by Loree Lough
“I know you told me already,” she said, sliding an arm across Deidre’s shoulders, “but humor me. Tell me again what you think Hunter said?”
Deidre all but glared at her. “I don’t think anything. I know what I heard! He was talking to a lawyer. I could tell from all the legal mumbo jumbo. Words like petitions and pleadings and subpoenas. And some confounded DVD that Kent gave him.”
Almost word for word what she’d said yesterday. But it didn’t mean she’d interpreted Hunter’s side of the conversation correctly.
“Did he say anything about the house?”
“No, but I did. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he was going to put me off like some ordinary customer, it had better be to work on Beth’s house.”
That inspired a grin, because Brooke could almost see her fiery seventy-six-year-old grandmother giving Hunter the full-blown O’Toole what-for.
“We can’t afford to alienate him right now,” Deidre was saying, “so I’ll have to find a way to explain my rude behavior today. Then we’ll keep him busy fixing up the theater and Beth’s house. Hopefully, too busy to continue with this adoption nonsense.” She leaned forward and whispered, “And while he’s distracted, we’ll find our own lawyer. A real shark. The best shyster money can buy. And when Hunter least expects it—” she fist-pumped the air “—pow! Right in the kisser!”
Brooke couldn’t help but laugh. “Stone Contracting isn’t the only remodeling firm in town, you know. We could hire someone else to do the work, at the house and at the theater.”
“Why on earth would we do that? Hunter may have flaws, but his work sure doesn’t. And as we’ve already established, he’s a man of his word.”
“You realize, of course, that you sound a little disingenuous.”
“Oh. Really.”
Brooke held out one hand. “You say he’s a big jerk who can’t be trusted.” She held out the other. “Yet he’s a man of his word?” Brooke linked her fingers together. “You know him a whole lot better than I do, so help me understand. For Connor’s sake, I need to know. Is he a jerk or a good guy?”
“I never called him a jerk,” Deidre huffed. “I hate it when people put words in my mouth. I’m not senile, you know. I remember what I said.” She crossed both arms over her chest. “And to answer your question, he didn’t lie to either of us. He kept something from us. Two very different things. Besides, he’s a man, isn’t he?”
Brooke frowned. “Meaning…”
“Meaning sometimes he’s a jerk, and sometimes he isn’t. Sometimes he’ll be genuine, sometimes he won’t.”
The conversation had upset her grandmother, so Brooke chose a subject Deidre would happily discuss. “So how are rehearsals at the Corner Theater going?”
Deidre’s entire deportment changed. “Fantastic! And you know what? One of our understudies works for the County Executive. She’s met Hunter, and thanks to me, she thinks he and I are as close as kin.” Smirking, Deidre added, “She told me to congratulate him.”
“For…?”
“For being this close to opening his vo-tech school.”
“I don’t get it,” Brooke admitted. “What he wants to do for those kids is a good thing. Why keep it a secret?”
Deidre only shrugged.
And Brooke laughed. “Look who I’m asking—the woman who bought a dilapidated theater without telling a soul.”
“You have no room to talk, Miss ‘I’m in Love with the Jerk but Can’t Admit It.’”
Brooke couldn’t have been more shocked if Deidre had thrown a bucket of ice water onto her head.
“Okay. I can take a hint. Your feelings for Hunter are off-limits.”
What feelings? Brooke wondered.
“I’m glad we had this little talk, honey,” she said, patting Brooke’s clasped hands. “I’ll sleep better tonight, thanks to you.”
The image of an adoption document hovered in her mind.
At least one of us will, she thought, blinking it away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DEIDRE WAVED BROOKE CLOSER. “What would you say about having a backyard barbecue on the Fourth of July?”
Brooke perched on the footrest of Deidre’s wicker lounge chair.
“Nothing big. Just my sorority sisters, maybe some people from the play.” She toed off her flip-flops.
“Sounds good to me,” Brooke said as Connor plucked petunias from the flower garden, “but I won’t be able to help much.”
“Oh, I know, I know. You’re so busy learning the new job and taking care of Connor and choosing kitchen faucets and bathroom tiles.” She sighed exaggeratedly. “Well, it might interest you to know that I’m busy, too. Hip-deep, in fact, in paint samples and curtain swatches at my theater, and even with the help of those brown-nosers, the work just isn’t getting done fast enough to suit me.”
“Brown-nosers?”
“Would-be actors who keep trying to butter me up so I’ll give them a juicy part in the next production or introduce them to Bette Midler or Tom Selleck. But they aren’t fooling me.”
She’d always been a name-dropper, but as far as Brooke knew, Deidre had met Bette Midler only in passing and didn’t know Tom Selleck at all. “And exactly how did you get the juicy parts back in your day?”
“Good point, I suppose,” Deidre said. “But that doesn’t change things. They need to work harder. Faster. Sometimes I think the place will never be finished!”
“I know how you feel,” Brooke said. “I’m beginning to think Connor and I will never get back into Beth’s house.”
“You really need to quit calling it that. It’s your house, chimney to cellar. You’re the one paying the mortgage, and don’t think I’m not aware of all the unpaid bills Beth and Kent racked up—and left you to deal with.”
Deidre wiggled her eyebrows. “Don’t ask how I know,” she said, right hand raised traffic cop–style. “Friends in high places are like little birdies, and sometimes they peep things I’m actually interested in!”
The peeper was probably that stuffed-shirt manager at Deidre’s bank who considered himself special because Deidre had included him in her social circle. How dare he leak private financial matters to anyone, even someone he considered a “star!”
“Will you be able to take off part of the day?” Brooke asked. “Go to the parade or the fireworks with us?”
“What kind of American would I be if I missed our country’s birthday?” One eyebrow rose slowly. “But who, exactly, is us?”
“You, Connor, me and, since we’re trying to butter him up, Hunter. I’m sure he gives his employees the day off on the Fourth.”
“He does. He spent the whole day with us last year, remember?”
Yes, she most certainly did. She could still see him laughing and talking with some of Beth’s other neighbors. She’d tried not to stare, had done her best not to admit how handsome he looked in his crisp white shirt and snug blue jeans.
Deidre sighed heavily. “Hard to believe it’s been almost five months since the crash, isn’t it.”
The thick, odd sound in Deidre’s voice made Brooke look more closely at her grandmother. It wasn’t often that she allowed anyone to witness her tears…unless she was onstage.
Brooke patted her hand. “It’s odd, don’t you think, how our feelings change from day to day. Sometimes it seems like forever ago that we lost her. And other times it seems like yesterday.”
For a long while, they simply watched Connor, chasing a rabbit around the yard. The critter had just disappeared into a blooming azalea shrub when Deidre broke the silence.
“It isn’t easy outliving your children, your husbands, even your grandchildren. I often wonder why the Man Upstairs took all of them and left an ornery old broad like me behind.”
“You aren’t an old broad.”
“So you’re saying I’m ornery.”
Brooke laughed. “No, you said it, remember?” A yellow swallowtail landed on her wrist. “And life goes on,” she whispered
as it fluttered away, “as if nothing happened.”
“If it didn’t, we’d spend the rest of our lives wallowing in self-pity. That isn’t good for anybody. And doesn’t honor the people we’ve lost, either.”
Brooke was about to ask if that was a line from one of Deidre’s plays when her cell phone rang.
“May I speak with Brooke O’Toole, please?”
Instantly, she recognized the crisp no-nonsense voice of the clerk of the court. “Mrs. Damian. Hello.”
Deidre cupped a hand beside her mouth. “Don’t let her push you around,” she whispered. “Make her tell you when those papers will be delivered!”
“Just returning your call,” the woman said. “I have your file right here in front of me, and it seems we’re missing a few things.”
She couldn’t imagine what. Brooke had researched the process thoroughly and fulfilled every obligation step by step. She’d started with an appearance at the clerk’s office of the circuit court, where she’d explained in painful detail how her sister and brother-in-law had died…and hadn’t left a will. She’d filled out the forms and, as directed by the clerk, quickly returned them to the court. A week later Brooke had received copies of the documents, and now she was waiting for the official notice of the hearing date. In anticipation of the order to appear with someone who could substantiate that Beth and Kent had indeed perished in the crash, Brooke had asked Beth’s neighbor to attend the hearing. Deidre would come along, too, to verify that Brooke was the only relative who was eager, able and fit to raise Connor and that the relationship between Brooke and Connor was deep and strong. She’d made a file that contained death certificates, the obituary, copies of everything Brooke had done on behalf of Connor—putting his name on Beth and Kent’s bank accounts—and proof that she was in the process of having his name added to the deed, as well, all in the hope that at the conclusion of the hearing, the judge would make her Connor’s legal guardian. Without that, she couldn’t start the adoption process.
On her feet now, she walked from one end of Deidre’s covered porch to the other. “As you know, Mrs. Damian, I pay my taxes in full and on time. Why, there isn’t so much as a parking ticket in my record, so I don’t understand what could possibly be missing from my paperwork.”
“I realize that, Miss O’Toole, but—”
“You have reports in that file. Written by a specialist in child psychology. You sent social workers to my home unannounced, and they interviewed me. Took notes as Connor and I interacted. Interviewed my boss and coworkers. I hate to sound impatient, but if you’ll just tell me what exactly is missing, I’ll do everything I can to see that you get it, quickly.”
“I’m sorry, Miss O’Toole, but it seems I have another call. I’ll touch base with you again in a few days,” she said…
…and hung up.
Brooke stared at the silent phone for a moment, then hung her head.
“Please tell me that my temper tantrum didn’t just cost me everything.”
“From what I could hear, you were far more patient than I would have been,” Deidre admitted.
“I have an idea. I’ll get in touch with that nice social worker who visited us. She told me to call anytime with questions.”
She found the woman’s number in her contacts list. Heart pounding, head aching, Brooke brought the young woman up to date.
“I’m looking at your file now, and I think I know what put a stop to Mrs. Damian’s questions. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you mention notations in your sister’s journal that describe how beautifully you and Connor get along?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s accessible?”
“Well, some of the pages were loose. I was afraid they might get lost during construction, so I stored them in a shoe box with recipes and craft ideas Beth had torn from her favorite magazines.” Brooke hesitated, thinking she knew where the social worker was going with this line of questioning. “None are dated, though.”
“But they’re in Beth’s handwriting?”
Brooke pictured the tidy teenage-girl penmanship. “Yes. All of them.”
“I suggest you go through them and single out pages that detail your relationship with Connor. And if you find one or two that mention you as the person she’d prefer taking care of him in the event anything happened to her and your brother-in-law, so much the better.”
“How soon would you need them?”
The woman laughed. “How soon can you get them to me?”
Brooke asked her to hang on, then calculated the time in her head: ten minutes from Gram’s to Beth’s house, five more to find the shoe box in the basement, another fifteen to drive from the Oella neighborhood to the social worker’s office. She muted the phone and faced Deidre. “Can I leave Connor with you, just for an hour or so? It’s time for a nap, so I’ll put him down before I leave.”
“Of course, honey. Knowing him, he’ll sleep the whole time you’re gone anyway. Go. Do what you need to. We’ll be fine.”
Brooke unmuted the phone. “I can be there in forty-five minutes or less, if that works with your schedule.”
The social worker rattled off her address and suite number, and Brooke wrote both in the dust on the porch floor. “I know you’re not usually a praying woman, Gram,” she said, transferring the numbers to her cell phone, “but while I’m gone, I need you to have a little chat with the Big Guy.”
“Anything for you and that sweet kid,” Deidre promised.
It took longer than expected to get Connor changed and into his crib at her grandmother’s house. Took longer than usual for him to fall asleep, too. Brooke blamed his uncanny ability to read and react to her moods.
As she raced toward her car, Brooke called out, “I won’t be long. Wish me luck!”
“You don’t need luck,” Deidre called back, “when you have right on your side. Drive carefully, now, hear?”
She hoped what her grandmother said was true. Because according to her research, Connor could end up in foster care if the judge didn’t grant her guardianship. And in his fragile emotional state, that might destroy him.
It surprised her when she turned onto Beth’s street to find no pickup trucks and vans in the driveway. She couldn’t imagine why all of Hunter’s men would be away at the same time. Still, she parked out front to give them easy access if they arrived while she was in the basement.
Brooke had just stepped out of the car when she remembered that the box wasn’t in the basement, but on the top shelf of the dining room’s built-in china cupboard.
If she’d been thinking straight when Hunter helped her pack up to move to the apartment, she thought, selecting the house key from her key ring, she would have taken those loose pages with her instead of mixing them in with random recipes and craft projects. Why was it so hot and dark inside? she wondered, stepping into the foyer. And then she saw the boarded-up windows. She wished she’d had time to clear everything out of the house before Hunter and his men tore down the walls and ceilings. She couldn’t quite figure out how he was going to manage it around furniture, but she saw that he’d covered everything in tarps.
Brooke left her purse beside the front door and surveyed the stacks of lumber and coils of wire lining the walls.
Two-by-fours supported the thick ceiling beam that separated the dining room from the kitchen. Hunter had told her about the rotting wood that compromised the second story. But seeing was believing.
What she needed was tucked safely in the black-and-white shoe box she’d put on the top cupboard shelf.
“You’d think a bunch of construction workers would have a ladder,” she grumbled, squinting into the gritty gloom. “Or at the very least, a step stool.”
She spotted a cardboard box marked Brackets. It took a few minutes of pushing and shoving to get it close enough to the built-in hutch, and when finally it was in place, she stepped onto it. From there she climbed onto the countertop.
The box was mere inches out of reach.
The box caved in under her weight, throwing her off balance. Brooke grabbed for the nearest thing to steady herself…one of the two-by-fours supporting the second floor. The board shifted. Not much. But enough to start a shower of soot that blinded her.
Just as well, because if she’d been able to see what caused that eerie groaning from above, Brooke might have fainted right there, with one knee on the countertop and one foot on the misshapen box as the ceiling crashed down around her.
Seconds later all was silent, save the quiet pecking of sawdust raining down onto the floor. She tried to get up but couldn’t. Her head ached. Her leg ached more. And no wonder, the way it bent at an odd, awkward angle.
Nauseous and afraid, she clenched her jaw. She knew that if she vomited in this position—on her back, head tilted back—she’d choke to death.
Stay calm. Think. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Deep breaths were a bad idea, she decided when dust clogged her throat, started a coughing fit that sent waves of agony throughout her body. She was trapped, alone, with no way to call for help because, like an idiot, she’d left her cell phone in her purse and put her purse beside the front door.
No one had ever accused her of being a hysterical female, but if being buried alive wasn’t an excuse to panic, Brooke didn’t know what was.
Hot tears stung the scrape on her cheek, and the room began to spin. She closed her eyes as the room spun, grew dark, darker…
…and slipped slowly into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HUNTER LIKED IT a whole lot better when Brooke and Connor lived two doors down. Driving to Deidre’s sent him in the opposite direction from most of his other jobs. Soon, he thought, the mess at the Sheridans’ wouldn’t be a mess anymore, and they could move back in.
And he could stop by every day, the way he did when Beth and Kent were alive.
He decided to head home early, catch a quick shower and walk over to the Sheridans’ to make sure the granite countertops and glass backsplash tiles had been delivered. Yesterday when he’d gone over to inspect the day’s work, he’d noticed one of Connor’s stuffed animals wedged between the back of the sofa and the wall. He should have rented a storage unit, instead of tarping the furniture. It would have spared the guys having to lift and slide the pieces from one side of the room to the other as they worked, saving time and effort. He’d meant to grab Connor’s lop-eared rabbit, but got distracted by a question from one of the boys. That excuse wouldn’t work today, since they had the afternoon off. But delivering the toy would provide the perfect excuse to visit Brooke. And Connor. He smiled.