Soldier, Handyman, Family Man. Lynne MarshallЧитать онлайн книгу.
girls missed us a bit.”
“Probably right.”
“We should set up a playdate some afternoon,” Laurel suggested, keeping in mind Keela worked full-time.
“T’would be grand. Maybe a Saturday would be best.”
Ms. Juanita, the young teacher not much taller than her students, wandered over. “Are we all ready now?” she asked diplomatically, dropping the major hint it was past time to leave. So they did. But not before exchanging phone numbers.
* * *
As promised, later that afternoon after he’d finished painting the trim and had gotten a good start on the arbor, Mark headed back over to Laurel’s B&B with his toolbox in hand. He planned to fix her lock. One of the benefits of being raised around a hotel was learning to be a jack-of-all-trades. Otherwise we’d go bankrupt, as his father used to say when he and his brothers griped about spending their Saturday afternoons working around the hotel. It’d always been extra torture when the surf was up and he’d been itching to hit those waves.
Laurel was in the front yard, and two young girls in matching striped leggings and navy blue tops sat on the porch steps, though one wore glasses. Looking stressed, Laurel faced off with a scrawny kid by the yard gate who was somewhere in the early teen stage and who hadn’t yet grown into his nose. He wore cargo shorts and an oversize, ancient-looking T-shirt with a picture of Bart Simpson on the front. Shaggy dark brown waves in an obvious growing-out stage consumed his ears and partially covered his eyes. He leaned forward, confronting her, his mouth tight and chin jutted out.
Mark thought about turning around, leaving them to their personal business, but their heated interchange, and the fact her hair was down and blowing with the breeze, prodded him to keep going. Maybe she could use some backup.
“Peter, I’ve got too much on my plate right now.”
“I’m sick of having to drag those pests around.” His voice warbled between boy and man, cracking over those pests.
“We’re not pests!” The little one with glasses sounded indignant.
“Not pets!” the thinner of the two incorrectly echoed, garnering a confused glance from her twin.
“I need you to watch the girls while I do some errands. Is that too much to ask?”
“I’m sick of being their babysitter.”
The fair-haired girls looked like twins. Identical twins, but with the help of one wearing glasses and one being slightly smaller, to tell them apart. The glasses girl took it upon herself to move in on the ongoing argument. “Sing with us, Peter. Please?” A future peace activist, no doubt.
“Pleee-sio?” Little Miss Echo being creative?
Without waiting, they started singing “Where Is Thumbkin” using their fingers and acting out the verses, oblivious, while Laurel and Peter continued to square off.
“You know it’ll take me twice as long if I bring them.”
“Don’t care.”
What should he do now? Just walk right up and pretend he didn’t have a clue they were fighting? He slowed down. That seemed lame.
“Okay, I’m not asking, I’m telling you to stay here.”
“I need time by myself!” Peter pounded his fist on his chest while his voice cracked again. “You’re the one who told me to get out and explore the neighborhood! Meet kids my age.”
Ten feet away from the picket fence and gate, Mark stopped. If anyone could understand the need to be by himself, Mark could. Hell, he’d been the king of withdrawal when he’d first come home. The girls continued singing and gesturing—“Where is pointer, where is pointer...?”
“I need your help.” Laurel wouldn’t back down.
“I’m leaving!”
Mark figured it must be damn hard to lose a father when a boy needed him most, but it still bothered him the kid was taking his anger out on his mother. He decided to step in, offer Laurel some support. “Is this a bad time?”
“Oh, Mark.” Laurel looked flustered and frustrated, her cheeks flushed. Those soft hazel-brown eyes from earlier now dark and tense. Edging toward the street side of the gate, Peter stepped backward, gearing up for his escape.
“How are you today, sir?” the twins sang louder.
Mark stepped closer, giving Peter a forced but friendly smile, hoping to keep him from taking off. “I’m Mark. Nice to meet you.”
In response, he received a death glare. It was clear the kid was furious, not just about Mark butting in, or his mother demanding he pull his share of responsibility, but about life in general. About how sucky it must be when a dad dies.
Unaware, the girls kept singing their nursery rhyme. “Run away. Run away.” Their way of coping with stress?
Still glowering, Peter spoke verse three. “Where is tall man?” He added the middle-finger gesture for the sake of his mother and Mark, made sure they both saw it clearly, then took off running, flip-flops flapping, down the street toward the beach.
“Peter!” Laurel yelled, anger flashing in those eyes.
He thought about running after Peter and straightening him out, but stopped the urge. It wasn’t his place.
It took guts, or total desperation, to flip off a complete stranger in front of his mother, he’d give Peter that. He didn’t envy Laurel’s having to deal with that on top of opening the B&B. Guests didn’t go to places like this to hear family arguments. Yet Laurel was a widow with three kids to take care of, and the proprietor of an about-to-open business. After he fixed her lock, he’d steer clear.
Laurel called after Peter again. When Peter didn’t stop or turn around, she dug fingers into her hair, obviously torn about whether to run after him or let him go. The girls had stopped singing, now zeroing in on their mother and gathering close to her. She put a hand on both of them, giving a motherly rub and pat, which immediately eased the tension in their sparrow-sized shoulders. Then she steered them back toward the porch.
Looking downcast, but not defeated, Laurel glanced back at Mark. “Welcome to my world.”
Ten minutes later, Mark kept to himself as he tested the key that Laurel had given him in the stubborn front door lock. The scene with Peter had been unpleasant to say the least, and he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from butting in and telling the kid what he thought. Really thought—listen, punk, you don’t talk to your mother like that. Ever! But it wasn’t his place, and keeping it real, he’d heard a similar warning—without the punk part—from his father a long time ago. Disrespecting parents must be some teen rite of passage. From the way Laurel had mostly kept her cool, she’d probably been down that road with Peter before.
While he fiddled with the lock, Laurel went about distracting the little ones with a snack and a promise to watch one afternoon kid’s show. He was pretty sure “yay” meant they’d accepted her deal.
A minute later, he’d squirted powdered graphite into the keyhole, moved the key in and out a few times, then retested the sticky mechanism. The lock opened and closed just fine. For good measure, he repeated the process on the bolt lock, since her guests would most likely be using their keys after hours, and Laurel might appreciate their not waking her up to get in.
Before The Drumcliffe had switched to card keys, he and his brothers had become experts with fixing sticky locks. They’d learned the hard way that vegetable oil and WD-40 helped for the short term, but eventually made the problem worse. Then they’d discovered graphite, the non-gummy way to fix a lock.
On his knees with the door open, Mark surreptitiously