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Equipment and Procedures to Organize:
1. Take Mom to Yellow Rose Matchmakers without her catchingon.
2. Have the computer do its magic.
3. Check the stats on the match. (Note: Make sure this guy’s not a loser.)
4. Convince Mom to go along with it. (Sure wish wishes were scientific!)
Cassidy calculatedthe figures for the fourth time. Not that it changed anything. The bottom line on her checking account still remained the same pitiful amount as before—an amount too small to meet all her current financial demands. She clenched her fingers around the tiny nub of a pencil her boss, Freddie, had been wasteful enough to trash, her knuckles turning white from the strain. What the heck was she going todo?
A lock of thick, dark brown hair drifted into her eyes and she pushed it away with hands that trembled. Darn it all! Why couldn’t she have curls instead of hair so painfully straight not even a rubber band would hold it? At least curls could be confined or cropped short. At least curls would—Stop it,she ordered herself briskly. Stop wasting time on foolishness and focus on the serious problems. There were certainly enough of them to keep her occupied.
She scowled at the check register again. Okay. The final payment on Hutch’s computer would come first, she decided. It had to. That computer was his future. She tapped the pencil on the scarred kitchen table. And maybe if she spoke to Mrs. Walters, explained that she’d pick up an extra shift or two and get the money together by the end of the week, the landlady would let the rent slide a few more days. She might...especially if Cassidy bribed her with another clipping from her poor rosebushes.
Okay, what next? The utilities. She’d dole out a few precious dollars on her electric bill. That way, the computer would have a place to live and the juice to run it. Let’s see... Next on the list would have to be food. She perked up a bit. Perhaps Freddie would have some leftovers from the restaurant she could take home. That might help stretch their pennies. And she could give up all the extras. No more instant coffee. Skip the odd lunch. Tape up the hole in her sneaker. Not get sick or twist any more ankles. She could get by. Sure she—
“Everything okay, Mom?”
She glued a bright smile on her face. “Just fine, sweetie. Why?”
Hutch perched on the edge of the chair across from her. “Your eyes are that funny color again.”
She stared at him in bewilderment. “What funny color?”
“Like pencil lead.” He glanced at her list of numbers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s great.” He didn’t believe her, not that his skepticism surprised her. He often saw things no one else noticed. “Really,” she insisted, “we’re fine.”
“I can tell if there’s something wrong,” he explained patiently. “When you laugh, your eyes are a pretty silver. But when you’re upset, they look like lead. So, what’s wrong?”
“Oh.” Crud. “I hadn’t realized.”
Smile! she ordered herself sternly. Think of something happy. She forcibly summoned a picture of Hutch right after she’d given birth to him. Even then, he’d displayed an intense curiosity that was such an innate part of his character. He’d peered up at her with huge blue eyes and she’d known in that instant that she’d do anything for him. Sacrifice anything. He’d been the one bright spot in months of fear and desperation. He’d made everything worthwhile and just thinking about him eased her tension.
Cassidy smiled. “How’s that?”
“Hey! They’re silver again.”
“It must have been the light,” she teased.
“I guess.” He kicked the table leg. “You won’t forget about tomorrow, right? You need to get off work for a couple of hours so I can take you for your birthday surprise.”
She frowned, fingering her list of expenses. “I don’t know, Hutch....”
“You promised, Mom. Please.”
“And a promise is a promise,” she conceded with a sigh. “Okay, sweetpea. I’ll talk to Freddie.” And to Mrs. Walters. And to the electric company. They’d all understand. She drew an anxious breath. There wasn’t any choice. They hadto.
“He wantsa father.”
Willie nodded. “Most boys do, Ty. Is that so bad?”
Ty unhitched his shoulder from the support pillar he’d been leaning against and turned to face his grandmother. She sat at the far end of the porch in a large wooden swing, her favorite spot at the Yellow Rose to “ruminate” as she calledit.
“Not for Hutch,” he conceded, “but I doubt Cassidy feels the same way. She sounded as though she’d had her fill of men.” An understatement if ever he’d uttered one. “What if she kicks up a fuss because we’ve encouraged this kid’s scheme?”
“Is that the impression she gave when you spoke? Did she seem like a troublemaker?”
