Raising Connor. Loree Lough
feet of tabletop—and fifteen years’ worth of bitter memories—separated them. He had to remind himself that Brooke wasn’t some untested teenager but a full-grown woman who’d survived disappointments and losses. She didn’t need him to protect her. So how did he explain his odd desire to do just that?
“‘Be careful what you ask for.’”
“What did you ask for?”
“Proof.”
Remembering the whole fingerprints explanation, Hunter nodded.
“Well, I got it, and then some, didn’t I?”
She seemed on the verge of tears. He could walk around to her side of the table, take her in his arms, and this time, he could take a little comfort while giving it.
It was a stupid, crazy, dangerous thought, and he squelched it by reminding himself how much she loathed him...and why. Listening to his heart instead of his head had led to his downfall more times than he cared to admit. This time, it could cost him in ways he couldn’t predict. Worse, it could cost Connor.
As if on cue, the baby’s voice crackled through the monitor.
Brooke was on her feet in an instant.
“Oh no. He’s up early....” Halfway to the hall, she stopped, leaned on the doorjamb and hid behind her hands.
And I have no idea what to tell him, he finished for her.
If Connor were already in his care, how and when would he deliver the news? It didn’t seem fair to let Brooke deal with it alone considering that in a few days, a week, maybe, he’d pull the rug out from under her.
“What would you say to seeing an expert,” he began, “before we break the news to Connor?”
When she didn’t disagree, he added, “Just so we’ll know the right way and the right time to tell the poor kid that...about...you know.”
She was silent, which made him wonder if she was gearing up to blast him for saying we.
“Yeah,” she said, “that’s not a bad idea.”
Relief sluiced over him. Why couldn’t she be this calm and rational all of the time?
Hunter decided he wouldn’t follow her to Connor’s room; soon enough he’d be with the boy pretty much 24/7.
She met his eyes, a vacant, disconnected stare that, for a blink in time, took him back to the convenience store. Again. Right now he’d give anything to be as far away from her as he could get. This up-close-and-personal stuff was downright unnerving.
She left the room without a word, heightening his uncertainty.
If he knew what was good for him, he’d step up his boxing skills...because something told him that once she saw that DVD, he was in for the fight of his life.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEIDRE FROWNED. “First chance I get, I’m sending Felix over here to do something about this lawn before your neighbors start complaining.” She shook her head. “That handyman of mine is an artist with hedge shears. I’ll bet he can do something with that boxwood hedge. It was Kent’s pride and joy. If he saw the mess it’s in, he’d roll over in his grave.” She clucked her tongue. “If he had one.”
There were so many things wrong with her grandmother’s statement that Brooke didn’t know where to begin. First, this wasn’t her neighborhood. Second, she’d tried starting the lawn mower during one of Connor’s afternoon naps, but her arms had been too short for the pull cord. And that crack about Kent’s grave! Brooke would blame it on advancing age...if Deidre hadn’t always been so proud of her bluntness. Like during last year’s Christmas service when Deidre spotted a sorority sister sitting with her new beau: “Do you think those two are having sex?” When heads turned to see who’d made the loud crude comment, Brooke said, “Gram! We’re in church!” And Deidre, being Deidre, blurted, “Oh, fiddlefarts. God invented sex!”
Now Deidre pointed at the ankle-deep grass beneath her Mary Jane–style sneakers. “You know what it means when dandelions bloom in March, don’t you?”
What Brooke knew about dandelions could be summed up with a word: weed.
“This happened a few years ago. We had a terrible, fierce spring. Thunderstorms, derechos, tornadoes—”
Just what Connor needs, Brooke thought, weather-related storms in his life, too.
“—and a long humid summer that broke every weather record in the book.” She turned toward Brooke. “Remember?”
No, she didn’t, because she’d spent the past five years in Richmond, where every summer seemed endlessly sticky. But admitting that would only inspire another “if you had stayed home, where you belong...” speech. Her grandmother meant well and probably had no idea how upsetting it was to hear the list of hardships Brooke’s move south had caused: she hadn’t been there when one of Deidre’s tenants left the garage apartment in shambles, when another forgot to close a window before a long business trip, and hornets built a basketball-size nest in the closet. She wasn’t there to see Deidre’s directorial debut in the little-theater production of Our Town and had never gone with her to place flowers on Percy’s grave. Once, out of frustration, Brooke had suggested that Beth would probably love helping out. “Beth,” Deidre had said, “has a family to take care of.” Translation: Brooke had no responsibilities.
Well, she had her share of them now.
“Yeddow,” Connor said, pointing at a dandelion. He squatted and picked the flower, then carried it to Brooke. “Yeddow?”
It was the closest he’d come to smiling in two days, and she felt like celebrating. She bent down to kiss his forehead. “Yes, yellow. And pretty, too!”
“Pitty,” he echoed, toddling into the backyard.
His pronunciation of the word seemed beyond ironic, because losing his mommy and daddy at the same time was a pity.
He tripped on a clump of weeds and landed on his diapered rump. Ordinarily, he’d giggle, get right back to his feet and continue on as if nothing had stopped him. Not today. He cried for nearly ten minutes straight, quieting only after Brooke tossed aside the lid to the sandbox so he could play.
“Poor li’l guy,” Deidre said.
“He senses something is wrong,” Brooke agreed. “He just doesn’t know what. It’s as though he knows somehow that Beth and Kent should have come home before yesterday.”
“You need to tell him. And soon.”
“Tell him what, Gram? That his mom and dad are gone? He’s only one and a half. Kids his age have no concept of death.” She remembered Hunter’s suggestion about talking with an expert who could help them explain things in terms Connor would comprehend. The idea was sounding better and better.
Deidre stared at Connor furiously banging his blue plastic shovel on a red fire truck. “I suppose you’re right.”
Once the funeral was behind them, she’d call Connor’s pediatrician. Surely he could recommend a good child psychologist. For now, she’d just have to exercise patience as Connor expressed his confusion in the only way he could: tantrums.
“You look tired,” Deidre said.
No surprise there. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since before the deputy’s phone call. Connor hadn’t slept well since that night, either. If only she could blame a cold or the flu for his grumpy behavior.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard. You need healthy food and a couple good nights’ sleep.”
“Once Beth and Kent are home and...” It might have been easier to say “once they’re buried” if she knew that was their preference. Brooke had rifled through every drawer and cubby in the house