Ruth Herne - Made to Order Family

“I’ll guarantee you one hundred percent know what Tom did.”

“True enough,” Brooks acknowledged, considering. Tom’s crimes had affected scores of local people. Despite its widespread geography, St. Lawrence County’s population zones were centered in the towns and cities dotting Route 11, and big news like Tom Slocum’s embezzlements made a notable splash in the headlines. With those numbers, everyone either knew or was related to someone affected by Tom’s avarice.

The lack of insurance and the heavily mortgaged house had kept Rita right there in the midst of it all, her options limited by lack of finance and a downturn in the housing market, two tough smackdowns on top of the humiliation and grief. Her three kids lost their father, had to deal with the aftermath of his crimes and then watched their mother pitch downhill in the throes of alcoholism.

More than once he wished he could get his hands on Tom Slocum, give him the thrashing he so deeply deserved. What kind of man disregards his wife, his kids, to service his own greedy need? “Hey.”

Brooks shifted his jaw and his gaze. “Hmm?”

“I lost you.”

“Must be contagious.”

“I guess. Anyway, about the window? When should we do it?”

“Mondays are best. Weekends are too crazy to be pulling things out, playing with positioning and all that. This Monday maybe?”

“I’d have to bring Skeets,” she warned.

“I’ll alert the authorities. The police chief’s right across the way and our three meager jail cells get precious little use. We’ll be fine.”

“Brooks.”

He grinned.

“She’s not that bad.”

She was, and then some, but Brooks was a smart man. He had no intention of getting into the discussion now. He nodded toward Brett as he trotted off the field. “Fine game.”

Brett shrugged, miffed by the loss. “Should have won it. We overkilled at the end and left them open.”

“Recognizing that, you won’t let it happen again.”

“Exactly.” Brett smiled his appreciation of Brooks’ confidence.

“And you’ve developed a great left feint,” Brooks went on. “The feint, followed by the fast feet, then dodge right… Well practiced. Great move.”

Brett’s smile deepened to a grin. “You played?”

Brooks shook his head. “I’m a baseball man. Not too many played soccer back in my day, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I was born with a bat and ball in hand, according to my mother.”

Brett’s expression changed. “Were you named for Brooks Robinson?”

“Good connection,” Brooks observed.

Rita noted his expression, a mix of surprise and chagrin.

“Not too many know that around here, but yes. My dad was an Orioles fan.”

“Was? Oh. Sorry you lost him.” Brett’s look smacked of apology for bringing up a sore subject.

Brooks clapped a hand to the back of his head, bemused. Rita studied him, his reactions, his look. He drew a deep breath, exhaled and directed his answer to Brett. “He’s not dead. I should have said is a big O’s fan. We went to every Orioles game we could when I was a kid.”

Another little tidbit of a past Brooks never talked about. Interesting, thought Rita.

“Mom!” Skeeter’s pugnacious demand put a quick stop to her mental wanderings. The seven-year-old stomped their way, rude and discourteous. “I’ve been waiting forever and I’m cold and hungry and my brown crayon broke and I can’t color a stupid tree without a brown crayon. What’s taking so long? Stop talking and take me home. I hate it when you take so long!”

“Skeeter—”

Skeeter stomped her foot again, her normally cute features twisted.

Brooks took no pains to hide his assessment. He nodded Rita’s way, ignored Skeeter, and said, “I’ll see you soon, Reet. Brett, good game.”

“Thanks, Mr. Harriman.”

Rita started to stumble through a goodbye. Another foot stomp dragged her attention back to Skeeter as Brooks walked toward his truck.

Before her stood one very good reason why she couldn’t entertain thoughts of a relationship. Not now. Probably not ever, at least not while she had to deal with Hurricane Skeeter on a daily basis.

Brett and Liv were old enough to appreciate the relative peace of Rita’s sobriety and their current existence. Oh, she was still paying the price for stupidity, but things were better between them. But Skeeter…

Not so much.

Frustrated, Rita headed toward the car at a quick clip, Skeeter following, her feet clomping in the cold, wet grass.

Which meant her shoes would still be wet for school tomorrow.

Another day, another confrontation.

Great.

Rita sank into the comfy recliner, put her feet up and leaned her head back, relieved to call it a day. Had she really crawled out of bed eighteen hours ago, her 5:00 a.m. bakery start a distant memory now?

Liv poked her head around the corner. “Sitting down again?”

Rita laughed.

Liv took a seat across from her, her glance taking in the time. “Long day.”

“For you, too.”

Liv shrugged. “I got to spend my evening watching two cute kids, neither of whom yelled or screamed or stomped their feet.” She jerked her head toward the upstairs, where Skeeter lay sleeping. “Got my homework done, studied for a chem test and watched cable, all while getting paid.”

“Nice gig.”

“It was.” Liv stood and stretched, the day catching up with her. “But as much fun as it is watching the Bauers’ kids from time to time, I want to get a real job.”

Rita raised a brow. “What about sports? Running? After-school activities?”

“Lots of people juggle both,” Liv answered. She rubbed her eyes, stretched once more and shrugged. “Something to think about. I hate making you chauffeur me around more than you already do, though. I know that’s tough.”

“It’s no biggie, Liv. I’m your mom. That’s what I do.”

“But with our schedules all so different, it’s not easy,” Liv argued. “I just don’t want to make things tougher.”

Rita hesitated. Was Liv weighing this choice so heavily because she was afraid Rita would cave under pressure? She stood and hugged Liv’s shoulder. “If you’re ready for that step of independence, take it, kiddo. Seriously. You’ll be sixteen in less than a year and then you can drive yourself places, at least some of the time. And you can become my part-time cabbie, tote your brother and sister all over for me.”

Liv mock-scowled. “Great.”

Rita grinned. “This could be a total win-win. I’m one hundred percent okay with that.”

Liv’s sigh of relief told Rita she’d nudged open a door for her daughter, curtailing her concerns.

Rita knew there were times when Brett and Liv held back, fear dogging their choices. Neither one wanted to be a catalyst in pushing her over an unseen edge, resulting in a fall off the wagon. With her one-year medallion safely tucked in her pocket, she wasn’t quite as concerned as she used to be.

One day at a time. Sound advice.

“I’m heading to bed, Mom. You’re off tomorrow?”

“Yes. Since it’s my Saturday to work, I’ve got tomorrow to kick up my heels. Shop. Visit the spa. Do lunch.”

Liv laughed. They both knew that Rita’s scheduled day off meant playing catch-up on all the stuff back-burnered during the other six days of the week. Cleaning, laundry, shopping, errands, banking. The short hours between Skeeter’s morning bus and afternoon bus were crammed full of tasks and chores needed to maintain some small vestige of normalcy.

And she just might outline her prospectus, push things forward. If she could hurdle this cycle of fear, of rejection, she could possibly plant herself into the dream job she’d hoped and planned for.

An image of the storefront in Canton filled her brain, her creative side painting, trimming and polishing the scarred space into something warm, cozy and inviting, a respite from the long days of winter and the heat of the summer. A place to buy amazing pastries, cakes and cookies.

Did she dare put her mind to the test tomorrow? Give it a shot?

She yawned and realized she was too tired to make that decision now, but tomorrow…

Liv interrupted her musings. “Be sure to treat yourself to a nice massage once your nails are done.”

Rita almost sighed. The very idea of a relaxing massage sounded absolutely wonderful and totally impossible. “I’ve decided pampering is overrated.”

“And probably detrimental to womankind as a whole,” Liv agreed. She hugged Rita one more time, understanding. “’Night, Mom.”

“Good night, honey.”

Rita turned out the lights as Liv’s footsteps faded, the deepening shadows peaceful and quiet, a perfect contemplative time for prayerful thought and consideration.

Skeeter had settled down once they got home, probably too tired to battle it out. Rita hoped she’d wake in the morning in good humor, find something in her drawers that tickled her fancy, choose to wear the dry shoes they’d left at home tonight, have breakfast and get on the bus all smiles, like most seven-year-olds.

Then return home tomorrow afternoon the same way.

Her gaze strayed to the kitchen where her computer lay dormant, its silence commanding attention.

Change the things you can…

Once Skeets was on the bus, Rita was tossing in the first load of laundry, starting the dishwasher and writing a prospectus. Once done, she’d have Brooks read it over, see if she’d covered all the bases. And then, applications.

Yeah, she could get knocked around emotionally, always a dicey thing for a recovering alcoholic. The chances of procuring the loan were slim.

But the chances went from slim to none if she did nothing, and that wasn’t acceptable. Not anymore. She’d gotten braver and bolder in the past year. High time she took a chance. With her strengthening faith and the support of AA, she could take this step forward.

Fingering the bronze chip in her pocket, she nodded as she climbed the stairs. One day at a time.

The metallic crash yanked Brooks from his bed later that night. Battle ready, one hand grabbed a weapon resembling a worn kitchen broom while the other sought the corner of the closed Venetian blind, his gaze searching the night.

A flash of red-gold skirted the pavement, enough to tell Brooks he’d been undermined by a four-footed varmint with a penchant for homemade mac and cheese.

Again.

He barreled toward the door wishing he’d remembered to turn the heat on after Brett’s soccer game.

No.

Huffing against the cold, he grabbed the first thing his fingers hit, an old Baltimore Oriole’s afghan. He yanked it around his shoulders and headed out the door, to no avail. Like previous times, the minute the door handle clicked left, the dog disappeared, obviously faster and smarter than Brooks.

Which didn’t take much at 3:00 a.m.

Strewed garbage lay ankle deep across his small yard.

He bit back useless words, shook a fist, then danced sideways on the cold step, the chill of his feet knife-blading up, his outside thermometer reading twenty-nine degrees.

Brr…

And since his apartment wasn’t much better, his living room offered little reprieve. Disgruntled, Brooks finagled a light, cranked the thermostat right, tugged on sweats and tried not to be upset that some scruffy dog had once again bested a decorated war veteran.

The drawer full of military medals offered small comfort as Brooks cleaned a frosted yard littered with disgusting debris. Why him? Why now? What was it about this garbage that drew the mutt repeatedly?