The House On Sugar Plum Lane. Judy Duarte

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СКАЧАТЬ couldn’t help noting that the linoleum, which had once been a bright yellow and blue pattern, had dulled with age and curled away from the cracked gray caulking around the tub, revealing a strip of plywood underneath.

      She’d have to add “bathroom floor” to the growing list of things that needed to be refurbished or repaired around the house, although she had very little money to spare on fix-it projects. And she had far less time.

      It seemed that there were never enough hours in the day. What she wouldn’t give to be able to slip away by herself for a while, to talk to someone who could actually carry on a quality conversation. If she still worked outside the home, she’d have coworkers with whom she could connect, but as it was, she was limited to chatting with her boarders or her children, which wasn’t the same.

      Ever since Hilda and Walter Klinefelter, who’d become self-appointed grandparents to her children and a godsend when it came to friendship and support, had left on a three-week European cruise, Maria’s days had stretched into each other. Still, she was happy for the elderly couple who’d fallen in love during their golden years. Truly.

      But today, it seemed, had been more trying than usual, and she was winding down fast.

      If she had a few extra minutes, she’d brew herself a cup of chamomile tea—or maybe even pour a glass of wine. Then she’d find a good book and sink into a warm bath herself. But much to her dismay, her workday was far from over.

      As little Walter—Wally for short—spun toward the back of the tub and reached for a miniature Pooh, the water sloshed against the sides again, threatening to spill over.

      That’s what she got for asking Sara to fill the bath. Sometimes it was easier doing things herself.

      “Two more minutes,” she said, warning Wally that bath time was almost over.

      “No, not yet!”

      It was amazing, she thought. She had to drag the child kicking and screaming to the tub, then had to fight twice as hard to get him out again. She reached for the pale blue towel she’d taken out of the linen closet earlier and had left on the tile counter near the sink.

      “Mommy!” five-year-old Sara screeched from the open doorway. “Danny’s calling me names again!”

      Maria blew out a weary sigh.

      “He called me a girl,” the child added, crossing her arms across her chest.

      “You are a girl, honey.”

      “I know. But Danny said it like it was a bad thing.”

      She supposed the squabble wasn’t a big deal, but Danny had once been so sweet and helpful, and in the past month he’d grown surly and difficult. No matter what she did, what she said, he seemed to slip further away from the child he’d once been.

      Holding back another weary sigh, she slowly got to her feet. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I get your little brother out of the bathtub and help him put on his pajamas. In the meantime, go get your nightgown and a towel. It’s your turn for a bath.”

      “Oh, o-kay.” Sara turned and stomped off in a huff.

      As her daughter padded down the hall, Maria reached into the bathtub and pulled out the plug to drain the water.

      “No!” Wally screeched. “I’m not done.”

      Maybe not, but Maria was. She lifted him from the tub, and he kicked and whined in a last-ditch attempt at defiance. Then she stood him on the floor and draped the towel around him as water pooled onto the floor.

      What she wouldn’t give to have someone with whom she could share the parent load, especially in the evenings, but she’d been on her own for nearly four years now. And nights were the worst.

      Not that she wanted her ex-husband back.

      Her children’s father had been her teenage crush, but he’d proven to be anything but family oriented. And even if he’d wanted to be a solid and dependable part of their lives, he still had several years left to serve in prison following a fatal altercation with the jealous husband of the woman he’d been seeing.

      He wrote occasionally, but only to Danny, since Maria had not only refused to provide him with a phony alibi, she’d let him know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want anything to do with him.

      She really didn’t want him contacting their son, although she understood why he would. Still, that didn’t mean she had to share those letters with an eleven-year-old. So each time she received one, which wasn’t all that often, she would put it away for a time when Danny was older and better able to deal with one of the dark realities of life.

      “Mommy!” Sara shrieked. “He’s saying it again! And this time he’s calling me a dumb girl.”

      What was she going to do with that boy?

      Maria lifted the towel-bundled toddler and carried him out of the bathroom, down the hall, and to Danny’s room, where the eleven-year-old lay stretched out on his bed, his hands resting under his head, his gaze on the ceiling.

      “What’s going on?” she asked, shuffling Wally in her arms.

      “Nothing.”

      Maria supposed she shouldn’t be overly concerned about Danny calling Sara a dumb girl. After all, there were a lot worse things he could have called her. But something niggled at her, suggesting there was more going on in her son’s life than she realized, something she ought to be aware of.

      The fact that his father was in prison could cause him some concern, but he seemed to have gotten over it fairly well, once they’d moved out of town and away from the whispers in the community about a crime of passion that had gone awry.

      “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked her son.

      “Nope.” He didn’t even turn his head.

      She’d expected the teen years to be rough, but wasn’t that surly attitude striking a little too soon?

      “Did your sister do something to annoy you?”

      “Yeah.” He finally turned his head, albeit briefly. “She won’t leave me alone. And I don’t want to play with her and her stupid dolls.”

      Maria tried to tell herself that the squabble was typical of siblings, that Danny was growing up and wanted some privacy, that her uneasiness was for naught.

      But she couldn’t help stressing anyway. Shouldn’t a good mother try to “fix” whatever was bothering her child?

      The telephone rang, drawing her from what was fast becoming an unpleasant nightly routine. If it was another telemarketer, she was going to scream.

      She set Wally on the floor and told him to go find his Pull-Ups and the jammies she’d laid out for him. Then she hurried to her bedroom to answer before the caller hung up.

      “Hello?”

      “Maria, this is Barbara Davila.”

      “Oh, hi.” Maria took a seat on СКАЧАТЬ