Made to Order Family

Liv mock-scowled. “Great.”

Rita grinned. “This could be a total win-win. I’m one hundred percent okay with that.”

Liv’s sigh of relief told Rita she’d nudged open a door for her daughter, curtailing her concerns.

Rita knew there were times when Brett and Liv held back, fear dogging their choices. Neither one wanted to be a catalyst in pushing her over an unseen edge, resulting in a fall off the wagon. With her one-year medallion safely tucked in her pocket, she wasn’t quite as concerned as she used to be.

One day at a time. Sound advice.

“I’m heading to bed, Mom. You’re off tomorrow?”

“Yes. Since it’s my Saturday to work, I’ve got tomorrow to kick up my heels. Shop. Visit the spa. Do lunch.”

Liv laughed. They both knew that Rita’s scheduled day off meant playing catch-up on all the stuff back-burnered during the other six days of the week. Cleaning, laundry, shopping, errands, banking. The short hours between Skeeter’s morning bus and afternoon bus were crammed full of tasks and chores needed to maintain some small vestige of normalcy.

And she just might outline her prospectus, push things forward. If she could hurdle this cycle of fear, of rejection, she could possibly plant herself into the dream job she’d hoped and planned for.

An image of the storefront in Canton filled her brain, her creative side painting, trimming and polishing the scarred space into something warm, cozy and inviting, a respite from the long days of winter and the heat of the summer. A place to buy amazing pastries, cakes and cookies.

Did she dare put her mind to the test tomorrow? Give it a shot?

She yawned and realized she was too tired to make that decision now, but tomorrow…

Liv interrupted her musings. “Be sure to treat yourself to a nice massage once your nails are done.”

Rita almost sighed. The very idea of a relaxing massage sounded absolutely wonderful and totally impossible. “I’ve decided pampering is overrated.”

“And probably detrimental to womankind as a whole,” Liv agreed. She hugged Rita one more time, understanding. “’Night, Mom.”

“Good night, honey.”

Rita turned out the lights as Liv’s footsteps faded, the deepening shadows peaceful and quiet, a perfect contemplative time for prayerful thought and consideration.

Skeeter had settled down once they got home, probably too tired to battle it out. Rita hoped she’d wake in the morning in good humor, find something in her drawers that tickled her fancy, choose to wear the dry shoes they’d left at home tonight, have breakfast and get on the bus all smiles, like most seven-year-olds.

Then return home tomorrow afternoon the same way.

Her gaze strayed to the kitchen where her computer lay dormant, its silence commanding attention.

Change the things you can…

Once Skeets was on the bus, Rita was tossing in the first load of laundry, starting the dishwasher and writing a prospectus. Once done, she’d have Brooks read it over, see if she’d covered all the bases. And then, applications.

Yeah, she could get knocked around emotionally, always a dicey thing for a recovering alcoholic. The chances of procuring the loan were slim.

But the chances went from slim to none if she did nothing, and that wasn’t acceptable. Not anymore. She’d gotten braver and bolder in the past year. High time she took a chance. With her strengthening faith and the support of AA, she could take this step forward.

Fingering the bronze chip in her pocket, she nodded as she climbed the stairs. One day at a time.

Chapter Four

The metallic crash yanked Brooks from his bed later that night. Battle ready, one hand grabbed a weapon resembling a worn kitchen broom while the other sought the corner of the closed Venetian blind, his gaze searching the night.

A flash of red-gold skirted the pavement, enough to tell Brooks he’d been undermined by a four-footed varmint with a penchant for homemade mac and cheese.

Again.

He barreled toward the door wishing he’d remembered to turn the heat on after Brett’s soccer game.

No.

Huffing against the cold, he grabbed the first thing his fingers hit, an old Baltimore Oriole’s afghan. He yanked it around his shoulders and headed out the door, to no avail. Like previous times, the minute the door handle clicked left, the dog disappeared, obviously faster and smarter than Brooks.

Which didn’t take much at 3:00 a.m.

Strewed garbage lay ankle deep across his small yard.

He bit back useless words, shook a fist, then danced sideways on the cold step, the chill of his feet knife-blading up, his outside thermometer reading twenty-nine degrees.

Brr…

And since his apartment wasn’t much better, his living room offered little reprieve. Disgruntled, Brooks finagled a light, cranked the thermostat right, tugged on sweats and tried not to be upset that some scruffy dog had once again bested a decorated war veteran.

The drawer full of military medals offered small comfort as Brooks cleaned a frosted yard littered with disgusting debris. Why him? Why now? What was it about this garbage that drew the mutt repeatedly?

Probably your ineptitude to catch him, tweaked an inner voice.

Brooks couldn’t disagree. Like it or not, the dog had bested him multiple times.

Resigned, Brooks did what he should have done days ago. He hauled the garbage tote into the garage and closed the door, then stared into the darkened night, his backyard melding into state forest land, the dog gone from sight but not from mind. “Next time, pal.”

The promise of payback sounded thin. The dog was obviously smarter, quicker and sneakier.

And needed less sleep.

Brooks yawned, scowled, then headed inside. In one night he’d been bested by a cantankerous seven-year-old and a tenacious dog, both of which could use a lesson in manners. He eyed the clock, decided six hours was plenty of sleep, made coffee and headed to the wood shop, wondering why kids and dogs couldn’t just behave themselves.

“Toots, did Hy Everts drop off those frames I ordered?” Brooks asked later that morning.