Mary J. - Everything She's Ever Wanted

Confusion swirled in her mind. She tried, truly tried to be the worthy daughter, doing all she could to please her parents. Getting straight A’s, joining the school jazz band, babysitting for her own money. She knew her dad was proud; he’d told her so. And her mom was proud—sort of—the way Hallie cleaned the house, mowed the grass, did the laundry, got groceries. She didn’t tell her dad about the chores, though. Somehow, she didn’t think that would please him the way it did her mom.

Her mom. What was up with her lately? She’d always been a little eccentric, but since returning to Misty River she was living in a time warp or something, wanting to be Hallie’s age again. Acting sillier than some of the eighth grade girls.

Last week, she’d said she was getting a lip stud. A lip stud. Her mother. Gross!

Even the jewelry wouldn’t be so bad, if her mom would just lay off the questions and not ask about everything. Like Hallie wanted to hop onto any old back seat and get preggers. Not!

The only good thing about her mom seeing Roy-Dean Lunn was that she had loosened her choke hold a bit. Not because Melody believed in Hallie, but because Roy-Dean wanted her mom to himself.

The freedom should have felt great, except she felt more lonely than ever. And now her dad, saying that it was finished when she was born…

She burrowed her hot face into Sunny’s furry curves. Her dad had cared! Last night. Years ago.

You were little. What did you know then?

She shivered under the drafty window.

Daddy.

The name fluttered like a butterfly around her heart.

Seth drove straight to the Garage Center. He greeted Bill and asked for Tristan. Twenty seconds later, a tall blond teen—-wiping his hands on a rag—came through the door.

“You Tristan?” Seth asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said carefully.

“Let’s go outside for a minute.” Seth strode through the door and headed for the rear of his pickup. There, he grabbed the tailgate with both hands and sized up the kid dressed head to toe in green coveralls. “I’m Seth Tucker. Understand you want to take my daughter out to a movie this afternoon.”

The boy had stopped a few feet away. Good. Showed the kid had some wits.

“I know who you are, Mr. Tucker. And, yeah, I’d like to take Hallie to a movie.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, almost eighteen.”

“She’s fifteen. Barely.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The boy aligned his shoulders. “I have a sister Hallie’s age. Anyone touched a hair on her head, I’d kill ’em.”

Seth scrutinized the boy’s brown eyes. “We’re not talking about your sister.”

The kid didn’t waver. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Mr. Tucker, I don’t—”

Seth stepped away from the truck. “You have her home within a half hour of the movie ending.”

Visibly relieved, the boy nodded. “Yessir.”

“Don’t want her mother getting upset.”

“Or you, sir.”

Kid was no slouch. “Or me,” he agreed and walked to the truck’s door. Tristan hadn’t moved. “Better get back to work, son, before Bill takes our gab session off your pay.”

He drove to work, whistling.

“When a woman stares into her cup without taking a sip, I’d say she’s got a purse full of man trouble.”

Breena raised her head, smiled at the owner of Kat’s Kafé.”

“Hey, Kat.”

The elderly waitress replaced Breena’s tepid coffee with steaming black. “Guy has a downright immoral heart, yes?”

“Shows that much, huh?”

“Honey, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve carried the same purse.”

“You? But you’re…”

“A granny? Doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of man ache. Ought to be man-iac, if you ask me.”

Breena laughed. “From a woman who understands.”

“You got it. Birds of a feather and all. Anything else I can get you, hon?”

“Yes. A contractor.”

“Planning to build something?”

Breena pushed aside her half-eaten toast. “I’m trying to win over Aunt Paige and get her to fix the shop’s walkway.”

“You go, girl,” Kat said, gray curls bouncing. “I’ve been nagging her about it for the last five years.”

Breena didn’t doubt it. Kat made sun-catchers in her spare time for Earth’s Goodness. A special bond existed between the waitress and Aunt Paige.

“There are some in this town,” Kat bent to Breena’s level, voice soft, “who’d love to see that little place torn down. They think it’s dozer bait and a fire hazard.”

Delwood Owens. Breena had heard him heckle Paige about retiring, about selling the house to a “real resident.” The old toad. Wait until he learned of her stake in the place.

Still, the walkway was a mess. Someone could get hurt, someone like Delwood Owens. Breena pictured pudgy legs flying, wide rump landing hard. She could envision the headlines in the Misty River Times: Shop Owner Takes Chev Olds Owner For A Loop.

She said, “The place is not going anywhere, Kat. So if you know a good contractor, one who won’t rip Paige off, I’d appreciate it.”

“Leave it with me.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” A pat to Breena’s shoulder and she was gone.

No, it’s not, but I’m glad you are. Twenty-eight days ago, the waitress had served Breena her first Misty River breakfast and had since spread her ample goodwill wing over her whenever Paige wasn’t available.

Sipping her coffee, Breena admired the world outside the window. Wednesday’s dawn crept across the thick timber range west of the river. Several dusty, work-worn pickups were angle parked in front of the café. First Street, she realized, sponsored a variety of local merchants. At this hour, traffic was spotty. Ah, such a prize, this sleepy-eyed ambience of Misty River.

She’d recognized its goodness that initial morning, after falling into bed at the Sleep Inn Motel, exhausted from the weighty war of Leo’s betrayal. And discovering he’d filched a portion of their accounts the day after she’d kicked him out….

How stupid she’d been.

For seven years, she’d loved him. And for seven months hated him. Now, shame ate her because, God forgive her stupidity, she hadn’t detected the nuances of those nonspeaking, nonsharing, nonneeding moments. While warding off the failings of others— Joan of Arc wielding the sword and shield of therapy—she hadn’t the sharpness or cleverness or astuteness to see the ashes of her own marriage.

Dr. Breena Quinlan, Crackerjack Counselor.

How callow she’d been.

Thank goodness for the trust fund her dad had opened on her eighteenth birthday, money to which she’d added over the years.

Money Leo couldn’t touch.

Forty-three thousand dollars.

Enough to keep the howlers at bay.

Enough to put a portion into another business.

And, quite possibly, into her dream of rambling roses around a deep porch. Of baked bread. Of homegrown vegetables.

Her rose-colored bubble dream—-the one of a loving man and sweet-faced children—-Breena had waved goodbye to long ago.

A smile to greet her at the end of the day was pure fantasy.

As were gummy, little hands and chubby cheeks and pug noses to kiss. Bedtime stories, homework, proms. Father of the bride, mother of the groom. All of it, fantasy.

Four years they had tried, she and Leo.

And then?

Then Leo defected to her sister.

Lizbeth, who already had a child from a previous relationship. Lizbeth, who was spontaneous, funny, beautiful, unattached, fertile.

Whose morals, when it came to her little sis, qualified a shrug of the shoulder. “He doesn’t love you, Bree,” she said over the phone a month after that hideous night seven months ago. “Let him go. Let him be happy.”