Finding A Family. Judy Christenberry

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      She fixed two cups of coffee. Then, having checked the cabinets’ contents, she pulled out what she needed. “You’ve got a lot of good equipment here. It’s going to make my life easier.”

      She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he finally said, “My wife was a good cook.”

      “I bet she was. Tell me about her.” She didn’t rush him. Going about the business of making a cake, she waited for him to answer.

      Finally, he began talking, slowly as if his voice was rusty. But his voice increased in volume and speed as if she’d started an avalanche. She listened, occasionally asking a question or making a comment. By the time the cake was baked and iced, he’d fallen silent at last. She looked up to find tears sliding down his cheeks.

      She took out two saucers and cut two pieces of cake, a large one for him and a smaller one for her. She handed a plate to Carl. “We need to test the cake to see if it’s good enough for Timmy.”

      He slowly picked up a fork and took a bite of the cake.

      Maggie watched him closely. She hadn’t had time to read the note the man’s son had left her. She hoped she hadn’t done anything wrong.

      After he’d eaten several bites of cake, she said, “At first, it’s hard to talk about someone who’s gone. My husband died two years ago, just before Timmy turned two. But I found it got easier the more I talked about him.”

      “Yeah,” Carl said, not looking up.

      “I hope you’ll tell me about some of the meals your wife cooked. I could try to make them again, though I’m probably not as good a cook as she was.”

      “The cake is good.”

      “I’m glad. I was so pleased to see the big back porch when we got here. I think Timmy will like playing back there, and I’ll be able to keep an eye on him as I do my chores.”

      “I might—I might sit in the rocker sometimes, to keep him company.”

      “Oh, that would be wonderful! Timmy hasn’t been around men much. It will be good for him to have a friend.”

      After she finished her cake, she began cleaning up the dirty dishes calmly and efficiently, keeping an eye on Carl without him realizing it. “What do you like for breakfast, Carl? Bacon and eggs?”

      “Eggs and sausage,” he said, as if he ate it every morning.

      “Okay. At six-thirty?”

      “That’s when Hank will want it. I—I don’t get up that early.”

      “Neither does Timmy. How about we eat around eight, until Hank gets home.”

      “Yeah, that’d be good. I really like this cake.”

      “Do you want another piece?”

      “I’d better not. I’ll have more tomorrow.”

      “Sure.”

      Carl shakily got to his feet.

      Maggie stepped around the table and slid her arm under his. “Will you show me where your room is?”

      They walked down the long hallway. Carl pointed out a room. “That’s Hank’s old room. It’s still decorated for a little boy. I bet Timmy would like it.” He pushed open the door.

      Maggie knew Timmy would love it. But she didn’t want him that far away from her. “It’s very nice.”

      Carl gave her an unsure look. “This is my room and that’s Hank’s now,” he said, pointing to the door opposite his. He pushed open the door to his room and Maggie saw she had a lot more work to do.

      “This is a nice room. I’ll get it cleaned up tomorrow.”

      Carl hesitated before he said, “That would be nice. I—I get tired.”

      “Because you haven’t been eating properly, but we’ll get you stronger.”

      Carl turned and put both his hands on her cheeks. “Maggie, I think you may be an angel.”

      “No, Carl,” she said firmly. “I’m a friend. There’s nothing angelic about me.”

      “Well, I’m glad you came.”

      “Me, too. Good night now.” She slipped out of the room and down the hallway to her new bedroom.

      Hank was dirty and exhausted. He’d worked from dawn to dusk and stayed up half the night guarding the herd. He wanted a hot shower and his bed, in that order. He’d worry about food in the morning.

      He’d have to worry about his dad in the morning, too. He hoped the new housekeeper had arrived and was taking care of everything. Maybe his dad was already keeping her company. He snorted in derision. Sure, life was that easy.

      He pulled in the driveway and was soon parked by the barn. He’d asked Larry to stay close until he got back, in case he’d hired an ax-murderer.

      “Larry?” he called. His friend stepped out and greeted him.

      “Welcome home, boss. Glad to see you.”

      “Thanks. Did she come?”

      “Oh, yeah. And she’s terrific. Best food I’ve had since—well, since your mom died.”

      Hank frowned. “And Dad? How’s he dealing with her?”

      “Like Mary’s little lamb. He and Timmy just follow her everywhere.”

      “What? He’s moving around? And who’s Timmy?”

      Larry took a step back. “Uh, she said you knew.”

      Hank knew it was all too good to be true. Harshly, he demanded, “Who’s Timmy?”

      “Maggie’s little boy. I think he’s three, almost four. Your dad plays with him.”

      “No!” Hank roared and turned on his heel, immediately striding toward his life-long home.

      Larry was frozen for several seconds. Then he hurried after his friend.

      Carl Brownlee was sitting in the rocking chair on the back porch. A little boy, Hank assumed the one in the picture, was standing at his father’s knee, showing him a small car.

      Carl looked up and smiled at Hank. That act alone almost knocked him off his feet. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw his father smile.

      “Dad?”

      “Welcome home, son. Have you met Timmy?”

      The little boy drew closer to Carl before he shyly said, “Hi.”

      “Hello,” Hank said, frowning. Then he looked at his father again. “Where is she?”

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