Mary Forbes - A Father, Again

Sweetpea?

His neighbor looked up. His throat tightened. Hers was an honest face, a gentle face. Life’s not honest, he wanted to tell her. It’s cruel. Callous. Unjust.

A shy half smile. “My daughter Emily—” she glanced back at the child “—found her in an old tub of dried sweetpea vines inside our garden shed a month ago, thin as a rail and shaky with hunger. I don’t think she’d been fed in two weeks. We put ads in the paper, but so far no one’s claimed her.”

Jon stared at the woman. Green and gold dappled her irises. He turned on his heel.

“Wait—” She followed him across the porch. “Where did you find Sweetpea?”

“On my shirt.” In the shadiest corner of his back deck, to be exact. Where he’d tossed his sweatshirt on the Adirondack chair when the temperature broke the eighty-degree mark while he’d been hammering in a new railing. He trotted down her steps and headed for the chink in the hedge without a backward look.

“Sweetpea,” he muttered. More like sourpuss. The claw marks on his hands proved it.

He’d get that extra juniper in before the sun went down.

Rianne Worth watched the broad back of her visitor disappear.

Jon Tucker.

Heavens, when had she seen him last? More than twenty years ago, at least. She hadn’t recognized him. Not until he’d looked directly at her, demanding she keep her cats off his land. Those eyes, oh, she’d remember them in any decade! Eyes she still saw every so often in her slumbering dreams. Inscrutable, more than a little perilous.

“Who was that man, Mommy?”

Rianne turned to the child at her side. Her shy angel-girl. One day—soon—Emily would shout and laugh and charge into rooms like any normal eight-year-old. You will, Em. I promise. “Our new neighbor, pooch.”

“He looks mean.”

Rianne couldn’t deny it; he had looked mean. And angry.

What had the years done to shroud him in that aura of arctic barrenness? The Jon Tucker of her youth flashed across her mind. Rough-and-tumble black hair, leather jacket, souped-up yellow pickup. Tough and grim. Kind in heart.

“Is he like Daddy?”

God forbid. “No, honey he’s not like your father.” At least not the Jon she remembered. “He doesn’t like to be bothered, that’s all,” she said, trying as always to look for the good, the decent. She knelt and held open the box flaps. “Come see what he brought.”

“Oh, Mom-meee!” Emily breathed reverently. “Sweetpea’s got babies!” She reached in a tiny finger.

“Careful, honey. Don’t touch the kitties for a week or so.”

“I know. We learned that in science.”

Rianne touched her daughter’s hair. “Smart girl to remember.”

“They’re so cute.”

“They are,” she agreed. Sort of. Three mouse-sized creatures with awkward heads, squashed ears and closed eyes clambered over one another to nurse.

Emily stroked Sweetpea’s back. The cat yielded a purry meow, sniffed daintily at the girl’s fingers. “When’d she have them?”

“Today, it seems.”

Brown eyes centered on Rianne. “Did the man take her to the vet’narian?”

“No. She birthed her kittens at his house. Em, once the kittens are weaned, Sweetpea will have an operation so she can’t have any more babies—”

“Is that why he talked so mad?”

“Who?”

“The man.”

“He wasn’t mad, honey. Just a little concerned.” All right, prickly as a chained dog. When she’d opened the door, his big, strong body had blocked out the day—similar to another muscled body—and her heart had stumbled.

Then she’d seen his eyes, his beautiful, ink-blue eyes.

Since the sold sign had disappeared next door, she’d seen him off and on, laboring on that century-aged house. He hadn’t waved, nodded, said hello. But, then, neither had she.

And now?

He hadn’t recognized her, nor was he inclined to friendliness, and he seemed to dislike animals. She would need to keep close tabs on Sweetpea, plus make a spaying appointment with the veterinarian ASAP.

Hoisting up the carton, she stood. “Let’s take the kittens inside, Em. Sweetpea’s probably hungry and needs a clean bed for her babies.”

Rianne carried the box into the kitchen and positioned it beside the cat’s food dish. Sweetpea lifted herself away from her wriggling offspring, then hopped out of the box to lap at the fresh water Rianne brought.

“She’s thirsty, Mom.” Emily squatted inches from the little family. “Hungry, too,” she added when the mother cat meowed her gratitude for the canned food.

The back door slammed. “I’m starving, Mom! What’s to eat?”

Sam, Rianne’s thirteen-year-old son, flung himself into the kitchen, cheeks red, brown hair mussed from the bike ride home.

“Hey, suhweeet!” Slinging off his backpack, he dropped to his knees beside his sister. “Sweetpea had kittens? That’s so cool.”

Rianne’s heart swelled. Every moment of joy was like a gift; she vowed to keep them coming.

“Whose shirt?” Sam eyed the faded, navy-blue cotton bunched in the bottom of the box.

“It belongs to our neighbor. Jon Tucker.”

“The biker guy? The one with the long hair and the tattoo here?” He patted his left forearm.

“Yes.”

“Oh, man, this is major cool. Now that you’ve met him, maybe I can go over and see his Harley.”

“Don’t, Sammy,” Emily piped up. “He talks really mean.”

Sam’s grin vanished. “Mean?”

Okay, Rianne thought, let’s iron this out right now. “Mr. Tucker isn’t accustomed to having animals around, Sam. It seems Sweetpea’s been visiting regularly.”

“But she’s just a cat!”

“Some people are afraid of cats. They may’ve had a bad experience with them as a child or they might have allergies. Like Em with pumpkins. You know how she breaks out in a rash whenever she eats pumpkin pie?”

Emily nodded; Sam simply stared.

She went on. “As you know, people can have reactions to cats and other animals. Sometimes,” she paused for effect, “they get upset. Em cries because the rash itches and hurts. But a man like Mr. Tucker doesn’t cry. Instead, he may get worried or anxious.”

“Why doesn’t he cry?” Emily asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you learned anything? Men don’t cry.”

Rianne crouched between her children. “Some men do cry. It depends on the person and the circumstances.”

She didn’t believe it of Jon. Not with his flat voice. His ice eyes.

“Dad never cried,” Sam spat. “He just…just…”

“As I said, it depends on the person, honey. Either way, it isn’t a fault. Just because you don’t see someone cry, doesn’t mean they don’t hurt inside.”

“Is our neighbor hurting?” Emily asked.

“I think he had a bad day.” She gave both kids a quick hug. “We need to put Sweetpea and her family into her basket.”

They replaced the shirt with an old blanket and decided to transfer the basket to Rianne’s sewing room where it was quieter, where southern sunshine warmed the small space for most of the day. Safe and snug, the mother cat stretched beside her brood. Her rough, pink tongue reassured each mewling kit.

Sitting back on her heels, with Jon’s shirt in her lap, Rianne watched the new family. And her own.

Sam stroked Sweetpea with the back of his right hand, his deformed hand. He’d been born with a normal left hand, but a finger and thumb were its right counterpart. Her son had learned early in life to hide his handicap. His father hadn’t wanted to see it, to admit it existed. In the fifteen months since Duane Kirby’s car crashed and killed him, Sam was slowly transforming. Rianne encouraged him; his school counselor coached him. At home, using his right hand had become second nature.