Mom in the Middle (5 page)

“My folks come from big families where it's customary to pay tribute by recycling names. So all of us got saddled with a heavy load. The good news is we only tend to hear them back home.”

“And back home is…?” Abby waited, wondering why in the world she was encouraging a conversation she didn't want.

“Keokuk, Iowa. The geode capital of the world.”

“Excuse me?” She rested her wrists against the edge of the sink and turned to him, an eyebrow cocked in question.

“You know, those lumpy round rocks with quartz crystals inside.” He expanded his chest with exaggerated pride. “It's our state rock.”

She had to give in to a small smile. “You're kidding, right?”

“No, way.” He shook his head. “We even have a special celebration called…and I'm serious about this…Rocktober Fest. To join the hunt, you have to register and get a permit.”

“To find
rocks?
”

“Hey, these are cool, thousands of years old. I'll get some for Dillon.” Guy poured coffee into the mug marked #1 Grandpa and padded in his socks across the kitchen floor to the refrigerator.

Then he poured just the right amount of milk and added a half teaspoon of sugar from the bowl on the table. He'd obviously done it before when she wasn't around, knew exactly how her daddy took his coffee. She looked away, the brief smile fading as she attacked a well-worn cast-iron skillet with a scouring pad. Something about the simple but familiar act of fixing that cup of coffee was a little stab to her heart. She should be doing that. But the truth was she couldn't be everywhere at once no matter how hard she tried and she really could use some time off.

“Abby, how would you feel about me taking Shorty to visit your mom this evening? Just to give you a little break.”

Was he reading her mind,
again?
Doubtful.

“My daddy's been talking, hasn't he?”

“Nonstop.” She heard the chuckle in Guy's voice. “But I enjoy his company so I don't mind. He misses your mother something fierce and I think it helps him to talk about her, about you.”

She scrubbed harder.

“You're going to wear the bottom off that thing,” he observed.

“Yeah, well, it won't get clean just sitting in the sink.”

“So, what do you say about tonight?”

“No, thanks. Mama's expecting me and I don't dare disappoint her.”

Dillon's wakeup wail echoed from the monitor on her waistband. He'd never been one to rouse quietly or be content to lie in his crib and amuse himself. Not her son. The instant he was fully awake, he demanded attention.

“Let me get him,” Guy offered, sitting the mug on the table, turning toward the door.

“No,” Abby insisted. Even though the man meant well, he was making himself entirely too handy. The kind of handy her folks could get attached to. The kind of attachment that would lead to heartbreak once he was gone. And Abby knew that kind of heartbreak all too well.

“Take my daddy his coffee. I'll get Dillon.” She peeled off the rubber gloves, tossed them in the dish rack and brushed past Guy.

Dillon stopped his blubbering the instant she appeared. A wobbly smile creased the small face that was perpetually absent of tears.

“You little stinker,” she muttered against his soft head as she stepped into his waiting arms and lifted him from the crib. “You're so sure I'll come running that you haven't bothered with real tears since you were a newborn.”

She'd read somewhere that a person teaches others how to treat them. It was true. She'd taught everyone in her life to depend upon her to the point of taking her for granted. They'd also learned she'd toe the line
no matter the circumstances out of fear of disapproval. How perplexing that when somebody like Guy stepped in to help, she resented it. It was crazy. A self-inflicted, double-edged sword.

Something had to give.

 

“Guy?”

Above the whir of the circular saw, he heard her call his name. He cut the power and slid the protective goggles up to his forehead. Tipping his head back, he took in the vision of Abby Cramer in a quick sweep that he hoped didn't make him seem like a frat boy. Worn sneakers, bare legs, frayed and faded jean shorts, and a loose Texas Longhorns T-shirt. A riot of wild blond curls surrounded a face enchantingly pink from her work in the warm kitchen.

Wow, she's adorable.

“Is that offer to give Dad a lift to the hospital this evening still good?”

“Sure is.” Guy had made other plans when she'd turned him down hours earlier, but he could shift some things around to free up the time. He was glad for the chance to check for himself on Sarah Reagan's progress. Still, he was amazed Abby had changed her mind. Shorty had said she wouldn't go for the offer and he wasn't surprised when his daughter shot down the request.

Guy stood, stretching the kinks out of his long legs while effectively removing the potential for another glance at hers. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, I just realized I was looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Well, I guess a gift horse is certainly an improvement over a horse's behind,” he couldn't resist teasing.

Her gaze dropped. “So you
did
hear that the other day. Sorry.” She nudged a little pile of sawdust between the boards to the grass below. “And I apologize about my grumpy mood earlier.”

“Hey, everybody's allowed to have a bad day now and again.” Boy, had living in a house full of women ever taught him that. As well as
never
to make that observation out loud unless he wanted a punch to his gut.

“Thanks for letting me off the hook.” Her gaze met his. “But I don't deserve it. If Mama heard me being ungracious in her kitchen, she'd send me to my room without dinner.”

He smiled at the thought, realizing there was probably more than a kernel of truth in the statement. By all observation, the mistress of this house ran a tight ship and that included the crew as well as the vessel.

“I personally think you should go shopping instead of to your room.”

Her brows pulled together as she seemed to consider his suggestion. From the appealing way she puckered her lips as she thought, he guessed shopping was not the stress reliever of choice for Abby that it was for members of the gaggle.

“As tempting as that sounds, I have a dozen phone calls to make before my playground committee
meeting after church tomorrow so I think I'll catch up on that.”

“I've worked at the store every day since I've been here but I think I might take the whole weekend off and attend church in person instead of watching it on television for a change. Do you mind telling me where you worship?”

“New Harvest. It's the brown brick sanctuary on West Chavez, just past the high school. We were planted by Abundant Harvest, a really fast-growing congregation in Houston. Our building is old and we're trying to do some things to modernize it for our small community. I'm working with the Mother's-Day-out group to build a playground in one corner of the lot. Our funds are limited so we're doing the landscaping ourselves with used railroad timbers and buying secondhand equipment a piece at a time when we run across it on sale. It's slow going but everybody pitches in when they can.”

“Sounds like a great bunch of folks.”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then paused. She stared at her toes, seemed reluctant to say what was on her mind. When she finally spoke, her voice was hesitant.

“You could join us for the early service in the morning, if you wanted to.”

His heart dipped. The look on her face and the way she offered up the suggestion made it sound more like duty than a voluntary invitation. Still, it was an opportunity that appealed to him.

“Under one condition.” Something made him take a bold chance.

“And what would that be?”

She folded her arms, closing herself off before she even heard what he had to say.

“Just hear me out,” he cajoled. “Finish your committee stuff and make a run out to Lake Travis with me. Your dad says he had a favorite largemouth spot up there at one time and you know how to find it.”

“You're a bass rat?” She squinted, looked at him differently, like he'd finally said something that might be of interest to her.

“I was raised on the Mississippi, fished every chance I got just to get away from my sisters.”

“They didn't fish?”

“Casey did.” Of course. “But I haven't fished in freshwater for years. I mostly compete in tournaments offshore when I work a job on the coast. Which is why I can't wait to get down to Galveston on the next site.”

Abby smiled. A real smile that plumped her cheeks and lit her cocoa-brown eyes. “That sounds like so much fun. I used to go with Daddy all the time but we haven't been in several years.”

Guy already knew that. Knew lots of stuff he probably shouldn't, but there was no stopping Shorty when he was in the mood to talk about his baby girl.

“Then it's a deal?” Guy offered his hand.

“Deal.” She gave him a quick, no-nonsense shake, jammed her hands into the hip pockets of her cutoffs and turned back to the house.

The screen door banged behind her. With a shudder Guy realized he'd almost said
date
instead of
deal.
Shorty had dropped a warning, the mention of dating around Abby was a waste of breath. Something to be avoided at all cost.

As if Guy hadn't recognized the challenge by the cagey old daddy that his daughter wouldn't agree to a date with the owner of Heart and Home in a hundred years, anyway.

A
bby's nose twitched. Guy smelled so nice.

Like lumber and leather and lemon oil. Which made perfectly good sense considering he spent most of his time in a store that sold those things.

Lord, please forgive me for letting something so mundane distract me from worship this morning. It just seems so long since the scent of a male meant anything to me besides Daddy's foot spray and Dillon's diaper-rash ointment.

She redoubled her effort to concentrate dutifully on what the visiting pastor was saying. She tried to focus on Ken Allen and the missions update he brought from the Houston congregation that had planted New Harvest two years earlier. His message was an important one; the best exercise of the heart was to reach down and help somebody else up. But her senses continued to betray her, so she resolved
to pick up a recorded copy of the service so she could meditate on it during her drive to school that week.

Today she was no better disciplined than her first graders. She sniffed again, enjoying the pleasant distraction to her left. Her ears still rang from the singing that had been so terribly off key, it had been oddly pleasing. Guy had joined in the praise songs as though he didn't have a clue he couldn't carry a tune if it had a wooden handle on it. And her eyes were still moist from the tears that had threatened as she'd swallowed down a giggle over the loud case of hiccups he'd suffered during a moment of silent prayer. Her daddy had nudged her and made a pinching sign with his thumb and forefinger, reminding Abby of her mother's way of showing disapproval when her daughter fidgeted even the least bit in church.

Abby shifted in her seat, twisted her back to Guy, blocking him from her peripheral vision. She reached her right hand across the low arm of the wooden pew where her daddy's wheelchair was positioned in the aisle beside her. He smiled and wrapped her fingers with his, winked and mouthed, “I love you.”

From her vantage point she could see through the tall, narrow row of windows that lined the walls of the small sanctuary. Beyond the recently planted beds of blooming day lilies, their playground effort was visible. There was a metal frame donated by the salvage shop where new swings would eventually hang, a dome-shaped network of monkey bars that needed sanding and fresh paint, and a low fence sur
rounding a two-year-old pecan tree planted in Phillip's memory.

An embarrassing flush seeped throughout her body. Her palms grew moist as her face went hot with shame. She was within fifty yards of the spot that would be dedicated to her late husband. The playground would be a tribute to the selfless young man who'd willingly given his very life so the children in another country might experience the freedom his son would likely take for granted.

Phillip, her dearest friend, had made the ultimate sacrifice and here she was, admiring the scent of another man.

What is wrong with me, Abba Father? I have enough shortcomings without adding lustfulness to the list.

She drew in a deep breath, blew it out through her lips and squeezed her daddy's hand for strength.

 

Guy heard Abby's sigh, leaned forward the smallest bit and noted the way she held tight to Shorty. Something stirred inside Guy. He didn't want to call it envy. Envy was longing for what someone else had, and it was a deadly sin. He had a close relationship with his own parents so that couldn't be it.

Was it protectiveness? No, he'd felt that for the gaggle all his life. Was used to it, had been defending a sister's honor or helping out a wannabe girlfriend for as long as he could remember. That wasn't it. Still, something niggled at him, something to do with Abby.

She was different from the women he'd casually dated or the Hardy girls who were self-confident and secure. They'd had their share of worry what with their mom's Parkinson's and their dad's bypass surgery, but there were a slew of them to stick together. Abby was alone, vulnerable in ways that a big family couldn't relate to. But she appeared not to notice, even determined not to let him help her the way most women in his life naturally did.

It had been “Guy to the rescue!” for as long as he could remember. It was gratifying, like his habit of giving blood once a month. He liked it, took pride in doing good deeds. And he realized with a wry smile that it was bugging him no end to accept that Abby Cramer didn't much want his services or advice. In fact, she was still questioning his motives as the store owner, no matter what he'd said to reassure her. Smart cookie. Guy's gut stirred again, this time with guilt. She had reason to remain suspicious but he was on a mission to change that.

He folded the outreach brochure and tucked it into the pocket of his crisp, white dress shirt. He glanced down at the freshly buffed toes of his boots, his mind casting back to the previous evening. Abby had been on the telephone when he'd returned for Shorty. She hadn't even looked up from the notes she'd been taking on a yellow pad by the kitchen sink, had just waved over her shoulder and continued her phone conversation when her father had called goodbye.

The trip to the rehab center had been an enlight
ening one, but all time spent with Shorty was informational. The irascible old fella had been confined to his wheelchair with limited access to his own house and community for so long that he was starved for conversation. Well, you couldn't exactly call it conversation since it was mostly one-sided, with Shorty sharing tales of his life and his two womenfolk. Guy had already heard more about Abby's marriage to Phillip Cramer than he had a right to know. He cringed imagining how angry Kate or Andrea would be if their father rattled off personal stories about their husbands the way Shorty did about Phillip.

What had he said just last night about the boy being so shy he could hardly string three words together without stammering? “But being around my baby girl caused the knot to slip right out of that kid's tongue. Why, he would talk for hours to Abby without tripping over a
T
or being snared by an
S.
”

Shorty had grumbled aloud on several occasions over the past couple of weeks that he hoped his daughter would find a “grown man” to take care of her and Dillon the next time around. Then he'd leveled dark eyes at Guy and added, “But not anytime soon.”

The unnecessary warning was loud and clear.

But Guy had dodged entanglements for thirty-eight years and had no intention of a committed relationship at this juncture in his life. There were stores to open, board members, foreign investors and stockholders to answer to, plenty of family to care for without being saddled with one of his own. In short,
his life was full and he was happy. No matter how much he sympathized, a woman wasn't part of the plan. And certainly not one so young, caught in the vise between a small child and aging parents.

No, Shorty's cautions weren't needed. Guy had a plan, and work to do that would protect Hearth and Home. He'd made progress with Shorty and even Sarah had invited him to sit in the chair beside her bed and tell her all about his family. That just left Abby.

He'd win her over if it was the last thing he did. And he had to do it before Casey showed up and started crowding him.

As usual.

 

Abby's committee meeting seemed to drag on forever. It was almost noon when she'd called to say she was free. Then after he'd arrived at the house, she'd kept him waiting in the driveway while she no doubt gave a long list of instructions to the H&H employee who'd volunteered to spend the afternoon with Dillon and Shorty.

Finally, with the sun high overhead in a brilliant blue Texas canopy they headed northwest, left the traffic-congested city limits of Austin behind and picked up the trail of the Colorado River. According to Abby, Travis was the longest of the Texas Highland Lakes, winding its way for over sixty miles through the famed Hill Country. The drive was leisurely and breathtaking, as they marveled over views of the pristine water and surrounding hills.

She hugged the passenger's door of the SUV, her window rolled down, a glow of pleasure on her face. Her head was poked out, wild curls flapping in the breeze reminding him of a blond cocker spaniel. The thought of making that comparison out loud zipped through his mind and he squashed it like a bug on the windshield.

“Mansfield Dam is over there.” She turned to him long enough to motion several miles across the view. “Travis was created in the late 1930's when they dammed up the Colorado. She has almost three hundred miles of shoreline, just over two hundred feet at the deepest point.” Abby continued her travelogue, ticking off facts about the manmade system.

“You know a little something about this place, don't you?” He stated the obvious.

“I know a lot about it. I did an environmental project on the lake system while I was at the University of Texas.”

“So you researched all that information?”

“I already knew most of it.” She swept her arm, palm up, toward the waters before them. “This is my neck of the woods. Daddy and I love it up here and he taught me the history of the lake while we sat in a boat together for hours on end.”

“You must miss it.”

“Mostly I miss Daddy the way he used to be,” her voice dropped, so low he barely heard the next. “But I miss a lot of things.”

She was quiet for a long while, her gaze fixed on
the sparkling surface of the lake, probably remembering better days before the insidious disease had claimed Shorty's mobility. More than likely thinking about those other things she missed.

Her husband. Phillip.

Guy felt a twinge of jealousy. He dropped his left elbow to the open window ledge, squeezed the wheel with his right hand, feeling like pond scum at the thought. What kind of jerk would be even the least bit envious of a woman's late husband? Especially since that jerk had no interest in the woman, even if she did seem more appealing each time he was with her.

“But all of that was a long time ago.” She sounded resigned. “Life goes on whether we want it to or not.” She turned her face his way and offered him a small smile that did little to disguise the sadness in her eyes.

His chest tightened. They needed something to lift the somber mood threatening to settle between them like a stone dropping through the crystal waters. As much as the women in his life complained about the calorie consumption afterward, food was always a good distraction. He slowed as the road drew to a fork. There was a gas station to the right where they could get bottled water and maybe some fruit.

“I could use a snack, how about you?”

She studied the road ahead as she nodded agreement, then pointed to the left. “There's a little mobile unit not too far up that way. I haven't been there for a couple of years but it's always been a favorite spot on this side of the lake so I'm sure it's still there. You
game for a most excellent corn dog? You might even have heard of the owner. He did a little track and field back in his day.”

Guy's interest was piqued, but it also happened that as a kid he'd choked on a bite of corn dog and hadn't been able to stomach the thought of the deep fried excuse for meat on a stick in years. But if the lady wanted one…

“Sure,” he agreed.

Mobile unit
was a fancy way of saying vintage, no, make that decrepit, Airstream trailer surrounded by a gosh-awful multicolored picket fence. The menu, painted in sprawling red letters on a sheet of white plywood boasted Curbo's Fine Dining! The Fastest Food South of the Mason-Dixon! Since everything about Texas was purported to be the biggest and grandest, it was often difficult for an outsider to know what was the real deal and what was tongue-in-cheek. As Guy cut the engine of the truck, he suspected the latter description was about to be applied to this roadside dining experience.

 

Abby jumped to the ground and slammed the passenger door as a wave of déjà vu crashed over her senses. How many times had she stood in this same spot, felt the afternoon sun on her face, the constant lake breeze stirring her curls? Her stomach growled for a greasy corn dog or a paper cup overflowing with chili cheese fries. She tucked her fingers into the hip pockets of her tight Levi's and strode toward the window.

“Patrick, are you in there?” She called.

A physically fit fifty-something man with close-cropped gray hair appeared at the opening. A wide smile spread across a ruddy face as he angled his head back and squinted through the rimless glasses balanced low on the bridge of his nose.

“Well, as I live and struggle for breath. Sport, would you look at what the tide washed up?” He reached to open the trailer's small door and a long-legged, Italian greyhound bounded down the three wooden steps. Abby knelt, one knee pressed to the crushed-shale surface of the parking lot, as the aging pet smothered her cheek with wet greetings.

“Abby Reagan, is that really you?”

“It's me, Patrick. But it's been Abby Cramer for a while now.”

“Don't tell me that shy Cramer boy actually worked up the nerve to talk you into marrying him,” Patrick teased as he took the steps in a single stride and moved toward her, arms outstretched.

She continued to smile as she stepped into his gentle hug, knowing what was coming next but not wanting to dampen the mood of their reunion. “Yes, he did but Phillip and I were only married for a few months before his active reserves unit was deployed to Iraq. He was killed in an insurgent attack outside of Baqouba almost two years ago.”

The older man stilled, folded her tight and she felt him press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “I'm so sorry for your loss, little girl.”

“Thanks,” she murmured against his chest, aware of how long it had been since her own father had been able to hug her with such comfort. “But we have a beautiful son to show for our short marriage so Phillip will always be part of my life.”

Boots crunched on the road nearby and Abby remembered Guy. She gave Patrick a quick squeeze before stepping away to make introductions.