Читать книгу Finding A Family - Judy Christenberry, Judy Christenberry - Страница 10

Hank spun around and followed her to the small bedroom he’d planned for the housekeeper. He noted at once that it was spotless. He certainly hadn’t left it that way. But that didn’t matter.

“Did you hear me?”

She didn’t answer, but she took a suitcase out of the closet and began packing. She looked over the lid at him. “It will take about an hour to get my things packed. Then we’ll leave. I assume you will explain my leaving to your father?”

“Sure! I’ll—I’ll tell him you didn’t like it here.” He was quite surprised by her compliance.

“But that would be a lie. Never mind. I’ll explain everything to him when I say goodbye.”

“What will you tell him?”

“The truth. That you fired me.”

“You can’t tell him that!”

She straightened and stared at him. “Why not?”

“It might upset him.”

“Mr. Brownlee, whatever you tell your father, he’ll be upset. For the first time in a year, he’s eating good meals and gaining weight. He’s sitting outside and enjoying the warm weather. He’s taking an interest in the people around him. And he’s very kind to Timmy. Sometimes he forgets and even calls Timmy Hank, but Timmy doesn’t mind.

“If you want to fire me, that’s your right. But I won’t let that sweet man think I’m leaving on my own accord.”

Hank glared at her. “Damn you!” he muttered and turned and left the room.

He stormed out onto the porch where three pairs of male eyes stared at him.

“What’s wrong, son?” Carl asked. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? I didn’t hire a twenty-something with a child to be the housekeeper. I hired a nice fifty-year-old to cook and clean for us.”

His father looked at him calmly and asked, “What difference does it make? Maggie is terrific at both and Timmy is keeping me company, aren’t you, Timmy boy?”

Hank had no answer. When he’d left home a week ago, his father had been acting like a zombie. He was still too thin, but he was talking with the people around him. Carl was really interacting with the little boy, Larry, and obviously, Maggie.

Now what could he do?

He heard footsteps on the porch behind him. In a cool voice Maggie said quietly, “Timmy, I need you to come in, sweetie.”

Timmy whispered to Carl, “I have to go.”

He edged his way around Hank, as if he thought Hank was dangerous, and walked quickly to the back door. Then the little boy disappeared into the house.

“You scared the boy,” Carl said in a chiding voice.

“I didn’t mean to. But, Dad, they’re going to have to go.”

“Why?”

Hank couldn’t come up with an answer.

“She cooks like an angel, she cleans like an army of people, and she’s easy on the eyes, too. What’s wrong with that?”

“She’s too young for you, Dad!” Hank replied, anger in his voice.

“Mercy, boy, I’m not looking for a woman, but having a good-looking one around isn’t a bad thing.”

“Dad, you don’t understand.”

“Explain it to me then,” the older man said. He sounded so reasonable, so much like the father Hank remembered…and had thought never to see or hear again.

“I want her to stay, son,” Carl said softly.

Hank dropped his head. “Okay, Dad,” Hank muttered. “You win.”

He turned around and went into the house. He could hear activity in the spare bedroom. He stepped to the door.

Timmy was the first to see him. The little boy gasped as though he’d seen the devil himself. That got his mother’s attention at once.

“Timmy?”

“It’s him, Mommy!” The little boy grabbed her leg and hid behind her.

She straightened and confronted Hank, stare-for-stare. “Is there something else, Mr. Brownlee? Do you want to search our luggage to be sure we’re not stealing something from our luxury accommodations?”

Hank hated to be put in the wrong. Her sarcasm struck home. He hadn’t even cleaned the room for her arrival. After all, she was the cleaning expert. But he knew he’d been a slacker there. “I apologize for not cleaning the room. I’ve been pretty busy with my dad.”

“And you’re here now because…”

She waited for him to fill in the blank.

With his cheeks red, Hank struggled to get the words out. “It’s—it’s not necessary for you to leave.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” She returned to her packing, as if he were no longer there.

Hank drew a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is I’m not firing you.”

She ignored him.

“Damn it! My dad wants you to stay.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve scared Tim.”

Since she continued to pack, Hank realized he’d have to rectify his wrongs. He knelt down on one knee. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Hank said, trying to soften the gruff note in his voice. His attempt to hide his irritation failed miserably.

Suddenly the little boy was crying, and his mother stopped packing to console him.

“What’s wrong? What did I say wrong?”

Hank wanted to withdraw, to let them leave, but his father had asked that they stay. What could he do? “Look, can you at least stay another week, see if we can all get along? Dad needs what you’ve been giving him. He needs Timmy. I think Timmy is helping Dad get well.”

The little boy raised his head from his mother’s shoulder and sniffed. “He has lots of boo-boos.”

“Yes, he does. But he’ll get better with your help, Timmy. Will you and your Mommy stay a little while?”

“I like it here…but you scare me.”

Hank ground his teeth. “I promise I won’t scare you any more.” He felt he’d reached his limit with the four-year-old. His gaze met Maggie’s, then looked away from the disapproval he saw in her blue eyes.

“What?” he asked, not specifying his question.

“We’ll try it for a week. But you’re on probation. I will not let my son live in constant terror!”

“I won’t be around that much. This is a working ranch.”

“I’ve only met Larry. You manage a ranch with one employee?”

“No, there are more hands, but right now my men are working on a neighbor’s round-up. They’ll be home tonight or tomorrow.”

“Oh, I see. Do I cook for them, too?”

“No, they already have a cook.”

“Uh, I think something is burning in here?” Larry called out.

Without a word, Maggie scooped up Tim and hurried to the kitchen, leaving Hank standing in her bedroom.

He followed her into the kitchen.

“It’s all right, Carl,” she said to his father. “It’s just the marshmallow topping. I can redo it and have the sweet potatoes ready in no time.”

“You actually made sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping?” Hank asked.

“Yes,” she said without looking up. “Your father requested it.”

“No wonder he doesn’t want you to go.”

“And what does that mean?”

“If you cater to his every whim, there’s no telling what he’ll ask for next.”

She glared at him. “Why don’t you join your father on the porch. I don’t appreciate someone watching over my shoulder when I’m trying to prepare a meal.”

“So you’re throwing me out of my own kitchen?”

“Silly me. I thought it was your father’s kitchen.” She challenged him to say she was wrong.

With a scowl, he went out on the porch. He hadn’t even realized Tim had already come out and was standing beside his father.

“What’s Tim doing out here?”

The little boy tried to back away toward the kitchen door, but Carl had an arm around him. “He keeps me company. Sometimes we read books or play with a couple of Timmy’s little cars. Other times, I tell him about you as a boy.”

“Me?”

“You remember that time you got stuck in the hay barn?” Carl asked, a grin on his face.

“And a snake almost bit you!” Tim added, obviously too excited by the story to remember his fear of Hank.

“That’s why Tim, here, shouldn’t go climb the hay in the barn,” Carl said. “Right, Timmy?”

“Right.” The boy nodded his head several times.

“I see.” When he’d left his dad last week, he would’ve sworn that his father couldn’t have remembered his name, much less anecdotes about his son’s childhood. Having the woman and the boy around had worked wonders for his father. “I’m glad you’re feeling so much better, Dad,” he said with a gusty sigh.

Carl narrowed his eyes. “You wonderin’ why I didn’t respond to all your attempts to make me change my ways?”

“I’m not the cook or housekeeper Maggie is, though I tried.”

“It’s not your fault son,” the older man said. “You were out working all day. You needed your meals prepared for you, not having to prepare them yourself. I didn’t blame you. Well, maybe occasionally when you burned everything to a crisp.” He smiled.

Hank stared at his father. He was actually smiling. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know that. No one would want that awful mess to eat.”

Larry decided to pitch in. “Remember when he tried to make a cake, only he didn’t follow the instructions? It was half-cooked and runny in the middle?”

Both Carl and Larry laughed at that story.

Tim tugged on Carl’s sleeve. “What’s runny?”

“Well, it means it wasn’t cooked.” When the little boy just stared at him, Carl tried again. “It was like water instead of cake.”

Maggie opened the door and Tim ran to her. “Mommy, Hank made a water cake. It ran away!”

“I see…. Well, dinner is ready, if anyone’s hungry.”

All three men stood. Hank said, “I have to go clean up first.”

“Don’t be slow, boy, or I’ll eat your share.”

“There’s plenty of food, Mr. Brownlee. Your father was just teasing.” She moved back into the kitchen as they all followed her in.

“Do you call my father Mr. Brownlee?”

“No. He’s asked me to call him Carl.”

“Then you’d better call me Hank.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He went quickly to wash his hands so that he wouldn’t miss the meal.

When Hank returned to the table, he was determined, despite the aroma he could smell all the way down the hall, to find fault with Maggie and her cooking.

Impossible.

He blamed that impossibility on the fact that he’d been eating round-up grub for too long. He’d been starving when he’d arrived home and been confronted with the widow mix-up, meaning Maggie. To make up for all the trouble she’d put him through he had helped himself to a double helping of the mashed potatoes with cream gravy on top, the sweet potatoes with marshmallows, the green beans and the T-bone steaks grilled to perfection. Not to mention the hot rolls.

Of course, that was the reason.

Then she brought out dessert.

Carl nodded in approval. “It looks just like Linda’s carrot cake, Maggie. It’s perfect.”

Maggie smiled at such lavish praise. “Shouldn’t you wait until you taste it, Carl?”

Hank wanted to refuse the cake. He didn’t want to know that this woman could bake as well as his mother had. Somehow praising Maggie’s prowess in the kitchen felt like a betrayal of his mother’s memory.

“Your cake couldn’t possibly be the same as the ones my mother used to bake. How would you—I mean, there are different recipes,” Hank finally managed to get out.

“Yes, of course there are. But we found your mother’s recipe book. It’s wonderful, just full of great recipes she’d collected over the years. Your father has let me use it to make his favorite dishes, just like she did.”

Looking around the table at the pleased expressions on his father, Larry and the little boy’s faces, Hank decided to bide his time. He could air his differences with her later. For now Hank simply accepted a piece of cake and picked up his fork. The first bite stopped him in his tracks. It was the same cake his mother had always made. He couldn’t deny it.

“This is wonderful, Maggie. I didn’t think I’d ever taste a carrot cake as good as Linda’s,” Carl said.

“You still haven’t, Carl,” Maggie said with a smile. “This is Linda’s cake. I made it, but it’s her recipe.”

“That’s true. Thank you, Maggie.”

Hank ground his teeth. He almost put down his fork. Almost.

“It sure is good,” Larry added, smiling at Maggie.

Hank practically growled out loud. Was Larry flirting with his housekeeper?

“Yeah, Mommy, it’s good.”

Okay, he didn’t mind if Timmy praised his mom. That was to be expected, but Hank did mind that Carl and Larry seemed to be complimenting Maggie to the heavens.

Looking up, he discovered everyone but Maggie was staring at him. “What?” he asked, frowning.

“Don’t you like Mommy’s cake?” Timmy asked, sounding as timid as before.

“Uh, yeah, it’s good.” He even smiled at the little boy, remembering Maggie’s warning.

“I think you should take his cake away from him,” Carl said to Maggie.

Astounded by his father’s betrayal, Hank grabbed hold of his plate and glared at Carl. “Why would she do that?”

“Because that milk-toast compliment doesn’t even begin to do this cake justice and you know it,” Carl told him.

Hank knew his father was asking for a more…more high-falutin’ compliment, but he was clean out of big words. “I like it, okay? You’re right. It reminds me of Mom’s cake.”

To his surprise, it was Maggie who rescued him. “I’m more than happy with his praise, Carl. I couldn’t ask for more.” She smiled at his dad…but not at him.

“I’m really tired, Dad. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn in early,” Hank said, rising to his feet.

His father, instead of responding, spoke to Maggie. “I raised him better, Maggie, I promise.”

“What did I do wrong?” Hank demanded.

“You excuse yourself to the lady of the house, son. Especially when she’s just served you the best meal you’ve had in over a year.”

“You mean the best meal I’ve had since Mom died, don’t you, Dad?” Hank gulped down the lump he felt growing in his throat.

Grief over the loss of his mother took him by surprise. He knew his father was having difficulty with his mother’s death, but he’d been fine. He’d kept busy. It was Dad who—he backed from the room, not even able to face his own thoughts, much less the consternation on the faces of the other people in the room.

No one spoke for several minutes. Then Larry said, “He’s really tired. Didn’t get much sleep, you know.”

“Of course,” Maggie said.

“I’d better go talk to him,” Carl said, looking older almost within seconds.

Maggie reached out a hand to catch his. “No, Carl, I think it will be better to talk to him about it tomorrow morning. We have to respect Hank’s grief.” Carl nodded in agreement and returned to the table and sat down.

“Do you remember that first night, when you talked about Linda? The words tumbled out of you as if they’d been blocked inside you for months. Has Hank ever talked like that about his mom since she passed?”

Carl slowly shook his head, a frown on his face.

“I think the best thing you can do is give him some space…And besides, just because you’re happy with me doesn’t mean Hank is. Perhaps it will be best if Timmy and I leave.”

“No, Maggie, I’ll insist—”

“But that doesn’t work, Carl. Didn’t Hank insist that you stop mourning your wife and be happy?”

“Yeah, he did,” Carl said slowly.

More softly, she asked, “Did it work?”

Carl stared at the floor. “You know it didn’t.”

Maggie patted Carl’s shoulder. “It isn’t your fault, Carl.”

“I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “Which gets me to thinking. If you helped me to open up about my feelings maybe you could do the same for Hank.”

The old man’s expression brightened with the thought that he might just have hit upon a compelling reason to persuade Maggie to stay.