Suddenly Daddy and Suddenly Mommy

by Loree Lough

  A loud sucking sound captured everyone’s attention. “That’s got it!” Barney hollered. “The main drain’s cleared!” Within minutes, a few puddles were all that was left of the miniflood.

  “Mom, why don’t you take Liam and Mr. Buchanan up to my apartment while the rest of us clean up this mess. I can’t afford for the tiles to lift and loosen and—”

  “Of course you can afford it.” Rita took Liam. She gave Jaina a look that said, “Watch what you say around this guy, will you?”

  “There’s lemonade in the fridge upstairs,” Jaina told them, heading for the kitchen, “and I baked chocolate chip cookies last night.”

  Connor didn’t miss the understanding expression that connected mother to daughter. It told him they shared a love, deep and abiding, that allowed them to read one another’s thoughts, to sense one another’s feelings. A spark of envy shot through him for he’d never known love like that, not as a boy and certainly not as a man. Another spark—determination this time—flashed through him. Liam deserves to be loved like that, and I’m going to see to it that he is! he silently vowed.

  Rita started for the stairs. “Take your time, sweetie,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ll be just fine.” She gave Connor a look that defied him to challenge her and added, “Won’t we, Mr. Buchanan?”

  Connor’s brow furrowed slightly. “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “If you’ll just follow me…”

  At the bottom of the steps, Connor wiped his feet on a mat that said, “Hi! I’m Mat!” Smiling, he climbed the highly polished wood steps and thought of the moment that Jaina had spotted him in the diner. He could think of only one reason she’d seemed so terrified at the mere sight of him. Brace yourself, Buchanan. She’s going to fight like a mama tiger for that boy.

  His attention was immediately diverted by the paintings that lined the left side of the stairway. Landscapes—farms, mostly—all signed JCC. Though each was a different size and shape, nestled in its own unique frame, one thing repeated itself in every picture: a two-story farmhouse. His house!

  Did she really think he’d fall for such an obvious plot to gain his approval? Did she honestly believe he wouldn’t see through her attempt to win him over?

  You’re not making sense, man, he chided himself. No sense at all. There had to be two dozen paintings here, he began to reason. Even if she’d had time to find out what kind of house he lived in, she hadn’t had time to put it into all these paintings, not with running a restaurant and taking care of Liam.

  Liam.

  He looked up, saw that the baby was staring directly at him. The child wasn’t smiling. Nor was he frowning. Rather, he seemed content to merely study the man in the soggy-cuffed pants whose shoes squished with every step. “Who are you?” his big blue eyes seemed to ask, “and what is your interest in me?” Even if Liam had been seven years old instead of seven months, Connor couldn’t have explained. How would he describe a feeling so deep and so intense that he himself didn’t understand it?

  Rita dug in her pocket and came up with the key to Jaina’s apartment. “Well now,” she said, stepping inside and gently depositing Liam in a fifties-style playpen, “would my boy like a bottle of juice?”

  “Dih,” he responded, pointing at Connor. “Dih?”

  She pulled dry baby clothes from a bureau drawer and began stuffing Liam into them. “Isn’t this a pretty dresser?” she said, more to herself than to Connor. “Jaina bought it just last week at a yard sale. Had no idea what she’d keep in it.” She gave Liam’s tummy a playful poke, smiled warmly when he giggled in response. “And then this little fella came along. I’d say it was the Lord’s hand at work if you hadn’t—”

  Botched up Jaina’s plans to be a mommy? he finished silently.

  Rita clamped her lips together, then smiled stiffly. “How about a nice glass of lemonade? Jaina makes it fresh-squeezed, you know.”

  He did his best to mask his annoyance. Fresh-squeezed? In this day and age? Yeah, right. “Lemonade sounds great,” he said, his big hand ruffling the baby’s golden curls. “Can’t recall when I last had fresh-squeezed.”

  “Keep an eye on him while I pour, will you?” she asked, handing Liam to Connor.

  And while she rummaged in the kitchen, Connor meandered around the apartment. “I’ll bet you can’t find a speck of dust in this place even if you gave it the white-glove test,” he whispered into Liam’s ear. But it didn’t have the look of a room that had been recently scrubbed to impress him. Rather, it seemed to Connor that Jaina lived by the old adage that everything should have—and be in—its proper place.

  She’d managed to make the huge space seem intimate, cozy even, by arranging overstuffed sofas and chairs in the center of the room. She’d offset the almost antiseptic white walls and cream-colored upholstery with bright pillows, candles, more artwork….

  Here in the living room, as in the stairway, her paintings were of country settings, and the Victorian had found its way into each. In some, the house dominated the canvas; in others, it occupied a background space. Connor stepped up to the one hanging above the player piano. “Look at that, Liam,” he said softly, pointing. “See that pretty house?”

  It sat in the upper right-hand corner, high on a rocky hillside, and though it was barely larger than a postage stamp, the detail was incredible. Lace curtains hung in every window. Twin bent-willow rockers sat on the covered, wraparound porch, a brass door knocker gleamed from the red front door, a gray-striped tabby lay curled up on the welcome mat, and a cardinal perched on the white picket gate. Except for the cat and the bird, it was his house, right down to the rope swing in the giant oak out front. It had been there when he’d bought the house, and although he had no kids—and doubted he ever would—he couldn’t bring himself to take it down.

  He’d gone to great pains to keep his home address and phone number private. How had she managed to find out where he lived…how he lived—in such a short time? She just couldn’t have. She hadn’t had time to dig up the information and create dozens of paintings in the limited time they’d known one another. So how did she know so much about his house?

  It was the most amazing, uncanny coincidence of his life. Or was it a sign of some kind, one he should pay attention to? His cynical side shook off the notion.

  “Well, she’s no Rembrandt,” he told Liam, “but she ain’t bad, is she?”

  The baby wasn’t in the least bit interested in Jaina’s artwork. Wasn’t interested in Connor’s critique, either. Kicking both feet, he reached for the piano keys. “Mmumm-mmumm,” he said. “Mmumm-mmumm.”

  Connor sat on the piano bench and placed Liam’s fingers on the keys. “Ready for piano lessons, little guy?” he asked, chuckling.

  “Dih.” With surprising deftness, Liam gently depressed the keys one at a time. “Dih,” he said again as the pleasant notes drifted throughout the apartment.

  Connor’s eyes were drawn back to the picture. She couldn’t have known it was his house. If she had, she wouldn’t have put it on a hillside in one painting, in a valley in the next, on a rocky outcropping in another.

  Something happened to him as he sat there, gazing at Jaina’s creation, something simultaneously wonderful and frightening. He’d gotten the same sensation when she’d nearly fainted in his office and he’d held her in his arms for the tick in time it had taken to help her to a chair. He’d put his hands on her, so why was he feeling touched?

  The sensation washed over him again, the feeling that she’d known him, and he her, for a long, long time. He’d never experienced anything quite like it before, didn’t know if he liked the experience. For even while the connection made him feel as though he belonged, it made him feel vulnerable, out of control.

  He shook his head, held Liam a little tighter, kissed the top of his head. Get hold of yourself, man, he cautioned himself, ’cause one thing is certain. If you want to win in court, you’d better stay in control. Complete control at all times.

 
Connor stood and headed for the French doors on the opposite side of the room. Outside, a wide deck overlooked a thick stand of yellow and white pines that swayed in the steamy breeze. Liam, who’d caught sight of a toy in the playpen, began to bounce up and down. “Buffoo?” he asked, a finger aiming in the direction of the desired plaything. “Buffoo?”

  He put the baby back into the playpen, and the child grabbed what appeared to be a hand-carved wooden truck. An assortment of new toys surrounded him. If she’d brought in a playpen, no doubt she’d also secured a crib, a high chair, a car seat…everything a social worker would deem necessary to care for a baby Liam’s age. Connor ruefully shook his head and lifted one eyebrow. He had to give her credit. She was good, real good. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to make herself look like a woman who deserved to win a Mother of the Year trophy. Either that, or…

  Did he like and admire her…or didn’t he?

  “Dih-dih,” Liam said, holding up his arms.

  Connor picked him up again. “Can’t make up your mind whether you want in or out, eh?” he asked, gently chucking the baby’s chin. “I know the feeling.”

  Liam offered him the truck.

  “Say, this is nice. Where’d you get it?”

  “My husband made it for him,” Rita explained. She’d entered the room, holding a baby bottle in one hand, balancing a tray on the other. “He’s very handy. Fairly artistic, too.”

  “So that’s how Jaina comes by her talents.” He nodded toward the paintings. “Did she study art in school?”

  Rita giggled. “No, no. Didn’t have time for art lessons. Everything you see is the result of God-given talent.”

  “Can’t help but notice that the same house is in every picture. Is that where she grew up?”

  Liam, having seen the bottle, began flapping his arms. “Buffoo. Mmumm. Dih!” he said, reaching for it.

  Laughing softly, Rita took the baby from Connor’s arms. “No, but she would have loved to. It’s her dream house.”

  “Her…”

  “Her dream house. You dream, don’t you, Mr. Buchanan? Every Sunday, she combs the real-estate section of the newspaper, looking for something that even comes close.” She headed for the bedroom. “One of these days, she’s going to find it. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if when she does, she sells The Chili Pot and spends the rest of her life painting and growing flowers.”

  Connor pocketed both hands and nodded. He could almost picture her in that house, long, thick hair tied up in a ponytail as she stood, paintbrush in hand, at her easel, fresh-cut flowers from her garden in vases all around her…. He’d bought the place, held the deed to it, but could it have been intended for her?

  “Would you like to see where Liam sleeps, Mr. Buchanan?”

  He blinked himself back into the present, then followed Rita through the arched doorway. Several things—from the sensible way she’d dressed each time he’d seen her to her obvious belief in hard work—made him believe the furnishings would be plain and simple. Instead, an ornate four-poster dominated the space. A mahogany chifforobe and matching bureau stood side by side against one wall, a small writing desk and chair against another. A thickly napped blue Persian rug dominated the center of the gleaming hardwood floor, while wide-slatted wooden blinds covered the double-hung windows. Here, as in the living room, she’d brightened the backdrop of creamy white walls with multicolored afghans, lamp shades and knickknacks.

  Liam’s crib stood beside her bed, and next to it, a low-seated, broad-backed rocker. The beady black eyes of a fuzzy teddy bear peeked out from the baby blanket folded neatly over one chair arm. He could picture her sitting there, tucking the blanket around Liam, who’d be snuggled against her bosom, chubby fingers wrapped around her slender ones, hugging the bear as she rocked him to sleep.

  It was a lovely picture.

  Too lovely.

  Cut it out! he scolded himself. You don’t even know the woman.

  Rita snapped the blinds shut, throwing the sunny room into chocolaty darkness as Liam settled in for his afternoon nap.

  Connor followed her back into the living room. “Should I close the door so our talking won’t keep him awake?”

  “He sleeps like a log.”

  She said it like a woman who knew Liam well. A pang of guilt shot through him. He was Liam’s blood kin; he should be the one spouting everyday facts about him.

  When she’d come into the room earlier, Rita had placed the tray, bearing a plate of cookies and two glasses of lemonade, in the center of the coffee table. She leaned down and helped herself to a cookie and a glass, settled on one end of the couch and tucked her legs up under her. “Have a seat, Mr. Buchanan. Jaina won’t be much longer, I’m sure.” Smiling fondly, she shook her head. “She can’t stand to be away from the baby for more than a few minutes. Sometimes it seems like he’s permanently attached to her hip!” A soft, motherly chuckle punctuated her statement.

  He settled into the overstuffed chair, where he could see the bedroom doorway. “I may not have been the first to admit it, but I’ll admit it now. Jaina’s been good for the boy. It’s obvious she’s doing everything she can for Liam. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay her.”

  Rita’s smile vanished, and in its place she wore an angry frown. “Repay her?”

  “I assure you, I didn’t mean that as an insult. I only meant that I appreciate what she’s done…what she’s doing—” he glanced at the bedroom doorway “—at least until the legalities are finalized.”

  The woman lifted her chin. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Buchanan. How can you be so certain the courts will appoint you Liam’s legal guardian?”

  He shrugged. “I’m his only living relative. It’s been my experience that in cases like this—”

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she interrupted, “you being a lawyer and all, but I know you’ve read Kirstie’s note. She made it clear where she wanted her son to live.” Rita tilted her head slightly to add, “Doesn’t that matter to you at all?”

  Connor leaned forward, balanced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands tightly in the space between. Only then did he meet Rita’s eyes. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, you being Jaina’s mother and all, but we can do this one of two ways. The easy way, or the hard way.”

  There was no question in his mind that Mrs. Chandelle understood his meaning. He watched as she glared openly at him, lips trembling as she struggled to keep a civil tongue in her head.

  The door opened, then closed quietly. “I see you’ve put Liam down for his nap,” Jaina said, breezing into the room. “It’s a little early. But then, he had quite a morning, so I suppose it’s all right.” She smiled at Connor. “Did you two have a nice visit before he conked out?”

  He had made up his mind on the way over here to take a hard-line approach toward the woman who wanted to deprive him of a life with Liam. Despite his resolve, he returned her friendly smile. “We had a few minutes.”

  “Isn’t he the most precious thing you’ve ever seen?”

  Her eyes sparkled, her smile sweetened, her voice sang. His back stiffened in reaction; he’d been the unwilling victim of womanly charms before. Had been the victim of not-so-charming wiles, too. He’d learned the hard way that smiles, tears, pouts and venomous glares could be turned on and off like a water faucet to ensure that the so-called “lady” would get her way. He didn’t know why Jaina wanted Liam, but she did. To stop the ticking of the proverbial biological clock? To fulfill some typically female need to win?

  Looking into her open, honest face, Connor was forced to acknowledge another possibility, another probability: she genuinely loved the baby.

  He’d dismissed his earlier suspicions about her. He considered character judgment part of his business, and she didn’t seem the type who would deceive him. Well, he wouldn’t hurt her, either…if he didn’t have to.

  Connor didn’t relish the idea of waging judicial war against this diminutive woman who
seemed to care so deeply for his nephew. She either loved him, he thought, or she’d missed her calling and deprived Hollywood of one of the world’s greatest actresses.

  She glanced at his half-empty glass. “Would you like a refill?”

  Connor blinked. Met her eyes, and again smiled against his will. “No. It was terrific, but I’ve had plenty, thanks.”

  She sat on the other end of the sofa. “Well, what do you think of him?” Grinning like a proud mama, Jaina enthused, “Isn’t he adorable? And what a smartie! He’ll be talking and walking long before other kids his age, I just know it. And the doctor—”

  “The doctor?” he interrupted. “Is everything all right?”

  Jaina waved his concern away. “Of course it is. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s, well, he’d been through so much, what with the long trip and all, that I thought it would be a good idea to bring him in for a checkup.” She shoved a damp curl behind her ear. “I mean, what if something was wrong and Kirstie was too distraught to notice?”

  “Wrong? Like what?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing serious, really, but a milk intolerance, for instance.” Another shrug. “It’s such a relief knowing he’s perfectly, one hundred percent healthy.”

  Milk intolerance? He’d never even heard of such a thing. Under the same circumstances, Connor doubted he’d have thought to take the baby to a pediatrician. A male versus female thing? he wondered. He’d heard the age-old theory that mothers were natural-born nurturers. Not that he knew it from personal experience, his mother being as cold as she was and all…. “How many people know about Liam? In a professional capacity, I mean.”

  “The doctor—” she began counting on her fingers “—and the police, of course.”

  “The police?”

  “Sure. Liam was exhausted that first night, so the very next morning, I called a friend of mine—he’s a social worker with the Department of Social Services, you know—to find out what I should do. Skip came right over, told me to call the police so there’d be a record of how the baby came to be in my, ah, possession.”