Hidden Hills (8 page)

“Of course I did!”

His expression spoke volumes, and Charlotte didn't care for anything it said. She was within a gnat's hair of letting him know what she thought of his bossy attitude, when he went around her into the kitchen, leaving her to follow.

“Okay, son.” He held out his palm. “Hand it over.”

“But, Dad…”

“Now!”

Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny new key, glaring at Charlotte as though it were her fault.

Jake nudged Jeremy's shoulder. “Where's yours?”

Charlotte's jaw dropped when the older boy handed over a second key. She realized their help this past week had been a ploy to set her up. Since when had she become such a pansy as to allow a couple of juvenile delinquents to peg her as an easy mark? “How did you get those?”

She glanced at Jake, but he was looking at his sons. The cold fury in his eyes had the boys dropping their heads, stuffing more pancakes into their mouths. Anything to delay an explanation.

“I give 'em Mama's key.”

“You what, Maggie?”

“Give 'em Mama's key. Now we won't get locked out.”

His fingers clamped the back of the boys' necks like falcon claws. “Not only have you victimized Charlotte, but you dragged Maggie into it?”

She wouldn't admit it for the world, but she liked watching them squirm. They deserved everything they were likely to get but “death by pancakes” could be national news if she didn't intervene.

“Ah — Jake, you might want to let them swallow. They're turning blue.”

The pressure eased, but only slightly. She read his frown to mean, “Keep your nose out of it!”

He had some nerve, blaming her for what his little brats had done. She was the victim, not the problem. “Of all the nerve…”

“I'm sorry,” he said, reaching into the cabinet for a cup. “It's not your fault.”

“Are you mad, Mommy?” Andy spoke with the wide-eyed innocence of a three-year-old.

She stared at him in horror. Why hadn't she seen this coming? Andy had been underfoot the past week, shadowing her every move. She had sent him to play, but a moment later he'd been back, close enough to touch.

Jake intervened. “I should have warned you. He copies everything Maggie says.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she was being too sensitive about Andy and not sensitive enough with the older boys. Childish pranks were a fact of life, just like copying an older child was a natural part of growing up. If she ignored Andy, this would all blow over.

Becky's impish grin shot the theory down. “Can Daddy join us for breakfast, too?”

“I didn't come…” With the shoe on the other foot, it was comical to see Jake backpedal.

The older boys watched like hawks, waiting no doubt to see if they'd gotten away with their stunt. It was Jake's place to punish them, and surely he would, but dashing their hopes now would make them sulk, ruining her day. She wasn't having it. “Pull up a chair, Jake. We've got pancakes to eat.”

“But…”

“Don't argue with me,” she said, shoving the platter into his hands. “It's cooked, and we don't waste food!”

He held the platter close to his nose. Smiling, he savored a big whiff. “Must be pretty bad if you have to force folks to eat it.”

She ignored him.

Not since her last family reunion had Charlotte seen food disappear so fast. By the time she'd poured Jake's coffee and refilled her own, the platter was coming back empty. Thankfully, he'd salvaged a small stack for her. Once again she was astonished at what his boys could eat.

She watched the fresh faces around the table, each one beautiful in its own way. The group was quiet for a change. The only noises came from clinking forks against plates or the occasional call for more syrup.

To an outsider, it would look like a real family — except they weren't. They were the remnants of what had once been two happy homes.

Her eyes strayed to the man across the table pouring extra syrup on Maggie's plate, then taking time to cut up Andy's last pancake. Most likely there was a special woman in his life, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to be that woman. His table manners were beautiful, and his relationship with his boys seemed closer than what Mitch had shared with their girls. Jake would probably find his boys a suitable mother someday, but she knew it wouldn't be her. She had her future mapped out, and it didn't include anyone but her girls.

“You're not eating,” Jake said, his warm voice breaking into her thoughts. “From the way you're staring, I must have more syrup on my chin than Andy.”

Charlotte wasn't fond of being caught staring, and she positively hated blushing. Guilty of both, she reached for her coffee cup. “Sorry, my mind was…”

Jake's eyes darkened, as if he could read her thoughts. They were the eyes of a predatory male. She knew that look, and no matter how tempting the bait, it was best to keep her distance. He blinked, and the hunter was gone, or maybe it had been her imagination all along. Either way, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Mommy cooks good, huh, Daddy?”

“She sure does,” Jake agreed, his attention focused on his three-year-old. “But what did we agree to call Charlotte?”

“Mama Char-it!”

“No,” he reminded him. “We agreed to call her Charlotte.”

Andy's attention was more focused on his pancakes than his dad. His tiny tongue popped out again, circling his lips to get all the sweet syrup. “Oh yeah, me forgot.”

Jake shrugged. “Maybe he'll remember next time?”

She hoped it ended the discussion.

One by one the empty plates were pushed back as each child finished and began to leave the table. His boys seemed to think they'd gotten off scot-free.

“Not so fast,” Jake said, his voice leaving no room for arguing. “You guys owe Charlotte an apology.”

“We're sorry.”

It was a bit too quick for her liking, considering she'd heard more sincerity from the last telemarketer she'd hung up on. But at least it was something.

“And?”

“And we won't do it again?”

“That's right,” Jake agreed. “And to make sure you don't forget, I want both of you in her yard picking up limbs while I get the van.”

“Aw, Dad,” Bruce whined. “All I do around here is work.”

“I saw how you worked on the stack of pancakes.”

“But, Dad…”

“Get out of here.”

She was impressed, so much so she had her girls help in the yard since the boys couldn't have made the keys without their help.

“But, Dad…”

“What?”

“Does this mean we aren't going to church today?”

Jake glanced at his watch, then at Charlotte. “I'll make you a deal. We'll skip church today and move your plants if you'll agree to visit our church next Sunday.”

“You're blackmailing me into church?”

He grinned. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

Charlotte craned her neck to see the clock on the wall over his left shoulder. “Sunday School starting in ten minutes has nothing to do with it?”

He pivoted in his seat, a lopsided grin crossing his face. “Didn't know it was there. So, how about it… you going to church with us next week?”

She shook her head. “I've already agreed to go to Annabelle's church next week.”

“Annabelle?”

“Smith… from work. She's a member of Cherry Road Baptist. It's supposed to be around here somewhere, but I haven't found it yet.”

“Then I guess we can count on you for the next two Sundays at least. Annabelle's our piano player.”

Charlotte had a feeling she was going to like the church on Cherry Road, especially if the other members were as nice as the ones she'd already met. If not, God would lead her to the right church.

Bruce slid into the chair next to his dad, his expressive face showing nothing but angelic innocence. “Our Sunday School teacher said God made the Sabbath as a day of rest. I don't think we should be working in the yard today.”

“You don't say?”

“Yes, sir, it's what she said.”

Jake leaned down until he was eye to eye with his middle son. “Did she also mention it's okay to get the ox out of the ditch?”

The boy frowned. “No, sir. She didn't say nothing about an ox. But I guess we can't leave a dumb animal in a ditch.”

“Get out of here.” He swatted the boy on the bottom to help him on his way.

She shook her head in disbelief. The man had an odd way of communicating with his kids. “An ox?”

“Hey… it's in there.”

“I know. It's just I'd never thought of using it in quite that way.”

“You'll learn how to use the stories to your advantage.” He shifted his chair under the table and hung the extra keys on her bulletin board. “Do you need any help with the dishes?”

She declined, wanting her plants moved more than she needed a man with soap up past his elbows. With everyone out of the way, cleanup only took a moment. He'd seen her looking her worst, so she rushed around, making sure she'd be presentable when he returned.

There was no doubt she'd been targeted again when she tossed the extra keys into her handbag and disturbed some dry leaves in the top. The purse, a gift from her mother, now held who-knew-what?

The leaves weren't a concern; it was what might be hidden underneath, making her nervous. The thought of snakes, rats, or spiders made her skin crawl. Was she to expect retaliation every time she disagreed with these boys?

Her queasy stomach had her wishing she'd left off the last pancake when a wad of fat, juicy, red-worms fell from the upturned bag, landing with a thump on the towel she'd placed on the counter.

“Amateurs.” She glanced out the window to where the boys were working. “I can deal with these guys.”

She gathered the worms into an empty can and sat it on the back step. It was time to put an end to their shenanigans. A damp cloth was all it took to get her purse back in order, and since eavesdropping as a means of survival wasn't a bad idea, she hid behind the door and waited.

“Aw, man!” Bruce saw the worms. “She's no fun. I'll bet she won't even scream when she finds frogs in her car.”

Charlotte cringed. Her girls were far from perfect, but these kids were brats. She listened until the eight-year-old cut loose with a string of profanities guaranteed to burn the preacher's ears. His dad would probably be mad when he found out what she planned to do, but she'd heard enough.

“Ohhh!” Maggie cried. “You're swearing. I'm telling Mama!”

Charlotte stepped outside, knowing what it would take to keep her sanity. It worked on her as a kid, and she was betting it would work now.

“Mama!”

“You don't have to tell me, I heard it all.”

“Mama, he said—”

“Come on, Bruce,” she said, pinching his shoulder with her knuckles the way his dad had done. “I've heard enough of your foul mouth.”

He flinched. “What are you doing?”

“You'll see.” She marched him down the hall toward the bathroom.

He grabbed the door facings, locking his arms to keep from going inside. Not to be outdone, she hooked her leg around the back of his knee to knock him off balance. She clamped him against the sink and rubbed the liquid soap across his lips, her finger slipping inside against his teeth. It was a battle of wills, and she had no intention of losing.

“That's awful,” Bruce cried, spewing and spitting soap bubbles into the sink. ”You're trying to kill me!”

“No, I'm not. It's my mom's recipe — all natural.”

“That stuff's poison,” he sobbed. “I'm telling Daddy!”

“Go right ahead.”

“You're mean!”

She released Bruce, knowing she'd never catch him again if he made a run for it. “Did it get rid of the swear words, or do we change brands?”

Bruce huffed, spitting for all he was worth. “I hate you!”

Charlotte knew, but there was no way she'd back down. “Did it work?”

His blue eyes grew wide with fear. “I'm telling Daddy!”

“We can always use my granny's lye soap.”

The boy rubbed his tongue on the towel until he gagged. She knew how he felt. Her first taste of soap had been about his age. She remembered trying to make herself throw up, so her mother would be sorry for putting the bar in her mouth. It hadn't worked then, and it wasn't working now. Nothing came up, and he finally stopped.

“Well, what do you think?” she said, watching for a reaction in his blue eyes. “Do we try my granny's soap?”

“No!” he said, defeated at last. “It worked. There's no more swear words, honest.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am, I'm sure.”

She crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter to lay out the rules for him and his brother. “So far you kids have had things pretty much your way, but it's about to change. Under no circumstances will I be terrorized. This is our home, and I'm not going anywhere. Now, I'd like to be friends, but I can be your worst nightmare. It's up to you.”

The boy's expression fluctuated between bewilderment and total shock. She left the room with her final ultimatum floating in the air. Five minutes passed before he came creeping into the living room where she was sorting books.

“Charlotte?”

She glanced up, relieved at the change in Bruce. The hostility she'd sensed since the first day she'd met him was gone. In its place was the uncertainty of a child wanting more than anything to be loved and accepted. She held out her arms, and he walked into them. The hug was brief, but she understood.

“Would you like to help with these?”

Bruce picked a stack of
Junie B. Jones
books, belonging to Becky, and thumbed through several pages. His lack of interest in the subject matter was obvious.