mad that your mother’s sick?”
“She’s not sick, she’s…” Liv hesitated, stumbling over words. “Lazy,” she filled in. “Feeling sorry for herself. Look at this place.” Liv waved her hands, half spinning, half pacing. “It’s gross.”
Sarah opened her mouth, but Liv kept ranting.
“Skeets wet the bed the other night and went to school smelling like pee. Mrs. Besset pulled me aside in the lunch-room and said the elementary school nurse wanted me to make sure Skeets takes a morning shower if she wets at night. I have to be at school at seven-fifteen,” the girl expounded, staring at Sarah. “How am I supposed to make sure Skeets is up and clean for an eight o’clock bus when Brett and I leave an hour before?”
“Who puts Skeeter on the bus?”
“Mom. Or no one.”
Groaning inwardly, Sarah figured the likelihood of no one. Skeeter’s rapt expression said she understood too much. “Brett, can you take Skeeter into the living room while Liv and I finish up?”
“I want to hear the rest of the fight.” He darted a look from his aunt to his sister.
“We’re not fighting,” Sarah corrected. “Your sister needs to vent. It’s perfectly understandable.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Liv stalked to the door and put the flat of her hand against the warm, cherry tones. Sarah was surprised to note the contrast, how pale Liv’s skin had become. “You’re not some social worker who thinks I’ll work out my aggression by molding a lump of clay for thirty minutes a day. You’re a sheep farmer. A smelly sheep farmer who wasted a good education to clean up animal crap.” She pinched her nose to make her parting shot more pointed as she pushed through the door.
Ouch. Sarah said a silent prayer for patience, then one of gratitude for lack of available weaponry. Strangling one’s niece because she insulted your pungent profession wouldn’t sit well.
Definitely not worth it. Besides, who would watch the sheep?
She turned back to Brett and Skeeter. “Wash up, guys.
Supper’s ready.”
Skeeter sidled up to her. “Aunt Sarah?”
“What, sweetcakes?” Sarah bent down, cradling Skeeter’s cheeks in her hands.
“If Mommy never gets up, can we come live with you?”
Sarah’s heart froze. Brett went still as well, his hands immobile beneath the water. Eyes down, he listened for her answer, just like his little sister.
Rita, get down here. See your children. Feast your eyes. Delight in the gifts of the Lord, your God.
No gentle footfall answered her prayer. No warm motherly presence brightened the dark corners of the room. Sarah pulled Skeeter in for a hug. “Farms do get stinky. Sheep aren’t the freshest smelling animals I’ve ever met.” Sharing a wink with Skeeter, she rose and guided the little girl to the table. “But there’s always room for you guys.”
“Even if I wet the bed?”
Sarah made a mental note to buy protective mattress covers for the twin beds in the room adjoining hers.
“Everybody wets the bed when they’re little,” she comforted. Turning slightly, she noted Brett’s stance. Silent. Still. “If your Mom needs extra help, of course you can stay with me.”
“But you live in a different district.” Brett turned, eyes wary. The faucet gurgled behind him.
“I can get you back and forth if need be, Brett. I promise.”
Hopefully a promise she wouldn’t need to keep. Come on, Rita. Enough’s enough. These guys need you. They’ve already lost one parent. Let’s not make it two.
Fear stabbed her. The look of Rita upstairs, clutching her pillow instead of her faith, seeking total solace. What would be more complete than to end it all, like Tom did? Unsure what to do, Sarah pushed down the frustration, made heavier by the events of the day. Gino’s painful confrontation with a sharp-quilled beast, Craig Macklin’s disdain and Rita’s loss of control.
Shoving it all aside, Sarah drew a deep breath and mustered a smile. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”
Chapter Three
The ginormous “Welcome to Doyletown” banner waved in the early spring breeze as Craig angled his SUV into a parking spot at the elementary school. Deceased for nearly a decade, Myra Doyle had created the Doyletown concept when Craig was a boy, and the Potsdam district continued the event in her honor. Children picked a pretend identity and profession, then approached a similar local professional to spend the day and talk about their work. Honored to be chosen by his nephew Kyle, Craig blinked back nostalgia as he approached the entrance.
He remembered his Doyletowns like they were yesterday, and having Kyle request his presence today? Sweet.
He walked into the huge gymnasium and paused, taking in the spectacle of cardboard and balsa wood storefronts, the smell of kid paint and craft glue tunneling him back.
He grinned, caught Kyle’s eye, waved and threaded his way through various exhibits. “Uncle Craig!”
“I’m here, bud.” Craig noogied the boy’s head, laughed at the expected reaction, turned and looked straight into the chocolate-brown eyes of Sarah Slocum.
A waif of a girl clutched Sarah’s fingers. The child eyed Craig, wary, and slid further into Sarah’s side. Her actions went beyond normal shyness, her gaze almost furtive, as if she’d rather be any other place in the world.
“I’ve assigned groups,” the classroom teacher called out, drawing their collective attention. “Our class will do morning exhibit tours first, followed by lunch in the cafeteria, then professional presentations from our invited guests, then play time.”
Talking briskly, she announced each group followed by six names. Kyle Macklin was followed in quick succession by Braden Lassiter, Glynna McGinnis, Jacob Wyatt, Carly Arend and Aleta Slocum.
Kyle groaned. “Not her. She smells.”
“Kyle,” Craig scolded, embarrassed. He turned, wishing he didn’t have to, knowing he had no choice. “Apologize. Now.”
Sarah’s expression appraised him, one hand cradling the girl’s dank hair, cuddling her, trying to assuage the hurt. “Sorry.”
Craig cringed inside. The sad awareness on the little girl’s face broke his heart, regardless of her last name. Determined, he stepped forward and thrust out a hand, wishing he could undo the last three minutes. But if he possessed those powers he’d have hit reverse a long time ago and erased the adolescently stupid financial advice he’d given his grandfather a decade back. Maybe then…
Craig bit back a large ball of angst. There were no do-overs, unfortunately. Not in real life. The best he could do was set a better example for his nephew. He bent to the child’s level. “Nice to meet you, Aleta.”
She
