Everything She's Ever Wanted

“Sure you don’t. You’re a man. Men think—”

“Jeez, Mel, it’s an afternoon movie, not an orgy. What can it hurt?”

Melody flicked ashes into the flower bed beside the stoop. “Orgy. Now there’s a word and a half. For your information, a helluva lot can hurt if that boy starts pawing her.”

“No one’s going to paw her. They’ll go to the movie, watch it and she’ll come home. End of story.”

“Ha. I was fifteen once. I know what goes on in those back rows, in the dark.”

“Don’t judge our daughter by your standards.”

“Oh, aren’t we all righteous? Like you never copped a feel in the back of a theater, you and those bad boy brothers of yours.”

Not at fifteen. He’d been too busy working his ass off after school. Trying to sweeten the B in his hive of marks. As for Jon and Luke, they’d been men in their twenties and gone from home. What they did with women was their business.

He set his hands on his hips, let out a deep breath. “Cut her some slack, Mel. She’s a normal teenage girl, a good girl. She won’t get in trouble at the damn movie.”

Melody tilted her head, squinted against a stream of smoke. “Did she tell you how old this guy is?” She smirked at his silence. “Didn’t think so. He’s a senior. Seventeen. A MacAllister.” As if that said it all.

The MacAllisters of Trailer Trash Park.

Fifteen years ago, Delwood Owens had swept Seth into the same backyard barrel.

Melody went on. “He part-times at the Garage Center. You still want her to go alone?”

Dammit. If he didn’t support Hallie, he’d lose his one skimpy chance of truly bonding with her. If he disagreed with Melody, whatever connection still existed between mother and daughter would be shot.

He said, “Why not let her go, if she promises to be home within half hour of it finishing? That’s roughly three hours, Mel. You can trust her for three hours in the middle of the day in a public place, for Pete’s sake.”

“In a dark public place. With a man. At eighteen, I was—”

Pregnant. And she’d never forgiven him for it. Not for “messing up” her life. For damn sure, not for squashing her big dreams of becoming a model.

Seth pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. What if I made a point of meeting the boy first?”

“You’d do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” If it’ll help my child.

“Fine.” She stuck her head back inside, yelled, “Hallie, get out here.”

The girl had obviously hovered within inches of the door; she appeared at once.

Melody exhaled smoke. “I’ve decided to have your father check this Tristan out first. Then I’ll decide if you can go to the movie.” She turned to Seth. “Can you be back here…” A glance at Hallie. “What time’s the movie, one-thirty?”

Hallie stared at Seth as if he’d dumped a load of fish at her feet. “You’re checking Tristan out like he’s a piece of—of machinery? That’s so lame! Never mind, okay? I’m not going.” With a whack, the inside door shut in their faces.

Melody sighed. “Well. Seems we’ve solved the problem.”

Seth wanted to rush after his daughter, hold her, protect her from the harsh gusts of reality. She’d come to him. Eager for his help, for his trust.

And he’d fouled up. I’m sorry!

To Melody he said, “There never was a problem.”

“No?”

“No.”

She snorted, arced the half-smoked cigarette onto the cement driveway, several feet from where he stood. “Shows how much you know, or care, about your daughter.”

He studied the woman who had borne his child. Aging like a sour apple. “I may not know her the way you do, but I care. More than you could ever imagine.” He walked away. His heart flayed his ribs.

“Wait a minute.” She hurried down the drive after him. “Where you going?”

“To work.”

“Aren’t you coming back?”

“No.”

“But what about that boy? What am I supposed to do if he shows up this afternoon?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“Oh, isn’t this like you,” she sneered. “Always running off when the going gets tough.”

Hand on the door handle of the truck, Seth paused. “Tough? You don’t know the meaning of the word. I busted my back to make a home for you. What did it get me? Ten years of hell. Ten years of seeing my little girl wait on a curb so I could drop her off a day later. Well, things are about to change, Mel. Hallie’s old enough to make her own choices now, and I’m not the poor schmuck you divorced.”

Her mouth turned ugly. “You jerk. This isn’t finished, you know, not by a long shot.”

“Oh, it’s finished, all right. It was finished the day our daughter was born and you and your daddy decided a construction man wasn’t good enough for the family.”

Heart hurting for his child, he climbed into the cab and drove off, leaving his ex-wife glaring after him, in a robe showing enough leg to make a racehorse jealous.

Hallie curled on her bed and hugged Sunny, her favorite fuzzy bear, to her chest. The furry little creature had been a gift from her dad when she was born. Love-tattered, missing an eye, Sunny held a treasured place on her bed, in her heart. This minute, he hid her tears, muffled her sobs.

If she hadn’t opened the window…hadn’t been so impatient to hear her dad’s voice one more time, his boot heels smacking the cement driveway, his truck door slamming…

Last night, it’d taken every ounce of courage to walk to his place, to seek his help. She wasn’t used to asking for help. Once he’d lived in this very house and laughed and teased and tugged her pigtails. She’d ridden his shoulders out to his truck where he’d swung her down, cuddled his hard, lean face into her neck, blown raspberries. Every day. Before he drove off to work.

Then he moved out, into another house.

She used to cry at night until she fell asleep.

She used to blame herself for his leaving.

She’d believed she’d done something wrong.

Now she knew the truth, why his trips to Eugene had waned. Once she’d thought it was his work and the long drives. It was finished the day our daughter was born…

Confusion swirled in her mind. She tried, truly tried to be the worthy daughter, doing all she could to please her parents. Getting straight A’s, joining the school jazz band, babysitting for her own money. She knew her dad was proud; he’d told her so. And her mom was proud—sort of—the way Hallie cleaned the house, mowed the grass, did the laundry, got groceries. She didn’t tell her dad about the chores, though. Somehow, she didn’t think that would please him the way it did her mom.

Her mom. What was up with her lately? She’d always been a little eccentric, but since returning to Misty River she was living in a time warp or something, wanting to be Hallie’s age again. Acting sillier than some of the eighth grade girls.

Last week, she’d said she was getting a lip stud. A lip stud. Her mother. Gross!

Even the jewelry wouldn’t be so bad, if her mom would just lay off the questions and not ask about everything. Like Hallie wanted to hop onto any old back seat and get preggers. Not!

The only good thing about her mom seeing Roy-Dean Lunn was that she had loosened her choke hold a bit. Not because Melody believed in Hallie, but because Roy-Dean wanted her mom to himself.

The freedom should have felt great, except she felt more lonely than ever. And now her dad, saying that it was finished when she was born…

She burrowed her hot face into Sunny’s furry curves. Her dad had cared! Last night. Years ago.

You were little. What did you know then?

She shivered under the drafty window.

Daddy.

The name fluttered like a butterfly around her heart.

Seth drove straight to the Garage Center. He greeted Bill and asked for Tristan. Twenty seconds later, a tall blond teen—-wiping his hands on a rag—came through the door.

“You Tristan?” Seth asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said carefully.

“Let’s go outside for a minute.” Seth strode through the door and headed for the rear of his pickup. There, he grabbed the tailgate with both hands and sized up the kid dressed head to toe in green coveralls. “I’m Seth Tucker. Understand you want to take my daughter out to a movie this afternoon.”

The boy had stopped a few feet away. Good. Showed the kid had some wits.

“I know who you are, Mr. Tucker. And, yeah, I’d like to take Hallie to a movie.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, almost eighteen.”

“She’s fifteen. Barely.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The boy aligned his shoulders. “I have a sister Hallie’s age. Anyone touched a hair on her head, I’d kill ’em.”

Seth scrutinized the boy’s brown eyes. “We’re not talking about your sister.”

The kid didn’t waver. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Mr. Tucker, I don’t—”

Seth stepped away from the truck. “You have her home within a half hour of the movie ending.”

Visibly relieved, the boy nodded. “Yessir.”

“Don’t want her mother getting upset.”

“Or you, sir.”

Kid was no slouch. “Or me,” he agreed and walked to the truck’s door. Tristan hadn’t moved. “Better get back to work, son, before Bill takes our gab session off your pay.”

He drove to work, whistling.

“When a woman stares into her cup without taking a sip, I’d say she’s got a purse full of man trouble.”

Breena raised her head, smiled at the owner of Kat’s Kafé.”

“Hey, Kat.”

The elderly waitress replaced Breena’s tepid coffee with steaming black. “Guy has a downright immoral heart, yes?”

“Shows that much, huh?”

“Honey, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve carried the same purse.”

“You? But you’re…”

“A granny? Doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of man ache. Ought to be man-iac, if you ask me.”

Breena laughed. “From a woman who understands.”

“You got it. Birds of a feather and all. Anything else I can get you, hon?”

“Yes. A contractor.”

“Planning to build something?”

Breena pushed aside her half-eaten toast. “I’m trying to win over Aunt Paige and get her to fix the shop’s walkway.”

“You go, girl,” Kat said, gray curls bouncing. “I’ve been nagging her about it for the last five years.”

Breena didn’t doubt it. Kat made sun-catchers in her spare time for Earth’s Goodness. A special bond existed between the waitress and Aunt Paige.

“There are some in this town,” Kat bent to Breena’s level, voice soft, “who’d love to see that little place torn down. They think it’s dozer bait and a fire hazard.”

Delwood Owens. Breena had heard him heckle Paige about retiring, about selling the house to a “real resident.” The old toad. Wait until he learned of her stake in the place.

Still, the walkway was a mess. Someone could get hurt, someone like Delwood Owens. Breena pictured pudgy legs flying, wide rump landing hard. She could envision the headlines in the Misty River Times: Shop Owner Takes Chev Olds Owner For A Loop.

She said, “The place is not going anywhere, Kat. So if you know a good contractor, one who won’t rip Paige off, I’d appreciate it.”

“Leave it with me.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” A pat to Breena’s shoulder and she was gone.

No, it’s not, but I’m glad you are. Twenty-eight days ago, the waitress had served Breena her first Misty River breakfast and had since spread her ample goodwill wing over her whenever Paige wasn’t available.

Sipping her coffee, Breena admired the world outside the window. Wednesday’s dawn crept across the thick timber range west of the river. Several dusty, work-worn pickups were angle parked in front of the café. First Street, she realized, sponsored a variety of local merchants. At this hour, traffic was spotty. Ah, such a prize, this sleepy-eyed ambience of Misty River.

She’d recognized its goodness that initial morning, after falling into bed at the Sleep Inn Motel, exhausted from the weighty war of Leo’s betrayal. And discovering he’d filched a portion of their accounts the day after she’d kicked him out….

How stupid she’d been.

For seven years, she’d loved him. And for seven months hated him. Now, shame ate her because, God forgive her stupidity, she hadn’t detected the nuances of those nonspeaking, nonsharing, nonneeding moments. While warding off the failings of others— Joan of Arc wielding the sword and shield of therapy—she hadn’t the sharpness or cleverness or astuteness to see the ashes of her own marriage.

Dr. Breena Quinlan, Crackerjack Counselor.

How callow she’d been.

Thank goodness for the trust fund her dad had opened on her eighteenth birthday, money to which she’d added over the years.

Money Leo couldn’t touch.

Forty-three thousand dollars.

Enough to keep the howlers at bay.

Enough to put a portion into another business.

And, quite possibly, into her dream of rambling roses around a deep porch. Of baked bread. Of homegrown vegetables.

Her rose-colored bubble dream—-the one of a loving man and sweet-faced children—-Breena had waved goodbye to long ago.

A smile to greet her at the end of the day was pure fantasy.

As were gummy, little hands and chubby cheeks and pug noses to kiss. Bedtime stories, homework, proms. Father of the bride, mother of the groom. All of it, fantasy.

Four years they had tried, she and Leo.

And then?

Then Leo defected to her sister.

Lizbeth, who already had a child from a previous relationship. Lizbeth, who was spontaneous, funny, beautiful, unattached, fertile.

Whose morals, when it came to her little sis, qualified a shrug of the shoulder. “He doesn’t love you, Bree,” she said over the phone a month after that hideous night seven months ago. “Let him go. Let him be happy.”

God. Such an unconditional gift, her sister’s love. And so typical. Whatever Lizbeth wanted, Lizbeth got and damn the messy aftermath—or that it was Breena’s husband.

How could you cross that line, Lizbeth? How?

Considering her wasteland womb and her skill in keeping a man’s interest and love, Breena’s second chances were over. Not that she wished for a man—hell could freeze like a frappé before she’d offer her trust again—but still…

“Got your contractor.”

Breena jerked around. “What?”

“Renovations, girl,” Kat said. “The walkway.”

“Oh!” She straightened.

With a wink, Kat hiked her chin at Breena’s sunny window. “Don’t blame you, doing a bit of daydreaming. Be raining like a monsoon before long. Hold on.”

She headed down the aisle, to three men in a booth four up from Breena. A policeman and a suit faced her. A big-shouldered worker type in red and gray plaid faced them. She studied his profile as he listened to Kat.

Seth Tucker? Who drove her home last week?

And, here she sat, by a day-lit window, in a gray hoodie, navy sweats, sneakers…sans makeup. Wonderful.

The worker stood, and followed Kat down the aisle.

“Breena Quinlan. Seth Tucker,” the tiny grandma said. “He built communities in the sandbox, and today is the master.”

Amusement shaded his eyes. “Now, Kat.”

“Now, Seth.” She patted his arm and left.

“So,” he said when they were alone. “We meet again.”

His voice, deep as a Nevada crater.

“Yes. Again.”

He slid into the booth, set the sheepskin vest he carried on the bench. A whiff of aftershave passed her nose. Like autumn air. He regarded the window—her. A smile flickered.

He’s shy, she thought. The man who drove King Kong trucks was shy. A ripple hit her heart. Leo had never been bashful.

They both spoke at once.

“Your truck’s—”

“Did you—”

She said, “You first.”

“I see your Blazer’s up and running.”

“The Garage Center did a great job. Thank you for recommending them.”

Kat returned with a fresh carafe of coffee. When she left again, he toyed tough, brown fingers along the mug’s handle. His nails were cut straight, his hands scar-pocked. A Band-Aid was wrapped around one forefinger.

“Kat said you’re looking for a contractor.”

“I am. The shop’s walkway and back steps need replacing.”

“Likewise for the stone wall out front of the place.”

Of course. A construction man would recognize all kinds of impairments even in the dark. “It can wait until spring. Can you install moon lights along the walkway?”

“Sure. You want it done tomorrow?”

He was teasing her. She glanced away. “I didn’t mean…” Warmth fanned over her skin the way a breeze shifts leaves.

“I could fit you in every couple days, between other jobs.”

He had mythical eyes. Charcoal auras around Dakota-blue. She smiled into them. “Thank you. I, uh, I assumed you were a trucker, not a contractor.”

He sipped his coffee, watched her. “I haul. But I own other equipment as well.”

“I see.” She had no idea what the other equipment might be, or what “I haul” meant. “Can you give me a ballpark estimate for the walk and steps?”

He quoted a figure. She reserved her pleasure; her savings could handle the cost. Definitely a standard deviation between city and town. Here, expenses remained low-cost and agreeable to her budget. If she wanted a future in Misty River, she needed both feet on the ground for secure financial investment, which meant calculating her pennies, learning to be an employer instead of an employee. “Sounds reasonable,” she said. “You’re hired.”

“I can patch the wall as well. For a minimal fee.”

He’d do that? “Mr. Tucker—”

“Seth.”

“Seth. I don’t think that would be—” Fair? Proper? Compared to California landscapers, his price was a godsend. “That’s very generous of you.” Her cheeks warmed.

“When do you need me?”

Forever. She rolled her lips inward. “Monday?”

“Monday’s fine.”

The bandaged finger roved the mug’s rim. “How come you’re doing the hiring? Paige sick?”

“She’s fine.” Breena reckoned her choices and went with instinct. She needed someone to understand, to recognize what she’d done and why. I need a friend. “I’ve bought into the shop.”

His nod encouraged her. “Paige is thinking of retiring come January. She’ll continue as a silent partner. We’re keeping the information confidential for now.”

Another nod. He sat back, set an arm along the bench. “You planning to stay, then?”

“Maybe.” She studied the idle morning outside. “Probably.”

“What’d you do in San Francisco?”

A black crew cab with five young men pulled up to the curb. “I was a family therapist and a marriage counselor.” A half laugh. “Dumb, huh? I couldn’t see the problems in my own marriage till it was too late.”

Everything about him stilled. “You’re a social worker?”

“Psychologist.”

“But you work with Social Services.”

“If a patient is referred, yes.” She studied him. He’d gone from warm and congenial to cool and cautious. “You don’t like therapists, Mr. Tucker?”

“No.”

His response stung. Her profession shaped her. Someone, somewhere, had twisted his perception. “Perhaps you’d rather not fix our store.” She said it kindly. With empathy. Or maybe not.

The arm left the bench. “I’ll do it. And I’ll leave my opinions at home.”

As long as she kept her career and her thoughts hidden. She could do that. “I’m not here to counsel anyone, Mr. Tucker. Unless it’s my finances and your costs.” She offered a smile and shook inside. “This is my home now. I may never go back to Frisco. I don’t know if I could deal with…deal with…” Her throat hurt. He wouldn’t understand. How could he, when she who lived with the deceit, the betrayal, the agony, couldn’t make sense of it?

His eyes were quiet. “The chance of seeing them again?”

Around her heart, tightness eased. He understood. For the first time in months, someone—and a virtual stranger at that—someone grasped the bitterness fogging her corner. She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Most of all, that. I kept thinking if I ran into them…”

Somewhere dishes clinked above the murmur of patron voices.

“Your relationship,” he said, “a divorce?”

“And a regular carousel ride.”

He lifted his cup, didn’t drink. “On a feral beast.”

“It was like eating live slugs on Fear Factor.”

His cheek creased. “Or crossing a river full of alligators on Survivor.”

Their eyes caught, held. A long while. His features were harsh, tough. His eyes—she could wander under those skies and never feel lost. She observed her hands clenched in her lap.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” She essayed a smile. “Sometimes reminiscing gets a little crazy.” They were talking like old friends, comparing tragedies, lives. Did you know my husband slept with my sister?

He remained silent.

She sighed, needing to explain. “I’ll get over it.”

The smell of bacon, grits and grease aromatized the room.

“Sorry for getting tight-assed about your career.” His lashes were sooty, thick as lawn grass. “There have been things— Never mind.” He took a sip of coffee. “Living in a new town, changing jobs, it’ll help.”

“If it doesn’t, I’m in trouble. Well. Enough of the maudlin. What time can I expect you Monday? We open at nine-thirty.”

“I’ll be there at one o’clock.”

She nodded, grateful he hadn’t quit on the spot, what with all her blubbering. “Do you need us to prepare the yard before you arrive? Mow the grass? Move shrubs?”

She caught it again, the amusement playing in his eyes, on his lips. As if he envisioned her and old Paige spading up the cement blocks, tossing them into a neat pile on the perimeter.

“No,” he said. “But I’ll need to take some measurements. Six tomorrow okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

And she would be. Her shop, her town. Maybe next September—depending how the shop fared under her management—she could buy Paige out. Leftovers from the sale of the house in Frisco might even mortgage a rambling-rose cottage near her aunt.

Wishes and dreams, peaches and cream.

Like Seth Tucker’s somber mouth. How would it feel on hers?

“Where—” She cleared her throat. “Where is your office?”

“A couple blocks that way.” He inclined his head.

“I’d like to discuss some details about the work.”

He set aside the mug. “Why not go over them now?”

“I should talk to Aunt Paige first.”

“Sure. We could meet back here for lunch.”

Such a strong face. And those Dakota eyes— “How about five at your office?”

He extracted a napkin from the dispenser, flicked a pen from his shirt pocket. A map took shape. “Follow Main east to Chicksaw Lumber, then turn left on Peak Avenue. After you cross the railway tracks, turn left for a block. The office is on the corner. Old, red-brick building.” A circle marked the spot. “Can’t miss it.”

The napkin glided across the table under his hand. She took the paper; electricity zinged between their fingers.

Caching the map in her tote, she smiled. She could find the place blindfolded. Misty River was that kind of town, that kind of community. Simple, uncomplicated—the way she wanted her life. She held out a hand. “Thank you, Seth.” His palm was warm, calloused. Familiar.

A slow, slanted grin staged a chipped front tooth. “See you at five,” he said. Vest in hand, he slid from the bench.

She watched him walk away, long legs, lanky hips, trucker shoulders. Incredible. “Yeah,” she mumbled, trying hard to ignore her thumping heart and not succeeding. “Five.”

Seth stepped out of Kat’s Kafé into hazy sunshine and walked eight feet across the sidewalk to where his pickup was angle-parked. He set the heavy thermos of fresh coffee beside the lunch bucket on the seat, then climbed behind the wheel.

Through the country-paned window of Kat’s, he observed Breena paying her bill. One minute, a stranger bumming a ride, the next, his employer.