Home At Last. Deborah Raney

She took a breath, willing herself to remain calm, then chose her words carefully. “You must have a different definition of ‘just fine’ than I do.”

      “The bills are paid. We’re not starving. The cars run. Both of them.”

      “And we’ll never retire.” In the last month alone, they’d spent an extra six hundred dollars on household repairs.

      Grant studied her, gauging, she knew, how close she was to a meltdown.

      He apparently thought one was imminent because he tossed aside the throw pillows he’d been holding and drew her into his arms. “Talk to me, babe. Why are you freaking out like this?”

      She stiffened, not quite ready for the “easy” solution she knew he was likely to offer—simply to not face the real issues. She wriggled out of his embrace, but reached up to kiss his cheek. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just mad at the situation. We’ll talk about it later. I don’t have time right now.”

      His jaw tensed. “Okay. I’m making an executive decision. We’ll iron things out later. But I’m ordering ahead for Tuesday: six large pizzas. And tonight, you are going to go take a much-deserved soak in the tub.” He grasped her shoulders and directed her toward the door.

      She released a hot breath of frustration and let him steer her into the hall. “I’ll take you up on the pizza, and I’ll take a rain check on the bath.”

      She felt him hesitate behind her, but to his credit he didn’t try to argue. Instead, he said, “Don’t worry about the dishwasher. I’ll take care of that.”

      “As you always do.” She turned, appropriately chastened, but not ready to let him think he’d solved her problems so easily. “And I know you’ll help me Tuesday with the babies and with cleaning up afterward. And I appreciate that. I truly do. I’m just . . . feeling a little overwhelmed with everything right now. I’ll be fine.”

      He patted her shoulders and kissed the back of her neck. “I know you will.”

      She wished “being fine” were as easy as simply speaking the words. But lately it felt like her dream-come-true was snuffing the life out of her.

      Chapter 5

      5

      Shayla scooted the little vanity bench back, lifted the hem of her long skirt, and bent to slather lotion on her ashy ankles and feet before slipping into the new sandals she’d found at the Goodwill. Six dollars, which had meant leaving behind a little dress Portia had begged for. But the dress was raggedy, and Portia truly didn’t need more clothes. Besides—Shayla finished fastening the strap—she’d wanted these sandals. Especially when she’d seen the exact pair in a store downtown for almost a hundred dollars.

      Sometimes she resented that her budget dictated shopping at secondhand stores, but if she could get past the embarrassment of living on the verge of being a poverty statistic, she rather enjoyed the challenge of finding something the original owner had paid a pretty penny for and worn twice—and likely taken a healthy tax credit for as she dropped it off at a donation center in her fifty-thousand-dollar SUV, all proud and smug because she’d helped the poor.

      Cut it out, Shayla Jean. She was thinking like Jeremiah. Jerry had let the chip on his shoulder drag him down. Down and under.

      She pushed the memories away. Her brother was a topic sure to elicit tears if she pondered too long on it. And she wasn’t going to let anything ruin this date with Link Whitman.

      A date. When was the last time she’d been on a real, live date? She couldn’t remember. Probably Danny Sherwood. That loser was enough to make any woman swear off dating. The man had what Mama had called Roman hands and Russian fingers. Mercy! Somehow she didn’t think she’d have that problem with Link Whitman. He was the very definition of a gentleman.

      “What’s so funny, Shay?”

      Shayla looked up to see her own smiling face in the mirror, and Portia’s reflection behind her. “Nothing, sweetie. Now go get your shoes on. Mr. Link will be here in a few minutes and we don’t want to make him wait.”

      “Hows come Mr. Link is takin’ us to a movie?”

      “How come?” She pushed off the bench and inspected her niece’s hair. “Well, I guess because he wants to. He likes us. And he thinks you’re a cutie.” She licked her forefinger and thumb and smoothed a wayward wisp of Portia’s hair. With her fawn-colored hair and blue eyes, this child was going to be a stunner when she grew up.

      Portia tilted her head and gave a knowing grin. “Is he your boyfriend?”

      “Mr. Link? No. And don’t you go saying that in front of him either. He’s a friend. Just a friend.”

      “Yeah, but he’s a boy.”

      “Go get your shoes on.”

      “And he’s your friend. So that’s boy friend.”

      “Hush, girl.”

      “Can I wear my sandals?”

      “No, it’s too cold.”

      “No fair! You’re wearin’ sandals.” Portia put her hands where her hips would have been if she had any meat on her bones.

      “When you’re a big girl, then you can wear sandals in November.”

      “I am a big girl. Big Daddy said so.”

      Shayla knelt and got on eye level with the child, making her voice stern. “You do not sass. Do you understand me? You’re a big girl, but you’re not a grown-up yet.”

      “You’re not the boss of me.”

      “I most certainly am the boss of you.” Shayla grabbed Portia by her bony shoulder—a little harder than necessary.

      “Ouch!”

      “Do you want to go to the movie with me and Link or not?” Portia loved movies, but Shayla wouldn’t put it past the little snot to refuse, just to be obstinate. And if she did, Shayla would have no recourse but to tell Link she was sorry, but they’d be staying home.

      But apparently the movie won out. Portia only pouted and hung her head.

      Shayla sighed and rose. If she’d learned anything from her sweet mama, it was that you couldn’t let a child win when it came to minding. Portia was a sweet girl, but she could push the limits with the best of them. She was what Mama had called a strong-willed child. Portia took after her dad that way. Except Shayla felt sure Mama would have worked the will out of Jeremiah if she’d lived long enough. But Daddy had gone easy on Jerry—on both of them—after Mama died. Shayla had been old enough and meek enough that Mama’s discipline had already “took.”

      But her brother was a different story. And look where it landed him. Impulsively, she pulled Portia into her arms. Poor baby. At least Shayla had known a mother’s loving care until she was grown. This baby was growing up without mother or father in her life.

      Sometimes it terrified Shayla that she was trying to fill not just Tara’s shoes for Portia, but Jerry’s and Mama’s too. She sighed. If she thought about it too long, she felt every one of her thirty-three years.

      “Come on, girlie. Mr. Link will be here any minute. We don’t want to make him wait.” She checked her hair in the mirror. She’d spent half the afternoon straightening it, oiling and blow-drying, and flat-ironing it to within an inch of its life. But the humidity was already winning, and she could almost see her hair frizz before her eyes. Why couldn’t she have inherited her mother’s hair? Straight blonde hair that hung almost to her waist. Until she’d lost it all to the chemo.

      “Is Mr. Link gonna kiss you?” Portia looked up at her with a sly grin.

      She froze. “Girl! What would make you even think such a thing?”

      “That’s what people do on dates.”

      “Who told