Raising Connor
“I know enough. I know he couldn’t stop that gunman in time because when the robbery began, he was asleep in the squad car.”
Deidre harrumphed. “You talk as if you’re the only one on the planet who ever suffered a loss.”
Brooke didn’t know how to respond to that. Deidre had buried two husbands. And when Brooke’s dad couldn’t face life without her mom, he’d closed himself in the garage and turned on the car. And now, Beth.
“But Hunter did stop that gunman, Brooke, permanently. And he’s had to live with that, too, all these years. That’s the truth, like it or not.”
She did not.
Brooke glanced at her watch. “Well, I have just enough time to feed Connor and put him down for a nap before Hunter gets here.”
“Aw, let him play. He’s having fun for the first time in days. I’ll keep an eye on him. You go on inside. Touch up your lipstick and mascara, run a brush through your hair. And if you have any of that dark-circle concealer in your makeup bag, you might want to use it.”
“Wow. Aren’t you good for the ego.”
Deidre shrugged. “I calls ’em as I see ’em. Now go. Make yourself presentable for Hunter.”
“I honestly don’t care what Hunter thinks of my appearance. And since the bank manager and the funeral director are only interested in money, they won’t even notice that I look like a worn-out old dishrag.”
“Man,” said a smooth DJ-like voice, “Beth hit the old nail on the head....”
Hunter...
“You really are too hard on yourself.”
How much of the conversation had he heard? It annoyed her that Deidre hadn’t given her a heads-up, since she’d been facing that direction. Traitor, Brooke thought as her grandmother wrapped Hunter in a welcoming hug. In reality, she was far more annoyed with herself: she’d come home from Richmond at least once a month. Had she really been so centered on her own trifling matters that she hadn’t noticed how deeply he’d embedded himself into her family?
As if to underscore his importance in their lives, Connor ran to him. “Up,” he said, clutching at Hunter’s pant legs. “Conner up?”
Oh, how she’d love to tell Hunter that he had a lot of gall using feigned friendship with her loved ones to ease his 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 real fresh in my mind. You’d be surprised how many ways those funeral guys have of trying to guilt-trip you into things you don’t need or can’t afford. I promise not to say a word unless you have a question.”
Brooke’s exploration of Beth and Kent’s records made it pretty clear they couldn’t afford anything pricey, and she wouldn’t risk charging more than she could afford, because who knew what expenses might come up down the road. Besides, it would be a relief to put all of this behind them.
Standing, she shoved the chair under the desk. “Just so you know,” she said, grabbing the envelope, “I intend to hold you to your word...about being quiet unless I have a question.”
She couldn’t decide if he looked more relieved than perturbed or the other way around, but as he followed her from Beth’s office, she hoped she hadn’t just made a huge error in judgment.
CHAPTER FIVE
HUNTER SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY in the too-narrow tweed chair facing the funeral director’s desk, unable to escape the blinding ray of sunlight glaring off the man’s polished brass nameplate.
“Sorry, pal,” he said, turning it to face the guy, “but I left my welder’s mask in the truck.”
Turner shot him a puzzled glance, then went right back to yammering about granite versus bronze grave markers, available visitation parlors and background music, and the cost of opening the grave. Through it all, Brooke sat stiff-backed and unsmiling, alternately scribbling notes and pecking numbers into her pocket calculator.
The manager did some scribbling, too, before sliding a contract across his desk. Brooke took a moment to review it, and the minute she sat back, crossed her legs and cleared her throat, Hunter knew the guy was in trouble.
She pointed at the bottom line. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Turner, but you can provide a tasteful funeral without bankrupting me, can’t you?”
Without missing a beat, Turner withdrew a fresh form from the file drawer of his desk and, after jotting down new services and prices, handed it to her.
“You’ll see that I’ve reduced the total by a substantial sum,” he said, looking very pleased with himself.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered absently.
Brooke had conducted herself the same way with the bank manager earlier, making sure the woman understood that while Brooke would assume all responsibility for the mortgage, insurance and taxes on Beth and Kent’s property, the name on the deed should read Alexander Kent Sheridan. She quoted from Maryland’s Uniform Transfers to Minors Act and informed the banker that her actions had been suggested by a reputable attorney. Had she been bluffing? If not, when had she found time to discuss all that with a lawyer? Hunter had pictured the DVD, tucked into a folder marked Connor in his filing cabinet, and an uneasy sensation had settled over him as he admitted the real reason he was with Brooke....
“You need to know that Connor was born with a heart murmur,” Brooke had said to the bank manager. “If he needs medical attention, I’ll need access to the accounts and proof of guardianship to get him the very best care, quickly.”
Not surprisingly, the banker had given her word to rush the paperwork.
And just now Turner made the same promise.
“My next stop,” she told Turner, “is the newspaper. So I’ll need to know exact dates and times of the memorial service so that I can—”
“Oh, but we’re more than happy to take care of that for you, Miss O’Toole.” He flashed his best “the customer is always right” grin.
“For a fee,” she said, pointing to a line on the contract that addressed obituaries.
Hunter had been on the receiving end of Brooke’s hard-nosed inflexibility enough times to feel a little sorry for the guy. Where had Kent gotten the idea that she was scatterbrained and self-centered? Every smart decision she’d made, every astute word she’d spoken, had been on behalf of Connor, not herself.
Turner ran a finger under his collar, and Hunter was tempted to do the same.
“Of course we’re happy to perform that service,” Turner said, drawing a line through that charge on the contract. It was easy to see as he initialed it that the man wished he could lay his “To Serve As We Wish to Be Served” plaque on its face.
Brooke got to her feet. “If there’s nothing more we need to discuss, we’ll be on our way.”
Turner stood, too, and handed her an elegant black folder. “I’ll be here for the afternoon viewing day after tomorrow. But if you have any questions or concerns between now and then, please feel free to call me.”
She opened the file and finger-walked through pamphlets and brochures in the left pocket and checked the signature line of the contract in the right.
“Thank you, Mr. Turner. You’ve made these difficult decisions much easier.” And just like that, she excused herself to use the ladies’ room.
“That’s some woman you’ve got there,” Turner said, watching her walk away. “Quite a head on her shoulders.” He stuck out his hand. And as Hunter grasped it, he added, “You’re one lucky man.”
Hunter had sat mum as a mime throughout the meeting. For all Turner knew, he was Brooke’s brother, uncle, an old college friend, here to lend support. What gave the guy the impression they were a couple?
Yeah, he thought, heading for the door, lucky me.
He stepped into the hushed vacant hall and looked for the restrooms. A calligraphed sign pointed toward the curved plush-carpeted staircase. Hunter helped himself to a cellophane-wrapped peppermint, glanced at a few brochures, read the white-lettered blackboards that directed visitors toward the proper parlors. Nearly ten minutes passed before he saw her rounding the top step. Puffy red-rimmed eyes made it clear she’d been crying, and that surprised him a little. She’d seemed so in charge and unruffled through both meetings. But then, as a guy who’d spent years pretending he was okay with the past, he had no business criticizing her tough-girl facade.
He was hiding behind a facade of his own: once the miserable preparations were behind her, and her sister had been laid to rest, he could deliver the disc with less damage to his conscience.
“You did great in there,” he said, falling into step beside her.
Brooke only harrumphed.
She kept her head down as they crossed the parking lot. Idle chitchat seemed stupid and inappropriate, so he revived his mime routine. They got into the car and traveled a mile or so in complete silence before he said, “Hungry?”
“Not really.”
He’d no sooner braked for a traffic light than his stomach growled.
“Mind if we make a quick stop to shut this thing up?”
“Suit yourself.” She glanced over her shoulder. “What’s with the car seat?”
“It’s Connor’s.”
She plucked a French fry from the console’s cup holder.
“That’s Connor’s, too. He loves fries. Rita’s ice cream. Donuts...”
“Our grandpa used to tease Beth, saying she had a nose like a bloodhound. How did you keep her from sniffing out all that junk food?”
“Pure dumb luck,” he said, parking in the Kelsey’s lot.
“When you said a bite to eat,” she said, pointing at the restaurant’s sign, “I thought you meant fast food, not a sit-down meal.”
“Haven’t had a decent meal in days, and this place serves the best corned beef cabbage for miles.”
He parked beside a top-down convertible, and Brooke pointed at it. “They’re rushing the season a mite.”
“Maybe the owner is an Inuit.”
She was already standing next to the truck when he went around to open her door.
“How’s a guy supposed to earn any gentleman points around you?”
“I guess you can’t.”
Oh, he wasn’t touching that one, not even wearing flameproof 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?”