Family Of The Year

Little Tina came bursting into the room, waving a doll with long blond hair, her sister in hot pursuit. “Mama, I had it first! Tell her it’s mine! It’s mine!” Maria was engulfed by crying, angry girls, the awakened baby began to wail and the siren in the background got louder and closer.

Get out! something inside Maria screamed. I’ve got to get out! The words went around and around in her brain as she fought for a gulp of cool air in the stifling apartment. I have to get my family out of here!

Maria started, brought back to the present by Tina’s impatient wiggling. She resumed her brushing, staring into the dark over her daughter’s head. That ad in the paper had been like a sign. She would have said anything, agreed to anything, to get the job. Three months out here away from the city, with nothing but sandstone and sagebrush and fresh air and hard work—it was just what they all needed, adults as well as kids. She had to find a way to make Mr. Calder see it would work out.

But Maria remembered the way he’d glared at her in the kitchen, that stubborn look of a man used to getting his own way in eyes the same gray as the sage all around. Benjamin Calder had said no. Politely, yet firmly.

Maria listened to the incredible richness of sound of the quiet country night, surrounded by her family, all safe and happy for the time being. Benjamin Calder might have said no, she told herself, but Benjamin Calder was a man. And for Maria Soldata and the women she knew, men were something to be worked around, something to ignore as much as possible—something to survive in spite of.

The sound of laughter drew Ben to the kitchen window that looked out on the guest house. He walked over, shirt pulled out of his jeans and unbuttoned to the waist, and turned slightly so he could see through the crack in the sheer white curtains.

Two of the children tumbled about on the grass at the edge of the porch, somersaulting themselves dizzy. The old woman rocked in the chair Vergie always sat in to do her knitting, just a silhouette in the evening shadows. The girl was in the porch swing, her hand keeping up a steady patting motion against the back of the baby she held to her shoulder.

His about-to-be-ex-housekeeper, Maria Soldata, who had just finished fixing him the best meal he’d eaten in two weeks, brushed the hair of one of the little girls, Tony or Tiny or something like that, spotlighted by the yellow light coming through the open door behind them. He watched her hands move. First the stroke of the brush with one hand, followed by a smoothing caress of the other hand-smoothing, stroking, smoothing, stroking.

Their voices drifted across to him, low and indistinguishable, an occasional word of Spanish spicing the sound. Family talk. Ben thought of Connor, who should be there in two more days. Family.

He reached out to flip off the light switch and stood there in the darkened kitchen. He knew that the feeling that gripped him, held him by the window, was envy.

Ben woke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, the aroma tantalizing his eyes open. He rolled over and looked at the clock. Five-thirty. Damn that woman, anyway! That wasn’t playing fair. How’d she know he’d been eating cold cereal for the past two weeks?

He picked his jeans off the floor, swatted them a few times to try to remove some of the dust and pulled them on. They were his last clean pair—or least dirty pair, anyway. Thankfully, he still had a couple of clean work shirts in the closet. He took one from the hanger and shrugged into it, then picked up yesterday’s from the foot of the bed. Struggling into his boots, he took the shirt down the hall to the laundry room to add it to the overflowing basket.

Except the basket wasn’t overflowing anymore. The washer hummed and the dryer purred and neatly folded stacks of clean clothes covered both surfaces. Damn that woman, anyway. How’d she know this was his last pair of clean socks?

The spotless living room, two weeks’ worth of newspapers gone from the coffee table, annoyed him even further, and when he heard the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen…that was the last straw. How’d she know how much he hated waking up to a silent, empty house?

He stomped into the kitchen and glared at Maria and the man at his table.

“Morning, boss,” Harvey Wainright, his hired hand, greeted him, happily downing a plate of eggs and hash browns.

“It won’t work,” Ben announced, ignoring Harvey.

“So you said.” Maria indicated the table with the coffeepot she held in her hand and left the stove to pour him a cup. “How do you want your eggs?”

Grimly, he sat down in front of the steaming cup. “Sunny-side up.”

“That’s not good for you anymore, you know. What with salmonella in the chickens these days, you need to cook your eggs more. I’ll make them over-easy.”

“I said sunny-side up.” There she went again! Completely ignoring him just like last night, as if he was of no account. “Those eggs come from my chickens and my chickens don’t have salmonella and I’ll eat them raw if I want to!” “Easy there, boss,” Harvey said, his faded eyes opening wide in surprise. “You know, I read about that salmonella thing a while back. You can’t be too careful. And Maria makes darned good over-easy.” He smiled his gap-toothed smile at Maria.

“That’s okay, Harvey. If he grows his own chickens, then I’m sure sunny-side up will be perfectly all right.”

“You don’t grow chickens. You raise chickens,” Ben mumbled into his cup, annoyed by Harvey’s good mood. Frowning, he watched Maria crack the eggs into the pan, making the melted butter sizzle.

“It wasn’t necessary to do all this, you know,” he addressed her back. “Since it’s not going to work out, I mean.”

“It wasn’t any trouble.”

“I’ll pay you for your time so far.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” He leaned forward to take his checkbook from the back pocket of his jeans.

Maria made no further protest. She slid the eggs from the pan onto the waiting plate, added a scoop of hash browns, some bacon and four pieces of buttered toast.

Ben propped the check next to the saltshaker, then began to eat in moody silence, only half listening to Harvey. His eyes strayed often to Maria as she cleaned up the kitchen.

When the clock reached six, Ben scraped back his chair and stood. “It’s time to get to work. I won’t be back to the house till noon so I guess I’ll say goodbye now. You’ll probably want to head out while it’s still cool.”

“All right. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye. Thanks for the meals and the laundry and all.”

Maria nodded.

“Anyway, uh, thanks.” Why did he feel as if he should apologize? The last thing he needed was a pack of kids running all over the place and a crying baby and a mean-looking old woman.

“Nice meeting you, Maria.” Harvey bobbed his grizzled head and the two men headed out the kitchen door, letting the screen door slam behind them.

“She did your laundry?” Maria could hear Harvey’s voice through the open window as they walked across the yard to the corral.

“Shut up, Harvey.”

“Real good cook.”

“Shut up, Harvey.”

“Pretty little thing, too.”

“I said shut up, Harvey.”

“Lot easier on your eyes than old Vergie, the vipertongued, rat-eyed…” Their voices faded away in the distance.

Maria finished the last of the dishes and went outside. The morning was glorious, golden and clean. She stopped with her hand on the doorknob to the guest house and turned around, surveying the red hills in the distance. Huge cottonwoods ringed the house in a circle of shade, the only sound the wind in their leaves, the clucking of chickens somewhere nearby, the faraway barking of a dog.

She pushed open the door and clapped her hands sharply together; the sound shot through the silent rooms. “Up and at ‘em!” She moved into the bedroom and began jiggling sleeping bodies, pulling back warm covers. “Up, everybody. It’s time to get to work!”

Ben swore as he bounced his pickup into the yard and came to a stop next to the green station wagon that was supposed to have been on its way back to Phoenix hours ago. He peered through the dusty windows, but the cracked vinyl seats were empty—no boxes, bags or packed suitcases. Damn, damn and double damn!

He took the porch stairs two at a time and strode through the door. His nose was immediately assaulted by the sickening-sweet smell of lemon polish, and his first step of booted foot on the throw rug sent him skidding, bucking across the mirror-smooth floor like he was riding a bull, his arms windmilling wildly for balance. He regained his footing with an ignominious grab for the coatrack, aimed a few choice words at the offending rug, then gave it a vicious kick back toward the door. It sailed effortlessly across the newly polished wooden boards to land in a wrinkled pile of woven cotton cowering against the doorjamb.

The smell of lemon wax gave way to the bite of bleach as he passed the open door to the bathroom. He smelled tomatoes as he stormed into the kitchen, bellowing for Maria. A pot of tomato soup simmered on the stove and a plate of sandwiches towered on the table, reflecting light off the clear plastic wrap protecting them. His check remained where he’d left it next to the salt.

“Maria!” he shouted again. Impatiently, Ben pulled back the curtain over the sink that looked out on the garden and the guest house.

He stared in dismay at the sight that greeted him. His garden had sprouted more than zucchini, it seemed. Three small children were on their knees, a growing pile of weeds beside each little figure. Veronica bent over the green beans, tying their slender tendrils to a string stretched above them. Maria had a hoe in her hands and steadily and methodically struck it into the ground around the ankle-high corn, neatly slicing the offending weeds out at the root. Ben watched her, fascinated by the smooth movement of her muscles as she swung the hoe, the strength in her long, tanned legs in their cutoff shorts, the way her bare toes dug into the dirt.

It was after one o’clock and the sun was high overhead and hot enough to have even the old lady, rocking in the shade with the baby propped against her ample stomach, wiping at her forehead. It was hard, backbreaking work he watched, yet all he heard was…happiness. High, childish voices made a nonstop background to the women’s talk, an occasional reprimand from one of them as a small hand mistook a plant for a weed, the squeals and coos of the contented baby.

And he was going to send them packing.

Another sound made itself heard, a jarring, out-of-place sound that ripped through the hot summer afternoon. It was an engine, open full throttle and roaring in protest; it was the sickening, tearing sound of a too-low undercarriage scraping over a high spot in the dirt road; it was the squeal of brakes and spraying of gravel.

Ben went out the kitchen door, not daring the slippery living room again. A sinking feeling grew in his stomach as he anticipated what he would find. He rounded the corner of the house and there, in his driveway, was a brand-new, shiny red convertible, its radio blasting out the annoying, repetitive beat of rap. Leaping from the car, not bothering to open the door, was his son, Connor Calder.

“Hey, Dad! What do you think? Isn’t she great?” Connor’s chest stuck out so far his shoulder blades almost touched in back as he preened in front of his car.

“She’s great, son.” Ben tried to swallow his dismay at his son’s day-early arrival. He saw the children appear and sidle up beside him. Their grandmother came, too, walking with heavy, slow steps, a baby in one arm and stick in the other. All were curious to see what caused the commotion. And there was Maria. They formed a warm, protective wall behind him, an insulating presence that helped absorb some of the roar and the rap and the blinding glare of the red sports car.

“Connor, I’d like you to meet Maria Soldata. She’s my housekeeper for the summer. And this is her family—they’ll be staying with her.”

Chapter Two

“Hey.” The boy’s bored, insolent greeting was accompanied by a flick of his head to move long brown bangs out of his eyes. They were the same sage gray as his father’s, Maria noticed. She wondered at the stiffness of the man beside her, and wondered even more at his sudden change of heart in letting them stay, and she wondered most of all what this boy had to do with it.

Suddenly, Connor snapped to attention. “Chaqui-i-i-ta!” he drawled. “Who’s the babe?”

Maria followed the boy’s eyes and saw that Veronica had joined the group. Barefoot, wiping her hands on her shorts, she looked young and lovely.

“Could you please turn off that music so we don’t have to shout,” Ben asked.

“Sure, man, chill out.” Connor leaned over inside the car and flipped a knob. “So who’s the hot tamale over there?”

Maria saw Ben’s fingers curl into his palm, making a fist tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He looked as if his hand itched with the need to connect with the seat of his son’s hole-filled jeans.

“This young lady is Veronica, Maria’s sister.” Ben stared pointedly at the boy. “And young ladies are to be spoken to with respect.”

“Respect. Absolutely. In fact, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven—respectfully.” Connor’s reverent gaze was fixed on Veronica.

Veronica rolled her eyes, but Maria saw the faint blush on her cheeks and the beginning of a smile she tried to suppress. Obviously, what sounded obnoxious to Maria didn’t strike her younger sister quite that way.

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” Ben said.

“Mom and Mike got me the wheels yesterday for my birthday.” He ran his hand lovingly along the door. “Man, it’s great having a stepdad who owns a car dealership, ain’t it? Oh, thanks for the check, too. I used it to get these mag beauties here. Great, huh?” Connor pulled his eyes from Veronica and leaned over to admire himself in one of the chrome wheels, frowning for a moment at the layer of dust it had accumulated. “Anyway, now that I’m mobile, I wanted a chance to test it out—so, here I am.”

With the self-centeredness of youth always sure of a welcome, he walked past his father and over to Veronica. “If you’re ever in the market for a car, I’ve got connections. I can get you something really sweet.” He flipped his bangs.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Veronica said dryly.

“Want to go for a spin?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got work to do.”

“Not me. I’m on vacation. Take a rain check on that ride, okay?” Connor persisted.

“We’ll see.”

“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.”