Janice Macdonald - Return To Little Hills

“I don’t expect you to stay forever, Sophia. The girls know that, too.”

He stretched his legs out. His oldest daughter, Natalie, was pushing the twins on side-by-side swings. Natalie was eight; Abbie and Kate were four. Delphina, the seven year-old, sat off to one side, her expression wistful. A quiet and solitary child, she seemed always in the shadows of her sisters’ play. He worried about Delphina. He worried about them all. Natalie was saddled with too much responsibility for a child of her age; the twins still sucked their thumbs. Last night, Abbie had wet the bed—the third time in a week.

“Peter—” Sophia knocked on his temple “—are you in there somewhere?”

“Thinking,” he said.

“Not about a sudden sighting of the swallow-tailed thingamajig, I hope.”

“Painted swallowtail.” He grinned. “Actually it was rather unusual to spot one so far north this late in the year…but no, I was thinking about what you were saying. You’ve been an incredible help with the girls, but I do understand that you need to go home.”

“What will you do?”

“Look around for a live-in nanny, I suppose. I’d planned to do that after Deborah died…”

Sophia rubbed his arm.

“I’m fine.”

“Still miss her?”

“Of course.”

“Life goes on, though.”

“Please spare me the homilies, Sophia. I’ll work things out in my own way.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Deborah was always very pragmatic and unsentimental,” he said. “As soon as we knew how ill she was we discussed what would happen with the girls. She was convinced I’d be married within the year. Quite adamant really that I should be married, that it would be better for us all.”

“I always did admire Deborah’s intelligence,” Sophia said. “Pity that her husband is less gifted in that regard.”

Peter shot her a sideways glance.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Peter. Look at that Amelia woman you were so besotted with. The girls didn’t have the foggiest idea what to make of her. And she was obviously quite bewildered by them. Honestly, sometimes I want to grab your shoulders and shake you very, very hard. How could you not have seen that this woman was all wrong for you? It was apparent to me the moment you introduced her.”

“Perhaps you should have warned me.”

“I did.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “Perhaps I should have listened.”

“Why won’t you find a nice woman?”

“Amelia was nice.”

“Amelia was an actress.”

“Actresses can’t be nice?”

“I wouldn’t know firsthand, Peter, my life being considerably less exotic than yours, but Amelia struck me as…a tart.”

“Sophia,” Peter said, “Amelia wasn’t a tart. Perhaps not a candidate for marriage, but not a tart.”

“Well, that’s as may be,” Sophia said darkly. “But why are you drawn only to unsuitable women?”

“Because,” Peter said honestly, “as much as I’d like to meet a woman who could love the girls and create the sort of home Deborah and I had, I want more than a mother replacement. I want to be in love.”

“Of course you do,” Sophia said. “And?”

“And I’ve discovered that I’m not particularly attracted to nice women who want to settle down and have children.”

“Rubbish.” Sophia dismissed the comment with a flap of her hand. “You simply have to put your mind to it. What we need,” she said briskly, “is a plan. Now, wipe that stupid grin off your face and think very carefully. Not about the kind of woman to whom you’ve typically been attracted… We’re looking for wife material. Start naming names. We’re thinking sweet, potentially maternal and absolutely not flighty. Come on, there must be someone at school. Think hard.”

“Betty Jean Battaglio,” he said after five minutes of not very hard thinking.

“Good.” Sophia smiled. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s my secretary,” he said.

Sophia looked dubious. “Hmm. Not always advisable to dip the pen into the company inkwell, as it were, but if you’re discreet… What does she look like?”

“Dark hair, blue eyes. Pictures of cats all over her desk.”

“Loves animals.” Sophia nodded. “Sounds promising. What else?”

“Won a gold medal at the Little Hills fair for her cherry cobbler.”

“Enjoys cooking. Perfect,” Sophia said. “And she’s single?”

“Widowed.”

“Widowed?” Sophia arched an eyebrow. “How old is she?”

“Sixty-five,” Peter said. “We’re in the process of planning her retirement party.”

Sophia gave a snort of disgust. “You’re just not taking this seriously.”

“Yes, I am,” Peter said and, just to prove it, the following morning he called Edie Robinson to invite her to the theater.

“THE THEATER?” When the phone rang, Edie had braced herself for another sisterly self-improvement lecture. Now she sat on the floor in the hallway of her mother’s house talking to Peter Darling. “Let me guess. Madame Butterfly.”

Peter laughed. “No, unfortunately. I don’t think it’s playing anywhere. But will you join me, anyway?” he asked. “Saturday night.”

She shifted the phone to her other ear. Peter’s voice was almost inaudible. “You know what, Peter? I can hardly hear you. Are you whispering or something?”

“Just speaking softly. I’m over at the teen mother center and—”

“Is that where Beth works? Is she there?”

“She’s talking to a student.”

“Can she hear what you’re saying?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why of course not?”

“Because I don’t as a rule broadcast details of my private life. What does my asking you to the theater have to do with Beth, anyway?”

She’s in love with you, Edie thought. Besotted, infatuated, head over heels—at least according to my sister, who also thinks you’re gorgeous and could, of course, be doing a little projecting. God, it was so much easier to fly in and out of trouble spots. Perhaps she should drop a hint to Peter about Beth’s feelings for him. Maybe Beth wouldn’t appreciate it, though. She herself would definitely not appreciate someone intervening on her behalf, especially with a co-worker. Better to say nothing.

“Edie?” Peter said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, I was thinking.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

“No, I’m sorry, Peter. Thank you for asking, but I really can’t.”

“A jealous boyfriend in a safari suit?”

“Safari suit?” She laughed. “You’ve seen too many movies.”

“But a jealous boyfriend nevertheless?”

“Essentially.”

“Perhaps we could take your mother as a chaperon,” he said. “I’ll buy another ticket.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but no. Here’s an idea, though. Beth absolutely loves the theater.”

“Does she?” Peter asked with no discernible enthusiasm. “Hmm.”

Don’t tell me I’ve never done anything to make a difference in someone’s life, Edie thought as she replaced the receiver. And give me some credit for generous self-sacrifice. A night at the theater with Peter Darling has a whole lot of appeal. A whole lot of appeal.

PETER HAD JUST HUNG UP and was nursing his rejection, when Beth Herman dropped by his office with a picture of a butterfly. Beth wanted him to identify the butterfly before she hung the picture in her classroom.

“Hmm.” He lowered his head to peer closely. “It looks rather like Heliconius charithonius. Note the long narrow black-and-yellow stripes on the wing. Although, of course,” he added solemnly, “the charithonius is not exactly indigenous to the state of Missouri.”