Karen Templeton - A Mother's Wish / Mother To Be - A Mother's Wish

“You can’t stop trying,” Flo said softly, like she’d read his mind, which kinda freaked Robbie out. He also knew she’d only nag him if he didn’t go, so he finished his juice, went and peed, then dragged himself out to Dad’s studio, pushing himself from one side of the passage to the other as he went, even though Flo would get on his case about the handprints.

Once there, he had to blink until his eyes got used to the bright light—with all the windows along the top, it was almost like being outside. Especially since the room was so tall. Robbie liked how it smelled in here, like oil paint and wood and that stuff Dad used to make the canvases white before he painted on them. Rock music playing from a CD player on the floor practically bounced off the walls and ceiling, it was so loud, tickling Robbie’s feet and moving right on up through his body. When he was littler, he used to like yelling out his name in here, just to hear it echo.

Paint all over his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, Dad was cleaning up one of his big paintbrushes, frowning a little at the painting he was working on. At least, Robbie thought he was frowning—it was hard to tell with Dad’s dark, curly hair hanging in his face. Robbie fingered his own much lighter-colored hair, which was almost as long. Flo was constantly fussing at both of them to get it cut, but Dad said this was their mountain-man look. He didn’t shave every day, either. Flo had a lot to say about that, too.

Robbie looked at the painting. Some of Dad’s canvases were so humongous he had to build this thing called a scaffolding to reach the top. But this one was small enough to sit on one of Dad’s special-made easels. The colors were real bright, oranges and purples and pinks and greens, kinda like the view from his window when the sun was going down. But instead of being pretty, the colors looked like they were fighting each other.

“D’you like it?” Dad asked. His father sounded different from everybody else around here because he was from Ireland. It was neat, watching his friends’ eyes get all big the first time they’d hear Dad say something.

He twisted to see Dad watching him with that sad look in his eyes Robbie hated, so he turned his head back around, fast, like when you touch something hot and drop it right away, before it can burn you.

“Who’s it for?”

“Just for me,” Dad said.

And Robbie said, “Oh.” Then he added, “Flo said you’re goin’ down to Garcia’s?”

“Yeah, they got in a shipment for me today.” Dad often had art supplies and stuff sent to the old store down on the highway, rather than to the house, partly because it was sometimes hard for the delivery trucks to get up here, partly so people wouldn’t be able to find him. Dad didn’t like people poking around in his business, he said. “Want to come along?”

“Sure,” he said, like it was no big deal. Except when he looked at Dad, he was smiling, sort of. At least enough to make creases in his fuzzy cheeks. But his eyes still looked like they were saying he was sorry. Like Mom’s dying had somehow been Dad’s fault. Robbie wanted to tell Dad to stop being dumb. Instead, he asked, “Can I get a Nutty Buddy?”

“You’re on,” Dad said back, reaching down to swing Robbie up into his arms, like he used to do, and Robbie hugged his neck as tight as he could, not even caring that Dad’s face was all prickly, like a porcupine.

The sign in the window was hand-lettered and to the point:

Dogs and Kids Allowed Only With an Adult

Gotta love a town that’s got its priorities straight, Winnie thought as she freed Annabelle from the truck in front of the long, stuccoed building with a columned front porch, all by its lonesome out on the highway. And according to the larger—but still hand-lettered—sign stuck in the dirt bordering the road, Tierra Rosa’s only gas station. She’d keep that in mind.

On one side of the porch sat a series of wooden rocking chairs, flanked by wooden crates of corn, melons and apples; on two of the chairs sat a pair of toothless, leathery-faced old men, rocking off-sync and scrutinizing Winnie from underneath battered cowboy hats as she and Annabelle walked up the steps. She nodded; they nodded back.

Inside, the plank-floored building was the modern equivalent of the old-fashioned general store. A quick perusal revealed everything from diapers to fishing tackle, Hungry-Man dinners to motor oil, Levis to Rice Krispies. In addition to food, gas and pretty much everything else, a sign at the front counter also proclaimed the place’s official U.S. Post Office status, P.O. Boxes Available.

Aside from the old dudes outside, Winnie and Annabelle were the only customers; by the cash register, a very cute, overly cleavaged, brunette teenager in a low-cut top and open hoodie leaned on the counter, her chin digging into her palm as she flipped through what looked like a textbook, frantically taking notes in a spiral notebook beside it. Something told Winnie that whatever the gal’s assignment was, she wasn’t finding the tall, buff, teenage boy with a shaved head trying to get cozier all that much of a distraction.

“Quit it, Jesse!” she said, making a great show of moving out of range. “I’ve got this major test tomorrow—!”

“Aw, c’mon, Rach…just one little kiss? Please?”

Then she giggled, which the boy took as leave to swoop in for that kiss.

Winnie smartly wheeled her hundred-year-old grocery buggy toward the back, thinking, Ain’t love grand? over a wave of déjà vu so strong she was half inclined to stomp back to the register and smack some sense into one or both of the kids. Because nobody knew more than her where swooping and such led to.

Then she sighed and went about her business, reminding herself that not every teenage girl who indulges in a little kissy-face gets knocked up. That some were smart enough not to let things go that far. Or at least to make sure there were no consequences if they did.

“You need any help finding stuff?” the girl called out, almost like she cared. Winnie poked her head up over a shelf brimming with Old El Paso products.

“Um…dog food?”

“Back wall, to your right. Ice cream’s on special this week, too. Two half gallons for six bucks.”

“Thanks,” Winnie said, hauling a twenty-pound bag of Purina into her cart, then nudging it toward the frozen-food case, since the gal had taken such pains to steer her in that direction. Lost in a quandary between mint chocolate chip and Snickers, she barely heard the bell jingle over the door. So it took a second for the deep, Irish-accented male voice asking about a package to register.

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Black,” the girl said. “It’s right here, let me get it for you…”

After a white-hot jolt of adrenaline, Winnie ducked slightly behind a display of fishing rods to peer toward the front, too late realizing that Annabelle had sauntered back up to see if anybody needed herding, kisses, whatever. A moment later a young kid with shaggy, pale-blond hair popped into view, yanking open the case to grab one of the loose Nutty Buddies inside. At Winnie’s sucked-in breath, the kid’s head whipped around, eyes wide, and something inside her exploded.

Five minutes on the Internet, and there’d been the magazine article, complete with a photo of the reclusive Western landscape painter and his wife, a textile artist/social activist, her broad smile much more relaxed and friendly than her significantly younger husband’s. And scattered throughout the article, shots of the marvel of wood and glass—one whole side devoted to the high-cei-linged studio built especially to accommodate the “Irish Cowboy’s” massive canvases—that Aidan and June Black had built in the mountains bordering the picturesque northern New Mexican village of Tierra Rosa.