Counting Stars (20 page)

“Would you care for a cookie?”

Peter looked up and saw Marsha Warner standing over him, a plate in her hands.

“Sure,” he said, remembering that all he’d eaten today was part of a day-old muffin. He set Madison on the blanket and stood. He reached for a cookie, but Marsha handed him the plate. “Take them all. There are plenty more coming.”

“Thanks. These are great,” Peter mumbled through his first bite.

“Jane’s recipe,” Marsha said, beaming at him. She looked toward the twins. “You’re a natural with them.”

Peter swallowed and looked back at the babies. “They’re amazing.”

“Yes they are,” she agreed. “And an awful lot of work as well. My daughter could certainly use some help.”

“Then I guess I’d better get busy proving my usefulness,” Peter said. Reluctantly he tore his gaze from the twins—from Mark’s shock of dark hair and Madison’s dimpled mouth, just like her mother’s. “Thank you again for the cookies, Mrs. Warner. I’m going to get started on those swings now, and please tell your daughter I look forward to meeting her.”

“I will,” Marsha said. “You can bet I will,” she reiterated under her breath as he closed the sliding glass door behind him and walked across the lawn.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Pete whistled as he mixed cement in the wheelbarrow. He’d already dug six holes and figured he had just enough time to pour the concrete and set the posts for the swing set before the rental car company arrived with his temporary transportation.

He’d chosen what he thought was a perfect location for the play fort—in the middle of the yard, directly in front of the patio. It would be easy to keep an eye on the children from Jane’s kitchen as well as his own. A smile crossed his face as he recognized the wisdom of his decision. He hadn’t even been on the job for a full day yet, and already he was thinking like a parent. Jane Warner couldn’t help but be impressed when she met him.

Pete silently acknowledged that he was impressed by her as well. One hour with the twins had given him a glimpse of what lay in store. And while he was eager to embrace this new life, he was suddenly glad he didn’t have to face it alone. Paul must have known that two babies would require two parents, and so he’d found Jane—and her mother.

Mrs. Warner was great, and Pete knew he was warming to the situation largely because of the morning’s interaction with her. Playing with the babies had been wonderful, but it had also been nice to sit down at the kitchen table and have someone fuss over him. It’d been a long time since anyone was genuinely interested in and concerned about his life. Paul couldn’t have chosen a better grandmother for his children, and if Jane was anything like her mother, then the twins were in good hands. So far it appeared she’d done a great job caring for them. Mark and Madison were happy, healthy babies, and for Mark at least, that seemed no small feat. That Jane was able to manage the child’s health care, work part time,
and
think about extras like building a swing set was impressive.

Pete shoveled a couple of inches of concrete into the first hole. Working fast, he set the shovel aside and lifted the post into place. When he had it steady, he began shoveling concrete in the hole around it, stopping often to straighten the post. He quickly realized it would have been much easier had there been someone to hold the post while he shoveled.

He could do it alone, but he could work better—more efficiently—if he had help.

Hopefully, Jane Warner felt the same about being a parent. She’d proven she could do it alone, but if he was lucky, by now she might just be ready for some assistance.

* * *

“How
could
you, Mother?” Jane stood just inside the patio door, hands on hips and a scowl on her face as she looked at what her neighbor had done.

“He was trying to be helpful, dear,” Marsha said, putting her arm around Jane. “He saw you struggling with all that wood this morning and he wanted to help.”

“Saw me?” Jane asked. “
Spied
on me is more like it. I knew I should have had that fence replaced. And now that I know the owner is home, I’ll definitely have it done—and I’ll bill him for half.” She tugged on the handle of the sliding glass door. “In fact, I’m going over there right now to tell him—”

“I don’t think that would be very wise,” Marsha said, placing her hand over Jane’s. “He’s a nice man and he meant no harm. Besides, he isn’t even home. Why, this very minute he is out shopping for a car because he gave his away—to . . . to a woman in need.” She looked at Jane for any sign of softening. Seeing none, Marsha quickly reversed her earlier decision to tell her daughter all about Peter Bryant and his natural way with children. If Jane was this upset about a neighbor helping with the swing set, she wouldn’t handle the news of Peter’s arrival well at all. Better to wait a few hours for reinforcements—Jane’s father had always been better at getting through to their children. And for Jane’s mood to change. “I think, if you’ll give him a chance, he’ll prove to be an excellent neighbor. Helpful and—”

“I don’t need his help,” Jane huffed. She walked away from the sliding glass door and into the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she stood at the sink and turned on the faucet. “I mean, what kind of person comes into their neighbor’s yard and
pours cement?
And in the middle of the yard too? Is he some kind of lunatic or something?” She turned off the faucet, lifted the glass to her lips and drank half of it down. She sighed. “If I keep the fort there, then the swings will hit the lilac bush, and I’ll have to cut it down. I was really looking forward to enjoying it this spring—a bush that size takes years to grow and keeps the whole yard fragrant.”

“I’m sorry, Jane. I didn’t think of that. I told him that was exactly where you’d want the swings—where you could easily see the children playing.” Marsha gathered her purse and bag of crochet supplies from the table. “Your list is over here. I was able to take care of all but two of the items. You can see the notes I left.”

Jane turned to her mother. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said, her tone softening. “And thanks for babysitting and making all those calls. I didn’t mean to vent. It was a rough morning, and then—” She glanced out the window again. “This.”

Marsha walked over to her daughter and gave her a hug. “Your father and I will come by later tonight. Until then, try to cheer up. Play with the twins. Life is going to get better—you’ll see.”

* * *

Peter only half listened as the salesman droned on about the features of the 2003 Audi A4. This was the third lot he’d visited, and he was having a difficult time getting enthused about playing
Let’s Make a Deal.
Sure the model was a great little car. But the price tag was high, and how could he spend so much when he didn’t yet know all the particulars and costs associated with Mark’s monthly medications, doctor visits, and forthcoming surgeries?

Then there was the issue of size. At the first lot, he’d found a used Jeep Cherokee that he liked, but after overhearing another couple’s concerns about fitting two car seats in a similar-sized vehicle, Peter suddenly wasn’t so certain about simply replacing his Jeep. It seemed to be working out for Jane, but maybe it wasn’t the safest option, and when he thought about safety, he thought about the accident that had killed Tamara. He would do everything possible to ensure her children never suffered the same fate.

“On top of the great gas mileage, it’s really a classy car—great for driving clients around, or business lunches, that sort of thing. What is it you do, Mr. Bryant?” the salesman asked.

Realizing he’d been staring at the factory sticker for several minutes, Peter looked at the man next to him. “I’m an—” He paused. “I’m a parent. What can you show me that has good safety ratings and built-in car seats?”

* * *

Peter used his shoulder to push open the front door. Both arms loaded with grocery bags, his fingers fumbled with the switch for the living room light. A second later it flickered on, and he smiled.
All right.
He’d have a refrigerator and a hot shower tonight.

“Vast improvements already,” he said as he walked into the kitchen. He opened the top freezer and placed the bag of ice he’d bought inside. He wouldn’t need it in the ice chest to keep food cold now, but it would be nice to have for drinks when Tamara and . . . He caught himself before the thought was complete. Tamara, her sister, Paul, the whole group that used to hang out together—none of them would be coming over. Why couldn’t he remember that? Was it this house or just being home again that kept reminding him of the past?

Peter opened the fridge, shoved half the grocery bags inside, and closed the door. He turned the oven to preheat and sat down at the bar. His laptop lay where he’d left it earlier this morning, but he didn’t feel like working. He pushed it aside and, with his head in his hands, looked down at the counter. The initials PP stared up at him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled, remembering how angry his mother had been when she’d discovered that he and Paul, using steak knives, had carved double P’s into the counter half a dozen times each. They’d probably only been about six years old at the time, and it had seemed hysterical that their initials put together spelled something so naughty.

They’d never replaced the counter, and now Peter silently wondered if his mother had found it amusing too. He thought of Paul as he traced one set of letters with his finger. How was it possible that his brother, his best friend, was gone? His parents, Tamara—everyone—gone.
Not everyone. I have Mark and Madison.

A need so strong it surprised him surged through Peter. He had to see his niece and nephew again. Tonight. He needed to hold them close, feel their hearts beating against his. He rose from the stool and went to the sliding glass door. Pushing the blinds aside, he flipped the lock and opened the door, then stepped out onto the patio. He stared at the back fence in surprise. For a minute he wondered if he was in the right backyard. White privacy slats were woven through the chain link the entire length of the fence, and though the fence was only three feet high, the slats protruded a good foot or two above.

“What in the world—what does she think she’s doing?” Pete walked across the lawn. He reached the gate, grabbed the handle and pulled. It didn’t budge. He tugged again and heard the unmistakable sound of chain clinking against metal. Bending a handful of slats down, he peered over the fence. A padlock and three eighths-inch metal chain secured the gate closed.

Stunned and angry, Pete let the slats spring back into place. That gate had been there for years and never,
never
, had there been a lock on it. He looked over the fence and saw that his posts were still standing. He’d spent his morning sweating over a swing set, rescuing her from certain failure, and
this
was how she repaid him?

Pete glanced up at the house. Light shone around the edges of the blinds on her sliding glass door, and he wondered if Mark and Madison were playing in the family room on the other side of that door. He wanted to see them, to know they were okay. He’d already missed seven months of their lives, and he was not going to miss a minute more. Stalking back into his house, he grabbed the car keys and stormed out his front door.

* * *

Jane bounced Mark gently on her hip as she prepared his bottle. He continued to fuss, burying his face in her shoulder, wiping his nose across her white shirt.

“I know, I know,” she said as she tried to measure formula with one hand. “I’m sorry. I should have fed you sooner, but we
had
to get that gate taken care of. Right, Maddie?” Jane glanced over at Madison, sitting in her high chair, contentedly spearing Cheerios with her fingers.

Setting Mark on the counter, Jane reached around him to screw the lid on the bottle. His howls increased.

“Almost done, little guy.” Jane scooped him up again and shook the bottle as she walked over to the kitchen table. Settling in a chair, she lay Mark back in her arms and began feeding him, unable to stop herself from smiling as he attacked the bottle. “Careful,” she warned. “Drink it too fast and you’ll throw up.”

Paying no heed to her warning, Mark continued to gulp, and Jane used her free hand to open the jar of baby food she’d wedged between her knees. She set the jar on the table.

“Mmm. Sweet potatoes, Maddie. Your favorite.” They were
not
Maddie’s favorite, but having read that it was good to continue offering your baby foods she had previously rejected, Jane kept trying to get her to eat them. She stuck the rubber-tipped spoon in the jar and then held it up to her own mouth.

“
So good
,” she said exaggeratedly, pretending to take a bite.

Madison reached for the spoon.

Jane held it up, out of reach. “Bzzz.” Her voice was hoarse, making her airplane imitation sound sick.
Great
. She’d probably caught a chill working outside in the evening air.
Irritating neighbor,
she thought for the hundredth time.

She whisked the spoon into Maddie’s mouth, then watched for her reaction.

Maddie’s lips puckered.

“No, Maddie,” Jane said, trying to scoot her chair back. She wasn’t fast enough, and the bite of sweet potato splayed across her chin and chest.

“
Madison,
” Jane said, more sharply than she should have. She rose from her chair and went to the sink. Maddie began to cry.

Jane set Mark’s bottle on the counter, grabbed the dishcloth, and wiped at the stains on her shirt. Deprived of his bottle, Mark started howling.

“How could one little bite go so far?” Jane grumbled as she looked down at the orange splotches. Lifting Mark to her shoulder, she began bouncing in time with her scrubbing.

Maddie’s cries escalated, so Jane walked over to the high chair and dropped a handful of Cheerios on the tray. Maddie brushed her arms back and forth over the tray, scattering cereal across the kitchen floor. Her face grew beet red and she started screaming.

“All right, all right,” Jane said. She tucked the dishcloth into the front of her sweats. With her free hand, she reached down and lifted Maddie from her chair. “It’s okay,” Jane spoke soothingly. “You don’t have to eat sweet potatoes anymore. Whoever wrote that article probably doesn’t even
have
children.”

The doorbell rang, immediately followed by a persistent knocking.

Mom and Dad. Thank goodness.
With a crying baby on each hip, Jane walked toward the front door. She undid the chain, flipped the dead bolt and grabbed the knob, pulling the door open. She gasped.

Paul stood on her front step.