cracked again. “You’re the one who told me to get out and explore the neighborhood! Meet kids my age.”
Ten feet away from the picket fence and gate, Mark stopped. If anyone could understand the need to be by himself, Mark could. Hell, he’d been the king of withdrawal when he’d first come home. The girls continued singing and gesturing—“Where is pointer, where is pointer...?”
“I need your help.” Laurel wouldn’t back down.
“I’m leaving!”
Mark figured it must be damn hard to lose a father when a boy needed him most, but it still bothered him the kid was taking his anger out on his mother. He decided to step in, offer Laurel some support. “Is this a bad time?”
“Oh, Mark.” Laurel looked flustered and frustrated, her cheeks flushed. Those soft hazel-brown eyes from earlier now dark and tense. Edging toward the street side of the gate, Peter stepped backward, gearing up for his escape.
“How are you today, sir?” the twins sang louder.
Mark stepped closer, giving Peter a forced but friendly smile, hoping to keep him from taking off. “I’m Mark. Nice to meet you.”
In response, he received a death glare. It was clear the kid was furious, not just about Mark butting in, or his mother demanding he pull his share of responsibility, but about life in general. About how sucky it must be when a dad dies.
Unaware, the girls kept singing their nursery rhyme. “Run away. Run away.” Their way of coping with stress?
Still glowering, Peter spoke verse three. “Where is tall man?” He added the middle-finger gesture for the sake of his mother and Mark, made sure they both saw it clearly, then took off running, flip-flops flapping, down the street toward the beach.
“Peter!” Laurel yelled, anger flashing in those eyes.
He thought about running after Peter and straightening him out, but stopped the urge. It wasn’t his place.
It took guts, or total desperation, to flip off a complete stranger in front of his mother, he’d give Peter that. He didn’t envy Laurel’s having to deal with that on top of opening the B&B. Guests didn’t go to places like this to hear family arguments. Yet Laurel was a widow with three kids to take care of, and the proprietor of an about-to-open business. After he fixed her lock, he’d steer clear.
Laurel called after Peter again. When Peter didn’t stop or turn around, she dug fingers into her hair, obviously torn about whether to run after him or let him go. The girls had stopped singing, now zeroing in on their mother and gathering close to her. She put a hand on both of them, giving a motherly rub and pat, which immediately eased the tension in their sparrow-sized shoulders. Then she steered them back toward the porch.
Looking downcast, but not defeated, Laurel glanced back at Mark. “Welcome to my world.”
Ten minutes later, Mark kept to himself as he tested the key that Laurel had given him in the stubborn front door lock. The scene with Peter had been unpleasant to say the least, and he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from butting in and telling the kid what he thought. Really thought—listen, punk, you don’t talk to your mother like that. Ever! But it wasn’t his place, and keeping it real, he’d heard a similar warning—without the punk part—from his father a long time ago. Disrespecting parents must be some teen rite of passage. From the way Laurel had mostly kept her cool, she’d probably been down that road with Peter before.
While he fiddled with the lock, Laurel went about distracting the little ones with a snack and a promise to watch one afternoon kid’s show. He was pretty sure “yay” meant they’d accepted her deal.
A minute later, he’d squirted powdered graphite into the keyhole, moved the key in and out a few times, then retested the sticky mechanism. The lock opened and closed just fine. For good measure, he repeated the process on the bolt lock, since her guests would most likely be using their keys after hours, and Laurel might appreciate their not waking her up to get in.
Before The Drumcliffe had switched to card keys, he and his brothers had become experts with fixing sticky locks. They’d learned the hard way that vegetable oil and WD-40 helped for the short term, but eventually made the problem worse. Then they’d discovered graphite, the non-gummy way to fix a lock.
On his knees with the door open, Mark surreptitiously watched Laurel wander his way, carrying a small plate of cookies. She sat on the nearest rocker in the row along the porch, stretching out her sleek legs, then offering him the plate.
“Do you barter?” she toyed, waiting for him to catch on.
“Work for chocolate chip cookies? You bet.” He took one and popped it whole into his mouth. Holy melting deliciousness, it was good. “Pretty sure I got the better deal, too.” He should’ve waited until he’d finished chewing and swallowing. He probably still had chocolate teeth.
She laughed gently. At least he’d done that for her. Made her smile. And a nice one it was, too, wide, straight and lighting up her eyes.
“You know he’s grieving, right?” she said, growing serious, her eyes seeking his, needing him to understand why her kid had shot off his mouth earlier.
“I figured something was going on. I get the impression a lady like you wouldn’t put up with that behavior otherwise.”
She put her head against the back of the rocker, nibbling on a cookie. “He blames me for everything. Sometimes I think he even blames me for his father getting cancer.”
“From what I recall, being a teenager is hard enough. Losing a parent on top of it, well, that’s got to bite. Hard.”
“He was only twelve when Alan died, but for so many years before that, Alan’s being ill was the focal point of our family. He missed out on a lot of things other kids his age took for granted. And the insecurity of it all, that I know firsthand. Must have been devastating for him, because it nearly killed me.”
Moved by her opening up so easily, Mark sat on his heels, wanting to give back, to make this an interchange somehow, but he was out of practice. “He’s, what, fourteen now?”
She gave a thoughtful nod without looking at him, taking another small bite of cookie. “Who invented adolescent angst, anyway?”
Mark made one quick laugh. “He probably doesn’t know how to move on. Maybe he’s in a rut and needs a nudge or something.” This conversation had edged into familiar personal territory. He could say the same thing about himself—not sure how to move on, feeling in a rut—but for the sake of Laurel he focused on her problem and her son.
“We’ve tried therapy. He went to a teen grief group for a while. Then he stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to force him to go.” She glanced at Mark for understanding. He assented. “I think he’s afraid of his feelings. He’s hurt so much for so long, he can’t imagine going over everything again, examining the pain of losing his dad.” She sighed. “I don’t know.” Now she looked at him, really looked at him, her eyes searching his, waking up some dark and forgotten place. Did she sense his pain? “And you probably never thought you’d get sucked into my family problems when you offered to help fix my locks
