Made to Order Family. Ruth Herne Logan

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      Her former sister-in-law’s voice faltered. “I’m not sure, Rita.”

      Rita sent her gaze upward, compressed her lips and bit back what she wanted to say. “I only need a minute.”

      “Who is it?” Ed’s churlish voice came through gnarled, as if Heather tried to block the sensitive microphone a little too late.

      “Rita.”

      “What does she want?” His emphasis on the pronoun smacked of disregard. Obviously Ed felt she had nothing to say that he wanted to hear. But if she was going to garner enough courage to run her own business and her own life, Rita needed to lasso some guts, take charge and do what was needed on a daily basis. A good businesswoman didn’t put things off for her convenience or to shore up a sagging self-esteem.

      “Tell him I need to talk to him, Heather. It’s either talk to me now or I’ll come right over.”

      “She says she’s coming over if you don’t talk to her.”

      Ed muttered words unsuitable for decent company and Rita hoped his kids were somewhere else. Anywhere else. But Ed’s kids had been raised around his late-day vulgarity, the ever-present twelve-pack of beer an after-hours habit.

      “What do you want?”

      Rita heard his words and figured he was about six cans into the night and it was only five o’clock.

      “Ed, you’re aware the judge could make his decision any day regarding the pension fund, right?”

      “I know you’re trying to finagle your way into messing up my retirement fund, yes. And that any decent judge will see right through your little scheme and tell you to get your drunken butt out of bed and get a better job. Take care of my brother’s kids.”

      His words hit their mark, but Rita choked back a retort. “Ed, if you split the fund now, I’ll drop the case. I’m starting a bakery of my own and those funds would go a long way to helping me get on my feet.”

      “I’ll tell you what,” Ed expounded. “I know you’re a worthless excuse for a wife and mother, that if Tommy hadn’t been working night and day to keep you in fancy clothes and cars, he wouldn’t have done what he did. You drove him to it, and we all know it.”

      “Ed, if you wait for the judge to rule, you could be liable for legal fees and court costs. Those add up.”

      “That judge ain’t gonna give you a dime,” Ed shot back. “You get your share when I get mine, at age sixty-five. That’s how Tommy and I set it up, and that’s how it is. Now leave me alone.”

      Click.

      Rita stared at the phone, thinking of all the things she wished she could say, then sighed. Not one of them would change the outcome, change Ed’s outlook or make a difference in the long run, so why say them?

      Complete satisfaction?

      Sure, yanking Ed’s chain with a long-winded spiel might offer some sense of momentary comfort, but it was better she leave things be. She’d called, she’d tried, made an honest attempt. Now she’d go to the banks knowing she’d given it her best shot with Ed. Yeah, she’d come up short, but she hadn’t chickened out or gone off on him. Two good things.

      Having bank officers see her financial state of affairs unnerved her. Life hadn’t been easy since Tom died and her drinking had messed the whole family up, but since she’d gone into recovery a year before, everything had been paid on time. That should count for something, right?

      Maybe.

      She pulled in another deep breath, turned her back on the phone and called Skeeter’s name as she headed for the car.

      “Liv? Skeets? You guys ready? We have to get to the wood shop.”

      “We’re ready.” Liv’s light footsteps pattered down the stairs. Skeeter’s followed at a more measured pace, but she wasn’t testy, and Rita chalked that up as a quiet victory. “Do you need me to put anything in the car?”

      “Nope. I did it while you were finishing your homework. Skeets, did you make progress on your room?”

      Skeeter’s expression said she hadn’t.

      Rita thrust up a brow. “This will come back to haunt you, kid. At some point you’re going to ask to do something and I’ll say, ‘Is your room clean?’” Rita slanted her best mother-knows-everything look down to her youngest daughter. “And then you’re going to be really mad at me and yourself for not getting it done like I’ve asked.”

      Choosing to let Skeeter stew on that, Rita climbed into the driver’s seat, popped in a Taylor Swift CD, started the engine and headed toward North Country Woodcrafter, ready to immerse herself in creative expression. Sure, it was just painting whimsical wooden flowers to fit Liv’s perceived motif for the spring-summer window, but she’d been looking forward to this all day.

      Because you love seeing Brooks. You love it when he asks your opinion on fabrics, colors and stain tones or washes. He includes you and that makes you feel good.

      It did, she realized. He sought her opinions, her ideas, as if her thoughts mattered.

      Of course, he was like that with everyone, she assured herself, shutting down that twinge of inner knowledge. Brooks liked to help people in his quiet way, and he’d been a good friend and a patient listener since meeting her in AA. That was all she wanted or needed. A friend, a confidant. There was absolutely no way she was interested in anything more than that, not now, not ever, despite how his gray eyes crinkled in amusement when she was around.

      Rita hadn’t been accused of being amusing since about age eleven, and even then it was most likely accidental.

      But Brooks laughed with her and at her, nudging her forward, fine-tuning her sense of humor. He wasn’t afraid to spar with her, go toe-to-toe.

      She wondered to herself why on earth that felt so marvelously good.

      Once parked, Rita tugged the big plastic tub from the trunk of her car, balancing it on the trunk’s lip as she juggled for a decent hand grip.

      Strong arms descended around her, the scent of fresh-sawn wood and sweet oils tickling her nose.

      Brooks. Smelling far too wonderful to ensure her peace of mind. A part of her longed to lean into the scent, the press of soft cotton knit comforting against her face.

      He hoisted the tub from her hands, stepped back and surveyed it, then her. “You could ask for help, you know. It’s not exactly a foreign concept.”

      “Why ask when I can do it myself?”

      His frank expression offered more than his words. “Because I’m here? And available?”

      Whoa. An opening too good to resist. Rita grinned. “I’ll spread the word. Half the local singles will be dropping by with cookies and cakes, showing off their talents.”

      “I’ll let that pass,” Brooks told her. He grinned at Liv as she came around the side of the car, Skeeter’s hand clutched in hers. “Ladies’ night, hmm?”

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