DEAR DIARY,
I feel like a fool for even writing the words Dear Diary —
a woman my age (37!), a pregnant mother of three who
definitely has better things to do with her time than
scribbling in a diary like some teenager.
But I promised my sister Markie that I would start a diary
again, just like the three of us did when we were young.
Markie said to call it a journal if it made me feel
better. Whatever I call it, she claims writing out my
feelings will help me, heal me, give me focus, put me in
touch with my deepest desires and blah, blah, blah. I
don't know about all that, but God knows I could use a
little diversion.
So here goes.
Dear journal, or diary or whatever, allow me to introduce
myself. Roberta McBride Tellchick. Bankrupt widow. Mother
of three boys with yet another on the way. Freckle-faced,
redheaded middle sister. The one sandwiched in between two
smart, vivid brunettes like a piece of pale cheese.
What can I possibly have to write about here? My sister
has no concept of what it is like to walk in my low-heeled
shoes. She's caught up in an exciting, glamorous life in
Austin and has recently gotten herself blissfully married
to the gorgeous man of her dreams.
Okay. That's not fair. Markie's had some serious pain to
deal with in her life, and I have to say, I'm very proud
of the way she handled herself. I mean, giving a baby up
for adoption when she was only seventeen! And then seeing
him again out of the blue when he's all grown up. Markie
claims writing in her baby diary kept her sane while she
endured all that pain so long ago. She says it's in our
blood, this urge to write everything down. She says I'm
not supposed to censor my feelings on these pages or worry
about what anybody else thinks.
Okay. I have just had the day from hell.
I look like I've got a beach ball stuck under my shirt and
I didn't have time to wash my hair before I went to work.
I'm exhausted because I have to go to work at dark-thirty,
which is the way of it when you're a lowly waitress in a
diner that specializes in the monster Texas breakfast. We
have to get in there and help Parson — that's been old
Virgil's "real" name ever since he was in the Navy — roll
out the biscuits and chop up the home fries.
Nattie Rose, the other waitress at the Hungry Aggie, told
me I don't have to come in early if I don't want to. She
is too kind, that Nattie Rose. Has a real heart of gold,
even if she does cake on the eye makeup worse than Tammy
Faye Bakker. I told her that I am grateful for the job,
and I am not going to start slacking off my very first
week. Especially since I'll be taking off to have the baby
in only five short weeks. It's ridiculous for me to be
working at all in my condition. I know that. But Danny
left me and the boys with nothing, and I do mean not a
thing. It looks like the farm is gone for good now, not
that I'm sorry to be away from that place, away from the
terrible memories.
I try my best not to relive the fire, but sometimes your
mind just insists on rolling the video anyway, you know?
It's been almost four months now and I still don't have
the report from the local fire marshal. What's the holdup?
At least I finally started getting the social security
checks, thank the Lord, but that money barely covers
groceries and rent. It's not enough for those new Nike
tennis shoes my oldest is suddenly needing. Not enough for
the extras I'll be needing for this baby. I'm still
holding out hope for the insurance money on the barn.
I don't want to waste paper and ink on my problems. I find
it's actually easier to focus on something trivial like my
hair. When I woke up and looked at the clock this morning,
I had no choice but to twist the mess up on top of my head
and clip it up into a treetop. But since my hair's the
kind that has a mind of its own, by noon I'd developed a
frizzy little orange halo around my face. Very, very cute.
But what does it matter how I look when — now who on earth
could be ringing my doorbell? The boys know it's too late
to be having any kids over.
WHEN ROBBIE opened the door, the first thing that
registered were Zack Trueblood's dark eyes, traveling over
her face, then widening with what she imagined to be
involuntary shock — or was it disgust? — when he came to
her hair. But he rearranged his expression quickly
enough. "Hello, Mrs. Tellchick."
"Hello, Zack."
"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Again his gaze slid to
her hair, then slammed back down to the porch boards, then
flicked up to her face, once again composed and polite.
Robbie thought it was decent of him to skip her pumpkin-
shaped midsection.
But when he looked once more at her hideous hair, she gave
him a level gaze and patted it. "It's easy, you know. I
just stick a fork in the toaster and I'm done."
The corner of his mouth lifted a little then, but he
didn't actually smile. His expression said he was here on
serious business. Oh, Lord help me, Robbie thought. She
was in no mood for this. But a bad feeling in her gut told
her this was some kind of follow-up visit about the fire.
"May I come in?" The way he said it was almost apologetic.
Zack, she remembered from high school, had always been
famously polite.
"Sure." The door of the old house Robbie had recently
moved into creaked like something out of a horror movie as
she opened it wider for him.
Robbie imagined a grossly pregnant widow was so not
supposed to think thoughts like, Damn, that man is hot.
But boy, was he ever. Deep-set black eyes, bronze
complexion, heavy black hair. As he ambled past she
couldn't help a quick glance at his muscular backside, and
she caught a whiff of the most delicious aftershave she'd
ever smelled.
As for herself, Robbie imagined the oniony odor of the
home fries over at the Hungry Aggie mixed with the
lingering aroma of the spaghetti sauce she'd made for the
boys was enough to make any man retch.
She had seen Zack at the diner several times this past
week with a couple of his firefighter buddies. Booth six.
She suspected those big tips under the saltshaker were
from him. Was that out of guilt? Pity? Robbie figured she
was the one who should be feeling the guilt. It was her
pleas, her screams that drove this man into that burning
barn. Her hysteria could have cost him his life, and it
had certainly done nothing to save Danny's.
These were her jumbled thoughts as Zack walked past her.
That she was a mess, and that his shoulders were to die
for. That his whole physique, in fact, was most
impressive. He positively dwarfed her, even now, when she
was fatter than a cow. Her guess was he spent a lot of
time pumping iron over at that fire station.
No sooner had he stepped foot in her house than there came
a scary crash from the kitchen. It sounded like glass
breaking, followed by a stunningly abnormal silence,
followed by the dogs' wild barking, followed by the high-
pitched changeling voice of Robbie's twelve-year-old. "Now
look what you've done!" he screamed. "Mom's gonna kill
you!"
"Shut the hell up!" That clever retort came from Robbie's
eight-year-old, who recently acquired that delightful
word, along with some others she didn't want to hear in
her house. If Danny were alive he'd box his son's ears for
talking that way.
The pandemonium that followed — three boys yelling and two
dogs barking — made Robbie wince.
"Would you excuse me?" she said sweetly to Zack.
"Oh —" She turned back to him. "Please. Come on in. That
is, if you think you can stand it."
This time the corners of Zack's mouth tipped up into a
full-fledged grin.
ZACK TRUEBLOOD followed Robbie Tellchick down a narrow
corridor that ran parallel to the stairway and ended at a
high-ceilinged kitchen at the back of the house. He
watched her tangled thatch of hair bounce around on the
crown of her head, and wondered if this was the new style
or something. Curls upon curls upon curls, and his guess
was that none of it had seen a comb today.
She had always been a true redhead, he recalled. He
remembered how pretty her hair was in high school, strands
of spun copper mixed with streaks of blond. The rest of
her looked equally disheveled. What was with the perpetual
overalls? She even wore them at the diner, as if she
didn't care what anybody thought of her.
The last time he'd been to her home she'd looked even
frumpier, if that were possible, standing in the shadows
behind the screened door of her mudporch out on the farm,
cinched up in a faded pink bathrobe that looked to have
seen better days. She'd grown even rounder, too. Was the
poor woman having twins? He dared not let his eyes travel
down to her gently swishing backside. Wouldn't that be
some kind of sin against nature, to check out a pregnant
woman's behind? He guessed it was those deviling memories
of how cute her bottom had been in high school that made
his eyes flick down there anyway.
He immediately wished they hadn't.
Despite the deterioration of her looks, he had found
himself as drawn to Robbie Tellchick as ever. What was it
about her? Her cheery determination to please even the
grumpiest customer? Her laugh? Surely that. He could pick
up the sound of it from all the way across the diner. Was
it the way she'd taken hold with her boys, valiantly
trying to be both mother and father? He'd seen her at a T-
ball game last summer, pregnant and hot, but cheering on
her youngest with all her might. And now here Zack was,
about to add to her problems.
Whatever his fascination with the woman, he didn't have
long to dwell on it, or his guilt, because two mutts came
hurtling out of the kitchen and bumped into Robbie's legs,
knocking her off balance and backward into Zack.
"Whoa!" Zack said as the dogs shot out the open front door
while Zack grabbed for Robbie in several awkward places as
she stumbled against him. He'd never felt anything so
soft! All women were soft and, yes, he delighted in that
softness, but this was a kind of softness that was
unearthly, so buoyant as to be angelic, almost as if she
herself were the baby. She pushed off of him like he was a
brick wall and yelled, "Those dang dogs!"
Then she barreled onward into the kitchen.
The three Tellchick boys froze like little statues when
they saw Zack coming up behind her. He hoped it wasn't
because their young minds were flashing back to the one
and only time they'd seen him before. But Zack had been in
full firefighting regalia that night — turnouts, helmet,
asbestos mask. Covered in black soot. Eyebrows and hair
singed to brittle little filaments of scorched beige.
Surely they didn't recognize him, standing here in a clean
and pressed day uniform. He hoped they didn't connect him
with his failure in the event that had shattered their
young lives. He wondered if their mother had told them who
Zack Trueblood was — the man who hadn't saved their father.