Second Chance for the Single Dad
Auteur
Carol Ross
Lezers
17,3K
Hoofdstukken
21
CHAPTER ONE
“HERE IT IS,” Anne McGrath called out, striding into her brother Rhys’s workshop. She stopped when she was a few feet away and held up a single sheet of notebook paper like it was a royal decree, one hand gripping the top edge and the other, the bottom. “The list.”
Funny, Rhys thought, because their grandfather had always said that his sister’s red hair, pale complexion and middle name weren’t the only similarities she shared with Elizabeth I, arguably the most intelligent and formidable queen to ever wield the crown.
Rhys swiveled in his chair, away from the drafting table where he’d been working on a new design. “Working” was a bit of an overstatement. Mostly, he’d been staring at the schematics for a radical new specialty wheelchair design and resenting the circumstances that had driven his sister to this list-making extreme. Anne ran her own public relations firm, so he couldn’t discount her success when it came to reputation building; he’d just never thought he’d need to rely on her skills. He’d purposely spent his life avoiding the type of antics that would make her services necessary. Little did he know how severely that would backfire.
When Anne made no move to close the distance between them, he pointed with the pencil still gripped in his hand and asked, “Do you honestly believe that I can see what you’ve written on that paper from here?”
“Be patient. Before you look, I want you to be aware of a few things.”
“Such as?”
“First of all, Harper helped me, as you suggested.”
“Good,” Rhys said with a firm nod. He trusted Harper. Harper Jansen and her boyfriend Kyle Frasier were Rhys’s best friends in Pacific Cove. Okay, so they were his only friends. In the roughly two years he’d lived here, near the small Oregon Coast town, he hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself into the community. The fact that he didn’t allow visitors on his property, a vast historic headland fronting the Pacific Ocean, had not made him a popular guy. An occurrence that had suited him just fine, until very recently.
“I think so,” she returned brightly. “Although some of the items might, um, surprise you.”
His response was a noncommittal grumble. Already, he didn’t like the sound of this.
“Bringing me to the second and most important point—you need to keep an open mind.”
Rhys gave his head an annoyed shake. “I don’t understand that term, ‘open mind.’ If I have an opinion about something, but it conflicts with somebody else’s, or even a whole room full of somebodies, then that automatically means that my mind is the one that’s closed? Why does pointing out the facts label me as judgmental? How does disagreeing with the consensus make me wrong? Maybe I’m the enlightened one.”
Lifting her eyebrows, Anne dropped her chin and peered up at him through her lashes as if he’d proven her point. Which, for the record, he had not. It wasn’t his fault people were so baffling and unreasonable.
“Okay, Enlightened One, let’s save the philosophy discussion for another time. For now, I want you to look at this list and tell me which items appeal to you the most, and we’ll get started.” She stepped forward to hand over the paper but then quickly pulled it back. “No, scratch that, tell me the ones you abhor the least and that’s where we’ll begin.”
“Just give it here,” Rhys said impatiently, reaching out and snatching the list from her hand. His head was shaking before he even began reading aloud, “Charity work. You want me to do charity work when I—”
“I know, I know. The entire country knows TOFL, but because of the fact that you eschew publicity, virtually no one knows that you are TOFL.” Rhys designed prosthetic limbs as well as tools and equipment for use specifically with those limbs. As a former navy SEAL, he’d seen the need for these items up close and personal. Through a consortium of fellow veterans, he’d started the charitable foundation, The Other Front Line, or TOFL, where his use of cutting-edge technology and his extensive network of military contacts got these items to wounded veterans. “If you would let me put out a press release about your work, then maybe—”
“No.” Rhys cut her off. “I don’t want to be recognized for TOFL. That’s part of our consortium agreement—we don’t generate personal publicity. I don’t want anything to—”
“Take the focus away from our veterans. I know, and I get that.” Expression determined, she paused for a second and then, almost like she couldn’t help herself, added quickly, “Even though from a PR perspective, I don’t agree. But what about the youth center?” Privately, with a few of his consortium buddies, Rhys had proposed the construction of a youth center in Pacific Cove. A place for kids to hang out, play games and sports, study, get help with homework or just be.
“That’s just money. Anyone can write a check.”
Anne sighed. “But you’re the driving force behind the whole concept.”
“It hasn’t been finalized yet. There’s nothing to announce.”
“Fine. Then we’re back to the list. Harper and I are thinking local charity work. You know, activities where you actually show your face. Like one of those organizations that builds houses for the needy. Kyle and his brother-in-law Jay volunteer for one.”
Rhys took a second to think. This was work he would enjoy that required minimal social interaction. He already knew Kyle, and he’d even met Jay Johnston and his wife, Mia, once. Jay was former Coast Guard and seemed like a good guy. “That might work.”
“Keep reading.”
He frowned down at the list again. “Why would I get a part-time job? I have plenty of money.”
Anne rolled her eyes. “Same reason. Getting out into the community and meeting people.”
“I don’t have time for that kind of commitment. I have my own company to run, remember?”
“That’s why I wrote, ‘part-time.’ The bookstore is hiring, the coffee shop needs a barista, or you could wait tables, or—”
“A barista? Yeah, no. They have to visit and be friendly all the time. In fact, that’s a hard no to all part-time jobs.”
“Fine,” Anne shot back as if she knew she’d been reaching with that one. “Keep reading.”
He did and promptly recited, “Hanging out at the coffee shop?”
“You could take your computer and work there. People do that.”
“Anne, look at this setup.” He gestured around the room at his complex workstation complete with drafting tables, four oversize monitors, assorted printers, robotic machinery and other pieces of specialized equipment.
“You have a point. Go on.”
Rhys refocused. “Kite flying, sandcastle sculpting, going out with friends, adopting a dog.” And then ticked off responses: “No, no, I have a total of two friends in this town. And I think I’d prefer a cat. Willow and I have talked about adopting a cat or two.”
“Your two friends, Harper and Kyle, have already scored us a dinner invitation for tonight. Mexican food with a few of their friends, which is the perfect place to start. And you can’t walk a cat at the dog park where you would meet other cat-loving people.”
“Yet another mark in the cat column.” He skimmed over a few more activities and then let out a snort. “Yoga class?”
“Harper suggested that one. She and Kyle both love yoga. Did you know that Kyle teaches a yoga class? Apparently, a lot of Coast Guard guys go.”
“Yeah,” he drawled flatly, sarcastically. “And I often do what everyone else does. Bowling? You think I should join a bowling team?”
“Harper says bowling is popular here in Pacific Cove. Kyle bowls on a team with Jay and Aubrey. But just getting out and going bowling would be a start.”
“Who is Aubrey again?” The name sounded familiar to the point that he thought he should know her. Often it seemed that people were good with either names or faces. Rhys was terrible with both.
“Aubrey is Jay’s bestie. She’s the kick-butt rescue swimmer for the Coast Guard? Her husband, Eli, is a pilot.”
“Right. Yes, I’ve met her once, too.” He doubted he’d recognize her as he recalled only a vague vision of a tall, athletic-looking blonde. The rescue-swimmer part had been what captured his attention and respect.
“Bowling would be the perfect activity for you. Very wholesome.”
“Wholesome?”
“Yes, you know—upright, moral, decent, all-American. Normal. You’d meet a ton of people. Other parents with kids, probably.”
Normal. Rhys hated that word. Willow’s aunt, Heather, had used it, too, when she’d informed Rhys she’d hired an attorney. Rhys, you’re not normal. I cannot, in good conscience, allow Willow to live with you. You’re incapable of giving her a normal life. Completely arbitrary designation. In his case, it meant whatever the family court decided it meant. For the first time in a long time, he wished it meant him. Not because he didn’t like who he was necessarily, but because it would make all of this a nonissue. Maybe Heather wouldn’t be contesting his custody of their niece if he met that ambiguous societal standard that he didn’t live up to.
“These are just ideas, but every single one of them has merit. Any one of these activities will get you out into the community. Meeting people. Socializing. Hopefully acquiring personal references—possibly even friends. Pick three, and I’ll get them set up. I’ve also got a list of upcoming social events that we will be attending.”
Rhys finally noticed the last item on the list. It was written below the others under the subheading “Mandatory.” And it proved that his sister had officially taken things too far. “Is this last one a joke? Dance lessons are an unequivocal no.”
“Nope. No, not a joke. Dance lessons are nonnegotiable. See what subheading it falls under? Mandatory.”
“Anne, that is the weirdest thing on this entire list. You know me—in a million years I would never, ever dance or go dancing. I avoid situations where dancing or music will be in evidence. It’s the reason I don’t attend wedding receptions.”
Anne executed a dramatic eye roll and said dryly, “Yeah, that’s the reason.”
“It’s one of them,” he countered. One of many. Swarms of “normal” people who expected him to chat about nothing while not offending anyone were another. “That makes three things on this list that are out. Karaoke, concerts and dancing.”
“Fine, but Willow’s cotillion is in five weeks.”
Rhys answered with an impatient, “I know that.” It was the reason their niece wasn’t here right now. Willow was currently in South Carolina staying with her maternal grandparents, Olivia and Les, so that she could participate in the Magnolia Junior Debutante Program, following a tradition in her family. Willow’s mother Vanessa had done it, and her mother before her. Vanessa’s great-grandmother had been one of the first participants. Initially, Willow hadn’t been keen on taking part, but a few months ago, after Vanessa’s death, she’d said it felt like something she “needed” to do. As a tribute to her mother. Rhys had eagerly agreed—anything to help her through the grieving process. He’d arranged a schedule so that he, Anne or their mother visited Willow often in South Carolina. Their mother was with her now. Rhys flew her back to Pacific Cove as often as the program’s schedule allowed.
“So...?” he drawled impatiently, wanting Anne to get to the point.
“So,” Anne repeated, slowly pulling one shoulder up into a shrug, “I guess Troy will do it.”
Rhys tensed. He despised Troy. Troy was Heather’s husband. Together, the two of them were trying to prevent Rhys from retaining legal custody of Willow. Custody that Rhys’s brother, Evan, and his wife, Vanessa, Heather’s sister, had wanted Rhys to have. They’d asked him to raise Willow, had even gone so far as to spell it out in their will. Rhys had sworn to them both on the day of Willow’s baptism thirteen years ago, when he’d accepted the honor of being her godfather, that he’d take care of her if anything were to happen to them. Two years ago, Evan died after suffering a series of strokes. After Evan’s death, Vanessa had reiterated to Rhys that she hadn’t changed her mind about Willow’s guardianship. Three months ago, the unthinkable had happened when Vanessa was killed in a car accident. Now, in addition to grieving for his sister-in-law, he was embroiled in a custody dispute. At least Heather had agreed to postpone the custody proceedings until after Willow’s cotillion.
“Troy can do what? What are you talking about?”
“The father-daughter dance kicks off the ball. Troy can stand in as dad and dance with Willow. Mom said that Olivia said Troy dances a lovely waltz.”
No one could hammer a point home quite as effectively as his sister. Rhys reached over and circled the words. “Dance lessons it is,” he said through gritted teeth, a loud snap punctuating the declaration as the pencil cracked in two.
“CAMILE? CAMILE? EARTH to Senorita Camile.”
“I’m sorry, Bobby, what?” Camile Wynn counted the fourteen tiny steps it took to shift her body around so that she could view her boss through the tiny slits in her giant-sized foam-and-plastic taco suit. For the umpteenth time, she wondered why he didn’t just walk the additional three steps to face her so he could deliver his next dose of “professional advice.” So far, he’d criticized her singing voice—both its pitch and volume, her Spanish accent, her inability to juggle the foil-wrapped burritos he tossed at her—she couldn’t see them!—and the unsatisfactory level of her enthusiasm in general. She’d nearly quit on the spot when he suggested her dance moves lacked rhythm. Twenty-two years of studying and teaching dance in one form or another and six years of working part-time as a “product promoter” had given her unparalleled suit-dancing expertise. Bobby was treading on thin ice.
Facing him with drips of sweat running into her eyes meant he was just a blurry mass. But that was okay. Being subjected to the sight enough times already, she could easily conjure up a vision of her boss: bulbous, red-veined nose, flabby jowls, thin lips twisting with disapproval and those beady eyes looking her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, causing an itch so intense it was almost painful. It just had to be unseasonably warm on the weekend she’d agreed to dress up in layers of foam and plastic for the “mobile Mexican cantina’s” grand opening. He’d booked her for the following five weekends, as well. Lucky for Bobby, though, because sunshine on the Oregon Coast meant tourists were scuttling around like ants at a picnic. With similarly appointed appetites. Even for bad tacos.
“What does that say?” Bobby pointed.
Camile blinked and squinted at the words stenciled on the side of the taco truck. “Uh, the Dancing Taco?”
“That’s right, chica,” he answered testily. “And you are my dancing taco.”
“Bobby, I’ve been dancing around for five hours. I only stopped just now to get a drink of water.”
“Dancing is what I’m paying you good money for, not drinkin’.” This last declaration seemed to insinuate that she’d been sneaking tequila shots inside her suit or something.
Not for the first time, Camile was glad Bobby couldn’t see her glaring face. She was pretty sure she would have been fired by now. She wouldn’t exactly call what he was paying her “good money,” but it was easy money. Normally. And she needed it. Badly.
“I appreciate your generosity. But trust me, it’s important to stay hydrated. It’s very hot out here, and this suit isn’t well ventilated. Last weekend, I had a little episode because I didn’t drink enough water.” She also hadn’t eaten breakfast. Or lunch. The combination had led to her passing out on the sidewalk outside a pet store while wearing a dog costume. Resulting in an astronomical hospital bill and only a partial paycheck with which to pay said bill.
“Hey, can it! Customers will hear you whining. It’s hot in my cantina, too, babe.” He hitched a thumb toward the truck. “But you know what I’m doing? I’m cooking up tacos while you’re standing around out here twiddling your thumbs. Now get to shaking that pretty little caboose.”
Camile liked to believe she was a tolerant individual. No, she knew she was. Her mishmash of part-time jobs proved it. She was tough, too. And resilient. Five years of working and paying her own way through college and graduate school supported that fact. Her recent thesis disaster demonstrated that she could roll with the most brutal of punches. That was putting it mildly. The thesis episode had knocked her out cold, and still, she’d managed to get up and shake it off. The phrase had become her personal theme song and mantra. But enough was enough. She wondered if it would be possible later to write off her impending reaction to heatstroke and dehydration?
“Okay, Bobby, first of all, don’t call me chica. Or babe. And I am not your taco. Commenting or referencing my caboose in any manner is not appropriate. And second, how can you be making tacos when you’re standing out here complaining about me every other five seconds? Is there a tortilla in your pocket? Or maybe you’ve got beans stashed in that ridiculous hat you’re wearing?” Bobby was immensely proud of his taco-shaped hat. She should have had a clue as to how the day was going to proceed when she’d first shown up, and he’d referred to himself as “Chief Taco-Head.”
Bobby’s edges might be blurred, but she could see well enough to make out the deep red shade of his cheeks, now a close match to the color of the “spicy fuego sauce” he proudly served on the side of every take-out order. She knew for a fact it was nothing but ketchup and cayenne pepper.
His tone dipped low and venomous. “What did you say to me?”
“You heard me, you lazy, ignorant, sexist windbag. From where I’m standing, it looks like Howard is doing the taco making.” Camile gestured at the truck where the teenage Howard had been sweating over the grill all day while being subjected to both Bobby’s ugly reproach and his smelly proximity. In many ways, the taco suit was probably preferable. She drew her arms inside the suit’s narrow armholes and set about extricating herself from the confines of her fiery inferno. “But just in case, I’ll increase the volume and the clarity in the way you coached me to do earlier.” Camile shouted, “You’re mean, Bobby. And disrespectful and unfair and vile, and your tacos taste like something the ocean vomited up at high tide. No offense, Howard. I know this is just a crap job to you, too.”
“Uh, none taken,” she heard a cheerful-sounding Howard reply. “I hear ya. I told him not to mix these weird oats and stuff in with the meat.”
Grateful for her small frame and the strength and flexibility that years of dance had instilled, she shimmied the suit upward until it hovered above her head. The taco slowly tipped sideways. Camile gave a little shove, and it hit the sidewalk with a surprisingly loud thwack, frightening a curious dog who let out a bark and scuttled sideways. Camile went to comfort the little guy, and that was when she realized they’d attracted an audience. A fairly good-sized one, too. With her limited visibility and furious, intent focus on Bobby, she hadn’t noticed.
“Shut your stupid piehole, Howard!” Bobby bellowed.
Camile whirled around and pointed at him. “Don’t talk to him like that! Bobby, you’re just proving my assertion, can you not see that?”
“Yeah? Well, you’re fired.”
“Dang,” she retorted sarcastically. “Are you sure? Because I was desperately hoping for a reference. Taco dancing is just the thing I’ve been hoping for to round out my résumé. I was counting on The Royal Ballet hiring me upon your recommendation.”
Bobby was apparently even dumber than she realized. “Ha,” he sputtered. “Not a chance.”
Camile looked toward the truck, where a wide-eyed and red-faced Howard appeared to be desperately trying to stifle a laugh. “Howard, I know for a fact Nina Marie’s Berries & Cream is hiring. You know, the old Quinley berry farm?” At Howard’s enthusiastic nod, she went on, “Three dollars an hour above minimum wage, more if you get cleared to make deliveries. Head out there now and tell the owner that I sent you. Her name is Nina.” Camile knew this because Nina was her oldest sister. She’d offered Camile the job again that morning, but Camile didn’t want to work for her big sister for reasons that Howard wouldn’t have to grapple with.
“Seriously? Awesome! Thanks so much, Camile. Hey, Bobby, I quit.” Howard’s apron sailed through the order window on the broad side of the truck and landed in a heap at Bobby’s feet.
Camile shot Bobby a satisfied grin, pivoted gracefully and took off down the boardwalk. “Adios, Chief Taco-Head,” she called with a wave over her shoulder. Cheers and loud applause followed in her wake. Checking her watch, she saw that she now had plenty of time to go home, rehydrate and shower away the caked-on layers of taco-scented sweat before she met her sisters and some friends for dinner. She briefly considered a nap, except she knew that if she lay down, she wouldn’t want to get up again until morning.
Once inside her ancient, air conditioner–less, semireliable car, she rolled the windows down, guzzled the contents of her insulated water bottle and dug her phone out of her bag. She texted Nina about Howard. There was a message from her other sister Aubrey, which she’d been expecting, with details of the evening’s dinner outing. Camile opened the message. A combination of amusement and disbelief stirred inside her as she stared at the words: 7:00 p.m. at La Playa Bonita. It’s that new Mexican place in Remington! It’s taco night! Fun, right? I can pick you up if you want?
“Tacos, seriously?” she whispered. So much for washing her latest bad job experience down the drain. Letting her head fall to the steering wheel, Camile had to laugh. She had to. It was either that or cry.
