A Family of Her Own. Brenda Novak
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he didn’t get farther than half a block before Katie’s parting words came back to him: Haven’t you ever done anything you regret?
He’d done plenty of things. He’d been so angry as a kid that he’d been kicked out of more schools than he could remember. He’d put a guy in the hospital simply for looking at him the wrong way. He’d spent two years in a jail cell for stealing a car he didn’t want in the first place. When he reflected on everything he’d felt and done before the age of twenty-five, he knew it was a miracle he’d ever reached thirty. If not for his grandmother, he might never have turned his life around.
In his rearview mirror, he watched Katie round the corner at the end of the street. With her wet clothing and sandals, she had to be freezing. And she was pregnant.
Slamming on his brakes, he spun around and pulled into the driveway of the Rogers house. He retrieved Katie’s suitcase, then rocketed down the street.
KATIE HEARD BOOKER’S truck coming up from behind and instantly improved her posture. She hadn’t managed to hold back her tears for long, but with the rain she doubted he’d notice.
He slowed as he drew parallel, and shoved open the passenger door. “Get in!”
She refused to look at him. She had to live with what she’d made of her life, but she didn’t have to show Booker her pain. “Go away.”
“I’ll put you up for a few nights until you can work things out with your folks,” he hollered. “Just get in before you catch pneumonia.”
“I’ll be fine,” she replied. But she didn’t feel fine. She felt sick at heart and angry and ashamed….
“Where are you planning to go?” he asked. “It’s after eleven o’clock.”
She didn’t answer because she didn’t know. She had friends in town, people she’d grown up with, gone to school with, worked with at the Hair and Now. She was sure someone would take her in for a night or two. But asking wouldn’t be easy when she hadn’t been in touch with anyone since she’d left—except her best friend Wanda, who’d married and moved to Wyoming.
“It’s going to start snowing soon,” Booker added.
“I realize that.”
“You’ll ruin your sandals.”
“They’re already ruined.” Everything was ruined and had been for a long time. The sandals were just the last to go.
Booker gunned the engine. The truck lurched forward but came to a squealing stop right in front of her. Leaving his door open despite the rain, he got out and walked over to confront her. “Give me your suitcase.”
She held her suitcase away from him, but he caught her hand and relieved her of it. Then they stood facing each other in the pouring rain and, as Katie gazed up at him, she was suddenly so hungry for one of his rare smiles she could have cried for that alone.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
The harshness in his face eased. “We’ve all done things we regret,” he said, and loaded her suitcase into the truck.
THE OLD HATFIELD PLACE hadn’t changed much. Booker went for a towel as Katie stood dripping in the mudroom off the back, remembering the woman who’d lived here, alone for the most part, for so many years. Hatty had been a fixture in Dundee for Katie’s entire life. She might have had blue-gray hair and looked as fragile as a bird, but she was more headstrong than anyone Katie had ever met. Hatty generally wore bright-red lipstick and a red suit to match, drove a giant Buick—if one could call what she did behind the wheel driving—and had a no-nonsense approach to everyone and everything.
But Hatty was gone now. She’d died just before Katie left. Katie had been so intent on getting away that she hadn’t given Hatty’s passing much thought. But she knew Hatty’s death must have hit Booker hard.
“Here,” Booker said, returning with a plush burgundy towel and a pair of sweats. He’d peeled off his own wet shirt and was wearing another simple T-shirt that stretched taut across his wide chest and showed the bottoms of the tattoos on his arms. He hadn’t bothered changing his jeans.
“I’ve got some sweats of my own,” Katie said when she realized the pair he’d handed her were probably his.
“I didn’t want to dig through your suitcase. You can give them back to me in the morning.”
He left her to dry off and went into the kitchen. Katie could hear him moving around, opening cupboards and drawers while she changed. She was still freezing and knew it would take some time to warm up, but she was glad to be out of the storm.
She entered the kitchen with her hair up in the towel and Booker’s sweats hanging loose on her body, trying to ignore his scent, which lingered on his clothes, and all the pleasant associations attached to it.
“You hungry?” Booker asked.
“Not really,” she said because she felt she had no right to impose on him any more than she already was.
He considered his sweats on her. “Looks as though you could stand to gain a few pounds.”
“I’m sure I’ll be gaining plenty over the next few months.”
When he frowned, she knew he’d made the connection to her pregnancy. “Eggs and toast okay?” he asked.
Secretly grateful for the promise of a meal, Katie nodded. She’d been so afraid she wouldn’t have money for gas that she’d skimped on food. “It’s really nice, you helping me out like this. I appreciate it.”
She took a seat at the kitchen table, recalling the day Hatty had made Booker varnish it. “The varnish seems to be holding up.”
Booker looked at her. “The what?”
“The varnish. We tried to tell Hatty that this set was mostly plastic. But she wouldn’t listen, remember? She wanted you to varnish it, anyway.”
A ghost of a smile curved Booker’s lips. “I remember. She had me wash the walls before I could paint them, too, and she made me restarch her doilies. I must be the only guy my age who’s ever starched a doily.”
Katie couldn’t help chuckling. Toward the end of Hatty’s life, Booker did almost anything she asked of him. Some people thought she’d bullied him like everyone else. Others claimed he was afraid of losing his inheritance. Katie had seen Booker and Hatty together often enough to know Booker indulged Hatty for only one reason—he loved her. “The place looks great,” she said.
“Gran had it in top shape before she died.”
But she’d been gone more than two years, and while the house hardly seemed different, Booker did. He’d always been a survivor, a man who could take care of himself. But he suddenly seemed so much more…domestic. Maybe it came with owning his own home. “I’ll bet you miss her.”
He dug through a drawer until he found a spatula. “What’s Andy doing these days?” he asked, changing the subject.
Andy was partying. But she wasn’t about to tell Booker that. “I’m not sure.”
He studied her in that way he had of looking right through people. “How long ago did you leave him?”
“It’s been three days.”
“And you’ve lost track of him already?”
Most of the time she hadn’t known what he was doing even when he was in the next room. Because she hadn’t wanted to know. It was rarely something of which she could approve. “I don’t want to talk about Andy.”
He went to the fridge. “One egg or two?”
“Two.”
“When did you eat last?” he asked, setting the egg carton on the counter next to the