Mary Forbes - A Forever Family

“But why, Uncle Michael?”

And answering her daughter’s questions about this horrible after-death ritual.

“Uncle Michael?” His niece’s tiny voice quivered.

“I’ve already told you, Jen. She won’t need them any more.”

“Mommy’s never coming back, is she?”

“No. She’s not.”

He glanced out of the walk-in closet. Leigh’s daughter stood near the packing box, clutching her shabby doll to her chest. The large L-shaped bedroom with its pine furniture and its queen bed spanned out behind her. In the toe of the L was a vanity and chair. Soon, he’d eradicate all of it. Brushes, makeup—

“Ever?”

One word, filled with confusion, trepidation and disbelief. In his twelve years at the hospital he’d heard those emotions often, but he recalled the first time best. When he was ten and they’d brought his parents home from Canada, broken and burned and no longer alive. Leigh had asked the same question of their grandmother, in this very room. He’d stood next to his sister, their hands clasped tight, and Katherine had shaken her head and walked out. Leigh had started crying. In his brain, the sound shattered him once more. And once more he felt the cool welcome of loathing what he could not change.

Jenni stared at the box. Leigh’s silver, pearl-buttoned shirt draped over a flap, in a beam of sunlight.

“No,” he said brutally, grief molding his anger into an invisible defensive sword.

The child sniffed and buried her face in the doll’s drab hair. He wanted to go to her, apologize for his tone, try and—

“Jenni?” A woman’s voice. Her voice.

In the dim closet interior, Michael’s hands froze on a cluster of hangers. What was she doing here? He watched his niece pivot, eyes swimming with hurt and fear.

“Uncle Michael’s taking away Mommy’s clothes, Shanna. He says she’s never, ever, ever coming home.”

“Aw, peachkins…”

Jenni’s mouth trembled. She darted a look his way, then dropped her doll and ran from his line of view. An instant later he heard her muffled whimper: “I hate him.”

“Jenni—”

“Please, make him stop. Please, Shanna. Please.”

Michael closed his eyes and released a sigh. When would life be normal again? Never, he thought and stepped out of the closet.

His lanky-limbed employee stood five feet inside the doorway with Jenni wrapped around her thighs like a tiny tenacious wood nymph. Tears crept down the little girl’s uplifted face and rolled into the curls smoothed by mothering hands.

Shanna raised her eyes. He hadn’t anticipated the fury in them. Or the pain.

“So,” he said, ignoring a snip of guilt—and jealousy. “Three days ago you introduce yourself to my horse. Today, my niece.”

“She was wandering around outside. By herself.” The last two words hung like stone pendulums.

He stepped around the box and picked up the doll. “Jen, take…” What did she call it? “Take your doll downstairs and feed her some of your favorite tea.”

The child gave him a teary, pouty look. “Don’t want to.”

“Jenni.” Ms. McKay pushed Leigh’s daughter away gently. She knelt and cupped Jenni’s small shoulders. “It’s okay. Do what Uncle Michael asks. He’s…” She threw him a quick, cool look. “He’s worried Tavia might be hungry. It’s nearly lunchtime, you know.”

Rubbing a palm up the side of her nose, the child shot him another look. “’Kay.”

“That’s a sweetie.” Without so much as a glimpse his way, Shanna McKay reached for the doll. When he laid it in her hand, she straightened its frilly dress and delivered it to Jen. “I’ll be down soon,” she whispered.

She watched the girl head out of the room. Annoyed that he studied his employee with her sun-gilded thighs and patched denim shorts, rather than his niece, Michael said, “What’s with the aloha look?”

Her head slowly turned. The wistfulness he’d seen in her face evaporated. Coldness settled in. Ah, but her wide, feminine mouth stayed soft as a ripe peach. He drew closer.

She pushed to her feet. Her eyes were severe. He fancied his battered boots, tired Wranglers and wrinkled T-shirt scored a thumbs down. Her chin elevated. “Are you talking about this?” She pointed to the flower.

He nodded, unable to look away. The foolish thing reminded him of a sultry night dancer. Sultry and night was a combination he wanted—no, needed—to avoid, especially around her. Purposely, to regain his balance, he glanced at the box draped in Leigh’s clothes, and was jolted back to reality. “Looks all wrong,” he muttered, mind back on his task.

Her laugh was soft and husky. “Well, Doc, your opinion isn’t worth a hoot. But your niece is another story. She’s smart, sensitive and has this charming idea that flowers make people happy. I happen to agree with her.”

Michael turned again to the woman standing pole-straight in front of him. Her lean, tanned arms were folded under small, round breasts. Below his navel he felt a rush of blood.

He took in the blossom above her ear and the jumble of her hair. Silky, he thought, and itched to take up a fistful.

His eyes found hers. Wide, wary.

Boldly, he stepped into her space. “Happy, huh?” He watched air affect her nostrils as he touched her cheek. “Are you happy, Ms. McKay?”

“Doesn’t matter if I am or not.” She caught his wrist and plucked the marigold from her hair. “Question is,” she said softly, placing the flower in his palm, “Are you?”

His skin throbbed where their fingers curled together and the knot of petals pressed. “Happiness isn’t the issue here.”

“Wrong. It’s the only issue when it concerns your niece.” Her eyes gentled. “Don’t trash her mother’s clothes.”

He backed away. “I’m not trashing them. I’m taking them to the Lady of Lourdes church.” Defeat enveloped him. He pushed out a long breath. “I didn’t expect Jenni to come up here, okay? She was to stay downstairs.”

“Well, she didn’t. She went outside. Luckily, she wandered toward the cabin instead of the barns. Do you have any idea what she might have run into down there?”

Guilt gnashed his gut. “Look, Ms. McKay—”

“No, you look. Your niece needs you. At the moment, she’s got one person to fill those vacant spots her parents left. You. Give her some attention. Show a little concern. Heck, a pat on the head would do the trick fine.”

“Playing shrink now?”

She ignored the insult. “Jenni told me you don’t like being bothered. In my books that means she’s in your way. No child should ever be in the way.”

Michael stared at her. Bothering him? Was that how Jenni saw herself? Why not? You barely see her.

The woman before him scraped back her uneven bangs. “Fire me for pointing it out. I don’t care. The well-being of a child is more important than a job.”

He could see she didn’t give one spit if he did fire her. To her, Jenni was at risk in his custody. He didn’t know whether to feel humbled, guilty, angry or all three.

Bending to her level, he said softly, “Who do you think you are, Ms. McKay? Mother Theresa? You don’t know flip from flap about raising kids, or how it feels to live without parents. But you’re right about one thing. If you want to retain this job, keep your opinions to yourself.”

Her pupils dilated. She clamped her lower lip. Retreated a step. “I think…” Another step. “I think it’s…best I go.”

Regret spiked his belly. “Ms. McKay—”

“Shanna,” she corrected, shaking her head. “My name is Shanna,” she whispered. “Just like yours is…is Mike.”

“Mike? No one calls me Mike.” But he liked it. Across her lips it was an intimate, seductive little breath. Yeah, he liked Mike—a lot.