to herself that Connor adored him, that he felt the same way about the baby. She’d also admitted that it was time for her to start putting others first.
And she’d start, right now, by setting aside her resentment, just far enough to make room for Hunter in Connor’s life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEIDRE CAME IN from the kitchen and groaned. “Sorry, but we can’t have coffee after all. My cupboards are as bare as Mother Hubbard’s.”
“How’s that possible, Mrs. Hollywood,” Hunter said, “when your pantry is bigger than my entire first floor?”
“Mrs. Hollywood?” she echoed. “Brooke, will you please tell this handsome rascal the difference between Tinseltown and Broadway?”
Hunter tensed when Brooke pointed. At him. It had been a demanding day, physically and emotionally, and he had no idea how she might respond.
“He’s right there,” she said, smiling softly. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
Earning straight As had been easy for Hunter until his English teacher added Yeats, Joyce and Whitman to the mandatory reading list. Allegory, hyperbole, onomatopoeia... Deciphering poetry wasn’t easy, and he’d steered clear of it since high school. But when Brooke spoke just now, something clicked, and he understood what the poets meant when they described the music of a woman’s voice.
“He’s heard it all before, right, Hunter?”
“Too many times to count.”
Deidre pulled Connor into her lap, and he quickly snuggled close. “Did I also tell you about the band I used to sing with—before my Broadway days?”
“That’s a new one,” he said, wondering how she’d connect the information to his retort.
“The drummer had a sign on his base. ‘Nobody Likes a Smart Aleck,’” she said, drawing quote marks in the air. Smirking, she added, “Billy used a more colorful word, but I think I’ve made my point. Think about that next time you decide to sass an old lady.”
“Guess I saved you the bother of writing that thank-you note to my mom, eh?”
She leaned back in her chair. “Silly goose.” Turning toward Brooke, she asked, “How many people do you think showed up today?”
“I’m not sure. Ninety? A hundred? I’ll have to ask Pastor Daniels when I drop off the check on Monday.”
“The check?” Deidre asked, stroking Connor’s rosy cheek.
“For the pastor. And the organist.”
“How can they in good conscience take money at a time like this?”
Brooke shrugged, and Hunter said, “They gave up a big chunk of their Saturday to help us say goodbye to Beth and Kent. The church has bills to pay, too, don’t forget.”
Deidre harrumphed. “I thought that’s what the dough people throw into the collection plate was for.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brooke close her eyes. To block out another of her grandmother’s inappropriate comments? Or to hide the misery and sadness of the day?
He watched her straighten already-straight doilies on the arms of her chair, adjust the folds of her gauzy skirt, finger the chunky turquoise pendant buried in the soft ruffles of her blouse. Then she crossed her cowboy boots at the ankles. What Hunter knew about fashion he could put in one eye, but he knew this: he liked what he saw.
“What will they do with all those beautiful flowers?” Deidre wondered aloud.
“I arranged to have them delivered to Howard County General,” Brooke told her. “Mr. Turner told me the volunteers will give them to patients who haven’t received any.”
“That’s so sweet. I remember walking the halls when Percy had his stroke, passing some rooms that resembled florist shops, others that were bare as...as my pantry.” She looked at Hunter. “Isn’t Brooke just the most thoughtful little thing?”
“That she is,” he said. “Wish I’d thought to do something like that after my dad died.”
He half expected Brooke would react with self-depreciating humility, shyness, anything but wide-eyed alarm. Hunter followed her gaze to Deidre’s face. The woman had passed out. No wonder her last few sentences hadn’t held their usual punch.
He crossed to her side of the tiny parlor in one long stride and eased the sleeping Connor from her lap. “Think she skipped breakfast again?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” He sat in the nearest chair. “How ’bout if I keep an eye on this li’l guy while you fix her a sandwich or something?”
First she frowned. Then she stood. “Skipping meals at any age is a bad idea, but all those medications Gram takes? On an empty stomach?” She groaned quietly.
“I’m hungry and tired,” Deidre said, “not deaf...no thanks to our mini-human siren over there. So don’t you dare wake him, because—much as I hate to sound like a grumpy old crone—the peace and quiet is a blessed relief.”
Connor started fussing, as if on cue. But thankfully, he wasn’t fully awake yet.
“Deidre, keep your voice down, will ya?” Hunter said, rocking back and forth, rubbing soothing circles on the baby’s narrow back as Brooke disappeared into the kitchen.
“Remember what I told you about Billy’s drum,” Deidre said.
“Sorry. No disrespect intended. It’s just—”
“Oh, no need to apologize. Or explain. These past few days have beat us all up pretty well. I can’t wait until the black cloud that’s been following us around fizzles out. I’m sick of all the moping and frowning!”
Hunter assumed she must have forgotten how long it had taken her to get back into the swing of things when Percy died.
Five minutes later Brooke returned carrying a snack-laden tray. “I made extra,” she said, handing a plate to Deidre, “in case you’re hungry....”
Hunter eased out of the chair. “Think I’ll see if I can get him into his crib without waking him.” He started for the stairs. Wish me luck.”
“While you’re up there,” Deidre said, “give a thought to changing your pants, why don’t you.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody’s diaper leaked. You’re about Percy’s size. Help yourself to a pair of his jeans. They’re in my closet.”
Odd, he thought, but he hadn’t noticed the dampness until she mentioned it. On the way upstairs, Hunter pictured Deidre’s third husband—the only one of three who’d earned Love of My Life title. He pictured himself wearing the man’s trademark bib overalls and considered the possibility that he wasn’t wet and Deidre needed comic relief.
As he eased Connor
