Loree Lough - Raising Connor

She took Connor from him. “If you’re still here after I’ve fed him lunch and put him down for his nap,” she said over her shoulder, “maybe you can share some of what you learned helping your mom.”

“Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Deidre answered. “Maybe because Brooke just talked to you as if—”

“Deidre,” he said, holding up a hand, “it’s okay. Really. She’s going through a lot. I get it.” He faced Brooke and said, “I’ll be here.”

She did her best to block him from her mind as she carried a squirming, whining Connor into the house.

The baby wouldn’t eat, not even when she offered his favorite, macaroni and cheese. Well, he wouldn’t starve skipping just one meal; he needed a nap more than food anyway.

But it took half an hour to get him to sleep, and once she did, Brooke rifled through Beth’s desk. The funeral home would need pictures. She found fat envelopes stuffed with photographs: Beth alone; Beth with Kent; Beth as a little girl; Beth with Connor on her shoulders. Should she bring one? All of them?

Every day as a nurse at VCU’s trauma center, Brooke had made snap decisions on behalf of patients, and more than a few had been literally life-and-death. She should be well equipped to handle the decisions that lay ahead, so why was selecting a few snapshots proving to be so difficult!

The overwhelming sense of dread reminded her a bit of the ski trip Donald had surprised her with just over a year ago. On the first lift up the mountain at Crested Butte, he’d crooned, “I love you for going along with this.” On the second lift, it was “Of course the brochure made it sound scary—that’s what draws so many tourists here!” And when he shoved off, howling like a madman from the third stage of their ride up the mountain, she’d stared down the 275-foot vertical drop, trembling and praying that she wouldn’t find out the hard way why extreme skiers called the bottom “Body Bag.” Terrifying as it had been, dodging the pines and ice-covered boulders on her way down paled in comparison to the responsibility of becoming Connor’s substitute mother.

She dreaded the prospect of making decisions—about grave sites and headstones, bank accounts and deeds—that would impact her nephew for the rest of his life.

“Ah, here you are.”

Brooke lurched and hoped he hadn’t seen it.

“Deidre made a good suggestion just now, and I thought I’d run it by you.”

If her grandmother was involved, Brooke shuddered to think what he might say.

“Connor’s naps usually last an hour or two. He hasn’t slept well these past few nights, so he’s probably good for twice that. I figure your meetings will last an hour each, if that.”

She almost told him to get to the point when he said, “So maybe I could drive you.”

“Drive me? That’s...very neighborly of you, but—”

He held up a hand to preempt her rejection. “Just hear me out, okay?”

Brooke sighed and slid a dozen photos into an envelope. As soon as she got rid of Hunter, she’d find frames and place them around the funeral parlor’s viewing room.

She swiveled the desk chair so that it faced him. He pocketed both hands, shrugged one shoulder. “I know you’re smart enough to figure this stuff out on your own, but since I went through it all just a year ago, it’s real fresh in my mind. You’d be surprised how many ways those funeral guys have of trying to guilt-trip you into things you don’t need or can’t afford. I promise not to say a word unless you have a question.”

Brooke’s exploration of Beth and Kent’s records made it pretty clear they couldn’t afford anything pricey, and she wouldn’t risk charging more than she could afford, because who knew what expenses might come up down the road. Besides, it would be a relief to put all of this behind them.

Standing, she shoved the chair under the desk. “Just so you know,” she said, grabbing the envelope, “I intend to hold you to your word...about being quiet unless I have a question.”

She couldn’t decide if he looked more relieved than perturbed or the other way around, but as he followed her from Beth’s office, she hoped she hadn’t just made a huge error in judgment.

CHAPTER FIVE

HUNTER SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY in the too-narrow tweed chair facing the funeral director’s desk, unable to escape the blinding ray of sunlight glaring off the man’s polished brass nameplate.

“Sorry, pal,” he said, turning it to face the guy, “but I left my welder’s mask in the truck.”

Turner shot him a puzzled glance, then went right back to yammering about granite versus bronze grave markers, available visitation parlors and background music, and the cost of opening the grave. Through it all, Brooke sat stiff-backed and unsmiling, alternately scribbling notes and pecking numbers into her pocket calculator.

The manager did some scribbling, too, before sliding a contract across his desk. Brooke took a moment to review it, and the minute she sat back, crossed her legs and cleared her throat, Hunter knew the guy was in trouble.

She pointed at the bottom line. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Turner, but you can provide a tasteful funeral without bankrupting me, can’t you?”

Without missing a beat, Turner withdrew a fresh form from the file drawer of his desk and, after jotting down new services and prices, handed it to her.

“You’ll see that I’ve reduced the total by a substantial sum,” he said, looking very pleased with himself.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered absently.

Brooke had conducted herself the same way with the bank manager earlier, making sure the woman understood that while Brooke would assume all responsibility for the mortgage, insurance and taxes on Beth and Kent’s property, the name on the deed should read Alexander Kent Sheridan. She quoted from Maryland’s Uniform Transfers to Minors Act and informed the banker that her actions had been suggested by a reputable attorney. Had she been bluffing? If not, when had she found time to discuss all that with a lawyer? Hunter had pictured the DVD, tucked into a folder marked Connor in his filing cabinet, and an uneasy sensation had settled over him as he admitted the real reason he was with Brooke....

“You need to know that Connor was born with a heart murmur,” Brooke had said to the bank manager. “If he needs medical attention, I’ll need access to the accounts and proof of guardianship to get him the very best care, quickly.”

Not surprisingly, the banker had given her word to rush the paperwork.

And just now Turner made the same promise.

“My next stop,” she told Turner, “is the newspaper. So I’ll need to know exact dates and times of the memorial service so that I can—”

“Oh, but we’re more than happy to take care of that for you, Miss O’Toole.” He flashed his best “the customer is always right” grin.

“For a fee,” she said, pointing to a line on the contract that addressed obituaries.

Hunter had been on the receiving end of Brooke’s hard-nosed inflexibility enough times to feel a little sorry for the guy. Where had Kent gotten the idea that she was scatterbrained and self-centered? Every smart decision she’d made, every astute word she’d spoken, had been on behalf of Connor, not herself.

Turner ran a finger under his collar, and Hunter was tempted to do the same.

“Of course we’re happy to perform that service,” Turner said, drawing a line through that charge on the contract. It was easy to see as he initialed it that the man wished he could lay his “To Serve As We Wish to Be Served” plaque on its face.

Brooke got to her feet. “If there’s nothing more we need to discuss, we’ll be on our way.”