Patti Standard - Family Of The Year

“That’s okay, Harvey. If he grows his own chickens, then I’m sure sunny-side up will be perfectly all right.”

“You don’t grow chickens. You raise chickens,” Ben mumbled into his cup, annoyed by Harvey’s good mood. Frowning, he watched Maria crack the eggs into the pan, making the melted butter sizzle.

“It wasn’t necessary to do all this, you know,” he addressed her back. “Since it’s not going to work out, I mean.”

“It wasn’t any trouble.”

“I’ll pay you for your time so far.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” He leaned forward to take his checkbook from the back pocket of his jeans.

Maria made no further protest. She slid the eggs from the pan onto the waiting plate, added a scoop of hash browns, some bacon and four pieces of buttered toast.

Ben propped the check next to the saltshaker, then began to eat in moody silence, only half listening to Harvey. His eyes strayed often to Maria as she cleaned up the kitchen.

When the clock reached six, Ben scraped back his chair and stood. “It’s time to get to work. I won’t be back to the house till noon so I guess I’ll say goodbye now. You’ll probably want to head out while it’s still cool.”

“All right. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye. Thanks for the meals and the laundry and all.”

Maria nodded.

“Anyway, uh, thanks.” Why did he feel as if he should apologize? The last thing he needed was a pack of kids running all over the place and a crying baby and a mean-looking old woman.

“Nice meeting you, Maria.” Harvey bobbed his grizzled head and the two men headed out the kitchen door, letting the screen door slam behind them.

“She did your laundry?” Maria could hear Harvey’s voice through the open window as they walked across the yard to the corral.

“Shut up, Harvey.”

“Real good cook.”

“Shut up, Harvey.”

“Pretty little thing, too.”

“I said shut up, Harvey.”

“Lot easier on your eyes than old Vergie, the vipertongued, rat-eyed…” Their voices faded away in the distance.

Maria finished the last of the dishes and went outside. The morning was glorious, golden and clean. She stopped with her hand on the doorknob to the guest house and turned around, surveying the red hills in the distance. Huge cottonwoods ringed the house in a circle of shade, the only sound the wind in their leaves, the clucking of chickens somewhere nearby, the faraway barking of a dog.

She pushed open the door and clapped her hands sharply together; the sound shot through the silent rooms. “Up and at ‘em!” She moved into the bedroom and began jiggling sleeping bodies, pulling back warm covers. “Up, everybody. It’s time to get to work!”

Ben swore as he bounced his pickup into the yard and came to a stop next to the green station wagon that was supposed to have been on its way back to Phoenix hours ago. He peered through the dusty windows, but the cracked vinyl seats were empty—no boxes, bags or packed suitcases. Damn, damn and double damn!

He took the porch stairs two at a time and strode through the door. His nose was immediately assaulted by the sickening-sweet smell of lemon polish, and his first step of booted foot on the throw rug sent him skidding, bucking across the mirror-smooth floor like he was riding a bull, his arms windmilling wildly for balance. He regained his footing with an ignominious grab for the coatrack, aimed a few choice words at the offending rug, then gave it a vicious kick back toward the door. It sailed effortlessly across the newly polished wooden boards to land in a wrinkled pile of woven cotton cowering against the doorjamb.

The smell of lemon wax gave way to the bite of bleach as he passed the open door to the bathroom. He smelled tomatoes as he stormed into the kitchen, bellowing for Maria. A pot of tomato soup simmered on the stove and a plate of sandwiches towered on the table, reflecting light off the clear plastic wrap protecting them. His check remained where he’d left it next to the salt.

“Maria!” he shouted again. Impatiently, Ben pulled back the curtain over the sink that looked out on the garden and the guest house.

He stared in dismay at the sight that greeted him. His garden had sprouted more than zucchini, it seemed. Three small children were on their knees, a growing pile of weeds beside each little figure. Veronica bent over the green beans, tying their slender tendrils to a string stretched above them. Maria had a hoe in her hands and steadily and methodically struck it into the ground around the ankle-high corn, neatly slicing the offending weeds out at the root. Ben watched her, fascinated by the smooth movement of her muscles as she swung the hoe, the strength in her long, tanned legs in their cutoff shorts, the way her bare toes dug into the dirt.

It was after one o’clock and the sun was high overhead and hot enough to have even the old lady, rocking in the shade with the baby propped against her ample stomach, wiping at her forehead. It was hard, backbreaking work he watched, yet all he heard was…happiness. High, childish voices made a nonstop background to the women’s talk, an occasional reprimand from one of them as a small hand mistook a plant for a weed, the squeals and coos of the contented baby.

And he was going to send them packing.

Another sound made itself heard, a jarring, out-of-place sound that ripped through the hot summer afternoon. It was an engine, open full throttle and roaring in protest; it was the sickening, tearing sound of a too-low undercarriage scraping over a high spot in the dirt road; it was the squeal of brakes and spraying of gravel.

Ben went out the kitchen door, not daring the slippery living room again. A sinking feeling grew in his stomach as he anticipated what he would find. He rounded the corner of the house and there, in his driveway, was a brand-new, shiny red convertible, its radio blasting out the annoying, repetitive beat of rap. Leaping from the car, not bothering to open the door, was his son, Connor Calder.

“Hey, Dad! What do you think? Isn’t she great?” Connor’s chest stuck out so far his shoulder blades almost touched in back as he preened in front of his car.

“She’s great, son.” Ben tried to swallow his dismay at his son’s day-early arrival. He saw the children appear and sidle up beside him. Their grandmother came, too, walking with heavy, slow steps, a baby in one arm and stick in the other. All were curious to see what caused the commotion. And there was Maria. They formed a warm, protective wall behind him, an insulating presence that helped absorb some of the roar and the rap and the blinding glare of the red sports car.

“Connor, I’d like you to meet Maria Soldata. She’s my housekeeper for the summer. And this is her family—they’ll be staying with her.”

“Hey.” The boy’s bored, insolent greeting was accompanied by a flick of his head to move long brown bangs out of his eyes. They were the same sage gray as his father’s, Maria noticed. She wondered at the stiffness of the man beside her, and wondered even more at his sudden change of heart in letting them stay, and she wondered most of all what this boy had to do with it.

Suddenly, Connor snapped to attention. “Chaqui-i-i-ta!” he drawled. “Who’s the babe?”

Maria followed the boy’s eyes and saw that Veronica had joined the group. Barefoot, wiping her hands on her shorts, she looked young and lovely.

“Could you please turn off that music so we don’t have to shout,” Ben asked.

“Sure, man, chill out.” Connor leaned over inside the car and flipped a knob. “So who’s the hot tamale over there?”

Maria saw Ben’s fingers curl into his palm, making a fist tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He looked as if his hand itched with the need to connect with the seat of his son’s hole-filled jeans.