“No nap!” he cried. “Conner see Mommy! Open...open!”
Brooke looked up at Hunter. If he’d told Connor that his mommy and daddy were in these boxes...
“I didn’t say a word,” he told her, hands up as if in surrender.
She followed his gaze, saw that the wind had toppled Kent’s picture.
Hunter righted it, and when he spoke, a fog of grief and confusion tinged his voice. “How does he know?”
Funny. Brooke wondered the same thing.
“Open,” Connor repeated.
Brooke wrapped her free hand around his. “We can’t open it, sweetie. It’s...it’s broken,” she fibbed.
He looked up at Hunter, who agreed with a shrug and a slow nod. “Sorry, buddy. Broken.”
For the longest time, Connor stared at the coffins. At the wind-rattled photographs atop the gleaming lids. At fluttering flower petals. As he stuck his thumb into his mouth, tears puddled in his eyes. He blinked, and one tracked slowly down his cheek. Then he inhaled a ragged, shuddering breath and quietly laid his head on Brooke’s shoulder.
“Oh, look!” Ivy said, tilting her face to the slate-gray sky. She caught a snowflake on an upturned palm and showed it to Brooke. “You remember how much Beth loved the snow....” Looking heavenward again, Ivy smiled past her tears. “It’s a sign,” she whispered. “She’s telling us that she’s up there.”
“Snow,” Connor said, trying to grab a fat flake.
Yes, Beth had loved snow. And Kent had, too. Brooke remembered the big glass pickle jar where they’d tossed loose change, money they’d spend on a winter vacation at Wisp, where they hoped to teach Connor to ski.
“Snow,” he said again.
She pressed a kiss to his temple. “Don’t worry, sweet boy. I’ll teach you—”
“Teach him what?” Deidre asked.
“Nothing, really, just—”
“If you’ll let me,” Hunter said, “I’ll help.”
Deidre piped up with, “Help with what?”
You don’t have to explain was the message he sent Brooke by way of his hazel eyes.
Brooke couldn’t have explained even if she’d wanted to as she swallowed over the lump in her throat. But since pretending that she’d accept his help—teaching Connor to ski—was the same as telling a lie, she couldn’t do that, either. She’d made a promise to Connor and aimed to keep it.
She faced Hunter. “Thanks, but we’ve already imposed on you enough.”
Hunter flinched as though she’d slapped him. In a way, Brooke supposed she had...with a dose of reality.
“Wish I could have done more.”
Brooke had no reason to doubt his sincerity. “You did more than most neighbors would.”
“Good grief, Brooke,” Deidre said. “He’s far more than a neighbor, and you know it.” She linked her arm through his. “Let’s go back to my house. I think we could all use a good strong cup of coffee.”
Frowning, Hunter shook his head. “Maybe some other time. I have a punch list to check for a job that finishes tomorrow.”
Deidre clucked her tongue. “All work and no play,” she said, wagging her forefinger like a metronome. “Have you forgotten that you drove us over here in my car? You have to take us home, pick up your truck anyway.”
Brooke held her breath, hoping he’d remember something else he needed to do.
“Okay,” he told Deidre, “but just one cup.” Then he faced Brooke. “I’ll take Connor.” And he did. “It’s an uphill walk from here to the car, and he’s a hefty li’l fella.”
“I need to write your mother a thank-you note,” Deidre said before Brooke had a chance to reply.
“Thank-you note?” He grinned slightly. “For what?”
“For raising such a bighearted, thoughtful young man.” She looked at Brooke. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
“Yes. Thoughtful.”
As she and her grandmother trudged up the hill behind him, Brooke glanced over her shoulder. Two workmen were already busy disassembling the big green tent while another fiddled with the controls that would lower the coffins into the ground. The sight stopped her in her tracks.
“What’s wrong?”
Brooke patted Deidre’s hand. “Oh...nothing. Just tired, I guess.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re having a hard time, same as me, leaving our girl here alone, aren’t you?”
“She isn’t alone, Gram.” Brooke gave the graves one last glance. “Her husband is right there beside her.”
By the time they reached the car, Hunter had buckled a kicking, screaming Connor into his car seat. Standing beside the open door, he shook his head. “First thing Monday morning,” he said, “maybe we can make that phone call.”
“What phone call?” Deidre wanted to know.
“To find someone who can help us explain things to Connor in language he’ll understand,” Brooke explained.
Deidre slid into the backseat beside her great-grandson. “That,” she said, “is the best idea I’ve heard since this dreadful ordeal began.”
“Hopefully,” Hunter said, closing the rear door, “we won’t have to wait too long for an appointment.”
A week ago Brooke might have lashed out, told him in no uncertain terms that he could drop the we. Things were different now—though she didn’t quite understand why. Earlier she’d admitted 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
