away from her wriggling offspring, then hopped out of the box to lap at the fresh water Rianne brought.
“She’s thirsty, Mom.” Emily squatted inches from the little family. “Hungry, too,” she added when the mother cat meowed her gratitude for the canned food.
The back door slammed. “I’m starving, Mom! What’s to eat?”
Sam, Rianne’s thirteen-year-old son, flung himself into the kitchen, cheeks red, brown hair mussed from the bike ride home.
“Hey, suhweeet!” Slinging off his backpack, he dropped to his knees beside his sister. “Sweetpea had kittens? That’s so cool.”
Rianne’s heart swelled. Every moment of joy was like a gift; she vowed to keep them coming.
“Whose shirt?” Sam eyed the faded, navy-blue cotton bunched in the bottom of the box.
“It belongs to our neighbor. Jon Tucker.”
“The biker guy? The one with the long hair and the tattoo here?” He patted his left forearm.
“Yes.”
“Oh, man, this is major cool. Now that you’ve met him, maybe I can go over and see his Harley.”
“Don’t, Sammy,” Emily piped up. “He talks really mean.”
Sam’s grin vanished. “Mean?”
Okay, Rianne thought, let’s iron this out right now. “Mr. Tucker isn’t accustomed to having animals around, Sam. It seems Sweetpea’s been visiting regularly.”
“But she’s just a cat!”
“Some people are afraid of cats. They may’ve had a bad experience with them as a child or they might have allergies. Like Em with pumpkins. You know how she breaks out in a rash whenever she eats pumpkin pie?”
Emily nodded; Sam simply stared.
She went on. “As you know, people can have reactions to cats and other animals. Sometimes,” she paused for effect, “they get upset. Em cries because the rash itches and hurts. But a man like Mr. Tucker doesn’t cry. Instead, he may get worried or anxious.”
“Why doesn’t he cry?” Emily asked.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you learned anything? Men don’t cry.”
Rianne crouched between her children. “Some men do cry. It depends on the person and the circumstances.”
She didn’t believe it of Jon. Not with his flat voice. His ice eyes.
“Dad never cried,” Sam spat. “He just…just…”
“As I said, it depends on the person, honey. Either way, it isn’t a fault. Just because you don’t see someone cry, doesn’t mean they don’t hurt inside.”
“Is our neighbor hurting?” Emily asked.
“I think he had a bad day.” She gave both kids a quick hug. “We need to put Sweetpea and her family into her basket.”
They replaced the shirt with an old blanket and decided to transfer the basket to Rianne’s sewing room where it was quieter, where southern sunshine warmed the small space for most of the day. Safe and snug, the mother cat stretched beside her brood. Her rough, pink tongue reassured each mewling kit.
Sitting back on her heels, with Jon’s shirt in her lap, Rianne watched the new family. And her own.
Sam stroked Sweetpea with the back of his right hand, his deformed hand. He’d been born with a normal left hand, but a finger and thumb were its right counterpart. Her son had learned early in life to hide his handicap. His father hadn’t wanted to see it, to admit it existed. In the fifteen months since Duane Kirby’s car crashed and killed him, Sam was slowly transforming. Rianne encouraged him; his school counselor coached him. At home, using his right hand had become second nature.
Around strangers he remained shy about his handicap.
Soon that, too, would change.
Nothing would keep her from giving her children what they deserved: a loving, happy home. With friends and cats and all things normal. Everything she’d grown up with, here in Misty River.
“Are you taking the man’s shirt back to his house, Mom?” Emily asked.
“I need to wash it first.”
Sam reached over, tapped the slim, curved edge of a capital S. “What’s the logo?”
Rianne pressed back the folds of the material, careful to hide any bloody smears. An oval seal came into view, its gold letters arcing above a shield. Seattle Police. Jon was a cop?
Sam leaned over. “What’s it say?”
Rianne bundled the shirt into a ball and climbed to her feet. “It’s a bit messy from the birth. Could you take out those brownies I baked yesterday, Sam?”
“Can I have two? I’m starving.”
“Me, too.” Emily got up.
“Fine, two each and pour some milk. I’ll be back as soon as I get the washing machine going.”
She went down the basement stairs, headed for the cramped laundry room. Maybe Jon wasn’t a cop. Maybe he’d received an SPD sweatshirt from a friend.
And if he was?
If he is, it’s got nothing to do with you.
It simply meant that tough, bad-boy Jon Tucker of Misty River, Oregon, had become an officer of the law dressed in blue, with thirty pounds of weaponry strapped to his body. If there was irony in that, so be it.
The Jon Tucker today is not the man you remember.
No. At fourteen, she’d been enthralled. A little in love. And, unable to make sense of her English class. Who cared that Robert Browning wrote love sonnets to his wife, Elizabeth? That Alfred Lord Tennyson saw “a flower in a crannied wall”?
Twenty-year-old Jon Tucker had.
Sitting on the worn vinyl seat of his old Ford pickup, Rianne had listened while he interpreted the rich beauty of poetry and the classics. That year, she got her first A in English. And Jon, treating her with the ease of a big brother, got her heart. He’d left Misty River a year later, and she’d tucked him into a quiet corner of her soul where he hovered like a tiny, bright spot all through high school.
All through her marriage.
“Mom?” called Sam.
“Be right there!”
She eyed the sweatshirt in her hands.
Water under the bridge.
She shoved the garment into the washer’s barrel. Several socks, another shirt, softener, and the lid clunked down.
What
