Home For Christmas. Carrie Weaver
“Dream on, buddy. Park your butt at the breakfast bar while I get the kettle going.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After she filled the kettle and set it on the stove, she studied him. He had bags under his eyes, a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Out with it. The whole story.”
“I wish I knew the whole story. That’s part of the problem. Rachel won’t talk to me. All I know is she went to the mall with her friends and then the police called to say she’d been caught shoplifting.”
“In your limited conversations with your ex, did she say Rachel has shoplifted before?”
He nodded. “Once. Right before she came to live with me. So what sage advice do you have for me, buddy?”
“Ah, grasshopper, when you can snatch the pebble from my hand, you still won’t have a clue about teenage girls.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. What do I do besides ground her? Send her to a convent?”
“Hmm. If you want grandchildren someday, the convent’s out.”
Beau groaned, placing his hand over his eyes. He peered out at her between his fingers. “Don’t remind me. She could end up pregnant if I don’t get her back on the right path.”
“Um, I think you took a gigantic leap there, Beau. A lot of girls shoplift. I’m not saying it’s okay, I’m just saying sometimes it’s a rite of passage.”
“Did you ever shoplift?”
Nancy nodded. “Yep. Makeup. I ended up grounded for a week. What did Rachel steal?”
“Earrings. The stupid part is that she doesn’t even have pierced ears. I won’t let her mutilate her body like that.”
“Hmm. Do you think she was making a statement of sorts?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Let me get my ears pierced or I’ll turn to a life of crime?”
“Something like that. Kids can be pretty manipulative.”
“How come you’re so smart about this stuff with Rachel? But then with Ana, you don’t seem to have a clue?”
“I remember being a teen, what I did, how I felt. I can’t remember being a toddler. They’re completely foreign creatures.”
“Exactly how I feel about Rachel. Do you think maybe it’s just our own kids we don’t understand?”
The kettle sputtered. Nancy removed a couple of mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the counter. She poured chamomile tea, added a dollop of honey and handed a cup to Beau.
Sipping her tea, she pondered his theory. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe all parents are baffled by their children. And some are just better at hiding it than others.”
“I figured it was because I was so new at it.”
“You and me both. Didn’t you have visitation while Rachel was growing up?”
Beau flushed and avoided her eyes. “Yeah, um, I did. But I was on the road a lot. I never forgot a birthday or special occasion.” His expression brightened. “And I took her on some scouting father/daughter camping trip.”
“You were the fun parent. Now you’re the mean parent. I imagine that’s a hard transition.”
“I’m not mean.”
“No, you’re just a concerned father, trying to do the right thing. But to Rachel, it probably seems mean. And maybe a little confusing. She’d lived with her mom all that time and then bam, she’s living with a father she barely knows.”
“I guess you’ve got a point.” His voice was glum. “I’d rather be the fun parent.”
“Rachel’s been with you how long?”
“Three months.”
“If she weren’t there every day, for some reason, would you miss her?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Now that you’ve been the mean parent, do you think it would be worth it not to see her every day, even if you got to be the fun parent again? Would it be hard to stay away?”
“Yeah. I’ve gotten used to having her around. At least when the police aren’t calling to say she’s gotten into trouble.”
“Mama?” Ana stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her feet poking out from beneath her little flannel nightgown.
Nancy scooped her up. “I’m here, baby. What’s wrong.”
Ana pointed at Beau, her eyes wide. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing men at the house in the middle of the night and Nancy wanted to keep it that way.
“This is Beau. He’s Mommy’s friend. He came over for tea because he was sad.”
Ana nodded.
“Now, let me take you back up to bed.”
Beau watched Nancy’s expression soften when she looked at her daughter. The love shining in her eyes was enough to make a man want to lay down his life for her. He resisted the urge to follow her up the stairs and watch her tuck in her daughter.
Raising his mug, he took a big swallow and sputtered. He didn’t care what anyone said, chamomile tea sucked, big time.
Restless despite his fatigue, Beau wandered around the room. Nancy’s kitchen was large, one wall exposed red brick. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling. The professional-size stove led him to believe she liked to cook. Good, he liked to eat.
Heading into the family room, he admired the feeling of warmth and safety she’d created. The oversize couch and love seat were made of soft, dark-brown fabric. Throw pillows in solid red, purple and blue reminded him of Nancy—bright and fun, yet sensual.
Uh-oh. He looked at family-room furniture and thought sensual. Next he’d be wondering what Nancy’s bedroom looked like. No sooner had the suggestion risen than his imagination was off and running. He’d bet his bottom dollar Nancy had an antique four-poster canopy bed with a white eyelet comforter so dense you could get lost in it.
Redirecting his thoughts, he stopped in front of an oak sideboard, where family pictures were lovingly arranged. At least he assumed it was family, because the majority of the photos were of Nancy and Ana. One had been taken in a drab, old-fashioned room, with a stern-looking woman holding Ana. Then there was a photo of Nancy with an older version of herself, probably her mother. The woman’s eyes held a lingering sadness.
“There, I think she’s asleep again,” Nancy said from behind him.
“You’ve got some great pictures. I’d like to get a studio picture done with Rachel if I can ever catch her in a good mood.”
Nancy pointed to the drab photo. “That one’s at the orphanage in Pechory, Russia. Ana’s house mother was saying goodbye. The staff grows attached to the children and it’s hard for them to see the kids go. But they’re happy that the children are headed for a better life.”
“Ana’s adopted?” The realization helped connect a few of the seemingly unrelated dots Beau had found intriguing.
Nancy nodded, moving to the fireplace, as if she needed the additional warmth. “Sometimes I forget it’s not common knowledge like in McGuireville.”
Beau resisted the urge to follow her, to connect with her. He was afraid she’d quit confiding if he got too close. “I didn’t realize Ana came from Russia. She speaks English like any other kid her age. I have to admit, I was curious… You never said how long your husband was dead. But I figured it was none of my business who Ana’s father was.”