Mommy went to work. But now that she got a new cell phone for her birthday, all she ever does is talk to her friends about boys and parties.”
Becky tossed a long strand of blond hair over her shoulder. “She’s a teenager. You know how it is.”
No, Zack didn’t figure he knew much about teenage girls. Or about babysitters. But he didn’t think Diana was paying Megan to chat on the phone and leave her daughters to fend for themselves.
He, himself, was just learning how to parent. God knew he’d never had a decent role model, other than his grandmother in the early years. And try as he might, he really couldn’t remember as much as he’d like to.
So he tried to imagine the way Emily’s foster mom would handle a situation like this. Caitlin was really fussy when it came to Emily’s care—something that gave him great peace of mind.
“Want a snack?” Jessie asked. “We made cookies for you last night, after Mommy washed the dishes.”
“Your mom made cookies for me?”
“No,” Jessie said. “She made them for our lunch this week. But me and Becky saved some for you.”
For a moment, a stupid little thrill had shot through him, thinking that the girls’ attractive mother had made cookies for him. But he should have known better, especially when talking to kids. Emily had an interesting way of looking at things and came up with some real doozies sometimes.
“They’re oatmeal raisin cookies with nuts,” the older girl—Becky—added. “They’re very healthy and good for you. Our mom is big on things like that.”
He figured she would be. “Oatmeal raisin, huh?” He’d lived with his grandmother in Escondido when he was a kid, but not long enough to create more than a few faded memories.
Homemade cookies, fresh out of the oven, had been one of them.
Zack had always had a sweet tooth, although he’d usually appeased it with the candy he hid in the glove box of his Camaro. But a snack made by the girls and their mother sounded pretty darn tempting. “You know, I’d really like a cookie. But it’ll have to wait for lunch. I don’t want to make my foreman angry if he shows up and I’m loafing on the job.”
“What’s a foreman?” little Jessie asked.
“My boss.”
She nodded her head sagely. “Oh, I get it. Like Reverend Morton.”
Was she talking about a minister? Zack didn’t get the comparison, unless old Reverend Morton was full of dos and don’ts.
“Is he pretty bossy?” Zack asked.
“Nope. He’s pretty nice, as far as pastors go,” Becky said, as though she had a wealth of experience with ministers. “He’s our mom’s boss.”
Their mother worked at a church? He supposed a job like that suited her.
“Our mom is the office manager,” Jessie said. “And she works on the computer and answers the phone. And she knows everything about what happens at church. Reverend Morton said she’s a real blessing. And he can’t get along without her.”
Zack wondered if Reverend Morton was old or young, married or single. Then he kicked himself for giving a rip about something like that. Why should he care? Diana was the kind of woman who’d attract a preacher. And if she had? Good for her and the girls.
“Reverend Morton likes our mom a whole lot,” Becky said.
Oh, yeah? How much was a whole lot?
“He’s a very nice man,” the older girl added, “but he’s not her type.”
What was her type? Zack wondered.
A convicted felon certainly wasn’t, but no need to get into that.
“Well,” he said. “I need to get back to work. But I’m going to eat lunch in the shade of the water tank. We can talk then.”
“Okay,” the girls said in unison.
“And be careful climbing down,” he advised them, using what he hoped was a paternal tone.
Thirty minutes later, Zack broke for lunch. He’d no more than kicked back in the shade, bit into the pastrami sandwich he’d fixed himself and taken a swig of the lemonade he’d made out of a powdered mix when the girls returned. Again, they used their toys to help them peer over the wall.
He passed on the milk they offered him, but the chewy cookies were out of this world. “These are great.”
“Thank you,” Becky said.
“Our mom helped us. And she’s the bestest cooker in the whole, wide world,” Jessie added. “She’s going to make meat loaf tonight, ’cause it’s my favorite.”
“I don’t know about that,” the older girl corrected. “Mom’s going to get home pretty late. And I bet we have to eat soup and sandwiches like last time.”
Was the widowed church secretary going out after work? That seemed a little surprising, although he didn’t know much about nice women like her. Maybe she and the Bible thumper had a thing going.
“Why is she coming home late?” he asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t.
“She has to take the bus home,” Jessie said. “That’s how she got to work today. The car is broken again.”
He didn’t doubt it. That old Plymouth had sounded as though it was on its last wheel when she’d come home yesterday.
“She’s probably going to be riding the bus for a long time,” the older girl said. “She can’t afford to have someone fix the car yet.”
“That’s all right,” the younger girl said. “Riding the bus is really fun.”
It might be fun for a child. And public transportation was certainly an option. But Zack doubted their mother was happy about not having a dependable car.
“How far away is your mom’s work?” he asked.
“About twenty minutes when she drives us to church,” Becky said. “But it takes a lot longer on the bus, because it’s all the way in San Diego, and we have to take two or three different ones, just to get there.”
For a moment he thought about a darkened bus stop in the bad part of town. A pregnant woman waiting alone, trying to catch the 209 home. A dark sedan driving by. The glint of metal. A gunshot. A body slumping to the ground. A pool of blood. Screams. Sirens.
It had been a fluke. A random shooting that wasn’t likely to happen again.
He’d been locked up, unable to help Teresa. Unable to sit with a premature baby. Unable to do anything but stare at the damned bars that had imprisoned him.
Zack blew out a sigh. Maybe he ought to check out that rusted out old clunker Diana drove. He was a pretty decent mechanic and knew a guy down at the auto junkyard where he got used parts at
