Made to Order Family

No exchange of pleasantries. No socially acceptable intro. Yup. That was Mom lately. “Hey, Mom, yes. I’m here. But Skeeter and I are on our way to Brett’s soccer game.”

“You’ve had supper already?” Critical doubt shaded her mother’s words. Intentional? Maybe yes, maybe no. In either case Rita had a game to get to as long as Skeeter cooperated.

Please, Lord, let Skeeter cooperate tonight.

“Sandwiches later,” Rita explained. Skeeter reappeared wearing the Strawberry Shortcake sneakers and an aggrieved expression. Rita nodded approval at one and ignored the other. Some things weren’t worth the battle.

“How do kids get homework done when their schedules run them ragged day after day?” Judith Barnes’ voice pitched higher. “Nothing should outrank homework. School performance. You above all people should know that, Rita. Your grades were excellent when you applied yourself.”

In Mom-speak, that meant, “You didn’t apply yourself often enough.”

The ten seconds Skeeter had been kept waiting pushed her patience beyond endurance. She parked one hand on her hip and tapped a toe, the hint of bored insolence well practiced. At seven years old, it shouldn’t be a consideration. With Skeeter it had become almost ingrained, not a good thing. “Um, hello? I thought we were going? Isn’t that why I had to put these stupid shoes on?”

“I’m coming, Skeets.” Rita added a silent frown, indicating displeasure at Skeeter’s voice and tone. Skeeter rolled her eyes, her mouth curved down in a characteristic pout. Great.

“Mom, I’ve got to go. Brett’s game is going to start soon.”

“Rita, you know I don’t like to interfere—”

Rita knew nothing of the sort.

“And I generally mind my own business—”

Meaning I’m about to mind yours, so watch out….

“And I’m a firm believer in parents raising their own children—”

Translation: I could do better, hands down, no questions asked.

“But why do you let her talk to you that way? So bratty? Liv wasn’t like that. Neither was Brett. But with Aleta you let her get away with all kinds of things you’d have never let slide before.”

Before what? Tom’s crimes? His suicide? Her alcoholism?

Her mother drew a breath, her voice a mix of concern, criticism and consternation, a gruesome threesome. “When she gets like that, she sounds just like her father. Proud and pretentious.”

“Mom, I can’t do this now. I have to go. Skeeter’s waiting. So is Brett. I’ll be glad to discuss my chronic failings at a later date, okay?”

“You don’t have failings, Rita. You’ve made mistakes. Nothing the rest of us haven’t done, myself included. I just don’t want this to go too far, too long. It’s hard to backtrack with kids.”

Since Rita was fairly sure she’d let Skeeter’s sour attitude grow out of control already, she couldn’t say much in response. “I know, Mom. Gotta go. Talk to you later.”

“All right.”

Rita disconnected, checked her cell-phone charge because Liv would be calling later for a ride home, and nodded toward Skeeter’s clothes and shoes as she twisted the top of the thermos.

“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.

Liv took a seat across from her, her glance taking in the time. “Long day.”

“For you, too.”

Liv shrugged. “I got to spend my evening watching two cute kids, neither of whom yelled or screamed or stomped their feet.” She jerked her head toward the upstairs, where Skeeter lay sleeping. “Got my homework done, studied for a chem test and watched cable, all while getting paid.”

“Nice gig.”

“It was.” Liv stood and stretched, the day catching up with her. “But as much fun as it is watching the Bauers’ kids from time to time, I want to get a real job.”

Rita raised a brow. “What about sports? Running? After-school activities?”

“Lots of people juggle both,” Liv answered. She rubbed her eyes, stretched once more and shrugged. “Something to think about. I hate making you chauffeur me around more than you already do, though. I know that’s tough.”

“It’s no biggie, Liv. I’m your mom. That’s what I do.”

“But with our schedules all so different, it’s not easy,” Liv argued. “I just don’t want to make things tougher.”

Rita hesitated. Was Liv weighing this choice so heavily because she was afraid Rita would cave under pressure? She stood and hugged Liv’s shoulder. “If you’re ready for that step of independence, take it, kiddo. Seriously. You’ll be sixteen in less than a year and then you can drive yourself places, at least some of the time. And you can become my part-time cabbie, tote your brother and sister all over for me.”

Liv mock-scowled. “Great.”

Rita grinned. “This could be a total win-win. I’m one hundred percent okay with that.”

Liv’s sigh of relief told Rita she’d nudged open a door for her daughter, curtailing her concerns.

Rita knew there were times when Brett and Liv held back, fear dogging their choices. Neither one wanted to be a catalyst in pushing her over an unseen edge, resulting in a fall off the wagon. With her one-year medallion safely tucked in her pocket, she wasn’t quite as concerned as she used to be.

One day at a time. Sound advice.

“I’m heading to bed, Mom. You’re off tomorrow?”

“Yes. Since it’s my Saturday to work, I’ve got tomorrow to kick up my heels. Shop. Visit the spa. Do lunch.”

Liv laughed. They both knew that Rita’s scheduled day off meant playing catch-up on all the stuff back-burnered during the other six days of the week. Cleaning, laundry, shopping, errands, banking. The short hours between Skeeter’s morning bus and afternoon bus were crammed full of tasks and chores needed to maintain some small vestige of normalcy.

And she just might outline her prospectus, push things forward. If she could hurdle this cycle of fear, of rejection, she could possibly plant herself into the dream job she’d hoped and planned for.

An image of the storefront in Canton filled her brain, her creative side painting, trimming and polishing the scarred space into something warm, cozy and inviting, a respite from the long days of winter and the heat of the summer. A place to buy amazing pastries, cakes and cookies.

Did she dare put her mind to the test tomorrow? Give it a shot?

She yawned and realized she was too tired to make that decision now, but tomorrow…

Liv interrupted her musings. “Be sure to treat yourself to a nice massage once your nails are done.”

Rita almost sighed. The very idea of a relaxing massage sounded absolutely wonderful and totally impossible. “I’ve decided pampering is overrated.”

“And probably detrimental to womankind as a whole,” Liv agreed. She hugged Rita one more time, understanding. “’Night, Mom.”

“Good night, honey.”

Rita turned out the lights as Liv’s footsteps faded, the deepening shadows peaceful and quiet, a perfect contemplative time for prayerful thought and consideration.

Skeeter had settled down once they got home, probably too tired to battle it out. Rita hoped she’d wake in the morning in good humor, find something in her drawers that tickled her fancy, choose to wear the dry shoes they’d left at home tonight, have breakfast and get on the bus all smiles, like most seven-year-olds.

Then return home tomorrow afternoon the same way.

Her gaze strayed to the kitchen where her computer lay dormant, its silence commanding attention.

Change the things you can…

Once Skeets was on the bus, Rita was tossing in the first load of laundry, starting the dishwasher and writing a prospectus. Once done, she’d have Brooks read it over, see if she’d covered all the bases. And then, applications.

Yeah, she could get knocked around emotionally, always a dicey thing for a recovering alcoholic. The chances of procuring the loan were slim.

But the chances went from slim to none if she did nothing, and that wasn’t acceptable. Not anymore. She’d gotten braver and bolder in the past year. High time she took a chance. With her strengthening faith and the support of AA, she could take this step forward.

Fingering the bronze chip in her pocket, she nodded as she climbed the stairs. One day at a time.

Chapter Four

The metallic crash yanked Brooks from his bed later that night. Battle ready, one hand grabbed a weapon resembling a worn kitchen broom while the other sought the corner of the closed Venetian blind, his gaze searching the night.

A flash of red-gold skirted the pavement, enough to tell Brooks he’d been undermined by a four-footed varmint with a penchant for homemade mac and cheese.

Again.

He barreled toward the door wishing he’d remembered to turn the heat on after Brett’s soccer game.

No.

Huffing against the cold, he grabbed the first thing his fingers hit, an old Baltimore Oriole’s afghan. He yanked it around his shoulders and headed out the door, to no avail. Like previous times, the minute the door handle clicked left, the dog disappeared, obviously faster and smarter than Brooks.

Which didn’t take much at 3:00 a.m.

Strewed garbage lay ankle deep across his small yard.

He bit back useless words, shook a fist, then danced sideways on the cold step, the chill of his feet knife-blading up, his outside thermometer reading twenty-nine degrees.

Brr…

And since his apartment wasn’t much better, his living room offered little reprieve. Disgruntled, Brooks finagled a light, cranked the thermostat right, tugged on sweats and tried not to be upset that some scruffy dog had once again bested a decorated war veteran.

The drawer full of military medals offered small comfort as Brooks cleaned a frosted yard littered with disgusting debris. Why him? Why now? What was it about this garbage that drew the mutt repeatedly?

Probably your ineptitude to catch him, tweaked an inner voice.

Brooks couldn’t disagree. Like it or not, the dog had bested him multiple times.

Resigned, Brooks did what he should have done days ago. He hauled the garbage tote into the garage and closed the door, then stared into the darkened night, his backyard melding into state forest land, the dog gone from sight but not from mind. “Next time, pal.”

The promise of payback sounded thin. The dog was obviously smarter, quicker and sneakier.

And needed less sleep.

Brooks yawned, scowled, then headed inside. In one night he’d been bested by a cantankerous seven-year-old and a tenacious dog, both of which could use a lesson in manners. He eyed the clock, decided six hours was plenty of sleep, made coffee and headed to the wood shop, wondering why kids and dogs couldn’t just behave themselves.

“Toots, did Hy Everts drop off those frames I ordered?” Brooks asked later that morning.

Tootsie Lawrence nodded as she hooked her deep green fleece in the workroom. “Late yesterday, actually. Do you have the picture Cade left? I’ll frame it for you.”

“Right here.” Brooks handed an envelope to his longtime sales clerk. “The one with the blue matte is for Cade.” The town’s police chief had dropped off a family picture the week before.

“Beautiful.” Tootsie withdrew the frame with care. Hy’s work had become renowned, his wood carvings a natural expression of North Country life. The thick picture frames, a new venture for him, were engraved with north-woods symbols along the perimeter. Trees, bears, cabins, moose, wolves. The effect of the lighter wood recessed against the deeper stain held the pictures in relief. “Oh, Boss, look.”