Mom in the Middle (2 page)

A fussy-baby wail interrupted his personal musings. He glanced up and spotted Abby heading his way with little Dillon clinging to her for dear life. Guy jumped to his feet and took several steps in her direction.

“Any news?”

“Still waiting on a doctor to read the X-rays.” She jostled the boy and shushed him, having no apparent impact at all as his complaints grew louder. She pressed his face to her shoulder in a useless effort to muffle the sobs.

“I'm sorry, it's way past his nap time and he's had all the cookies he's going to get until he eats some vegetables.”

“Can I give it a try?” Guy raised his arms, hands open, ready to take Dillon. With ten nieces and nephews, he was handy with a cranky toddler if he did say so himself.

“I don't think so.” The skepticism on her face
almost made Guy want to laugh. “He won't let you hold him. My dad's the only man Dillon's used to.”

“Your husband's not good with little ones, huh?”

“I'm a widow,” she said softly.

His jaw clenched along with his insides as he realized his verbal gaffe and the complicated facts that accompanied her simple response. She was a young woman alone, so much weight on her slender shoulders and without the love and support of a husband, that treasure the married women in his family prized above all else.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make things worse for you.”

“Don't feel badly. It's been nearly two years and it's a common assumption when you have a toddler, so I'm almost used to it.”

The boy whined louder.

“I really am pretty good with a grumpy baby,” he assured her, remembering his sister Tess's wedding day when he'd been officially appointed to make sure none of the little ones got out of sorts during the reception. Good thing it was his policy never to take a date to a family function, because these days the girls expected Uncle Guy to be their babysitter.

Dillon strained against his mother's efforts to rest his head on her shoulder and his blubbering continued with gusto. His face was contorted in aggravation when he turned his head toward Guy.

“Hey, little pal,” Guy used his best cajoling tone and nodded toward the nearby glass wall that over-
looked the hospital's courtyard. “Wanna go look out the window?” He held his palms out, but not too close.

Briefly distracted from his misery, Dillon's crying stopped. He snuffled and hiccupped while his mother smoothed the face that was remarkably free of tears. He peered at Guy, who used the positive sign to take a small step closer and smile. The boy looked to his mother for guidance.

“Go see birdies?” she encouraged. “Tweet, tweet, tweet.”

His head bobbed and he leaned away from his mama, reaching chubby arms outward. Guy scooped up the boy, amazed by how heavy the little tyke felt.

“Whoa, this fella is solid.”

“Tell me about it.” Her eyes were round. She was clearly surprised that Dillon had left the security of her arms. She shrugged, then dropped her large purse on a nearby chair and rotated her shoulders. The latest revelation as well as the creases across her forehead told Guy the contents of the bag were nothing compared to the weight on this woman who was not much more than a girl herself.

“Mrs. Cramer? Dr. Cabot is ready to speak with you now,” a nurse called.

Abby turned toward the voice, then back to Guy and her son. Worry deepened the lines in her pretty face. She leaned to retrieve the bag and Guy knew Dillon would naturally be next.

“Go ahead. Leave him with me. We'll be fine and you can give the doctor your undivided attention.”

She squinted, seemed unsure what to do.

“Weet, weet!” Dillon squealed and pointed toward the window.

“You betcha.” Guy smiled and repositioned the boy to face the wide pane of glass and the oversize birdbath outside that held his attention. “He's happy, so we'll wait right here.” He tipped his head toward the waiting nurse. “Go.”

Abby let the bag fall back on the floor and turned away. Her low heels tapped a rapid beat against the linoleum floor as she hurried to learn the condition of her mother. After she disappeared through the gray swinging doors, Guy carried Dillon for a closer look at the pair of daredevil mockingbirds at play.

Twenty minutes later she was back. Her fair skin had lost its appealing color. She pinched her bottom lip between her teeth and wrapped her arms across her torso, as if holding in what strength she had left. Dillon's head had slumped to Guy's shoulder, heavy with the need for a nap. Guy folded himself into a nearby chair and motioned for Abby to join him. She collapsed on the next seat and accepted her sleeping boy.

“Her hip's broken,” her voice quavered. “It's called a spontaneous fracture.” She dipped her face to kiss Dillon's head, blocking Guy's view of her private emotions.

“Oh, no.” He spoke softly, understanding the implications, sending up a silent prayer for God's healing mercy. He knew from the experience with his
paternal grandfather that the injury could be a long painful recovery, a permanent disability or even worse if complications set in. The outcome for her family could be dire.

“And they'd moved her around so much it was obvious she was suffering. That was hard to watch.” Her voice was a whisper.

If she'd been one of his sisters, Guy would have wrapped Abby in his arms and rocked her along with the sleeping toddler. But she was a customer whose mother had just suffered a major injury on his family's property. He didn't dare touch her for fear of further complicating an already difficult situation that could potentially impact the lives of his family, the H&H shareholders and their employees.

He sat straighter in his chair, pushed aside his own concerns. His worries were insignificant compared to Abby's.

“Did they give her pain meds?”

She glanced up, nodded. “Something really strong so she'd rest. But she was rattling off instructions for me and the nurses when she fell asleep.” A sad smile flickered across her face and Guy mirrored her expression, imagining his mother doing the same, ordering the hospital staff about if the situation were reversed.

“Will she need surgery?”

“Dr. Cabot doesn't think so. He says she'll be in the hospital for a few days and if everything goes well she'll be released to a rehab facility for extended physical therapy. As usual, she's more
worried about Daddy than she is about herself.” Abby sighed and rested her head against the back of the chair. “In forty-eight years of marriage my parents have never spent more than a few days apart. I don't know how I'm going to keep them both occupied for six weeks with everything else I've got to do, but I'll manage somehow.”

“Abigail?” A heavyset woman in a floral-print housedress hurried toward them.

“Oh, thank you for coming, Mrs. Eller.” Abby rocked forward and used momentum to swing Dillon onto her shoulder as she stood. Guy hopped to his feet as he was introduced to Abby's neighbor. The two women exchanged a quick hug over the sleeping boy.

“What room is your mama in? I'll sit with her so you can go tell your daddy.”

“You didn't say anything to him, did you?” Abby sounded worried.

“Goodness, no. Now you hurry on home before he gets suspicious about what's taking so long.”

Guy lifted Abby's blue fabric bag sprinkled with dozens of fuzzy yellow chicks and slung it across his shoulder then followed her through the hospital's emergency exit.

“Would you like me to take you straight home?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I'll need my van to bring Daddy back to the hospital.”

“I can give you both a ride,” Guy offered as he held open the door of the Hearth and Home SUV.

She shook her head, blond curls bobbing. “Dad's
in a wheelchair and the side door of the van is outfitted with a lift.”

Guy grimaced at the new information.
Another
hardship for this small family. How would Abby cope with the situation? You never knew the true measure of someone until their back was against the wall and their only choices were to crumble or come out fighting.

No matter the circumstances of the injury, the corporation bore certain liability for accidents on their property. In this case it would be Guy's responsibility to do everything possible to avoid litigation. The fact that the potential threat came in such a charming form would have nothing to do with his desire to help a woman out of a crisis.

Or would it?

He glanced at Abby Cramer. The sheen in her brown eyes said she needed more than assurances that medical expenses would be covered. Staying close to this situation would allow him to do two things—watch out for his family's business interests and give Abby someone to lean on.

She squared her shoulders in a proud profile that suggested she'd carried her burden alone for a long time.

Would she be as stubborn as her mother or would Abby Cramer let him help her?

O
n Monday afternoon, Guy stood on the porch steps of the Reagans' modest brick home.

“I'm coming! Hold your horses,” a male voice called from behind the front door.

Guy shifted the box of bulky plumbing supplies to his left arm and stuffed his right hand into the front pocket of his store apron to deposit his keys. He glanced toward the driveway where he'd parked the Hearth and Home truck. He'd planned to bring the purchase by after church the previous day but his phone calls had gone unanswered. Since he'd concluded Abby and her father must be spending all their time at the hospital, he was surprised to get a response when he'd punched the doorbell three times in quick succession.

The door creaked open an inch but no face appeared. Guy squinted to see inside the dark house.

“Down here, drugstore cowboy,” the aggravated voice grumbled an obvious reference to the fancy boots.

Guy glanced down, his gaze locking with dark eyes beneath an overhang of bushy gray brows.

Abby's father.

Guy estimated the man to be in his late seventies, but the long, thin body sunken into the inexpensive low-slung wheelchair could have made him look older than his years. Guy extended his hand.

“Guy Hardy, sir. Hearth and Home Super Center.”

“Pete Reagan. Friends call me Shorty, mostly because I'm not.” His eyes raked Guy up and down. “Guess you can, too.”

The old fellow kept the handshake brief.

Needing an excuse to be standing on the man's porch, Guy nodded toward the box he carried. “I brought the supplies your wife and daughter left at the store on Saturday. Thought you might need them.”

“Women.” Shorty shook his head. “You can't live with 'em, can't trade 'em for catfish bait.” A rusty hinge complained as he pushed the door wider and maneuvered his chair to the left. After moving a few feet he stopped, leaned to one side and pulled a thin wallet from his hip pocket.

“How much?”

Guy watched as bony hands counted out several bills.

“That's covered, sir. I'm just making the delivery.”

The bushy brows drew together. “Then how much for the delivery?”

“There's no charge, Mr. Reagan.”

Shorty folded together a couple of one-dollar bills
and thrust out the offering. “Then take this for your trouble. I insist.”

Guy suppressed a smile as he accepted the modest tip. “Why, thank you, sir. May I carry this inside for you? The parts shift pretty easily so this box might be hard to manage.”

“Well, since you've decided I'm an invalid, and you've already got my money, you might as well haul them all the way back to the laundry room yourself.”

Guy winced. He hadn't meant for the comment to come across as an insult, especially since he was normally so conscientious. Life with a houseful of women had taught him to choose his words carefully. That was even more important with customers.

“Lord, keep me mindful of my words,” he muttered.

“Say what?” Shorty snapped.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Well, stop talkin' to yourself and come on.” He spun the chair, offering a good look at the back of his mostly bald head fringed with wisps of silver.

“And for pity's sake try to keep up, Roy Rogers,” he grumbled over his shoulder as he set his chair in motion.

Thinking Abby's sweet disposition deserved high marks after growing up with a stern mother and grouchy dad, Guy hefted the carton and stepped across the threshold. He hurried to follow the man who was quickly disappearing down the long hallway. When Shorty stopped abruptly at the door of what appeared to be a utility room, Guy slipped inside the small, musty-smelling space. A washer-and-dryer
pair were positioned to the left, and to his right a deep utility sink was installed in the countertop. Open cabinet doors beneath the sink exposed a bucket that caught the puddle created by a dripping faucet.

“Just sit it down there,” Shorty gestured toward the floor. “Maybe Abby and I can get around to it tomorrow after we visit Sarah.”

“If you don't mind me asking, sir, how is Mrs. Reagan?”

“Doc put a pin in her hip yesterday morning.”

“Oh, I thought that wasn't going to be necessary.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” he explained. “Surgeon says it'll get her back on her feet sooner.”

“Is she in much pain?”

“She's holding up. Won't complain. Never does. But it's driving her crazy that she's not here to tell me what to do.” A trace of a smile glimmered for the first time. His gray eyes lit with mischief and Guy caught the resemblance between Dillon and his grandpa. Hadn't Abby said her parents had rarely been separated in forty-some-odd years of marriage? The old guy was probably missing his wife like crazy. No wonder he was out of sorts.

Guy deposited the box filled with brass pipes and silicon gaskets for replacing the trap and waste elbow of a sink, and then glanced toward the plumbing repair efforts.

“Okay if I take a look?” Guy asked permission.

“Knock yourself out.”

He squatted to get a better view of the work in
progress. Actually, not much work had been done at all. Beyond dismantling the old pipes and stuffing a bucket under the open drain, nothing more had been accomplished.

“You do much plumbing, sir?”

“Back in the day. My legs are mostly useless now so it's impossible to get up and down like I once did. My baby girl helps me.”

“Abby?” Guy couldn't quite envision the head covered with soft golden curls studying the workings of a rusted drain.

“Don't sound so surprised. She's pretty handy with a wrench as long as her old man is giving the instructions.”

As intriguing as the image of Abby Cramer wielding a tool was, Guy realized home repairs were just one more area where she probably had to take charge for her parents.

“I have a little experience with plumbing. How about if I finish this up for you?”

Shorty opened his mouth to speak, most likely to object. But then he snapped it shut and glanced at the clock on the laundry-room wall.

“Won't your boss be expecting you back at the store?”

“No, sir. The company encourages employees to assist customers anytime we can, and I happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Shorty squinted, seemed reluctant to accept the offer.

“You gonna charge me by the hour?”

“There wouldn't be any cost involved, sir, as long as you don't mind helping me out with some pointers,” Guy added. “It's been a while since I tackled anything this complicated.”

“Complicated? Ha!” The old man snorted. “This is so easy a Girl Scout could handle it.” He scooted his chair close to the carton of parts, leaned forward and began poking through the hardware.

Guy felt a smile curve his lips as he enjoyed the sight of Shorty Reagan checking the inventory of the box against the list scrawled on a white index card.

“Well, don't just stand there grinnin' like some cowpoke on payday while those fancy boots of yours gouge Sarah's linoleum,” Shorty snapped. “Grab that adjustable pipe wrench and let's get to work.”

 

As Abby pulled to a stop against the curb in front of her family home, she glanced toward the Hearth and Home truck that blocked her driveway. She wrestled Dillon from his car seat, both of their stomachs grumbling the loud need for dinner. She'd make grilled-cheese sandwiches for herself and her dad while Dillon mauled a bowl of beanie weenie, and then they'd all load back up and head for another evening at the hospital. It had only been a couple of days and already she was drained from the long hours of work and worry. Her parents' life together had been a continuous string of crises and they were taking this latest one in stride.

But Abby knew how hard it was on them to be apart. Their love for one another and their faith in God had gotten them through three miscarriages, her father's battle with multiple sclerosis, financial disaster, the tragic loss of their son-in-law, and now this. Six weeks of in-patient rehab stretched in front of them, then only God knew how long before they could return to a normal life.

Not that life would ever be
normal
again without Phillip, the best friend of her childhood, her husband for less than a year and the father of a son he would never know.

With Dillon on her hip, Abby trudged up the porch steps and jostled her key against the dead bolt. The door opened easily, not locked, not even closed securely. She frowned, knowing her mother would not approve of such carelessness.

“Dad?” she called.

Instead of the usual squeaking of rubber wheels on the oak planks, she was greeted by the rumble of masculine voices from the end of the hall. Actually, it wasn't a greeting at all. Her father hadn't even acknowledged her. If not for the conversational sound of the men, she'd fear something was terribly wrong.

“Daddy?” she called for him again as she walked the dark hallway.

His wheelchair sat in the laundry room doorway.

Empty.

She gasped and tightened her arm around Dillon, who yelped his discontent.

“In here, baby girl.”

Then she spotted him. Seated cross-legged on the floor was her seventy-six-year-old father. Beside him stretched a pair of legs in blue jeans, with an orange H&H apron draped over the waistband. The man wore a white polo shirt stretched tight across his abdomen. She could see very little of his arms and nothing of his head since the top quarter of his body was crammed beneath her mother's utility sink.

But there was no mistaking the identity of the Hearth and Home employee. The fancy cowboy boots gave Guy Hardy away.

“Daddy, what are you doing on the floor?”

“Giving this man a badly needed lesson in drain replacement.”

“Hi, Abby,” Guy's muffled voice greeted her from inside the cabinet. “Was that Dillon I heard?”

“Weet, weet!” Dillon responded to his name and kicked his feet to be released.

“Hey, Guy,” she returned the greeting. The first relief she'd felt for days surged through her heart at the sight of her father enjoying himself over a simple plumbing repair. God had sent the perfect distraction. “I see you've met the other man in my life.”

“And this one is every bit as charming as Dillon,”

Guy answered.

Her dad grunted and glowered up at her from his spot on the floor.

“Weet, weet!” Dillon squirmed, wanting to join the men.

“Hey, little buddy,” Guy acknowledged her son, who obviously recognized the voice.

“We're just about finished here,” her father said. Despite the deep creases around his eyes, she sensed his skeptical approval for their company. “Give us fifteen minutes and then I'll get cleaned up to go see your mother.”

“You go ahead, sir. A couple more turns of this wrench and we're done.”

Her dad nodded and began the difficult task of climbing back into his chair. Abby choked down the desire to offer help as he struggled to hoist himself up into the seat. He was determined to be independent despite the primary progressive stage of the disease that he'd lived with for as long as she could recall. The inflammation in his spinal cord had made walking impossible for several years but he insisted on being self-sufficient in every other way.

Respect for her father's wishes and worry for his weakened upper body churned her emotions. Fearing the chair would topple from his efforts, she decided to help whether he wanted it or not. She squatted and released Dillon. He chuckled with delight, no doubt over escaping his mama's grasp, and toddled toward his papa.

“Here, let me give you a hand with that, sir.”

She looked up to see Guy, already on his feet, offering the assistance she was positive her father would reject. Guy had braced the wheels against the cabinet and was gently supporting her father so he
could settle comfortably into the leather seat of his chair.

“Thanks.” Her dad huffed out a breath, sounding relieved. “Getting down is always a sight easier than the climb back up. I coulda made it by myself, though. Always do.” Abby heard the gruffness and wondered if Guy had any idea it was there to mask the gratitude so hard for her father to show.

The two men exchanged respectful nods. Dillon stood at their side, watching, holding his arms outward, literally drooling to be in the middle of the awkward maleness.

“Papa! Weet, weet!”

The moment pulsed with something that distinctly excluded her.

A sort of
male bonding.
Her insides twisted into a tight knot.

That was exactly what seemed to be going on, and something about this emotional picture was all wrong. Phillip should have been the man helping her father, ruffling the hair on Dillon's head, hoisting him up into his papa's lap for a ride into the kitchen.

But Phillip had left her. Voluntarily. Now he was gone. Permanently.

How could the loving God she'd heard so much about also be so cruel?

“I know your family has things to do and I apologize that I'm still underfoot.” Guy watched her dad and Dillon cruise the hallway and then turned to her. “I'll just clean up here and be on my way.”

“Thank you,” she softly spoke the words, knowing he deserved them, determined to deny the constant stabs of resentment that had taken hold of her heart at the news of Phillip's death.

“It's kind of you to spend time with my dad. He's a tad irascible with Mama in the hospital, and your visit seems to have distracted him for a bit. Once again, you're a lifesaver.”

He held up his palms deflecting the praise. “Hey, I'm just a regular guy trying to walk the walk the company teaches. When I saw he needed help, I offered to stick around. Any H&H employee would do the same.” He downplayed his kindness.

She let her shoulders slump, relaxing for the first time all day. It was nice to meet a simple man who believed in acts of kindness.