With a Little Luck (3 page)

Chapter Two

“YOUR COFFEE IS cold,” Toby accused when his father finally appeared in the kitchen.

Dressed in worn blue jeans and a gray sweat shirt, Luck had taken the time to shower and shave. His dark brown hair gleamed almost black, combed into a careless kind of order. He smiled at the reproval from his son.

“I had to get cleaned up,” he defended himself, and sipped at the lukewarm coffee before adding some hot liquid from the coffeepot. He sat down in a chair opposite from his son and rested his forearms on the table. “Do you want to explain to me what happened to Mrs. Jackson last night?”

“She was going to charge you double for staying after midnight, so I paid her and sent her home,” Toby said, repeating his previous night’s explanation.

“And she went — just like that,” Luck replied with a wave of his hand to indicate how easy it had been. “She just went and left you here alone?”

“Well…” Toby hedged, and squirmed in his chair.

“Why did she leave?”

“She got the impression we were broke, I think. She got a little upset thinking that you’d asked her to stay when you knew all you could afford to pay was twelve dollars.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I’m too old to have a sitter, dad,” Toby protested. “I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe you can, but what about my peace of mind? I’m an adult. You’re a child, When I leave, I want to know there’s an adult with you — looking after you — yes. But mostly in case there’s an emergency — if you should get sick or hurt. I’d like to know there is someone here with you to help,” he explained firmly. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” It was a low admission.

“From now on, when I go out for the evening, you will have a sitter and she will stay here until I come back. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” With the discussion concluded, Luck raised the coffee cup to his mouth.

“What about the twelve dollars?” As far as Toby was concerned, the discussion wasn’t over. “It’s from the money I’ve been saving to buy a minibike.”

“You should have considered that before you spent it.”

“But that’s what you would have had to pay her if I hadn’t,” Toby reasoned with the utmost logic. “You would have had to pay her that and more.”

“I’ll give you the twelve dollars back on one condition,” Luck replied. “You call Mrs. Jackson, tell her what you did, and apologize.”

There was a long sigh before Toby nodded his agreement. “Okay.”

“Have you had breakfast?” Luck changed the subject.

“Cornflakes.”

“Would you like some bacon and eggs?”

“Sure,” Toby agreed. “I’ll help.”

While he set the table, Luck put the bacon in the skillet and broke eggs in a bowl to scramble them. Finished with his task before his father, Toby walked over to the stove to watch.

“Dad?” He tipped his head back to look up to his tall parent. “Do you want to explain about the brown mouse?”

“The brown mouse?” Luck frowned at him, his expression blank.

“Yeah. Last night when you came home, you said you had talked to a brown mouse,” Toby explained. “I thought people only saw pink elephants when they were drinking.”

“People can have all kinds of illusions when they are drinking. Evidently mine was a brown mouse,” Luck murmured. “I must have had a few more drinks than I realized.”

“It was because of mom, wasn’t it?” Toby asked quietly.

There was a moment of silence. Then Luck gave him a smiling glance. “What do you want to do today? Do you want to go fishing? Boating? Just name it.” He deliberately avoided his son’s question, and Toby knew there was no need to repeat it.

“Let’s go fishing,” Toby decided.

“Fishing it is,” Luck agreed, and smiled as he rumpled the top of his son’s brown hair.

TWO HOURS LATER the dishes were washed and the beds were made and they were sitting in the boat, anchored in a cove of Lake Namekagon. A thick forest crowded the meandering shoreline, occasionally leaving room for a sandy stretch of beach. A mixture of hardwood and conifers, with extensive stands of pine and spruce, provided a blend of the green shades of summer. The unruffled calm of the lake reflected the edging wall of forest, home for the black bear, deer, beaver and other wildlife.

Their fishing lines were in the water, their rods resting against the sides of the boat in their stands, Toby was leaning back in his seat, his little-boy legs stretched out in front of him and his hands clasped behind his head for a pillow. He stared at the puffy cloud formations in the blue sky with a frown of concentration.

Luck was equally relaxed, yet suspicious of the long silence that was only broken by the infrequent lapping of water against the boat or the cry of a bird. His sidelong glance studied the intent expression of his son.

“You seem to be doing some pretty heavy thinking, Toby,” he observed, and let his gaze slide skyward when his son glanced at him. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve been trying to figure something out.” Toby turned his head in the pillow of his hands. The frowning concentration remained fixed in his expression. “What exactly does a mother do?”

The question widened Luck’s eyes slightly. The question caused him to recognize that his son had never been exposed to the life of a family unit — father, mother and children. There was only one grandparent living, and no aunts or uncles. During the school year, the weekends were the times they had to share together. Luck had often permitted his son to invite a friend over, sometimes to stay overnight, but mostly to accompany them on an afternoon outing; but Toby had never stayed overnight with any of his friends.

The question was a general one — and a serious one. He couldn’t avoid answering it. “Mothers do all sorts of things. They cook, wash dishes, clean the house, take care of you when you’re sick, do the laundry, all sorts of things like that. Sometimes they work at a job during the day, too, Mothers remember birthdays without being reminded, make special treats for no reason, and think up games to play when you’re bored.” He knew it was an inadequate answer because he’d left out the love and the caring that he didn’t know how to describe.

When Luck finished, he glanced at his son. Toby was staring at the sky, the frown of concentration replaced with a thoughtful look. “I think we need a mother,” he announced after several seconds.

“Why?” The statement touched off a defensive mechanism that made Luck challenge it. “Since when have you and I not been able to manage on our own? I thought we had a pretty good system worked out.”

“We do, dad,” Toby assured him, then sighed. “I’m just tired of always having to wash dishes and make my bed.”

The edges of his mouth deepened in a lazy smile. “Having a mother wouldn’t mean you’d get out of doing your share of the daily chores.”

Unclasping his hands from behind his head, Toby sat upright. “How do you go about finding a mother?”

“That’s my problem.” Luck made that point very clear. “In order for you to have a mother, I would have to get married again.”

“Do you think you’d
like
to get married again?”

“Don’t you think your questions are getting a little bit personal?”
And a little bit awkward to handle,
Luck thought as he sat up, a tiny crease running across his forehead.

“I’m your son. If you can’t talk to me about it, who can you?” Toby reasoned.

“You are much too old for your age.” His blue eyes glinted with dry humor when he met the earnest gaze of his son.

“If you got married again, you could have more children,” Toby pointed out. “Have you thought about that?”

“Yes, and I don’t know if I could handle another one of you,” Luck teased.

With a sigh of exasperation, Toby protested. “Dad, will you please be serious? I am trying to discuss this intelligently with you. You wouldn’t necessarily have another boy. You could have a little girl.”

“Is that what this is about? Do you want brothers and sisters?” There was something at the bottom of all this interest in a mother. Sooner or later, Luck felt he would uncover the reason.

“Do you know that it’s really impossible to have a father-son conversation with you?” Toby declared with adult irritation. “You never answer my questions.

You just ask me another. How am I ever going to learn anything?”

“All right.” Luck crossed his arms in front of him and adopted a serious look. “What do you want to know?”

“If you met the right girl, would you get married again?”

“Yes, if I met the right girl,” he conceded with a slow nod.

With a satisfied smile, Toby resumed his former position stretched out in the seat, his head pillowed in his hands, and stared at the sky. “I’ll help you look.”

Luck took a deep breath, started to say something, then decided it was wiser to let the subject drop.

THE LAKE COTTAGE was built of logs, complete with a front porch that overlooked the lake across the road. The rustic, yet modern structure was tucked in a forest clearing, a dense stand of pines forming a semicircle around it.

Over the weekend, Eve Rowland and her parents had moved in lock, stock and barrel for the summer. It had been a labor of fun opening up their vacation home again and reawakening happy memories of previous summers.

Standing on the porch, Eve gazed at the azure waters of Namekagon Lake. Here in the north-woods of Wisconsin and Minnesota was where the legend of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe, was born. According to the tales, Paul and Babe stomped around a little in Namekagon, just one of the many lakes in Wisconsin. Eve could remember looking at a map of the area as a child and believing the tale. The mythical figure of Paul Bunyan had been as real to her as the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, even if he didn’t pass out presents.

Eve lifted her head to the clear blue sky and breathed in the clean pinescented air. On a sigh of contentment, Eve turned and walked into the cottage. It was small, just two bedrooms, the kitchen separated from the living room by a table nook. She let the screen door bang shut. Her father had his fishing gear spread over the table and was working on one of his reels. Her mother was in the kitchen, fixing some potato salad to chill for the evening meal.

“Is it all right if I use the car?” Eve asked. “I want to go to the store down the road. I’m out of shampoo and I’m going to need some suntan lotion.”

“Sure,” Her father reached in his pants’ pocket and tossed her the car keys.

“Was there anything you needed?” Eve reached to pick up her canvas purse where she’d left it on a sofa cushion.

“Maybe some milk,” her mother answered, “but other than that, I can’t think of anything.”

“Okay. I’ll be back later,” she called over her shoulder as she pushed open the door to the porch.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of the sedan, Eve felt as bright and sunny as the summer afternoon. She had dressed to match her mood that day. The terry-cloth material of her short-sleeved top and slacks was a cheerful canary yellow, trimmed with white. A white hairband kept her brown hair away from her face, framing its oval shape.

It was a short drive to the combination grocery and general store that served the resort community. The Rowland family had traded there many times in past summers, so Eve was a familiar face to the owners. She chatted with them a few minutes as she paid for her purchases.

When she started to leave, she heard a man’s voice ask to speak to the owner. It sounded vaguely familar, but when she turned to see if it was anyone she knew, the man was hidden from her view by an aisle. Since the man had business with the owner, and since it was possible she didn’t even know him, Eve continued out of the store, dismissing the incident from her mind.

She’d left the car in the store’s parking area. She walked toward it, but it was only when she got closer that she began to realize something was wrong. Her steps slowed and her eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of the shattered windshield and the three-inch-diameter hole in the glass.

Stunned, Eve absently glanced in the side window and saw the baseball lying on the front seat. Reacting mechanically, she opened the door and reached to pick up the ball amid the splintered chips of glass on the car seat.

“That’s my ball.” A young boy’s voice claimed ownership of the object in her hand.

Still too stunned to be angry or upset, Eve turned to look at him. A baseball cap was perched atop a mass of dark brown hair, while a pair of unblinking innocent blue eyes stared back at her. Eve judged the boy to be eight, no older than nine. She had the feeling that she had seen him somewhere before, possibly at school

“Did you do this?” She gestured toward the broken windshield, using the same hand that held the baseball.

“Not exactly. You see my dad just bought me this new baseball glove.” He glanced at the oversized leather mitt on his left hand. “We were trying it out to see how it worked. I asked dad to throw me a hard one so I could tell whether there was enough padding to keep my hand from stinging. Only when he did, it was too high and the ball hit the tip of my glove and bounced off, then smashed your windshield. It must have hit it just right,” he declared with a rueful grimace. “So it was really my dad who threw the ball. I just didn’t catch it.”