Читать книгу Love Me Forever - Muriel Jensen - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

LORETTA CONWAY OPENED her back door and smiled at Sandy in surprise. Sandy’s mother, her hair all gray but worn spikey, was a small-framed woman in her fifties who still looked great in jeans and a sweater. “Hi, sweetie! I thought you had the day off.” Her eyes went over Sandy’s new jacket with approval. “New duds? How pretty.” Then her gaze settled on Sandy’s face and she grew serious. “What?” she asked anxiously.

Sandy threw her arms around her and just held on. She allowed herself a spate of tears, then pulled herself together.

“I just had the worst day off in the history of the world. Can I have a glass of wine?”

“Of course. Come in.”

Sandy followed her mother into a huge kitchen with a giant work island, high stools pulled up to it on all sides. Loretta had been a sous chef in her youth and loved to cook for friends and family. Her house, with two bedrooms upstairs, was small otherwise, but she often said she’d bought the cottage, which had belonged to an Astoria restaurateur, for the roomy kitchen.

Hiking herself onto a stool on a corner, Sandy watched her mother pour wine into two tulip glasses, then place one in front of her. “What’s happened?” her mother asked.

When it took Sandy a moment to answer, her mother sat at a right angle to her and said softly, “I was right about Hunter and the check, wasn’t I?”

Sandy swiped away a single tear. “You were right about his reaction. I still think I was right about the situation. But, he yelled, tore up the check, and we broke up.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Your offer just had disaster written all over it.” After that bit of frankness, she added bracingly, “Of course, part of your charm and your life success is that you jump in, whatever the prevailing opinion, and do what you think is right. And it’s served you well many times.”

Sandy sighed, thinking about her job and trying not to succumb to panic and more tears. She said with an attempt at humor, “Well, it hasn’t served me well today. I got fired.”

“What?” Her mother responded with flattering indignation. “Why? And who will they ever get to show up on Sundays to meet clients and get signatures on whatever those lawyers enjoying their weekends need signed but aren’t willing to drive over to the office for and get signed themselves?”

“Apparently, it was an economic decision. The new partner’s secretary is a two-fisted talent, so I’m told, and she’ll be doing my job and hers.”

“For the same money?”

“Well, she earns more as a secretary, but I doubt she’ll earn more for doing my job as well, because then the move would no longer be economical.”

Her mother waited a beat then asked gently, “Have you had time to think about what you’ll do?”

“No, actually. It just happened.” Sandy took a long sip of her wine, felt it trail warmly down her throat into her stomach, then shook her head over the day. “I wonder if anyone else has ever lost the love of her life and a job she really enjoyed in the same day. While fitting a plumbing job in between.”

At her mother’s look of concern for her mental stability, Sandy explained about Celia’s call for help.

“Ah. She’s such a good housekeeper. She did this place in three hours flat last week.”

“You hired her?”

“No.” Her mother looked surprised. “She said you paid her to do it. You didn’t?”

Sandy rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine. “She’s always trying to pay me back for letting them rent Aunt Lacey’s house. Honestly. She’s been trying to clean my house, but I told her you always clean it when you babysit, so I guess she thought she’d be sneaky.”

“Well, she was thorough. I recommended her to some friends and I think she’s picked up a couple of jobs.”

“That’s great. Maybe she’ll get big enough to hire me.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t have it for housekeeping.”

Sandy would have been offended had it not been true. She kept the house tidy enough, but her preference for playing with the girls or taking them to a movie often compromised her attention to detail.

“If worse comes to worse, you and the girls can always move in here. I promise not to kill you, if you promise not to kill me.” Her mother was right about the potential for disaster. They were alike in many ways, but completely incompatible in sharing living quarters.

“I do have thirty thousand dollars, so I’m not immediately desperate.”

“Yes, but letting that get eaten up on monthly bills would be criminal. Have you considered selling your aunt’s house?”

“No. I promised the Morenos they could live there forever, and I’ll do anything before I take that away from them.”

“I know you have a wonderfully giving nature, but you have a right to consider yourself and the girls first.”

“I just keep imagining myself in Celia’s shoes. Being so short of money that your husband steals cash from a store, goes to jail, and you have to somehow support two young girls. If it hadn’t been for my firm responding to Nate’s call for help on Bobbie’s behalf...” She stopped short. It was no longer “her” firm. “Anyway, thank goodness the little house was empty when Armando got out of jail and they had to leave their old apartment.”

“I worry a little about you being involved with a...a criminal.”

“Mom. He didn’t use a gun—the clerk went to help a customer and left the register open and unattended. Armando couldn’t feed his family and felt desperate. Anyway, booting the Morenos out is not an option.”

“Right. Well, there’s got to be a solution. Maybe you’ll find something in the classifieds. Want me to pick up the girls from daycare and bring them here so you can relax a little tonight?”

“No, thanks.” She sipped more wine and was beginning to feel steadier. Not better, but steadier. “I’ll take them to McDonald’s. They never fight when we eat out. Then, after they go to bed, I’ll check out the want ads. There has to be something in Astoria for a hardworking, fund-raising—” she slid off the stool and quoted her mother “—‘wonderfully giving’ woman.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had such an awful day, Sandy,” her mother said, walking her to the door, “but I have complete faith in your ability to work things out. You did it for us when your father left and I wasn’t much help for a while. You survived Charlie leaving. And the girls are smart and happy. Which is quite an accomplishment for a woman having to do it all herself.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sandy assured her mother. She kept her worry about the dearth of jobs in Astoria to herself. “Thanks for the wine and the shoulder.”

“Anytime.”

* * *

DINNER AT MCDONALD’S was peaceful. Turning off her concerns about the day, she watched Zoey, who looked and generally behaved like a princess, talk about one day marrying Sheamus Raleigh, Nate’s nephew, who was eight. The girls saw a lot of him and eleven-year-old Dylan when Bobbie and Sandy exchanged babysitting.

Platinum hair in a messy ponytail she’d made herself, Zoey held the sock monkey wearing a tutu that went everywhere with her in one hand, and a glittery magic wand that Nate and Bobbie had brought her back from Disneyland in the other. She put down the wand to pick up a nugget of chicken. “Where’s Hunter?”

“He’s—um—working tonight.”

“Taxes?” Delicate eyebrows rose over bright blue eyes as she asked the question.

Sandy was astonished. She was sure Zoey had no idea what taxes were, just that Hunter and Uncle Nate had worked hard because of them the past couple of months.

“No.” She pulled extra napkins out of the dispenser and wiped a smear of ketchup off Addie’s mouth. “Tax season is over. That’s when they work really hard to get everything done on time. This is just regular work.”

“Sometimes Hunter wishes he was a cowboy.” Zoey examined a French fry, then snapped off a bite.

“How come?”

“They only have to count cows. Counting money is a lot of trouble.”

Sandy swallowed hard. Zoey quoted Hunter all the time, a reminder that when he was with the girls, he talked to them, enjoyed them, saw that they were never left out of the conversation. He’d never kept the distance from them that he’d kept from her. He would have been a good father.

Addie, about to be four, and smaller than her sister but already giant in personality, leaned over on her elbows toward her mother. Her hair, the same color as her sister’s, was wild and stuck up out of a tiara, also from the Raleighs’ trip to Disneyland. Addie’s dark blue eyes were alight with intelligence. “Hunter’s coming to my birthday!” she said.

Great, Sandy thought. But she smiled at that news. “That’s nice.”

“She told him he had to bring a present,” Zoey ratted, sounding disgusted.

Making a face at her youngest, Sandy said, “It isn’t nice to ask for things, Ad. Even when it’s your birthday. When did you see Hunter?”

“He brought stuff to Rainbow,” Zoey replied. Rainbow was the daycare center. “We were having lunch and Addie ran to see him. You’re not supposed to leave the table.”

Sandy knew that Raleigh and Raleigh did the books for the daycare center. In the tradition of small towns, Raleigh staff often delivered reports or payroll to their clients.

“Grandma’s going to make your birthday cake,” Sandy said, trying to divert the conversation. “And it will have Tow Mater on it.”

“Sweeet!”

Sweet was Addie’s new favorite word. Especially when drawn out, the way the Raleigh boys said it.

“When I grow up,” Addie said seriously, “I’m gonna have a tow truck.”

Sandy smiled supportively. She was raising a grease monkey. While other little girls were dreaming of horses, Addie wanted a tow truck. Sandy hoped that somewhere out there another mother was raising a young man who could fall in love with an unconventional woman.

On the way home, the girls sang “The Wheels on the Bus” song until Sandy turned into the driveway. They did all their usual evening things—watched television, had a snack, took their baths—then Sandy tucked them into bed.

Now, with a thick black marker in one hand and a cup of decaf in the other, Sandy sat at the kitchen table, opening the Daily Astorian to the classifieds section. She scanned the Personals, the Lost Pets, all the interesting things for sale, then zeroed in on the Help Wanted columns.

There were all kinds of ads for workers with skills she didn’t have—pipe layer, concrete finisher, licensed insurance agent, bus driver. A logging company was looking for choker setters and rigging slingers. She lingered over that ad. She would have loved to choke or sling someone.

Discouraged, she circled the hotel housekeeping ads in Seaside and Cannon Beach. Tourist season was coming and housekeepers were always in demand. Her mother was correct about Sandy not keeping her own house spotless, but she could certainly do it for someone else—particularly if she was being paid.

Waitressing was not an option because she simply didn’t have the skill to carry three plates on each arm. Cannery work was out because of a similar lack of dexterity and the lethal nature of those filet knives.

Tomorrow she’d prepare a résumé. There. She felt better. Nothing like being proactive.

Her positive attitude lasted about a minute, until she remembered Hunter. No amount of proactivity would help her with him. How unfair, she thought, that irresponsible, obnoxious men were out trolling for wives, but charming, thoughtful men wanted no part of marriage.

That was fine. Life went on. She kept reading.

Business Opportunities. She leaned closer to read the column of franchise offerings and businesses looking for investors. Then she spotted a block highlighted in yellow, which meant it was a new ad in today’s paper.

“Coffee Cart for sale. Money Maker with established clientele. Great location. Fully equipped, big inventory, helpful staff. Priced to sell quickly. Owner headed for Chicago. Call Crazy for Coffee.” The ad listed a number.

Sandy felt a jolt of excitement. Crazy for Coffee! The cart just off the Astoria-Megler Bridge was where she bought coffee most mornings on her way back from dropping the girls at daycare. Bjorn made the best caramel-vanilla latte she’d ever tasted. She always had to wait in line, so “money maker” was probably not an exaggeration.

A coffee cart! She felt another jolt of excitement, then drew herself back, thinking logically. Long hours on her feet; early, early start to a day that involved children and a daycare that didn’t open until seven o’clock; and... She couldn’t think of anything else negative.

The positives. She could afford it. She could learn to do it. She could set her own hours. She could handle the long hours on her feet by wearing comfortable shoes. Maybe her mother would help her with the girls in the morning.

She had to know more. Pushing her coffee aside, she dialed the number.

* * *

HUNTER SAT AT his mother’s kitchen table, sorting through her tax receipts. Stella Bristol made a space in the middle of the piles he’d created and set down a cup of black coffee.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

He dropped the stack of brokerage statements in his hand and leaned back in his chair to frown at her. “It’s a good thing I filed for an extension for you, Mom. I can’t believe that the woman who encouraged me to be an accountant, who helped put me through school, who works for my boss, also an accountant...” His voice rose. “Would keep her tax documents and receipts in a shoe box!” He’d been sorting for three hours, and he barely had her paperwork organized enough to assess where to begin. “This is the bad joke of all accounting offices. Didn’t I buy you an accordion folder last year?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, but the apology didn’t ring true. “I do have a full-time job, you know. I haven’t had much time to get organized. And it’s not a shoe box. An elegant pair of candlesticks came in that box.” She pointed to a low table behind the sofa, where they stood with yellow tapers in them. “And I have recipes in the accordion folder.”

Of course. “Mom, you’re missing the point.”

“No, I’m not. I hired you to do my taxes because I don’t have a brain for numbers. Therefore, I don’t have a brain for organizing the things in which you put numbers.”

He thought about that a moment, and when it still didn’t make sense, he shook his head. “You hired me? You mean I’m getting eighty dollars an hour for this? Because that would make the job much easier to take.”

She patted his shoulder as she walked away. “Don’t be silly. You’re doing this because you love me.”

He caught her wrist to prevent her escape. “Not so fast. Tell me about these checks to Toads and Frogs. Is it a bar? A conservation group? What?”

She sat down opposite him, her manner suddenly defensive. “It’s a yarn shop. Why? I had a little extra from my investments so I decided to bet on a friend.”

Looking at her blankly, he repeated, “Toads and Frogs is a yarn shop.”

“Yes. A toad is a knitting project you really wanted to do but never finished, and frog means you’ve quit a project. Like “I frogged that hat because the pattern was too hard.”

A moment of silence followed, then he asked patiently, “So you’ve invested your hard-earned money in a woman who named her shop using two words that suggest failure?”

“No! You know Glenda. She was my neighbor when I first moved here after your father died. That little rental on Alameda? She’s really very good at what she does. Her goal is to provide a place where customers won’t give up on projects, because she’s there to help them figure out how to complete them. So, you’d go to Toads and Frogs to succeed, not to fail.”

Glenda. He had met her a couple of times. A formidable woman with a single gray braid. Made a great banana bread, as he recalled.

Drawing a breath for patience, Hunter nodded. “Sometimes, you scare me, Mom. But, okay. So these checks are investment in a business?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a partner?”

“No. Just a sort of...capitalist. I give her capital when she needs it.”

“Does she pay you back?”

“She will when she’s on her feet.”

“Does she have a business plan? Something that tells you when that might be? Do you two have a contract?”

“A verbal one. We’re playing it by ear.” She smiled in the face of his disbelief.

“You don’t play business by ear, Mom.”

“Maybe in banks and accounting offices, you don’t. But in yarn shops, you trust your friends and play it by ear.”

He sat back in his chair, frustrated with trying to protect her financial interests. “Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation? You worked hard to get some financial stability after Dad died. Now you keep giving money away. You lent me money to resettle here after I closed the business.”

She sat across the table from him and covered his hand with hers. Her joking responses suddenly took a serious turn. “Hunter, you can get your debts paid without putting your entire life on hold. You know, the guilt you feel is completely unnecessary. No one blames you for what happened. I understand that you feel responsible to your father and me because we wanted so much to help you. But, if your father were here, he’d be the last to criticize you or to regret giving you the money. Please, please, let yourself be happy.”

“I’ll be happy when I’ve paid all my debts and returned your investment.”

She growled and punched his arm playfully. “You are so much like my father. Stubborn through and through.”

“Mmm. I think he passed that quality on to you, and that’s how I got it.”

“Okay, let’s go with that. Stop thinking like an accountant. Toads and Frogs is a wonderful place to put my money, and you know why?”

She required an answer. He looked up. “Why?”

“Because while money is a sometimes-you-win-sometimes-you-lose investment, love invested is always a win-win. Glenda is always there for me.” She put a hand to his face maternally. “You are a bean counter, darling. You have to start counting—I don’t know. Flowers. Stars.”

She patted his cheek and turned toward the kitchen. “You need a sandwich.” She disappeared and left him with her scary accounting.

Count flowers and stars. Good Lord.

By the time he had the rest of her paperwork organized, all the things he couldn’t fix at the moment he pushed to the back of his mind.

He decided the world was lucky Stella Bristol had chosen to invest in a yarn shop. Anything more serious and she could have undermined Wall Street in a week and a half.

By nightfall, he’d finished a Reuben sandwich, had agreed to fix a sticking cupboard door and was setting the water heater in the basement up a notch because the stairs were steep and his mother didn’t feel safe on them.

She provided him with a large envelope to put her documents in so he could take them home. “You’re sure you don’t want something more to eat before you go?”

“Thanks, but no. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

He had one foot on the porch when she said his name. He knew the tone. Reluctance overcome by the lioness-guarding-her-cub syndrome. This would have to do with Sandy. He’d been so close to escaping.

He stopped reticently and faced her. “Yeah?”

She put up both hands to ward off the protest she seemed to think was imminent. “I’m just worried and want what’s best for you, so I have to ask.”

How many times in his life had he heard her say that?

“You’re sure you’re right not to let Sandy help you with a little money? Especially since you won’t take help from me, and you gave Nate his money back.”

He was a hairsbreadth away from a primal scream. But he replied calmly, “It wasn’t a little money, it was thirty thousand dollars. And, who told you...?”

“Loretta and I talk.”

“That’s nice.” Great. All he needed was his mother and Sandy’s collaborating. “Mom, I’m not getting involved until I have my bills paid. Sandy does well on her own. She doesn’t need to be mixed up in this.” He kept going when his mother tried to interrupt him. “I know you and Loretta both have our best interests at heart, but, for now, anyway, Sandy and I are pretty much over. Just give up on whatever happily-ever-after scenario the two of you had going.”

His mother frowned.

“Mom, she refinanced her house to help me pay off my debts. I’m not letting her do that, so she’s mad at me.”

“Do you know that her husband just walked away when Addie was born? And that was after her father left them when she was just a teenager?”

“She told me. But, Mom it’s more complicated than just all the debris in my life. It’s her. Sandy doesn’t understand anything that isn’t part of her plan. Which seems to consist of putting a responsible man in her life because the others have flaked out on her.”

“And you’re not that man?”

“No. At least not now. And she’s an immediate kind of woman. She wants what she wants, and she doesn’t want to wait for it. Usually, I’m not a man to be talked over, ridden over or shoved over. Jennifer managed to do that to me when I wasn’t looking, but nobody’s going to do that to me again.”

“Hunter. You’re not comparing Sandy with Jennifer.”

He was now exhausted. “Of course not,” he said wearily. “But Sandy is pushy, and I’m in no mood to be pushed right now. Good night, Mom. I’ll run your numbers through the computer and let you know what comes up.”

Her voice followed him down her front walk. “Then how will you do the Clothes Closet opening together? It’s already been announced in the paper.”

Several bad words raced through his mind. “We’re adults,” he replied over his shoulder. “And neither one of us cares about us anymore. We’ll be able to focus on the project. Good night.”

Depression sought to pummel him as he drove home, but he fought it off. He would pay off his debts and start over. He figured getting square with the world would take him another five years. Thirty-nine wasn’t too old to pull his life together.

His apartment on Grand Avenue was dark and cool when he got in. He flipped on lights, then turned on the television in the small living room furnished with a brown tweed sofa and chair from his old place and a coffee table he’d gotten from Goodwill. He went into the kitchen to nuke a cup of coffee. The landlord had called the kitchen small and efficient, everything within easy reach, when he’d shown him the place. Hunter should have realized it was a warning that he’d always be slamming into a cupboard door he’d left open or banging his knee on a drawer. But the rent was reasonable, the other tenants pleasant and quiet. He could do this for five more years. He looked out his window to the lights on a freighter at anchor in the river and the nostalgia of early evening overtook him. Leaning against the window molding, he felt as though his stomach had caved in.

Five years was a long time to be lonely.