The House on Sugar Plum Lane (3 page)

“It's okay. I need to get home early so that I have time for a shower.”

“You'll need to make sure you get to the school before six,” she'd added, “because the afternoon director is going on vacation and has a plane to catch. She'll need to leave on time today.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.”

Amy had gotten home at a quarter to seven and found Brandon already dressed and talking on his cell phone. He ended the call, then smiled. “Your hair looks great, honey.”

She'd only been able to appreciate the compliment for a second because he glanced behind her and asked, “Where's Callie?”

“No!” she'd shrieked. “Don't tell me you didn't pick her up.” She'd rushed to the phone, only to see the red light on the answering machine flashing.

There'd been two calls from Kathy Webber, the director, asking where Amy was, each one getting a little more panicky. Then a third, telling her she'd had to drop off Callie at the home of another teacher who lived near the school, a new hire Amy had never met.

“I can't believe this,” Amy had said, her voice a couple of octaves higher. “You forgot to pick her up! What kind of father forgets his own child?”

“I'm sorry, honey. I was busy, and…it just slipped my mind.”

Had Callie been left in the care of someone she'd known, someone she'd been comfortable with, Amy might have been annoyed with Brandon instead of furious. But by the time she'd arrived at the new teacher's house, her daughter had been sobbing hysterically.

“Mommy!” she'd cried before racing across the room and flinging her arms around Amy in desperation. “I thought you died and went to Heaven, just like Grammy. And I was scared that nobody would find me. And that I would be all alone forever and ever.”

“She's been inconsolable ever since Miss Kathy left,” the teacher had said. “I'm so glad you finally got here. I didn't know what to do.”

Maybe Amy's grief after having just lost her own mother had fired her up. Maybe all the times Brandon had failed to call home or show up at a family event, all the times he'd let her down or disappointed her, came crashing in on her, too. But that no longer mattered.

Amy had scooped her daughter into her arms, held her tight and swayed back and forth, softly shushing her. “I love you, sweetheart. And I promise that I'll never let anything like this happen to you again.”

And she wouldn't.

Brandon's final act of abandonment, which might have traumatized his daughter for life, had been the last straw.

Once Amy had returned to the house with Callie, she'd told Brandon that he would have to attend the dinner party alone. And by the time he'd gotten home, she'd packed her bags.

“I hate this house and all it represents,” she'd told him. “So don't worry about me wanting to keep it in the settlement. I'll take the condo in Del Mar.”

“You want a divorce because I made a mistake?” he'd asked.

He'd made a lot of mistakes.

How could a man forget his own daughter? she'd asked herself time and again.

Clearly, Brandon Masterson had never been cut out to be a father. Some men weren't.

Maybe some women hadn't been meant to be mothers, either.

Her thoughts drifted to Barbara Rucker, who'd grown up in the house on Sugar Plum Lane. There could be a hundred reasons why she'd given up her baby girl in September of 1966. Maybe she'd been young and unmarried. Maybe she'd been unable to care for a child, not just unwilling.

Time, Amy supposed, and a little snooping would tell.

She just hoped she wouldn't regret stirring up the past.

That same night, next door to the old Rucker house on Sugar Plum Lane, Maria Rodriguez knelt beside the tub and watched her three-year-old son play with his Winnie-the-Pooh bath toys.

“Boing, boing,” he said, bouncing a plastic Tigger across the water's surface and causing a splatter to slosh over the edge and onto the floor.

Maria couldn't help noting that the linoleum, which had once been a bright yellow and blue pattern, had dulled with age and curled away from the cracked gray caulking around the tub, revealing a strip of plywood underneath.

She'd have to add “bathroom floor” to the growing list of things that needed to be refurbished or repaired around the house, although she had very little money to spare on fix-it projects. And she had far less time.

It seemed that there were never enough hours in the day. What she wouldn't give to be able to slip away by herself for a while, to talk to someone who could actually carry on a quality conversation. If she still worked outside the home, she'd have coworkers with whom she could connect, but as it was, she was limited to chatting with her boarders or her children, which wasn't the same.

Ever since Hilda and Walter Klinefelter, who'd become self-appointed grandparents to her children and a godsend when it came to friendship and support, had left on a three-week European cruise, Maria's days had stretched into each other. Still, she was happy for the elderly couple who'd fallen in love during their golden years. Truly.

But today, it seemed, had been more trying than usual, and she was winding down fast.

If she had a few extra minutes, she'd brew herself a cup of chamomile tea—or maybe even pour a glass of wine. Then she'd find a good book and sink into a warm bath herself. But much to her dismay, her workday was far from over.

As little Walter—Wally for short—spun toward the back of the tub and reached for a miniature Pooh, the water sloshed against the sides again, threatening to spill over.

That's what she got for asking Sara to fill the bath. Sometimes it was easier doing things herself.

“Two more minutes,” she said, warning Wally that bath time was almost over.

“No, not yet!”

It was amazing, she thought. She had to drag the child kicking and screaming to the tub, then had to fight twice as hard to get him out again. She reached for the pale blue towel she'd taken out of the linen closet earlier and had left on the tile counter near the sink.

“Mommy!”
five-year-old Sara screeched from the open doorway. “Danny's calling me names again!”

Maria blew out a weary sigh.

“He called me a
girl,
” the child added, crossing her arms across her chest.

“You
are
a girl, honey.”

“I
know.
But Danny said it like it was a
bad
thing.”

She supposed the squabble wasn't a big deal, but Danny had once been so sweet and helpful, and in the past month he'd grown surly and difficult. No matter what she did, what she said, he seemed to slip further away from the child he'd once been.

Holding back another weary sigh, she slowly got to her feet. “I'll talk to him as soon as I get your little brother out of the bathtub and help him put on his pajamas. In the meantime, go get your nightgown and a towel. It's your turn for a bath.”

“Oh,
o
-kay.” Sara turned and stomped off in a huff.

As her daughter padded down the hall, Maria reached into the bathtub and pulled out the plug to drain the water.

“No!” Wally screeched. “I'm not
done.
”

Maybe not, but Maria was. She lifted him from the tub, and he kicked and whined in a last-ditch attempt at defiance. Then she stood him on the floor and draped the towel around him as water pooled onto the floor.

What she wouldn't give to have someone with whom she could share the parent load, especially in the evenings, but she'd been on her own for nearly four years now. And nights were the worst.

Not that she wanted her ex-husband back.

Her children's father had been her teenage crush, but he'd proven to be anything but family oriented. And even if he'd wanted to be a solid and dependable part of their lives, he still had several years left to serve in prison following a fatal altercation with the jealous husband of the woman he'd been seeing.

He wrote occasionally, but only to Danny, since Maria had not only refused to provide him with a phony alibi, she'd let him know in no uncertain terms that she didn't want anything to do with him.

She really didn't want him contacting their son, although she understood why he would. Still, that didn't mean she had to share those letters with an eleven-year-old. So each time she received one, which wasn't all that often, she would put it away for a time when Danny was older and better able to deal with one of the dark realities of life.

“Mommy!” Sara shrieked. “He's saying it
again!
And this time he's calling me a
dumb
girl.”

What was she going to do with that boy?

Maria lifted the towel-bundled toddler and carried him out of the bathroom, down the hall, and to Danny's room, where the eleven-year-old lay stretched out on his bed, his hands resting under his head, his gaze on the ceiling.

“What's going on?” she asked, shuffling Wally in her arms.

“Nothing.”

Maria supposed she shouldn't be overly concerned about Danny calling Sara a dumb girl. After all, there were a lot worse things he could have called her. But something niggled at her, suggesting there was more going on in her son's life than she realized, something she ought to be aware of.

The fact that his father was in prison could cause him some concern, but he seemed to have gotten over it fairly well, once they'd moved out of town and away from the whispers in the community about a crime of passion that had gone awry.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked her son.

“Nope.” He didn't even turn his head.

She'd expected the teen years to be rough, but wasn't that surly attitude striking a little too soon?

“Did your sister do something to annoy you?”

“Yeah.” He finally turned his head, albeit briefly. “She won't leave me alone. And I don't want to play with her and her stupid dolls.”

Maria tried to tell herself that the squabble was typical of siblings, that Danny was growing up and wanted some privacy, that her uneasiness was for naught.

But she couldn't help stressing anyway. Shouldn't a good mother try to “fix” whatever was bothering her child?

The telephone rang, drawing her from what was fast becoming an unpleasant nightly routine. If it was another telemarketer, she was going to scream.

She set Wally on the floor and told him to go find his Pull-Ups and the jammies she'd laid out for him. Then she hurried to her bedroom to answer before the caller hung up.

“Hello?”

“Maria, this is Barbara Davila.”

“Oh, hi.” Maria took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“How's Mother doing?”

Ellie had more bad days than good ones, and today hadn't been easy. But Maria didn't want to complain. Not to Barbara, the woman whose relationship with her mother had always been strained. “She's all right.”

“Good. I just wanted to let you know that we think we found a tenant for the house today.”

So soon?

“Do you know anything about them?”

“Not really. Just that the woman is a single mother with one child—a little girl. I'm not sure when she'll move in, but she's supposed to sign the lease and take possession tomorrow.”

“But the house isn't empty….” Maria paused, hoping she hadn't overstepped her boundaries.

“The woman volunteered to pack up my mother's belongings for us, and under the circumstances, I jumped at the offer.”

“I would have done that for you,” Maria said.

“I'm sure you would have, but you have your hands full, don't you think?”

That was for sure.

“Well, I'd better go,” Barbara said. “I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

“How's Joe today?” Maria asked. Barbara's son had suffered a heart attack a couple of weeks ago, and there'd been complications.

“He's frustrated by his slow recovery, but the doctors think he'll pull through. It'll just take time.”

Time.

Maria glanced at the small alarm clock on the bureau. It was after nine. The boarders had already turned in, but the kids should have been in bed an hour ago. Would this night ever end?

Why had she offered to pack Ellie's things? Where would she have found the time to do it?

And why did she feel bad that she couldn't? It really wasn't her place.

“Well, I'll let you go,” Barbara said. “But if you don't mind, I'd really appreciate it if you would keep an eye on the place and let me know if anything seems…well, if things are out of sorts.”

Ellie Rucker's home had fallen into more disrepair than Maria's had, and to be honest, Maria was surprised they'd managed to rent it so quickly.

“Sure, I can do that. Maybe I'll take some cookies or a coffee cake next door when I see that she's moving in, and then I can introduce myself.”

“Good. That will be one less thing for me to worry about.”

And one more thing for Maria to heap on her plate. But Ellie Rucker had been a good friend, and she'd gone out of her way to welcome any newcomers to the neighborhood.

It was, Maria decided, one way to pay it forward.

But, Lord, how she could use a few extra hours in her day.

 

Eddie Gonzales was stretched out in the recliner, watching the evening news, when the phone rang.

Who could be calling at this hour?

He glanced at the time displayed on the cable box—it was almost ten o'clock—and reached for the portable receiver that rested on the lamp table. “Hello?”

Ramon, his brother, responded. “I didn't wake you, did I?”

“No. What's up?”

“I just got a call from the property manager at Fairbrook Realty. He's got a job for us on Sugar Plum Lane. I'm up to my neck with the Sanderson project, so would you mind going over there and giving them a bid?”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Ron said the yard had once been a showcase, but it's been neglected for years. He thought it would take a week or more to get it back into shape, especially since we're shorthanded right now. He thinks we'll have to repair the sprinkler system, too. But I'll let you make that call.”

Eddie appreciated his brother's trust, but they'd both grown up on the Rensfield estate, where their father had been the gardener. And they'd learned the landscape trade early on, although Ramon was the one who actually owned the company.

“I'm tied up until about noon,” Eddie said, thinking about the yards he mowed on Tuesdays. “But I'll take a look at it when I'm finished.”

“Thanks.”

Ramon didn't have to thank Eddie for anything. Not after Ramon had gone to bat for him with the parole board. His brother's connections with law enforcement, along with a job offer and family support, had been instrumental in getting him an early release.

“Hold on a minute.” Eddie brought the recliner to an upright position and stood, careful not to step on Roscoe, the bushy-haired dog sprawled out on the floor. “I've got to find a pen.”

He headed for the kitchen counter, where he kept his keys, cell phone, and daily log. Moments later, after he'd written down the address, as well as the name of the owner, he ended the call and returned to the living room.

Roscoe looked up, stretched out his big, lanky body, and yawned.

“You ready to go out before we turn in for the night?” Eddie reached for the leash he kept near the entrance.

The dog barked and got to his feet, his tail swishing back and forth with more excitement than he'd shown all evening.

Eddie ruffled the top of the mutt's head and rubbed his ears. Roscoe had to be one of the ugliest dogs he'd ever seen. The first time he'd laid eyes on him, he'd been a stray hanging out near the ball fields at Mulberry Park and begging for food from anyone who'd brought a picnic lunch. Eddie had given him a chunk of his bologna sandwich, but some of the mothers near the playground weren't so nice.

When Roscoe accidentally knocked a toddler to the sand and started licking peanut butter off the kid's face, the mother freaked out. Once she'd shooed the dog away and saw that her child was okay, she'd called someone and reported a dangerous dog on the loose.

But Roscoe didn't have a mean bone in his body. He'd just been starving, and not just for food. The poor guy only wanted a little human companionship, but no one at the park seemed to care.

When the animal control officer arrived, Roscoe bolted, almost as though he'd already had a couple of run-ins with the doggie law and knew that the uniformed man wasn't the kind of human friend he'd wanted.

Eddie had found himself silently cheering the stray's attempt to escape, but eventually the officer had cornered him. While he was being restrained, Roscoe had looked at Eddie, imploring him to help.

Talk about weird connections. Eddie had felt an inexplicable tug at his heart.

“What are you going to do with him?” he'd asked the officer.

“I'm taking him back to the animal shelter. Normally, after a bath and a medical exam, we put them up for adoption. You'd be surprised at the transformation some of these dogs make with a little soap and water. But in this case?” The officer turned to the mangy mutt. “I'm not betting on any big miracles.”

Eddie had never been what you'd call an animal lover, but for some crazy reason, he'd followed the truck to the shelter. A dog as ugly as Roscoe wasn't likely to be adopted soon, and Eddie'd had a feeling the dog's days were numbered.