specialist?” Jared’s tongue felt twice its normal size. Judging by his inability to say more than one or two words, he felt more like an observer to this conference than a participant. He shook his head and wished—like he wished almost every day—that Mandy were here instead of him, making these decisions when it came to this part of parenthood. Mandy always seemed to know what to do.
“Jared?” Beth said.
He looked at her, desperately trying to think of a response. “I think Caleb is fine,” he finally said. “He can count to a hundred. He’s been able to add and subtract single digits since he was three. You’ve trained my brother well. He’s been helping all the boys with math while they work at Solitaire’s Market.”
“I know, Jared,” she said softly. “Caleb likes numbers.”
He scooted back the chair and stood. “Do you have anything else you need to tell me?”
She looked at him, and he saw in her eyes so many shared memories. She’d been his late wife’s best friend and truly loved his sons.
“Caleb’s a charmer, but you already knew that.”
Jared nodded, wanting more than anything to get out of this room where everything was in miniature and the dominant smell was no longer jasmine but crayons, glue and children. He needed to get home, back in the field, where he could wrestle his oversize tractor and surround himself with the land, McCreedy land, and the rich smell of dirt that would not forsake.
Beth stood and held out yet another piece of paper, this time not one with Caleb’s scribbles. “It’s the developmental specialist the school recommends, just in case.”
“I didn’t even know the town was big enough to have a developmental specialist.”
“It’s not big enough,” Beth said. “You’ll have to go to Des Moines.”
“That’s over an hour.”
And still Beth held out the paper. He took it because he’d neither the time nor the inclination to argue. He went into Des Moines maybe once every two or three months. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said.
“You know,” Beth said thoughtfully, “you might want to talk to Maggie. She’s a friend and she’s told me to give her name to any parent needing help. Her daughter Cassidy’s just two years older than Caleb and has problems with focus, too. She’s already walking the path you’re about to travel.”
“I work best alone,” Jared said.
As he closed the door behind him, he heard her utter one word.
“Liar.”
* * *
Maggie pushed her chair away from the kitchen table and rested her elbows on the windowsill. She could feel the cold coming through the pane but she didn’t care, at least not enough to move. Tiny slivers of aged gold paint flecked onto the sleeves of her pink sweater. She did care a bit about the moisture gathering in the center of the pane. It meant she needed to replace the window.
One more thing on her list.
Just a month ago, Roanoke, Iowa, boasted a distant sea of green, orange, red and yellow leaves that Maggie could see from her second-story window. The sight of so many trees, some stretching over residential streets, never failed to take her breath away.
Because the view belonged to her.
Today, the trees stretched their empty, dark limbs like waiting fingers saying, Where’s the snow? We’re waiting.
It was her town. Just like the trees, she intended to put down roots, grow, thrive, make a home, never leave.
Please let this be a forever kind of place.
Even now, in the predawn light, her town was waking up and starting its day. Just like she was doing.
Across the wide street was a drugstore. It had the old-timey chairs but the only thing the owner served up was Thrifty ice cream. Maggie dreamed of a soda fountain. Next to it was a hardware store that Maggie avoided because the only things she liked to fix simply needed a needle and thread. Then there was an antiques store she couldn’t resist. The owner, one Henry Throxmorton, was unlocking the front door. He had a newspaper under his arm. She’d never seen him smile, but she knew his wife was sick a lot. Maybe that was why.
Just two days ago, Maggie had found in Roanoke’s Rummage—an awful name for an antiques store if you asked Maggie—the pair of red cowboy boots she’d been looking for. Looking unloved and extremely dusty, they’d been on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. There was no rhyme or reason to how Henry arranged his store. But, had they been on display, maybe some other enterprising mother would have found them.
All it took to make them look almost new was a thorough cleaning with saddle soap and then applying a cream-based polish of the same color. They were already wrapped and under the Christmas tree.
On the same side was also a small real estate office. Maggie sometimes dawdled by the front where there were pictures of homes for sale. The ones with big lawns attracted her the most, but she didn’t really do yard work. The ones with no backyards didn’t appeal at all.
Looking at the photos also exposed a curiosity Maggie had finally acted on. Her mother had been born in Roanoke in 1967. Could one of the houses have been her childhood home? Maggie didn’t have a clue. All she remembered of her mother was a woman who smoked cigarettes and cooked a lot of noodle soup.
Maggie hated noodle soup.
Life had handed Maggie’s mother an itinerary that she didn’t intend to follow. It included the destinations marriage and motherhood. The only reason Maggie knew about Roanoke was her mother’s birth certificate. Natalie had been seven pounds, six ounces, and twenty-one-inches long: a live birth, Caucasian. She’d been born to Mary Johnson. Either Mary had chosen not to put down a name for the father or she hadn’t known who the father was.
So, some help that was. In Roanoke, Johnson was the second-most popular name, nestled between Smith and Miller.
Moving to Roanoke to find a connection to an errant mother was akin to looking for a needle in a haystack and made about as much sense. But Maggie had two choices. Stay in New York with Dan’s mother or strike out on her own.
She didn’t regret her choice and there was nothing wrong with living above one’s place of business. It was very convenient in fact. But Cassidy needed a backyard, a place to run, a swing set, the dog she kept asking for. No, not the horse. And Maggie wanted her own bedroom.
Maybe in a few years.
Maggie shook off the daydream. This morning was a school day and tonight was a holiday party at Beth’s church. Cassidy had begged to go, had already planned what to wear. Maggie had too much to do to dawdle in front of the window any longer.
After brushing off the paint—she really needed to do something about sanding and repainting—she scooted back to her computer and started to push away some of Cassidy’s school papers. Why they were on Maggie’s desk, she didn’t know. Cassidy’s stuff seemed to have a mind of its own and liked to spread to every nook and cranny of their tiny apartment.
Cassidy’s
