Mom In The Middle

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He smiled, mission accomplished. “Talk to you tomorrow night. I love you, Thelma.”

“Love you too, Theodore.”

Guy dropped the phone in the cradle, folded his hands behind his head and propped his feet against the edge of an open desk drawer in the Heart and Home security office. He pushed the toes of his boots and rocked back in his leather chair to stare at the ceiling.

What he’d said was accurate. Mostly. He couldn’t leave town until Sarah and Shorty’s situation had improved. They were nice folks who needed a break and as a man learning to have a closer walk with the Lord, Guy had a responsibility to lend a helping hand.

But there was more. He wanted to do the same for their daughter, the real person in need from what he could tell. So far that had been next to impossible. He’d seen very little of Abby the past two weeks. Judging by what Shorty said, she put in a lot of hours between her teaching position and the volunteer work she did at their church. What little free time she had was devoted to her son and parents. Guy did what he could to help by staying out from under her feet and cleaning up after their repair efforts. This weekend that might be difficult since he and Shorty planned to get started on the new deck and wheelchair ramp.

Guy suspected Abby would likely be around the house. Surely she’d be taking a little downtime. He dropped his boots to the floor, rolled the chair back and pushed to his feet. Just in case, he’d make a few peace offerings to leave around the house.

There was no denying it. Abby wasn’t cutting the mustard in some area of life. She wasn’t just out of God’s favor. He was punishing her. What other reason could there be for all the troubles that had heaped upon her for the past two years?

Uncharacteristically grumpy on a sunny weekend morning, she stooped to pull a pair of jeans from the dryer. She smoothed and folded them atop the laundry-room counter, then placed them neatly on the stack.

“Oh, cut the pity party, Abigail,” Abby mimicked her mother’s stern voice as she reached into the warm appliance and drew out another item.

A nylon jersey had turned inside out during the wash. She flipped the maroon shirt so its right side was visible and hugged it to her body. She buried her face in the soft fading fabric, and swallowed down the sadness that threatened.

Phillip’s high-school football jersey. She wore it on nights when sleep was elusive. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply and recognized a stirring of the anger she would forever feel at his decision to sign up for active duty. It still stung all these months later. How could he put himself in harm’s way in the name of duty to his country when she’d needed him so? When she’d been carrying their first child?

She pressed her face into the jersey and inhaled again. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment. Just like Phillip, his scent on the shirt was gone forever.

She should put it in a trunk and save it for Dillon along with the team photos of Phillip, the big number 30 on his chest. Some day Dillon would want to hear all about his daddy and Abby would be ready to tell her son everything about the shy young man who’d been her best friend for as long as she could remember.

She brushed the silky cloth against her cheek and exhaled a sigh. It was still too soon to lock her reminders of Phillip away in a box. She couldn’t do it. Not yet.

The thwack of wood striking wood resounded through the laundry-room window that led to the backyard. Abby laid the shirt gently on the counter and swept the curtain back, revealing the scene outside. A white pickup with an H&H sign on the door was backed into the yard, tailgate down. A load of lumber jutted from the bed.

Guy slid the planks out two at a time and tossed them into a pile by the driveway. The orange T-shirt was tight across his broad shoulders as he worked. He turned, swiped the back of a leather-gloved hand across his forehead. He was attractive, she had to admit it. But not in the youthful way Phillip had been. This man was at least fifteen years older, a slim version of Garth Brooks with his almost-shaved haircut and close-clipped goatee.

He bent to grasp two more boards, tipping his head to expose his crown. Abby felt a smile twist the corners of her mouth. Listening to her father replay the work done around their house by Guy Hardy for almost two weeks was wearing thin. Just like his hair. The discovery coaxed a chuckle that got her over the emotional moment. She turned back to her laundry, tossed the folded load into a plastic hamper and carried it across the oak floor into her bedroom.

As she did every weekend, she tucked clean clothes into drawers and opened her closet to hang her few dresses. Today she indulged her nostalgic mood a bit longer, taking a moment to admire the trophies on her top shelf. She trailed fingertips over a shiny engraved surface.

Barrel Racing Champion, High School Women’s Division.

Those were better days, long gone. She pressed the door closed on her memories and turned back to the hallway and her list of chores.

As she passed Dillon’s room, a quick glance confirmed he was still enjoying his morning nap, snuggled with Cookie Monster for company. Envious of his carefree slumber, she crept past his crib decorated with Sesame Street characters, flipped on the radio monitor and hooked it to the waistband of her favorite cutoff jeans. She pulled the door closed and headed for the dishes that perpetually waited in the kitchen. Through the sheer curtains above the sink, the men outside were visible.

Her daddy actually smiled, tilted his head back, clearly enjoying a private joke with his newfound helper. Abby tried to make out the words they exchanged. Even as she identified the feeling in the pit of her stomach, she knew it was unfair. Resentment. She resented the common ground the two had found. If her daddy regaled her with one more tale of their shared accomplishments, she’d cut loose with a scream that would send the neighbor’s dog running for cover.

She squashed the thought, knowing she should be grateful. Each time her dad most needed a distraction, Guy seemed to show up. But somehow that didn’t set well with her.

She turned both taps on full force and slipped her hands into bright yellow latex gloves. A squirt of lemon-scented soap produced a mound of bubbles. Some sprung free, floated above the water and danced on the gentle breeze from the fan overhead. The one Guy had hung.

A loud sigh escaped as Abby dragged the back of her forearm across her face to move sweat-dampened curls out of her eyes. Several heavy thumps on the steps outside preceded the creak of the garage door as it opened into the kitchen. She didn’t look up from her sudsy work.

“Good morning, Abby.” His friendly greeting seemed hesitant, as if he worried about intruding.

Good, he needed to respect her space. It was Saturday, the only day she had to be home alone with her men. She was busy, and she acknowledged again, bummed. Not at all in the mood for an interruption.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he apologized. “I see you’re busy.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. Had she actually muttered that last thought out loud or was mind reading another one of his talents? Either way, it was creepy, which only seemed to agitate already sensitive nerves.

“Shorty would like a refill and I offered to get it for him.”

She turned to see Guy holding out her dad’s favorite mug.

“Mom would have cut his caffeine off hours ago, but I don’t see what it can hurt.” She angled her head toward the percolator where a red light blinked indicating the pot was still hot.

Guy leaned in the door, and set the mug on a nearby countertop. He tugged off his boots before stepping foot inside the kitchen, white crew socks peeking beneath his snug jeans.

“Backyard’s a little muddy after yesterday’s rain,” he explained.

She should appreciate his courtesy, but she clung to her martyrdom like a security blanket, turned her eyes back to the suds.

“Where’s Junior?”

“Napping. And it’s Dillon. He’s not named after his father,” she corrected, more sharply than necessary, sounding for all the world like her mother.

“Sorry,” Guy apologized. “It’s just the tag we use for the firstborn. Some days my oldest sister actually prefers Junior to her given name. It’s quite a mouthful.”

“And her name would be…?” She took the bait.

“Martha Elizabeth Meg Hardy-Waverly.”

“I agree. That is a mouthful.”

“My folks come from big families where it’s customary to pay tribute by recycling names. So all of us got saddled with a heavy load. The good news is we only tend to hear them back home.”

“And back home is…?” Abby waited, wondering why in the world she was encouraging a conversation she didn’t want.

“Keokuk, Iowa. The geode capital of the world.”

“Excuse me?” She rested her wrists against the edge of the sink and turned to him, an eyebrow cocked in question.

“You know, those lumpy round rocks with quartz crystals inside.” He expanded his chest with exaggerated pride. “It’s our state rock.”

She had to give in to a small smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, way.” He shook his head. “We even have a special celebration called…and I’m serious about this…Rocktober Fest. To join the hunt, you have to register and get a permit.”

“To find rocks?”

“Hey, these are cool, thousands of years old. I’ll get some for Dillon.” Guy poured coffee into the mug marked #1 Grandpa and padded in his socks across the kitchen floor to the refrigerator.

Then he poured just the right amount of milk and added a half teaspoon of sugar from the bowl on the table. He’d obviously done it before when she wasn’t around, knew exactly how her daddy took his coffee. She looked away, the brief smile fading as she attacked a well-worn cast-iron skillet with a scouring pad. Something about the simple but familiar act of fixing that cup of coffee was a little stab to her heart. She should be doing that. But the truth was she couldn’t be everywhere at once no matter how hard she tried and she really could use some time off.

“Abby, how would you feel about me taking Shorty to visit your mom this evening? Just to give you a little break.”

Was he reading her mind, again? Doubtful.

“My daddy’s been talking, hasn’t he?”

“Nonstop.” She heard the chuckle in Guy’s voice. “But I enjoy his company so I don’t mind. He misses your mother something fierce and I think it helps him to talk about her, about you.”

She scrubbed harder.

“You’re going to wear the bottom off that thing,” he observed.

“Yeah, well, it won’t get clean just sitting in the sink.”

“So, what do you say about tonight?”

“No, thanks. Mama’s expecting me and I don’t dare disappoint her.”

Dillon’s wakeup wail echoed from the monitor on her waistband. He’d never been one to rouse quietly or be content to lie in his crib and amuse himself. Not her son. The instant he was fully awake, he demanded attention.

“Let me get him,” Guy offered, sitting the mug on the table, turning toward the door.

“No,” Abby insisted. Even though the man meant well, he was making himself entirely too handy. The kind of handy her folks could get attached to. The kind of attachment that would lead to heartbreak once he was gone. And Abby knew that kind of heartbreak all too well.

“Take my daddy his coffee. I’ll get Dillon.” She peeled off the rubber gloves, tossed them in the dish rack and brushed past Guy.

Dillon stopped his blubbering the instant she appeared. A wobbly smile creased the small face that was perpetually absent of tears.

“You little stinker,” she muttered against his soft head as she stepped into his waiting arms and lifted him from the crib. “You’re so sure I’ll come running that you haven’t bothered with real tears since you were a newborn.”

She’d read somewhere that a person teaches others how to treat them. It was true. She’d taught everyone in her life to depend upon her to the point of taking her for granted. They’d also learned she’d toe the line no matter the circumstances out of fear of disapproval. How perplexing that when somebody like Guy stepped in to help, she resented it. It was crazy. A self-inflicted, double-edged sword.

Something had to give.

“Guy?”

Above the whir of the circular saw, he heard her call his name. He cut the power and slid the protective goggles up to his forehead. Tipping his head back, he took in the vision of Abby Cramer in a quick sweep that he hoped didn’t make him seem like a frat boy. Worn sneakers, bare legs, frayed and faded jean shorts, and a loose Texas Longhorns T-shirt. A riot of wild blond curls surrounded a face enchantingly pink from her work in the warm kitchen.