Fatherhood 101. Mae Nunn
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they were akin to his own fears and hurts that had kept him from resting as a teen. Spooning Rocket close, rubbing his tummy and murmuring soft sounds every couple of hours seemed to give them both peace, and that was a fair trade for the whole pot of coffee he’d have to consume in the morning to keep himself awake.
“It was so kind of you to rescue that puppy, Cullen. You’re Hope’s new hero.”
“Speaking of your girls, how about bringing them to my house for a barbecue this weekend?”
A crease formed between her auburn brows as she answered. “You’re so kind to offer, and I’m tempted to accept. I’m just not sure that’s such a great idea.”
“What concerns you about a picnic?”
“How much time do you have?”
“As much as you want, my friend.”
They stepped out into the muggy evening that was still lit by the waning summer sun. He sunk down on a nearby marble bench and Sarah joined him.
Her blue eyes searched his face, maybe for a clue about how much to say.
“So talk,” he encouraged. The woman carried a lot on her slender shoulders and it didn’t come as a surprise that she had to consider emotional burdens carefully.
“Each of my girls is a needy mess.”
“Aren’t all kids?”
“By nature, yes. But losing their daddy and then our home—”
“Wait.” He placed a hand on the small of her back, the touch intended to be comforting and nothing more. “You lost your home?”
She nodded, a sad smile curving her lips.
“There was a mountain of medical bills and most of Joe’s life insurance went to cover that obligation. There was no chance I could manage the mortgage on my salary, so we sold the house and moved into an apartment. We’re comfortable, but there’s nothing cushy about our lifestyle.”
“From what I’ve observed, your girls are part of a loving family and that’s more valuable than stuff.”
“Thirty-somethings understand that, but try to explain to a tween that not owning an iPad builds character.”
“So how does that translate into a barbecue at Chez Cullen being a bad idea?”
“Oh, it’s a wonderful idea! I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”
“Then what?”
“That’s the question that worries me.”
Cullen scrunched his brow and exaggerated a squint to show his confusion.
“If we come for an afternoon, then what? My girls have all learned to compartmentalize their emotions, but it’s not been easy. One afternoon of fun at a male friend’s house could create expectations on their part. It’s not fair to ask you to deal with the fallout.”
He moved his hand from her back to her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“How about if you let me handle the fallout, as you call it. Growing up in a house with four rambunctious boys has made me fairly resilient.”
“I’m just warning you, young females are different animals. They think and react in unexpected ways.”
“So having three of them is sorta like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates?”
“Exactly,” she agreed.
“You never know what you’re gonna get,” they replied in unison.
He held up a three-fingered Boy Scout salute.
“I solemnly pledge to accept all responsibility for the outcome of a pool party.”
“That’s a grave oath you just made, Dr. Temple. When you say your prayers tonight you’d best ask for a special layer of protection for your life and property.”
“Come on,” he chided. “How much damage can little girls do?”
“And as long as you’re already on your knees, ask for protection for your heart, too.”
She was trying to make light of the situation, but she’d done her best to spell it out and give him fair warning. Well, he’d keep that in mind.
But for now he and Rocket had a barbecue to plan. He needed to test the waters, find out if he would sink or swim in a chaotic environment, even if he found he was already in over his head.
“WHAT ON EARTH was I thinking, Rocket?”
Cullen moved from room to room in a last-ditch effort to tidy up his cluttered home before his company arrived.
His brothers had been teasing him for years that his house looked like one of those ancient bookmobiles had pulled through the front door and exploded. Volumes of every conceivable genre and subject were crammed into shelves and stacked in corners. Each room in the rambling, ranch-style home smelled of printed words bound by glue, cardboard and stitching. The aroma was reverent to Cullen, something most people, and certainly his obnoxious brothers, would never understand.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Hunt had displayed a love of cooking at an early age and the kitchen had long been his sanctuary. Their older brother Joiner loved all things equine. The inside of a barn, smelling of horse sweat and leather tack, was his place of solace. And then there was the oldest, McCarthy, a natural bean counter whose blood pressure was kept steady by frequent immersion in spreadsheets and 401(k) statements.
As much grief as they’d always given Cullen over his obsession for education, the four Temple brothers shared a bond when it came to having a passion. And each man’s passion seemed to come from deep inside and wouldn’t be snuffed out or denied.
Alma said their parents had been no different, and from Cullen’s earliest memories, he had to agree. Their father was a surgeon who’d given countless hours to the hospital and the community it served. And their mother had had an incredible green thumb and knack for growing things. The constant cycle of fertilizing, planting, nurturing, weeding, pruning and picking had been what she’d adored, second only to the five men in her family.
Yep, no doubt about it, they were all destined to obsess, just as their patriarch had once done over striking it rich in the East Texas oil fields. That thought reminded Cullen that he’d offered to tell Sarah about his grandfather. Maybe he’d get that chore over with today since it was best to let the old skeleton out of the closet early and be finished with him. Even so, being endowed with the Temple name in these parts would never completely allow Cullen to bury Pap’s notorious legacy.
“Anybody home?”
“In here,” Cullen shouted. Rocket growled, a sound too small and endearing to be threatening.
“Hey, little brother!” Joiner’s voice boomed from the front entryway.
“I’ve gotta start locking my door,” Cullen called from the den that served as his study.
“Yeah, as if anybody with a lick of sense would want to steal a stack of old books.”
Rocket scurried to investigate the newcomer, skidding to a stop as he was confronted by cowboy boots and jean-clad legs.
“Whoa! Who’s this?”
Joiner squatted, held open his arms and Rocket went into the embrace as if his long-lost friend had come home from the war.
“As I said, I should start locking the door because it seems my new watchdog isn’t gonna keep out the riffraff.”
“Since when do you have an animal in your home?” Joiner gathered Rocket’s long limbs and stood, reminding Cullen of a cowpoke holding a rescued calf.