Made to Order Family. Ruth Herne Logan

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СКАЧАТЬ frame, but he didn’t. Not really. Kid bedtimes were something he’d never had to deal with, thanks to his brother.

      She walked to the door, sure-footed, more poised and confident than she’d been last summer. Back then a confrontation like this would have sent her into duck-and-cover mode. Not anymore.

      She was doing well. She had her first-year chip, the bronze medallion inscribed with the sacred words of sobriety, The Serenity Prayer.

      Brooks lived by that prayer, a solid credo. Over a decade ago he’d recognized what he couldn’t change, so he grasped the courage to change what he could, his location. He’d come north to start anew, and he had.

      Thoughts of Baltimore invaded the peaceful afternoon. His parents. His brother. Amy and her deception.

      Brooks shoved them aside. He’d left the Inner Harbor because he had no choice, not after what they’d done. His faith, his focus and his freedom had been at stake, three concepts he held dear.

      Family?

      Um…not so much. Not since he realized that his fiancée was pregnant with his brother’s child. While Brooks had been commanding men in the desert sands of Iraq, Amy and Paul had trysted in Maryland. Instead of being the model American family Brooks held in his heart, the Harrimans had been reduced to a Jerry Springer episode.

      When Rita was around, a whisper of the man he’d been flickered to life. Captain Brooks Harriman, a soldier, a fighter, a special operative trained to make the most of a given situation.

      His skills failed him in Baltimore. He’d been unable to separate the physical from the emotional, and had let the combination tumble him into the dark pit of alcoholism, until Sgt. Greg Callahan of the Baltimore Police Department dragged him up and out of the gutter, then became his AA sponsor.

      Callahan’s example as a sponsor and a man inspired Brooks. And he’d been dry for nearly a dozen years. At forty-two, he’d been spinning his wheels for a long time.

      Too long, Brooks decided, watching Rita climb into her car, her hair bright with afternoon sun. Christ had promised life to the full, his words giving hope to gathered throngs.

      When Rita was around, the sweet scent of cinnamon-soaked apples teasing his senses, that fullness seemed possible. Plausible. Add three kids to the mix…

      Brooks passed a hand along the nape of his neck as Rita’s car curved north. Her kids couldn’t afford any more mistakes. Neither could she. But life without chances wasn’t really life, and right now Brooks was ready to reach for the gold ring he’d missed twelve years before. Now if he could just convince Rita…

      A slight smile tugged his lips. He’d managed to oversee covert operations, lead men into battle and engineer the behind-the-scenes cyber breakdown of Iraqi military software, disabling their computerized navigation systems. One sweet, thirty-eight year old single mother shouldn’t be all that hard. Right?

      Chapter Two

      “I hate those shoes.” Skeeter’s tone sounded like Rita’s had earlier. Rita grimaced, recognizing the parallel. “They’re ugly.”

      “Then wear your sneakers,” Rita counseled. “The ones with Strawberry Shortcake are cute.”

      “For babies.” Skeeter stuck out her lower lip, then tossed her head, pigtails bouncing. “I’m not going.”

      Rita cut her off. She squatted and locked gazes. “You have five minutes to get ready for Brett’s game. If you don’t, you’ll lose TV privileges for the rest of the week. That’s five long days, Skeets.” Rising, she eyed the girl. “It’s up to you.”

      In the old days she’d have wheedled the girl’s cooperation, trying to assuage the guilt of Tom’s crimes. She’d worked double time to make it up to them, be the nicest mom she could be, bending backward until she’d collapsed in an alcoholic heap. Big mistake.

      Unraveling two years of insanity wasn’t easy, but doable now that she was sober. She stirred boiling water into an insulated jug containing hot chocolate mix. Sweet cocoa essence rose, rich and full, delighting her senses. If only she’d turned to chocolate instead of whiskey….

      Her computer light blinked green from the quaint kitchen alcove, a reminder of Brooks’ words. How could she find time to write up a professional prospectus with long hours of work and the intricacies of raising three children on her own, one of whom presented a constant challenge?

      The phone rang. Rita grimaced, knowing her time frame was short. Her mother’s phone number appeared in the display. Swallowing a sigh, Rita answered, one eye on the clock. “You’re home.”

      No exchange of pleasantries. No socially acceptable intro. Yup. That was Mom lately. “Hey, Mom, yes. I’m here. But Skeeter and I are on our way to Brett’s soccer game.”

      “You’ve had supper already?” Critical doubt shaded her mother’s words. Intentional? Maybe yes, maybe no. In either case Rita had a game to get to as long as Skeeter cooperated.

      Please, Lord, let Skeeter cooperate tonight.

      “Sandwiches later,” Rita explained. Skeeter reappeared wearing the Strawberry Shortcake sneakers and an aggrieved expression. Rita nodded approval at one and ignored the other. Some things weren’t worth the battle.

      “How do kids get homework done when their schedules run them ragged day after day?” Judith Barnes’ voice pitched higher. “Nothing should outrank homework. School performance. You above all people should know that, Rita. Your grades were excellent when you applied yourself.”

      In Mom-speak, that meant, “You didn’t apply yourself often enough.”

      The ten seconds Skeeter had been kept waiting pushed her patience beyond endurance. She parked one hand on her hip and tapped a toe, the hint of bored insolence well practiced. At seven years old, it shouldn’t be a consideration. With Skeeter it had become almost ingrained, not a good thing. “Um, hello? I thought we were going? Isn’t that why I had to put these stupid shoes on?”

      “I’m coming, Skeets.” Rita added a silent frown, indicating displeasure at Skeeter’s voice and tone. Skeeter rolled her eyes, her mouth curved down in a characteristic pout. Great.

      “Mom, I’ve got to go. Brett’s game is going to start soon.”

      “Rita, you know I don’t like to interfere—”

      Rita knew nothing of the sort.

      “And I generally mind my own business—”

      Meaning I’m about to mind yours, so watch out….

      “And I’m a firm believer in parents raising their own children—”

      Translation: I could do better, hands down, no questions asked.

      “But why do you let her talk to you that way? So bratty? Liv wasn’t like that. Neither was Brett. But with Aleta you let her get away with all kinds of things you’d have never let slide before.”

      Before what? Tom’s crimes? His suicide? Her alcoholism?

      Her mother drew a breath, СКАЧАТЬ