My Lucky Stars (9 page)

Ben picked her up. “You’re a smart cookie.”

She giggled. “I’m not a cookie.”

He sniffed her hair. “Nope. You aren’t.” He carried her over to her sleeping bag. “But you
are
a princess, a real daughter of God. Here and in Denver.”

You tell her that now and when she grows up and realizes she’s just a regular person, you’re going to have trouble.
Tara shifted uncomfortably and averted her gaze as they drew closer.

Ben set Cadie beside her sleeping bag then unzipped the side and helped her climb in.

“Heavenly Father knows you and loves you, Cadie. He’ll help you. He’s always here, even when your dad isn’t.”

Oh, please.
Tara rolled her eyes.

“I know Heavenly Father loves me,” Cadie said matter-of-factly, a grin on her face as she reached up to pat Ben’s cheeks.

“That makes you much more blessed than a lot of people, than your mother and I were at your age.” Ben bent over, placing a kiss on her forehead. “You have it all.” He leaned back, still on his knees beside her. “And you ought to thank your lucky stars.”

Nine

Ellen slid the van door shut, partially drowning out the sound of her crying toddler. “It’s your choice,” she said, giving Tara an apologetic smile. “You can come with me and Sam and the dogs and the bunny and the fish and the screaming baby—or you can ride with Cadie, the hermit crab, and my insensitive brother.”

Tara stared, bleary-eyed, through the van window. “Some choice,” she said, though she couldn’t help but return Ellen’s smile. Ellen was a genuinely nice person.
Too bad for her, she’s surrounded by the rest of us.
Tara included herself on the list of those who were likely a pain for Ellen. After yesterday’s disastrous shopping trip, Ellen had played referee between her and Ben the remainder of the evening, providing a nice buffer during the stilted conversations and awkward silences. Fortunately, Ellen had taken Tara’s side and given Ben a good scolding for taking her shopping at a thrift store.

“How long do you think she’ll cry like that?” Tara asked, peering at the little girl pulling at her car seat straps and screaming her lungs out.

“Chloe’s record is two hours, eleven minutes. She hates the car—a lot of eighteen-month-olds do. But she’s also cutting two molars right now, so it could be longer. I’m thinking I need to look up crying in Guinness and see if I might have a world record contender on my hands.”

Tara wondered how Ellen could be so lighthearted when looking forward to two or more hours with a screaming child. She knew she certainly couldn’t. She couldn’t handle much of anything right now, tired as she was. For the second night in a row she’d had virtually no sleep. A screaming kid would drive her nuts.

“In that case, I guess I’m going to have to choose the truck and Ben. I’m not very good with little kids.”
Any kids.
The thought of sitting beside Cadie wasn’t appealing either.

“Good luck,” Ellen said. With a farewell wave, she walked around to the driver’s side and climbed into the van. Tara turned toward the truck. Ben’s gaze met hers through the windshield as she looked up. He was obviously wishing she’d chosen to drive with Ellen.

I know—how about Ben takes all the kids and pets in the van, and Ellen and I drive the truck?
It was a brilliant thought and made Tara smile for a half-second before she realized Ellen would never go for it. She was the kindest, most attentive mother Tara had ever seen, and even if her children were jumping on the furniture, covered head-to-toe with marshmallow and chocolate, or screaming, Ellen still seemed to want to be close to them.

Reaching up, Tara grabbed the handle of the passenger door and hoisted herself into the truck.

“
You’re
coming?” The dismay in Cadie’s voice echoed what they all felt.

“Yep,” Tara said as she settled in next to Cadie’s booster seat. “And I’m planning to sleep.”
So don’t bother me
, she added with a look. She put her purse on the floor beside the hermit crab’s cage and reached for her seat belt. The truck had good-sized windows, and with the cold air seeping through them, she’d probably be okay. As long as she could see out and get air.

She buckled the seat belt over the pink sweater Ben had picked out the previous evening. That he’d chosen a decent pair of jeans and a nice sweater for her should have earned him some points, but for some reason it had made her more irritated. Farmer Boy wasn’t supposed to be right about things—especially finding cheap women’s clothing.

Last night’s incident with Cadie had bothered Tara too. Ben had handled the situation perfectly, as though he had a dozen kids of his own. It irked Tara to see him so kind to the whiney little girl when he’d been so curt with her yesterday. And that bit he’d said to Cadie about thanking her lucky stars. What, was Ben the male Pollyanna or something? She’d never met a guy like him before, and she still couldn’t quite believe he really was as he appeared to be. He was so different—unusual—weird.

Fascinating. And she did
not
want to be fascinated by a pig farmer.

Less than ten hours, and you’ll never have to see him again.
That brought a smile to her lips.
This nightmare’s almost over.

Ben started up the truck, and they were off. Cadie leaned over Tara, straining for a last look at her home.

“It’ll be okay, kiddo,” Ben said kindly. “Knowing your dad, he’s picked out a really cool house for you in Denver.”

Cadie just nodded and swallowed, doing her best to hold in despair. Tears filled her eyes, and her lips were pressed tightly together, as if she were holding back a sob or scream. Tara could relate. She’d been doing a bit of that herself the past few days.

* * *

“Will you paint my nails?” Cadie asked, her face about an inch from Tara’s.

Tara opened her eyes and blinked then leaned back so she could focus.
What’s the kid doing, getting in my space like that?
She shook her head. “No. Can’t you see I’m sleeping?” She edged toward the door, as far away from Cadie as possible.

“But yesterday I saw nail polish in your purse. It was purple. I like purple. Please?”

“No.” Tara shut her eyes, hoping that was the end of it.

“Will you paint my nails, Uncle Ben?”

“Can’t. I’ve got to drive. Why don’t you take a nap, and maybe when you wake up, we’ll be there.”

“How long have we been driving?” Tara sat up and looked hopefully at her surroundings.

Ben chuckled. “Forty minutes.”

She frowned at him. “That’s not funny. And why do grown-ups tell kids things like that anyway? It’s mean. Like she’ll really sleep for eight hours.”

“Like you can’t share a little of your purple nail polish?” Ben glanced over, arching an eyebrow.

Tara frowned. “It’ll make the truck smell.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Ben said. “I’m used to bad smells—living on a farm and all.” He grinned.

“Please?” Cadie said again. “You’re not sleeping now.”

“That’s because your uncle tricked me.”

“Not on purpose,” Ben said.

Cadie tilted her face, leaning close to Tara once more. “Please.”

“Fine.” Tara bent down to get her purse. She found the polish quickly—with her wallet and makeup gone, there wasn’t much left in her purse to search through. “Let me see your hands.”

She held out a set of stubby, chewed nails.

Tara grimaced. “Not much there to paint.”

“Shouldn’t take long then,” Ben said.

He was right. It took less than two minutes for Tara to paint Cadie’s
nails
, though it was a stretch to call them that. When she was finished, Cadie held her hands out, admiring them.

“They’re pretty. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Tara said, surprised at the little girl’s sudden courtesy. “Hold your hands very still for a few minutes or you’ll smear the polish—and I
won’t
paint your nails again.” She put the bottle back in her purse and leaned her head against the window, intending to go back to sleep. She’d scarcely had the thought when Cadie tapped her on the shoulder with one of her still-wet fingers.

Tara cracked an eyelid, checking her sweater for polish. “What did I just tell you?”

“I’m sorry I used your makeup on the dogs and bunny.” The little girl’s face was solemn.

“The
bunny
? Didn’t hear about that one,” Tara said.

“Mommy said not to tell you or you’d yell again.”

From the corner of her eye, Tara saw Ben biting his lip, likely trying to repress a smile. Yesterday she’d been right to yell at him for being amused by her misfortunes.

“Snowball needed some lipstick,” Cadie continued. “She’s all white like Snow White, so she needed blood-red lips to make her prettier.”

The laugh Ben had been trying to hold back escaped in a kind of a coughing bark. “Glad you didn’t go for real blood there.”

“I’m going to try for a real
nap
here, so if you don’t mind . . .” Tara leaned her head against the window once more. One thing she’d learned for sure on this trip—kids were even weirder than she’d thought.

Trying to forget about the one a foot away from her, Tara pulled one knee to her chest and leaned against the door. The cab was warm, but the window felt cold against her head. The contrasting temperatures only added to her drowsiness.

Cadie poked her again.

Tara didn’t open her eyes. “What now?”

“I apologized, so you’re supposed to forgive me.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“But you have to if you want other people to forgive
you
.” Cadie sounded worried.

Where does the kid come up with this stuff?
“Maybe I don’t need anyone to forgive me.”

“Uncle Ben needs to forgive you,” Cadie said. “He was mad last night, and I heard him tell Mommy that you’re the most ’noying woman he’s ever met.”

“Cadie,” Ben said sharply.

She continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “And Mommy said it was his fault for letting you get under his skin. But I don’t know what she meant by that. It sounds gross.” Cadie pulled at the skin on her hand, as if trying to see how one might get beneath it.

“What else did you hear Uncle Ben say?” Tara asked, fixing a look on the subject of their conversation, his hands gripping the wheel and red creeping up his face.

“Nothing,” he said. “Cadie, I think you should check on your crab.”

“Uncle Ben couldn’t say anything,” Cadie said. “When Mommy’s talking mad at you, she doesn’t like you to talk back.”

“I see,” Tara said, a smirk on her face. Oh, what good it did her to see Farmer Boy brought down a notch.

“But Mommy said lots more,” Cadie continued, eager to have an attentive audience. “She said Uncle Ben should grow up. That he shouldn’t be grumpy with you ’cause he’s worried about seeing Daddy.”

“That’s
enough
, Cadie.” Ben put a hand on her leg.

“I want to hear what she has to say.” Tara moved Ben’s hand and put her arm around Cadie, pulling her closer to her side of the truck.

“Mommy said you don’t know any better, so Uncle Ben shouldn’t blame you. And she said it’s Christmas and we have to be nice to you no matter what.”

“No more,” Ben said, his voice quieter but just as firm.

This time Tara agreed and pulled her arm away from Cadie’s shoulders. Turning to the window, she stared out at the white landscape, retracting her earlier, nice thoughts about Ellen.

I don’t
know
any better? What—does she think I’m one of her kids or something?

“It’s time for you to take a nap now,” Ben said, presumably to Cadie. No one needed to tell Tara to sleep.

A hand tugged at her sleeve. “Will you forgive me?”

Hearing that Ellen didn’t really like Tara either hadn’t put her in a forgiving mood, but she wanted sleep—or at least to be left alone. She shrugged Cadie’s hand off and curled up in her corner of the cab again.

“Sure, kid. Why not.”

Ten

Tara stretched and yawned simultaneously. The yawn turned to a frown as she heard the deep, crooning voice coming from the radio. “What are you listening too?”

“Sinatra.” Ben glanced over at her for a second before returning his attention to the mountain road.

“Only reception we can get right now?” she guessed. “Want me to try to find something else?” She reached toward the dashboard radio.

“It’s from my iPod.”

“Oh.” Tara leaned back in her seat. The voice continued
. . . our troubles will be miles away.
“Wouldn’t
that
be nice,” she said under her breath.

“What?” Ben asked.

“Nothing.” She shook her head.

“There’s no accounting for taste, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it.”

She yawned again. “Maybe. Though I’m hardly awake enough to think.”

“It’s nine forty-five,” Ben said. “What time do you usually get up?”

“Not this early. It’s only
eight
forty-five in California.”

“Seriously, that’s early to you?” Ben really couldn’t believe it. But then there wasn’t much about this woman that was believable.

Tara nodded. “I’m a terrible sleeper, so I get up as late as possible. Which isn’t all that late when you don’t fall asleep until two or three in the morning.”

“Must be some nightlife you have there.”

“Now who’s jumping to conclusions? I said I don’t sleep well, not that I party all night. But I suppose you’re awake before the rooster on your farm crows.”

“No rooster,” Ben said. “But I’ve got a particularly loud pig that usually wakes me up. And it is often before the sunrise.”

Tara shuddered. “Pigs and sunrise. Sounds lovely.”

“It is,” Ben said. “You ought to try it sometime.”

“No thanks.” Silence, thick and awkward, followed her comment. Ben wished she’d go back to sleep, but she kept her eyes focused on the road stretching out ahead of them. He supposed there was nothing else to do but apologize—that or endure the uncomfortable feeling between them for the next six or so hours.