Jennifer Greene: The Bonus Mum

She turned away from the window, fed the fire and turned her attention back to things that mattered. Another cream puff, for starters.

And what a hunk of a man that Whit was. Maybe she could have a hot, steamy dream about him tonight. He was the kind of guy that looked all sexy and dangerous when he was sweaty.

Not that Rosemary was attracted to sweat and oiled shoulders and bad boys.

But losing a wife and raising two young girls alone—that was a tough road. Tougher than her own problems, by far.

Which was probably why she couldn’t get him off her mind.

Chapter Two

Whit opened the refrigerator and stared at it blankly. He’d bought a truckful of groceries. The fridge was full. He just couldn’t seem to find anything to eat.

At least anything that didn’t involve cooking and dishes and cleaning up.

“What are you hungry for, you two?” He called out to the living room, and then wondered why he’d asked.

The answer came in joyous unison. “Mac and cheese. From the box.”

Followed by, “And don’t burn it this time, Dad.”

He still had two boxes, thank God. All the green stuff he’d bought was going to waste. But the sugary cereals, the mac and cheese and the ice cream—after two days, he was nearly out of those. He could probably feed the kids on five bucks a day—if they had their way. Instead he’d spent better than $500 on stuff that was good for them.

Why wasn’t that in the parenting rule book, huh? That short of putting an eleven-year-old in a coma, there was no way to get anything fresh and green down them without a war that involved pouting, door slamming, dramatic tragic looks, claims of being misunderstood, claims of being adopted, claims of child abuse...and...that torture could go on for hours. Sometimes days.

He scrounged for a pan, and filled it with water. Read the directions on the mac and cheese box for the millionth time. When he turned around, Lilly was leaning on the blue-and-white tile counter.

It was a trick, since he knew she hadn’t come in to help. He was in trouble. He just didn’t know over what. And the truth—which Lilly possibly knew—was that he’d do anything she asked. Anything.

He was terrified of both daughters, but Lilly more than Pepper. Lilly had stopped talking after her mom died. She’d just lain there, in that hospital bed next to her sister, but where Pepper would cry and shriek, Lilly just carried that silent look in her eyes. Grief too deep to understand, grief that made her go still, as if in any motion, no matter how tiny, could tip her over the edge. She couldn’t take more.

Eventually Lilly started talking again, but it went on and on, that grief of hers. She answered questions, and talked about things like school and dinner, but it was months before she volunteered anything. Months before that unbearably sharp grief started to fade. Months before he won a real smile—and he’d done everything but stand on his head and grovel, to bring her beautiful smile back.

“What?” he said, when she kept leaning there, looking at him, kind of rolling her shoulders.

“Nothing. I was just thinking....”

That was the other problem with Lilly. Pepper, thankfully, said anything that was on her mind. It came out like froth; he never had to work to figure out where her head was. But Lilly was the thinker, the one who stored hurts on the inside, the one who never said anything he could anticipate. Nothing in the universe could make him feel as helpless as Lilly.

And he’d have to kill anyone who dared cause her any grief again.

“Didn’t you think she was pretty?” She asked him as if his answer was of no consequence, while idly scratching the back of one knee with a slipper.

“The lady?”

“Rosemary, Dad. You heard her name. And yeah. Didn’t you think she was pretty?”

“Sure.”

Lilly rolled her eyes. It was a default response when Whit did something inadequate on an eleven-year-old’s terms. “Something’s wrong with her.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But she’s pretty. And she’s spending Christmas all by herself. And she’s working, she showed us some stuff on orchids. But you’d think it was July or June or something. There’s no tree or presents. No stuff. No lights.”

“Maybe she’s of some other religion.”

“You mean like Buddhist or Muslim or something? No. It’s not that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.” Another default answer, usually accompanied by, “I’m a girl and I know. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe she’s Jewish?”

“Dad. We know five Jewish people. And they do Christmas with presents and trees just like we do. Except that they get to do their Hanukkah holiday, too, so they get even more presents. In fact, I was thinking about turning Jewish.”

“Were you?”

“Hey, people fight wars all the time over religion. I think they should stop fighting wars and concentrate more on giving presents. Especially presents for their kids.” Possibly out of boredom, she plucked a raw carrot from the glass of carrots and celery on the counter. It was the first time he’d seen her eat anything nutritious since they’d come up here. “But back to Rosemary. The thing is...she’s our neighbor. In fact, as far as I can tell, she’s our only neighbor up here. At least the only one we know about. So maybe we should do some Christmas stuff with her, so she’s not alone.”

“Honey, she may be alone by choice. She may not want company or neighbors around.”

“Well, then, why were her eyes sad?”

The water started to swirl and bubble. He dumped in the dry pasta, asked Lilly to get some milk and butter from the fridge and called Pepper to set the table. Then he did what he always did when he needed a diversion. He called dibs on the TV as of eight o’clock.

That immediately raised the decibel level in the great room to rock concert levels...and for sure, diverted Lilly.

But Rosemary’s face flashed back in his mind. She did have sad eyes. At first...well, at very first, he’d only seen his girls, because he’d nearly had a heart attack about their bear encounter. No matter what they’d claimed on the phone, he had to see them both in flesh and blood to breathe again.

Still, the minute he realized the kids were both fine, he swiftly turned on Rosemary. First, he noticed her vibrancy. With three females in the same room, naturally all three of them were talking at once, with volume, and were all in constant motion besides. But over and above his twins’ chatter, he caught...the energy of her. The life-lover zest.

Her build was lithe and lean, a woman comfortable with her body, used to doing physical things and spending time outdoors. Even in December her nose had a hint of sunburn, with a thin spray of freckles.

Her eyes were faded blue, the color of a hot sky in summer. She wore her hair grass-short and styled wash-and-wear, not all that much different than his, but no one would ever mistake her for a guy. Everything about her was soft and female. The long sleeved T-shirt in navy blue, the battered-soft jeans, the sculpted fine bones in her face. None of her clothes were fancy but distinctly feel-good styles, easy to move in, easy to live in. She wore no makeup—of course, since she lived alone, why would she paint her face? But it was more than that. Her skin had that wind-fresh, sun-friendly wholesome look. Her breasts were small and pert; her hips barely held up her jeans. There was no vanity in her. No embellishments. Just...beauty.

The real kind of beauty.

The kind that rang his chimes. Only no one—real or not—had rung his chimes since Zoe died.

Sooner or later, he figured he’d get his libido back. He’d always been overcharged, not under, but Zoe’s death seemed to kill something off in him.