Page 4 of Second Chance in Charlevoix (Charlevoix Dreams #3)

Skipper

A ll the way home that night, Skipper thought about Izzy and the baby.

He couldn’t believe that she wanted to move into his house.

A year ago that would have pleased him no end.

But a lot had changed. His mother’s health was failing.

Every day he never knew what he would find at home.

If she would just use her walker, Skipper wouldn’t worry so much.

One night he found her lying next to the coffee table.

The TV was blaring. She’d fallen and had managed to drag herself over to the coffee table for the remote. But she could not stand up by herself.

The next day he’d called Dr. Prentice. His mother had been really mad when the walker was delivered. Said no way was she using “that contraption for old people.” And she was even more upset when the emergency button arrived for her to wear around her neck .

“What the heck is this?” She’d glanced at the simple plastic button with disbelief. This was the way she looked at day-old bakery. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much. No need to meddle.”

“No, you can’t take care of yourself. And I’d like you to stick around, Mom. I want you here for a long, long time.”

And that was where he got her. His mother’s chin trembled and she studied her sensible brown shoes that he tied every morning. Skipper knew she was about to cry. “Okay, all right. But I don’t need it.” The words were a jumble because she was pressed tight to his chest.

As he drove home, he considered this crazy request from Izzy.

The poor girl. Izzy hated it when he called her a girl but she’d always be a girl to him.

The girl he’d fallen in love with on the beach so long ago.

And now she was a mother. A single mom. He had to give her credit.

How brave was that? And Sunnycrest sounded dangerous for a baby right now.

How should he approach this with his mother? He slowed down when he reached the house. After the divorce, his mother had been furious with Izzy. She’d called her a trollop and every other name he’d never heard her say before.

Getting married had been a joint decision.

Skipper had wanted it as much as Izzy. Their fights tore him apart.

But his mom had never seen it that way. In her eyes, Izzy had “bagged the best of the lot.” Oh, his high school friends would love to hear that.

What did they know back then? They’d been so young.

After the wedding he’d gotten a job at Wilbur’s gas station, not that it paid much.

And Izzy waitressed at Terry’s Place. They both came home exhausted every night.

Neither one of them knew anything about budgeting.

And boy, those bills piled up fast. Ordering takeout was expensive and cooking wasn’t one of Izzy’s skills. Not that he cared.

Their fights had been epic. Skipper still had a scar on his left temple.

Kitchen plates had sailed through the air while he ducked.

Izzy’s aim was pretty good. He could smile about it now but it had been terrifying back then.

Still, he hadn't wanted the divorce. So he’d left town.

His dad had to handle his mother’s anger.

As soon as Ainsley graduated, his sister was gone too.

Driving past their little rental on Green Street still hurt. They’d had big dreams.

Before he knew it, Skipper was pulling onto the gravel driveway that led back to the garage with his dad’s old two-tone Ford convertible. Skipper couldn’t bring himself to drive it and couldn’t bear to sell it.

Slamming the door of his black pickup truck, Skipper took the front steps two at a time.

In his hand was a box with two of his pear pastries.

They'd sold out before eleven o’clock. Tomorrow morning he'd start extra early and make more.

Raising his other hand, he swept off the red bandana.

His mother hated it. Said he looked mad when he wore it.

But the bandana hid the white scar on his forehead.

Now he fingered it, remembering those plates.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

As usual his mother was parked in front of the TV, watching reruns of Jeopardy . In her hands was another afghan. She sure loved to knit. He had more scarves and misshapen sweaters that he knew what to do with. But Dr. Prentice said knitting was good for Mom’s motor skills, or something like that.

Looking up, she set her knitting aside. “Is that box for me?”

“Sure is.” Coming closer, he bent to kiss her forehead. Had her skin always felt like the tissue they used in the bakery boxes? Nudging the white string aside, he popped open the lid. The comforting smell of pear and almond filled the air. “Made these new today. First time.”

His mother's eyes brightened and her lips formed an oval. “Sure look fancy.”

“I'll get a plate.”

“And a fork too, please,” she called after him as he trekked out to the kitchen.

What would Izzy think of this kitchen? With her family's renovation plans in mind, he saw the dated kitchen with new eyes. Of course Sunnycrest was no better right now. But it was all going to be changed soon, or so Izzy had said. At least his mom kept the counter tidy. She was a neat freak. He’d give her that.

But the chipped cupboards and worn linoleum told a sorry tale. Their house was in need of an update.

Grabbing a plate and a fork, he went back to his mom. “Jeopardy” still flickered on the screen but she’d muted the sound. Scooping one of the pastries from the box, he arranged it on the plate. He loved watching her face settle into a pleased smile as she sampled it.

“Oh my.” Mom closed her eyes and her mouth worked slowly, as if she were tasting each layer of flavor.

This was about all his mother had now. Food, knitting and TV.

Although the warm weather was coming soon, it was hard for her to work in the garden she’d loved so much.

She had a green thumb. But he didn’t want her falling on her face in the dirt.

He still couldn’t get her to wear the darn emergency alert button.

Skipper took a seat on the worn plaid sofa. Looking around, he tried to imagine what Izzy would think of all this old stuff. Doilies were placed here and there like misplaced snowflakes but they hid the threadbare spots on the furniture.

“You could be a pastry chef in one of those fancy restaurants,” his mother said as she continued to eat. “You know, in Chicago or even Grand Rapids.” Then she stopped. What would she do if he moved away?

“I like it here just fine.” He had to hold his secret close.

He didn't want his mother to know about that French bakery in downtown Chicago.

The owner vacationed in Charlevoix and last summer the man had offered him a job.

Skipper could hardly believe the benefits the man rattled off.

Health insurance, vacation and an IRA? This had to be a dream and it hurt to turn it down. But of course Skipper said no.

“Sure you like living here and I’m glad to have you. But you are working in a bakery,” his mother said with a resigned voice as if he worked in a bordello. “All that training and there you are. With Izzy.”

He had to step carefully. “I don't know of another shop here that would have hired me even though I had studied in Paris.” That wasn’t really true. He hadn’t even tried other area bakeries.

“Izzy and her baby.” That fact that Izzy had a baby really rubbed his mother the wrong way.

Not only had Izzy had a baby, it wasn't his baby.

Years ago, they hadn't gotten to that part of their marriage.

When they broke up, he considered their lack of children a blessing.

But over the years, Skipper wondered. Would they have made it work for the sake of a baby?

His parents of course had been heartbroken.

His poor dad died without having a grandchild.

Skipper felt personally responsible for that.

“The Quinn family is redoing their house. You know, Sunnycrest.” He didn't want to mention that everything needed to be brought up to speed. That might get his mother feeling bad about her own house. Dad had been gone a long time and he had always fixed everything. Not well, but he’d been talented that way.

And a lot of stuff needed redoing…the roof, the kitchen and that was just for starters.

Skipper only had so much time and he poured it into his baking.

“That's nice. Sounds real expensive.” His mother tried to slide her empty plate onto the side table and nearly missed it.

Jumping up, Skipper took it from her hands and marched out to the kitchen.

He needed time to think. When he returned, her mother had picked up her knitting and had gone back to watching TV.

“That looks pretty,” he said. The afghans lay on every bed in the house. And almost every piece of furniture had one folded up neatly on the arm or swung over the back. “Too bad you can't sell some of those. I'm sure people would love them.”

“Sounds like a lot of trouble to me,” she said in her clipped way. Just the way she had told him that Izzy Quinn was nothing but trouble so many years ago.

Time to dive right in. “Sounds like Izzy's got a lot on her hands with Holly--that's her baby girl. She's at that age where she gets into everything and those workmen are leaving stuff all over.” Here he exaggerated that point a bit. “Even the saws and the paint stripper.”

His mother's busy hands stopped. “That's terrible! Once a baby can walk, you have to put everything up, and I mean high. Up on the counters, not just on the low tables.” Mom loved to give orders and she swept her hands around as if she was tucking things away herself.

“And you have to lock every cupboard or they are sure to get into it.”

“You mean, the way I did?” His mother had told him that he was a mischief, always looking for cookies.

“No one could be as bad as you were about that.” But her smile told Skipper that she didn't mean it.

“And now her sister Sam is in town and Marlowe too. You know they both moved here.”

“Full time? I thought they both lived in a big city somewhere?” His mother's eyebrows went up, as she studied her yarn and took up her strokes.

“Right, but they like Charlevoix. And they like being with family, I guess.”

“Well, they're lucky, aren't they? Having each other here in Charlevoix.” His mother's voice took on a sharp edge.

His sister Ainsley lived in California doing what his mother considered equally useless work as a food photographer for movies.

And she rarely came home. Ainsley and his mom were oil and water. The two had never gotten along.

But back to the task at hand. “They're redoing Marlowe's bedroom so things are getting pretty tight over there.” He hoped he had those details right about Izzy's sisters .

“I can only imagine.” Was his mom even listening?

“Marlowe's going to be selling real estate up here so she's not going to be around much and Sam, from what Izzy has told me, is still working with her advertising agency.”

“Sounds very nice to me. All that family, living together.”

“Actually, it's not so nice.” He had to keep this going or he'd just give up. No way could he go back to Izzy and tell her that he didn't have a deal. “Izzy worries about Holly all the time. There's stuff in the air that isn't good for a baby.”

Folding her arms across her chest, his mother now looked downright suspicious. “And what are we supposed to do about that?” Her words came slowly.

He couldn't blame her for wondering. Skipper wasn't much for conversation. This might be the longest talk he’d had with his mom for quite a while. “I was just thinking it would be real charitable to let Izzy and the baby use one of those rooms upstairs.”

Mom cocked her head to one side and readjusted her glasses. “You mean upstairs with you?”

A red flag went up. “Not with me. Definitely not. Maybe in Ainsley's room.”

He'd hit a tender subject. “Ainsley's room stays just the way it is.” His mother had this unrealistic idea that his sister would be coming home and want to use that room. Her high school prom corsages were still on a bulletin board and it didn't look pretty.

Skipper was not giving up. “What about the sewing room up there?”

Holding out a swollen hand, Mom clenched it once or twice. “I haven't done any sewing in a long time. The knitting keeps me busy.”

“I don't want that baby getting hurt, Mom. She's so cute.”

“But she's not Izzy's baby, isn’t that right?”

Skipper forced himself to stay calm. His hands were clenched so tight, the nails were cutting into his palms. “Like I told you, Holly's adopted. And she is Izzy's baby but not the way I'm your baby.”

“And who's going to do all that cooking, Skipper? Cooking and cleaning?”

He knew that might be a sore point. “I will and I'm sure that Izzy will help out.”

His mother snorted. “That girl? She never did a lick of work when she was married to you. Why, your house was a mess. Dishes and take out boxes and bags all over.”

Had his mother been peeking into their windows while they were at work? He wouldn’t put it past her. “I’m going to help, okay?” The more he listened, the madder he got. His mother had always favored him. At least that's what his sister complained about all the time .

Skipper lifted his chin. “So what do you think?”

“I think you're crazy,” she said from between thin lips. “But I suppose we have to. For the little one, at least.”

What a relief. Every muscle in his body loosened. He would have hated to tell Izzy that his mother had refused. “Thanks, Mom. I'll let you know what the plan is. I think you're really going to like having a baby around.”

“I'd rather stick a fork in my eye,” she mumbled, picking up her knitting.

Well, he didn’t expect his mother to be excited about having Izzy at the house.

But she hadn’t said no. Skipper hoped she’d come around.

Shaking out his numb hands, he made his way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

Maybe he’d make Eggs Benedict for dinner with the special hollandaise sauce that his mother loved.

Even though the air from the refrigerator swept over him in a cold wave, Skipper was sweating bullets. This arrangement with Izzy had to work.