The man standing on her doorstep was a total stranger
One who wasn’t scary, but could be. At a little over six foot, he wasn’t unusually tall, but he was broad. Big shouldered, with strong legs and powerful arms and neck. His face was blunt featured, even crude, but somehow pleasing, the only reason Kathleen didn’t slam the door in a panic.
He was the kind of man she couldn’t picture in a well-cut suit, the antithesis of her handsome, successful ex-husband. This man had to work with his hands.
“May I help you?” she asked finally.
“I’m Logan Carr.” He looked expectant, adding when she didn’t respond, “I’m the cabinetmaker.”
“Oh, no!” She’d made an appointment with him so that he could give her a bid. She, of course, had completely forgotten.
Somehow this was the last straw. One more thing to have gone wrong, one more thing to think about when she couldn’t. Suddenly he was a blur, and she was humiliated to realize she was crying.
He stepped forward, taking advantage of her nerveless hand to come uninvited into her house and to close the door behind him. The next thing she knew, she was engulfed in powerful arms and a flannel shirt, her wet cheek pressed to his chest.
And did she, dignified, gracious but reserved, wrench free and demand he leave?
No. She buried her face in that comforting flannel and let herself sob.
Dear Reader,
Kathleen Monroe is at the heart of this trilogy. After all, she’s the one who bought the old brick house in Seattle where three woman live as they embark on new phases of their lives.
As a writer, I love nothing more than exploring how people react to the greatest stresses I can throw at them. You notice I say “people,” not “characters.” That’s because I do try to create people as real as you and me. Sometimes they’ve done ignoble things but are capable of growth and even sacrifice for their loved ones. I’d like to believe almost everyone can and will do the same.
Which makes me a romantic, I fear! So, sure, I’m writing about an angry teenager who is starving herself to death, a woman described by one of her roommates as a “princess” because she is beautiful, charming and spoiled, and a homely cabinetmaker who knows in his heart he isn’t good enough for the “princess.” Doesn’t sound like a match made in heaven, does it?
But, oh, just wait…. If I do say so myself, Logan Carr is one of my all-time most appealing heroes. Question is, can Kathleen measure up?
Good reading!
Janice Kay Johnson
The Perfect Mum
Janice Kay Johnson
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
A CHILD SCREAMED, a piercing note of terror that seemed to shiver the window glass.
Kathleen dropped her coffee mug and shot to her feet, tripping over her bathrobe. Even as she raced for the kitchen doorway, heart doing sickening things in her chest, she thought, Was that Emma? Not Ginny, surely. Even her giggles were soft!
The scream became a gurgle, a sobbed, “Auntie Kath! Auntie Kath!” and Kathleen knew. Ginny was terrified because she’d found…
Emma. Something was wrong with Emma.
Hiking her robe above her knees, she leaped up the stairs two at a time. “Ginny! What’s wrong?”
Their cat hurtled down the stairs, ricocheting off Kathleen’s shin before vanishing below. Wild-eyed and wearing nothing but a sacky T-shirt, Jo emerged from her bedroom, the first at the head of the stairs. One of Kathleen’s adult roommates who helped pay the rent, Jo was a graduate student and didn’t have to get up as early as the others this semester.
“What is it?”
Kathleen didn’t answer.
Six-year-old Ginny, the timid mouse in their household, darted from the bathroom. Hiccuping with sobs, she snatched Kathleen’s hand.
“Auntie Kath! It’s Emma!”
A whimper escaped Kathleen’s throat when she reached the bathroom. Her daughter lay unconscious on the floor, blood matting her hair.
“Emma! Oh, God. Emma.” She fell to her knees, barely conscious of Jo and Ginny crowding behind her.
A faint pulse fluttered in Emma’s throat, but her face was waxen and still.
“She’s so cold.” Gripping her daughter’s hand, Kathleen swiveled on her knees. “What happened, Ginny? Did you see?”
Tears running down her face, Ginny nodded. “She…she was looking at…at herself in the mirror.” Another sob shook her small body. “Her eyes rolled back, and she fell over! Auntie Kath! Is she dead?”
Even in her fear, Kathleen spared a moment to shake her head. Ginny had lost her dad to cancer a year ago. Death must often be on her mind.
“No, Ginny. I think Emma fainted. You know she hasn’t been eating enough.” Understatement, she thought grimly. In fact, sixteen-year-old Emma had been anorexic for the past year, and this spring had managed to stay barely above eighty pounds. An ounce below, she’d been warned, and she was going into residential treatment. “She must have hit her head on the tub.”
Jo, bless her, laid her hands on Ginny’s shoulders and gently steered her out of the bathroom. “I’ll call 911,” she said briskly. “Don’t try to move her, Kathleen.”
“I won’t.” Her daughter’s hand was icy in hers. “Hurry, Jo. Oh, God, please hurry.”
The wait seemed forever, although Jo must have been back in no more than a minute or two. She was still pulling a sweatshirt over her head.
“I’ll stay with her. Go get dressed, Kathleen. You’ll want to go to the hospital with her.”
Dazed, Kathleen looked up. “Dressed?”
“Hurry.” Her dark-haired roommate—and sister-in-law to be—crouched beside her. “You’ll be okay, Emma,” she said softly, her hand delicately stroking Emma’s cold cheek.
Yes. She had to get dressed. Kathleen stumbled to her feet and backed out of the bathroom, her gaze fixed on Emma’s white, gaunt face. She did look dead. And why not? She’d been dying for months, killing herself with her refusal to eat.
Kathleen bumped into the wall and turned, blindly heading toward her bedroom. Her fault. This was her fault.
She should have seen it coming, checked Emma into treatment. Her face crumpled. Why hadn’t she? Because she’d sincerely thought Emma was recovering? Or because she didn’t want to believe she couldn’t handle her own child’s problems?
In her bedroom, she