The lack of insurance and the heavily mortgaged house had kept Rita right there in the midst of it all, her options limited by lack of finance and a downturn in the housing market, two tough smackdowns on top of the humiliation and grief. Her three kids lost their father, had to deal with the aftermath of his crimes and then watched their mother pitch downhill in the throes of alcoholism.

More than once he wished he could get his hands on Tom Slocum, give him the thrashing he so deeply deserved. What kind of man disregards his wife, his kids, to service his own greedy need? “Hey.”

Brooks shifted his jaw and his gaze. “Hmm?”

“I lost you.”

“Must be contagious.”

“I guess. Anyway, about the window? When should we do it?”

“Mondays are best. Weekends are too crazy to be pulling things out, playing with positioning and all that. This Monday maybe?”

“I’d have to bring Skeets,” she warned.

“I’ll alert the authorities. The police chief’s right across the way and our three meager jail cells get precious little use. We’ll be fine.”

“Brooks.”

He grinned.

“She’s not that bad.”

She was, and then some, but Brooks was a smart man. He had no intention of getting into the discussion now. He nodded toward Brett as he trotted off the field. “Fine game.”

Brett shrugged, miffed by the loss. “Should have won it. We overkilled at the end and left them open.”

“Recognizing that, you won’t let it happen again.”

“Exactly.” Brett smiled his appreciation of Brooks’ confidence.

“And you’ve developed a great left feint,” Brooks went on. “The feint, followed by the fast feet, then dodge right… Well practiced. Great move.”

Brett’s smile deepened to a grin. “You played?”

Brooks shook his head. “I’m a baseball man. Not too many played soccer back in my day, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I was born with a bat and ball in hand, according to my mother.”

Brett’s expression changed. “Were you named for Brooks Robinson?”

“Good connection,” Brooks observed.

Rita noted his expression, a mix of surprise and chagrin.

“Not too many know that around here, but yes. My dad was an Orioles fan.”

“Was? Oh. Sorry you lost him.” Brett’s look smacked of apology for bringing up a sore subject.

Brooks clapped a hand to the back of his head, bemused. Rita studied him, his reactions, his look. He drew a deep breath, exhaled and directed his answer to Brett. “He’s not dead. I should have said is a big O’s fan. We went to every Orioles game we could when I was a kid.”

Another little tidbit of a past Brooks never talked about. Interesting, thought Rita.

“Mom!” Skeeter’s pugnacious demand put a quick stop to her mental wanderings. The seven-year-old stomped their way, rude and discourteous. “I’ve been waiting forever and I’m cold and hungry and my brown crayon broke and I can’t color a stupid tree without a brown crayon. What’s taking so long? Stop talking and take me home. I hate it when you take so long!”

“Skeeter—”

Skeeter stomped her foot again, her normally cute features twisted.

Brooks took no pains to hide his assessment. He nodded Rita’s way, ignored Skeeter, and said, “I’ll see you soon, Reet. Brett, good game.”

“Thanks, Mr. Harriman.”

Rita started to stumble through a goodbye. Another foot stomp dragged her attention back to Skeeter as Brooks walked toward his truck.

Before her stood one very good reason why she couldn’t entertain thoughts of a relationship. Not now. Probably not ever, at least not while she had to deal with Hurricane Skeeter on a daily basis.

Brett and Liv were old enough to appreciate the relative peace of Rita’s sobriety and their current existence. Oh, she was still paying the price for stupidity, but things were better between them. But Skeeter…

Not so much.

Frustrated, Rita headed toward the car at a quick clip, Skeeter following, her feet clomping in the cold, wet grass.

Which meant her shoes would still be wet for school tomorrow.

Another day, another confrontation.

Great.

Rita sank into the comfy recliner, put her feet up and leaned her head back, relieved to call it a day. Had she really crawled out of bed eighteen hours ago, her 5:00 a.m. bakery start a distant memory now?

Liv poked her head around the corner. “Sitting down again?”

Rita laughed.

Liv took a seat across from her, her glance taking in the time. “Long day.”

“For you, too.”

Liv shrugged. “I got to spend my evening watching two cute kids, neither of whom yelled or screamed or stomped their feet.” She jerked her head toward the upstairs, where Skeeter lay sleeping. “Got my homework done, studied for a chem test and watched cable, all while getting paid.”