the boy struggling manfully not to cry as he continued to stare at the twisted tubing. “I could ask Howie to take over my route.”
“Then he’ll get the money and not you. How are you going to pay your way on the Scouting trip?”
Jake bit his tongue. He’d never been a parent, but he considered her unreasonably stern. It didn’t seem fair to remind the boy of other things he couldn’t have while he was standing over the corpse of his bike.
“Could I speak to you for a moment?” he asked the widow.
She gave him a cool, reluctant glance, then shooed the children toward the house. “Matt, put the bike in the back of the station wagon,” she said. “I’ll see if Brick can do anything with it.”
As the children moved away, Jake took her elbow and pulled her down the drive, out of earshot of Matt, who was bending over the bike.
“No,” she said quietly before Jake could say anything.
“Look,” he countered reasonably, “I backed over the bike because I didn’t see it. I feel—”
“You didn’t see it because he parked it in the wrong place after repeated warnings.”
He folded his arms and frowned down at her. “You chew nails, too?” he asked.
She glowered at him for one long moment, then sighed and squared her shoulders. “Do you have children?” she asked.
“No, I don’t,” he admitted, “but if I did, I wouldn’t rub their noses in their mistakes.”
She shook her head at his naïveté. “How do you suppose they learn not to make them?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off. “By having to live with the results. Perhaps you can afford to be more understanding because if your child made such a mistake, you could simply buy him another bike. Matt’s reality is that I can’t afford to do that, so he has to take special care of the one he has.”
“I feel partly responsible.” Jake thrust a thumb at his chest. “And I can afford to buy him another one. Doesn’t that change the equation just a little?”
“No,” she said, “because you won’t be around to buy him yet another one when he forgets and leaves the new one in the wrong place because the message never really got through.”
Jake turned his head to watch the boy heave the wreck into the back of the car. “Do you really think he’d let that happen again?”
“Twice or three times more,” she said without hesitation. “Kids are thick, Mr. Marshack. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She glanced at her watch. “Christy has a piano lesson, David has a t’ai chi class, Renee has ballet and Matt has to deliver his route.” She started to walk up the drive but he caught her arm.
He was surprised by how small it felt in his grip. Her bicep was muscled and firm, but he could easily close his hand around it. She looked up into his eyes and he felt that shock again, as though water had closed over his head.
Then, unexpectedly, her eyes gentled and she gave him a half smile. “I know you mean well,” she said, “and I appreciate the generosity of your offer when you know it really wasn’t your fault. But it’s important that Matt live with this for a little while.” Then her smile took on a slightly wry twist. “Just as I have to live with the results of my inability to pay my bills. Life is hard, and that’s a truth no one escapes. Goodbye, Mr. Marshack.”
She caught up with Matt and put an arm around his shoulders.
Jake saw the boy stiffen stubbornly, refusing to respond to some teasing remark. Now he felt sorry for both of them.
She certainly had a lot to contend with—the fairly recent loss of her husband, the brink of financial ruin and four children, one of whom was on the threshold of puberty with all its attendant confusion and volatility. Not to mention a porch roof that leaked.
Jake got into his vehicle again and backed down the drive. There was nothing else he could do here. He’d delivered the company’s offer, then its ultimatum. He’d upset the widow Hansen and made her older son a pedestrian. That was quite enough for one day.
* * *
WITH CHRISTY, David and Renee piled into the station wagon, Britt drove the three miles into Tyler. While the children teased and argued in the middle seat, she pushed in a Clint Black tape about “living and learning” and turned up the volume. The music didn’t deter the children one bit but it helped her ease the knot of worry that had begun to grow in her stomach a year ago when Jimmy died, and that now threatened to cut off her breath and smother her heartbeat.
Not that she and Jimmy hadn’t struggled before. Life for the small farmers all across the country had come down to a basic truth: success was being able to break even; profit was an impossibility. And for her and Jimmy, debt had been a fact of life since she inherited not only the farm when her father died, but the high cost of new milking equipment. The four days Jimmy had spent in intensive care after the accident had almost bankrupted her.
When he’d been there by her side, dark-haired and lanky and determined to look on the bright side, she’d felt as though she could handle anything. But since he was killed, she’d lost sight of the bright side. Lakeside Farm’s cash flow was down to a trickle, and it was impossible to hire someone to do all that Jimmy had done. Already putting in a full day herself, she tried to take over as many of Jimmy’s chores as she could manage and still be there for her children. But she felt like something from one of the taffy pulls described in Great-Grandma Bauer’s diary—as though she’d been stretched so far she was now stringy and limp.
“Mom!” Christy shouted. “You passed Miss Gates’s house!”
Britt broke out of her thoughts, quickly checking her rearview mirror before braking to a halt.
“She’s not Miss Gates anymore,” Renee corrected importantly. “She’s Mrs....?”
“Mrs. Forrester,” Britt supplied, backing up to a curb canopied by tall old maple trees just acquiring green buds. “No, Chris!” she cautioned as her daughter would have opened the street-side door. “Get out on the curb side.”
“David’s in the way.”
“David, honey, tuck your feet in.”
“If she wasn’t so fat—”
Whap! Sheet music to “Dance of the Butterflies” connected with David’s cheek as Christy stepped over him and past Renee, who had raised both feet onto the seat and covered her head.
“Christy,” Britt began to scold, but the child was already running up the walk to her piano teacher’s charming cream-colored house. She knew she should correct David for insulting his sister, but lately it’d become such a major event when he said anything that she hated to discourage him, even for saying something negative. She decided to conserve her energy on all counts. She was bound to find something that would require it later.
“I’d like to live here,” Renee said as they proceeded along the street. Britt glanced out at the fussily trimmed and gabled Victorian houses, some with orderly picket fences and others with gardens that would soon be ablaze in a riot of colors. Already daffodils and
