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“You look great.” She raised the bright raspberry-toned bottle. “Hot chocolate for later.”
Skeeter’s eyes widened in appreciation.
“You might want to bring a book or stuff to color,” Rita added. “If it gets really cold, you can sit in the car.”
Rita moved aside to allow Skeets past. Stepping down, Skeeter caught her toe on a chipped porch tile. She crashed to her knees. Hysterical tears ensued, ruining the momentary peace. Rita leaned down, inspected both knees, grabbed the still-secure bottle and shrugged. “Not fatal. Let’s go.” Skeeter glared.
Rita did a slow count to ten. She was segueing from eight to nine, weighing choices, when Skeeter stood, a martyred expression in place. Moaning, she limped to the door.
Obviously five days of no television loomed long and lonely. Rita took the positive-reinforcement route. “It’ll make Brett happy to know we’re at his game.”
No answer. Ah, well. The sacrificial-lamb act would fade if ignored. After the day she’d had, Rita had no difficulty doing just that.
“Come on, Brett, that’s it!” Rita fist-pumped as her son feinted right, dodged left, then sent the ball on a diagonal across the net where a teammate finished the play by tapping it in. Rita clapped and cheered with the rest of the Charger parents. The score was two–one with less than ten minutes to play. She turned as the teams regrouped and glanced at the parked car. The cold night made the backseat a welcome reprieve for Skeeter. Once they’d gotten to the field, she’d forgotten her snit and played with other sideline siblings until the damp air chilled them. Most of them had retreated to their respective cars as the temperatures dropped.
“Step by step,” Rita reassured herself. It had taken time to plunge her family into the pits of despair, until a social services intervention spurred events that resulted in her sober state. Resuming an even keel wouldn’t happen overnight.
“How’s the game?” Brooks’ voice startled her out of her reverie.
Rita’s heart lurched. She frowned and turned, mad at her reaction, pretty sure half the single women in AA had a crush on Brooks at one time or another. His warm strength radiated solidity. She willed her pulse to calm and kept her voice even with effort. “We’re winning. Brett just had an assist. That means he sent the ball to the player who kicked it in.”
Brooks rocked back on his heels, one hand thrust into his pocket. His eyes crinkled. “I may not be a big fan but I comprehend the concept.”
Embarrassed, she started to turn. He paused her action with a hand to her arm. “I brought you something.”
He handed her a twenty-ounce convenience store cup. She eyed it, then him.
“Chai. The spiced variety. I thought you might appreciate a little warming.”
She brought the cup to her nose and sniffed. Ah. Cinnamon. Vanilla. The undertone of mild tea. Rich cream. He watched her, head angled. “Since you wouldn’t go out for tea, I thought the tea should come to you.”
Warmth flooded Rita, and she hadn’t even tried the tea.
“Dank night. You warm enough?”
And then some. Rita nodded, pulling her attention back to the game, not an easy task at the moment. “Fine, thank you. You’re not at St. Luke’s for the open meeting tonight?” Like several other venues, the quaint stone church on Windsor Street offered meeting space to AA members twice a week. “Not tonight.”
Rita refused to ponder the reasons that brought him here instead of there. Brooks had been in AA a long time. His years of sobriety and successful business acumen made him a standout example to others. If he could conquer the dragon of alcoholism, anyone could. He cocked his head and studied the growing fervor of the soccer contest, assessing. “Dangerous strategy. Gives the enemy too much time and latitude to perform.”
“Enemy?” Rita’s hiked brow questioned his word choice.
“I meant opponent,” Brooks answered, not acknowledging the expression.
“But you said…”
He stopped her with a quieting look, classic Brooks. “The other team is about to score.”
And they did.
A collective groan sounded. With scant minutes left, there wasn’t much chance of winning. Still, Brett’s team had played a good game.
Rita drew a breath of clean, cold air, smiled and raised her cup. “Thank you, Brooks.” She put the lid to her lips and sipped lightly, testing for temperature, then sighed her appreciation. “It’s wonderful.”
“Good.” He watched as the teams offered the obligatory handshake before adding, “I got another compliment on your window today.”
“Did you?”
“Yup. Customers from Vermont. They loved it. I was thinking you and Liv might be interested in doing a spring-summer version.”
“Might be? We loved doing it. And I know Liv’s got some ideas, she was just too shy to ask.”
“Why?”
Rita shrugged. “She felt awkward, like she was pushing herself on you.”
“She’s got talent. An eye for color and balance that’s inherent, not learned. Solid qualities.”
“Thank you.” Rita smiled up at him, his compliments sweet music to her ears. Liv had suffered from her parents’ rough choices. As a result, she’d taken part in some escapades that had people wagging their tongues. But she’d turned a corner when Rita did. The thought of what her alcoholism had cost three wonderful kids gripped Rita internally.
That happened fairly often as memories stirred, but at least now she wasn’t nearly as tempted to reach for a drink, a glass, a bottle. When she was, she handled those moments with help from Kim, Brooks and good old-fashioned faith. How she wished she’d turned to that first, but God had seemed pretty far removed after Tom’s death.
“Earth to Rita?”
Rita flushed, caught in her thoughts. “Sorry. Thinking.”
Brooks’ look offered appraisal. “Remembering.”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
“It shows all over your face.”
“Great.”
“Maybe just for me?” he suggested, an eyebrow up, his gaze steady and warm.
“That would be better than being an open book to the world at large. Half the county knows who I am and what I’ve done.”
“Negative talk.”
“Where I’d say realistic.”
He weighed that. “County population was just over 100K in the last census.”
She turned, exasperated. “You watch Jeopardy, don’t you? I don’t know another soul on the planet with such a head for random facts and figures.”
“I’m a businessman,” he corrected her, his voice matter-of-fact. “It’s my job to know these things, to understand the shift in demographics and then adjust my sales strategies to fit.”
“Enemies. Strategies.” Rita took a step back, eyeing him, doing her own quick assessment. “You were a military man.”
A flash of shadow darkened his features before he nodded. “For quite a while. Nice evaluation.”
“Well, it’s not like I haven’t wondered,” she confessed. Taking another sip of chai, she let the soothing mix warm her, the tea a great gift on a cold, clammy night. Her toes were chilled and she couldn’t feel two fingers on her left hand, a leftover condition from childhood frostbite. But the warmth curled inside, way more satisfying than whiskey ever thought of being. And not nearly as scandalous. “You’re a private person, Brooks. Everyone wonders.”
“But no one asks.”
“Reverting to my former statement: you’re private. You like it that way. But you go out of your way to help others so they offer you respect in return.”
“Ah.” He rocked back on his heels, nodding. “In any case, I don’t think fifty thousand people have a clue who you are or what you’ve done.”
“I’ll guarantee you one hundred percent know what Tom did.”
“True enough,” Brooks acknowledged, considering. Tom’s crimes had affected scores of local people. Despite its widespread geography, St. Lawrence County’s population zones were centered in the towns and cities dotting Route 11, and big news like Tom Slocum’s embezzlements made a notable splash in the headlines. With those numbers, everyone either knew or was related to someone affected by Tom’s avarice.
The lack of insurance and the heavily mortgaged house had kept Rita right there in the midst of it all, her options limited by lack of finance and a downturn in the housing market, two tough smackdowns on top of the humiliation and grief. Her three kids lost their father, had to deal with the aftermath of his crimes and then watched their mother pitch downhill in the throes of alcoholism.
More than once he wished he could get his hands on Tom Slocum, give him the thrashing he so deeply deserved. What kind of man disregards his wife, his kids, to service his own greedy need? “Hey.”
Brooks shifted his jaw and his gaze. “Hmm?”
“I lost you.”
“Must be contagious.”
“I guess. Anyway, about the window? When should we do it?”
“Mondays are best. Weekends are too crazy to be pulling things out, playing with positioning and all that. This Monday maybe?”
“I’d have to bring Skeets,” she warned.
“I’ll alert the authorities. The police chief’s right across the way and our three meager jail cells get precious little use. We’ll be fine.”
“Brooks.”
He grinned.
“She’s not that bad.”
She was, and then some, but Brooks was a smart man. He had no intention of getting into the discussion now. He nodded toward Brett as he trotted off the field. “Fine game.”
Brett shrugged, miffed by the loss. “Should have won it. We overkilled at the end and left them open.”
“Recognizing that, you won’t let it happen again.”
“Exactly.” Brett smiled his appreciation of Brooks’ confidence.
“And you’ve developed a great left feint,” Brooks went on. “The feint, followed by the fast feet, then dodge right… Well practiced. Great move.”
Brett’s smile deepened to a grin. “You played?”
Brooks shook his head. “I’m a baseball man. Not too many played soccer back in my day, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I was born with a bat and ball in hand, according to my mother.”
Brett’s expression changed. “Were you named for Brooks Robinson?”
“Good connection,” Brooks observed.
Rita noted his expression, a mix of surprise and chagrin.
“Not too many know that around here, but yes. My dad was an Orioles fan.”
“Was? Oh. Sorry you lost him.” Brett’s look smacked of apology for bringing up a sore subject.
Brooks clapped a hand to the back of his head, bemused. Rita studied him, his reactions, his look. He drew a deep breath, exhaled and directed his answer to Brett. “He’s not dead. I should have said is a big O’s fan. We went to every Orioles game we could when I was a kid.”
Another little tidbit of a past Brooks never talked about. Interesting, thought Rita.
“Mom!” Skeeter’s pugnacious demand put a quick stop to her mental wanderings. The seven-year-old stomped their way, rude and discourteous. “I’ve been waiting forever and I’m cold and hungry and my brown crayon broke and I can’t color a stupid tree without a brown crayon. What’s taking so long? Stop talking and take me home. I hate it when you take so long!”
“Skeeter—”
Skeeter stomped her foot again, her normally cute features twisted.
Brooks took no pains to hide his assessment. He nodded Rita’s way, ignored Skeeter, and said, “I’ll see you soon, Reet. Brett, good game.”
“Thanks, Mr. Harriman.”
Rita started to stumble through a goodbye. Another foot stomp dragged her attention back to Skeeter as Brooks walked toward his truck.
Before her stood one very good reason why she couldn’t entertain thoughts of a relationship. Not now. Probably not ever, at least not while she had to deal with Hurricane Skeeter on a daily basis.
Brett and Liv were old enough to appreciate the relative peace of Rita’s sobriety and their current existence. Oh, she was still paying the price for stupidity, but things were better between them. But Skeeter…
Not so much.
Frustrated, Rita headed toward the car at a quick clip, Skeeter following, her feet clomping in the cold, wet grass.
Which meant her shoes would still be wet for school tomorrow.
Another day, another confrontation.
Great.
Chapter Three
Rita sank into the comfy recliner, put her feet up and leaned her head back, relieved to call it a day. Had she really crawled out of bed eighteen hours ago, her 5:00 a.m. bakery start a distant memory now?
Liv poked her head around the corner. “Sitting down again?”
Rita laughed.
