His Daughter...Their Child

by Karen Rose Smith

  “Anything I don’t have to cook sounds wonderful. Here, let me get that.” The casserole looked heavy and he’d stepped in automatically to take it and put it in the microwave, but Celeste didn’t protest.

  Rather, she simply set the timer and said, “I’ll toss the salad, and if we’re still hungry when we’re finished—” She pointed to the dessert holder on the counter. “She baked a peach pie this morning. I’m definitely going to gain weight if I stay here too much longer.”

  “Much longer meaning…?” he prompted.

  She took carrots, lettuce and celery from the fridge and straightened. “I’m going to have to start looking for an apartment. I don’t need much room, but I’d like a first floor with a backyard where Abby can play.”

  Clay felt a stab of panic. Could he ever let his daughter stay with Celeste? Even to let her babysit? Could he trust her? If she wanted her daughter badly, what would she be willing to do? Run with Abby in her arms?

  “What are you thinking?” Celeste asked, maybe as aware of him as he was of her.

  Nothing that I want you to know, he thought, staying silent.

  “Clay, what?”

  “You seem to think it might be easy for me to just let Abby come see you wherever you are.”

  Celeste turned toward him, reached a hand out to him, then seemed to think better of it and let it drop to her side. “No, I don’t think it would be easy. Yet if you become comfortable enough with the idea, it doesn’t have to be hard. Unless…” Her gaze seemed to study every detail on his face, from the lines he knew were creasing his forehead to the stubble of beard on his chin.

  “She’d be safe with me, Clay. I know about choking hazards and cleaning supplies kids shouldn’t get into. I’m not irresponsible.”

  “I don’t know that, do I?”

  “You could soon figure it out if you were around when I visited Abby.”

  “You and I both know it’s better if I’m not.”

  Her face took on some color. She turned back to the greens she’d pulled from the refrigerator, snagged a bowl from the cupboard and began tearing lettuce.

  Suddenly she stopped. “It’s more than that, isn’t it? You think I might try to take her from you.”

  “I never said that.”

  “No, but it ran through your head.”

  Their gazes locked and he couldn’t deny it. If he was reading her right, that thought actually hurt her.

  The microwave beeped, and he knew this preliminary conversation was going to make the reason he came here tonight even more difficult to talk about.

  They finished making preparations for supper. He stirred the casserole, covered it and reinserted it in the microwave for another minute. Celeste put the salad together and set it on the table. She placed dishes on the purple pansy place mats with silverware and napkins beside them.

  Finally, after they were seated, water poured, and a few bites taken, Celeste asked, “Why did you come tonight, Clay? If you don’t want to be around when I see Abby, you certainly don’t want to be alone with me.”

  He took a couple of bites trying to figure out the best way to say what he had to say. “You’ve been giving Abby presents.”

  Celeste’s eyes widened. “Is there something wrong with the doll I gave her? It was soft with no small parts and could be washed.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. She sleeps with it and carries it around with her.”

  “That’s the problem? She prefers it to her other toys?”

  “No. Lord, Celeste, how petty do you think I am?”

  Celeste’s eyes took on a defiant glint. “I don’t know. Because you’re not really telling me what’s bothering you. Yesterday when I brought over the sweater set, your mom said it was just the right size.”

  “It was. It was as perfect as the little bows you bought for her hair, the board puzzles, the toy with flashing lights to teach her colors. You’re trying to buy your way into her affections and that has to stop.”

  Celeste’s fork stopped midway from her plate to her mouth. She stared at him as if he had two heads, as if she were going to deny what he had said.

  More gently now, he added, “If you want to visit and play with her, that’s fine. But don’t lead her to think every time she sees you, you’re going to give her another present. That’s not fair to her or to you.”

  An expression crossed Celeste’s face that worried Clay. Had he said too much? Should he have even brought this up?

  Before he could answer his own questions, she’d put down her fork, risen to her feet and stepped over to the counter where she made some noises with the coffeepot. He could tell she wasn’t interested in coffee. Whatever was troubling her, he gave in to the urge to find out what it was. After all, it could affect his daughter.

  Forgetting his own dinner, he pushed his chair back, purposely scraping the floor so she’d know he was getting up. Then he went to the counter and stood beside her as she tried to put a filter in the basket. He saw her face had paled, and now he was really worried. He clasped her shoulder, intending it just to be a measure of comfort. Instead, he reacted to the feel of her warmth under his hand. He didn’t remove it.

  “What’s going on, Celeste?”

  She shook her head and fumbled with the carafe, averting her face from his.

  His thumb under her chin, he nudged her around until she faced him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I can’t believe I’m doing what—” She shook her head again.

  “I don’t understand.”

  She took a couple of breaths and then tried again. “You know my mother had men friends, guys she’d bring up to the apartment after the bar closed.”

  “There was lots of gossip,” he admitted. Especially after he’d started dating Zoie, his parents had discussed it more than once.

  “A couple of the men stayed awhile. It wasn’t just one night. I’d really forgotten all about this.”

  “Forgotten what?” Clay prompted gently.

  “One of the men, his name was Derrick, was a really nice guy. He didn’t come up just after the bar closed. He was there for dinner for several months. On Sundays when he’d come for a meal, he’d bring Zoie and me presents—a new CD, baseball caps, a bracelet from the discount store. I don’t know about Zoie, but I felt if he gave me a present, he must like me separate from Mom. I started dreaming about having a real family, two parents, a dad who worked, too, so Mom wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

  “He didn’t stay?”

  “I don’t know what happened. He and Mom started fighting, arguing, then he just stopped coming. No goodbye. No explanation. When I asked Mom about it, she got this strange look on her face. She just said, ‘He had to move on’ and she couldn’t go with him. She had us to think about and a decent job and she couldn’t take the chance a man would do what he said he was going to do.”

  Clay realized now that Celeste’s mom had modeled behavior that Zoie and Celeste had reacted to very differently, though he hadn’t known it. Zoie had wanted a partner to have fun with and to see the world with. And Celeste…it seemed she’d only wanted a family.

  “I can’t believe I was doing the same thing he did!” Celeste confessed with regret. “I can’t believe I thought presents would make up for the years I didn’t spend with her.”

  Stepping a little closer, Clay couldn’t help himself from taking Celeste’s face between his hands. “So now you realize that. It’s okay, Celeste. No harm done.”

  Yet, he realized, lots of harm had been done. Celeste’s childhood had impacted her. That impact had affected his marriage to Zoie, too. And now? Now he had to keep their kisses from impacting what happened next. He was so close to her. Her eyes were so bright and her expression so vulnerable.

  Because of that, he dropped his hands and stepped away. He asked, “Do you really want coffee?”

  She gave him a tremulous smile and answered, “I prefer tea. But I’ll make you a pot if you’d like.”

  “No. I have t
o get going.”

  Understanding shone in her eyes. Understanding of why he’d backed away and why he was going to leave now…before the kiss began…before they did more.

  After all, he was her sister’s ex-husband. And he didn’t trust women any more than she trusted men.

  At a children’s clothing shop, Celeste chose a pink T-shirt with a kitten appliquéd on the front and handed it to Clay. “Do you think Abby would like this?”

  Clay had called her yesterday to invite her along to Flagstaff to shop for Abby’s clothes and supplies for preschool.

  He took the T-shirt in his large tanned hand, and Celeste remembered all too well the feel of that hand on her arms…at the back of her neck when he’d kissed her. She had to remain calm, cool and collected this afternoon. Ever since he’d picked her up—they’d already shopped at a few stores—she’d sensed he was on edge.

  Because kissing was out of the question? Because she reminded him too much of Zoie? Because she wanted to intrude into Abby’s life?

  Any or all of the above.

  He laid the shirt on the growing pile in the shopping basket he was carrying. “You do a good job of focusing in on the things she’ll like.” He paused, shuffling through the clothes in the basket. Then he met her gaze again. “I asked you along today because I thought it would be a good idea if we did something for her together. Do you know what I mean?” He was making it clear they had a purpose here today. It wasn’t a date by any means. And she understood.

  “She’s easy to read, Clay, open and guileless and totally adorable. You’ve done a great job.”

  “Then why do I feel as if I’m letting her down? As if Zoie walking out was somehow my fault, and someday Abby will blame me for it?”

  Did Clay realize what part he’d played in Zoie’s desertion? Not that there were any excuses for a mother walking out on her child. Not that there were any excuses for a mother leaving and not coming back.

  Did Zoie care about Abby now? How could she not? Celeste wasn’t sure if she knew her sister anymore.

  “As long as you give Abby all the love and attention she could ever want, as long as you give her boundaries, she’ll know you were the parent who loved her.”

  “How do you know so much about kids?” he asked with a wry smile.

  “I don’t know so much about them. I just remember what being one felt like.”

  “Because you never knew who your father was?”

  “That, and because Zoie and I spent a lot of time in that apartment alone.”

  Suddenly Clay’s cell phone buzzed. He checked the screen. “It’s Mom. I’d better take this.”

  Celeste didn’t want to eavesdrop, but when she heard Clay ask, “Do you think she has a fever, too?” she moved a few steps closer.

  “We’ll be there as soon as we can. If possible, push liquids.”

  When he glanced at Celeste, she suspected his mother had asked something about her. He didn’t hesitate when he said, “Yes, I’ll be bringing her along with me. A half hour at the most.”

  Clay secured his phone on his belt. Before she could ask, he said, “Abby didn’t want her usual snack. She said her stomach hurt. Shortly after, she started sneezing. Mom thinks she might have a fever but she doesn’t have a thermometer there.”

  Celeste returned the T-shirt to the shelf. The expression on Clay’s face told her he was more than a little worried about Abby’s condition. “It’s probably just a cold,” he said.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Celeste agreed, reaching out and touching Clay’s hand.

  For a moment, true understanding flowed between them. But he didn’t let the moment last long. He removed his hand and she dropped hers. They headed for the door, ready to race back to Miners Bluff and figure out exactly what was going on with their daughter.

  The Sullivan home was located in one of Miners Bluff’s older neighborhoods. A grand, two-story Colonial, the brick exterior had been refaced several times over the years. The huge front porch with black trim and white pillars was more for decoration than function.

  Clay opened the door, Celeste right behind him as they entered a high-ceilinged foyer with a winding staircase that led to the second floor. Everywhere there was polished dark wood, crown molding, and a sense of the history that had begun in Miners Bluff with the Sullivans. Photos of the first copper mine hung above the credenza, where a finely carved replica of a wooden stagecoach stood.

  The accoutrements didn’t interest her as they passed through the living room, a grand dining room, to an oversized kitchen beyond. Granite counters and mahogany cupboards along with a Sub-Zero refrigerator spoke of a makeover here, too.

  Beyond the kitchen there was a hall with another stairway. Clay went there and called upstairs. “Mom? Are you up there with Abby?”

  Celeste heard Violet call back. “Yes, we are—in the guest room.”

  He took the steps two at a time, and Celeste hurried to keep up.

  When they entered the pretty green bedroom, Celeste wondered if it had been refinished and redecorated for Abby. There was a white double bed trimmed in yellow and the other furniture matched. Abby was on the bed, a light throw tossed over her, while Violet sat on a chair beside the bed, a book on her lap. To Celeste’s surprise, Clay’s father also stood in the room, seemingly without purpose. His father’s presence seemed to immobilize Clay for a moment. He nodded to his father, gave his mom’s shoulder a squeeze and sat on the bed at Abby’s feet.

  But as soon as Abby saw him, she tossed off the cover and crawled straight into his arms. She sneezed twice, and he handed her a tissue from the box on the night stand.

  “Grandma tells me you don’t feel well.”

  “My tummy hurts and…” She started coughing.

  Clay laid his hand on her back as if that would support her and give her comfort. “I brought someone else who was worried about you.”

  Abby looked up and saw Celeste. Where she’d been frowning before, now she gave more than half a smile. “C’leste.” She reached up to her.

  Celeste embraced the little girl. These hugs were beginning to feel more real, more as if they mattered, more as if she might earn the right to have one on a daily basis. She sat on the bed holding Abby with Clay beside her, glancing at him to see if he thought this was okay.

  The nerve in his jaw jumped, and he looked tense all over. Yet he didn’t tell her to put Abby down. The child clung to her for a few minutes and then settled into her lap, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Abby nestled her head against Celeste’s breast, curled into her body and closed her eyes.

  “I’ve been trying to coax her to sleep for the past hour. I didn’t really want to call you, Clay, and interrupt.”

  “You didn’t interrupt. We were almost finished.” He brushed his hand up and down his daughter’s arm. “I think you’re going to like the clothes, especially the ones Celeste picked out. They definitely have a princess theme.”

  “I like the pwincesses,” she said with her eyes still closed. “Awiel and Belle and Cind-a-wella,” she murmured.

  “And Snow White and Sleeping Beauty?” Celeste suggested.

  Abby’s eyes popped open. “Do you like them, too?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Isn’t that a nice coincidence?” Mr. Sullivan mumbled.

  “Harold, Celeste is trying to make Abby feel better,” his wife scolded.

  “Maybe the best way to do that is to tuck her into bed and give her some soup. Or better yet, I can call Doc Wakemore,” Harold said.

  “I’ll call Adam Cooper in the morning,” Clay informed his dad. “He’s her pediatrician. He’ll know what’s best.”

  “He just set up his practice in Miners Bluff. What does he know about anything yet?”

  “He did a fellowship in Chicago. He also did some volunteer pediatric service in Haiti. He’s more than well aware of what kids can contract. If Abby gets worse tonight, I’ll call him. But if she doesn’t, I’ll wait till morning.”
He reached for his daughter then, but she tightened her arms around Celeste’s neck.

  “Stay wif C’leste,” she mumbled.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Of course she doesn’t mind,” Harold interjected. “She can’t wait to insinuate herself into your life, just like Zoie. Don’t make this so easy for her.”

  Clay turned to face his father, anger etched on his face. “Dad, stop it. If you want to have a conversation about this, we’ll have it alone, some other time. Not now.”

  “That’s exactly how you got tied up with Zoie for almost a decade. You wouldn’t have the conversation now. You wouldn’t give up. You had to prove something to yourself and everybody who knew she’d had an affair. Look what that got you.”

  Violet had stood and gone to her husband’s side. She tugged on his elbow. He glanced down at her and then sighed, “All right. Take Abby home. Just don’t forget whose daughter she is.”

  Celeste heard the resentment and bitterness in Harold Sullivan’s voice when he spoke of her sister and the marriage that had gone south. But she also sensed hostility between him and Clay. Like Silas and Zack Decker, Harold and Clay couldn’t seem to find common ground, couldn’t seem to get over expectations in order to have a relationship founded on who they actually were.

  As she descended the steps with Abby, Clay watching over her, she had no delusion that he’d forget even for a minute who was the parent here.

  But maybe soon, she could convince him she knew how to be a parent, too. Maybe soon he’d realize she wanted to be part of his life as well as Abby’s.

  Chapter Six

  Celeste sat right beside Abby’s car seat, her arm draped around her protectively as Clay drove. There was a glassiness in Abby’s eyes that scared her. She wished she could take in Abby’s cold or flu so her daughter didn’t have to suffer it.

  Her daughter. She felt closer to her with each day.

  Clay watched them in the rearview mirror. The worry in his eyes was clear. At a red light, he cast another glance over his shoulder at the backseat just as Celeste leaned close to Abby and put her hand on her chest. She closed her eyes, then opened them, staring directly into his.