The Promise (Thunder Point #5)(27)

He gave a shrug. “Devon and I have been talking about it. We’re thinking about day care, but there’s no day care in town. We’ll also have to find a babysitter to share during clinic hours. After clinic hours, we’ll share the load, just like now. It really does take a village, especially in my case. We’re going to barely blink, and the girls will start public school—just another year. Then it’s going to get even more complicated....”

Oh, yes, she thought. After-school clubs, sports, lessons, friends to hang out with or invite over. And needs—needing rides or clothes or supplies or equipment. “You have no idea,” she said.

“You speak as one who knows,” he said.

“I’m the oldest of eight, remember? I have ten nieces and nephews with number eleven due soon. Plus, Dr. Ramsdale was a single father of three, and there were times he had to ask office staff to pick them up or chauffer them.”

“I hope you understand, I really don’t intend to do that to you. That last time was a big emergency, Devon on her honeymoon...”

“I appreciate that, but I didn’t complain, did I? I understand extreme circumstances. And you know what? I enjoyed your children. They’re very entertaining. And they’re nice, Scott.”

“Will miracles never cease,” he said, just as their dinners arrived—a big burrito for him, a taco salad for her. “What was it like growing up with all those brothers and sisters?” he asked.

“It was a circus,” she said, spearing some of her salad. “Try to imagine feeding ten on an easy day. Not only were there occasionally friends to add to the lot, but there were aunts, uncles and cousins, mostly from Oregon and some from California. It’s a big family. My mother doesn’t own a platter or bowl that won’t hold enough food for an army. Towels were washed daily, there were so many. By the time we could spell cat or dog, we were taking out trash, helping in the garden, picking pears, doing kitchen chores and learning to operate the washer and dryer. If you can drive a tractor, you can wash clothes. The week was divided—two kids per day got the washer and dryer. If you didn’t perform laundry on your day, you were outta luck. We bartered to throw a favorite pair of jeans in with someone else’s load. My dad used to say we learned to dance by waiting for a turn in the bathroom. No one had their own room, and we were pretty exited if there were only two sharing a room. Oh, by the time some of us left for school or work or the military, the younger ones had their own rooms for a few years, the spoiled brats. It was crazy.”

“Good crazy?” he asked.

“Depends on your perspective. There were feuds and fights sometimes. We lived in a big old farmhouse, and there was barely a quiet corner to study in, but if we didn’t get A’s, we were toast. My parents were very strict. They had to be. But my mom—she was amazing. Is amazing. She tried to find special one-on-one time for each of us. There were too many of us to have a lot of that. My folks worked to the bone every day, so when it came time for games, recitals, concerts, plays and all that stuff, they were spread pretty thin—they couldn’t show up for everything. My dad got up at four every morning and put in fourteen-hour days. My mom ran a farmhouse and garden and eight kids, and she was out of bed to give my dad breakfast every morning and had a solid dinner on the table every night. We were all at Mass every Sunday morning. That was non-negotiable. Since the pope had everything to do with them having eight kids, we were, by God, spilling out prayers every Sunday.”

She saw that he was looking at her in sheer wonder. She smiled at him. “Your burrito will get cold.”

“I’m fascinated. I have one sister and a widowed, overprotective, possessive mother. My sister, Nancy, and I refer to her as The Mother. When I moved to Thunder Point, leaving my mother to focus on my sister rather than her poor, widowed son, my sister threatened to sue me.”

Peyton laughed.

“When a person grows up in a big family, does that make one want a big family?” he asked, finally diving into that burrito.

“Are you kidding? All I wanted was my own room! And travel, freedom and independence. When I was a teenager, if I got a new sweater or great pair of boots—bought by me, of course, from babysitting money—I had to hide them or I’d see them on a sister! They’re scavengers!” She played with her salad and thought briefly of Ted’s kids. They hadn’t been terribly different except for two things she had come to view as important—remorse and reciprocation. Ted’s kids, unlike her sisters, were proprietary. They had a sense of entitlement.

“But I will say this—being raised on a large working farm in a big family, there’s no opportunity to develop laziness or become self-centered. And my parents couldn’t have chaos—the whole operation would collapse. So there was a real low tolerance for irresponsible, rude or selfish behavior. You’re mad at your brother? Get over it! You don’t love your sister today? Act like you love her! I mean, we were human—there were issues all the time. We really were regular kids. But we learned to keep it under the radar. My parents weren’t inclined to look the other way when someone was mean or spiteful or, God forbid, disrespectful. The Basque are a passionate people, but respect for family is high on the list of requirements. If you want to live,” she added with a grin. “And yet,” she said somberly, reflecting again on Ted’s kids, “my father rarely raised his voice. In anger, that is. When my uncles were around or when the family worked or celebrated together, you could hear my father’s voice booming from acres away. And my mother had a Mother Superior voice that brooked no argument, but I can count on one hand the number of times I heard her yell.”