A Mom for Matthew. Roz Fox Denny
have said something unkind had the clerk not called out the number on Zeke’s slip. He rose and collected their order.
“How can you drink a double espresso?” she asked, gazing into the thick black depths of his small cup. “That looks strong enough to eat holes in the lining of your stomach.”
Taking a sip, Zeke smacked his lips. “This stuff will keep me going for another six hours. Long after your sissy drink lets you down.”
“I’m already upset over lost worktime, especially since I rent Jorge’s boat by the day. So rather than trade meaningless insults, Zeke, how about if you tell me why you were looking for me?”
Zeke cast a glance around at the nearly full room. He was glad now that he’d found her here. She seemed too ladylike to pitch a fit in front of innocent bystanders. “My boss decided you could use an extra pair of eyes in your search. Now don’t jump for joy, but I was elected. I’m gonna help you out.”
“Pardon? No. No way!” Grace rose from her chair, bumped into the table and watched her almond latte spill across it—and into Zeke’s lap.
He, and the people at the tables on either side, leapt forward to mop up the mess. Grace grabbed her handbag and tossed it over her shoulder. “That is the most preposterous idea you’ve come up with yet, Rossetti. I know what I’m doing. I have a plan. I have a grid I work methodically. I don’t need or want anyone else down there stirring up sand.”
“You are the most unreasonable female I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering. On the one hand, you stand here bitching about how much it costs to rent Jorge’s boat. Yet when Pace Kemper offers you a way to cut your costs and shorten your search, all you worry about is me stomping on your ego.” To keep from hopping about or yanking off his pants right there because the hot coffee was burning tender parts, Zeke lashed back while trying to ease the steaming denim away from his skin. And did sweet little Grace apologize for attempting to emasculate him? No!
“My ego?” she shouted. “Yours is monumental. I don’t have to listen to your insults, either.” She started to sweep past Zeke.
He reached out and grabbed her bare arm. Grace’s wince told Zeke that he was holding her too tightly. He immediately relaxed his grip—but not before he glanced up and straight into the eyes of Bonnie Burnham, the social worker from hell. The gleam in her eyes didn’t bode particularly well for Zeke’s next scheduled home visit the following week.
“Ezekiel Rossetti!” she exclaimed. “Who is that poor woman you’re manhandling? And why aren’t you working at this hour? I wonder if your boss in Dallas knows you’re goofing off?”
Grace dashed for the door the moment Zeke dropped his hand. On hearing the woman speak to him, Grace looked over and mouthed Ezekiel?
Zeke’s head whipped between the two. “Shit,” he muttered, his eyes lingering on Grace’s lips. The expletive slipped out. Grace thought he’d sworn at her; apparently, so did those nearby. The kind patrons who’d helped him mop up the spilled coffee suddenly glared at him.
“Wait! Grace,” Zeke called futilely. Each step he took rubbed hot denim against his stomach and below, slowing him to a hobble. Grace made good her escape, and in the time it took him to wad up the wet napkins and toss them in a trash container, a new group of people had swept through the door and she vanished completely.
Feeling Bonnie Burnham’s eyes boring into his back, Zeke turned to face her. She was a large woman with shoulder-length brassy hair. The social worker always wore dark clothes, layered to minimize her size. And big, flashy rings drew attention to her hands. If she ever smiled, she wouldn’t be unattractive. But Zeke had never seen her smile, and he was in no mood to parry with her today. “Miz Burnham,” he drawled, assuming a jocular air he was far from feeling. “Did I ask if your agency head knows you’re having coffee instead of doing your usual job of micromanaging some poor family’s life?”
She clutched a large gold medallion that hung around her neck. “Young man, it’s that attitude that gets you negative points. In spite of what you believe, our agency advocates for children. And I care very much about Matthew’s welfare. You’re the one who’s being difficult. I could get Matthew into that school.”
Zeke heaved a massive sigh, but because people were listening in, he lowered his voice. “You can’t care as much as I do, Miz Burnham. I love my son more than anything in the world. And…I am—was—working when Ms. Stafford’s coffee tipped over. As you can see, most of it landed on me. You’d show some attitude, too, if you’d just been burned by hot coffee. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll run home and change. I’m sure we’ll both have plenty to say at our next visit.” Giving a stiff, dismissive jerk of his chin, Zeke left. He duck-walked to his pickup. The cool breeze blowing off the bay was almost too cold when it hit his wet jeans, but it also cleared his head. Enough so that he groaned when he thought about how he’d once again let his temper control his mouth—when it came to dealing with Grace Stafford and Bonnie Burnham. The child welfare people weren’t all bad. There were families who needed their help. But Zeke wouldn’t be one of their cases if Trixie Lee hadn’t discovered that it was a surefire way of getting him to cough up money.
Revving his engine, he backed out and recalled his mother chiding him about his attitude last night. It made him spare a moment to contemplate the happy-go-lucky guy he used to be. Oh, he’d always had rough edges. Basically, though, he made friends easily. And women liked him. During the last few years, his outlook had changed. Although he might want to lay his surliness at Trixie Lee’s feet, Zeke knew that was just too convenient.
The big question was, how did he put an end to his useless squabble with his ex-wife? As he swung into his driveway at home, he reached the conclusion that no one could solve the problem but him. And there was no time like the present to start.
Matthew was still napping. Zeke told Celia what had happened and why he was home in the middle of the day, rummaging in the medicine cabinet.
“If your skin is burned, Zeke, don’t put salve on it. Use ice.”
“Ice?” He came out of the bathroom.
“Really. Read the first aid book you bought. It’s the recommended treatment for burns. If the skin isn’t blistered, just cover your privates with a clean pair of soft, white cotton underpants.”
“Ma, I don’t think I want to have this conversation with you. I’m thirty, not three.”
She shrugged and returned to watching TV.
Zeke went to his bedroom and followed her recommendation. He found a pair of knock-around pants with a drawstring waist and put them on instead of another pair of jeans. “I’m leaving again,” he called, after looking in on his sleeping son. “I’ve still gotta run Grace to ground. I’ll try to be home in time for dinner. She’s being stubborn about letting me help with her salvage, and I need to change her mind. Even if I manage, today’s virtually gone. We won’t be able to start until tomorrow.”
“I almost forgot. Norm Steel phoned and said Ms. Stafford called your office a few minutes before you showed up here. He wasn’t sure if you wanted him to give her your home or your cell number.”
“She called the office? For me?” Zeke buttoned in his wallet. “From where, I wonder?”
“Her hotel. At least that’s the number Norm gave me. I wrote it on the pad by the kitchen phone.”
Zeke retrieved the number and called her from his pickup.
“I did call,” Grace said in a low, quiet voice. “I was almost back at my hotel when it dawned on me how much that hot coffee must’ve hurt. Are you all right? It was my fault, and I’m so sorry. I feel awful. And…I shouldn’t have reacted so badly to your offer of help. It’s just…that kind of behavior is so typical of the male teachers in my district, like women can’t handle chairing projects or committees. Like we aren’t capable of being in charge of anything. It’s my problem, not yours. But, I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?”
“You