Blossom Street Brides Page 8

  The hostess greeted Lauren as if they knew each other and glanced in Rooster’s direction without comment.

  “Like I said, this is one of my favorite restaurants,” Lauren mentioned casually as they followed the hostess. “I’ve been here quite a few times, enough for them to know my name. It will be worth the wait. You’ll notice once we’re seated that there isn’t any silverware.”

  “Finger food?”

  “Not exactly. With our meal, we’ll each be given a wooden board and mallet.”

  “A mallet? You mean a hammer?”

  “Of sorts. That’s so we can crack open the crabs ourselves. We’ll get plastic bibs, too, but everyone wears them, so you won’t look silly or feel out of place.”

  Over the years, Rooster had heard about these types of restaurants, but he’d never actually been to one. This was sure to be an experience.

  “The bib has saved me from dripping butter on myself any number of times.”

  Rooster found the image of Lauren with melted butter running down her chin strangely appealing. He quickly cast the vision from his mind. “When you think about the restaurant doing away with silverware, it’s a rather clever idea. Just think of all the forks they’re saving.”

  “Don’t feel you need to order the crab,” Lauren assured him. “There’s a regular menu as well.”

  “Will I get a fork?”

  She was about to answer when they arrived at their table.

  They were seated and handed menus when the attendant filled their glasses with ice water. No sooner had he left when he returned with warm sourdough bread. The scent was heavenly.

  “I feel worlds better already,” Lauren said, leaning slightly forward. “Thank you, Rooster.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to comment, but he stopped when he noticed a well-dressed man walking purposely across the room toward their table. Rooster bristled and guessed this wasn’t the restaurant manager.

  “Do you know this guy?” he asked Lauren.

  As Lauren glanced up from the menu, the color drained from her face. “It’s Todd.”

  Rooster stood up as the other man approached. At six-one, he stood several inches taller than Lauren’s friend. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The other man ignored him. “I knew I’d find you here. And who’s this …” He paused and looked up at Rooster as though he found the mere sight of him comical. “This is a joke, right?” he asked.

  “The name is Wayne,” Rooster said. “Rooster Wayne.”

  “Rooster?” Todd repeated as though he found that information highly entertaining.

  “Did you honestly think you could make me jealous over him?” Todd asked, again as if he found the situation nothing short of amusing.

  Lauren nervously glanced around her. “Todd, you’re embarrassing me and embarrassing yourself. Would you kindly leave? I’ve said everything I intend to say to you.”

  “Not before—”

  “I believe you heard the lady,” Rooster said.

  “You,” Todd returned, and bounced his finger against Rooster’s chest, “stay out of this.”

  Rooster clenched his fist. “I’ve heard enough.”

  By now their confrontation had attracted the attention of the entire restaurant. The room went quiet, and it seemed everyone collectively held their breath, waiting to find out what would happen next.

  Rooster heard a couple of people whisper that this was Todd Hampton from Channel Eight news. Grabbing hold of Todd’s upper arm, Rooster half lifted the slighter man from the floor until Todd was obliged to walk on the tips of his feet. Without another word, Rooster dragged him out of the restaurant.

  “Take your hands off me.” Stretching out his arm, Todd pointed at the hostess. “You’re a witness to this. I have witnesses.”

  This was supposedly said for Rooster’s benefit. If Todd thought to intimidate him with a lawsuit, he’d failed. Once outside in the cool night air, Rooster released Lauren’s ex.

  Todd brushed off the sleeves of his expensive tailored suit. “You’re going to regret this,” he muttered. His gaze narrowed into thin slits. “I have connections.”

  “Good for you. So do I. I suggest you heed my warning.”

  “Fine, whatever.” Todd held up his hands as if Rooster had pointed a revolver at him. “You know the only reason she’s with you is to make me jealous. She knows I love her; it’s only a matter of time before we get back together.”

  Unwilling to get involved any further in this mess, Rooster turned his back on Todd and returned to the inside of the restaurant. He felt every eye on him as he wove his way around the tables to where Lauren remained seated. Taking out his wallet, he peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and set it on the table. Without another word, he left.

  He was outside the restaurant before she caught up with him.

  “Rooster, wait. Please,” he heard her shout.

  He stopped, but he didn’t turn around.

  “I am so sorry,” she breathlessly told him.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Please don’t be upset with me.”

  As far as Rooster was concerned, he had nothing more to say to Lauren and started walking again.

  She trotted along beside him. “I had no idea Todd would do anything like this. I feel dreadful.”

  “I said don’t mention it.”

  “Why are you so angry … I didn’t do anything. I was the one embarrassed and mortified. If you want to be annoyed with anyone, it should be Todd, not me.”

  Rooster stopped in his tracks and stared down hard at Lauren. “You used me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She looked stricken by his accusation.

  “You used me to make Todd jealous. I don’t appreciate being used.”

  “How can you say that?” she demanded.

  “You mentioned me to Todd when you saw him earlier today, didn’t you?” he demanded.

  “Well, yes, but only in passing. That had nothing to do with my breaking up with him. I’d already made my decision.”

  “You asked me to dinner.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You took me to your favorite restaurant. My guess is that you and Todd routinely went there.”

  “I … yes, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Lauren. I served my purpose. Mission accomplished.”

  He left her then, rooted to the sidewalk, looking crestfallen and confused. Rooster hightailed it back to his hotel, determined to put her out of his mind once and for all.

  Chapter Ten

  Fair Isle awakens the beauty of the world in color as you paint with yarn.

  —Sheila Joynes,

  instructor, designer, and author of

  I Can’t Believe I’m Fair Isle Knitting,

  sheliajoynes on Ravelry

  In the wee hours of Saturday morning, Lydia woke from a deep sleep at the sound of a piercing cry coming from Casey’s bedroom. She bolted upright and tossed aside the covers. Brad leaned up on one elbow as Lydia turned on the bedside lamp.

  “What in the name of heaven is that?” he asked.

  “Casey,” Lydia said, reaching for her robe.

  “Mom? Dad?” Cody cried as he barged into the bedroom. “Something’s wrong with Casey.”

  Lydia was already out of bed. She stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her robe and tucked her feet into her slippers before rushing into Casey’s bedroom. Flipping the light switch, Lydia saw that her daughter tossed her head back and forth, writhing as though in horrendous pain.

  “Casey, Casey,” Lydia said, grabbing hold of her daughter. “Wake up, sweetheart. Wake up.”

  Casey’s eyes flew open, and she released a harsh gasp. Her shoulders heaved as if she’d reached the end of a five-mile run and had pushed herself beyond her physical limits. As soon as she saw Lydia, the young teen started to cry, reached up to grab hold of her mother, and clung to her.

  Wrapping Casey in her arms, Lydia sat on the edge of the mattress and gently rocke
d her daughter. “It was a dream, honey, just a dream.”

  Casey buried her face in Lydia’s neck and silently wept. “I know … I know.”

  Lydia continued to hold Casey close, rocking her for several moments and rubbing her hand up and down the teen’s slender spine. “You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.”

  Casey sobbed once more before she nodded.

  After several minutes of sitting in this uncomfortable position, Lydia asked, “Are you okay now?”

  Casey shook her head. “Don’t go.”

  “I’m right here.” She brushed the tangled hair away from Casey’s face and looked into her eyes. “Do you want to talk about the dream?”

  “No.” Her response was adamant.

  “That’s okay; you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “Stay with me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Lydia assured her, smoothing the back of Casey’s head.

  Lydia heard footsteps in the hallway outside her daughter’s bedroom and looked up to find her husband framed in the open doorway. “Everything all right in here?” Brad asked.

  “I think so,” Lydia whispered. “Casey wants me to stay with her awhile.”

  Brad’s frown relayed his concern.

  “Go back to bed,” Lydia told him. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  “You sure she’s going to be okay?”

  She nodded, and then, because she couldn’t see Casey’s clock, she asked, “What time is it, anyway?”

  “A little after three,” her husband told her. This wasn’t the way to start their busy weekend.

  Brad reluctantly returned to their bedroom.

  “Can you lie down with me?” Casey asked with a sniffle.

  “Sure.”

  “Hold me, though.”

  “I won’t let you go,” Lydia promised.

  Lydia removed her slippers, and Casey scooted over in the narrow bed to make room for her. She would have taken off her robe, but Casey continued to cling to her as if she were the only solid thing in a world that had unexpectedly gone off kilter.

  “You won’t un-adopt me, will you?”

  The question made Lydia want to weep. “Casey, you should know by now that your father and I would never do such a thing. It hurts me that you would even ask.”

  “I need to be sure.”

  “You are part of our family now—our daughter—and nothing is going to change that.”

  Casey sniffled, and as Lydia scooted down in the bed, Casey pressed her head against Lydia’s shoulder.

  In an effort to comfort her daughter, Lydia softly hummed the hymn “Amazing Grace.” Soon Casey’s own emotionally wobbly hum joined hers. A couple of times the young teen shuddered a sigh.

  It took a long time, but gradually Lydia felt Casey’s tight grip on her loosen. Without being able to view the clock, she speculated that it took more than an hour for Casey to return to sleep.

  As quietly and gently as she could, Lydia slipped out of bed and returned to her own. She fully expected Brad to be asleep. He wasn’t. He lifted the covers for her to return next to him in their queen-size bed.

  Lydia scooted close to her husband, and he wrapped his arm around her middle, bringing her close to his side.

  “Is Casey asleep?”

  She nodded. “Finally. It took a long time to quiet her. She wouldn’t tell me about the dream.”

  “Can you blame her?” Brad asked, his head close to her ear. “Whatever it was terrified the poor kid. Telling you would be reliving the dream all over again.”

  “I think it might help her to talk about it—maybe not right away, though, when it’s still fresh in her mind. I’ll ask her again in the morning.” This wasn’t the first time Casey had woken them crying out in the night. This nightmare, whatever it was, seemed to be a reoccurring one. When they’d first adopted her at age twelve, Casey had had bad dreams. None seemed as bad as this one, however. It’d taken far longer to comfort her this time than ever before; she’d been terrified and shaking uncontrollably.

  “You weren’t able to get back to sleep?” Lydia whispered. Saturday was her husband’s one day to sleep in, and Casey’s nightmare had interrupted that for Brad.

  “Adrenaline kicked in when I heard Casey scream. I didn’t know what to think.”

  “It shocked me, too.”

  “We should have expected this,” Brad said, and yawned. He covered his mouth and then stretched.

  “The nightmares?”

  “That and a whole lot more. The poor girl came to us with a full set of baggage. Abandoned by her birth parents, then living in a series of foster homes. Learning her brother was in jail. By age twelve Casey had seen more drama and heartache than most people do in a lifetime.”

  Lydia agreed. “She’s adjusted so well it’s sometimes difficult to remember she’s been through so much,” she said and sighed. “Even now she’s afraid we’re going to send her away.”

  “Did she ask you about it?”

  Lydia nodded. “This is the first time in her life that she’s had a stable home life, or been part of a family. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. She’s been taken away from every home where she’s ever lived.” Lydia’s one concern for her daughter was linked with her mother. Mary Lou grew weaker physically and mentally every month. Lydia didn’t know how much longer they would have her mother. Seeing how close Casey was to her grandmother, Lydia couldn’t help worrying what would happen when she died.

  “What are you fretting about now?” Brad asked.

  Lydia smiled. How well her husband knew her. “Casey and Mom. I don’t like to think how Casey will react once we lose her.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there,” her husband wisely advised.

  Thankfully, they did manage to fall back asleep. Lydia woke just before eight to find she was alone in bed. Stretching her arms above her head, Lydia smiled as she heard her husband talking to the kids in the kitchen.

  Brad had pancakes on the griddle and coffee made by the time Lydia wandered out of the bedroom, yawning. Cody sat at the table, stuffing himself with a large stack swimming in a plate of syrup. Casey sat across from him with a single pancake on her plate but showed little appetite.

  “Morning,” Lydia said, and kissed Cody’s cheek first and then Casey’s. “You feel all right this morning?” she asked her daughter, her hands on Casey’s shoulders.

  Casey shrugged.

  “You screamed like a banshee,” Cody said. “It scared the living crap out of me.”

  Casey made a face at her brother. “Get over it.”

  “Kids, enough,” Brad said, cutting off any chance of this exchange developing into a full-blown argument.

  Brad had her coffee poured, and Lydia hugged her husband’s middle in an effort to thank him. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

  “And all it took was a single cup of coffee,” he teased, and kissed the tip of her nose. “Breakfast?” he asked.

  Lydia shook her head. She wasn’t one for a big breakfast. Toast and a glass of orange juice were the most she ever ate. Lydia was slight and slender, and had never been a big eater. Two bouts with cancer, the first in her teen years, and the second in her early twenties, might have had something to do with her attitude toward food. Before she was married and a mother, Lydia could easily skip meals simply because she’d forgotten it was mealtime.

  Brad set the dirty dishes in the sink. “Come on, Cody, we need to hustle to your game.”

  Cody wolfed down one last bite of his breakfast and scooted back his chair. He was as tall as Lydia now, and it wouldn’t be much longer before he shot past her. “You coming to the game, Mom?”

  “You bet.” The baseball game started at nine, which gave Lydia just enough time to cheer on her son and get to the yarn store in time to open the shop at ten.

  “What about you, Casey?” Cody asked as he reached for his cap and mitt.

  “Okay,” she said without a lot of enthus
iasm.

  “Do you have plans for the day?” Lydia asked her daughter.

  “Ava and I want to go to the movies. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  For the next several minutes, Lydia’s conversation with her daughter revolved around the movie and Ava. Lydia planned to open the shop but would stay only until noon, when Margaret arrived. Her sister would close the shop. That gave Lydia time to pick up Ava and drop the two of them off at the cinema complex.

  By the time Lydia had dressed and finished with her makeup and hair, Casey had cleaned up the kitchen.

  “Are you feeling up to this?” Lydia asked, noting that her daughter hadn’t shown much enthusiasm for attending Cody’s game.

  Casey answered with a shrug. “I guess.”

  “Would you rather stay home?”

  “No.”

  Lydia collected what she needed, mainly her purse and her knitting. Casey joined her, her head down and her shoulders slumped forward.

  Lydia waited until they were on their way to the park before she asked, “Would it help if you talked about your dream?”

  “No.” Casey’s quick response left Lydia in no doubt of the teen’s feelings on the matter.

  Lydia tried another approach. “Would it be easier to talk to someone other than your father or me?”

  “Like who? A shrink?”

  Lydia hadn’t thought this out. “No. The first person who popped into my mind was my mother. The two of you are close and—”

  Casey quickly cut her off. “No way.”

  “It was just a suggestion.”

  “Can we not talk about my dream?” the teen snapped.

  “Sure, if that’s what you want. We can pretend it never happened, if that will make you feel better.”

  “Thank you,” Casey returned, less churlish. “I don’t want you to mention it ever again, okay?”

  “That’s your choice. But in case you ever do, I want you to know I’ll be ready to listen.”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Casey reiterated in a loud voice. “How many times do I have to repeat it?”

  “Okay, message received.”