Mom In The Middle. Mae Nunn

out of her eyes. Several heavy thumps on the steps outside preceded the creak of the garage door as it opened into the kitchen. She didn’t look up from her sudsy work.

      “Good morning, Abby.” His friendly greeting seemed hesitant, as if he worried about intruding.

      Good, he needed to respect her space. It was Saturday, the only day she had to be home alone with her men. She was busy, and she acknowledged again, bummed. Not at all in the mood for an interruption.

      “Sorry to interrupt,” he apologized. “I see you’re busy.”

      Her head snapped up, eyes wide. Had she actually muttered that last thought out loud or was mind reading another one of his talents? Either way, it was creepy, which only seemed to agitate already sensitive nerves.

      “Shorty would like a refill and I offered to get it for him.”

      She turned to see Guy holding out her dad’s favorite mug.

      “Mom would have cut his caffeine off hours ago, but I don’t see what it can hurt.” She angled her head toward the percolator where a red light blinked indicating the pot was still hot.

      Guy leaned in the door, and set the mug on a nearby countertop. He tugged off his boots before stepping foot inside the kitchen, white crew socks peeking beneath his snug jeans.

      “Backyard’s a little muddy after yesterday’s rain,” he explained.

      She should appreciate his courtesy, but she clung to her martyrdom like a security blanket, turned her eyes back to the suds.

      “Where’s Junior?”

      “Napping. And it’s Dillon. He’s not named after his father,” she corrected, more sharply than necessary, sounding for all the world like her mother.

      “Sorry,” Guy apologized. “It’s just the tag we use for the firstborn. Some days my oldest sister actually prefers Junior to her given name. It’s quite a mouthful.”

      “And her name would be…?” She took the bait.

      “Martha Elizabeth Meg Hardy-Waverly.”

      “I agree. That is a mouthful.”

      “My folks come from big families where it’s customary to pay tribute by recycling names. So all of us got saddled with a heavy load. The good news is we only tend to hear them back home.”

      “And back home is…?” Abby waited, wondering why in the world she was encouraging a conversation she didn’t want.

      “Keokuk, Iowa. The geode capital of the world.”

      “Excuse me?” She rested her wrists against the edge of the sink and turned to him, an eyebrow cocked in question.

      “You know, those lumpy round rocks with quartz crystals inside.” He expanded his chest with exaggerated pride. “It’s our state rock.”

      She had to give in to a small smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

      “No, way.” He shook his head. “We even have a special celebration called…and I’m serious about this…Rocktober Fest. To join the hunt, you have to register and get a permit.”

      “To find rocks?”

      “Hey, these are cool, thousands of years old. I’ll get some for Dillon.” Guy poured coffee into the mug marked #1 Grandpa and padded in his socks across the kitchen floor to the refrigerator.

      Then he poured just the right amount of milk and added a half teaspoon of sugar from the bowl on the table. He’d obviously done it before when she wasn’t around, knew exactly how her daddy took his coffee. She looked away, the brief smile fading as she attacked a well-worn cast-iron skillet with a scouring pad. Something about the simple but familiar act of fixing that cup of coffee was a little stab to her heart. She should be doing that. But the truth was she couldn’t be everywhere at once no matter how hard she tried and she really could use some time off.

      “Abby, how would you feel about me taking Shorty to visit your mom this evening? Just to give you a little break.”

      Was he reading her mind, again? Doubtful.

      “My daddy’s been talking, hasn’t he?”

      “Nonstop.” She heard the chuckle in Guy’s voice. “But I enjoy his company so I don’t mind. He misses your mother something fierce and I think it helps him to talk about her, about you.”

      She scrubbed harder.

      “You’re going to wear the bottom off that thing,” he observed.

      “Yeah, well, it won’t get clean just sitting in the sink.”

      “So, what do you say about tonight?”

      “No, thanks. Mama’s expecting me and I don’t dare disappoint her.”

      Dillon’s wakeup wail echoed from the monitor on her waistband. He’d never been one to rouse quietly or be content to lie in his crib and amuse himself. Not her son. The instant he was fully awake, he demanded attention.

      “Let me get him,” Guy offered, sitting the mug on the table, turning toward the door.

      “No,” Abby insisted. Even though the man meant well, he was making himself entirely too handy. The kind of handy her folks could get attached to. The kind of attachment that would lead to heartbreak once he was gone. And Abby knew that kind of heartbreak all too well.

      “Take my daddy his coffee. I’ll get Dillon.” She peeled off the rubber gloves, tossed them in the dish rack and brushed past Guy.

      Dillon stopped his blubbering the instant she appeared. A wobbly smile creased the small face that was perpetually absent of tears.

      “You little stinker,” she muttered against his soft head as she stepped into his waiting arms and lifted him from the crib. “You’re so sure I’ll come running that you haven’t bothered with real tears since you were a newborn.”

      She’d read somewhere that a person teaches others how to treat them. It was true. She’d taught everyone in her life to depend upon her to the point of taking her for granted. They’d also learned she’d toe the line no matter the circumstances out of fear of disapproval. How perplexing that when somebody like Guy stepped in to help, she resented it. It was crazy. A self-inflicted, double-edged sword.

      Something had to give.

      “Guy?”

      Above the whir of the circular saw, he heard her call his name. He cut the power and slid the protective goggles up to his forehead. Tipping his head back, he took in the vision of Abby Cramer in a quick sweep that he hoped didn’t make him seem like a frat boy. Worn sneakers, bare legs, frayed and faded jean shorts, and a loose Texas Longhorns T-shirt. A riot of wild blond curls surrounded a face enchantingly pink from her work in the warm kitchen.