Unexpected Family. Molly O'Keefe
“I want some whiskey.”
“It’s noon.”
“I’m an alcoholic, Sandra. It doesn’t much matter to me.”
“I won’t bring you booze.”
“Well, then stop bringing me eggs.”
She narrowed her eyes, an expression he’d seen on her stubborn, beautiful face more times than he could count.
“You should just leave, Sandra. There’s nothing here for you anymore. Your husband is dead. Your girls are grown—”
“I’m not leaving you when you need so much help.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“That doesn’t much matter to me.”
“A.J.—”
“Do not bring my husband into this,” she said, bristling.
“He wouldn’t like you being my nursemaid.”
“He was your best friend, Walter.” It was an accusation, a plea. The reason behind so much of their heartache. Walter had cared too much for his best friend’s wife and his own wife had seen his secret shame. His favorite torture these days was wondering if Sandra knew. He would—without a shred of exaggeration—rather die than have Sandra know how he felt about her.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just leave.”
“If you want me to go, then get better. Stop drinking.”
“Fine.” He laughed, shaky and sick because he hadn’t had a drink in fourteen hours. “I’ve stopped.”
“Until the cast comes off. You stop drinking that long, I’ll leave.”
He laughed before he thought better of it. “Three weeks without a drink?” There was no way. No point.
She lifted her chin, her eyes sparkling with a challenge. “There’s an AA meeting at the church on Sunday nights.” She slipped a piece of paper onto his dresser. “I’ve written down the information.”
“You’re wasting your time, Sandra.”
“If you love me like you think you do, stop drinking.”
His heart stopped, blood pooled in his brain.
She knew. Oh, God. She knew.
CHAPTER FIVE
IF THERE WAS ANY EASE in Jeremiah’s life, it arrived every Saturday afternoon with his dead brother-in-law’s parents. Cynthia and Larry Bilkhead were going to be seventy this year, too old to care for the boys full-time. They never contested Annie and Connor’s will, even when it was obvious that Jeremiah had no freaking clue what he was doing when it came to parenting.
But they came when he needed them as well as every Saturday afternoon, like clockwork. Like angels.
“Hi, Jeremiah, how are you doing?” Cynthia asked, stepping into the foyer to wrap him in her arms. She was small and round and smelled like cookies and pie. And there were times when he could have stood in her hug for a day.
“We’re good.” He lied, because really, what could they do with the truth? He kissed her papery, powdery cheek. “Some trouble with Ben—”
“What did that boy do now?” Larry Bilkhead stepped inside behind his wife. He was a six-foot-four-inch cowboy, who still carried himself like a man who’d won some rodeo in his day. His words might sound stern but Larry could not keep the love he had for his grandsons out of his eyes.
“I’ll let him tell you,” Jeremiah said, shaking Larry’s hand. Jeremiah had always liked the rawboned man, who wore his age and his time in a saddle with pride. Now, Jeremiah loved him like family.
“The cooler is in the van.” Cynthia put down her purse and kicked off her shoes to step into the family room. “Where are my boys?”
Upstairs there was a wild scream of “Grandma!” and the thundering of a herd of elephants running for the stairs. Casey was the first one down, followed by Aaron, who at eleven was too cool for a lot of things, but not too cool for Cynthia and Larry. Probably because Larry wasn’t like other grandpas. And Cynthia was exactly what a grandmother should be.
Jeremiah eased out the front door to grab the cooler from the back of their minivan. Every week she showed up with some casseroles for the freezer and enough cookies and cakes and brownies for a hockey team. And bags of fresh fruit and vegetables from their greenhouse.
“Ben,” he said, once he was back inside with the cooler. “You can unpack this.”
The nine-year-old had the good grace not to argue, and followed him into the kitchen meekly. Jeremiah cleaned off the kitchen table while the boy put things away and then Ben took the cooler back out to the minivan.
“He smashed up a car?” Larry asked, filling the door frame between the kitchen and the living room.
Jeremiah nodded, carefully stacking some clean glasses in the cupboard.
“What’s his punishment going to be?” Larry asked, and Jeremiah shook his head.
“I’m not sure.”
“In my day—”
“I’m not going to spank him.” Jeremiah turned to face the older man. “I know how you feel about this, but I can’t hurt that kid any more than he’s been hurt.”
Larry nodded, his cheeks red under the edge of his glasses. It was grief, not anger. Jeremiah knew Larry was just as at a loss for what to do when it came to Ben.
“I know,” he murmured. “But what are you going to do?”
“I can make him muck stalls until he’s eighty—but what good is that going to do? He’s already working hard around here. Hell, I have the five-year-old doing fence work.”
Larry just stared at him, his white hair lying smooth against his head. His blue eyes runny beneath his glasses. Larry was an old-world kind of guy. If Ben was his child, Jeremiah knew that Ben would have gotten the belt after this last stunt. Hell, maybe before then. But Jeremiah just couldn’t.
As it was, Jeremiah made Casey swear not to tell Grandpa Larry that he allowed Casey to spend half the night sleeping in his bed. The poor kid was plagued by nightmares. Jeremiah let Aaron sleep with his parents’ wedding picture under his pillow. Despite his tough words, Jeremiah was a total softy.
What these boys had been through couldn’t be fixed by work. Or more violence.
They needed help—they all needed help. He ran a thumb over the chip in the counter. He’d put that chip there himself, when as a kid he tried to get the Pop-Tarts from the top shelf.
This isn’t going to go well, he thought.
“I think Ben needs someone to talk to,” Jeremiah said, anyway.
“What do you mean, ‘talk to’?” Larry pushed off the door frame, his shoulders already tense because he knew where Jeremiah was headed. They’d been down this road before, when Ben first started acting out.
“A counsellor.”
“He already has people to talk to. Us.”
Jeremiah’s laughter was bitter in the back of his throat. “He’s not talking to me, Larry. He’s never talked to me.”
“I know, son, but Connor and Annie, they wouldn’t like this going outside of the family. They were circle-the-wagons kind of people.”
“I know.” But they’re not here, are they? It’s just me and I’m out of ideas!
He didn’t say it because it would only hurt Larry. It would only make them try harder to help and they were seventy years old.