Ruth Herne - Made to Order Family

Brooks stiffened at the mention of Rita’s late husband, a man who’d engineered a well-disguised Ponzi scheme that bilked money from innocent investors, then killed himself rather than face charges, leaving Rita more baggage than anyone should have to handle. Ever.

Rita didn’t notice his reaction. As her finger traced the sweep of the beautiful sideboard, she lifted her shoulders. “With Brett and Liv both teenagers, they’ll be gone before you know it. Plenty of time for change coming.”

Brooks wiped his hands on a tack rag, stood and moved to the sink to wash up, weighing her words. Rita had learned to embrace change out of necessity, a brave move for a woman alone, a single mother to boot.

Whereas he’d run fast and hard, disappearing into oblivion when the going got tough. Polar opposites to the max.

He stretched his shoulders, rolling the joints to ease the stiffening that accompanied detail work. “So. What are we quitting?”

“Mindless work a trained monkey could do,” Rita groused.

“Trained monkeys are scarce hereabouts.” He poured coffee, eyed the density, scowled and added cream. “We could import some.”

“There’s little imagination or thought that goes into industrial baking,” Rita expounded, leaning against a sturdy, unfinished logged bedstead. Her blue jeans, thin and baggy, were standard wear in the bakery. “Every cake is like every other, don’t even think you can special order a combination that isn’t in the book because you can’t, and the custard filling tastes like chemical waste.”

“It sells.”

“Because there are no alternatives,” she spouted, eyes flashing. “If the cheesecake cracks, they dummy it with extra topping and sell it anyway, at full price.” Her voice rose. “And the crème horns? The filling comes in a box. You measure out x, add y and z and voilà! White crème filling.”

“There’s another way?” She ignored the humor in his tone. Didn’t note the lift to his brow, the hint of a smile.

“The right way. The way it should be done, would be done if I were running the place.” Arching a dark brow that contrasted with her light hair and eyes, she played her trump card. “To top it all off? Add insult to injury?”

He fought a grin and nodded, the gesture inviting her to continue.

“The cannoli filling comes from a can.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

The earnestness of her expression made him lose constraint. He grinned. “Who’d have thought?”

Uh-oh. The grin made her huffy. She set her tea on his workbench with an uncharacteristic thump. “Never mind, Brooks. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Why did you?”

“I…” His question caught her off guard. She fingered the collar of her knit shirt, nonplussed, her gaze searching his.

Mick hid a chuckle beneath a cough.

Brooks met her look, unflinching, rock solid. “Reet?”

The telltale blush traveled her throat, her cheeks. She turned toward the door. He stilled her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Open your own place. You’ve talked of it often enough.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she corrected him. “I’ve done my homework on this. I’ve scoped out costs versus income, possible locations, equipment requirements, licenses, refurbishing. The start-up costs are prohibitive and no lending institution worth its salt is going to front a loan to a drunk with a pile of bills, three kids and no money.”

“What have you got to lose by filling out the applications, trying every angle?”

“Besides my self-respect and my sobriety?” She stared beyond his shoulder, gnawed her lip and drew her gaze back to his. “Rejection scares me. A lot.”

Her admission didn’t surprise Brooks. Rita’s lack of self-esteem was a big part of what had pushed her into the alcoholic abyss that almost tore apart her family. Thankfully her sister-in-law Sarah had stepped in to take charge of the kids before Rita sought recovery the previous spring. Otherwise they’d have been wrenched apart and put in foster homes, another family gone bad.

But that hadn’t happened. Instead the kids had spent the summer working on Sarah’s sheep farm while Rita faced her demons and won.

God’s hand at work. Brooks might never step foot into a church, but he recognized God’s might and power in this particular situation. And despite his nonattendance, Brooks knew his beliefs to be as strong and ardent as most churchgoers, probably more than some. He served one God, one Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth. He just handled it a bit differently from everyone else on the planet.

Singular. Unfettered. Independent.

He prayed one-on-one, lived alone and ran his own business with no one to answer to.

Ordered. Structured. Organized to the max.

The loner profile worked for him, offering a shield of protection that he’d erected nearly a dozen years back. So far, so good. But not so easy when Rita came around. Something about her heightened his senses, awakening possibilities he’d buried long ago.

But he hadn’t served as a Delta commander in the army for nothing. Brooks was adept at identifying and administrating, the sorting techniques intrinsic to success in battle. How weird was it that he needed those skills around Rita?

He dipped his chin and gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. “Things are different now. You’re stronger. You’ve had over a year without a lapse of sobriety, you’ve taken a job that’s helped strengthen your résumé when you do apply for bakery funding and I expect you’ve learned a thing or two about commercial baking in the process.”

“A lot, actually.”

“Then put that knowledge to good use. Draw up a prospectus.”

“I already did,” she admitted.

Brooks grinned. “Good girl. Now fill out some applications. Give it a shot. You’ve got a lot of people behind you, believing in you. You can do this.”

Could she, Rita wondered? At that moment her answer was yes, Brooks’ words bolstering her confidence.

Brooks Harriman didn’t blow sunshine carelessly. Not now, not ever. He shot straight from the hip, his analysis unjaded and unbiased. That honesty won him respect in their tight-knit community, a precious commodity in the North County. In an area that courted winter seven months of the year, stoicism was held in high regard.

But tiny spring leaves dappled the afternoon sun with dancing shadow, their Kelly-green newness refreshing. Rita clutched her tea with one hand while the other fingered the one-year chip in her pocket. “You really think I can do this?”

His expression defined confidence. “I know you can do this. And I’ll be glad to help with any and all refurbishing when you get approval and pick a site.”

“There’s a really sweet store available in Canton,” Rita told him. The admission brought heat to her cheeks, as if she’d done something wrong in checking things out, having the audacity to believe in herself.

She gave herself an inward shake, burying the insecurities that challenged her faith in God and herself.

Change the things you can….

The words buoyed her in their simplicity. Maybe she could do this.

Brooks leaned in, the scent of wood shavings and oil-based paint tickling her nose, playing havoc with her thoughts. “Coffee tonight, after Brett’s game?”

Brett’s travel team had a game in Canton tonight, and while Brooks wasn’t a big fan of Skeeter’s gymnastics performances and the accompanying histrionics, he enjoyed watching Brett’s soccer matches.

“No.”

“Tea, then?”

His teasing tone inspired a smile and a softer response. “I can’t. I’ve got to get Brett and Skeeter home. Spring games on school nights are always a killer.”

“Oh. Of course.” Brooks replied as if he understood the time frame, but he didn’t. Not really. Kid bedtimes were something he’d never had to deal with, thanks to his brother.

She walked to the door, sure-footed, more poised and confident than she’d been last summer. Back then a confrontation like this would have sent her into duck-and-cover mode. Not anymore.

She was doing well. She had her first-year chip, the bronze medallion inscribed with the sacred words of sobriety, The Serenity Prayer.

Brooks lived by that prayer, a solid credo. Over a decade ago he’d recognized what he couldn’t change, so he grasped the courage to change what he could, his location. He’d come north to start anew, and he had.

Thoughts of Baltimore invaded the peaceful afternoon. His parents. His brother. Amy and her deception.

Brooks shoved them aside. He’d left the Inner Harbor because he had no choice, not after what they’d done. His faith, his focus and his freedom had been at stake, three concepts he held dear.

Family?

Um…not so much. Not since he realized that his fiancée was pregnant with his brother’s child. While Brooks had been commanding men in the desert sands of Iraq, Amy and Paul had trysted in Maryland. Instead of being the model American family Brooks held in his heart, the Harrimans had been reduced to a Jerry Springer episode.

When Rita was around, a whisper of the man he’d been flickered to life. Captain Brooks Harriman, a soldier, a fighter, a special operative trained to make the most of a given situation.

His skills failed him in Baltimore. He’d been unable to separate the physical from the emotional, and had let the combination tumble him into the dark pit of alcoholism, until Sgt. Greg Callahan of the Baltimore Police Department dragged him up and out of the gutter, then became his AA sponsor.

Callahan’s example as a sponsor and a man inspired Brooks. And he’d been dry for nearly a dozen years. At forty-two, he’d been spinning his wheels for a long time.

Too long, Brooks decided, watching Rita climb into her car, her hair bright with afternoon sun. Christ had promised life to the full, his words giving hope to gathered throngs.

When Rita was around, the sweet scent of cinnamon-soaked apples teasing his senses, that fullness seemed possible. Plausible. Add three kids to the mix…

Brooks passed a hand along the nape of his neck as Rita’s car curved north. Her kids couldn’t afford any more mistakes. Neither could she. But life without chances wasn’t really life, and right now Brooks was ready to reach for the gold ring he’d missed twelve years before. Now if he could just convince Rita…

A slight smile tugged his lips. He’d managed to oversee covert operations, lead men into battle and engineer the behind-the-scenes cyber breakdown of Iraqi military software, disabling their computerized navigation systems. One sweet, thirty-eight year old single mother shouldn’t be all that hard. Right?

“I hate those shoes.” Skeeter’s tone sounded like Rita’s had earlier. Rita grimaced, recognizing the parallel. “They’re ugly.”

“Then wear your sneakers,” Rita counseled. “The ones with Strawberry Shortcake are cute.”

“For babies.” Skeeter stuck out her lower lip, then tossed her head, pigtails bouncing. “I’m not going.”

Rita cut her off. She squatted and locked gazes. “You have five minutes to get ready for Brett’s game. If you don’t, you’ll lose TV privileges for the rest of the week. That’s five long days, Skeets.” Rising, she eyed the girl. “It’s up to you.”

In the old days she’d have wheedled the girl’s cooperation, trying to assuage the guilt of Tom’s crimes. She’d worked double time to make it up to them, be the nicest mom she could be, bending backward until she’d collapsed in an alcoholic heap. Big mistake.