Oh, he sometimes ogled, or rather, he catalogued everything about her. There were times when his attention felt almost tactile. But never at the expense of her son.
Other men would ignore Ryder when he spoke because they only wanted her attention. As if she’d ignore her own son. Not likely.
Hendrix was totally different, and there’d been a few lonely nights when she’d imagined him asking them out to dinner. Ryder would love it – and so would she. But Hendrix never asked. He was too much of a loner for that.
Now he was in the tiny cabin with her and Ryder, taking up a lot of space with his height, his wide shoulders, and his take-charge presence.
And all she could offer was three pieces of bread with peanut butter and jelly.
The cabin, exactly like the others in the park, was meant for two, so three left it crowded – and all the Christmas decorations didn’t help.
Still, Hendrix spotted the food – or lack of it – on the narrow counter right away. Actually, looking at her meager offerings was easier than all the red and green and shiny stuff.
Accidentally, Hendrix bumped into Ryder. The boy grinned at him. Then Joey ran into his back, causing a sizzling second of heated awareness. She apologized and squeezed around him.
Dragging his gaze off the mostly empty jar of jelly, Hendrix forced himself to look around. The place was as pristine as a tiny cottage could be. The pine walls, ceiling, and floors gleamed, almost blindingly so, especially with the reflection of multi-colored lights on the small Christmas tree set on a pedestal table crammed in the corner.
Just inside the door was a futon to his right with the tiny kitchen nook on the left. A narrow refrigerator and two-burner stove took up precious wall space. The front of the fridge sported hand-cut snowflakes made from white paper and sprinkled with glitter. A miniscule strip of countertop – holding Santa and Mrs. Clause salt and pepper shakers – led to a double bowl sink. Beyond that, the counter extended to create a bar top for eating. Two pine chairs were there, each with red cushions.
All along the ceiling, construction paper garland hung in swags. More homemade snowflakes were on the windows.
Hendrix’s head started to throb.
This was the homey shit he didn’t want to see. How could Christmas be anywhere near cheery when Joey’s circumstances were so dire?
Were the bathroom and small bedroom also afflicted with Christmas? Probably. It seemed these particular unwanted park guests spent all their free time crafting.
It was damn near mesmerizing. Or nauseating. Possibly something in-between.
His attention returned to the food Ryder had set out. No wonder Joey hadn’t wanted him to join them. She didn’t have enough to go around.
With an absurdly bright voice, she said, “You two take a seat.”
“Come on, Mr. Becker.” Ryder urged him to a chair.
He resisted. “There are only two.” Maybe that could be the excuse he needed to dodge out.
“I’ll get the chair from my room!” Ryder sprinted off.
“No, wait.” Hendrix went after him, in part because he couldn’t imagine Ryder hauling a chair. He was only seven and on the scrawny side. But also out of curiosity. As he stepped into the eight-by-eight bedroom, Ryder turned with a kid-sized plastic chair in his hands.
It was perfect for a little boy, but it wouldn’t reach the counter.
From the kitchen, Joey called out, “I brought in a chair from the porch. Problem solved.”
Great. Freaking great.
Ryder returned the chair with all the energy of a boy his age. It barely fit at the end of the bunk beds, next to a small dresser,but that didn’t bother him. With a lot of pride, he announced, “This is my room.”
“Nice,” Hendrix said, trying to sound impressed. After looking around, he moved closer to the pictures on the wall. “Did you draw all these?”
The chair was forgotten. Puffing up, the boy said, “Yup. Mom says I’m a artist.”
“An artist,” Hendrix corrected, without thinking about it. “I agree.” He’d drawn trees, the shoreline, elk, and...” Leaning in and squinting, Hendrix surmised that the pole-skinny person with a tornado of yellow hair and a black bathing suit must be Joey. “This is your mom?”
“Yup. I like her curly hair.”
He liked it, too. “Any pictures of you?”
