Raising Connor. Loree Lough
guilty conscience!
But in the time it took to pick the baby up, his stance, his smile, even his voice changed. Caring was the only word she could think of to describe it. Which raised an important question: If someone else’s child could incite such a transformation, why didn’t he have children of his own?
“How’s my li’l buddy?” he said, scrubbing his whiskered chin across Connor’s palm.
The baby snickered, and envy coursed through Brooke. She’d done everything but imitate a monkey swinging from the chandelier and hadn’t roused so much as a giggle. Jaws clamped and fists clenched at her sides, she stared at her shoes, remembering how Beth used to say that people could read her moods just by looking at her. She took a deep breath, then met Hunter’s eyes.
“You’re early.”
He checked his watch. “You want me to go out the gate and come back in again?”
Beth had occasionally accused her of pettiness, but for all she knew, Beth had shared that with Hunter, too, and Brooke had no desire to prove it to him.
“My watch must be slow, then.”
“So tell me, Hunter,” Deidre began, smiling sweetly at him, “what prompted you to offer your babysitting services today?”
“When my dad died last year,” he said, propping Connor on one hip, “I was the only son who wasn’t working swing shifts. So I made all the arrangements. Dad hadn’t left a will, which put my mom in a tough position, legally and financially. It was hard for her.” He caught Brooke’s eye. “I just want to help.”
Deidre nodded. “I seem to remember your sister-in-law telling me at your dad’s memorial service that if it hadn’t been for you, your mother would have lost everything.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, cheeks reddening.
Bearing in mind how boldly he’d invaded the O’Toole world, his humble attitude surprised her. What invited it, Brooke couldn’t say, but just as surprising was the way she remembered him, crawling around on all fours to help scoop up melting ice cubes. If Beth and Deidre knew of other messes he’d cleaned up, no wonder they had fallen so easily for his nice-guy routine.
Connor snuggled closer to him and whimpered.
“Aw, what’s the matter, kiddo?”
It was all Brooke could do to keep from groaning out loud. She resented Beth for starting the “forgive and forget” ball rolling, resented Kent for keeping her at arm’s length while letting Hunter get so close, resented Deidre for not understanding that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him off the hook as easily as they had.
Connor yawned, and like an indulgent dad, Hunter began rocking side to side. “I don’t want you to worry about him,” he told Brooke. “He’ll be fine.”
She only nodded.
“And don’t worry about anything else, either. What you’re facing is hard and painful stuff. But you’ll get through it. And the sooner you put obituaries and grave markers and bank statements behind you, the sooner your life—and more importantly, Connor’s life—can get back to normal.”
“Normal? When I’ve lost my only sister? And the man I was going to marry deceived and humiliated me? When Connor and Deidre—the only family I have left—think you hung the moon? There’s nothing normal about any of that!”
Hunter’s eyebrows shot up and her grandmother gasped.
And she could hardly blame them. Even in her own ears, she sounded like the whimpering, self-centered women who’d always driven her mad; if they’d spent as much time counting their blessings as they did cataloging all that was wrong with their lives...
Maybe you should take your own advice. Deidre, still mentally sharp at seventy-five, was healthier and more active than people half her age. Brooke couldn’t remember the last time Connor had suffered so much as a head cold, and the same was true for her. Thanks to years of scrimping and saving, Brooke had enough in her savings account to make a year’s worth of mortgage payments on Beth’s house. And moving in here meant she could sell the furniture she’d put in storage, adding to her account. So life had thrown her another curve. She’d survived the others; she’d survive this one, too. For the time being, anyway, it made more sense to meet Hunter halfway. That wouldn’t just be good for Connor; it would please Deidre. And if they were happy, she’d be happy.
She took Connor from him. “If you’re still here after I’ve fed him lunch and put him down for his nap,” she said over her shoulder, “maybe you can share some of what you learned helping your mom.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Deidre answered. “Maybe because Brooke just talked to you as if—”
“Deidre,” he said, holding up a hand, “it’s okay. Really. She’s going through a lot. I get it.” He faced Brooke and said, “I’ll be here.”
She did her best to block him from her mind as she carried a squirming, whining Connor into the house.
The baby wouldn’t eat, not even when she offered his favorite, macaroni and cheese. Well, he wouldn’t starve skipping just one meal; he needed a nap more than food anyway.
But it took half an hour to get him to sleep, and once she did, Brooke rifled through Beth’s desk. The funeral home would need pictures. She found fat envelopes stuffed with photographs: Beth alone; Beth with Kent; Beth as a little girl; Beth with Connor on her shoulders. Should she bring one? All of them?
Every day as a nurse at VCU’s trauma center, Brooke had made snap decisions on behalf of patients, and more than a few had been literally life-and-death. She should be well equipped to handle the decisions that lay ahead, so why was selecting a few snapshots proving to be so difficult!
The overwhelming sense of dread reminded her a bit of the ski trip Donald had surprised her with just over a year ago. On the first lift up the mountain at Crested Butte, he’d crooned, “I love you for going along with this.” On the second lift, it was “Of course the brochure made it sound scary—that’s what draws so many tourists here!” And when he shoved off, howling like a madman from the third stage of their ride up the mountain, she’d stared down the 275-foot vertical drop, trembling and praying that she wouldn’t find out the hard way why extreme skiers called the bottom “Body Bag.” Terrifying as it had been, dodging the pines and ice-covered boulders on her way down paled in comparison to the responsibility of becoming Connor’s substitute mother.
She dreaded the prospect of making decisions—about grave sites and headstones, bank accounts and deeds—that would impact her nephew for the rest of his life.
“Ah, here you are.”
Brooke lurched and hoped he hadn’t seen it.
“Deidre made a good suggestion just now, and I thought I’d run it by you.”
If her grandmother was involved, Brooke shuddered to think what he might say.
“Connor’s naps usually last an hour or two. He hasn’t slept well these past few nights, so he’s probably good for twice that. I figure your meetings will last an hour each, if that.”
She almost told him to get to the point when he said, “So maybe I could drive you.”
“Drive me? That’s...very neighborly of you, but—”
He held up a hand to preempt her rejection. “Just hear me out, okay?”
Brooke sighed and slid a dozen photos into an envelope. As soon as she got rid of Hunter, she’d find frames and place them around the funeral parlor’s viewing room.
She swiveled the desk chair so that it faced him. He pocketed both hands, shrugged one shoulder. “I know you’re smart enough to figure this stuff out on your own, but since I went through it all just a year ago, it’s