Annabelle's Angel (2 page)

“So do I but mostly in the spring.” At her blank stare, he said, “That's when soccer season doesn't conflict with football.”

By this time, they'd entered the dining room. Until that moment, Rick hadn't thought to wonder how seven kids and one grandmother fit around the standard four-or-six person table.

But theirs was far from ordinary. It was a huge table, as long as one from a church hall, made of carved, polished and somewhat scarred wood. It made him think of old-fashioned floor length dresses and stringing cranberries and popped corn for the Christmas tree.

The snow angel boy—Mattie—yelled, “I'm sitting next to the coach!” all the while jumping up in the air and clapping his hands.

“No, you're not. Why should it be you? He should sit with me and Liam.” Joe gave Mattie a dark, narrow-eyed glare.

“He should sit next to Annabelle. And someone else can sit on his other side and someone else can be across the table.” This was uttered by a tall teen who looked a lot like Annabelle, other than the hair in her face.

Rick glanced at Annabelle.

She'd be gorgeous if she'd just tuck some of that glossy blond blanket behind her ear.

He slid into the chair indicated and watched as each child brought in a dish or serving platter.

The youngest, a tiny thing who reminded him of Cindy-Loo-Who, brought butter and condiments.

“Annabelle baked the bread,” the middle girl told him. “She says it's healthier if it's homemade—no chemicals or anything unnatural.”

“Except for Mattie.” The other of the younger boys climbed on the chair next to Rick. “We're keeping him gluten free 'til we know if he's 'lergic.”

“I see.” He looked into unblinking brown eyes. “What's gluten?”

“It's what holds bread together. And sometimes it makes people sick. But not everybody. It prolly won't make you sick.”

“No. Probably not.” Rick grinned, impressed. The kid couldn't be more than eight.

Once again, Annabelle's face had turned red. “I'm sure Mr. Stockton doesn't want to hear about all our worries.”

The tiniest one tugged Annabelle's sweater. “Who'th Mr. Thock-the-man?”

No one laughed, and Rick had to fight his grin into hiding. “That's me. But I think everyone should call me Rick.”

He tried to get Annabelle to look at him, but she was too busy rearranging her silverware.

“You don't know how much I appreciate this, Miss Archer. I haven't had homemade bread since my last Christmas with my family, and that was a long time ago. My grandmother made it.” He glanced around. “Speaking of grandmothers...”

“Sometimes Grandma doesn't come down for dinner,” Liam explained. “We'll take her some soup up in a while.”

Joe smiled at Rick. “It's my turn, but do you want to say grace?”

“Uh, sure, if you don't mind?” He directed the question at Annabelle.

For an answer, she folded her hands, so he thanked God for the food and the family who had invited him to share it.

One thing he couldn't figure out. Every time Annabelle's arm brushed him, or he caught sight of her hands as she ate, something stirred inside. He wasn't sure what it was, other than disturbing. And she kept offering him food. Of course, there was nothing wrong with a hostess offering her guest food, but this guest had a problem telling her no. So he ended up taking everything and eating far more than he really wanted. At this rate, he wouldn't have an inch of room left for any of those cookies.

Better to think about cookies than try to figure out what about this woman disturbed him so much.

 

 

 

 

2

 

Rick Stockton was sitting in her dining room, eating food she'd cooked, almost like she'd been dreaming for the last two years it would happen. Except he had just compared her to his grandmother.

So much for dreams coming true.

She stood, reaching for her untouched soup bowl. “I'll take this up to Grandma right now.” She gave Rick an apologetic half-glance. “Dinner is a little late tonight, and she likes to keep to her schedule.”

“I'll take it. It's my turn, anyway.” Faith, who had never before “remembered” it was her turn to deal with Grandma, waved Annabelle to sit. “You stay and talk to Rick.”

Annabelle gawked at her sister until she disappeared up the oak staircase. Then she turned, caught sight of an entire tableful of people staring at her, and fumbled for a change of subject. “Who won?”

“The other team.” Liam shrugged. “It's OK, though. We're still in second place. And we still have the best coach.”

“Oh, come on, now,” Rick protested.

Annabelle passed him the bread again. “The boys are always telling me about your great strategies.”

He shrugged, slathering butter onto the first slice. “I try to play up their strengths.”

Joe and Mattie had their heads together, giggling.

Brody was daydreaming as he rolled buttered peas in mashed potatoes with sticky fingers, and Victoria leaned against Annabelle's side so hard she almost shoved her off her chair.

“Liam and Joe is strong,” she said.

“
Are
strong,” Annabelle corrected.

Rick stared at the little girl. “She understood? I mean, she got that from my saying their strengths?”

“Sure, she did.” Annabelle grinned at Victoria. “Our Torie's good at words.”

“I guess she is.” Rick nodded.

“We're all good at something.” Brody spoke through a mouthful of potatoes and peas. “I'm good at stories and pictures. Tori remembers words, and Faith is good at dancing and boys. Joe likes math and trains and running, and Liam wants to be an actor. And Matt's good at people.”

“People, huh?” Rick chuckled.

“Yeah, and schemes. You gotta be careful about Mattie.”

Rick grinned. “Gotcha. What is Annabelle good at? Besides cooking and baking, I mean.”

In the second of silence that followed, Annabelle died at least three times. Then the other five started talking at once, so fast she didn't hear a word they said. She only knew they left Rick laughing.

“That's a lot to be good at,” he said, slanting Annabelle a look she couldn't interpret. “Maybe I should make a list.”

“Don't bother. They exaggerate.” Boy that sounded rude, even to her own ears. “But I'm glad you like the food. Would you like anything else?” She backpedaled.

He took small helpings of everything, including another slice of bread.

Annabelle decided she'd make two loaves the next game night and then mentally jeered at herself. Unless he was desperate for another home-cooked meal—and he might be—he'd be sure to avoid this situation again.

Still, two loaves wouldn't be a bad idea.

 

~*~

 

Rick went to bed remembering the taste of homemade bread and the sparkle of old-fashioned ornaments tied to a real pine garland wound around a bannister. He dreamed of making snow angels and of children laughing and trying to catch a glimpse of a woman whose face he couldn't see. He woke thinking he'd scheduled the next practice too far in the future for his taste.

But Wednesday evening finally came, and he offered to pick up the Archer boys again. He also got to their house fifteen minutes before he'd promised.

The house had to be around a hundred years old, a good track record for a home in Southern California, and the old, polished wood inside suited the age of it. Outside, gardens that would grow even lusher come spring and an oak that retained most of its leaves finished off the slightly old-fashioned air of the place.

He strolled up the walk, his hands in his pockets, desperate to hide the hurry that got him there so early. As he passed under a branch of oak, he felt something—a rush of something—flowing over his head and trickling under his jacket collar.

"What?" He slapped at the back of his neck, and his hand came away with a sheen of glitter clinging to his palm.

Giggles made him look up.

The three youngest were stretched on the branch.

Rick batted at his neck again and tried to scowl. "What was that?"

"Sugar.” Mattie flipped off the branch, swinging from his hands for a moment before dropping to the ground.

"You want to tell me why you poured sugar on me?"

"To turn you into a snow angel."

"He'th already a th'now angel." Victoria watched Brody follow Matt's example. Then she held out her arms to Rick. "Help me down, pwease."

She tumbled out of the tree, and he barely managed to catch her before she hit the dry grass. When he set her on her feet, she grabbed his hand.

It felt—nice. He'd held children's hands before, but that had been entirely different. This was—trust. Liking. Simple and human and humbling. He hadn't had much connection with small girls. Even in sports, he tended to coach the older ages, but he found Victoria's actions endearing.

She tugged him up the walk, to the front door this time. “Grandma wants to thee you.”

He stopped so fast one of the boys ran into him from behind.

“Your grandmother?” Yeah, who else would she be talking about? “I can just wait out here until Joe and Liam come.”

“No, you can't. Grandma thaid.” And the tiny child dragged him up the steps, across the porch, and into the house, and he could do nothing to resist her.

He didn't know what he anticipated—nothing terrible, really. How could a monster produce such a wonderful family? But she still exceeded his expectations. But this was no monster. Mrs. Archer was a gentle-faced woman, and Rick couldn't imagine her anywhere but with a gaggle of adoring grandchildren around her.

“So you're the boys' coach.” Her emphasis on the word
you're
made his knees quake a bit. So did the gleam in her eye, the almost unlined face, and almost all blonde hair. “They think you're absolutely wonderful.”

“Grandma.” Joe came into the living room and plopped onto the couch next to her. “But he's a great coach.”

“Of course he is. The church would never pay him if he were no good.” She nodded as if she'd just won an argument.

“Um, they don't pay me.” Rick managed to hide his smile. “It's a volunteer position.”

“Seriously?” Joe, who'd bent over to pull on his socks, straightened. “You do all this for free?”

“Sure.” Rick shrugged. “Why not?”

“I don't know. It just takes a lot of time.”

It did. Rick liked the amount it took. Because what did he have otherwise? Some friends from the county engineer's office who didn't understand his reluctance to go partying? Distant relatives back in Chicago who still tended to view him and his parents as black sheep? Parents who actually acted like said black sheep, and were hiding out somewhere in Mexico, last he'd heard?

The kids he coached were his family.

Funny he'd never realized that before.

Here he thought he was doing something noble and giving and admirable, and he was just feeding his own needs.

“Where's Liam?” he asked. “We need to get going.” Despite the fact that they still had plenty of time.

“Getting ready.”

He nodded, crossed his hands in front of him, and rocked heel to toe.

Victoria grinned up at him. “Hey, Grandma, did you know Mr. Thock-the-man is a th'now angel?”

“Is he? That's nice, dear.”

Was he? Well, from the feel of it, he probably still had half a cup of sugar filtering down his back.

Annabelle came through from the hallway. “OK, who spilled sugar all over the kitchen?”

Mattie and Brody burst into laughter, and Victoria bent her head. “Thorry, Annabelle.”

“Come help me clean up, all right?” She held out her hand, and Victoria took it.

Rick felt a twinge of jealousy. Whose hand he wanted to be holding right then, he didn't know, but he wanted someone's.

“What were you doing with the sugar, anyway?”

“Making th'now angels.”

Rick watched them go, grinning as the two younger boys collapsed on the floor, unable to stand under their laughter.

“Maybe someday you'll explain?” But the kids' grandmother only sounded amused, not angry.

Rick turned. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Archer. I think they were playing a trick on me.”

“Really?”

Before he was forced to go into more detail, Liam pounded down the stairs. “Never fear, for I am here.” He looked around, stepped over Brody's leg, and headed for the front door. “What are you all waiting for? Let's go.”

They went.

Rick spent most of the drive laughing at the boys' antics, his thoughts taken up by the elusive and alluring Annabelle.

When had she become important?

As he drove the two home Rick expected a lot of celebrating, rough-housing, general teenaged insanity. Instead, he got a few subdued agreements to his praises.

Finally, looking much younger than his fifteen years, Liam poked his brother. “Ask him.”

“I'm gonna.”

“Ask him
now
.”

Rick stopped at a light and gave Joe a glower, pretending severity. “So ask,” he said and grinned. “Come on, Joe. You know you can ask me.”

The tip of Joe's dirty sports shoe dug into the car mat. “The thing is—”

“Yes?”

“It's Annabelle.”

At first, Rick thought the kid was about to ask him to date his sister, and a huge part of his heart leaped to attention and hollered, “Yes!” Then his ears started working again, and he heard something about how Annabelle always organized all the Christmas gifts for the Archer kids, and while they each managed to get her something little, she never had the amount or the kinds of gifts to open that the rest did.

“Even Grandma gets more presents than Annabelle,” Liam said. “And no one ever noticed until last year.”

“Yeah, Christmas morning, when it was too late.”