Jack whispered to Zooey, “Maybe we can convince Jack Jr. to go to bed early.”
On a mission, Angela headed through the dining room to the kitchen, realizing how happy Zooey and Jack seemed. Planning their wedding for Valentine’s Day, they were the picture of what a couple was supposed to be. She didn’t believe she’d ever been that happy with Jerome.
They’d married because…
Because Angela had wanted a husband and a family. Her parents divorced when she was sixteen and her adopted sister, Megan, was fourteen. The break-up had hurt them both deeply. They’d turned to each other and were still best friends. Angela didn’t know what she was going to do when Megan got married and moved out of the garage apartment after New Year’s. Her sister had found love, too.
Maybe Angela had married Jerome because she’d wanted to believe in love…wanted to believe a man could stick better than her father had…wanted to believe in happy endings. But she’d learned the hard way that all men were alike. Well, maybe she was rethinking that a little because of the goings-on in the neighborhood. Megan and Greg seemed happy. Zooey and Jack couldn’t take their eyes off each other. Her neighbor Carly and her husband Bo were opposites but seemed to fit together like two puzzle pieces. Neighbors Rebecca and Joe seemed content, too, and the buzz said they were going to get engaged any day.
Sometimes Angela felt as if she were operating in an alternate universe.
In the kitchen, Angela searched in the silverware drawer for a shish kebob skewer. Then she hurried upstairs, trying to figure out what to say to her oldest child.
At his door, she put the tip of the skewer in the small hole in the knob and popped the lock.
Anthony’s room had been messier than ever the past two months—another aspect of his acting out. Although Michael was untidy in his little-boy-getting-older way—socks on the floor, toys not put back on the red-and-blue shelves—Anthony’s messiness was different. It was deliberate. Candy bar wrappers lay strewn about. Half a banana sat rotting on his nightstand. There were clothes on the floor—his jeans and a shirt. His bedspread, patterned with soccer balls, baseballs and footballs lay sprawled over the footboard. She had a rule that the kids make their beds every day, and he’d been breaking it.
She had to take back control. She had to teach him he couldn’t act however he wanted, that life wasn’t always fair, that there were rules and boundaries.
When she approached the bed, he didn’t even look up. He was sprawled there, one leg crossed over the other, headphones on, his fingers pressing buttons on his GameBoy. Determined to get his attention, she simply went to him and removed the earphones from his head.
“Hey!”
“I don’t answer to hey. It’s Mom. And when I come into the room, or when anybody comes into the room, you look at them.”
His eyes went wide at her firm tone. Then he looked wary. He had Jerome’s brown eyes. The same jaw, too. But he was as blond as she was. Even at nine he was already getting tall. He’d be six feet before long.
She motioned to the bed beside him. “Can I sit? We have to talk.”
Again, that wary look and a half shrug.
“Things have to change around here. Especially your behavior.”
A defensive frown shaped his mouth and, remaining silent, he folded his arms over his chest.
“I know you’re upset because your dad canceled your last two outings. But you can’t behave badly because of it. We can talk about it anytime you want.”
“You’re never here.”
True she was at home a lot less than she used to be, but that couldn’t be helped right now. “I’m here as much as I can be. I have to work to keep this house, to buy your clothes, to buy food. I’m working more now because with Aunt Megan leaving and getting married, we’ll have more expenses. I’m looking for someone else to move in above the garage, but until I find that person, money’s going to be tight.”
His brows arched as if he’d never thought about all that.
“I don’t want you to worry about it. We’ll be okay. But that’s why I took the part-time job at Felice’s Nieces. I guess I should have explained all this to you before I did it. I forget that you’re growing up.”
When he lowered his eyes back to his GameBoy and didn’t respond, she remembered Zooey’s suggestion and plunged in. “There’s a Big Brother program at the community center, and I’m going to look into getting you an older buddy who can do things with you.”
“I want Dad to do things with me,” he grumbled.
“I know you do. But I can’t control what your dad does and neither can you. Instead of just being unhappy because he doesn’t come around, we have to do something about it.”
“I’m not going to hang out with some stranger!” Anthony exclaimed and rolled over on his side, turning his back to her. Angela sighed. Like everything else, this wasn’t going to be easy. She could bake a great apple pie, but her life was falling apart and she had to do something about it.
Felice’s Nieces, Rosewood’s upscale ’tween and teen shop, was always loud, colorful and usually busy. Angela’s full-time job as an office manager for a pediatric dentist was methodical and paperwork oriented. She actually enjoyed working here two nights a week, sometimes on Saturdays, and interacting with the kids. Besides that, she received a discount on her daughter’s clothes.
As she separated ringspun denim jeans from sand-blasted ones, she was aware of the plasma screen TV flickering with the latest DVD for the ’tween set. Surround sound blared from every direction.
Finished with the jeans, Angela moved toward a table laden with brightly colored sweaters. The kids picked at them and tossed them back down, and they constantly needed to be straightened. As she folded a lime one that Olivia might like for Christmas, the buzzer on the glass door sounded and she looked up.
Her heart beat faster as she examined the man who had just walked in. Tall, blond and broad-shouldered, he looked like every cheerleader’s dream. Square-jawed, his face too rugged to be called handsome, he looked totally out of place amidst giggling girls, tall displays of jewelry and carousel racks filled with the latest styles. She couldn’t quite gauge how old he was. Her age, maybe?
Reluctantly she returned her attention to the sweaters on the table, taking another peek at him as he went to the cashier’s desk and spoke to the manager. Those shoulders filled out the hunter-green sweater to perfection. She could only imagine the muscles there. His gray stone-washed jeans fit his backside even better. The cross trainers he wore were expensive, and she wondered if he’d come in to buy somebody a Christmas present.
Stop it, she scolded herself. As if you’d consider getting involved with anyone right now, let alone a hunk who’d be scared to death of three kids and a mortgage payment the size of the Eastern Seaboard.
Angela was stacking sweaters into a neat pile when a deep male voice made her jump.
“Are you Angela Schumacher?”
Spinning around, clutching a sweater to her chest, she looked up into the fascinating hazel eyes of the blond man who’d walked in a few minutes before.
Flustered, she had trouble finding her voice. Finally she managed to say, “I’m Angela.”
He extended his hand. “I’m David Moore. I’ve been selected to be Anthony’s Big Brother.”
“I see,” she replied inanely, not knowing what else to say. His hand was still extended and she slipped hers into it, immediately aware of the heat shooting up her arm, the increased rate of her pulse, the giddy feeling she hadn’t experienced since she was a teenager.
Composing