Wanted: The Perfect Mom. T. R. McClure
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hunting camp had been broken into. The only damage was a shattered window and the disappearance of some canned goods, but he still wanted to check it out. Passing Holly’s shop, he noticed a line out the door. Coffee would have to wait.
A short while later, he found himself crossing the suspension bridge over Little Bear Creek. Halfway across he stopped just in time to see a sleek brown trout jump in the fast-moving stream. On the bank, the green of late spring had rapidly covered the dead brush of winter. He continued on and turned left onto a macadam road that paralleled the stream. Coming to a freshly plowed field, he slowed and studied the white house at the end of a long lane.
Gravel crunched beneath the tires of Mac’s patrol car as he eased down the driveway of the Smith farm. The twins were the third generation to live on the two-hundred-acre farm. They no longer worked the land but instead rented out the fields to younger farmers who needed more land but couldn’t afford it. He stopped the car at the foot of a long flight of steps leading up to the front porch. A garden surrounded by a wire fence sat off to the right. A long row of green onion tops peeked through dark, rich, freshly turned soil.
The homestead, where the twins and their sister had been born and raised, had to be at least a hundred years old. A fresh coat of white paint glistened on the two-story structure. The new metal roof sported a satellite dish.
Mac leaned back in his seat and stroked his chin, remembering the last time he’d been to the farm. Shortly after his return to Pennsylvania, he and Chief Stone had visited some of the neighbors in the area. Then, the house had been badly in need of a paint job.
He should’ve shaved this morning. Instead, he’d invested those extra five minutes in chasing much-needed sleep. Sleep that still refused to come. He’d lain in bed thinking about Anne, about Riley and what his wife would think of their current living arrangements.
“Are you gettin’ outta the car or are you just gonna sit there and gawk?”
Lanky as his nickname implied, Skinny Smith stood not five feet away, dressed in clean but faded bib overalls and a red plaid flannel shirt. A large black dog lounged at his feet, his graying muzzle forming a perfect circle as he gave a low woof. Mac jumped out of the vehicle and thrust out his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Smith, I haven’t been here for a while. I was admiring the work you’ve done.”
Skinny gripped Mac’s hand. After a brief squeeze, he wrapped his fingers around the overall straps, tilted his bald head and squinted at Mac. “You’re the one who came out with Chief Stone that day. You just got back from livin’ down South for a while, ain’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.” Mac’s stomach flipped as he remembered the reason for his sudden return home. They had put it gently. We have to let you go. But he knew he had lost his edge. Coming home was an attempt to get his life back in order. Now his former in-laws had been pressing him to take his little girl for the summer.
Between the guilt and the never-ending decisions he sometimes questioned his sanity. His forehead was throbbing and he realized he had again skipped coffee. The double bourbon the night before hadn’t helped, either. He caught Skinny shooting him a puzzled look.
Skinny started toward the steep porch steps and waved a hand at Mac. “Come on in. Hawkeye’s makin’ French press coffee. You look like you need some.”
Mac’s jaw dropped. French press? Apparently the townspeople weren’t the only ones to have become citizens of the world in his absence.
Watching the dog make his way up the steep steps, he followed and caught the screen door just before it slammed shut behind Skinny. The farmer continued through a long, dark hall lined on one side with stacks of boxes.
“We have company, brother. Grab another cup.”
When Mac entered the kitchen Skinny was opening a pink bakery box. His brother, identical in every way, except his shirt was blue plaid, poured coffee out of a glass container. He pushed a china cup and saucer across the table and motioned for Mac to sit.
“Mother always said things taste better if they look nice. We still use the china set she got for her wedding. Kind of silly, I suppose, for two old bachelors. How about it, brother?” Skinny chuckled, a deep rumbling in his chest.
Hawkeye nodded as he continued to pour. “Yep.”
His forefinger threaded through the small, circular handle, Mac lifted the cup and toasted the two men. “Gentlemen, this is a welcome—unexpected, but welcome—surprise.” He held the cup under his nose and inhaled the rich, heavy scent before sipping the hot brew. “Ah, perfect.”
“Fair trade organic.” Hawkeye finished pouring and set the French press on a pad in the center of the Formica table. “We farmers have to stick together.”
A black cat clock, its eyes darting back and forth, ticked noisily above the sink as the three men enjoyed the coffee. Between the two farmers, the hound thumped his tail in anticipation as Hawkeye reached for a scone from the box. Breaking off a corner, he presented the morsel to the dog, who mouthed the treat daintily from the old man’s hand. “Good boy.” He petted the dog.
Skinny bit off a piece of muffin. He winked at Mac as he chewed. “Buddy’s the best dog we ever had. He’s a black-and-tan coonhound. Got him from up toward Erie. He chases raccoons mostly, but he’ll go after a squirrel or a rabbit. When we’re ready to go, he’s right beside us.” He gave another bite to the dog. “Not so much anymore, though. He’s getting old, like us.”
“So he is,” his brother added, crumbs littering the table in front of him.
Mac eyed the bakery box, and when Hawkeye pushed it closer, he helped himself to a chocolate cookie sandwich with white cream oozing out of the middle. “I haven’t had a chocolate gob in years.” The first bite melted in his mouth, followed by the rich coffee. He swallowed. “Where do you guys find this stuff?”
“Over town. Those things are called whoopie pies in these parts.” Skinny seemed surprised at his question. “We stop at The Cookie Jar and then, since the Hoffman girl opened up her place, we bought our special beans from her. Saves us from driving all the way to State College, what with the price of gas such as it is.”
Mac looked around the kitchen at the modern appliances and wondered how two old farmers afforded updating the homestead, much less buying fair trade organic coffee. He emptied his cup and stood. “Thank you, fellas, I needed that.” He brushed a crumb from his uniform jacket.
Skinny leaned back in his chair. “You sure did. You looked a mite peaked when you got out of your car. You got some color in your face now. You should stop at the coffee shop mornings, get yourself goin’.” He chuckled. “And the Hoffman girl’s not too bad to look at, either. How about it, brother?” He nudged Hawkeye.
“Yep.” His brother smiled into his coffee cup.
“If I was forty years younger...” The talkative brother led the way back to the front porch.
Mac grinned. He agreed with the two men. The Hoffman girl, his best friend’s little sister, had grown from a gawky teenager into an attractive woman. And he owed that woman an apology. He just hoped she accepted the long overdue request for forgiveness.
How could he have been attracted to two such different women? Holly and Anne were night and day. Refined and delicate, Anne’s pale complexion and fine blond hair had placed her on the cover of many local equestrian magazines. She was the cool balm he’d needed after the heat of the desert, when his overseas duty finally came to an end. Holly, while she had never graced the cover of a magazine, was known for her phenomenal times in barrel racing. She was all darkness, energy and heat.
Following his host, he passed the living room at the front of the house and caught a glimpse of a flat screen television. Ahead of him Skinny held the screen door, his bright eyes watchful.
“Thanks again, Skinny.” With his stomach full of whoopie pie and his head mercifully pain free, Mac shook the man’s hand and clumped down the steps.
“Anytime,