Page 67 of His Best Friend's Baby

There was only so much he could do. Only so much of her presence he could take before his good intentions deserted him.

HOURS LATER dusk turned to night and he was almost satisfied with the curve of the cradle’s rocker. He rolled it once more along the flat surface of the workbench. No wobbles.

The oak was good and the old tools still had some magic left in them. And he…well, he remembered how much he loved this work to begin with.

He’d made serious progress today. It was nearing completion even though he’d only started it a few days ago. He glanced down at the parts stacked carefully against the wall. Pieces of oak took the form of railings and spindles. The finished headboard and footboard sat to one side.

He couldn’t quite figure out how he felt about this project. He’d spent years of his life forgetting Rachel, burning her letters, giving away the food, candy, socks and books she’d sent in her care packages.

He’d see her name on the return address and refused to feel anything. He’d refused to be curious. To care.

And now he was making a cradle for his niece or nephew because Rachel had asked. Because she’d looked at him with tears in her eyes and said, “Please.”

Of course, the real reason he’d made so much progress today was that he was scared to go into the house with Julia there. He’d tried three times in the last few hours, but she was still awake and puttering around so he’d turned, tail between his legs, back to the garage.

He wiped sawdust off the bench and smiled ruefully at his own cowardice.

If my men could see me now…

He moved some of the spindles and imagined for a moment the kid in Rachel’s belly. Smart probably, blue-eyed, tons of spunk. They’d take the kid to the ocean, watch the waves lap at their toes. And they’d go to the mountains.

He remembered those camping trips Rachel and Mac had taken him on when he was young. They’d be better supplied now, of course. More food, functioning flashlights and perhaps even a tent.

He smiled thinking about those cold nights that he wouldn’t have traded for the world.

The bitterness slid in, as it always did, and covered his memories like a veil, changing the way he saw everything.

He wasn’t so dumb to believe that Rachel could have taken him with her when she left for school. It was her complete desertion that had turned him from her. She hadn’t returned for weekends or holidays. One day she’d been there, screaming at their father, taking Jesse to the rock quarry and the next…gone.

The rug had been pulled out from under his entire childhood. The person who had sheltered him from their father’s abuse and their mother’s weariness had left him with no idea how to survive. Every idea he’d had about himself and his sister and family had been ripped away from him and he’d had to make new rules.

The person he was now had no connection to that kid who’d idolized his big sister, besides some shared memories. He didn’t know how to love anyone the way he’d once loved his sister. He didn’t know how to trust anyone the way he’d once trusted her.

That’s what he couldn’t forgive.

She’d ruined that little boy before he even had a chance.

He sighed, tired of thinking of these things. That was the trouble with woodworking, With his hands busy there was too much time to think.

He turned off the light over the bench and shut the rickety door behind him.

Julia had to be asleep by now. She’d had a long day. She must be exhausted.

Please let her be exhausted.

The house was dark. He grabbed the jug of orange juice from the fridge, took a good whiff and decided it was still this side of drinkable.

He closed the fridge and for a moment was taken aback by his mother’s chili pot sitting on the stove. His mouth watered at the thought of his mother’s chili, a recipe she’d stolen from the diner where she worked most of her life.

He lifted the lid, and steam and spice wafted up to brush his face. His stomach growled and he grabbed a bowl.

This was something he could get used to, that’s for sure. He lived like a dog when things were left up to him. He set himself up with a spoon and some paper towels and walked through the dark living room.

He tucked the jug of juice under his arm and balanced his bowl so he could hit the latch on the front screen door. He’d dine alfresco tonight on the porch, instead of over the sink.

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