The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (11 page)

A
fter lunch on Monday, Willow dropped the boys off in front of Captain Peterson’s house. Her first impulse, once the boys were out of the car, was to drive away immediately, not even waiting to make sure they got inside okay. She knew why. Oh, yes, she did. The sight of the man filled her with the most unprofessional thoughts: longing and even— doggone it!—desire. She could feel the draw of the man out here, fifty feet away from him, separated by the wall of the house. What an absurd reaction for a woman with two children and very little trust in men.

What a coward she’d become, to refuse to approach the captain. What a terrible mother. She forced herself to wait, to make sure her sons got inside safely, as if there were danger that the boys would be captured or attacked on the short sidewalk between her car and the front door in a residential neighborhood in Butternut Creek.

Forcing herself not to take off as if the Indy 500 had begun and she was the lead car, she waved to the boys when they reached the porch, watched them knock and enter the house. Sam waved back at her, then closed the door.

She had to face facts. The sight of the man gave her a pleasant rush. For a moment she remembered herself as the high school junior who used to drive past Stephen Nielson’s house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. She’d had such a crush on him. One day he’d been in his yard when she drove by. The sight of him had so unnerved her she’d stopped the car with a squeal of tires, thrown it into reverse, and backed down the street at fifty miles an hour so he wouldn’t see her. As if everyone in town didn’t know her mother’s old red convertible. How cool had she been?

Obviously, age plus all her education and marriage and the birth of two sons hadn’t elevated her level of coolness. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the captain nearly as much as, paradoxically, she didn’t.

She attributed this need to her wounded ego and her low libido, severely damaged by her husband’s defection to Barbie-doll Tiffany who had no sags or stretch marks.

Then her cell rang. She grabbed it and flipped it open.

“Willow, where are you?” Trixie said. “You have a patient waiting.”

“Be right there.” She glanced at her watch. For heaven’s sake, she’d sat there for several minutes mooning about the man. How completely unprofessional. How immature.

Before she could consider at length what an idiot she’d become, she put the car in gear and took off, forcing her mind back to the business at hand and away from her foolish yearning.

“Oo-rah,” Sam shouted. A trickle of sweat eased down his back. Little shade in his backyard. The only tree had lost its leaves already, which didn’t seem right. Not that he knew anything about trees, but it seemed too early for that. Maybe he could get Leo and Nick to research the problem—which would give him a little peace, use up a few of their hours, and maybe save the tree.

The boys threw their thin shoulders back and echoed his words. “Oo-rah.”

“Semper fi, men,” Sam said.

“Semper fi,” the boys repeated. Their lips twitched a little as if they were attempting to hide grins.

“No smiles, Gyrenes.” Sam had about reached the end of his marine vocabulary, at least the words he could use in front of kids.

“Sir, no, sir.” They stood straight, kept their expressions serious, and watched every move Sam made.

Which presented a problem. Sam had no idea what to do next. On top of that, the prosthesis Willow had cushioned had begun to hurt a little. Oh, it felt a lot better, but still didn’t feel like a real leg.

Since noon, the boys had cleared the yard, a patch so small it had taken only an hour to pull weeds and pick up a few pieces of trash. They’d cut the grass using an old push mower Sam showed them how to oil. Not that there was much grass. Aunt Effie hadn’t been any better a gardener than he was and probably hadn’t watered the lawn when she was so ill. Here and there a few clumps of grass and weeds huddled together, shorter now but dry and close to death.

The brothers watched him with what looked like admiration. A heady experience for him but not an emotion anyone should feel toward him.

Of course, with his eyes slightly clearer—he’d finished off only a few longnecks the previous evening, placed the bottles in the trash, and actually fallen asleep at a normalish hour—he didn’t look like quite as much of a wreck as that first day. He’d shaved this morning, nicking himself a couple of times. Even with those wounds, he didn’t look completely disreputable.

“Gyrenes, how many hours have you worked today?”

“Six, sir.”

They knew they hadn’t worked forty hours. His reckoning said they’d worked thirty-one each. He could tell them they were finished, that they’d earned all the money they owed him, but he knew they wouldn’t accept his ignoring the remaining hours of work. They didn’t want to disappoint their mother. Besides, he enjoyed having them here, though he’d never admit it.

“Sir, I looked in the shed and carport. You don’t have a hose,” Leo said. “And you don’t have a sprinkler.”

“I found a spigot on the side of the house,” Nick added. “It works. You have water.”

“We can go to the hardware store on the highway. It’s only two blocks away.” Leo pointed vaguely to the south. “Mom lets us walk there by ourselves.”

He knew she did because she’d given them money to buy him a dipped cone from the Dairy Queen next to the hardware store. They’d walked from there to here with only a few licks missing, because they’d had to stop the dripping.

Reaching in a pocket, he pulled out his wallet and handed them some bills. “Get what you think we need, but stay within budget, okay?”

They took off running. Sam walked to the small patio, poured himself a glass of water, and waited.

Last week, the junior marines had swept and wiped and vacuumed and cleaned. He’d documented the hours each boy had worked inside. He even counted the time spent eating the lunches their mother had brought or prepared, but he was running out of chores.

Yesterday they’d sprayed and squeegeed windows, cleaned out the kitchen cabinets. They’d packed up some of Aunt Effie’s dishes and clothing and possessions like the lacy tablecloth and fluffy mint-green bedspread he’d never use. The boys stacked the bags and boxes on the front steps.

When their mother brought lunch, they’d stuffed several bags in her car. She’d promised to drop them off at the community thrift shop, then left them alone to eat and work. Her attitude had seemed very professional, like he was her patient, but he’d seen her studying him once or twice with what he thought was a spark of interest. Could he fan it into an ember? Maybe a fire? Did he still know how to do that?

Not that he wanted to. Not that he needed anyone now, and he felt certain she didn’t, either.

So why did he keep thinking about her and their being together?

Whenever he got the chance, he watched her leave, had even dragged himself to the front door so he could observe her. Today she didn’t get out of the car. Disappointing. Just that little bounce in her step and wiggle in her hips made the day worthwhile.

Stupid to feel this way, dumb to want what he couldn’t and shouldn’t have. What in the world would a woman like her, educated and gorgeous and the mother of two great kids, find attractive about a worn-out loser like him?

With her professional training and experience, Willow Thomas—unlike most women—knew what lay beneath the face that attracted other women, knew about the pit that existed in his soul, was aware it drew in anything positive and hurled it into the dark chaos inside him. And yet, once she’d vetted him, she’d left her children with him. Maybe she didn’t think he was as bad as he knew he was. Not that he’d ever hurt the boys, but he was hardly the ideal example for them.

Within twenty minutes, the boys were back with a long hose, a receipt, and his change, plus the biggest, most gimmicky sprinkler he could imagine.

“See, this part goes around in circles,” Nick demonstrated, “to get the grass around the sprinkler, and the top part spurts water like a fountain to really soak the ground.”

“And there’s a button on the bottom so you can change the pattern from a square to a circle.” Leo showed him how to do exactly that.

“I think that is one of the most amazing inventions I’ve seen in years.” He bet it wouldn’t last a week, but the kids were so proud and excited about it, he didn’t say that.

“They had one that you could program to roll across the lawn,” Leo said.

“But it cost too much.” Nick added.

“This one looks terrific. Good job, Gyrenes.”

“Thank you, sir.” Nick saluted.

“We’ll hook it up now.” Leo ran off.

Within five minutes, the sprinkler was pumping out water and spraying and making loud hissing sounds. Might not last, but he had to admire the creativity of the person who’d designed this incredibly complicated and shiny piece of equipment that threw out torrents of water in all directions and sounded as if there were an angry cat inside.

The boys were delighted with themselves and the purchase.

“We have to show that to Mom,” Nick said.

Sam doubted she’d be deeply interested in the contraption but knew she’d come to the backyard,
ooh
and
aah
, because her sons purchased and set it up. He really admired how much she cared about the boys.

He grinned. They were great kids. He’d like them around even if they didn’t have a gorgeous, intriguing mother. He’d miss them when they finished their hours. Oh, yeah, he wouldn’t mind sleeping late or not picking up after himself before they came, struggling to wipe off the kitchen counters, but he’d miss the companionship and the way they seemed to look up to him. A balm to his scarred soul.

What had happened to the man he’d been a few weeks ago?

“What’s inside that door inside?” Nick asked. “You know, the one you never open.”

Leo elbowed his brother in the ribs and muttered, “Shut up.”

After he glared at his brother, Nick continued, “You know, the other door off the living room. One goes to the bathroom. One goes to your bedroom. What’s behind the third door?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam dropped onto the sofa. “That’s the extra bedroom. For my father.”

“Your father?” Nick looked at Sam with huge eyes. “You have a father?”

“Everybody’s got a father.” Leo scoffed. “Someplace.” Then he turned to Sam. “Where’s yours? Is he coming to visit?”

“The general’s in DC now. He’ll be here in a few weeks, maybe.”

“We should make sure his bedroom’s clean,” Leo said.

They were right. When Sam arrived, he’d taken the first bedroom he came to because he’d been exhausted after the trip. His father would sleep in the other bedroom when he arrived. Sam hadn’t opened that door because he didn’t want to think about that ever happening. Still, he’d have to face his father’s presence someday, and now seemed like a good time, with the boys here. “All right, marines, let’s police these quarters.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” The boys ran inside ahead of him and opened the door to the unused bedroom.

“It doesn’t smell good, Captain,” Nick said.

“Probably need to air it out. Can I open a window, sir?” Leo added.

By the time Sam arrived at the door, Leo had thrown the window open. A breeze blew through and ruffled the feminine white lace curtains. Sam had sneaked out that window as a kid to wander through the neighborhood. Once he’d met up with Annie Morgan in the park for his first make-out session. Probably shouldn’t share those memories with the boys.

Nick had pulled the bedspread back. “No sheets.”

“Get some from the linen closet in the bathroom.”

“We need to check in the closet and dresser, sir, to see if there’s anything inside to clear out,” Leo said.

Sam nodded. “Take the closet and I’ll go through the dresser.”

In less than an hour they’d finished. The room smelled better after Nick bombed it with air freshener, which caused a five-minute evacuation. Once back in the room, they made the bed and put together a small bag of stored clothing and knickknacks for Willow to take to the thrift store. Leo had insisted they hang a framed photo of bluebonnets found in the closet, to brighten the room. It took another ten minutes to decide where to put it, measure, and pound a hanger into the wall.

What next?
Sam wondered as he considered the bright room and the punch of color from the bluebonnets. Nothing left to do in here. Maybe if they went outside, he could think of something.

“All right, you jarheads, this afternoon we’re—” He had no idea what they were going to do. Fortunately, almost as soon as they’d re-formed in the backyard, a woman’s voice drifted over the rickety fence.

“Captain,” she shouted.

He turned to look at a tall attractive woman in her sixties, he guessed. White hair swept back, a nice smile.

“I’m Winnie Jenkins.” When he didn’t recognize the name, she added, “From the church. Glad I found you home. The ladies have prepared some food. I’m parked in front of your house. ”

He hoped she’d brought a dobos torte.

“I could use help.”

“All right, Gyrenes,” Sam said, and the boys stood at attention. “Marines always assist women unloading their cars.”