Her face goes bright red as she lifts the baby higher on her hip and grabs the hand of one of the children. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, shooting an apologetic look to Connor. “Come on you two,” she orders to her children. The cashier rolls his eyes and picks up a phone receiver. Over the store speaker, he gripes, “I need someone upfront to grab items that need to be put back.”
The poor woman looks mortified as she moves to rush out, but Connor stops her.
“Hold on a minute,” Connor calls. Looking to the cashier, he asks, “How much does she owe?”
“One-hundred-forty-two,” the cashier replies, annoyed. I’m in line behind Connor now, grabbing candy bars from the display. “I got this,” Connor tells the cashier, giving him a pointed look that clearly states he’s pissed.
“Oh, thank you, but no. I couldn’t let you do that,” the woman sniffles. She’s so humiliated, she’s tearing up.
“I want to,” he tells her. “I’m paying for her groceries, and I need to add forty dollars in gas on pump seven.” Then looking back at me, as I stare at him in awe while holding five candy bars, says, “And those candy bars, too.”
With everything, the total is one-hundred-eighty-six dollars. Connor tosses bills on the counter, grabs the ladies four bags of groceries, and heads for the exit.
“Sir, you gave me too much. I owe you change,” the pimply face cashier calls. When Connor turns back, his expression is one of disgust. “Keep it, man. Maybe you can buy yourself some fucking manners with it.” Then he turns and carries the groceries outside to the woman’s car. She was parked close to the pumps, and as I filled the tank, I watched as she belted her children in the car while Connor put her bags in the trunk.
“Can I have your address so I can pay you back?” she asked when he slammed the trunk closed.
“No,” he says. “No need to repay me. I’ve had a lot of kindness thrown my way lately. It was about time I paid it forward.”
He stiffens when she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. He wasn’t expecting a hug, and I giggle at the look on his face. When she pulls away, I wouldn’t quite say he’s blushing, but he looks like he’s on the verge of it. “Thank you,” she insists, one more time. With a nod, he leaves her and heads back over to me. After the tank is full, we climb back in the car and continue our trip to Jeff and Wendy’s.
“That was . . . that was really nice, Connor,” I tell him. “You’re a good guy.”
“No, I’m not. Make no mistake about that. I’m just a very lucky guy.”
Although I want to, I don’t ask him what he means. I’ve learned in life, sometimes the hardest forgiveness to earn is forgiveness from ourselves. Clearly he thinks he’s undeserving, and that luck just fell upon him. And maybe it did. Or maybe it wasn’t good luck. I don’t know why he killed a man; frankly, I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever happened, right or wrong, good luck or bad, there’s no doubt there is more to Connor Stevens than meets the eye.
And I find it very intriguing.
On the way home we stop by Jeff and Wendy’s so I can give him cash to buy the materials he’ll need for my house. Jeff starts on my house projects Monday after next, so for now, Connor has to come down and use my bathroom. Which is no big deal for me. I just feel bad he has to go through the trouble. In addition to the plumbing, Jeff is going to paint my living room and put up crown molding.
“This is a nice house,” Connor notes as we climb the steps of the front stoop. Jeff and Wendy live in a beautiful colonial with a wide front porch. Even with five kids, Jeff manages to take excellent care of the outside.
“Jeff’s a great handyman,” I note as I open the front door. I never knock. Neither does Wendy when she comes to my house.
“Now the inside is a different story,” I whisper to Connor as I move aside allowing him to step in. There’s a staircase to the left strewn with clothes, toys, and books. The bench to our right has approximately fifty pairs of shoes on and under it and the wall above it with several jackets, coats, and book bags. I shut the door behind Connor as he takes quick inventory of the place.
“Wendy!” I shout as I make my way down the hall toward the kitchen in the back, Connor following close behind me.
“Kitchen,” Wendy yells back.
Entering the kitchen, we find Wendy plating grilled cheese sandwiches on paper plates, and Grayson on the floor with tons of matchbox cars, lining them up.
“Hey, guys,” Wendy chirps. “Want a grilled cheese?” Although she smiles at us, I can’t help but notice it doesn’t quite seem authentic. I give her a concerned look, but she just shakes her head, letting me know she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“No, thank you,” Connor says, and I shake my head no.
“Jeff ran out to get some milk and butter.”
“Well, I’ll just leave the cash with you. We have to get home.” I’m speaking to Wendy, but my gaze won’t leave Grayson, the youngest Tuffman child, who has lined up matchbox cars along the length of the kitchen.
“You have a lovely home,” Connor notes, and he and Wendy start chatting as I continue to watch Grayson. He’s singing. It’s the opening song to the cartoon show Team Umizoomi. As soon as he finishes, he starts all over again, singing the same song.
“Grayson,” I call. But he doesn’t respond or give any indication that he even hears me.
“Grayson bug,” I say, lovingly, hoping the change in my tone will catch his attention. But he still doesn’t turn. He just keeps lining his cars up and singing the same song, seemingly oblivious to me.
My brows furrow just before Wendy snaps, “Grayson! Answer Demi!” He doesn’t acknowledge Wendy.
Wendy huffs, clearly aggravated. “I think we need to get his hearing checked. It’s like he doesn’t even hear me most of the time.”
When I look up, Connor is watching me, a questioning look on his face. Apparently I’m not doing a very good job hiding my thoughts.
“Later,” I mouth. He nods and I put the envelope of cash on the counter. “Here’s the money and I added a deposit.”
Wendy’s eyes fall to the plates in front of her. I was hoping I had been subtle. I know they need the money, and she’s embarrassed that I know. If Connor weren’t here, I would press her and tell her to stop feeling ashamed, but since he is, I move on. “Well, we have to go. Meet me tomorrow for dinner? My treat?” I can tell something I off with her. Maybe I can figure out what’s going on over dinner.
Wendy’s eyes light up. “Yes, please,” she groans.
Connor and I chuckle just as her three older kids come barreling in the kitchen. Mary-Anne comes to an abrupt halt when she catches sight of Connor and J.J plows into her, knocking her to her knees.
“You jerk!” she yells at him.
“Mary-Anne,” Wendy scolds.
“Stop being such a baby,” J.J. grunts as he stands.
McKenzie, the second oldest, rolls her eyes, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. She looks just like Wendy at her age, all blonde hair, and rocking body. But she’s fifteen and McKenzie has reached those fun teenage years where everyone and everything is a nuisance. Oh, and she has it all figured out.
“Yay,” J.J. chirps. “Grilled cheese.”
“Grilled cheese again?” McKenzie moans.
“Not tonight, Kenz. Spare me your whining for one night,” Wendy begs as she grabs a pot from the stove and starts scooping green beans on the plates.
“Who are you?” Mary-Anne asks, and I look down to see her staring at Connor.
He bends to one knee, so he’s at her height and reaches out a hand, “I’m Connor Stevens.”
She looks at his hand for a brief moment before slipping her tiny one in his. “Mary-Anne Louise Tuffman,” she replies, giving Connor her full name.
He grins, and I’m oddly enraptured as I watch him talk with Mary-Anne. There’s easiness about him and mirth in his eyes. He’s good with kids.