Small-Town Moms (4 page)

C
lint shifted his weight on the chair so he could look over his shoulder and see the clock hanging above his refrigerator. It was midafternoon on Monday and he still had a good, long hour before he needed to pick up Lilly from school. The minutes were dragging. After dinner yesterday, Mrs. Hargrove had suggested he and Maegan get together and talk about each other's parenting styles so they could think about Lilly's future more objectively.

That's what they were doing now and, five minutes into it, it was a disaster.

It had sounded so civilized when Mrs. Hargrove mentioned the conversation. But here they were, both leaning their elbows on the kitchen table and avoiding even looking at each other. Clint drummed his fingers lightly on the scarred wood and wished he could remember some reassuring stories from his childhood that showed he had parenting potential. When he couldn't do that, he wished he was sitting someplace else, maybe outside in the barn with the horses. Or even with the chickens.

He realized he didn't want anyone to know much
about his past, especially not a woman whose opinion of him was beginning to matter. But he could hardly plead the Fifth without looking guilty. He glanced over at Maegan and wondered if she had noticed he'd pressed the shirt he was wearing. Ironing wasn't on top of the priority list for most bachelor ranchers, at least not on a day when they didn't even leave their places.

He had been worried that the white dress shirt might seem too formal until he'd opened his door and saw that Maegan had shown up in the same maroon suit she'd worn to church. She could have been going to a bank to apply for a loan instead of sitting down with a friend to discuss things. He didn't want that to offend him, but it did a little. Then he heard the shrill whistle of his kettle.

He jumped up and went to the stove.

Maegan had said yesterday that she liked tea and this morning he'd pulled his mother's old teapot out of the back cupboard and washed it up so it was ready to use. He hoped the beverage would relax her. He'd even put a plate of graham crackers on the table. They were the closest thing he had to cookies and Lilly liked them fine. Maegan didn't even look at the plate. She had her yellow tablet in front of her and seemed determined to take notes on whatever conclusions they reached.

At the stove, he poured the hot water into the pot and dangled a few tea bags into it. He put the lid back on and balanced the pot in his hands as he brought it back to the table. Maegan started looking around the table and he finally realized she was looking for something to set under the pot. His home didn't run to such niceties as trivets and coasters.

He wasn't used to entertaining, but he suddenly
wished he'd covered the oak table with a cloth or at least moved it away from the light that shone directly down on it, highlighting every imperfection. Sitting in the middle of the kitchen like it had for decades, it had collected black scars from hot skillets and wavy circles from water sitting too long on the varnish. His family had always been ranchers and the land had come first. No one had cared about keeping the table looking good and, by the time it became his inheritance, it seemed pointless to protect it after so many decades of hard use.

Clint set the teapot on the table without apology.

He was sure there was a lace tablecloth in the upstairs closet that had belonged to his grandmother. He'd never gone through that particular closet to throw anything away so it must be still there. Although maybe having a nice tablecloth would just make the rest of the house look shabbier.

“Smells good,” Maegan finally said as she eyed the teapot and twisted the pen in her hand.

“Please,” Clint said as he gestured to the mugs. “Help yourself.”

She still looked nervous to him. Well, that made two of them. He didn't know what to say, either. If he didn't think he'd look like he had something to hide, he'd suggest they call the whole thing off.

Finally, Maegan reached for one of the clean mugs Clint kept in the middle of the table right beside the salt and pepper. He'd found it helpful to keep the mugs there, but he hadn't thought how messy it might look to someone else, especially with his unpaid bills pressed between them and a small jar of sugar to the side.

“I should have gotten out the china cups.” The cups
and teapot with their tiny pink rosebuds and gold rims were the only things in the house that had belonged to his mother until cancer claimed her. Maybe that's why he and his brother kept them tucked away. It seemed like their mother had come and gone in this house like a vapor. It was his father's family who had lived and died within these walls for generations. “Those cups go with the teapot.”

He didn't think he'd ever been so nervous around a woman. Of course, no woman had ever judged his fitness for anything in quite the same way. He wasn't going to apologize though. He was a rancher and new thrashing equipment had come before fixing up the kitchen in the budget. Maybe with Lilly here he needed to change his priorities, but he had time to do that. “You can put that in the minus column for me. It seems I've never paid proper attention to tableware—and the kitchen in general. Lilly would probably like the rose cups. I'll see to that, but for now you can count it against me.”

Maegan had already marked the four columns on the top sheet of her tablet, a plus and minus column for each of them. But she didn't make a move to add anything to either column. Instead, she poured herself a cup of the tea. “I'm sure Lilly can live with whatever dishes you normally use. We need to focus on the important things about being a parent.”

Clint had been afraid she'd say something like that. He'd rather gut the house and rebuild it than air his more personal shortcomings. He wondered sometimes if that wasn't part of the reason he'd stopped joining in with folks for church and things. No one could see his faults if he kept to himself. Of course, Lilly coming changed
everything. She needed to be around people and so he took her places.

“Mrs. Hargrove said we needed to start with family histories, but we can wait if you'd rather,” Maegan said as she took a sip of tea.

“We might as well start there as anywhere.” He inhaled deeply. He might have let the house go some, but he was an honest man. He'd say what needed to be said. “My mother is the one who had the rose teacups that go with the teapot. She died when I was young, but she must have liked nice things. Girl things.”

He was going to continue, but Maegan wrote “teacups/pot” on the plus column under his name and then looked up at him. “She sounds like a lovely person.”

“I'm sure she was,” Clint said after a moment's hesitation. He never talked about his mother, but he had fleeting impressions that visited him now and again on a winter night as he relaxed by the fire in the living room. “I remember she used to laugh, especially on a day like this with the sun coming into the kitchen. She'd always push the curtains out of the way so the light could come in and open the doors to the outside. Then she'd pick me up and swirl me around the kitchen.”

“And your dad?”

“He used to bring us presents.” And it was true. His father had managed to keep himself together somehow for the first few years after his wife died, but then the crops failed one year when Clint was about eight and the combination of that and his grief broke something in him. After that, he would go on benders for a week or two, leaving his sons alone. Clint and his brother wouldn't know if the man was dead or alive until he'd show up at the door all weepy-eyed and holding out
some cheap present he'd bought for them when he'd sobered up enough to think about where he was and who might be back on the farm with nothing to eat.

“That sounds so nice,” Maegan said and the longing in her voice brought him up short.

“The presents were never much,” Clint admitted. He didn't really want to mislead anyone even if he could never squeeze the whole truth out. “Some of those mugs are from him. I don't think we have any of the other things he gave us but they were mostly candy or maybe a plastic toy for Joe. Once he bought us caramel apples.”

Clint didn't add that fortunately the school bus came to the ranch back in those days and Joe was old enough to go to an all-day kindergarten some of the parents had put together. They managed to get themselves to school, more for the free lunch than anything else. Their hair and clothes might not have been clean, but they hadn't aroused any suspicions.

“I got my barrette from my mother,” Maegan said with a smile as she reached up to touch the knot of hair on her head. “It wasn't much, either, but I still have it.”

Clint watched as her hands fluttered around her head.

“Your hair is beautiful.” The words came out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. She looked at him in surprise and he swallowed. “I mean, with the barrette and all. It looks real nice.”

“Thank you,” she said and smiled. “I remember my mother brushing my hair at night. I can't remember her face, but I'll never forget the feel of the brush on my head and the sense of peace I felt just being with her.”

They were quiet for a moment, each lost in their own memories.

“Lilly doesn't like the way I fix her hair,” Clint finally admitted. “You better put that in the minus column for me and the plus column for you.”

“I don't think I should get a plus just because you get a minus,” Maegan said as she made a check on her tablet. “I've never combed Lilly's hair.”

Clint smiled. “She likes it braided. Not the way I braid it, of course, but the way her mother used to do it. The way anyone with any fashion sense would do it, according to her.”

Maegan chuckled and reached for her mug. “She's at that age where she's a little self-conscious about her looks. And with her feet. I had the same problem.”

“Well, you turned out all right. That makes me feel better.”

They were silent as she took another sip of tea then carefully set the mug back down on the table.

“I'm afraid I—” Maegan's voice broke and she stopped only to start again, her voice so soft Clint had to lean forward to hear her. “I'm afraid I wouldn't be a very good parent no matter how much she and I have in common.”

She looked down at her cup after she had spoken. The lines in her face were strained. Her eyes were suspiciously damp. “It doesn't matter what's on my list. I'm just not—”

“No,” Clint said as he reached for her. He didn't want her to continue. “You're being too hard on yourself.” He swallowed. “And, I haven't been—well, I didn't learn how to be a good parent, either. My father was a drunk. The only reason no one took us away from him was
because we were too scared of him to even tell our teachers. I forged his signature when I had to and told everyone he was sick on the nights of the school plays. I did the best I could to keep Joe going to school and fed, but he was—well, he left school anyway before he could graduate from high school. He blames me for a lot of what he's missed in life—and he might be right.”

“You?” Maegan asked, her voice rising at the end of the word in what could be either surprise or indignation. “Why would he blame you? How old were you anyway?”

“I would have been eight when my father started leaving us alone.”

“Goodness, you were just a kid.”

“Maybe,” Clint agreed. “But I was almost four years older than him. I should have done something to get us help.”

“You would have only been put in the foster care system,” Maegan said. “That might not have been much better than what you had right here.”

“But I didn't even try,” Clint said and paused. He'd never even admitted this to himself, but the truth was staring him in the face. “I kept thinking my dad would change. I remember him when my mom was alive. I kept thinking if we just held out a little longer, we would have our dad back, the way he used to be. Everything would be okay then.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“So, yeah, it was my fault we didn't get any help,” Clint muttered finally and then added in a firmer voice. “You better put that on your list. It's a big one, too. Poor judgment when it comes to other people. A sucker for a lost cause.”

Clint started to push himself up from the table. That pretty well summed up his fears in life. He didn't even have to mention the disaster of his engagement. He just wasn't someone who had the usual kind of relationships. He thought Maegan might understand that. But then he saw her pick up her pen and he sat down again. She wrote “loved father” in bold, black letters on his plus column.

“I loved my parents, too,” she whispered when she set the pen down. She looked Clint straight in the eyes. “They died and left me, but I still felt the same way about them. I was angry at them for a while, but nobody could replace them for me. It wouldn't have mattered if they'd become drunks. They would have still been my parents. I'd have hoped they would change just like you did with your father.”

Maegan looked down when she finished. Her eyes had blazed with emotion when she'd spoke and Clint suspected that some of the glow in her eyes was from tears that were forming. Sure enough, one started to slide down her cheek.

The clouds outside must have turned gray because the light streaming through the kitchen windows had lost its shine. The dampness in the air promised rain. Only the overhead light shone down on them.

Everything in the kitchen had turned delicate. The clock ticked in the background. The tea was growing cold in the mug. Maegan looked fragile, her skin pale and her eyes downcast as though she was fighting the sorrow that caused her tear to flow. Clint felt like he should turn around and give her some privacy. He couldn't help himself though. He moved his chair closer and reached over to wipe away the tear.

Maegan sat there, trying to take a deep breath. “I think I might have hay fever.”