Counting Stars (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Peter grabbed a carton of orange juice from the Styrofoam cooler. Replacing the lid, he took a stale muffin from the bag on the kitchen counter and sat carefully on the only piece of uncovered furniture—an old rattan barstool that had been in his mom’s kitchen as long as he could remember. Opening the juice carton, he lifted it to his lips and took a couple of swallows. His laptop lay open in front of him as he glanced around the combination kitchen/dining room.
What a mess.
And he wasn’t just thinking of the house. Though, after being closed up for more than two years, it needed some serious help too. But he wasn’t feeling too motivated to clean, at least not unless the power got turned on sometime in the next forty-eight hours. Right now, he had more pressing matters—like meeting his niece and nephew . . . and Jane Warner.

Peter leaned over to the sliding glass door and adjusted the vertical blinds so he could see into the backyard. He stared out past the recently mowed grass—he’d paid a company to take care of it while he was gone—to the sagging chain-link fence that separated his backyard from the one behind it. The gate in the middle was still there, and Peter remembered the many afternoons he’d walked through it to play with his friend Greg. Peter wondered what Greg was up to these days and if his parents still owned the house. If so, Paul had certainly worked a sweet deal with them for rent. Even in these older neighborhoods, seven hundred dollars a month was unheard of.
And Richard suggested that Paul wasn’t in his right mind when he wrote that letter. Ha.
Pete would bet his life that his brother had known exactly what he was doing.

He turned away from the window and reached for the folder next to his laptop. He wasn’t ready to go back to work, wasn’t even adjusted to the time change yet, but a sticky note on the inside of the folder had shown a scheduled appointment with Mrs. Holland next Wednesday. Knowing he was fortunate to have a job to come home to, Peter focused his attention on the file and sat reading and taking notes for the next twenty minutes until a noise outside caught his attention.

Lifting his eyes from the screen to the sliding glass door, he looked out at the backyard, glanced down at his watch, then looked outside again. It was six fifteen in the morning, and a woman in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, jeans, and work gloves was dumping gravel from a wheelbarrow into a corner of the yard. Jane Warner? If so, he was surprised. One of the few things Richard had said about Miss Warner was not to judge her by her nail polish.
This
woman pushing the wheelbarrow in the predawn light didn’t strike him as someone who would be concerned with her nails.

Pete watched as she emptied the wheelbarrow, then turned around and headed out the side gate. Curious, he stood and went to the kitchen window where he could see better.

It was a good five minutes before she reappeared, the wheelbarrow full again. Once more, she emptied it, but this time parked the wheelbarrow and went into the garage. A few moments later she returned, dragging a heavy beam. This pattern repeated itself four times before she began carting other supplies into the backyard as well.

More curious than ever about the woman and what she was up to, Peter went into the living room and looked through his duffel bag for his binoculars. He’d been so exhausted after Richard dropped him off last night that he hadn’t bothered to unpack anything and had fallen asleep on the couch.

Tossing aside his clothing, shaving kit, and the religious book his friend Shane had given him at the airport, Peter located his binoculars. He returned to the kitchen and watched, realizing that the woman was unloading the makings for a rather elaborate swing set—the great big wood kind with a fort, fireman’s pole, and the large yellow slide he saw her struggling with now.

A sudden thought struck him. He left the kitchen, went upstairs to the bedroom, and looked out the window.

“Nooo,” he groaned, lowering the binoculars. The woman had transported all that stuff in
his
Jeep. He watched as she unfastened a bungee cord, carelessly letting it spring onto the other side of the car, and pulled more wood from the roof.

She had his car. She had to be Jane Warner. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes again, concern for his vehicle momentarily overtaken by his curiosity about the woman.

He watched as she hefted the wood onto her shoulder and carried it into the backyard. Dumping it by the other supplies, she returned to the side yard, where lay an enormous pile of lumber and parts he hadn’t noticed before. Pete had to admit he was impressed by her determination to unload it—albeit one piece at a time. She was not a large woman, but apparently what Jane Warner lacked in muscle, she made up for in determination. Not that she didn’t have any muscles, he amended as he watched her shed the sweatshirt in favor of the short-sleeved T-shirt underneath. As she lifted a bag of concrete and carried it to the corner of the yard, he realized her biceps were just fine.

It suddenly occurred to him that he ought to help her, that working together might be the perfect opportunity to break the ice—so to speak. Because another thing Richard had said was to be prepared for ice.

Peter ran downstairs, grabbed his shoes from the living room, and went to the kitchen for another quick drink of juice.
Fortification.

He swallowed and watched as she brought the last item from the garage—a pink, compact toolkit.
No way she’s gonna use that thing to assemble a swing set,
he thought. But it appeared she was planning to do just that. She opened it up and reached for the bag of screws attached to one of the beams.

Choking back laughter, Pete began to cough and splayed orange juice across the sink. A popular credit card commercial came to mind as he used a napkin to wipe up the mess.

New paint job for his Jeep—$1,500

Binoculars—$65

Watching your neighbor attempt to build a fort with a pink toolkit—Priceless.

He tossed the napkin aside and, still smiling, headed to the garage for his tools.

* * *

Jane sat on the ground by the pile of wood and supplies she’d hauled into the backyard. Over half the lumber and the bags of concrete were still out front, but she had what she needed to get started. Opening her toolkit, she removed the pink-handled scissors and began cutting up the instructions she’d downloaded from the company’s website. With her little pink stapler, she moved across the lawn, attaching pictures and instructions to the corresponding beams and bags of screws, nuts, and bolts. When that was done she stood up, brushed off her jeans, and returned to the garage for her cordless drill and circular saw. She had a better collection of power tools than any other female she knew, and she took great pride in knowing how to use them. By doing much of the smaller work herself on her landscaping jobs, she’d been able to keep costs down and keep in shape—or justify eating more chocolate, anyway. Jane smiled, happy that today it
was
her yard and project she was working on. But just as she walked through the garage door, she heard cries on the baby monitor.

“Six forty-five. Right on time, Maddie,” Jane said as she glanced at her watch. She tugged her gloves off and tossed them on the patio table. Picking up the monitor as she went into the house, she told herself she’d get to the posts later today—though it would have to be much later.

By the time she had the twins fed, changed, and dressed, it would be time to go to work. A thrill of hope shot through Jane as she thought about her nine o’clock appointment. Last month the Sweviecs had hired her to landscape their yard. Now their neighbors were interested in having their yard done as well. If the couple accepted the plans she presented today, she’d have her expenses covered for another month.

Madison’s cries increased in volume, and Jane stifled a yawn as she hurriedly washed her hands. Her day was off and running. It would easily be midnight before her head hit the pillow again, but that was okay.

Being tired and busy meant there was no time in her life to be lonely.

* * *

Marsha Warner hung up the phone and made a neat check by the first item on the list Jane had left for her.

“Next,” Marsha said, pleased that she’d so easily found a good price on sod.
Set up mulch delivery from AJ and Sons Ground Covers,
she read on the line below. Adjusting her bifocals, she scanned the address, delivery date, and other details. With a sigh she picked up the phone again. Usually when she babysat for her daughters, they asked her to do things like bathe the baby or fold laundry. Once, when her son-in-law Scott had been unable to tear himself away from bowl games, she’d painted a bedroom with Karen and helped her assemble a crib.

But assembling furniture and painting seemed like normal grandmotherly things compared to the requests Jane made. She needed help locating exotic plants, scheduling backhoes, and finding special sprinkler heads. It seemed an unusual way for a woman to make a living, but, Marsha conceded, as of late it looked like Jane might just make a go of it.
If only she would do well enough to hire a secretary,
Marsha thought. She looked at the babies playing on the floor and, anxious to get down to the real business of being a grandmother, returned to Jane’s list.

* * *

Peter glanced out the sliding glass door as he buckled his tool belt and picked up his drill from the table. Outside there was no sign of Jane Warner, only the pieces of the play set that lay strewn across the yard—abandoned. She’d probably given up already.

“Perfect,” Pete heard himself say aloud. She may have the diapering and feeding stuff down better than he did, but there were still a few things he could do—things she couldn’t—that would benefit his niece and nephew. And it looked like it wasn’t going to take as much effort as he’d thought to prove it.

Suddenly feeling better about the forty-five minutes it had taken to locate his tools, and the cold water he’d endured to shower and shave—first impressions were important, and
this
particular one he really didn’t want to botch—Peter walked into the backyard. He hummed as the lyrics to a favorite song played in his mind.

He’d saved a lot of money over the years, and after he built the fort he’d stock it with all kinds of great toys. A kind of giddy excitement overtook him as he thought of meeting his niece and nephew. He’d always loved kids.

Opening the gate, Pete walked across the lawn, heading for the side yard. Not wanting to frighten Miss Warner, he’d decided it was better to go around to the front instead of knocking at the patio door.

A few feet away from the house he stopped, confused as he overheard the conversation of a gray-haired woman standing at the kitchen window. Her back was to him, and she had the phone to her ear. He took a step closer, straining to hear.

“The name is Jane Warner. Yes. I’d like delivery Monday morning at nine thirty.”

Jane Warner?
Peter forced his feet to keep moving. He must have misheard. This woman looked like a grandmother or . . .
Why not think of Jane Warner as a nanny?
Richard’s words came back to him. Peter felt his face heat as he recalled their visit yesterday.

You don’t think she expects me to marry her or something?
he’d asked. And Richard’s response had been a chuckle.
She hardly expects that.

Feeling like a complete idiot, Pete stomped over the uneven driveway. All along he’d thought Paul had been playing matchmaker—trying somehow to make up for taking Tamara, when really he’d found someone to take Mom’s place. And of course he’d welcome the help of an experienced caretaker like that.

He reached the front door, pressed the doorbell, and waited. The earlier nervousness he’d felt had left, but with it, he was surprised to discover, came a feeling of disappointment. Pink toolkit aside, the other woman had intrigued him. But if she wasn’t Jane Warner, then who? A neighbor or relative maybe?

The front door opened, and he found himself facing the woman he’d seen on the phone. Her hair was short, curly and gray, and she looked at him over the top of her glasses. The floral apron tied around her waist instantly reminded him of his own mother. If this really was Jane Warner, then Paul had done a good job.

“Ms. Warner?” he asked tentatively.

She nodded, her eyes widening as she looked at him. Pete supposed she noticed his resemblance to Paul.

He stuck out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. My name is Peter Bryant, and I imagine you’re expecting some explanations. I’ll be happy to give them, but first—”

She was shaking her head. “No. You see, I’m—”

“Please,” Peter continued. “Know how grateful I am for the care you’ve given my niece and nephew these past months. I’d like it if—”

A baby’s cry stopped him cold.

The woman’s face broke into a smile. She gave his hand a squeeze. “Welcome, Mr. Bryant. Come in and meet your niece and nephew.” She released his hand and stepped aside. “And please, call me Marsha.”

* * *

Peter lay on his side on the floor, a bottle in one hand as he fed Mark. Behind him Madison babbled happily as she tugged at his ear. A second later he felt a drop of drool hit the side of his face.

“You got me,” he cried, setting the bottle aside and rolling over to pick up Madison. He lifted her in the air above him and she laughed, rewarding him with more drool. Mark turned his head toward them and waved his arms as if he wanted a turn as well. Peter lowered Madison to his chest and she lay there a moment, her face against his beating heart. He closed his eyes.
This is heaven.
He was holding Tamara’s daughter—the closest he’d ever get to holding Tamara herself again.

Mark grabbed at Pete’s arm, his tiny fingers pulling out a fistful of hair. “Hey,” Pete exclaimed. He set Madison back on the blanket and picked up Mark. “Be a little more patient there, will ya? Just because I held your sister first doesn’t mean I don’t love you too, little guy.” A lump formed in his throat as Peter sat Mark on his chest. He looked at his brother’s son.
Paul’s son. My son now.
Responsibility, both awesome and terrifying, settled over him. He had so much to learn. There was so much to do—so much to look forward to. It had been a long time since he’d felt any real excitement about his future. Now, with these two babies, it seemed brimming with possibility. The past hour of his life was the best he could recall in years.