the baby inhaled a big breath and let it out with a whoosh…
…spattering beef broth onto Brooke’s blouse.
“Uh-oh,” Connor said, eyebrows high. Wrinkling his nose, he added, “Uh-oh. Brooke dirty.”
Brooke was the first to laugh, and when Hunter and Connor joined in, she laughed harder still. It was nervous laughter, she knew, brought on by lack of sleep, feeling lost at work and concern that her speech might set unalterable events in motion.
“Help yourself,” she said, handing Hunter the big serving spoon. “I’ll be right back.”
She caught sight of his worried, confused face as she closed the powder room door. Caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, too. Despite all the makeup she’d applied earlier, she looked washed-out. Plucking a tissue from the dispenser on the vanity, she dampened it, held it to her temples. Deidre and Beth had often accused her of living life by the “shoot first, ask questions later” rule. That might have been true a year ago, but it wasn’t true now. Since the accident, she hadn’t made a decision, even one as small as what to fix for supper, without considering its impact on Connor.
Connor….
She could hear him out there, laughing at something Hunter had said.
“You can’t risk it,” she whispered. Perched on the edge of the tub, she closed her eyes and replayed the conversation with Deidre, whose worried voice alone had stiffened her spine and made every muscle tighten. She’d held her breath, too, when Deidre said the unthinkable:
“When he was at the theater, he took a call. I heard him talking to his lawyer. About adopting Connor.”
But that was crazy, Brooke had told her. No judge would hand Connor over to a workaholic bachelor when he had a loving aunt ready and willing to raise him as her own!
Deidre admitted that since she’d been privy to just one side of the conversation, she might have misunderstood the part about Kent giving Hunter a DVD with instructions about Connor’s future. “Sounded to me,” Deidre whispered, “like the movie version of a written will.”
He’d been so patient and kind walking her through Beth’s house, pointing out faulty plumbing and moldy wood, explaining the solutions to each problem. Could he really behave that thoughtfully while plotting to take Connor from her? What better way to find out, she’d thought, than by calmly plying him with questions as she fed him a satisfying meal?
She’d been sure the scheme would work, until she saw him on the floor with Connor and realized that
the easy rapport between those two had started long before the plane crash. Much as it pained her to admit it, Hunter was the most stable presence in Connor’s life right now. And she couldn’t—wouldn’t—break that bond. Not even if it gave him more time to put his plan into action.
She needed time. Time to find out if Deidre had been mistaken. To hire an expert who’d protect her if Deidre had heard correctly. Time to figure out how she’d cope with her growing affection for Hunter if everything her grandmother suspected was true.
Brooke squirted a drop of redness reliever into each eye and touched up her mascara, took a deep breath and returned to the dining room, where Hunter had just fed Connor another bite of juicy roast beef. Her Connor.
“You okay?” he asked, frowning slightly as she sat down.
“Of course.” She laid a napkin across her lap and hoped her smile wouldn’t look as strained as it felt. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason. I suppose.”
Why the hesitation? she wondered, as thunder rumbled and lightning sizzled outside. A heavenly warning about what happens to people who lie?
Hunter helped himself to a second portion of roast and vegetables, and as Brooke nibbled from her own plate, he talked about the weather. The latest hike in gas prices. The governor’s dream project—a casino in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. She hoped he wouldn’t run out of newsy tidbits before Connor went to bed. Hoped that once the baby was tucked in for the night, he’d go home so she could get online and search for attorneys who specialized in family law.
Hunter’s cell phone rang, startling her.
“Better not be somebody trying to sell me aluminum siding,” he said, snapping it open. “Hunter Stone…” Seconds into the conversation, he slapped a palm over his eyes. “No way. Are you sure? When? Be there in ten.”
Then, nodding, he pressed the phone’s mouthpiece to his chest. “That was one of the Last Chance kids,” he explained, “calling to let me know that Mitch has been in an accident. From the sound of things, it’s pretty bad. Hate to eat and run, but I need to get to the hospital, see what I can do to help.”
“Of course,” she said, meaning it.