Raising Connor. Loree Lough

her eyes. To block out another of her grandmother’s inappropriate comments? Or to hide the misery and sadness of the day?

      He watched her straighten already-straight doilies on the arms of her chair, adjust the folds of her gauzy skirt, finger the chunky turquoise pendant buried in the soft ruffles of her blouse. Then she crossed her cowboy boots at the ankles. What Hunter knew about fashion he could put in one eye, but he knew this: he liked what he saw.

      “What will they do with all those beautiful flowers?” Deidre wondered aloud.

      “I arranged to have them delivered to Howard County General,” Brooke told her. “Mr. Turner told me the volunteers will give them to patients who haven’t received any.”

      “That’s so sweet. I remember walking the halls when Percy had his stroke, passing some rooms that resembled florist shops, others that were bare as...as my pantry.” She looked at Hunter. “Isn’t Brooke just the most thoughtful little thing?”

      “That she is,” he said. “Wish I’d thought to do something like that after my dad died.”

      He half expected Brooke would react with self-depreciating humility, shyness, anything but wide-eyed alarm. Hunter followed her gaze to Deidre’s face. The woman had passed out. No wonder her last few sentences hadn’t held their usual punch.

      He crossed to her side of the tiny parlor in one long stride and eased the sleeping Connor from her lap. “Think she skipped breakfast again?”

      “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” He sat in the nearest chair. “How ’bout if I keep an eye on this li’l guy while you fix her a sandwich or something?”

      First she frowned. Then she stood. “Skipping meals at any age is a bad idea, but all those medications Gram takes? On an empty stomach?” She groaned quietly.

      “I’m hungry and tired,” Deidre said, “not deaf...no thanks to our mini-human siren over there. So don’t you dare wake him, because—much as I hate to sound like a grumpy old crone—the peace and quiet is a blessed relief.”

      Connor started fussing, as if on cue. But thankfully, he wasn’t fully awake yet.

      “Deidre, keep your voice down, will ya?” Hunter said, rocking back and forth, rubbing soothing circles on the baby’s narrow back as Brooke disappeared into the kitchen.

      “Remember what I told you about Billy’s drum,” Deidre said.

      “Sorry. No disrespect intended. It’s just—”

      “Oh, no need to apologize. Or explain. These past few days have beat us all up pretty well. I can’t wait until the black cloud that’s been following us around fizzles out. I’m sick of all the moping and frowning!”

      Hunter assumed she must have forgotten how long it had taken her to get back into the swing of things when Percy died.

      Five minutes later Brooke returned carrying a snack-laden tray. “I made extra,” she said, handing a plate to Deidre, “in case you’re hungry....”

      Hunter eased out of the chair. “Think I’ll see if I can get him into his crib without waking him.” He started for the stairs. Wish me luck.”

      “While you’re up there,” Deidre said, “give a thought to changing your pants, why don’t you.”

      “Why?”

      “Because somebody’s diaper leaked. You’re about Percy’s size. Help yourself to a pair of his jeans. They’re in my closet.”

      Odd, he thought, but he hadn’t noticed the dampness until she mentioned it. On the way upstairs, Hunter pictured Deidre’s third husband—the only one of three who’d earned Love of My Life title. He pictured himself wearing the man’s trademark bib overalls and considered the possibility that he wasn’t wet and Deidre needed comic relief.

      As he eased Connor into the crib, Hunter felt the cold, clammy proof that the diaper really had leaked. He grabbed a fresh one and got to work. When the kid was fast asleep like this, nothing short of a shotgun blast would wake him. But just in case, Hunter took his time. As he cleaned up, the baby’s eyelids fluttered. “Daddy?” He sighed. “Daddy-Daddy-Daddy.”

      If anyone had told him that a simple two-syllable word could hit him like a blow to the jaw, Hunter would have laughed it off. But the stark, quiet reminder of Kent’s death hit hard. Leaning on the crib rail, he hung his head.

      “Nothing would make me prouder than to call you son,” he said, smoothing soft bangs from Connor’s forehead. “But it won’t be easy filling your dad’s shoes.” The admission made him wonder why Kent worked so hard to give some people—Brooke in particular—the impression that he didn’t have a heart when in truth he had an immeasurable capacity for love.

      “I’ll do my best to fill your daddy’s shoes, buddy.”

      Satisfied that the boy was safe, Hunter covered him with a light blanked and walked across the hall. Draped in gauzy lace, Deidre’s four-poster bed was piled high with heart-shaped pastel pillows, and on the night tables, china dolls garbed in ruffly ball gowns wore lampshade hats. Ornate perfume bottles sparkled from the marble top of the mahogany makeup table, and in the closet, dresses of every fabric and hue hung in order by length. Beneath them a multi-tiered rack sagged under the weight of four, maybe five dozen pairs of shoes.

      Up against the far wall, separated from the other clothes, one pair of coveralls had been draped over a padded hanger. Why had she discarded all of Percy’s other clothes and kept these? A quiet reminder, perhaps, of happier moments spent with her husband, the former stand-up comic.

      Hunter tucked his soiled trousers into a plastic bag found on the floor of Deidre’s closet, then changed into the overalls and went back to check on Connor, who had turned onto his side and was cuddling a fuzzy teddy bear. Except for twin dimples—Beth’s contribution to his facial features—Connor was the spitting image of Kent. Had he inherited his dad’s “do everything by the book” nature, too, Hunter wondered as tears stung his eyes, or his mom’s easygoing personality?

      What was wrong with him lately? Seemed like every time he turned round, tears threatened. Connor sighed, and Hunter knuckled his eyes. “Don’t be in too big a hurry to grow up, okay?”

      “That’s what I told him,” Brooke said, stepping up beside him, “when I tucked him in on the night of the crash. I guess it’s a blessing that he’s so young, because he won’t remember how he lost his mom and dad.”

      “Yeah, but we’ll make sure he knows what sort of people they were.”

      For a moment, Brooke stood, content, it seemed, to watch Connor sleep.

      “So how’s Deidre?” he asked.

      “She’s fine. I told her if she didn’t eat that ham sandwich, I’d make her take a nap.”

      He chuckled as Brooke sighed.

      “It won’t be easy,” she said, “admitting to Connor that I didn’t know his dad very well.”

      It seemed she was thinking out loud, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “Kent wasn’t an easy guy to get to know.”

      “I’m not made of glass, Hunter. I can handle the truth.”

      Before those punishing meetings at the bank and funeral parlor before the graveside service, he might have disagreed, based solely on what Kent had told him about her. But he knew better now.

      “All I meant,” he defended, “is that I’ll make sure Connor gets to know his dad.”

      “You’ll make sure?”

      “I’ll help, I mean. If it’s okay with you.”

      Brooke looked up at him through thick lashes. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

      Oh, I don’t know...maybe because I killed your mother?

      She