Family of the Year
Author
Patti Standard
Reads
19.5K
Chapters
11
HarlequinChapter One
Benjamin Calder stood on the steps of the ranch house and looked down the driveway. He’d followed the roiling cloud of dust for the past few minutes, watching it turn off what passed for the main road and head toward the house. The cloud thinned and almost disappeared for a moment where the road ran through a stand of cottonwood trees down by the pond, only to reappear again near the fenced pasture. The billowing dust came close enough to separate out a car, something wide and vaguely green.
He looked at his watch, a wide silver band with an unpolished turquoise set on each side of the scratched face. It was almost four-thirty in the afternoon, just when she said she’d be there. Prompt. That was good. She must not have had any trouble on the way up from Phoenix. But Ben’s guarded satisfaction with his new housekeeper was shortlived. The old station wagon came to a gravel-crunching stop in front of him and he caught a glimpse of the car’s interior through the dusty windows. He was instantly wary. The driver, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, had her head turned and was talking and gesturing toward the seats in back—seats that were filled with rows and rows of heads.
Too many heads, Ben thought with a frown.
The engine tried to die, coughing and choking as if the long, gritty drive had robbed it of breath. Just as the last sputter sounded, the dented door at the rear of the station wagon swung open and out tumbled two dark-haired, wide-eyed little girls. The doors in the middle opened and a dark-haired boy ran to join them. From the other side, he saw a young woman emerge, a bundle carefully balanced in her arms. She rounded the car to stand beside the children and Ben’s frown deepened as the bundle wiggled and a tiny arm began to bat at the air.
The passenger door opened next. An old woman, gray hair in a low bun, hoisted herself to her feet using the door’s armrest and a thick, carved walking stick for leverage. She was still shuffling slowly over to join the rest of the group when the driver finally got out, her back to him. She stretched, arching her slender back and then rounding her shoulders inward, twisting her head from side to side while she tucked the end of a yellow blouse into her jeans.
She turned to face him. Dark haired and olive skinned like the rest, slim, not much taller than the look-alike children, with brown eyes that took up her whole face, she moved to the front of the too-silent group. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She took on a dignity that belied the dented old car and the tired lines around those magnificent eyes.
“I am Maria Soldata,” she announced.
“Benjamin Calder,” he replied, nodding his head in what amounted to almost a bow, unconsciously reacting to the measured formality of her tone.
“This is my family.” Another formal, grand statement as if the exhausted group surrounding her were being presented at court. “My mother, Juanita Romero.” The old lady graciously inclined her head. “My sister, Veronica, and her baby, Ashley.” The girl smiled, a beautiful young woman, but pale and tired looking. “This is my nephew, David, and my daughters, Tina and Trisha.” The children just stared up at him and he stared back, not bothering to remember their names. After all, they couldn’t be staying here long enough for it to matter—not all of them, anyway.
“Is that the guest house?” She looked inquiringly in the direction of the small, white-stuccoed building beside the main house.
“Yes, it is. But-”
But Maria Soldata had already turned, and the group turned with her. They dived back into the station wagon, all but the pretty girl whose arms were already full. They emerged simultaneously, hauling brown paper sacks that overflowed with food, dragging battered suitcases and boxes. The little boy, arms thin as matchsticks, struggled to lift a cardboard box with a sagging bottom. Ben was forced to hurry down the steps to help him before the bottom gave way completely and spilled what appeared to be an assortment of baby paraphernalia all over the gravel driveway.
He found himself, box in hand, with no choice but to follow Maria into the guest house while scurrying children flowed around him. Back and forth between the car and the house they went, each time their little arms straining with a load. And through it all, Maria’s voice, making it impossible for him to get a word in edgewise.
“David, you take that bed. Girls, you take that one.” She pointed through the open door to the two single beds in the small bedroom. “Mama and Veronica, you share the big bed.” She gestured to the double bed visible in the main bedroom. She handed a child the folding cot she had tucked under one arm. “Set this up for me against that wall over there, please, Trisha.” She rescued a portable bassinet the other girl was dragging over the threshold. “Thank you, sweetheart. Let me take that for you. We’ll put the baby in with Aunt Veronica and abuela, okay? Such a good helper!” She disappeared into the room only to reappear in an instant.
“Bedding?”
Ben was surprised to find himself addressed. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, still holding the box of baby things. He glanced toward the pantry closet door and started to speak, but she was already there. She pulled the door open and took down a stack of linens. Grimly, he closed his mouth.
“Girls, help your abuela make up the beds, please, and then I want all you kids in the bath.” She divided the stack between two waiting sets of arms, pausing only long enough to give each sweaty forehead a quick push-aside of bangs in a maternal caress.
“Veronica, can you—” But a loud squall from the bundle in the girl’s arms stopped her. “Never mind. Why don’t you hop in the tub with the baby now. You’ll both feel better once you’re cooled off and she’s fed. Maybe after you’ve gotten her to sleep you can help Mama get supper? There’s hot dogs and pork ‘n’ beans.” Quick kisses all the way around and Maria was heading out the door. “I’ve got to get Mr. Calder’s supper now and then I’ll be back to put you kids to bed. Love you.” She paused at the open door, a shadow outlined by the setting sun behind her.
“Mr. Calder? Coming?”
Ben sat the box on the kitchen table, feeling uncharacteristically overwhelmed. Damn that Vergie, anyway, he cursed his recently departed housekeeper. This was all her fault.
He’d begged her, pleaded with her. He remembered the conversation they’d had in this very room.
“You aren’t really going to do this to me, are you?” Ben had watched his housekeeper calmly pack the suitcase on her bed. “I mean, Pakistan? Can’t you save children around Wyberg or somewhere closer to home?” Vergie McPhearson had simply added another pair of new, khakicolored pants to the suitcase. “How about over on the reservation? Can’t you vaccinate kids there? Do you even know how to give shots?”
“They’ll teach me,” Vergie told him, her voice firm. “Mildred went to Bangladesh last year through this same relief agency and she said they’ll teach us everything we need to know.” Ben tried to imagine her and Mildred Swanson, both fiftyish and almost-fat, in a barren desert tent with rows of veiled mothers and naked babies—but he couldn’t do it. She’d been his housekeeper for three years and he’d never even seen her in a pair of pants!
She closed the suitcase with a click of finality. “Now, I’ll be back the last week of August.” She pushed around his frowning bulk to gather things from the dresser top and pile them into a blue nylon carryon. “A summer on your own won’t be so bad.”
“But it’s not on my own. You’re forgetting Connor will be here in less than two weeks.”
“The freezers are jammed and TV dinners aren’t so bad these days. You can manage those. And there won’t be much laundry with just the two of you. Try to remember to separate the whites and use bleach on them or your underwear will all be gray by the time I get back.”
The long, zipping sound of the closing carryall made Ben’s stomach sink. “What about the garden? The canning?” “Mr. Calder, you’ve known about my .trip for two months now.” Vergie sounded exasperated. “Maybe you can get somebody from Wyberg to come out a few times a week.”
“I’ve tried. Nobody wants to drive sixty miles one way just to can my tomatoes.”
“I told you to try Phoenix, then,” Vergie reminded him. “You could let somebody stay here.” She indicated the guest house with a sweep of her hand, setting the loose skin on the pale underside of her arm jiggling. “I wouldn’t mind somebody using my stuff for a while.”
“Who would want to move up here for a job that’ll only last for three months? I don’t want some college kid on summer vacation.”
“You never know. Phoenix gets mighty hot in the summer. Here—” Vergie handed him a notepad and pen from beside the telephone “—you write up an ad and I’ll phone it in to the newspapers down there before I go. If you said ‘Family OK’ you might get some nice single mother. That’d do the trick.”
Ben had stared at the blank paper in his hand. He envisioned a summer of TV dinners, vacuuming, ripening tomatoes…and Connor. A father shouldn’t feel such dread at the thought of seeing his son, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Six weeks alone with a sullen seventeen-year-old and a boom box? He’d grasped the pen, lips tight with determination, and began to write.
And this is where it’d landed him, he thought with consternation as he followed the back of his new housekeeper across the driveway, up the wide stairs, across the porch and into his house. She hesitated only a moment in the doorway before heading unerringly in the direction of the kitchen.
“Well, Mr. Calder, what would you like for supper tonight? Do you have something already planned?” She stuck her hands under running water at the sink and soaped them with the bar next to the faucet. “Will it be just you tonight or do you have hired hands who eat with you? Do you—”
“Stop!” Ben slammed down the faucet lever. Maria jumped and then froze, hands still covered with soap. She looked up at him, dark eyes huge. Damn, he hadn’t meant to bellow like that! And here he was, towering over her, her head no higher than his shoulder. No wonder she’d jumped out of her skin. But Benjamin Calder, fourth generation owner of Calder Ranch, was used to being in charge of a situation, and so far his new housekeeper had treated him pretty much as if he was just one more of that passel of people out in his guest house. It was time to get to the bottom of this.
Maria held her breath. Here it came. He was going to send them packing. She ached, stiff and sore from the long drive up in the heat, the last twenty miles over a washboard dirt road that jarred the very teeth from her head. Her temples pounded from hours in a cramped car listening to children fight in the back. And now this man, the man who had the power to send them back to the purgatory that was Phoenix in the summer, had her pushed up against a sink—and didn’t look as if he planned to move anytime soon.
Benjamin Calder was big—tall and broad shouldered. He wore faded jeans and a denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled up away from his wrists. Every inch of visible skin was richly tanned and a sweat-stained cowboy hat covered dark brown hair. From hat to scuffed leather boots, he was sifted with a fine layer of the reddish dust that made up the earth in this part of Arizona, a dust that Maria could already feel on her, gritting between her teeth and itching in her nose. His physical presence was overpowering enough; it didn’t help that he glowered down at her, thick eyebrows joined to form a forbidding slash across his forehead.
“All those people out there—” he jerked his head in the direction of the window “—are they visiting?”
Maria slowly, consciously, let out her breath and tried to school her features into a look of innocence. “I guess you could say that. Sort of a three-month visit.”
“Now just hold on here! When I talked to you on the phone, you never mentioned—”
“The ad said ‘Family OK,’“ Maria interrupted. Quickly, she wiped her soapy hands on a rag and dug into the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a folded scrap of newsprint and smoothed it open. “Look. ‘Household help needed for summer on ranch sixty miles outside of Wyberg. Hard work. Family OK.’“
“But I meant—”
“I specifically asked you on the phone—”
“But I didn’t mean—”
“And you specifically said it was all right to bring up my family.”
“I meant a kid or two. Not a station wagon full.”
“They’re my family,” Maria said simply. “I promise you, they won’t be any trouble at all. My mother and my sister will watch the children while I work. We’ve brought our own food, we won’t be any bother and we won’t cost you any extra.”
But Ben shook his head, making fine red dust motes sparkle in the afternoon sun coming through the kitchen window. “It won’t do.”
“Come on, now,” Maria chided, “what do you want for supper?” She shifted and reached out to turn on the water.
“I said it won’t do!” He grabbed her hand and spun her around.
They stood facing each other, eyes locked, his hand still on hers, wills engaged in a battle without words. Maria was uncomfortably aware of the breadth of him as he stood so close. He smelled of horse and sage and leather, male smells foreign to her city senses. His eyes were as gray as the haze against the mountains on a summer afternoon, and, even full of anger, they reflected an instinctive, masculine awareness of her.
She tried to pull her fingers from his grip, but her efforts were laughable. Although not painful, the calloused hardness of his hand only emphasized her fragile position. The silence lengthened. The fine dust spun between them, dancing on unseen currents. It was finally too much for her; her nose twitched, twitched again…and she sneezed, a short, sharp achoo.
Maria stared at Ben. In the startled silence that followed, the rumble of his stomach was very audible, long and distinct, fading away slowly like distant thunder.
Her laugh joined with his snort of mirth. He dropped her hand and moved back a step.
Maria smiled. “I tell you what, let me make you some supper and get the children a good night’s sleep, all right? Then we’ll see about being out of your hair in the morning.”
“Sounds fair.” He nodded, looking relieved. “Sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“That’s all right. No hard feelings.”
She moved to the refrigerator and peered inside, seemingly intent on its well-stocked contents, but Ben had seen the white lines of tension that had appeared around her mouth in spite of her smile and accepting words. As for there being no hard feelings, the look that had come into those expressive Mexican eyes was as close to panic as Ben Calder had ever seen.
“Are those crickets, Mama?” Tina asked, snuggling back between her mother’s open knees as they sat on the porch steps of the little guest house and listened to the sounds of a desert night.
“I think so.” Maria continued her rhythmic brushing of the little girl’s hair, the repetitive motion soothing to them both.
“They sound awfully loud for crickets. They aren’t so loud in Phoenix.”
“They get drowned out by the sirens.” Juanita Romero’s voice creaked through the darkness, drier even than the creaking of the rocking chair she kept in motion with an occasional nudge of her walking stick against the wooden floorboards.
Trisha, Maria’s oldest daughter, looked up at the night sky, her head tilted so far back her long hair touched the step behind her. “And there’s a lot more stars up here, did you notice that, Mama?”
“I think you might be right.” Maria’s eyes filled with a sudden rush of tears. She wanted crickets for her children. She wanted stars. They had to stay, there must be a way.
“Mama, not so hard! You’re hurting me,” Tina tried to pull her head away from Maria’s unintentional increase in pressure.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” Sighing, Maria resumed the gentle movement. Of course Mr. Calder was right, she admitted to herself. She knew she was stepping over the line to bring everyone up here and foist them on him. But what choice had she had? She was still haunted by that look on Veronica’s face that horrible morning last week. The cool evening around her faded, replaced by the interior of her Phoenix apartment, as Maria remembered.
“He’s gone.” Veronica had wearily leaned her head back against the top of the sofa, her dark hair fanning out to cover the worn spot in the avocado tweed. The baby she held in her arms listlessly nuzzled her breast, too hot to suckle.
“Tucson isn’t exactly the ends of the earth, you know.” Maria had tried her best to keep her tone low and soothing, both for her sister’s sake and not to disturb the fussy infant, quieted for the first time that morning.
“He won’t be back.” Veronica’s voice was as flat as her dark eyes. “I’m surprised he hasn’t bolted sooner. This family doesn’t have the best luck keeping men around.”
Maria’s lips turned up in a mirthless smile of agreement.
“He said the job’s just for the summer, but I know he’ll keep right on going.” Veronica shifted, trying to pull her blouse away from her sweat-sticky back. The movement caused the baby to let out a wail of protest and Veronica froze, then carefully leaned back against the sofa again. Both women let out a sigh of relief when the baby began to nurse. “Roberto loves you,” Maria insisted. “And you both agreed that he couldn’t pass up this job. You’ll need that money for his tuition this fall.”
God, she looks so tired, Maria thought as she watched her sister, pale and gaunt, run a finger along the rhythmically moving cheek of her infant daughter. The pregnancy had been very hard on her, and it hadn’t helped that she’d worked right up to the day she delivered, long shifts on her feet at the family’s restaurant. Maria still winced, remembering the sight of her sister’s swollen ankles.
She wished she could offer her some reassurance. Roberto did love her. But their first year of marriage had been difficult, marrying so soon after graduation and getting pregnant almost immediately. When Roberto’s uncle had offered him a summer job in Tucson at wages too good to turn down, he’d jumped at it.
For her sister’s sake, Maria had to believe he’d be back, in spite of the way his phone calls had suddenly stopped and Veronica’s letters went unanswered. Although, as Veronica had said, there’d hardly been a man in the family so far who’d stuck around. Was Roberto, barely twenty years old, going to be more responsible and mature than the rest?
“You know Linda’s losing her apartment?” Veronica asked.
Maria nodded at the mention of their older sister. “Mama told me they’re turning her building into condos. I said she could stay here while she’s looking for a new place but I don’t know where we’re going to put David. I hate to put him in the same room with the girls. It’d be hell trying to get three kids to sleep at night.”
“And he’s so hyper. He’s been giving Linda fits. Ever since his dad took off, it’s been one thing after another.”
They listened in silence while the swamp cooler growled ineffectively at the heat. Maria watched the water leaking around the edges of the old machine run down the wallpaper and drip into the pan on the floor, a faint round rust stain on the vinyl marking the exact spot for it.
“I guess I should get going. I told Mama I’d be home for lunch.” But Veronica made no move to rise.
Maria felt the sweat that had pooled behind her knees begin to trickle down the backs of her legs. She wiped at it with her hands, then rubbed her hands against her shorts. “I’ll fix you something, if you want.” Maria knew she sounded almost as lethargic as her sister, stupefied by the heat.
“I hate Phoenix in the summer.” But Veronica seemed unable to put any emotion into the words. “It’s supposed to get up to one hundred and five today.”
The noise of Maria’s girls squabbling in their bedroom began to grow more insistent and a siren rose somewhere outside. It would be nice to be able to leave Phoenix in the summer like most of their customers did, Maria thought. With college out, their little family restaurant was nearly empty most evenings, and not only was time hanging heavy but bills were mounting. Even a quick weekend up to Flagstaff was out of the question.
Little Tina came bursting into the room, waving a doll with long blond hair, her sister in hot pursuit. “Mama, I had it first! Tell her it’s mine! It’s mine!” Maria was engulfed by crying, angry girls, the awakened baby began to wail and the siren in the background got louder and closer.
Get out! something inside Maria screamed. I’ve got to get out! The words went around and around in her brain as she fought for a gulp of cool air in the stifling apartment. I have to get my family out of here!
Maria started, brought back to the present by Tina’s impatient wiggling. She resumed her brushing, staring into the dark over her daughter’s head. That ad in the paper had been like a sign. She would have said anything, agreed to anything, to get the job. Three months out here away from the city, with nothing but sandstone and sagebrush and fresh air and hard work—it was just what they all needed, adults as well as kids. She had to find a way to make Mr. Calder see it would work out.
But Maria remembered the way he’d glared at her in the kitchen, that stubborn look of a man used to getting his own way in eyes the same gray as the sage all around. Benjamin Calder had said no. Politely, yet firmly.
Maria listened to the incredible richness of sound of the quiet country night, surrounded by her family, all safe and happy for the time being. Benjamin Calder might have said no, she told herself, but Benjamin Calder was a man. And for Maria Soldata and the women she knew, men were something to be worked around, something to ignore as much as possible—something to survive in spite of.
The sound of laughter drew Ben to the kitchen window that looked out on the guest house. He walked over, shirt pulled out of his jeans and unbuttoned to the waist, and turned slightly so he could see through the crack in the sheer white curtains.
Two of the children tumbled about on the grass at the edge of the porch, somersaulting themselves dizzy. The old woman rocked in the chair Vergie always sat in to do her knitting, just a silhouette in the evening shadows. The girl was in the porch swing, her hand keeping up a steady patting motion against the back of the baby she held to her shoulder.
His about-to-be-ex-housekeeper, Maria Soldata, who had just finished fixing him the best meal he’d eaten in two weeks, brushed the hair of one of the little girls, Tony or Tiny or something like that, spotlighted by the yellow light coming through the open door behind them. He watched her hands move. First the stroke of the brush with one hand, followed by a smoothing caress of the other hand-smoothing, stroking, smoothing, stroking.
Their voices drifted across to him, low and indistinguishable, an occasional word of Spanish spicing the sound. Family talk. Ben thought of Connor, who should be there in two more days. Family.
He reached out to flip off the light switch and stood there in the darkened kitchen. He knew that the feeling that gripped him, held him by the window, was envy.
Ben woke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, the aroma tantalizing his eyes open. He rolled over and looked at the clock. Five-thirty. Damn that woman, anyway! That wasn’t playing fair. How’d she know he’d been eating cold cereal for the past two weeks?
He picked his jeans off the floor, swatted them a few times to try to remove some of the dust and pulled them on. They were his last clean pair—or least dirty pair, anyway. Thankfully, he still had a couple of clean work shirts in the closet. He took one from the hanger and shrugged into it, then picked up yesterday’s from the foot of the bed. Struggling into his boots, he took the shirt down the hall to the laundry room to add it to the overflowing basket.
Except the basket wasn’t overflowing anymore. The washer hummed and the dryer purred and neatly folded stacks of clean clothes covered both surfaces. Damn that woman, anyway. How’d she know this was his last pair of clean socks?
The spotless living room, two weeks’ worth of newspapers gone from the coffee table, annoyed him even further, and when he heard the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen…that was the last straw. How’d she know how much he hated waking up to a silent, empty house?
He stomped into the kitchen and glared at Maria and the man at his table.
“Morning, boss,” Harvey Wainright, his hired hand, greeted him, happily downing a plate of eggs and hash browns.
“It won’t work,” Ben announced, ignoring Harvey.
“So you said.” Maria indicated the table with the coffeepot she held in her hand and left the stove to pour him a cup. “How do you want your eggs?”
Grimly, he sat down in front of the steaming cup. “Sunny-side up.”
“That’s not good for you anymore, you know. What with salmonella in the chickens these days, you need to cook your eggs more. I’ll make them over-easy.”
“I said sunny-side up.” There she went again! Completely ignoring him just like last night, as if he was of no account. “Those eggs come from my chickens and my chickens don’t have salmonella and I’ll eat them raw if I want to!” “Easy there, boss,” Harvey said, his faded eyes opening wide in surprise. “You know, I read about that salmonella thing a while back. You can’t be too careful. And Maria makes darned good over-easy.” He smiled his gap-toothed smile at Maria.
“That’s okay, Harvey. If he grows his own chickens, then I’m sure sunny-side up will be perfectly all right.”
“You don’t grow chickens. You raise chickens,” Ben mumbled into his cup, annoyed by Harvey’s good mood. Frowning, he watched Maria crack the eggs into the pan, making the melted butter sizzle.
“It wasn’t necessary to do all this, you know,” he addressed her back. “Since it’s not going to work out, I mean.”
“It wasn’t any trouble.”
“I’ll pay you for your time so far.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.” He leaned forward to take his checkbook from the back pocket of his jeans.
Maria made no further protest. She slid the eggs from the pan onto the waiting plate, added a scoop of hash browns, some bacon and four pieces of buttered toast.
Ben propped the check next to the saltshaker, then began to eat in moody silence, only half listening to Harvey. His eyes strayed often to Maria as she cleaned up the kitchen.
When the clock reached six, Ben scraped back his chair and stood. “It’s time to get to work. I won’t be back to the house till noon so I guess I’ll say goodbye now. You’ll probably want to head out while it’s still cool.”
“All right. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. Thanks for the meals and the laundry and all.”
Maria nodded.
“Anyway, uh, thanks.” Why did he feel as if he should apologize? The last thing he needed was a pack of kids running all over the place and a crying baby and a mean-looking old woman.
“Nice meeting you, Maria.” Harvey bobbed his grizzled head and the two men headed out the kitchen door, letting the screen door slam behind them.
“She did your laundry?” Maria could hear Harvey’s voice through the open window as they walked across the yard to the corral.
“Shut up, Harvey.”
“Real good cook.”
“Shut up, Harvey.”
“Pretty little thing, too.”
“I said shut up, Harvey.”
“Lot easier on your eyes than old Vergie, the vipertongued, rat-eyed…” Their voices faded away in the distance.
Maria finished the last of the dishes and went outside. The morning was glorious, golden and clean. She stopped with her hand on the doorknob to the guest house and turned around, surveying the red hills in the distance. Huge cottonwoods ringed the house in a circle of shade, the only sound the wind in their leaves, the clucking of chickens somewhere nearby, the faraway barking of a dog.
She pushed open the door and clapped her hands sharply together; the sound shot through the silent rooms. “Up and at ‘em!” She moved into the bedroom and began jiggling sleeping bodies, pulling back warm covers. “Up, everybody. It’s time to get to work!”
Ben swore as he bounced his pickup into the yard and came to a stop next to the green station wagon that was supposed to have been on its way back to Phoenix hours ago. He peered through the dusty windows, but the cracked vinyl seats were empty—no boxes, bags or packed suitcases. Damn, damn and double damn!
He took the porch stairs two at a time and strode through the door. His nose was immediately assaulted by the sickening-sweet smell of lemon polish, and his first step of booted foot on the throw rug sent him skidding, bucking across the mirror-smooth floor like he was riding a bull, his arms windmilling wildly for balance. He regained his footing with an ignominious grab for the coatrack, aimed a few choice words at the offending rug, then gave it a vicious kick back toward the door. It sailed effortlessly across the newly polished wooden boards to land in a wrinkled pile of woven cotton cowering against the doorjamb.
The smell of lemon wax gave way to the bite of bleach as he passed the open door to the bathroom. He smelled tomatoes as he stormed into the kitchen, bellowing for Maria. A pot of tomato soup simmered on the stove and a plate of sandwiches towered on the table, reflecting light off the clear plastic wrap protecting them. His check remained where he’d left it next to the salt.
“Maria!” he shouted again. Impatiently, Ben pulled back the curtain over the sink that looked out on the garden and the guest house.
He stared in dismay at the sight that greeted him. His garden had sprouted more than zucchini, it seemed. Three small children were on their knees, a growing pile of weeds beside each little figure. Veronica bent over the green beans, tying their slender tendrils to a string stretched above them. Maria had a hoe in her hands and steadily and methodically struck it into the ground around the ankle-high corn, neatly slicing the offending weeds out at the root. Ben watched her, fascinated by the smooth movement of her muscles as she swung the hoe, the strength in her long, tanned legs in their cutoff shorts, the way her bare toes dug into the dirt.
It was after one o’clock and the sun was high overhead and hot enough to have even the old lady, rocking in the shade with the baby propped against her ample stomach, wiping at her forehead. It was hard, backbreaking work he watched, yet all he heard was…happiness. High, childish voices made a nonstop background to the women’s talk, an occasional reprimand from one of them as a small hand mistook a plant for a weed, the squeals and coos of the contented baby.
And he was going to send them packing.
Another sound made itself heard, a jarring, out-of-place sound that ripped through the hot summer afternoon. It was an engine, open full throttle and roaring in protest; it was the sickening, tearing sound of a too-low undercarriage scraping over a high spot in the dirt road; it was the squeal of brakes and spraying of gravel.
Ben went out the kitchen door, not daring the slippery living room again. A sinking feeling grew in his stomach as he anticipated what he would find. He rounded the corner of the house and there, in his driveway, was a brand-new, shiny red convertible, its radio blasting out the annoying, repetitive beat of rap. Leaping from the car, not bothering to open the door, was his son, Connor Calder.
“Hey, Dad! What do you think? Isn’t she great?” Connor’s chest stuck out so far his shoulder blades almost touched in back as he preened in front of his car.
“She’s great, son.” Ben tried to swallow his dismay at his son’s day-early arrival. He saw the children appear and sidle up beside him. Their grandmother came, too, walking with heavy, slow steps, a baby in one arm and stick in the other. All were curious to see what caused the commotion. And there was Maria. They formed a warm, protective wall behind him, an insulating presence that helped absorb some of the roar and the rap and the blinding glare of the red sports car.
“Connor, I’d like you to meet Maria Soldata. She’s my housekeeper for the summer. And this is her family—they’ll be staying with her.”
