by Susan Wiggs
A rueful smile tightened his lips. “You see right through me, Miss Hathaway. I confess, the notion did cross my mind. But I rejected the thought. I may disagree with your politics, but I’ll not deny your love for my daughter.”
She was quiet for a moment, and he sensed her struggling with something. It was strange, this affinity he had for her, this way of knowing she was in pain.
Then she nodded. “I kept coming back to one matter—what is best for Maggie. I don’t want to force her to endure the life of a fugitive just because of my own selfishness. Nor do I want her to feel like a piece of disputed property. She would be hurt by a protracted battle, so I’ve chosen not to fight.”
Rand leaned back against the wall, trying to sort out his feelings. He’d been prepared for every possible resistance from her and had prepared every possible justification for reclaiming his daughter. His attorneys had drafted arguments in support of his claim, proving him the superior parent by virtue not only of the nature and law but of his stature in the community. He’d drawn up reams of proof of his financial and social viability. He would have dragged Lucy’s reputation through the mud, publicly, in order to win a favorable ruling from a judge. But thanks to Lucy, he hadn’t needed to fight.
Elation soared through him, yes, and triumph and joy sweetened the victory. But he could not quell a vague twinge of regret. He hadn’t wanted to do battle with this woman. However, he also didn’t want her to make herself a martyr over this.
“You’ve made a wonderfully wise and generous choice,” he said at last. “I do admire you greatly for this, Miss Hathaway.”
“I didn’t do it to gain your admiration,” she assured him. “I did it to make this as easy for Maggie as possible.” Her voice sounded cold and flat, and he suspected she was trying hard to stay calm. “Look over the rest of the document, Mr. Higgins. I expect you’ll find it agreeable.”
Her terms were far more liberal than those in the restrictive documents in his briefcase, but he was willing to make concessions because she’d taken the high road herself. Although the child’s chief domicile would be with Rand, Lucy had assigned herself generous rights to visit. The document spelled out the terms of the custodial arrangement, from visitation to maintaining membership in a church Maggie had attended since 1872. One condition, he noticed, was that the child was not to be taken from Chicago without Lucy’s approval.
“May I take this?” he asked, holding up the agreement.
“Of course.” She pressed her palms carefully on the blotter. “But I warn you, I will not change a word of it.”
He opened his briefcase. “I brought a document of my own, but it was drawn up with a contest in mind.”
“My daughter is not a prize to be won. That’s why I gave her up without a fight. I’m doing this the only way I know how.”
He’d expected tears and hysterics. Instead she seemed as steady as a marble icon.
“What have you heard from your former wife?”
As always, Lucy Hathaway aimed straight for the heart of the matter. “I had a wire last night from San Francisco.” Over the past years, his feelings for Diana had run the gamut, from an abiding commitment to blind hatred to a profound indifference.
“When will she return?” Lucy asked. “Did she say?”
“Actually,” Rand said, hating the admission, “she did not. She declared her surprise and joy to learn that our daughter is alive and well, but there was no mention of her coming back for a reunion.” He didn’t reveal that the wire had been filled with suspicions even darker than the ones Rand had entertained when Lucy had first come to him. Diana believed the claim to be fraudulent. She accused Lucy of being a blackmailer and manipulator.
Wishful thinking will not bring Christine back, Diana had concluded. Take care you’re not duped by an opportunist.
“There is something we must consider,” Lucy said, leaning across the desk. As he so often did, he felt drawn to her. She was a thin woman with busy hands and probing eyes, intense in a way that captured his interest and held it riveted.
“What is that, Miss Hathaway?”
“I assume she could arrive at any moment—for heaven’s sake, how could she stay away?”
“Indeed.” Yet Diana had given no indication of further interest in the subject. He settled back, waiting for her to make her point.
“And when she comes, what if she—” Lucy broke off, trouble furrowing her brow.
“Go on,” he said. Christ, did she expect him to read her mind? “What were you going to say?”
She looked him square in the eye. “I mean you no insult whatever, and I beg you not to take this wrong.”
“Just say it, Miss Hathaway. Now is the time for complete candor.”
“Suppose your ex-wife is unwilling to renew her marriage vows with you?”
He let out an explosive sound that was not quite a laugh. “Do you think I was expecting that?”
“Actually, yes. I assumed that the impact of the tragedy broke you apart, and now that you have found your child again, you would come back together.”
Rand used to hope for a reconciliation. He’d built his house—a grand behemoth he could ill afford—in the hopes that it would lure her back to him. Finally he’d concluded that whatever bonds he and Diana had shared had been broken long before the tragedy. It took the drama and agony of the accident to sever the ties completely.
But Lucy couldn’t know that. All she knew was that his scars had made him a monster no woman could possibly want, not even the mother of his child.
“Diana is not likely to want a reconciliation,” he said.
“That is why I stated in the agreement that Maggie is to be raised in Chicago. Mr. Higgins, I beg you to support me in this.”
“Diana will not take my daughter from Chicago,” Rand promised her. “But for now, there’s no point in speculating about her plans. The next task is to share the news with Christine.”
“Christine.” The name came from her on a whisper, as if she were almost afraid to utter it. She shut her eyes, and the expression on her face was so taut with uncertainty and yearning that he had a sudden urge to touch her, to rub his thumb along the tense line of her jaw and tell her everything was going to be all right. He didn’t, of course. He didn’t touch anyone anymore.
“When shall we tell her?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said, her eyes flying open. “You’ll want time to look over my terms. We must sign the agreement and have it notarized. Everything must be in place before she—” Lucy broke off. “Everything must be in place.”
“Miss Hathaway, I have barely slept three hours since you gave me this miracle. What do you suppose I’ve been doing in that time?”
“I don’t know you, Mr. Higgins. You’ll have to tell me.”
“I’ve been getting the house ready. A crew of workmen has been laboring ‘round the clock, preparing a suite of rooms for her. Christine will live like a princess in a fairy tale.”
“I’ll want to inspect the premises myself.”
“Of course.” He stood up, briefcase in hand. He’d come here expecting the worst. Instead he was getting his child back. He wanted to laugh, to smile. To shout with joy.
“And I want for us to tell her together.”
“Of course,” he said again, and felt a blessed relief. He was not too proud to admit that the prospect was daunting. In taking his place as Christine’s father once again, he would need all the help he could get.
The knowledge that Randolph Higgins would be taking Maggie away sat like a stone on Lucy’s chest. She devoted the remaining week to her daughter, knowing she would have to live the rest of her life on the precious memories they made in their final days together. Mr. Higgins would permit her to visit, of course, and she would always be a part of Maggie’s life, but it wouldn’t be the same as living together, day in and day out.
But she would never forget, never. And if there was a benevolent God—Patience swore there was—Lucy would re
member even the small moments that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. She would always savor the simple joy of bathing Maggie’s healthy body, the sound of the child’s unrestrained laughter, the patter of her feet as she and Lucy danced and whirled, pretending they were princesses. She would remember standing over Maggie’s little spool-spindle bedstead and watching her daughter sleep with her hand clutched around Amelia, her rag doll. She would never let herself forget the little-girl smell of her, equal parts grass and fruit and something uniquely Maggie. She’d have to learn to close her eyes and conjure up cherished images to banish her loneliness—the expression on Maggie’s face when she spied a nest of ducklings by the pond in the park, her round-eyed look of wonder on Christmas morning, the way her little hand fit so perfectly into Lucy’s and the way that hand always seemed to be there, right when Lucy needed it most.
Being a mother had taught Lucy that a child gave as much as she took. More, even, for she was completely unaware of the importance of her gift as she held up a scrawled drawing of a sailboat, plucked a daisy for her grandmother or kept Willa Jean company by singing “Camptown Races.” These were all things Maggie gave without calculation or purpose. She gave selflessly simply because she was a child with a loving heart.
For Maggie’s sake, everyone kept up a cheerful facade. Viola still supervised baking day and washing day with a song on her lips, though her gaze lingered extra long on Maggie as the little girl folded the tea towels with clumsy diligence.
Willa Jean entered figures in the account books, and as she worked, her attention kept wandering to the wall calendar. Everyone knew time was short, but no one spoke of it.
On the appointed day, Deborah and Kathleen came to visit, finding Lucy in the kitchen with a large spoon and an old bucket.
“Wait a minute.” Kathleen tilted her head at a comical angle. “Has hell frozen over?”
Lucy laughed; her aversion to cooking was well known. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s not lunch. I’m getting ready to do an art project with Maggie.”
Deborah touched her arm. “How are you?”
“Wretched,” Lucy admitted. “I feel as though—” she peered out the window, making sure Maggie was out of earshot “—we’re waiting around for someone to die.”
“Don’t be morbid,” Kathleen said. “Maggie will be fine. I told my husband to find out everything he could about the man.”
Dylan Kennedy had always had a fine nose for uncovering information. “And?”
“Dylan says he’s a hardworking, decent man. Smart in business, though he associates with that ee-jit, Jasper Lamott. Outside of banking, your Mr. Higgins has had a share of troubles.”
“Does Dylan know anything about the former Mrs. Higgins?” Lucy asked.
Kathleen and Deborah exchanged a glance heavy with apprehension.
“Tell me,” Lucy insisted. “You absolutely must. This is Maggie’s future we’re talking about.”
“They say Diana Higgins divorced him with indecent haste and claimed nearly all he had.”
Deborah smoothed her skirts in her lap. “People say all sorts of things in a divorce suit. I don’t think her getting the fortune means a thing. It certainly doesn’t mean he’s an unfit father. Perhaps it means he’s…overly decent.”
“A man?” Kathleen snorted. Then she sobered and took Lucy’s hands. “The night of the Great Fire was a turning point for all of us, wasn’t it? Deborah was taken hostage and fell in love with her captor.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Deborah said.
“And I got married, of all things, though I didn’t learn to love Dylan until later.”
“We all found someone to love that night,” Lucy said brokenly. “But now I’m losing my Maggie.”
“You mustn’t think of it that way,” Kathleen said, her clear green eyes deep with an abiding and very Irish belief in magic. “Something good will come of this, you’ll see. That was the night that shaped our lives.”
“Of the three of us, you were the bravest of all,” Deborah said. “Kathleen’s right. You were meant to bring Maggie back to Mr. Higgins, and you won’t be abandoned for it.”
“He’s very suspicious of me,” Lucy confessed, thinking of the modifications he’d made to their agreement.
“Most men don’t trust a woman with a mind of her own.”
A dull red heat crept up Lucy’s cheeks. “I’m afraid I once said a foolish thing to him. He was mocking the free love movement, so I happened to mention all my lovers from France. He believes I have a whole raft of them.”
Kathleen laughed and slapped her knee. “I wish you did.”
“Sometimes I wish that, too,” Lucy admitted. “But men don’t like me.”
“You just haven’t met the right man yet. Or perhaps you have and you don’t know it. The gas man, the postman, the printer, the Harper Brothers sales representative.”
In spite of herself, Lucy laughed as she measured water into the bucket, then bade her friends goodbye.
“You’ll be all right, Lucy,” Deborah promised her. “You always are.”
Kathleen hugged her hard. “Remember what I said, girleen. Something good will come of this.”
After they left, Maggie came in, her cheeks bright from being out in the crisp spring day. “What is this stuff, Mama?” she asked, peering into the battered bucket.
“Plaster of Paris,” Lucy said. “You’ll love it.”
Maggie stuck a finger into the thick mixture and brought it to her mouth.
“It’s not to eat,” Lucy said quickly. “It’s for making things.”
“Like what?”
“Just watch.” Lucy poured the wet plaster into three cardboard trays on the worktable.
“Look, Grammy Vi,” Maggie shouted as Viola joined them. “Plaster apparent!”
Lucy’s mother looked intrigued. “What on earth are you making?”
Silky the cat slipped in, leaping silently to the table to inspect the mixture.
“It’s a surprise,” said Lucy, trying in vain to shoo the cat away. “But we mustn’t waste time. It hardens quickly. Give me your hand, Maggie.”
The child eagerly complied. Lucy kissed the little hand, eliciting a giggle from Maggie. “Hold your fingers apart, like so,” Lucy instructed, demonstrating. “We’re going to bring your hand straight down.”
Maggie grinned as her hand sank into the white plaster. “It’s warm,” she exclaimed. “Feels like mud.”
“I knew you’d love it. Now, lift it straight out, don’t wiggle around.”
Maggie raised her hand, leaving a detailed impression in the plaster. “It’s my hand,” she crowed. “My wonderful bunderful hand! My hand!”
“Yes, my sweet, your wonderful hand. Now Grammy Vi and I are going to do the same. We’re going to make impressions of our hands.”
“I’ll just take my rings off and put them in a safe place.” Viola left the room.
“We must put your name and the date in the plaster,” Lucy said. “I’ll get a stick to use for writing.”
She was only gone a moment, but a moment was all it took. An angry feline yowl filled the kitchen. Maggie had decided to use the leftover plaster in the bucket to make an impression of Silky. With plaster clinging to her paws, the protesting cat raced straight up the front of Maggie and crawled over her head before leaping across the table and disappearing. Maggie had plaster on her cheeks, in her hair, on her clothing—everywhere.
The little girl’s face grew red, and her chin trembled. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean—”
Lucy burst out laughing, knowing she was close to shedding tears the child wouldn’t understand. She opened her arms and sat down, folding Maggie in an embrace. “Don’t you worry, brat. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
Maggie snuggled happily against her.
“Take this stylus and print your name right here,” Lucy said, indicating the impression of her hand. “Just scratch it into the plaster.”
With deep concent
ration, Maggie wrote her name, carefully drawing each letter. Lucy felt dizzy, trying to conceal her grief as she wrote the date.
“Why, Mama?” Maggie set aside the stylus and admired her work. “Why are we making our hands in plaster?”
Lucy felt as if everything vital had been sucked out of her. Somehow, she found her voice and said, “So that, no matter where you go, I’ll always have your little hand to hold.”
Part Four
No one can say of his house, “There is no Trouble here.”
—Oriental proverb
Thirteen
Maggie knew Mama wasn’t really mad at her about the plaster, because she gave her a big hug and a kiss, and when she pulled back, there was plaster in Mama’s hair, too. Grammy Vi came into the kitchen and looked at them both in that Grammy way of hers, shaking her head. And when Silky ran out from behind the stove, still covered in plaster, they all started giggling.
That was when Maggie heard heavy footsteps on the stair and then a sharp knock.
“I’ll get it!” she yelled, and ran for the door. She loved visitors. You never knew who was coming to call. Important People came for long, serious talks with Mama about Politics and The Movement. Maggie found such discussions boring, but the Important People usually had a sweet or two in their pockets and when company came, Grammy Vi would make jam tarts for tea.
Silky always got excited when Maggie ran, and chased after her. Snatching up the plaster-covered cat, she held her draped over one arm and hauled open the door with the other. A huge shadow loomed in the hallway.
It was the giant! The giant had come to call!
Silky leaped out of her arms and jumped high as ever she could, landing smack in the middle of the visitor’s chest.
He made a grumbly sound and grabbed for the cat. Silky let out a yowl and ran down him as if he were the trunk of a tree. Then she streaked down the stairs, leaving white footprints all over the carpet runner.
Maggie stared up at him with very big eyes. She tried to remember his name but all she could think of was the giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk” who wanted to grind Jack’s bones to make his bread. All she could manage was a “Yikes!” and then she ran to get her mama.