Mistletoe Bay (6 page)

“Tell me again how a game that has four quarters, each consisting of fifteen minutes, lasted for nearly three hours?” She had been thrilled that Sam's team had won, but it was nearly ten at night—way past the boys' bedtime.

Coop chuckled. “It has to do with Einstein's theory of relativity.”

She snorted and shifted Corey higher so she could take Chase's hand. The parking lot was full, and moving cars were everywhere. A lot of them were being driven by teenagers looking to celebrate the win.

“Which way did you park?” Coop didn't even sound out of breath, while she was desperately trying not to huff and puff. Corey wasn't that heavy.

“Over there.” She pointed to the right. “Did I thank you for taking the time and explaining the game to my boys?” Coop Armstrong was a very nice man. He not only had the patience of a saint, he hadn't yelled and screamed at Tucker when her son spilled half his hot chocolate all over his leg. He had calmly cleaned up as best he could in the bathroom, and then he had bought her son another cup of hot chocolate.

“Twice, but I don't know how much of it sank in.” Coop glanced down at Chase, who was holding her hand. “Do you know what a touchdown is now?”

“Yep.” Chase nearly tripped on the end of a blanket dragging on the ground. “And the kicker kicks, and the punter punts.”

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. That was one of the lessons Coop had taught her. Here she thought anytime a guy kicked the ball, he was just kicking. As it turned out sometimes he was punting it instead. You kick field goals, but you returned punts, and no, she had absolutely no idea what any of that meant. She was more confused now than when she and the boys had arrived three hours earlier.

“What are the guys in the black and white stripes that blow the whistles called?” questioned Coop.

“Refs,” answered Chase.

“Umps,” she replied. She still didn't see what the difference was; both guys were out on the field calling the shots and pointing out when someone made a mistake. Referees and umpires were the same thing.

Coop and Chase both rolled their eyes.

She shifted Corey's weight again and dug into her pocketbook, searching for the keys. It was probably Einstein's theory that her keys always disappeared inside her purse, no matter how big or small it was.

“Here, Jenni,” said Felicity as she stepped out from in between two pickup trucks, “I'll take him.” Felicity reached for Corey.

“Thanks.” Maybe now she'd be able to locate her keys. She took off the mittens and started to dig.

“Hello, Mr. Armstrong. Fancy meeting you here.” Felicity's grin was wide and knowing.

“It's Coop, remember?” Coop walked the remaining steps to Jenni's dark blue SUV. “You called me Coop at the snack stand earlier.”

“That's right, you were at the snack stand picking up three hot chocolates and two coffees.” Felicity smirked.

“You were standing there with a bunch of girls checking out the guys.” Coop smiled back.

Jenni shook her head as Coop and Felicity traded quips. She removed a bottle of water from her pocketbook and placed it on the hood of her car. Next came the travel-size box of wipes, tape measure, cell phone, and calendar. The keys still weren't there.

Jenni opened up the brown canvas bag and removed a bottle of moisturizer, a tube of hand cream, and three lip balms in assorted flavors. Next came a box of crayons, pens, and three notepads. A pair of boys' socks with dinosaurs on them, a toy catalog, three Christmas lightbulbs in various sizes, and a cooking spatula were added to the small mountain of items gathering on the hood of her SUV. Still no keys.

Felicity started to laugh, while Coop stared in awe at the pile of stuff Jenni had taken from her purse. “Jenni, check your coat pockets.”

“Why, I remember putting the keys in here somewhere.” She dug deeper and came up with a handful of bubble gum, Legos, and a butter knife.

“What's the knife for?” asked Coop.

“The glove compartment gets stuck sometimes.” Two AA batteries and a Hot Wheel were added to the pile.

“Check your pockets,” groaned Felicity, “before you get to the personal hygiene products.”

To save herself the embarrassment of hauling out half a dozen or so tampons, she reached into her coat pockets, just to prove Felicity wrong. She closed her eyes and groaned as her cold fingers wrapped around her keys.

“See . . .” Felicity's voice trailed off as Jenni quickly interrupted.

“If you say ‘I told you so,' you're walking home.” She started to scoop everything back into her pocketbook. She was only half joking, but she was embarrassed because Coop was standing there watching her empty out her pocketbook while holding her son Tucker. Tucker wasn't a lightweight. The kid could pack in the food, especially if it was sweet.

“I told you so,” quipped Felicity.

“Uh-oh.” Chase looked at his Aunt Felicity. “You're in trouble now.”

“Nah, and do you know why?” Felicity giggled. “Because I'm getting a ride home with Sam, not your mom.”

Jenni replaced the last item and unlocked the doors. “Does your mom know?”

“I called her about fifteen minutes ago. She said it was okay, as long as I was home by eleven.” Felicity rolled her eyes. “Can't you talk to her, Jenni? I'm the only kid in my class that has to be home that early. Some of the kids don't even have curfews.”

Jenni reached for Corey and strapped him into his car seat. He never even opened his eyes. “Sorry, hon, you know your mom and I have an agreement. I don't tell her how to raise you, she doesn't tell me how to raise the boys.”

Chase climbed into his spot between the two car seats and strapped himself in. Jenni closed the door and walked around to the other side of the car where Coop and Tucker stood waiting.

“But you can give her some advice—you know, about cutting the apron strings.” Felicity was nothing if not tenacious.

“Nope, I'll give her my opinion if she asks for it, and not before.” She reached up and took Tucker out of Coop's arms. The man smelled of fresh air and hot chocolate—a tempting combination. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Coop watched as she strapped Tucker into his seat. Tucker woke once, mumbled something that sounded like “holding,” and went back to sleep.

Jenni laughed softly. “Is that a football term?”

“Yes.”

“Great, it's bad enough I have to hear it all day and night from Sam, but now my nephews will be worshipping the pigskin.” Felicity pouted. “Tell Mom I'll be home later.”

“Will do.” Jenni watched as Felicity went and joined a bunch of other girls who all seemed to be waiting for the players.

“Mom,” called Chase.

“Yes?”

“Are we getting a pig?” Chase's voice held nothing but hope.

“No. Absolutely not.” She felt like elbowing Coop in the side when he started to chuckle.

“A pig would be neat, Mom. We can name him Wilbur, like in
Charlotte's Web.
” Chase was getting more excited by the minute.

“Pig?” Tucker yawned and stretched. “What pig, where?”

“Felicity said we're getting a pig, Tuck. It's going to have skin and all,” explained Chase.

“She did not. There is no pig. There will be no pig.” She felt like throttling Coop when his chuckles turned into a full-blown laugh. Visions of a potbellied pig snorting its way around Dorothy's immaculate kitchen and climbing the stairs on its piggy toes was enough to make her take up drinking. Did pigs even have toes?

“Why won't our pig have skin?” Tucker was fully awake now. “He has to have skin, or his guts will spill all over the floor.”

“Bojangles will like pig guts. If he eats crayons and Felicity's purple eye junk, he'll like guts.” Chase seemed to be calculating something in his little mind. “Mom, can pigs wear clothes? That way his guts won't drag on the ground.”

“They don't make pig clothes.” She tried to keep her voice at a nice, calm level. “We are not getting a pig—with or without its skin.” She closed the car door on the boys' protests.

“Do you want me to explain why a football is called a pigskin?” Coop seemed amused by the whole discussion.

“Don't you dare.” She already knew why. “Thanks again for everything.”

“You're welcome. I'll see if I can get a couple of contractors' names for you before that porch roof comes crashing down on your heads.”

“I'd appreciate it.” Coop Armstrong was a real nice guy. “Just make sure they aren't too squeamish. Tucker is a child who loves a good challenge.”

“Will do. Goodnight.” She could still hear Coop's chuckle as he headed for the other side of the parking lot.

She climbed into the car and tuned out the boys' argument that if they couldn't have a pig, a horse would do. Tonight she actually had had a good time. Coop was both fun and knowledgeable. He also seemed to enjoy himself with the boys. That was what she missed with Ken—the togetherness.

Being a family. A complete family.

Damn it, Ken, why did you have to try to save Gloria? Weren't we important? Didn't you even think about me or the boys?
One of the chemists in the lab who had made it out that fateful day had told her that Ken died a hero, trying to save Gloria Nesbitt, the sixty-year-old woman who was the head of the lab.

A dead hero didn't take his sons to football games, or put together bicycles, or get to play Santa on snowy Christmas Eves. He didn't fix the broken faucet in the bathroom, or hold her when she needed to be held, and he didn't keep her bed warm at night.

She ducked her head and quickly wiped away the tears that had filled her eyes. She didn't want the boys to see her cry. They were so happy and young. They rarely thought or asked about their father.

Jenni put the SUV in gear, focused her mind on driving, and slowly made her way out of the jammed parking lot. She had to get her family home safely.

 

 

Coop drove up the long gravel drive to the Wright house. He kept an eye out for the boys as he parked in front of the porch steps. They were known to run right out in front of him, dangle from tree branches, or plan sneak attacks up on the porch. Monday afternoon, and all was quiet. Too quiet. On a beautiful fall day, with the sun shining, Tucker and Corey should be out causing trouble.

He hoped they hadn't gotten sick from staying out in the cold Friday night. Jenni seemed to have had them bundled up pretty good the other night, but what did he know about little kids and the sniffles? If he believed all the television commercials, kids were always sick with hacking, coughing, and raging fevers that required midnight runs to the hospital in torrential downpours when the roads had been washed out.

The good news was that it hadn't rained all weekend, so there were no washed-out roads, but the bad news was that Bojangles hadn't greeted him yet. Where was the dog? There were two doggie bones in his jacket pocket with the mutt's name on them.

He grabbed his clipboard and the three boxes for the Mistletoe Bay Company. One of the boxes was heavy, a good forty pounds, while the other two were on the light side. He piled the lighter ones on top and carried them up the rickety porch steps. One of these days his foot was going through one of the wooden steps. If he was lucky, it would break only in one or two places.

His leg, not the step.

The noise coming from inside the house reached his ears before he got to the front door. Bojangles was barking his fool head off, and the boys were shouting and laughing. Dorothy was telling Tucker to do something, but Coop couldn't make out the words.

He placed the boxes on the porch. Although the rest of the Halloween decorations were still up, the deranged panda bear was AWOL. The rocking chair sat empty except for a leaf or two stuck in what he still hoped was ketchup and not dried blood. He reached up and knocked on the door. He had learned on his first delivery and pickup that the doorbell no longer worked. Usually the boys would run in and tell Dorothy he was here, or their grandmother already would be outside looking for them.

A moment later, no one had answered the door. He could still hear the shouting and laughing being punctuated by the dog's bark. He raised his hand and knocked harder.

Still no answer.

Wild thoughts went through his mind. He could picture Tucker tying up Dorothy by her apron strings and holding her hostage for cookies or the rest of his Halloween candy. Coop pressed his face against one of the sidelight windows on either side of the door. Between a lacy curtain and the wavy original glass, he couldn't see anything or anybody.

He tried the doorknob, and it twisted in his hand. He pushed the door open a couple of inches and yelled, “Dorothy? Jenni?”

“Down here” and “help” reached his ears. He was pretty sure it was Dorothy's voice. He stepped into the house and closed the door. The pounding of feet on the basement steps told him where “down here” was. He hurried into the kitchen, where the basement door stood ajar.

Corey stood on the top step grinning at him. “Hi, Mr. Brown.” Corey was soaking wet. Somewhere below, Dorothy was still yelling for help.

He picked up Corey and stood him in the kitchen. “Stay right here. Don't move.” Coop hurried down the steps.

As basements went, the Wrights was what he would classify as normal. Old fieldstone walls that had been patched periodically over the decades. Cracked and painted concrete covered most of the floor. An entire construction site's worth of yellow Tonka trucks and gravel took up the majority of the space.