Читать книгу Raising Connor - Loree Lough - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

HUNTER SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY in the too-narrow tweed chair facing the funeral director’s desk, unable to escape the blinding ray of sunlight glaring off the man’s polished brass nameplate.

“Sorry, pal,” he said, turning it to face the guy, “but I left my welder’s mask in the truck.”

Turner shot him a puzzled glance, then went right back to yammering about granite versus bronze grave markers, available visitation parlors and background music, and the cost of opening the grave. Through it all, Brooke sat stiff-backed and unsmiling, alternately scribbling notes and pecking numbers into her pocket calculator.

The manager did some scribbling, too, before sliding a contract across his desk. Brooke took a moment to review it, and the minute she sat back, crossed her legs and cleared her throat, Hunter knew the guy was in trouble.

She pointed at the bottom line. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Turner, but you can provide a tasteful funeral without bankrupting me, can’t you?”

Without missing a beat, Turner withdrew a fresh form from the file drawer of his desk and, after jotting down new services and prices, handed it to her.

“You’ll see that I’ve reduced the total by a substantial sum,” he said, looking very pleased with himself.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered absently.

Brooke had conducted herself the same way with the bank manager earlier, making sure the woman understood that while Brooke would assume all responsibility for the mortgage, insurance and taxes on Beth and Kent’s property, the name on the deed should read Alexander Kent Sheridan. She quoted from Maryland’s Uniform Transfers to Minors Act and informed the banker that her actions had been suggested by a reputable attorney. Had she been bluffing? If not, when had she found time to discuss all that with a lawyer? Hunter had pictured the DVD, tucked into a folder marked Connor in his filing cabinet, and an uneasy sensation had settled over him as he admitted the real reason he was with Brooke....

“You need to know that Connor was born with a heart murmur,” Brooke had said to the bank manager. “If he needs medical attention, I’ll need access to the accounts and proof of guardianship to get him the very best care, quickly.”

Not surprisingly, the banker had given her word to rush the paperwork.

And just now Turner made the same promise.

“My next stop,” she told Turner, “is the newspaper. So I’ll need to know exact dates and times of the memorial service so that I can—”

“Oh, but we’re more than happy to take care of that for you, Miss O’Toole.” He flashed his best “the customer is always right” grin.

“For a fee,” she said, pointing to a line on the contract that addressed obituaries.

Hunter had been on the receiving end of Brooke’s hard-nosed inflexibility enough times to feel a little sorry for the guy. Where had Kent gotten the idea that she was scatterbrained and self-centered? Every smart decision she’d made, every astute word she’d spoken, had been on behalf of Connor, not herself.

Turner ran a finger under his collar, and Hunter was tempted to do the same.

“Of course we’re happy to perform that service,” Turner said, drawing a line through that charge on the contract. It was easy to see as he initialed it that the man wished he could lay his “To Serve As We Wish to Be Served” plaque on its face.

Brooke got to her feet. “If there’s nothing more we need to discuss, we’ll be on our way.”

Turner stood, too, and handed her an elegant black folder. “I’ll be here for the afternoon viewing day after tomorrow. But if you have any questions or concerns between now and then, please feel free to call me.”

She opened the file and finger-walked through pamphlets and brochures in the left pocket and checked the signature line of the contract in the right.

“Thank you, Mr. Turner. You’ve made these difficult decisions much easier.” And just like that, she excused herself to use the ladies’ room.

“That’s some woman you’ve got there,” Turner said, watching her walk away. “Quite a head on her shoulders.” He stuck out his hand. And as Hunter grasped it, he added, “You’re one lucky man.”

Hunter had sat mum as a mime throughout the meeting. For all Turner knew, he was Brooke’s brother, uncle, an old college friend, here to lend support. What gave the guy the impression they were a couple?

Yeah, he thought, heading for the door, lucky me.

He stepped into the hushed vacant hall and looked for the restrooms. A calligraphed sign pointed toward the curved plush-carpeted staircase. Hunter helped himself to a cellophane-wrapped peppermint, glanced at a few brochures, read the white-lettered blackboards that directed visitors toward the proper parlors. Nearly ten minutes passed before he saw her rounding the top step. Puffy red-rimmed eyes made it clear she’d been crying, and that surprised him a little. She’d seemed so in charge and unruffled through both meetings. But then, as a guy who’d spent years pretending he was okay with the past, he had no business criticizing her tough-girl facade.

He was hiding behind a facade of his own: once the miserable preparations were behind her, and her sister had been laid to rest, he could deliver the disc with less damage to his conscience.

“You did great in there,” he said, falling into step beside her.

Brooke only harrumphed.

She kept her head down as they crossed the parking lot. Idle chitchat seemed stupid and inappropriate, so he revived his mime routine. They got into the car and traveled a mile or so in complete silence before he said, “Hungry?”

“Not really.”

He’d no sooner braked for a traffic light than his stomach growled.

“Mind if we make a quick stop to shut this thing up?”

“Suit yourself.” She glanced over her shoulder. “What’s with the car seat?”

“It’s Connor’s.”

She plucked a French fry from the console’s cup holder.

“That’s Connor’s, too. He loves fries. Rita’s ice cream. Donuts...”

“Our grandpa used to tease Beth, saying she had a nose like a bloodhound. How did you keep her from sniffing out all that junk food?”

“Pure dumb luck,” he said, parking in the Kelsey’s lot.

“When you said a bite to eat,” she said, pointing at the restaurant’s sign, “I thought you meant fast food, not a sit-down meal.”

“Haven’t had a decent meal in days, and this place serves the best corned beef cabbage for miles.”

He parked beside a top-down convertible, and Brooke pointed at it. “They’re rushing the season a mite.”

“Maybe the owner is an Inuit.”

She was already standing next to the truck when he went around to open her door.

“How’s a guy supposed to earn any gentleman points around you?”

“I guess you can’t.”

Oh, he wasn’t touching that one, not even wearing flameproof gloves. Hunter pushed the big brass handle and opened door to Kelsey’s.

“Long as we’re here,” he said as she passed, “you might as well have a bite, too. As you pointed out the other morning, you need to stay sharp for Connor.”

She was silent as the hostess led them to a table near the fireplace. “Jenna will be your server today,” the girl said. “She’ll be right with you.”

Hunter picked up a menu. “Kind of a shame they didn’t build a fire.”

“Why?”

“Can I help it if I like a warm atmosphere?”

Brooke looked behind him. He was about to turn to find out what had captured her attention when a husky female voice said, “I’m surprised you even know what that means.”

Jenna.

If he’d made the connection earlier, Hunter would have told the hostess, Sorry, we changed our minds. He hadn’t seen Jenna since she’d hunted him down at a job site to ask why he’d been avoiding her. He’d almost told her the truth, that she reminded him too much of Brooke. During their short time together, he’d tolerated the verbal abuse Jenna had regularly dished out, put up with her erratic behavior. But on the night her car fishtailed away from his house after yet another tantrum, he had decided to call it quits.

She glared at him now the way she had in the construction trailer. It would no doubt make her day if he admitted that his guys still razzed him about the beating she’d given him that day...using the roses she’d brought as a so-called peace offering.

“Well, don’t just sit there passing judgment,” she said, unpocketing a pen. “Order something.”

Passing judgment? She’d been a paralegal back when they were dating. Had her volatile temper forced her to swap legal pads for an order tablet? He glanced at Brooke expecting to find disapproval—or worse—on her face. Instead, he saw the hint of a smile. Would she pick up where Jenna left off?

“Waiting tables is good honest work,” he said. “Did it myself in high school.”

“Where was diplomacy like that when you were kicking me to the curb!” She’d barely finished her sentence before tossing her order tablet onto the table. “So how long have you two been an item?” she asked Brooke.

“Jenna,” Hunter said, “maybe it would be best if you—”

But she ignored him. “Did he tell you that he was a cop before he took over his grandfather’s big-bucks contracting firm?”

Brooke nodded.

“Did he tell you why...that his partner was killed in a robbery when he fell asleep on the job?”

Hunter couldn’t decide where to direct his anger: at Jenna for behaving like a stereotypical scorned woman, or at himself for being fool enough to trust her with his shameful secret. He’d made a half-baked offer to help Brooke at the bank and the funeral parlor to make the process easier for her. Failed at that, he told himself, but I can spare her this.

He got up as Brooke said, “Hunter and I go way back, so there isn’t much you can tell me about him that I don’t already know.”

Brooke stood, too, and met his gaze. “Ready to go?”

He watched her stride calmly toward the hostess station, where she turned and frowned at him, as if to say, Well? What are you waiting for?

He was tempted to tell Jenna to purge herself of hard feelings or she’d end up like Brooke...angry, spiteful, alone. But one look into his ex’s eyes told him it was already too late. He peeled a five-dollar bill from his money clip and dropped it onto the table.

“That should cover the cost of changing the tablecloth and putting out fresh silverware,” he said.

Jenna picked it up. “Wish I could say it was nice seeing you again. But I’d be lying.”

Halfway to the door, he muttered, “Ditto.”

When he caught up with Brooke, she said “So. You kicked Jenna to the curb, did you?”

Yeah, but only because she reminded me too much of you.

“Was it serious?”

“Thought it was.”

“How long before you knew it wasn’t, um, a match made in heaven?”

He unpocketed his keys, hit the alarm button by mistake. It took a moment of fumbling to silence the horn, and when he did, Brooke repeated the question.

“Too long,” he said, opening the passenger door.

She waited until he slid in behind the steering wheel to say, “It’s kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

“What is?”

“Well, that scene wasn’t exactly the fire you were hoping for, but you sure got your share of heat!”

Beth had told him her sister had a great sense of humor, but until this moment, he’d never experienced it personally.

“If you ever get bored with nursing, maybe you can try your hand at stand-up comedy.”

She didn’t respond. In fact, she didn’t say another word for the next five minutes. As they sat at the traffic light at Route 40 and Rogers Avenue, his mind wandered. Why had she agreed to let him come with her if she wasn’t going to ask him for help or advice even once? And why let him drive her to and from the meetings if she intended to stare out the window, silent as a stone? Just as confusing, she’d more or less stuck up for him when Jenna had pounced.

A horn blared behind him, startling them both. Hunter uttered a mild oath and took his foot off the brake.

Brooke glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you,” she said as he blended into traffic. “Looks like a grumpy old poop to me. Hardly worth the breath it takes to insult him.”

Man, but she was an enigma. Couple of hours ago in the Sheridans’ yard, she’d blasted him with reminders of past mistakes...yet twice in fifteen minutes, she’d come to his defense. Sort of.

He wanted to do right by Connor, too—wanted that more than anything—but he hadn’t seen any examples so far that backed up Kent’s belief that Brooke wasn’t capable of mothering the boy. If this kind of evidence kept stacking up, that DVD might never get delivered.

Maybe insomnia was a good thing after all, he thought as they rode along in silence, because he could put those hours of sleeplessness to good use...

...trying to figure out what really was best for Connor.