Kids from the other groups started drifting into the kitchen play area, and finally, Laura brought her group over. “All the kids want to be with the dad,” she said. “Moms are a dime a dozen.”
Davey had climbed out of Paul’s lap and was now hitting the table with a plastic hammer, repairing it, another little boy offering advice at his side. Now he looked up. “I wish I had a mom,” Davey said, and then went back to his hammering.
His words twisted a knife in Paul’s gut.
Laura sat down on a child-sized chair beside Davey. She studied him and then looked at Paul. “Is his mother...” she asked softly, and trailed off.
“She died of cancer two years ago.”
“I’m sorry. That must be so hard to deal with.” She ran a hand over Davey’s hair, and he leaned into it before turning back to his hammering task.
“We’re coping,” Paul said, matching her quiet tone.
“Are you dating again?”
The blunt question took him off guard. “No!” He wasn’t. Kissing Amber didn’t count as dating.
“If you’re looking to be set up, I’m good friends with Kayla Harris.” She gestured toward Davey’s teacher. “She’s great, and she’s single, and Davey likes her. All the kids do.”
Paul pulled his mind away from Amber and let Laura’s words sink in. He turned to look at Miss Harris.
She was pretty for sure, and fun. He could ask her out.
I don’t want to ask her out.
But maybe his reaction to Amber was just physical. Its intensity had taken away his sense.
He’d been thinking for a while that he ought to date, that Davey would benefit from having a woman in his life. His son’s casual statement just now, that he wished he had a mom, confirmed that notion.
He should do it.
“Do you want me to set something up?” Laura asked.
“No. No, thanks, but I appreciate your giving me the idea.” If he was going to ask Davey’s teacher out, he’d do it himself rather than having someone help him like they were preschoolers themselves.
He looked over at Laura and saw that Davey had leaned against her again. She was stroking his hair.
Yes, Davey needed a woman in his life. He needed a mom.
Paul would wait until school was over and then speak to Kayla Harris, ask her out. No matter that it felt like a betrayal. Not a betrayal of Wendy, but of Amber.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“THIS IS WHERE you live?” Imogene’s voice dripped with scorn.
Mary sighed inwardly as she stepped out onto the porch to hold the door open for her stepdaughter. She looked up and down Sunset Lane, trying to see it from Imogene’s perspective. The short street, which dead-ended at the school grounds, consisted of single-story homes fairly close together. Each house had a little yard in front, most with small flower gardens, some sporting picket fences.
At this time of year the flowers had died, and the most that you could see was the light brown remains of some standing tall grasses. Mary forced a smile. “It’s a little dreary right now, but it’s a comfortable place to live.”
Yes, there was the challenge of having Kirk James right next door, but he didn’t ever intrude by dropping by unannounced. And Primrose Miller, down the block, tended to sit and look out her window, seeking gossip to spread, but that was more of an annoyance than an actual problem. Primrose had health issues that made it hard for her to get out, so reporting on her neighbors was sometimes the most exciting part of her day. Mary always listened politely to Primrose’s stories and then mentally discounted three-quarters of what she had heard.
“Pretty crappy location if you ask me. Thought you’d live somewhere like we lived before.” When Mary had married Ben, they’d lived with Imogene and Daisy in a big, new home on a street of other big, new homes. Mary hadn’t been a fan of the monotonous beige of the houses nor the lack of big trees, but Ben had loved it and she had loved Ben, so it had been fine. A happy home for her and her daughter, who’d loved the big, wooden playset in the backyard and the pink-painted bedroom they’d decorated in princess style.
The memories squeezed at Mary’s chest. She breathed deeply, trying to focus on the present moment.
Imogene walked into the front room without wiping her muddy feet. Mary opened her mouth to call her on it and then snapped it shut again. This was a visit designed to build bridges, not walls. She wouldn’t have criticized another guest for the lapse so she shouldn’t criticize Imogene.
Letting Imogene know where she lived had been scary, but Mary was hoping this visit would break through Imogene’s anger and help both of them to heal.
If what Paul had said at the Christmas shopping event was correct, if PTSD was a bigger thing than just soldiers and cops, then maybe Imogene had it. Maybe they both did. Maybe the unpleasant, sometimes downright mean way Imogene acted wasn’t her fault, and maybe there was help available.
Mary gestured to the three big boxes of decorations set up in the living room. “After dinner, I was hoping you’d help me decorate.” When Imogene didn’t respond with interest, Mary walked over to the box of lights and pulled out a couple of strands. “I always debate between white and colored lights, so I ended up having both. What do you prefer?”
Imogene flopped down on the couch. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
Mary’s stomach tightened but she pressed forward. She was always trying to make restitution, help others, but
