Made to Order Family - Herne Ruth

Her presence pushed Brooks to hurry. He dismissed the urge. Fluid green followed his strokes, filling the angles and curves. Short minutes later, he sat back, satisfied. “Done.”

“I love it.”

He’d sensed her approach, the scent of baked apples and cinnamon teasing his nose, tweaking awareness. He looked up. “How’s your tea?” His eyes swept the foam cup, the telltale tag hanging outside.

“Wonderful. Soothing. Sweet.”

He’d stocked up on various brands for when she required a sounding board. Her hair swung forward as she examined the piece, the fruity scent light and flirtatious, a delightful combination. Her sky-blue eyes twinkled. “I’m not even going to ask what something like that goes for,” she quipped, admiring.

Brooks nodded. The German-style dresser was dear. “This wouldn’t blend with your things anyway, would it?”

“At some point in time, when the term ‘discretionary funds’ reenters my vocabulary, my things will change,” she promised. She pressed her lips thin, musing. “For the moment, I’m content with the scuffed-up remnants of raising three kids.”

Brooks envisioned Brett’s soccer ball thumping against the finished sideboard. Drawers stuffed with disjointed game pieces. Skeeter using it as a support for her gymnastic maneuvers. Olivia…

At fifteen, Liv was probably the only one besides Rita who would treat the stylish cabinet with any level of respect. He bit back a sigh inspired by his thoughts and his early morning wake-up call. “In your particular case, I think refurbishing should stay on the back burner for a decade. Maybe two.”

“For years those kids weren’t allowed to live in their own house. Be creative,” she told him. “Tom wasn’t comfortable with disorder.”

Brooks stiffened at the mention of Rita’s late husband, a man who’d engineered a well-disguised Ponzi scheme that bilked money from innocent investors, then killed himself rather than face charges, leaving Rita more baggage than anyone should have to handle. Ever.

Rita didn’t notice his reaction. As her finger traced the sweep of the beautiful sideboard, she lifted her shoulders. “With Brett and Liv both teenagers, they’ll be gone before you know it. Plenty of time for change coming.”

Brooks wiped his hands on a tack rag, stood and moved to the sink to wash up, weighing her words. Rita had learned to embrace change out of necessity, a brave move for a woman alone, a single mother to boot.

Whereas he’d run fast and hard, disappearing into oblivion when the going got tough. Polar opposites to the max.

He stretched his shoulders, rolling the joints to ease the stiffening that accompanied detail work. “So. What are we quitting?”

“Mindless work a trained monkey could do,” Rita groused.

“Trained monkeys are scarce hereabouts.” He poured coffee, eyed the density, scowled and added cream. “We could import some.”

“There’s little imagination or thought that goes into industrial baking,” Rita expounded, leaning against a sturdy, unfinished logged bedstead. Her blue jeans, thin and baggy, were standard wear in the bakery. “Every cake is like every other, don’t even think you can special order a combination that isn’t in the book because you can’t, and the custard filling tastes like chemical waste.”

“It sells.”

“Because there are no alternatives,” she spouted, eyes flashing. “If the cheesecake cracks, they dummy it with extra topping and sell it anyway, at full price.” Her voice rose. “And the cr`eme horns? The filling comes in a box. You measure out x, add y and z and voil`a! White cr`eme filling.”

“There’s another way?” She ignored the humor in his tone. Didn’t note the lift to his brow, the hint of a smile.

“The right way. The way it should be done, would be done if I were running the place.” Arching a dark brow that contrasted with her light hair and eyes, she played her trump card. “To top it all off? Add insult to injury?”

He fought a grin and nodded, the gesture inviting her to continue.

“The cannoli filling comes from a can.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

The earnestness of her expression made him lose constraint. He grinned. “Who’d have thought?”

Uh-oh. The grin made her huffy. She set her tea on his workbench with an uncharacteristic thump. “Never mind, Brooks. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Why did you?”

“I…” His question caught her off guard. She fingered the collar of her knit shirt, nonplussed, her gaze searching his.

Mick hid a chuckle beneath a cough.

Brooks met her look, unflinching, rock solid. “Reet?”

The telltale blush traveled her throat, her cheeks. She turned toward the door. He stilled her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Open your own place. You’ve talked of it often enough.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she corrected him. “I’ve done my homework on this. I’ve scoped out costs versus income, possible locations, equipment requirements, licenses, refurbishing. The start-up costs are prohibitive and no lending institution worth its salt is going to front a loan to a drunk with a pile of bills, three kids and no money.”