“That would be the one.”
“So, what’s to discuss?” She sounded matter-of-fact, like the skilled businesswoman she was. “People make decisions about children all the time, and I’m not an expert, Grant. And you’re not exactly open to suggestion, so maybe we should leave it at that. There are plenty of well-written books out there about raising developmentally delayed kids. That way you don’t get mad at me, a plan I favor highly since we’ll be working together for the next two months.”
“If I promise not to get mad, act like a jerk or get defensive, do you think we could get together and talk about it?”
“Can you do that?” she asked, which made him laugh because she was kind of right.
“I can try,” he said. “But can we do it at my house? I feel terrible leaving them so often.”
“Lesson one,” she murmured. “Excise guilt factor.”
“You get points for recognizing that—I think it’s intrinsic to single parents.”
“My sister-in-law Corinne would agree. So would Drew. It’s hard to be the bad guy all of the time.”
“Exactly. But I don’t want to raise a couple of angry, bratty kids, and if Dolly keeps demanding more and more attention, how will Timmy feel?” Something he said must have tipped her into saying yes.
“What about tomorrow? Rachel’s coming over around noon, but maybe later? Or we could meet Sunday after church. That might be better. It’s earlier in the day, before nap time.”
“What time do you go to church?”
“Nine. And I’m home by ten thirty, so I could be at your place by eleven or so. Unless that interrupts your morning?”
“Eleven’s good. I’ll grab some stuff for lunch, okay?”
“No cold cuts.”
Grant paused. “You don’t eat cold cuts?”
“Not as a rule.”
“Are you a vegetarian? Or one of those vegans?”
“No, I eat lots of things, but I don’t do cold cuts. Although I do like sliced ham. Sliced ham doesn’t count.”
“I’m confused. Is it a certain type you don’t like or just cold cuts in general? Because that might be considered weird for a meat eater.”
“I’m not weird. I’m...possibly traumatized.”
He didn’t mean to laugh because what if she wasn’t kidding? He’d already ticked her off once today. “Trauma by luncheon meat. That’s a new one, Emily. Do ninja salamis chase you in your dreams?”
She huffed, and he wondered if she was sitting at her desk, tapping a pencil against her mouth the way she did at their first meeting. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “They jiggle.”
“They what?”
“You heard me. Cold cuts jiggle. Except hard salami, but if I make an exception for that, the others will think I’ve caved.”
“This is preposterous, you know.”
“I’ve been told that before. And yet, it’s true, so if you want me to come and hang out with you and those adorable, somewhat naughty children, no cold-cut platter, okay?”
“What about pizza?” he asked. “Do you have any qualms about pepperoni or mozzarella cheese?”
“Homemade?”
“My mother’s recipe.”
“I couldn’t be more ‘in’ if I tried.” She sounded downright excited about the idea of pizza and toddlers. He couldn’t help himself.
He laughed. “Pizza it is. Sunday, after eleven.”
“Yes, and I’ll let you know what Christa says about the dress shopping then, okay?”
“Perfect.” He hung up the phone, still grinning. For a minute, he thought she was going to be a salad kind of woman, and he didn’t remember a day when Serenity wasn’t on his case for his eating habits. He’d laughed then, because at six foot two and two hundred pounds, he liked food. And anyone who got that excited over pizza and kids was okay in his book.
* * *
Emily pulled into Grant’s driveway at quarter past eleven on Sunday morning. She grabbed a cloth bag from the passenger seat, got out and surveyed her surroundings.
Nothing about this house said children lived there. A classic sprawling ranch with arched ceilings and south-facing skylights, impeccable landscaping and hand-laid paver walkways between gardens suggested the grass was not to be walked on. No toys lay scattered around the yard, and no tiny muddy shoes lined the elegant porch. The exterior of the house said appearances mattered, and that surprised her. She rang the bell and waited. And waited. And waited.
Was he here? Had he forgotten? Had something happened?
She was just about to ring the bell again, when the garage door started rolling up. “Emily?”
She moved down the steps and across the walk. “It’s me.” She entered a garage that didn’t look nearly as HGTV pristine and saw Grant at the back door.
“Sorry, Timmy built a really cool tower by the front door and I’d have to ruin it or move it to open the door, and either one would probably launch a third world war. I figured we’d wait at least five minutes before we engaged in two-year-old histrionics. I’m glad you came.”
He sounded delightfully normal and sincere, so she didn’t tell him she’d weighed the invitation for the past twenty-four hours. She’d left the gray-stoned church still unsure, but she’d given her word and here she was. She stepped into a busy kitchen and instantly felt better. “This is more like it.”
His brow knit, puzzled. “More like what?”
“The front of the house looks like a no-kid zone. This doesn’t.”
“Oh.” He made a face as he shut the door. “The house and yard were from our upscale phase when Serenity was sure children weren’t going to be part of the equation. It’s not exactly a kid-friendly house or location, there’s no one around to play with, but life’s been too busy to think about moving. Although it’s on the list,” he finished.
Dolly was in the next room, systematically dumping bins of toys onto the floor, while Timmy was strategically placing large, locking plastic blocks on top of one another in a row of towers. “Here’s your perfect example of the differences between these two, playing out right in front of you,” Emily said softly.
He followed her gaze. “Two kids playing. Nothing too earth-shattering there, right?”
“Timmy is on the floor, focused and intent, creating structures, then placing them where he wants them. If he doesn’t like the effect, he moves the little building and re-creates the scene.”
“You’re making block towers seem pretty sophisticated, Emily.” He grinned and reached for her jacket, then hung it up. “And while every father wants their kid to be a rocket scientist or cure cancer, I think we’ve got a ways to go.”
“Timmy’s play is sophisticated for a young two-year-old. It shows memory, thought and process, then rearranging as needed, which means reasoning. Dolly’s dumping is more along the lines of your typical one-year-old, seeing bright things, dumping bright things, then overwhelmed by the melee and unable to put the bright things away.”
“She hates picking up and she loves destroying anything Tim makes. Which is what she’s about to do right now.” He crossed the room quickly, scooped Dolly up, told her no and set her back down.
She dropped to her knees instantly, turned and aimed for Tim’s plastic block city.
Once again Grant intervened as Emily withdrew a set of finger cymbals from her bag. She stepped into the room, sat down on the floor and chinged the tiny instruments together.
Dolly turned, drawn to the sound. “Ba?”
“Music.” Emily tapped the tiny cymbals together rapidly, happy, dancing notes floating through the air. “Music.”
“Ba!” Dolly race-crawled her way as fast as she could go. “So ba!”
“You like music, Dolly-girl?” Emily raised her hand up, operating the metallic c
ircles just out of Dolly’s reach.
Dolly grabbed Emily’s arm, intent on the noise. She pulled herself up to her knees, mesmerized by Emily’s action. “Ba! Ba! Ba!”
“Music,” Emily repeated and eased herself up onto the couch. “Ding! Ding! Ding! Music.”
“Ting! Ting!” Dolly screeched the word, excited, then pulled herself up to a standing position, trying to get closer to the noise again. “Ting!”
Emily reached her free hand into her bag and brought out a little bell for Grant. “Ring this and move over there,” she told him as she kept the flashy little cymbals playing. “Just far enough away so she might think about walking.”
She didn’t look at him to see if he was uncertain because even if he was, she wasn’t. The thought of Dolly not achieving all God created her for was too sad to contemplate, so she wouldn’t think about it. Grant wouldn’t have requested her advice if he didn’t recognize the problem, so that was a big first step.
She stopped making music when Grant was in position and pointed to him. He rang the bell, a lilting, joyful sound. Dolly turned, surprised to hear music from behind. “Ba! Ting!”
“Music,” Grant told her, following Emily’s lead. “Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong!”
“Ting!” Dolly laughed and reached. “Ting!”
“Good talking,” said Emily. “Go get the bell, Dolly. Go get it from Daddy.”
“Ting.” Dolly looked at her, then Grant and her forehead furrowed. “Ting! Ting! Ba!”
“You can have the bell if you go get it,” Emily told her. Dolly was clinging to the couch with one hand, fully standing on her own. “Go get it, sweet thing.”
“Ba!” Dolly’s face darkened as she realized what they wanted. Emily had to hand it to the kid, for a two-year-old with developmental problems, Dolly could work the crowd. “Bee, ba. Beeeees.”
“She’s saying please,” Grant told Emily. “She knows she’s supposed to, but rarely does it. Should I give her the bell?”
“Did she walk to you?”
He frowned and when he did, it was Dolly’s frown, just bigger and even more concerned.
“Toughen up, Dad.”
“It’s hard,” he muttered, but he stood his ground. “Come get it, Doll-face.”
“Oh, what a cute nickname. I love it.”
Dolly wasn’t impressed with their banter. She noticed her brother playing quietly and quickly dropped down. She took off in his direction.
Grant jangled the bell softly, intermittently. She whirled around, still on all fours, assessing the situation. At that moment, Emily understood part of Grant’s problem. Because Dolly’s appearance was more normal than most kids with her challenges, the expectation for her to process normally was high. Grant had mentioned that.
But the bright look in her eye indicated she was doing a mental assessment, much like Emily had noticed at the office when they first met, and that could mean her reasoning was probably in the higher subnormal range. Either way, Dolly was sizing up the situation and making a choice, and that was pretty solid behavior to work with. She worked the cymbals again, then slid back to the floor. “Come here, precious.”
“Ba!” Dolly crawled back her way, pulled herself up on Emily, patted her cheek and smiled. “Oh, ba!”
“You’re pretty, too,” Emily interpreted, smiling. “Here you go.” She handed Dolly a pair of slightly bigger cymbals and showed her how to clang them. “Ding! Ding! Ding!”
To take the cymbals, Dolly had to let go of Emily and the couch. Emily put a shiny cymbal in each hand and when Grant called Dolly’s name, she turned his way, beaming. “Ding! Ding!” She clapped the two cymbals together, off center, but close enough to create music. “Ding, Da!”
“You’re making music, Doll-face.” Grant smiled at her and he started to cross the room, but Emily shook her head.
“Stay right there. Squat down, open your arms and call her, as if she comes running to you every day.”
He sent her a funny look, but did it, and then...
Oh, then!
Dolly clanged her cymbals, grinned in delight and took a step as if she’d been doing it forever. Then she stopped, made music again and took another step, a happy smile brightening her face. She repeated the action until she got to Grant’s side. “Doll-face, you did it! You walked to Daddy!”
“Ting! Ting! Da!”
“You made music and walked to Daddy, Dolly.” Emily crossed the room and hugged her, then smiled right into her china-doll eyes. “You did it! Big girl!”
“I have some?” Timmy noticed the instruments, stood up and came their way. “Music for Tim?”
“Absolutely.” Emily reached into her bag and withdrew a xylophone and a little horn. She showed him both instruments and let him pick. He picked the horn, then marched around the room, tooting and strutting, the leader of the band.
Dolly got down on all fours and followed him, but she couldn’t keep up. Finally she sat back on her bottom and wailed.
“And this is where you would normally pick her up and move her closer, but let’s see what she does if we just walk away,” Emily whispered. She was close enough to Grant to note the way his hair curled around the back of his ear, enough to say Dolly’s curls came from her daddy. When he followed her toward the kitchen, a whiff of some inviting, guy-scented soap took precedence over old breakfast dishes.
Dolly fussed and scolded in unintelligible gibberish, while Tim kept marching. She looked at them.
They pretended not to notice.
“Da!” she yelled, but without her normal force.
They ignored her, talking quietly.
She stared across the room where Emily had left her cymbals at the edge of the couch, an invitation to join the band if ever there was one. She crawled over, head down, determined, and when she got to the couch, she pulled herself up and grabbed the cymbals.
Emily reached for Grant’s hand. “I think she’s going to do it.”
“You think?” Grant whispered the words close to her cheek, close enough to feather her hair with coffee-scented breath. “How—?”
He stopped talking as Dolly clapped her cymbals together twice in a row, and then took a tiny step forward. “Ding!” She yelled the word, paused, banged her cymbals and took another tiny step. “Ding! Ding!”
Timmy didn’t notice. He was too busy marching and tooting.
“Ding!” She yelled it again, but as she took another step forward, she almost giggled. “Ding!” Step. “Ding!” Step. “Ding! Ding!” Step. Step. Step.
And now Timmy noticed. His hazel eyes went wide and he tooted his horn and pointed. “Dowwy, good! Dowwy, good! Yay!”
Grant stayed silent and still behind Emily, and for a few seconds she thought he was upset or angry. Then she turned.
Damp-eyed, he watched his little girl as she tried to follow her more adept brother around the room. She couldn’t keep up, but it didn’t matter. Tim marched around the outer perimeter, leading his imaginary band. Dolly made a much smaller circle in the middle, but she was walking, all by herself, and playing with her brother.
“How’d you know what to do?” Grant whispered. His gruff voice sounded emotional and not a little chagrined. “Has she been fooling me like her occupational therapist has suggested?”
“Therapist-1, Grant-0,” Emily replied, just as soft. “Her good looks inspire people to take care of her. But of course, in the end, that doesn’t do her any good because you want her to be as independent as she possibly can be. To shoot for the stars.”
“And have her chronically disappointed?”
Emily snorted, then laughed at his expression. “Listen, Mr. Glass-Half-Empty, struggle builds character and character builds strength. With her problems, she’s going to need to be as strong as possible. Your job is to see she gets that way,
even if you have to wipe a few tears.”
“I hate seeing her cry,” he told her.
“I meant your tears,” she teased, laughing, and jabbed his arm gently. “Letting go is tough. But necessary. Absolutely, positively necessary.”
Chapter Six
Others had said similar things. Several times, in fact. Why did he finally listen when it came from Emily? What was it about her that made sense? She might not be an expert, but somehow, her opinion mattered. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d promised her lunch and it was almost twelve thirty. “We should do lunch, shouldn’t we?”
“What time are their naps?”
“In about an hour.”
She nodded. “Then yes, and if you won’t be insulted, you can make food while I load the dishwasher. Four hands go faster than two, and it’s anybody’s guess how long we have.” Her quick glance into the front room indicated the toddlers.
“True enough. And pizza’s okay?”
“Way better than okay. Especially if it’s homemade.”
“One of my few culinary talents. That and red sauce. I should have been born Italian, but Irish and German won the day.”
“I’m a Gallagher, so Irish works for me, Grant.” She filled the top rack with sippy cups and coffee mugs and tiny bowls. “I’ve chatted with Christa over the computer, and next Tuesday morning at ten seems like the best time.”
“I can’t deny being a little intimidated by the thought of going to a bridal store—”
“Salon.”
“Bridal salon,” he corrected himself in a long, dry tone, “and shopping for a dress. Awkward.”
“It won’t be awkward at all—it will be nice. Caroline’s excited that Christa’s getting married and can’t wait to pull dresses that might work. And she’s hooking up the computer to a bigger screen so we’ll actually be able to see Christa if all goes well.”
“This is only one of the many times I wish my mother was here.” Grant layered sauce and cheese on the rolled dough. “She should be here to do this stuff, to see her daughter get married. My father left because he wanted to. Mom didn’t have a choice.”
Her Unexpected Family Page 6