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“He was the most honest man I knew.”
“She had a heart as big as her head.”
“He was generous to a fault.”
“Oh, how she loved her family, especially her big sister!”
The only way the woman in the red hat could know a thing like that was if Beth had told her. Brooke held her breath, determined not to cry.
A strong, warm hand rested on her shoulder.
Hunter....
He leaned near her ear. “I know you’re holding it together for Deidre and Connor,” he whispered. “Admirable.”
When he straightened and walked away, regret throbbed in her heart. And right behind it, exasperation. She was behaving like a fool, unable to make up her mind whether she despised the man who’d let her mother die...or liked him.
She blamed exhaustion. Grief. Her constantly growing list of regrets. Blamed Hunter, too, because after thousands of bitter thoughts about him, she’d allowed a few kind words and gestures to soften her resolve.
The pastor led the mourners in song. Deidre gave Brooke’s hand a tiny squeeze, the signal that had meant “behave, or else” since she and Beth were children. Connor wrapped his arms around her knees. “Conner up?”
She picked him up. “Shhh. It’s okay,” she murmured. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
He bounced in her arms, pointed at the closed coffins, where photos of Beth and Kent reminded everyone of happier times.
“Conner see Mommy?”
Her heart lurched as she realized what he was asking. “Aw, sweetie,” she said around a sob, “how ’bout we go home instead, get you some lunch and a nap.”
“No nap,” he insisted. And pointing again, he repeated, “Conner wants Mommy!”
Even if she could get her feet to cooperate, Brooke wouldn’t know what to say or do once she got him over there.
She felt Hunter’s warm hand on the small of her back. “Want me to take him?”
Brooke thought of Deidre’s earlier comment, that someday Connor would ask about this day.
“No, I’ll do it.” She could do this. Had to do this.
“Open,” Connor said once they reached the front of the tent.
He looked away from the photos, and when he met her eyes, it felt as though he were looking straight into her heart, reading every memory and fear and regret written there.
He tilted his head slightly. “Aw, Brooke cry?”
“No, sweetie.” Brooke blinked back the sting of fresh tears. “I’m not crying.”
Connor touched a tear, then showed her the tip of his glistening fingertip.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck. No more lies...not to you, not to myself.
That seemed to satisfy him, and as Brooke prepared to walk away, he pointed over her shoulder. “No nap!” he cried. “Conner see Mommy! Open...open!”
Brooke looked up at Hunter. If he’d told Connor that his mommy and daddy were in these boxes...
“I didn’t say a word,” he told her, hands up as if in surrender.
She followed his gaze, saw that the wind had toppled Kent’s picture.
Hunter righted it, and when he spoke, a fog of grief and confusion tinged his voice. “How does he know?”
Funny. Brooke wondered the same thing.
“Open,” Connor repeated.
Brooke wrapped her free hand around his. “We can’t open it, sweetie. It’s...it’s broken,” she fibbed.
He looked up at Hunter, who agreed with a shrug and a slow nod. “Sorry, buddy. Broken.”
For the longest time, Connor stared at the coffins. At the wind-rattled photographs atop the gleaming lids. At fluttering flower petals. As he stuck his thumb into his mouth, tears puddled in his eyes. He blinked, and one tracked slowly down his cheek. Then he inhaled a ragged, shuddering breath and quietly laid his head on Brooke’s shoulder.
“Oh, look!” Ivy said, tilting her face to the slate-gray sky. She caught a snowflake on an upturned palm and showed it to Brooke. “You remember how much Beth loved the snow....” Looking heavenward again, Ivy smiled past her tears. “It’s a sign,” she whispered. “She’s telling us that she’s up there.”
“Snow,” Connor said, trying to grab a fat flake.
Yes, Beth had loved snow. And Kent had, too. Brooke remembered the big glass pickle jar where they’d tossed loose change, money they’d spend on a winter vacation at Wisp, where they hoped to teach Connor to ski.
“Snow,” he said again.
She pressed a kiss to his temple. “Don’t worry, sweet boy. I’ll teach you—”
“Teach him what?” Deidre asked.
“Nothing, really, just—”
“If you’ll let me,” Hunter said, “I’ll help.”
Deidre piped up with, “Help with what?”
You don’t have to explain was the message he sent Brooke by way of his hazel eyes.
Brooke couldn’t have explained even if she’d wanted to as she swallowed over the lump in her throat. But since pretending that she’d accept his help—teaching Connor to ski—was the same as telling a lie, she couldn’t do that, either. She’d made a promise to Connor and aimed to keep it.
She faced Hunter. “Thanks, but we’ve already imposed on you enough.”
Hunter flinched as though she’d slapped him. In a way, Brooke supposed she had...with a dose of reality.
“Wish I could have done more.”
Brooke had no reason to doubt his sincerity. “You did more than most neighbors would.”
“Good grief, Brooke,” Deidre said. “He’s far more than a neighbor, and you know it.” She linked her arm through his. “Let’s go back to my house. I think we could all use a good strong cup of coffee.”
Frowning, Hunter shook his head. “Maybe some other time. I have a punch list to check for a job that finishes tomorrow.”
Deidre clucked her tongue. “All work and no play,” she said, wagging her forefinger like a metronome. “Have you forgotten that you drove us over here in my car? You have to take us home, pick up your truck anyway.”
Brooke held her breath, hoping he’d remember something else he needed to do.
“Okay,” he told Deidre, “but just one cup.” Then he faced Brooke. “I’ll take Connor.” And he did. “It’s an uphill walk from here to the car, and he’s a hefty li’l fella.”
“I need to write your mother a thank-you note,” Deidre said before Brooke had a chance to reply.
“Thank-you note?” He grinned slightly. “For what?”
“For raising such a bighearted, thoughtful young man.” She looked at Brooke. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
“Yes. Thoughtful.”
As she and her grandmother trudged up the hill behind him, Brooke glanced over her shoulder. Two workmen were already busy disassembling the big green tent while another fiddled with the controls that would lower the coffins into the ground. The sight stopped her in her tracks.
“What’s wrong?”
Brooke patted Deidre’s hand. “Oh...nothing. Just tired, I guess.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re having a hard time, same as me, leaving our girl here alone, aren’t you?”
“She isn’t alone, Gram.” Brooke gave the graves one last glance. “Her husband is right there beside her.”
By the time they reached the car, Hunter had buckled a kicking, screaming Connor into his car seat. Standing beside the open door, he shook his head. “First thing Monday morning,” he said, “maybe we can make that phone call.”
“What phone call?” Deidre wanted to know.
“To find someone who can help us explain things to Connor in language he’ll understand,” Brooke explained.
Deidre slid into the backseat beside her great-grandson. “That,” she said, “is the best idea I’ve heard since this dreadful ordeal began.”
“Hopefully,” Hunter said, closing the rear door, “we won’t have to wait too long for an appointment.”
A week ago Brooke might have lashed out, told him in no uncertain terms that he could drop the we. Things were different now—though she didn’t quite understand why. Earlier she’d admitted to herself that Connor adored him, that he felt the same way about the baby. She’d also admitted that it was time for her to start putting others first.
And she’d start, right now, by setting aside her resentment, just far enough to make room for Hunter in Connor’s life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEIDRE CAME IN from the kitchen and groaned. “Sorry, but we can’t have coffee after all. My cupboards are as bare as Mother Hubbard’s.”
“How’s that possible, Mrs. Hollywood,” Hunter said, “when your pantry is bigger than my entire first floor?”
“Mrs. Hollywood?” she echoed. “Brooke, will you please tell this handsome rascal the difference between Tinseltown and Broadway?”
Hunter tensed when Brooke pointed. At him. It had been a demanding day, physically and emotionally, and he had no idea how she might respond.
“He’s right there,” she said, smiling softly. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
Earning straight As had been easy for Hunter until his English teacher added Yeats, Joyce and Whitman to the mandatory reading list. Allegory, hyperbole, onomatopoeia... Deciphering poetry wasn’t easy, and he’d steered clear of it since high school. But when Brooke spoke just now, something clicked, and he understood what the poets meant when they described the music of a woman’s voice.
“He’s heard it all before, right, Hunter?”
“Too many times to count.”
Deidre pulled Connor into her lap, and he quickly snuggled close. “Did I also tell you about the band I used to sing with—before my Broadway days?”
“That’s a new one,” he said, wondering how she’d connect the information to his retort.
“The drummer had a sign on his base. ‘Nobody Likes a Smart Aleck,’” she said, drawing quote marks in the air. Smirking, she added, “Billy used a more colorful word, but I think I’ve made my point. Think about that next time you decide to sass an old lady.”
“Guess I saved you the bother of writing that thank-you note to my mom, eh?”
She leaned back in her chair. “Silly goose.” Turning toward Brooke, she asked, “How many people do you think showed up today?”
“I’m not sure. Ninety? A hundred? I’ll have to ask Pastor Daniels when I drop off the check on Monday.”
“The check?” Deidre asked, stroking Connor’s rosy cheek.
“For the pastor. And the organist.”
“How can they in good conscience take money at a time like this?”
Brooke shrugged, and Hunter said, “They gave up a big chunk of their Saturday to help us say goodbye to Beth and Kent. The church has bills to pay, too, don’t forget.”
Deidre harrumphed. “I thought that’s what the dough people throw into the collection plate was for.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brooke close her eyes. To block out another of her grandmother’s inappropriate comments? Or to hide the misery and sadness of the day?
He watched her straighten already-straight doilies on the arms of her chair, adjust the folds of her gauzy skirt, finger the chunky turquoise pendant buried in the soft ruffles of her blouse. Then she crossed her cowboy boots at the ankles. What Hunter knew about fashion he could put in one eye, but he knew this: he liked what he saw.
“What will they do with all those beautiful flowers?” Deidre wondered aloud.
“I arranged to have them delivered to Howard County General,” Brooke told her. “Mr. Turner told me the volunteers will give them to patients who haven’t received any.”
“That’s so sweet. I remember walking the halls when Percy had his stroke, passing some rooms that resembled florist shops, others that were bare as...as my pantry.” She looked at Hunter. “Isn’t Brooke just the most thoughtful little thing?”
“That she is,” he said. “Wish I’d thought to do something like that after my dad died.”
He half expected Brooke would react with self-depreciating humility, shyness, anything but wide-eyed alarm. Hunter followed her gaze to Deidre’s face. The woman had passed out. No wonder her last few sentences hadn’t held their usual punch.
He crossed to her side of the tiny parlor in one long stride and eased the sleeping Connor from her lap. “Think she skipped breakfast again?”
