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“Right. Let’s plan on checking out Wyberg this evening.” Brashly assuming he’d just made a date, Connor headed toward the front door. “I’m starved. Got anything to eat?”
“Connor, don’t you have any bags?” Ben asked. Maria blinked at the dark tone of Ben’s voice, but the boy didn’t seem to notice.
“They’re in the trunk. I’ll get ‘em later. Or let the help bring ‘em up.”
“Connor!”
All eyes swung to Ben as his voice thundered out, and Maria found three children pressed close against her legs.
“All right, already. I’ll get the bags.” Connor loped back off the porch and pressed the trunk release on the car, lifting out a bulging duffel bag and a backpack. “Lighten up, Dad. You’re going to have a heart attack. You probably have a cholesterol count through the roof with all those eggs you eat.” With a toss of bangs, Connor bounded up the stairs and into the house, leaving the door hanging open behind him.
Maria felt sorry for Ben as she saw him take a deep breath to try and regain control. A contrast of anger and embarrassment chased across his face, but his eyes—his eyes remained constant. His eyes were bleak.
“Those weeds are growing inches while we stand here, kids. Better get back to work.” Maria tried to sound as if the scene she’d just witnessed was nothing out of the ordinary. She gave the children little pushes in the direction of the garden. “Go with Aunt Veronica and let’s see if we can finish up before afternoon cartoons come on.” Glad to get away from the tension they didn’t understand, the children ran, shouting and whooping around the corner of the house, followed by their aunt and very disapproving-looking grandmother. Maria was left alone with Ben.
They looked at each other for a moment. “I guess we’re staying, then?” Maria asked quietly.
“Please.”
One word, but said so fervently, Maria couldn’t help but wonder as she watched Benjamin Calder turn and walk into his house, closing behind him the door his son had left gaping open.
Ben stood at the stove, ladling out a bowl of soup. The plate of sandwiches had disappeared. Maria entered the kitchen and, without comment, went to the refrigerator, took out a plate of sliced meat and calmly began to fix more sandwiches.
Ben appreciated the silence and he appreciated the calm. He appreciated the two big sandwiches Maria sat on the table beside him a few moments later. He appreciated the way she went about gathering ingredients from the pantry and set to making what appeared to be the crust for a peach cobbler, her movements quick and efficient and without fuss.
“Do you know how to can?”
Maria seemed surprised by his sudden question. She made a moue of distaste while she worked at removing the ring from a quart jar of home-canned peaches. “I know how.”
“But you don’t like it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that—” She paused, holding her breath while she exerted pressure once again on the jar, twisting at the circle of metal.
“Just what?” He got up and took the jar from her, closed a broad hand around its neck and twisted. “There.” He handed it back to her. “We do a lot of canning here.”
“Thanks.” She dumped the golden halves into a bowl and began to slice them. “Have you ever heard of gleaning?”
Ben shook his head and leaned against the countertop beside her, watching her fish the peaches from the thick syrup and deftly slice them into the waiting pan.
“In Phoenix, they have this government program where they let us go into the fields after the picking machines have gone through. You can have—free—whatever is left, the too-small vegetables, the imperfect stuff, as much as you can carry out. Doesn’t matter what it is—green beans, pumpkins, tomatoes—you fill as many bushel baskets as you can fit in your car, then you drag them home and you can nonstop for however many days it takes before the stuff begins to spoil.” Maria stopped and searched in the cupboard above her head for the cinnamon. “So, anyway,” she continued, measuring into a spoon, “it’s not that I don’t like to can, it’s more that I have unpleasant memories of the process.”
“Umm.” Ben nodded, showing his understanding without comment. But he thought about what it must be like for a woman like Maria to have to stand in the middle of a field in the Phoenix sun, probably surrounded by those same children out in his garden right now, to lug somebody else’s leftovers into that old station wagon, to know that you had days of canning over steaming kettles to look forward to. To know that you had to do it if you wanted to feed your children during the upcoming winter.
“I’m afraid the cherries will be ready any day,” he told her apologetically.
But she merely nodded. “I’ll be ready, too, then. What other chores are there?”
“Well, have you ever gathered eggs?”
“You mean those salmonella-free eggs that you can eat raw? I’m afraid not.”
Ben laughed out loud and, with a conscious effort, let his worries about Connor slip to the back of his mind.
“There’s not much to it. It’ll take about a week to figure out all the hens’ hiding places, then all you do is check every morning and gather up what you find.” “Sounds easy enough. The kids will probably get a kick out of doing it.” Maria unfolded the waiting crust over the fruit and began pinching the edges. “What else?”
“Mostly normal household chores, cooking, cleaning-you seem to have no problem with those things. Then there’s the garden—which you’re on top of. We’re pretty self-sufficient with most things. The freezers are full of Calder Ranch meat and we have our own milk cows.”
Maria looked up at him doubtfully. “Milk cows?”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “Harvey takes care of the milking morning and night. But you will have to skim off the cream and we do make our own butter.”
“You’re kidding!” Maria looked around the kitchen as if searching for anything resembling what she thought a churn might look like.
But Ben pointed to the food processor shining powerfully in a corner of the counter. “You pour it in there, hit the button, go do a load of laundry or something and when you come back, presto! Butter. You add a little salt, pat it into shape—” Ben made a snowball-making motion with his hands “—wrap it in some plastic and throw it in the freezer.
That’s all there is to it.”
“Hmmm.” Maria still looked skeptical. “I don’t have to bake bread, do I?”
“Do you know how?”
Maria nodded.
“Well, as much as I love fresh-baked bread, I don’t expect that.” He pushed away from the counter. “Follow me.” He waited while Maria slid the cobbler into the heated oven, then led her into the large pantry off of the kitchen. “I don’t know if you had a chance to explore in here yet, but I think you’ll find enough to feed a small army.” He walked over to the three freezers lining one wall and lifted the lid on each, leaving them propped open for her to peer in.
“Wow!” Maria exclaimed. One freezer was completely filled with meat, identical white-wrapped packages with words printed in black marker identifying the contents. One freezer contained fruits and vegetables, and the last freezer had several dozen loaves of store-bought bread, homemade pies and cakes and enough TV dinners to last for months.
“Didn’t you tell Vergie I knew how to cook?” Maria asked, indicating the alphabetically stacked TV dinners.
“Vergie believes in being well-prepared for any emergency.” He gave each lid a push closed. “I know it looks like a lot but we’re pretty isolated here in the winter. The main road is a mess when it snows so we try not to go into town more than once every couple of weeks or so.”
They went back to the kitchen. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting the hang of things,” Ben told her. “But you be sure to ask if you need anything.” He looked down at her standing beside him and frowned as he realized again just how small she was in spite of the way she’d wielded the hoe in the garden. “It’s hard work, you know.”
“Vergie managed.”
“She’s strong as an ox.”
“When’s the last time you spent a summer in Phoenix?”
“You couldn’t pay me enough,” Ben said flatly.
“Exactly. This is going to be like a summer vacation for me.”
Just then the kitchen began to reverberate with the pulsing thrum of music coming from above their heads; the bass notes throbbed so violently Ben could feel them through the soles of his feet.
“Ah, yes, summer vacation.” Ben sighed, deep and heavy.
Maria smiled. “I guess I better help the kids finish the garden,” she said. “I’ll get them some supper, then I’ll be back to fix something for you and Connor. What time do you usually eat?”
“I try to finish up outside by six-thirty or so, so I have time to do my paperwork in the evenings.” A particularly intense beat caused the dishes to rattle in the cupboards. “Uh, I was just thinking,” Ben added casually, “why don’t you plan on eating supper with us from now on?”
Maria shook her head. “Thanks, but I like to be with my girls for meals.”
“Bring them, too.”
Maria still shook her head. “David’s missing his mom a little. That’s Linda, my older sister—she stayed in Phoenix to run our restaurant. I wouldn’t want him to feel excluded.”
“I guess he could come, too.”
Maria hesitated. “No, thank you, really, but I wouldn’t like to leave—”
“Veronica and the baby? Your mother?” he guessed impatiently. “Hell, let them all eat over here. It’s silly for you to have to fix two suppers every night.”
“But you were only supposed to provide room and board for me. Feeding my whole family wasn’t part of the deal. We planned on buying our own groceries.”
“So I’ll take something out of your pay,” Ben said with growing exasperation. Could the woman never do as she was asked? “Will that make you feel better.”
A plastic cup, jiggling in time to the bass beat, walked itself off the edge of the counter and fell to the floor. They watched it roll to a stop next to the refrigerator. He saw a look close to pity on her face. “All right. It will be more convenient to just cook one meal. If you’re sure the extra noise won’t bother you?”
The sound of the TV in the living room added itself to the music. “You’re kidding, right?” Ben said with a wry smile.
“You ready to go, boss?” Harvey stood at the door, peering through the open screen. He grimaced at the sound that assaulted his ears. “You having a party or something?”
“Connor” was Ben’s succinct reply as he picked up his dusty hat from the table and jammed it low on his forehead.
Harvey nodded, understanding. “Howdy there, Maria. I see you’re still here. The boss told me—”
“Shut up, Harvey,” Ben said, pushing him aside to go through the door.
“Hi, Harvey. I was expecting you for lunch.”
“I have my own place about ten miles down the road. You probably passed it on your way here. I take my meals there.”
“I see.”
“I like my independence,” Harvey told her.
“And Vergie won’t let him step foot inside her kitchen,” Ben added as he started down the steps.
“That’s true. She’s a mean-spirited woman. Of course, she’s always had a crush on me, you know.” Harvey gave Maria a wink before following Ben.
“She can’t stand the sight of you,” Ben corrected.
“It’s those squinty little pig eyes of hers, distorting her view, that’s what it is.”
“Shut up, Harvey.”
Maria stood at the door and watched the two men walk away, smiling as she listened to their nonstop bickering. She saw Ben pause at the garden and strained to hear what he was saying.
“I’ve never seen this old garden look so good, have you, Harvey? I think you ladies—and gentleman—deserve a break, don’t you, Harvey?”
Maria saw all heads look up expectantly.
“I bet a swim would sure feel good right about now. Why don’t you kids call it a day here and go for a swim down in the pond?” The children began to clamor with excitement. Ben turned and respectfully addressed their grandmother who rocked under a tree. “The water’s only three-foot deep in the middle so it’s safe for them, if it would be all right with you?”
The woman regally inclined her head, giving her seal of approval.
“Get going, then.” Ben made shooing motions with his hands. Maria saw he had a satisfied smile on his face as he watched them scamper out of the garden, unmindful of where their feet landed or what they squashed, followed more carefully, but just as eagerly, by the two women.
For several minutes, Maria stared into the now-empty garden. What possible problems could Ben have with his son that would force him to put up with a table full of strangers every night to avoid being alone with him? She thought about the man who’d just offered her and her family not only a summer away from the city but also food at his table and recreation on his property.
It was strange to consider a man…as a man. Maria hadn’t thought about a man, period, in the five years since her husband, Marcus, had died. But Ben Calder had made her aware of his masculinity within minutes, and had made her aware of herself, too. She’d forgotten what it felt like to have her stomach muscles tighten when she met a man’s eyes; she’d forgotten the way her skin could tingle when she stood close to a man. It felt strange to notice the hair on a man’s arms, the strength of his fingers as he’d twisted that jar lid, to notice the beginning of whiskers on a strong chin. Strange, not exactly unpleasant, but it had just been so long. So long.
Maria gave herself a mental shake. Enough! Ben Calder was a man, all right, and men were to be given a wide berth. Maria had learned her lesson about men as a child, learned it the hard way, when her father had walked out the door on her ninth birthday. Maria still remembered the look on her father’s face when her mother had told him she was pregnant again, pregnant with Veronica. His face had gone as white as the frosting on her cake, and even the glow of the candles couldn’t add warmth to the hunted look that came into his eyes. He’d sang “Happy Birthday” to her, he’d watched her open her presents, he’d kissed her and tucked her into bed, and then, sometime during the night, while she’d slept with her new birthday doll tucked under her arm, he’d left.
That’s what men did. They left. When the going got tough, they left. They left the women—and the children.
Her late husband had been different. Maria had made sure of that before she married him. Marcus Soldata had been a good man, a solid man, and if Maria had occasionally longed for a passion it was not in her husband’s nature to give, she stoically suppressed such longings. She had not married Marcus for passion. She’d married him because he would always be there. He had loved her and he had loved his daughters in a quiet, comforting way. Marcus Soldata would have never left his family and, indeed, it took a fiery car crash to take him away from them.
But Marcus appeared to be an exception to the men in her family, Maria thought wryly. Not only had her father found family life too much for him, but last year her brother-in-law had run off with his secretary, leaving her older sister, Linda, to raise David with little help or interest from him. The women had drawn their protective circle tight around the bitter Linda and bewildered little boy, and the restaurant had managed to keep food on their table—barely. Then when Veronica’s husband’s phone calls and letters had abruptly stopped coming from Tucson, well…Maria hadn’t been too surprised.
Benjamin Calder was just a man, Maria told herself sternly, starting out to the garden to finish the weeding. And she had best remember it.
The children were in high spirits at the supper table, fresh from their swim, and Maria tried to hush them as she began to pass the food. She cast a worried glance at Ben, but he didn’t seem to mind the noise. In fact, the only time a frown came to his face was when he looked Connor’s way.
Connor had disappeared into his room after his arrival, not to be seen again until he was called for supper. Now he sat at the table between his father and Veronica, the headphones of a portable CD player plugging his ears, nodding his head to a beat inaudible to the rest of them.
“Connor, could you take those off, please?” The polite tone was obviously a struggle for Ben. Connor’s head continued to bob. He tapped his fork against his plate, keeping time to his own private drummer as he waited for a dish of garlic bread to make its way to him.
“Connor!”
Connor helped himself to four pieces of bread.
Striking like a snake, Ben snatched the headphones from his son’s head. “I asked you to take these off. I don’t want to see them at the dinner table again.”
“Hey!” Connor pulled the thin piece of metal out of his father’s grip, cradling it protectively in his lap. “Mom always let’s me.”
“I’m sure she does” was Ben’s sardonic reply.
Connor shot his father a sullen look before reaching for the heavy platter of spaghetti Trisha struggled to pass to him, ladling a mound onto his plate without a word.
“A thank-you to Trisha would be appropriate, don’t you think?”
Ben’s request was an order and Connor gave a loud, persecuted sigh. “Dad, lighten up, will ya? You’re such a hard ass.”
“Watch your mouth. You know damned well I don’t allow you to use that kind of language.”
“Yeah, right. So you’re going to send me to bed without any supper?” The toss of bangs made the question a clear challenge.
