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“And why on earth would you ask that, Brooksy?” she asked, falling back on the nickname Aaron had given the girl within a week of the two meeting each other.
“Because ... ” She bit her lip and slid a look to the other kids at the table. Since it was the last week of summer, she’d herded them all up and out of bed—with the promise of a special breakfast, not just cereal. For a couple of them, she had teased them with bacon, but honestly, they probably would have been satisfied with just pancakes. Brooklyn hadn’t even needed the bribe of chocolate chips in her pancakes.
Storm Grainger, her oldest and newest charge, came in bouncing Mariah on her hip. Mariah was Brooklyn’s baby sister. Storm was fifteen and was still quiet and reserved, but she was slowly warming up to Isabel and the others, although she insisted she wasn’t staying. As soon as her father was able, he’d come to get her, she told everybody at least once a week. That had been the case for the three months she’d been there and Isabel didn’t think it would change.
Storm’s real name was Raqueline but she didn’t answer to it. A few weeks earlier, she’d confessed that her mama’s name had been Cherise Raquel and she hated the reminder of her mom.
That was something Isabel understood. Her own mother had been lost to her a long time, long before they’d found her lying dead in the secure home Miles had found for them after Wilson had been locked away without bail, the empty pill bottle by the woman’s side a silent testimony to the fact that her mother hadn’t been able to live with the guilt or shame once Wilson Ward’s crimes had come spilling out.
Isabel didn’t care for reminders of her mother, either. Her mom’s father had been a rich man, one with connections and there had been times in Isabel’s childhood when he’d tried to get his daughter to leave Wilson, but Evelyn Stone Steele had insisted that awoman’s place was with her husband ...and so Isabel and her sisters had grown up under Wilson’s brutal hand.
Yes, Isabel understood wanting to cut away from painful reminders.
Storm suited the girl in a way—and not just because she vaguely resembled a young Halle Berry with her tawny complexion and large brown eyes, combined with a lithe, graceful form. The girlwasan X-men fanatic, though, and had used some of her allowance to first bleach, then dye her hair platinum. In her free time, she worked on a webcomic and Isabel had to admire the girl’s skill and talent.
“I changed her,” Storm said, putting the baby in a high chair. “I could hear her jabbering while I was putting my makeup on.”
“Thank you.” Isabel smiled at her. “You didn’t need to do that.”
Storm smiled and shrugged before moving around to her seat.
“I wanna wear make-up,” Brooklyn announced.
“You’re too little, pipsqueak,” Storm said.
“Stop it with the names, Storm,” Isabel said automatically as she continued to whip the batter. Recognizing the mutinous look on Brooklyn’s face, she said, “Brooksy, maybe later, I’ll give you a manicure. We’ll even paint Mariah’s toenails if we can catch her while she’s asleep.”
“Why just her toenails?” Brooklyn asked, her near-meltdown forgotten.
“Because she’ll wake up if we mess with her hands.” Isabel winked at her.
Brooklyn tried, and failed adorably, to wink back.
Aaron leaned in and whispered something to Brooklyn and the girl’s face lit with devious delight as she looked at Isabel with laser-like focus. “You didn’t answer me about the neighbor.”
Aaron grinned widely, displaying a slightly crooked right front tooth. “Thesexyneighbor.”
“How sexy?” Storm asked, intrigued.
“What’s sexy?” Brooklyn demanded.
The phone rang.
Isabel muttered, “Thank God,” and grabbed it.
“Bella ... this is LeAnn!”
The other woman’s voice had a familiar, frantic edge Isabel knew all too well. Out of habit, Isabel thought about the groceries she had in the house—more than enough, and considered the room arrangements—she had two open rooms, still, not counting the spare rooms she always kept open for her sisters.
“Hey, Lee. How are you doing?”
“Shit iscrazy. How are you?”
“Not bad. Making up bacon, eggs and pancakes for the kids. What do you need?”
“I think you already know,” LeAnn said with a weary laugh. “I hate to ask because I’m sure your hands are full, but you’re my last option. I’ve got a fifteen-year-old boy—he’s a bit of a hard case.”
As LeAnn talked, Isabel started pouring the pancakes, desperately trying to tune out the two teenagers debating on whether they should or shouldn’t explainsexyto five-year-old Brooklyn.
