“Come up! Come up! Come up and see my room,” Donovan urged. “I got the whole attic to myself. Don’t I, Dad?”
“You do,” Dean confirmed, “but you know the rules. What do we do after meals?”
“Clear the table,” Donovan announced. “I get the salt and pepper. And the butter.”
“Just keep your fingers out of the butter,” Dean ordered with a chuckle, pushing the dish to the edge of the table so Donovan could reach it. “Then you can take the napkins to the laundry and put away the napkin rings.”
Donovan ran off with the butter dish, while Dean began gathering plates and Betty started carrying leftovers to the kitchen. Ann didn’t ask what she could do, just began picking up glasses and cradling them in the crook of one arm.
“You’re going to get your shirt wet doing that,” Dean complained. “We’ll take care of this.”
“It’ll dry,” she rebutted easily. “I want to help.”
Dean frowned, but he said nothing else, just led the way into the kitchen. The large, bright room surprised Ann. By far the most modern room in the house that she’d seen thus far, it boasted tall cabinets painted a soft yellow, mellow gold walls, brick flooring, a metal-topped island, a sweet little maple table and chairs, and white enamel stove unlike anything Ann had ever seen. It had at least three ovens and a grill and five burners. She left the glasses on the metal countertop and went straight to it.
“I have never seen such a cookstove. Mom had something similar but not so big.”
Betty grinned broadly. “Amazing, isn’t it? Built new in 1940. Milburn bought it used to restore, but he didn’t get it finished before he died. We didn’t have money for Christmas the year after he passed, but Dean managed to get this back in working order and all shined up like new for me. They don’t make them like this anymore.” She ran a hand lovingly over the gleaming enamel.
“Mom said the same thing,” Ann told her, smiling at Dean.
“A new stove like this costs thousands and thousands of dollars,” Betty said proudly.
“It’s just an old stove,” Dean said, shaking his head.
“It’s a work of art!” Ann exclaimed. “Believe me, I’ve seen hotel kitchens with less.”
He shook his head again, but the beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I believe you’re expected upstairs,” he said, waving her toward a door that opened into a hallway.
“I am.” She smiled at Betty. “I understand that Donovan has the attic all to himself.”
The older woman chuckled. “He was promised his dad’s old room when he started school. We made the move last week.”
“Milestone after milestone,” Ann said.
“And coming on fast,” Dean grumbled, leading the way.
They passed a bedroom and a bathroom before they came to the narrow stairs. Two more rooms seemed to lay beyond, but he didn’t lead her that far down the hall. Instead, they climbed the stairs. Donovan waited halfway up.
“This way! This way!” he called, as if another path might magically appear.
There was no door. The staircase, surrounded by tall railings, opened right into the middle of the long, narrow space. A desk had been placed beneath a window at the end of the room. Donovan’s backpack rested atop it. A narrow bed had been tucked into the corner on one side of the railing, along with a dresser and chair. The other side of the room was basically one long wall of shelves and cubbyholes with a space at the end for a closet.
Donovan twirled in the space before the desk, his arms outstretched, and cried, “Ta-da!”
“Utterly perfect,” Ann pronounced, taking it all in. She looked at Dean, who remained on the stairs, his arms braced on the railings. “This was your room?”
“Until I went to college,” he confirmed. “After Donovan was born, it was easier to be downstairs with him in the room next to me.”
“I’m gonna live here forever!” Donovan exclaimed.
Ann laughed. “It is a fun room.”
She let the boy show her all of his most treasured possessions, including the photo album that he kept under his bed. He had photos of the mother and great-grandfather he’d never met, as well as his grandmother, Dean’s mother, whom he called by her given name, Wynona. Obviously Wynona had taken after her father, Milburn in looks, and so had Dean. Sadly, she didn’t seem to have inherited either of her parents’ sense of responsibility. Thankfully, Dean had.
“Wynona comes around sometimes,” Donovan said offhandedly, closing the album with a snap. “Mostly it just makes Grandma mad when she does, though. I wish you could come on Wednesday,” he whined. “You know, just for the first time.”
“Well,” Ann said, wrapping her arms around him as they sat there on the edge of his bed, “it just so happens that I don’t have to go to the city until Wednesday afternoon.”
Catching his breath, Donovan tilted his head back and looked up at her. She winked, and he whooped.
“Yippee!” Twisting, he threw an arm around her neck, toppling her onto the bed. Suddenly he scrambled up. “Hey, now I got a dad and a mom to take me. Well, sort of a mom.”
Ann willed back a sudden rush of tears, smiled and said, “A substitute mom. A—a stand-in.”
“Yeah.” He beamed. “A sustitude mom. I gotta tell Grandma!”
He tore around the end of the railing. Dean stepped up out of his way, admonishing Donovan to slow down. Ann rose from the bed to follow in the boy’s happy wake, but she didn’t make it past his father. Dean lifted his hands to her shoulders, where they hovered uncertainly.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said softly.
“But I wanted to.”
Sighing, he finally brought his hands to gently frame her face. She closed her eyes, feeling the sweetly magnetic pull that had only ever existed with this man, and willed him to kiss her. In the end, however, he kissed not her lips but her forehead. She tried not to be disappointed, tried not to fear that he had thought better of an involvement with her now that he knew she was actually available. As she walked down those stairs, however, she knew that while she might be a very welcome substitute mom to Donovan, she had absolutely no reason to hope that she might one day be a beloved wife to his father.
* * *
Substitute mother did not equal wife. Dean reminded himself of that fact over and over again throughout the coming days and nights. He kept as busy as he could, which wasn’t difficult, given that he’d arranged to take off the rest of the week after school started, so he had lots to do before then. Both he and Donovan had some serious adjustments to make, and he wanted to be readily available if the school called to say that Donovan was having a difficult time. At least that was what he told himself. The truth was that he was dreading going back out into the field without his son at his side.
He remembered what it had been like when Donovan was a baby. No one could be better suited to caring for an infant than Grandma Betty, but Dean had felt an irrational fear and resentment at having to be away from his son all day. He’d made a point of returning to the house for lunch just to hold and cuddle the miraculous little bundle of humanity that had so radically changed his life. As soon as Donovan was out of diapers—and that was earlier than with many children—Dean had started taking the boy with him.
Those days were over now, and Dean felt as if his whole life had upended yet again. It was foolish to feel such emptiness just because Donovan was starting school. If he couldn’t handle this, what would happen to him when Donovan actually left home?
He and Ann hadn’t discussed arrangements for Donovan’s first day of school. Dean had avoided doing so because he didn’t want her to know what a difficult time he had talking about it. Grandma had decided that she would be better off staying home; she didn’t want to cry in front of Donovan for fear he would conclude that school was a bad thing. Dean was feeling pretty emotional about it himself, though he could feign enthusiasm without tears. As for Donovan, he bubbled with excitement and at the same time felt obvious trepidation. Dean didn’t know which one of them was more pleased when they walked out the front door of the house on Wednesday morning and found Ann waiting for them.
Dressed in jeans, boots and a pretty blouse, her long, straight hair hanging from a simple side part, she leaned against the fender of a white metallic BMW two-door coupe with a deep red interior.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I switched Donovan’s safety seat from your backseat to mine.”
That sleek, low, expensive automobile demonstrated the chasm between them as little else could, but Dean couldn’t find it in him to protest. Ann was a successful woman. She deserved a fine car, and what could it hurt?
He lifted an eyebrow at his son. “Riding in style.”
Whooping, Donovan ran for the Beemer. Dean followed more circumspectly, watching Ann help Donovan belt himself into the seat. To his surprise, as soon as he drew near, she tossed him the key fob then got into the car on the passenger side. He didn’t argue, just walked around, removed his hat and dropped down behind the steering wheel.
“It’s been a while since I drove a car,” he admitted.
She chuckled. “Somehow I think you can manage.”
He needed a little while to figure out how to start the thing. It had no key. He soon had them on the road, however. Donovan was fascinated by the video display. Used to the dually pickup truck, Dean found the interior somewhat tight, but he loved the way the vehicle handled. When they pulled into the school parking lot, Dean realized with a shock that he hadn’t fretted a bit on the trip into town. He’d been too much focused on the experience of driving Ann’s sweet little ride to even think about their destination. Giving her a direct look as he slapped the key fob into her palm, he silently wondered if she’d planned that.
She smiled and said, “I was enthralled for a full month after I first bought this thing.”
Dean shook his head, but he was smiling, too. “You’re scary, you know that?”
“I didn’t think a clever woman would frighten you,” she quipped, opening her door.
They all got out and headed into the building, Donovan bouncing excitedly between Dean and Ann. Fifteen or twenty other kindergarteners beat along the same path. About half seemed to be accompanied by two parents. Some were younger children ushered in by older siblings and mothers. A few had parents and some grandparents along. Clearly, Donovan would have been the only child escorted by his father only.
Donovan’s teacher knew both Dean and Ann. She also clearly knew that they weren’t married, but she diplomatically avoided addressing either of them in any way that called attention to that fact. If she was surprised to see them together, she hid it well.
While Dean signed a permission slip to allow Donovan to have chocolate milk that morning, Ann helped Donovan find his assigned cubby and hang up his backpack. The teacher said they would unpack their supplies later. Then it was time for hugs and goodbyes. Suddenly, Donovan turned up shy, clinging to both Dean and Ann. For the first time Dean felt tongue-tied when it came to his son. He simply did not know what to say at that moment. Ann, however, did.
She knelt and smoothed the collar of Donovan’s striped knit shirt, softly saying, “Do you know, I think you’re the biggest boy in the room. When I was a girl in school, I had a friend who was the biggest boy in the room. He was also the nicest boy, always smiling and sharing. He made me feel so safe. Your class is blessed to have you because you’re the nicest boy I know.”
Donovan beamed. The teacher astutely pointed him to an activity, asking if he knew how it worked. When he replied that he did, she suggested that he help others with it. He proudly ran off to do that. A friend from church joined him at the table, and just like that he was laughing and happy. Suddenly, Dean realized, his son was a schoolkid.
A space seemed to open inside Dean’s chest. He gulped, feeling a lump in his throat and the unexpected blur of tears. Without a word he strode out into the hallway and headed for the parking lot. Ann caught up to him just as he pushed through the door. The instant it clanged shut behind him, she grabbed his hand, yanking him to a halt. Then she was on her tiptoes in front of him, her arms about his neck in a ferocious hug. He couldn’t do anything except put his head on her shoulder and hug her back.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered apologetically.
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It’s wonderful.” Somehow that was all he needed to regain control. Sighing, he straightened. She took him by the hand and towed him toward the car, saying, “Let’s get some coffee.”
That sounded very good. Dean felt strangely deflated and exhausted.
Ann drove them over to the diner. There they chose a table in the corner and settled in to nurse cups of coffee so strong that Dean almost couldn’t drink it. He got enough of it down to temper the rest of it with cream. Then the waitress topped off the cup, and he was right back where he’d started. He thought a piece of pie might make the brew more palatable, and he was right, so he ate another, and all the while, Ann held his hand and he talked.
“I know it’s stupid to be this broken up about my kid starting school,” he admitted. “It’s just that I’m so used to having him around, you know?”
“He knocks out every step you make all day, every day.”
“Some folks think having him out there isn’t safe, but I figure with me is the safest place he can be. I always know where he is and what he’s doing.”
“I realize that.”
“He never gets into trouble, and he’s learned a lot just being around while I work, you know?”
“No doubt about it.”
“You hear about bad things happening in schools,” he worried aloud.
“In War Bonnet?”
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Of course not. I’m being stupid.”
“You’re being a great father,” she countered.
“I offered to marry his mother,” Dean divulged quietly, needing Ann to know that. “She wanted no part of me. Or him. She’d have aborted or given him up for adoption if I hadn’t insisted on taking custody.”
“Were you in love with her?” Ann asked.
“Not at all. I met her at a party one night.”
“You were young. You made a mistake,” Ann said, clasping his hand, “but then you stepped up and did all the right things after.”
“So far all I’ve had to do is love him, feed him, house him, clothe him and keep him clean.” Dean chuckled. “The last has been the hardest part.” His amusement dwindled. “Honestly, feeding, housing and clothing him hasn’t exactly been a piece of cake.”
“That was the whole point of the business plan,” Ann said.
Realizing that the time had come to address that issue forthrightly, Dean sat back in his chair, pulling his hand from hers.
“Jolly, I appreciate your work on that, but I’ve got to tell you. That plan of yours is just so much pie in the sky.” She cocked her head, staring at him solemnly. He sat forward again, folding his arms along the edge of the tabletop. “Sweetheart, I’ll never have the kind of capital your plan calls for. I wouldn’t borrow it even if I could, which I cannot. And I won’t sell my grandmother’s home out from under her. Not only did she raise me as her own, she’s helping to raise my son. And you may not know this, but when my grandpa died, he left everything to me. Not to Grandma. To me. He trusted me to take care of her, and I’ll do that to her last breath. Or mine. It’s a great business plan, and I’d love to put it into effect, but I don’t see any way to make it happen. Those are just the facts. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Ann smiled, softly, warmly. “I don’t think you could disappoint me if you tried.”
He took her hand again, squeezing it gently. “Thank you for that.”
“What about an investor?”
Blinking at her, he needed a moment to process that idea. “An investor? Who would invest in me? Please tell me you didn’t ask your dad—”
“No, no. Not with him so ill.”
Dean relaxed somewhat. “Good. He’s done enough for me already.”
“He’s quite a fan of yours,” Ann said, “but this is someone who wants to invest in War Bonnet.”
“Oh?”
“Someone who’s been away for a while and...misses it.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
She took a deep breath, not quite meeting his gaze any longer. “Well, it’s someone who’s looking for something to do around here.” She paused then softly added, “Someone who doesn’t want to go back where she came from.”
Dean’s heart thunked inside his chest and then began to speed up. He flattened his hands against the tabletop.
“Where she came from?” he repeated. Ann nodded without looking at him. Dean could hardly speak, his heart was racing so fast. “And did she come from Dallas?”
Ann looked at him then, saying urgently. “I have the money, Dean.”
“You have the money,” he said, trying to wrap his mind around this. “Where? In, like, a retirement fund or something?”
“No! I wouldn’t touch that,” Ann assured him. Dean knew that he was gaping at her, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “I have savings, investments. I’ve been making six figures for five years, Dean, and I don’t even pay rent.”
“And you want to move back to War Bonnet,” he asked, thumping the tabletop with a finger for emphasis, “to invest in a custom farming business? Farming without an actual farm. Farming for other people.”
She looked him straight in the eye then, and the smile she gave him both melted his insides and sent his hopes soaring.
“Sort of,” she said huskily. “What I really want to invest in is you. I believe in you, Dean, in who and what you are.”
Dumbfounded, Dean sat back in his chair, rubbed a hand over his face and silently asked God how this could possibly work.
Could he take her money, work alongside her day after day, grow his business, raise his standard of living and have a chance to make her more than a business partner? He had no doubt that she knew her stuff, that she could help him, but was it more than that? Could it be more than that?
* * *
Her heart in her throat, Ann waited for Dean’s response to her proposal, but he simply stared at her.
Just then the phone behind the cash register jangled. Ann’s nerve endings jangled, as well, and she glanced in that direction. Jenny, the middle-aged waitress, appeared and plucked up the receiver.
“Diner.” She listened for a few moments, made a face and glanced around, her gaze alighting on Dean and Ann. “I’ll see what I can do.” Lowering the receiver, she called across the room. “Hey, Dean, think you could do me a favor?”
Dean twisted around on his chair. “Sure, Jenny. What’s up?”
“Your bill’s on the house if you can run an order over to the high school for me.”
Dean looked at Ann, who shrugged. “I’ve got nothing going until we pick up Donovan from school at noon.”
Turning back to the waitress and rising from his chair, Dean said, “We’ll take that deal, Jenny.”
Shooting him a thumbs-up signal, Jenny spoke into the phone. “It’ll be right over.” She hung up and smiled at Dean. “One second. It’s waiting in the kitchen.”
While Ann gathered her small handbag, dropped a tip on the table and rose, Dean strolled over to the counter. Ann arrived at almost the same moment as Jenny and the cook did. The pair of them bore a large brown paper bag stuffed to the max and a flat, rectangular cardboard box.
“This needs to go to Coach Lyons’s office. They got some kind of meeting going on and some confusion about whoever was supposed to pick up the food. The school runs a tab and pays for it monthly, so you won’t have to worry about collecting money.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll want to go to the field house behind the ball field and—”
“I know where it is,” Dean interrupted.
“Don’t set anything on top of this box,” Jenny instructed, placing the box on the countertop. “It’s filled with those lemon crème pastries Coach loves.”
“He’s still eating those things?”
“Every chance he gets.” She leaned close and muttered out of the corner of her mouth, “We buy ’em frozen and nuke ’em in the microwave, but don’t tell him that.”
Dean chuckled. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Ann smiled, remembering with bittersweet poignancy the lemon crème pastries that she had delivered to Coach’s office in the past. All the kids had known that they were his special weakness and had often plied him with lemon crèmes when begging forgiveness for some failure or misdeed. Ann had sprung for half a dozen during her sophomore year after blowing off several hours of softball camp at Oklahoma State University to run around Stillwater with her friends. They’d felt so sophisticated, hitting all the most popular college hangouts, where they went virtually unnoticed, only to return to find that they’d missed out on a meet-and-greet with the women’s softball team, men’s baseball team and the university athletic recruiters. Coach’s disappointment had been palpable.
“Do you want a scholarship or not, Billings?” he’d demanded.
She’d privately vowed never to disappoint him again and had sincerely concentrated on her game after that. Before long he’d started giving her the extra batting practice, and then had come the nickname Jolly. She’d gotten her scholarship, and she’d thought she’d earned Coach’s regard. But then she’d learned what Coach really thought of her, and the truth had upended her world.
Jenny patted Dean’s cheek. He slid the box toward Ann and took the much heavier sack from the cook. As she turned toward the door, the thought occurred to Ann that the moment had come to face the darkest, most foolish part of her past. How could she ever truly come home if she didn’t somehow put that crushing moment to rest? As Ann drove toward the ballpark where she had spent so many hours, she wondered just how best to do that.
Should she speak to Coach, ask him about that day? From time to time she’d thought about doing just that, but what if he didn’t even remember saying those things about her? What if he denied saying them?
Part of her wanted to go to her dad as she no doubt should have done in the very beginning, but the circumstances of his illness argued against that, certainly in the short-term. She could wait until he felt better, of course. He was violently ill immediately after every treatment, but then he gradually got better—better being a relative word as each treatment seemed to take more out of him than the last. Eventually the cancer would be defeated, and his body would begin to recover from the treatment. At least that was the hope.
Her gaze wandered to Dean, but the last man with whom she had shared that life-altering event had used it to pull the wool over her eyes. She had shown him her weakness, and he had used it against her. What else explained that engagement scheme? She had difficulty believing that Dean compared in any way to Jordan, but how could she trust her own judgment at this point?
Maybe if they were business partners, if Dean decided to let her invest in his business, maybe that would change everything. Maybe they would develop the kind of trust and honesty that would allow her to confide in him.
Oh, who was she kidding?
She wasn’t looking for a business opportunity. She just wanted a chance for Dean to fall in love with her. The way she had fallen in love with him.
Even before she’d discovered the horrid truth about Jordan, she’d fallen in love with Dean. If she was perfectly honest with herself, she’d felt a secret sense of relief because Jordan had given her a valid excuse to break their engagement. Yes, she’d been crushed to learn that he didn’t value her at all except as a means to an end. Personally she meant nothing to Jordan. She realized now, though, that she hadn’t really valued Jordan as she should have, either.
His main value to her had rested simply in the supposed fact that he loved her. She hadn’t loved Jordan for Jordan; she’d loved the idea that Jordan loved her. When that proved not to be true, her fragile ego had taken a definite beating, but in some ways she’d been relieved.
It stunned Ann to know that, had it been Dean whose career could be boosted through marriage to her, she’d have gone through with it simply for his sake, even knowing that he didn’t love her as she loved him. The undeniable truth was that she wanted what was best for Dean and Donovan, even if it wasn’t what was best for her.
So if a business partnership was all she could have with Dean, then she’d settle for that and work to make that business boom and their lives better. But she’d pray for more.
She would pray unceasingly for more.