here. No more arguing. Of course you’ll be wanting a shower.” Ginger laid her hand on her stomach, glancing across the hall at the bathroom door. She was wearing a pine-green top over slim white slacks. The top was fitted below her breasts and elasticized at the bottom so that it flared gently over her baby bump and fitted snugly on her hips. The shade of green that washed out her daughter’s pale skin tone flattered Ginger’s warmer complexion.
Her stepmother was getting quite big, Callie noticed, but she was already in her third trimester.
Callie wouldn’t be delivering any babies while she worked at the clinic—the hospital was too far away to make that practical, and to be truthful an ob-gyn practice had never been what she wanted—but she would be seeing prenatal patients and coordinating their care with the obstetrician in Petoskey. Ginger, however, was family, and medical ethics prohibited her from treating or prescribing medications for family members. If she was honest with herself, she was relieved not to be forced into such an intimate relationship with her stepmother, who was, when she got right down to it, a virtual stranger. And sleeping with her father to boot.
“Mom, our bathroom’s trashed, remember,” Becca said acidly. “We were going to clean tomorrow. You and J.R. made us work on the cottage today.” She shot Callie an accusing glare as though the messy bathroom was somehow her fault. So, her dad evidently hadn’t made as much progress with Becca as he had with Brandon.
“I’m not fussy,” Callie said. “A few dirty towels lying around won’t bother me.” She’d only stayed with her new extended family on the one previous occasion—the not-so- successful Christmas visit—and then only for two nights. The apartment had been spotless. Callie had been impressed and said so. Neither she nor her dad were particularly good housekeepers but evidently Ginger was.
“I wanted everything to be just right,” Ginger said under her breath. “I’m sorry. We changed Becca’s room because I wanted the one closest to us for the baby. Your dad hasn’t been sleeping well lately. I...I decided it would be better for the little one to be in a room of his or her own.”
J.R. and Ginger had decided against learning the sex of the new baby. That was fine with Callie, but she was disturbed to hear that her dad wasn’t sleeping well. Was it stress or, worse, some kind of health problem he was keeping from her? It seemed every few minutes something else served to remind her just how long she’d been away, how little she was aware of what went on in her dad’s life these days. It hurt.
But she could begin to do something about it now that she’d returned to White Pine Lake. Being close enough to spend time with her dad was one of the reasons she’d taken the job. She had to keep reminding herself of that.
“It’s fine. I don’t care what the bathroom looks like. I’m the one who should be apologizing for not telling you I was coming early,” she repeated, sincerely remorseful. “If there’s a clean towel and hot water, I’ll be fine.”
Ginger smiled and almost got it right. “Stop apologizing for wanting to come home a day early. Just pretend you’re the first person to take a shower after a hurricane blew through the bathroom, okay?”
“I promise not to notice a thing.”
“Have you eaten?” Ginger caressed her stomach absently as though soothing herself as well as the baby inside her.
“No, and I’m starved,” Callie said, grinning. “I hope you aren’t sold out of the bluegill tonight.”
“I’ll go down right now and have Mac set some aside.”
“And a spinach salad,” Callie said, “oh, and a baked sweet potato. I’ve been craving one for a couple of weeks.”
“Cravings have taken over my life,” Ginger said, seeming to relax a little.
“You’re craving sweet potatoes? That’s a new one.”
Ginger laughed. “Nothing so healthy, I’m afraid. Anything salty and crunchy and sweet.” She threw up her hands. “Every kind of junk food. It’s driving your dad crazy. Thank goodness we live above a restaurant. I can always raid the snack rack by the cash register, even in the middle of the night.”
“She set off the alarm once.” Brandon snickered. “The fire department came and everything. You can ask Dad.”
Ginger flushed an unbecoming red. “Oh, let’s not,” she said. “Go tell Mac that Callie will want dinner in, oh, about twenty minutes or so?”
“Twenty minutes. Great.”
“And I’ll remind her not to forget the cinnamon butter for your potato,” Brandon offered. “It’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too.”
“All right.” Brandon gave her a thumbs-up and took off at a trot.
“Are you sure it’s not too much trouble for me to shower here? I could drive out to Mom’s farm.” She was embarrassed. Ginger must assume she was as unreliable and unprepared as her mother. She didn’t appreciate the comparison one bit.
“That was going to be part of the surprise tomorrow,” Ginger said. “The elderly couple who always rent half the double cottage for six weeks had to cancel due to health issues. It’s small but so much nicer than the ‘mini suite’ at the Commodore Motel the committee picked out for you.” Her tone of voice when she said “mini suite” suggested the Commodore Motel wasn’t the nicest in town by a long shot. Callie was relieved she wouldn’t be staying there. “The cottage is all ready for you to move into as soon as you’ve cleaned up and eaten dinner. Peace and privacy. Well, a place of your own, anyway,” she added cryptically.
“Thank you.” She couldn’t quite keep the relief out of her voice. She loved the tiny duplex cottage on the lakeshore. And it was within walking distance of the White Pine and only half a mile from the clinic. She could bicycle to work—if her old bike was still hanging from the rafters in the garage.
“I’m glad you’re pleased. Your dad said you would be.” Ginger didn’t sound as convinced as J.R. apparently was. “The other side is rented, so it won’t be all that private, but it’s the only property not booked solid for the season.”
“It is my favorite, and I’ll love it, neighbor or no neighbor.” But the duplex was income for her dad. She couldn’t just move in during peak tourist season. “I’ll make up your shortfall on the rent. I’m sure the Physician’s Committee bullied Dad into giving them the same rate they were getting from the manager at the Commodore.”
“Settle that with your father over dinner,” Ginger said, waving off Callie’s suggestion.
Dinner with Dad. Callie couldn’t believe how much she wanted just that. There would be no expansive emotional display from J.R. when she came into the bar. When he caught her eye, he would smile at her, jerk his head in a signal to meet him in the kitchen at the old Formica table with its eight well-worn chairs—the “Cook’s Corner,” as her grandmother had named it years before Callie was born—where the staff ate. He would give her a quick, awkward hug, pull out her chair, set a steaming plate of fish before her and straddle the seat beside her so he could watch her eat. He wouldn’t scold her for not calling to say she was coming a day early, but she would apologize anyway because she had caused Ginger distress. He would tell her not to worry, that it was okay. It’s good to have you home, Callie girl, he would say. And that would be all she needed to hear. She would be home, and everything would be right with the world, because J.R. Layman could make it so.
At least, it had seemed that way to her when she was a child. But she wasn’t a child any longer, and J.R. had new responsibilities and a new family to keep safe from the big, bad world. She was on her own now, and that was the way it should be. She couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt to be the outsider in this new family grouping—it did hurt—but that didn’t mean she intended to stand aside and do nothing to improve the situation, if for no other reason than to make things easier on her dad. She would do what she could to make them all a family.
“C’mon,