doesn’t he cry?” Emily asked.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you learned anything? Men don’t cry.”
Rianne crouched between her children. “Some men do cry. It depends on the person and the circumstances.”
She didn’t believe it of Jon. Not with his flat voice. His ice eyes.
“Dad never cried,” Sam spat. “He just…just…”
“As I said, it depends on the person, honey. Either way, it isn’t a fault. Just because you don’t see someone cry, doesn’t mean they don’t hurt inside.”
“Is our neighbor hurting?” Emily asked.
“I think he had a bad day.” She gave both kids a quick hug. “We need to put Sweetpea and her family into her basket.”
They replaced the shirt with an old blanket and decided to transfer the basket to Rianne’s sewing room where it was quieter, where southern sunshine warmed the small space for most of the day. Safe and snug, the mother cat stretched beside her brood. Her rough, pink tongue reassured each mewling kit.
Sitting back on her heels, with Jon’s shirt in her lap, Rianne watched the new family. And her own.
Sam stroked Sweetpea with the back of his right hand, his deformed hand. He’d been born with a normal left hand, but a finger and thumb were its right counterpart. Her son had learned early in life to hide his handicap. His father hadn’t wanted to see it, to admit it existed. In the fifteen months since Duane Kirby’s car crashed and killed him, Sam was slowly transforming. Rianne encouraged him; his school counselor coached him. At home, using his right hand had become second nature.
Around strangers he remained shy about his handicap.
Soon that, too, would change.
Nothing would keep her from giving her children what they deserved: a loving, happy home. With friends and cats and all things normal. Everything she’d grown up with, here in Misty River.
“Are you taking the man’s shirt back to his house, Mom?” Emily asked.
“I need to wash it first.”
Sam reached over, tapped the slim, curved edge of a capital S. “What’s the logo?”
Rianne pressed back the folds of the material, careful to hide any bloody smears. An oval seal came into view, its gold letters arcing above a shield. Seattle Police. Jon was a cop?
Sam leaned over. “What’s it say?”
Rianne bundled the shirt into a ball and climbed to her feet. “It’s a bit messy from the birth. Could you take out those brownies I baked yesterday, Sam?”
“Can I have two? I’m starving.”
“Me, too.” Emily got up.
“Fine, two each and pour some milk. I’ll be back as soon as I get the washing machine going.”
She went down the basement stairs, headed for the cramped laundry room. Maybe Jon wasn’t a cop. Maybe he’d received an SPD sweatshirt from a friend.
And if he was?
If he is, it’s got nothing to do with you.
It simply meant that tough, bad-boy Jon Tucker of Misty River, Oregon, had become an officer of the law dressed in blue, with thirty pounds of weaponry strapped to his body. If there was irony in that, so be it.
The Jon Tucker today is not the man you remember.
No. At fourteen, she’d been enthralled. A little in love. And, unable to make sense of her English class. Who cared that Robert Browning wrote love sonnets to his wife, Elizabeth? That Alfred Lord Tennyson saw “a flower in a crannied wall”?
Twenty-year-old Jon Tucker had.
Sitting on the worn vinyl seat of his old Ford pickup, Rianne had listened while he interpreted the rich beauty of poetry and the classics. That year, she got her first A in English. And Jon, treating her with the ease of a big brother, got her heart. He’d left Misty River a year later, and she’d tucked him into a quiet corner of her soul where he hovered like a tiny, bright spot all through high school.
All through her marriage.
“Mom?” called Sam.
“Be right there!”
She eyed the sweatshirt in her hands.
Water under the bridge.
She shoved the garment into the washer’s barrel. Several socks, another shirt, softener, and the lid clunked down.
What was he doing back in Misty River?
And what had he, standing on her porch in faded jeans and white T-shirt, thought of her?
Doesn’t matter.
Your tummy is doing little spins.
It is not.
Of course it is. You know why, don’t you?
Oh, yes, she knew why.
Jon Tucker lived next door. And she was no longer a childish fourteen-year-old with braces on her teeth.
“You figure June is the earliest we can dig up this mess, put in new brick?” Jon asked. He and his brother sat on Jon’s porch steps surveying his ragged driveway in the evening light.
Seth lifted his cap, raked back his shaggy hair and gave the lane another thoughtful study. Tall weeds sprouted at its edges. Grass tufted through spider-web cracks in the concrete. “Wish I could fit you in before, J.T., but you know how it is.”
“Yeah.” Jon did know. Seth and his crew had been booked nearly six weeks ahead since March. Seemed everybody and his dog wanted some type of contracting work done this spring.
Jon figured the driveway would take a week or so. Situated last on the narrow tree-lined street, his parcel of land was the biggest. And the shabbiest. Great for the price, not great for renovations.
Checking the sky, Seth commented, “Looks like we’ll be held up another day as it is.”
Over the Coast Range mountains, rain made a dull approach into the valley. Terrific. Another day’s delay to the house’s exterior changes. Jon wanted them done by mid-June when he could concentrate on the inside—and Brittany’s bedroom.
“Well,” he said and grinned. “Considering the price you’re charging me, I suppose I can wait for the driveway.” Besides, it wouldn’t do for his brother to bump a paying customer because his long-lost kin had hit town and wanted instant curb appeal.
The red, dented Toyota rolled up next door. His neighbor, Ms. Kitty Litter. The one he’d dubbed Ms. Sex Kitten in the past twenty-four hours.
“You talked to her yet?” Seth drawled, watching what Jon watched—slim, black-hosed legs swinging from the car. Gold skirt above feminine knees. Clingy black sweater. Small shapely curves.
“Yesterday. For about sixty seconds. Seems like a nice enough woman.” It didn’t matter one way or the other; he wasn’t into congeniality, especially with the neighbors.
“She’s single again.”
“Huh.” Jon figured as much. Mr. Kitty Litter had been visibly absent since Jon had moved into the vicinity. “Didn’t get around to the small talk.”
The woman held a brown bag. Her eyes found his across ninety feet of ratty grass. She didn’t move, didn’t open her mouth, just stood and looked back at him.
A dark-haired boy, about twelve, entered the carport from their backyard. She slammed shut the car door, the sound hollow in the quiet dusk.
“Hi, sweetie.” Her smile could liquefy a steel girder.
The kid hauled up the mountain bike propped against the house.