Raising Connor. Loree Lough
gloves. Hunter pushed the big brass handle and opened door to Kelsey’s.
“Long as we’re here,” he said as she passed, “you might as well have a bite, too. As you pointed out the other morning, you need to stay sharp for Connor.”
She was silent as the hostess led them to a table near the fireplace. “Jenna will be your server today,” the girl said. “She’ll be right with you.”
Hunter picked up a menu. “Kind of a shame they didn’t build a fire.”
“Why?”
“Can I help it if I like a warm atmosphere?”
Brooke looked behind him. He was about to turn to find out what had captured her attention when a husky female voice said, “I’m surprised you even know what that means.”
Jenna.
If he’d made the connection earlier, Hunter would have told the hostess, Sorry, we changed our minds. He hadn’t seen Jenna since she’d hunted him down at a job site to ask why he’d been avoiding her. He’d almost told her the truth, that she reminded him too much of Brooke. During their short time together, he’d tolerated the verbal abuse Jenna had regularly dished out, put up with her erratic behavior. But on the night her car fishtailed away from his house after yet another tantrum, he had decided to call it quits.
She glared at him now the way she had in the construction trailer. It would no doubt make her day if he admitted that his guys still razzed him about the beating she’d given him that day...using the roses she’d brought as a so-called peace offering.
“Well, don’t just sit there passing judgment,” she said, unpocketing a pen. “Order something.”
Passing judgment? She’d been a paralegal back when they were dating. Had her volatile temper forced her to swap legal pads for an order tablet? He glanced at Brooke expecting to find disapproval—or worse—on her face. Instead, he saw the hint of a smile. Would she pick up where Jenna left off?
“Waiting tables is good honest work,” he said. “Did it myself in high school.”
“Where was diplomacy like that when you were kicking me to the curb!” She’d barely finished her sentence before tossing her order tablet onto the table. “So how long have you two been an item?” she asked Brooke.
“Jenna,” Hunter said, “maybe it would be best if you—”
But she ignored him. “Did he tell you that he was a cop before he took over his grandfather’s big-bucks contracting firm?”
Brooke nodded.
“Did he tell you why...that his partner was killed in a robbery when he fell asleep on the job?”
Hunter couldn’t decide where to direct his anger: at Jenna for behaving like a stereotypical scorned woman, or at himself for being fool enough to trust her with his shameful secret. He’d made a half-baked offer to help Brooke at the bank and the funeral parlor to make the process easier for her. Failed at that, he told himself, but I can spare her this.
He got up as Brooke said, “Hunter and I go way back, so there isn’t much you can tell me about him that I don’t already know.”
Brooke stood, too, and met his gaze. “Ready to go?”
He watched her stride calmly toward the hostess station, where she turned and frowned at him, as if to say, Well? What are you waiting for?
He was tempted to tell Jenna to purge herself of hard feelings or she’d end up like Brooke...angry, spiteful, alone. But one look into his ex’s eyes told him it was already too late. He peeled a five-dollar bill from his money clip and dropped it onto the table.
“That should cover the cost of changing the tablecloth and putting out fresh silverware,” he said.
Jenna picked it up. “Wish I could say it was nice seeing you again. But I’d be lying.”
Halfway to the door, he muttered, “Ditto.”
When he caught up with Brooke, she said “So. You kicked Jenna to the curb, did you?”
Yeah, but only because she reminded me too much of you.
“Was it serious?”
“Thought it was.”
“How long before you knew it wasn’t, um, a match made in heaven?”
He unpocketed his keys, hit the alarm button by mistake. It took a moment of fumbling to silence the horn, and when he did, Brooke repeated the question.
“Too long,” he said, opening the passenger door.
She waited until he slid in behind the steering wheel to say, “It’s kind of ironic, don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“Well, that scene wasn’t exactly the fire you were hoping for, but you sure got your share of heat!”
Beth had told him her sister had a great sense of humor, but until this moment, he’d never experienced it personally.
“If you ever get bored with nursing, maybe you can try your hand at stand-up comedy.”
She didn’t respond. In fact, she didn’t say another word for the next five minutes. As they sat at the traffic light at Route 40 and Rogers Avenue, his mind wandered. Why had she agreed to let him come with her if she wasn’t going to ask him for help or advice even once? And why let him drive her to and from the meetings if she intended to stare out the window, silent as a stone? Just as confusing, she’d more or less stuck up for him when Jenna had pounced.
A horn blared behind him, startling them both. Hunter uttered a mild oath and took his foot off the brake.
Brooke glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you,” she said as he blended into traffic. “Looks like a grumpy old poop to me. Hardly worth the breath it takes to insult him.”
Man, but she was an enigma. Couple of hours ago in the Sheridans’ yard, she’d blasted him with reminders of past mistakes...yet twice in fifteen minutes, she’d come to his defense. Sort of.
He wanted to do right by Connor, too—wanted that more than anything—but he hadn’t seen any examples so far that backed up Kent’s belief that Brooke wasn’t capable of mothering the boy. If this kind of evidence kept stacking up, that DVD might never get delivered.
Maybe insomnia was a good thing after all, he thought as they rode along in silence, because he could put those hours of sleeplessness to good use...
...trying to figure out what really was best for Connor.
CHAPTER SIX
DEIDRE, CONNOR AND BROOKE were the only relatives in attendance at the funeral service. That might have been a sad fact if not for nearly a hundred others—coworkers, neighbors, folks from Beth’s church—who crowded first into the funeral home and then into the tiny chapel. It touched Brooke to see how many people now stood under the green canvas tent that shaded twin graves, shivering in the raw late-March wind.
When the praying and singing ended, the pastor invited the congregants to step up and share memories of Beth and Kent. It amazed Brooke to see how quickly a line formed. As the first man started speaking, Deidre grabbed Brooke’s hand. “Did you know about this?”
Brooke shook her head. During their brief meeting the day before yesterday, the preacher had promised to handle the services, in the church, at the funeral home and here at the cemetery. And since Beth had always refused to discuss anything even remotely related to death or dying, Brooke had quickly agreed to let him.
“I’m trying hard not to make a scene,” Deidre said, “but I don’t know how I’ll hold it together if all these people share fond memories of Beth and Kent.”
Brooke gave her grandmother’s hand a gentle