Married in Haste. Roz Fox Denny
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Abby wondered how she had tears left to cry.
She went to Raina’s to get her nephews, then to her own town house and finally the boys’ home. Both places were cluttered with various things, shaken from shelves and walls and cupboards.
She learned that tears were nature’s release valve, and over the next weeks she and the boys shed them freely, often in shared moments with friends and neighbors, many of whom suffered, too.
CHAPTER FOUR
SIX WEEKS AFTER the quake, the city began to restore order and set about rebuilding, a process the engineers expected to take a year or more.
Ben Galloway, in a slow moment at the clinic, studied a book on how to braid hair. He’d assumed the housekeeper-cook he’d hired after laying his sister to rest would be equipped to handle his nieces’ “girlie” requirements. But after watching normally good-tempered Erin dissolve into tears for the tenth morning in a row over messy braids, Ben was at his wits’ end. Hence the book. About the only thing in his life he hadn’t altered or dispensed with to accommodate the girls had been his morning stop on his way to the clinic at a bookstore-coffee house.
Today, while the attendant brewed his hard-hitting double espresso, it struck him that a man with the manual dexterity to sew up cuts on little people surely ought to be able to braid hair. But he hadn’t stopped with the braid book. Before he got out of the store, he’d purchased a hundred dollars’ worth of current information on raising girls. Books promising confident, happy girls. Happy was what his formerly sweet niece was not. Erin had turned into a brat. Ben couldn’t help thinking it was partly his fault. In spite of coauthoring a pamphlet on discipline, he was obviously missing the mark when it came to girls.
“Doctor, your next patient’s in room five.” Anita Sorenson stepped into the room. She was one of a staff of three that Ben and his partner, general practitioner Steve Thomas, shared. Marching straight to Ben’s desk, Anita straightened the books spilling out of his store bag. “What’s all this?” She rifled through the stack, reading titles aloud. “Is there something you haven’t told us? Are you trading pediatrics for child psychology? Or are you and Steve collaborating on another parents’ guide?”
Ben didn’t want to tell his nurse how many times he woke in the dead of night worrying about the girls. “Anita, how did you raise six kids on your own? Is there a secret?”
The nurse tipped back her head and laughed, but she must have seen the misery in her employer’s eyes, because she sobered midstream. “Gosh, I guess I never thought about it. Except I raised my kids from birth, so I set the house rules. Even then, there were months after Lorne died that I had to take it one day at a time.”
“Time. That’s my biggest problem. I never seem to have enough hours to spend with Erin and Mollie. On short notice, with half the city in chaos, I spent two weeks locating a suitable housekeeper-caretaker. But Mrs. Clark still doesn’t understand that medicine isn’t an eight-to-five job. She wants a regular schedule I simply can’t deliver.”
“According to an article in the newspaper, the quake did more damage to this side of town. Our death toll is sixty percent of the more than one hundred reported. Area schools have added crisis counselors. I don’t know which elementary the girls attend, but you might want to have a chat with school staff if you’re seeing behavioral changes. The article also said individual schools plan to form parent support groups.”
Ben scowled. “How would that look, Anita? Half the parents at the girl’s elementary school bring their kids to me. Since the quake, my patient load has doubled. Most come for direction related to tantrums and other disruptive behavior.”
“Oh, well, if you’re the expert…” Anita snorted, crossing her arms.
Ben gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. That sounded more like something my old man would spout.” At the mention of his father, and totally unexpectedly, Abby Drummond’s face appeared in his mind. Ben had last seen her at Marlo’s funeral. Abby looked harried, pale and drawn. Given her circumstances, it’d pleased Ben to see her there. He’d meant to call and thank her for the rosebuds she’d sent the girls. And she’d written each one a thoughtful note, too. All other expressions of sympathy had been directed to him. But he’d barely found time to scribble his name at the bottom of the gilt-edged thank-you cards his secretary provided.
That was another issue that grated. He’d suggested his father’s current live-in take over thanking the friends who’d sent remembrances. Kirk threw a virtual fit. He let it be known in no uncertain terms that Millie or Lily, or whatever the hell her name was, served as arm candy and nothing more. Well—a lot more, Ben assumed. But nothing Kirk would ever discuss with him. And after the reaming out Kirk delivered when Ben proposed the blond bombshell collect the girls from Abby’s friend the day of the quake, one might think Ben would have learned his lesson. If not then, certainly after Kirk made it clear that his role as grandfather—a term he disliked—was confined to gifts at birthdays and Christmas. Foolishly, Ben had thought his dad might want to have a say in who took care of his granddaughters.
Why Kirk’s response had surprised him, Ben didn’t know. After all, it was the way his old man had handled fatherhood—via his checkbook. Ben and Marlo had never been able to figure out why their dad went through a court battle to retain custody of them after their mom announced she was leaving. Eventually they’d decided it was a matter of pride to the great Kirk Galloway. No one left his exalted sphere except by his edict.
Which Marlo did when she married a no-account who later walked out, leaving her pregnant, and with Erin a toddler. A self-fulfilling prophesy, according to Kirk.
But Ben had dealt their father a blow when he chose a pediatric residency over the more prestigious orthopedic post he’d been offered at a hospital where Kirk pulled strings to get his son considered.
Sweeping aside old irritants and unproductive thoughts, Ben closed the book on braids. Again he wondered how Abby was getting along. Admittedly he’d put her out of his mind once it became evident that his carefree bachelor days were over. Except, dammit, they weren’t over. The carefree part, yes. But he was still as single as single could be.
Ben snatched the chart from Anita’s hand. “Would you see if Pat can get me out of here at a decent hour today? By two-fifteen. I’ll phone Mrs. Clark and tell her I’m picking Erin and Mollie up from school. I’m friends with one of the teachers. I haven’t wanted to bother her, knowing she’s in a similar spot—worse, since she’s been left to raise her brother’s five boys, one of whom was injured in the quake. I should’ve contacted her before this. If anyone has the lowdown on support groups, it’ll be Abby.”
“Five boys, you say?” Anita shuddered. “The poor woman has my sympathy. I raised six of ’em. Frankly, Ben, I always thought girls would be a whole lot easier.”
“From a woman’s perspective, maybe. From where I stand, two tearful girls and their finicky cat present the most daunting challenge I’ve ever faced.”
This time Anita did laugh as they departed Ben’s office. “Maybe you ought to combine forces with your friend who has the five boys. You could help with her boys, and she could advise you on dealing with emotional girls.”
Ben mulled over Anita’s suggestion as he greeted his next patient and her triplet daughters. If they’d been more than two months old, he might have asked her for advice. But the poor beleaguered new mother needed all the help she could get. Before she left, though, she said something profound that stuck with Ben. “Somebody missed the boat, Dr. Galloway. Every college should offer classes in parenting. At some point in life, most people become one. Yet the only people who get training are those going into early childhood education. Or maybe pediatrics,” she said, tossing him a tired sigh. “I think teacher training is best. Teachers have to be in control of kids six or more hours a day. No offense, but pediatricians only see kids ten minutes at a time.”
He considered her words for the rest of the day. And he recalled the ease with which Abby Drummond had handled Erin’s class. She’d had twenty-two or so kids