At Last (The Idle Point, Maine Stories) - By Barbara Bretton Page 0,74

kept the bathroom door open until he was twenty-two. "Okay, Soph," he said, stepping away from the door. "I'm here if you need me."

He waited. And waited. And waited a little bit more. Finally he knocked on the door again and was treated to an explosion of words uttered in such a thick English accent that he couldn't understand any of them. Temperament? A problem? Something only a woman would understand? He was stumped. He and Sophie not only had a bit of a language problem, they had a gender problem as well.

It was going to be a long day.

He was determined not to run to his mother with every problem he encountered with Sophie. He had been away from home for eight years. He had built an independent life. His mother had had more than her share of problems while he was gone and she hadn't run to him for help. The least he could do for her now was work out his own difficulties with his daughter.

Unless Storm was around.

Sophie liked Storm Adams. Storm was much the way he had remembered Laquita at that age: remarkably self-possessed, quiet, almost Zen-like in her acceptance of the vicissitudes of life. The antithesis of his livewire daughter. Seeing your home and belongings swept away in a flash flood had to have been a devastating experience but you would never know it by Storm. His mother seemed very fond of Storm. She encouraged the girl to use their personal library anytime she liked and he had noticed Storm reading quietly in a corner of the room the last few nights.

He stepped out into the hallway. No sign of anyone. He walked over to the landing and looked down at the foyer where Rachel Adams was polishing the mirror that hung over the small table where they stacked outgoing mail. She caught sight of him and looked up.

"Morning, Noah. Breakfast's ready when you are."

"Thanks, Rachel," he said. "Is Storm around anywhere?"

Rachel shook her head. The movement made her hip-length ponytail sway. "Band practice this morning." She grinned up at him. "Girl trouble?"

"You could hear her down there in the foyer?"

"Couldn't understand a word but the intent was pretty clear."

"I think she's having a problem with her hair."

"It starts early," Rachel said, barely containing a laugh. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a crinkled circle of soft hot pink fabric. "Your secret weapon."

He bounded down the stairs and took it from her. "Does this secret weapon have a name?"

"Ask Sophie," she said, turning back to the mirror. "She'll know."

Rachel was right. Sophie hollered. "Scruncheeee!" then made a lunge for it. Even though Noah was new at the parenthood game, he recognized a power position when he saw it. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

#

Gracie woke up a little after six the next day to the sound of the morning paper hitting the front door. Pyewacket slept curled up next to her; his purr almost drowned out the sound of the wind off the ocean. She felt groggy, not quite all there even though she'd managed almost eight hours of sleep. She had been dreaming about Gramma Del, one of those talky dreams where much was said and little remembered.

You wouldn't recognize this place, Gramma. Laquita made new curtains, recovered your sofa and your favorite chair. She painted the walls white. Can you imagine that? White walls and pale yellow scatter rugs. She even filled the fridge for me with milk and orange juice and eggs and arranged for the paper. And she writes notes. Remember how you were always trying to get me to write my thank-you notes? Bet you wouldn't have had any trouble with Laquita—

Good grief. She sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. Laquita was about to become Gramma Del's daughter-in-law, or she would be if Gramma were still alive. She would be Gracie's stepmother which meant Rachel and Darnell, the hippies by the river, would be her father's parents-in-law and they'd be related to all of the Adams kids and whoever they ended up marrying—it was all too confusing.

The note from Laquita was on the nightstand. Gracie rolled over on her side and reached for it. She had been so tired last night that the words ran together like melted candle wax. Okay, it was a simple welcome note. Warm but not too warm. Brief but not terse. Very much in keeping with the low-key manner Gracie remembered when she thought about Laquita. Of course there was also the