to a well-kept yard and honest-to-God white picket fence. Treble didn’t need to see the cheery Sumner stenciled on the mailbox to know this must be where Charity lived.
If Harrison Breckfield had ever run for mayor, he would have won by a landslide. So many townspeople were employed by or in some way affiliated with the dairy that the Breckfield family held a prominent position in the community. Yet Treble couldn’t help wondering why Harrison had never proposed that the town pave Willy Wooten or even offered to have it done himself—especially now that his pregnant daughter had to drive over it in all manner of weather conditions. His own vehicles must have jostled over the years as he plowed through puddles and potholes, but something about that very specific concrete, starting precisely at the Breckfield property and not one inch sooner, personified the man. He had clear boundaries. He stayed unswervingly within them and expected others to do the same.
There were both a garage and carport to the side, but Keith parked more casually in the curve of the circular driveway, right out front. The house was predominantly brick, although it had a cottage-style facade bordered by a railed-in wooden porch. Treble imagined Bill and Charity sitting in the double swing, discussing baby names and drinking cold lemonade. Of course, she could just as easily imagine Charity in the picturesque little house, singing as woodland animals helped her clean and making seven beds for seven little men.
Treble hadn’t finished climbing down from the passenger side of the truck when the screen door clattered and her sister appeared on the front porch. In deference to her current medical condition, Charity didn’t try to navigate the stairs and greet them in the yard. Still, her enthusiasm was evident even from several yards away.
“You made it!” she called to Treble.
“Thanks to your friend Dr. Caldwell.” Treble really was grateful to the man for riding to her rescue, even if their short time together had been…charged.
“Well, come in, come in. I have some iced tea freshly brewed,” Charity told both of them. She placed a hand over her distended belly. “Decaf, of course.”
Treble turned to collect her luggage, only to find that Keith had grabbed both suitcases and slung her duffel bag over his shoulder.
“You should at least let me get one of them,” she chided.
He half shrugged as he passed, repeating her words from their first meeting. “I’m able-bodied.”
I’ll say. Her gaze slid down from where his thick hair lay rumpled against his collar to his jeans.
She followed him up the stairs. Charity had stepped aside to make room for Keith and the baggage he carried, but as soon as Treble cleared the top step, the blonde swooped in for a hug. The sideways angle, not to mention the bulk of Treble’s unborn niece, made the embrace a little awkward but it was appreciated nonetheless. Treble couldn’t quite hook her arm around her sister so settled for patting her on the arm in greeting.
“Thank you for coming,” Charity said softly, still not letting go. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Treble said. “In triplicate. But, about my needing to breathe?”
Charity laughed, stepped back. “Guess I always was the hugger in the family.”
Well, it sure as hell hadn’t been Treble or the aloof Harrison Breckfield. “Like Mom. You have a lot in common with her.” As soon as tears began welling in Charity’s eyes, Treble wished she’d said something else. She struggled to lighten the moment. “Although, now that I think about it, that bone-crushing grip might have come from Harrison. Imagine the tackles you could have made if you’d played football!”
Harrison had been a college linebacker for the Tennessee Vols. At six foot three with steel-gray eyes, he was as formidable off the field as he’d reputedly been on it. Maybe Treble should have been smarter than to try making end runs around him, but she’d been sixteen. In theory, she was older and wiser now, but she was also a grown-up no longer seeking her stepdad’s approval. She was who she was, and she refused to make apologies to him if she liked her music loud and her heels high.
“Where’d I lose you ladies to?” Keith asked, sticking his head out onto the porch. He’d obviously set the bags down somewhere inside.
Charity sniffled. “Sorry. Just exchanging sisterly greetings.”
Keith glanced at the woman’s obviously teary expression, then shot Treble a look that bordered on accusatory. Two minutes and you already made her cry?
“We’re coming,” Treble said brightly. As soon as he retreated, she told Charity, “I hope I didn’t upset you. You warned me you were thinking about Mom a lot, and I didn’t mean to say anything that made you miss her more. I know I’m a poor substitute for her being here right now.”
Charity squeezed her hand. “It’s wonderful that you’re here. And I’m touched that you think I’m like her. Don’t worry about the waterworks. It’s the hormones. Honestly, all I do these days is cry—and eat Breckfield banana ice cream. Sometimes I cry while I’m eating the ice cream.”
Treble laughed, glad they were on less sentimental ground as they joined Keith in the cool, aromatic house. Charity’s air-conditioning bill must be a fortune, but the low temperature felt heavenly after driving in the heat for much of the day. Equally divine was the scent of spices and meat cooking. Treble had never been all that proficient in the kitchen, but she thought she smelled thyme and rosemary, underscored by sautéed onions. A little garlic? As her eyes adjusted to the comparative dimness of the living room, she stood still, breathing in the tantalizing scent. An archway at the far end led into a modest kitchen. Treble saw maroon laminate flooring and gold appliances.
“You.” Keith took Charity by the hand, steering her toward a rose-and-cream sofa. A rocker upholstered in matching fabric sat by the large picture window in the room, a wicker basket full of knitting supplies and remote controls tucked next to the chair. “Off your feet. Then explain to me how you whip up one of your gourmet dinners while adhering to your OB’s advice. Don’t make me call Dr. Whalen because you know she will kick your butt. Metaphorically speaking.”
Much as Treble wasn’t ordinarily a fan of men chastising grown women over their choices, she had to admit this was no time for Charity to be rolling out the welcome wagon. “He’s right. Well, I wouldn’t know about the doctor, but definitely the dinner part. Don’t you dare try to cook just because I’m visiting. You and this baby are what’s important.”
Leaning back against the couch, Charity shook her head, her honey-blond ponytail swishing. “Boy, you guys impress easily. I promise I wasn’t slaving over a stove. I gave Bill some basic instructions for what to throw in the Crock-Pot, then stood long enough to season it myself. Honestly, the most strenuous thing I’ve done today was lift a pepper grinder. I spent hours in the rocking chair with my feet up, watching television, dozing and talking briefly on the cordless phone to both of you. Those are all approved activities, aren’t they?” The impish grin she shot Keith made her look so young it was hard to believe she was going to be a parent soon.
He sat on the couch next to her. “If I overreacted, I did it because I care.”
“I know,” Charity said fondly. “You’re a good friend. You will join us for dinner, won’t you?”
“Um…” Keith darted a look toward Treble, who shifted her weight from foot to foot and tried to ignore feeling out of place. “I should check in at the clinic.”
Charity
