Olivia shrugged again. “And a dill pickle. Egg salad on RYE” she shouted the word and gave Jill a wide smile, “with a dill pickle and curly fries.”
The child deserved a reward for working so hard. “Why, I think that sounds like a lovely lunch.”
Olivia clattered toward the door.
Jill called after her, “Olivia, where are you off to?”
Olivia jerked to a halt and whirled. Her face scrunched into a mirthful smile. “I need to have a word with Baines,” she said and ran out the door, and then poked her head back in and announced, “I’ll be right back!”
Jill cocked her head. I don’t know who she sounds like more. Her father or her grandmother.
As lunchtime drew near, Olivia went with Baines to wash up and Gavin joined Jill in the sunroom. “I believe we’re having your favorite for lunch.” His mouth spread into a big smile.
“My favorite?” Jill could only stare. Gavin shifted his weight, his blue-gray eyes brightened and his typically erect posture made him look impossibly tall.
“I have it on good authority that egg salad on rye with a dill pickle and curly fries is your favorite.”
Jill gulped, unable to mask her horror at the prospect of egg salad. “You think that’s my favorite?”
Gavin’s posture slipped a notch. He edged toward the door. “It’s not?”
“Egg salad and curly fries?” Why couldn’t she stop saying that?
His tic returned. “Liv and I agreed this morning she’d learn what you like for lunch and we’d surprise you.” He ran a hand through his hair, and turned.
She half expected him to bolt.
Instead, he faced her, his body rigid. “I’m sorry if we got the choices wrong.”
At the sight of his embarrassment, Jill couldn’t help but giggle. “You didn’t.”
His tic jumped. “I don’t understand. Just now you acted as if you don’t care for those things.”
Jill tried without success to stop laughing. “Now I understand what Olivia was up to this morning.” Why couldn’t she stop laughing?
Gavin shoved his hands deep into his pockets, “Do you or do you not like egg salad?”
His voice a half-measure short of a growl Jill wondered, could anyone be stiffer than Gavin Fairfield when he was embarrassed?
“And what the devil are you laughing about?” he demanded.
Still choking back laughter she sputtered, “Don’t care for egg salad, am allergic to dill pickles, and I’ve never tasted curly fries.”
Red-faced, he murmured, “Then clearly we got the menu wrong.” He pivoted.
Jill caught his arm, aware of his corded muscles beneath her fingers. “Wait, Gavin. Your daughter is highly creative and connects unrelated concepts in intriguing ways, evidence her brain is compensating for the damaged areas that no longer function. She’s quite the little sleuth because when we were working this morning, I had no idea what she was up to. I fouled up things because I turned her little investigation—which I thought was just her being playful—into an assessment. And, because she worked so hard to remember her words, I rewarded her by agreeing egg salad on rye with a dill pickle and curly fries sounded fine.”
“I see.” He stared down at her, rocking back and forth on his heels. At last, he said, “And will you be laughing this hard when your mouth is full of egg salad?”
She drew back horrified at the idea. “You wouldn’t expect me to eat the stuff!”
He grinned, a telltale twinkle in his eye. “I’ll be curious to see how you explain to Liv you don’t actually like egg salad.”
Chapter Six
Without bothering more than tossing a robe over her shoulders, Jill stepped out into the cool morning air to collect the mail. Much like her voice mail, the mailbox had been stuffed full over the past week. She piled bills, invitations, donation requests, a check from one of her publishers, and a landslide of seed, lingerie, and shoe catalogs into her arms, when a car honked. She turned just in time to see Gavin drive up in his black BMW.
The passenger’s window slid down. “Thought I’d give you a lift.”
Caught in my robe. I haven’t even brushed my hair yet. Is there no justice? Her mouth gaped open. The mail in her arms shifted, sending the catalogs on top spilling to the ground. She bent over to collect them, making strategic use of her chin to keep the rest of her mail from getting away. Yet, each time she reached for a fallen piece of mail, more mail slipped out of her grip.
Dressed in black jeans, a black sport coat and a crisp light blue shirt, Gavin jogged over to help collect the errant mail.
She watched his body stretch, appreciating the view as he handed her the various catalogs—mostly lingerie. At that moment, the image of him retrieving her bow when it flew out of her hand during her audition all those years ago, spiraled back. Her cheeks flushed hot.
“No rush.” He waved a hand at her body. “It’s obvious I’ve been up longer than you. I’ll hang around until you’re ready.”
“You needn’t bother.” She spoke through a clenched jaw, hoping to keep the mail anchored with her chin. “I have my car. If you’d called, I could have saved you the trouble.”
Mail started to slip again.
He caught it mid-slide by moving against her and circling his arms around hers. “Exactly why I didn’t call. Didn’t want to give you an opportunity to object.”
His nearness caused tiny tremors in her lower abdomen. Jill stopped struggling with the mail and scanned his face. His grin almost masked the tired lines in the corners of his eyes. He has trouble sleeping.
“I’m here to offer a full confession. After watching you work your way through that egg salad sandwich yesterday, I thought we owed you a break.”
“But I love to drive” The mail on top slipped.
He shifted his body, pressing closer. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
The heat of his body warmed her. She didn’t trust her voice and shook her head.
“Get dressed. I know a place with the best caramel cinnamon rolls.” His eyebrow quirked. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get a table outside.”
Jill opened her mouth to tell him she already knew about the Maple Tree Inn, and then snapped it closed, suddenly aware of the nearness of his mouth. The neurological anatomy of the male brain is hardwired to drive men to please women. By her count, this was his second attempt in as many days. What possible harm could be in Gavin Fairfield wanting to please her? She swallowed hard, remembering the way she slogged through her egg salad sandwich. But caramel rolls were a far cry from egg salad, and this time she knew what was on the menu. Careful, girl. This is business, not personal. You can’t forget for a minute he’s made his agenda clear.
Jill showered, using her favorite spicy jasmine shower splash, fixed her hair in long loose waves, and stepped into tall boots. After considering her wardrobe, she selected a long skirt made of bright colored scarves that rode low on her hips. She pulled on a three-quarter sleeved black tank and topped it with a snug-fitting denim vest.
Gavin stood, tilted his head, and smiled as she entered the living room. “Nice.”
In the car he said, “I owe you an apology. Adrienne admitted to being the leak.” He shrugged. “She meant well. She’s…overenthusiastic about keeping me in the public eye, but she’s a damn fine agent. The very best, in fact. So, tell me, Jillian. Why did you choose this line of work?”
Something about the way he said her name and the timbre of his voice sounded intimate. Jill crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt as she angled her body toward him, trying to quiet the fluttering in her belly. “I love children.”
“You loved the cello, as I recall,” he teased.
“And I still do. Maybe I’ll play for you one day.” She chuckled, more than a little surprised to be joking about the subject.
“I’d guess you chose this career for more reasons than your love of children. Not telling me?”
Several seconds passed and he prompted, “Passion, mon
ey, living up to someone else’s expectations—that’s usually why people do what they do. Which was yours?”
“Which one is it for you?” she asked, unsure just how much was wise to share.
He stared straight ahead. “The short version is no one in my family wanted me to be a musician. But I didn’t choose it. Music chose me.”
Jill uncrossed her legs. “So, for you it’s passion.”
“Definitely. Your turn.”
Jill leaned back, letting the comfort of the smooth leather seats hold her close. “I was Olivia’s age. A Saturday, I remember. My sister, Anna and I were in the back seat of our car. My parents drove for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know where we were going, and Anna didn’t care.”
“Too young?”
Sudden tears burned at the back of her eyes. “No, she was seven years older.”
Brows drawn low, he glanced her way. “Was?”
Jill squeezed her eyes shut until the tears backed off. “She died recently.”
She opened her eyes.
Gavin’s fingers gripped the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Jill blinked back another surge of tears. “She had Down Syndrome and died of congenital heart disease.”
He nodded, flicked on his signal, glanced over his shoulder, and changed lanes, increasing his speed.
“I didn’t know until we got there that my parents were institutionalizing her,” she blurted, surprised to find herself talking about Anna.
“She had a low IQ?”
“She didn’t meet the definition of profoundly retarded. Her IQ was thirty-seven which is mid-range.” Jill shivered and hugged her arms to her chest.
Gavin adjusted the air vent to keep the stream from blowing directly on Jill. “They couldn’t handle her care?”
Jill bit her lips and nodded, blinking back the tears crowding the corners of her eyes. She stared out the window swallowing hard against the knife-edged grief. “Anna needed special training and an environment equipped to help her make the most of what she had to offer. I stayed in the car that day because I was too young to go in.” She broke off to collect herself against the next wave of sadness. “When they returned without her, my mother was crying and my dad’s face was all puffed up from the effort not to. In those days, Down Syndrome and mental retardation often carried the stigma of shame. My parents were farmers—neither finished high school. Both very intelligent, but ignorant. They always believed they were somehow responsible. They carried that tragic burden to their graves.”
He eased back his speed for a curve. “Warmer now?”
She brushed her hair away from the side of her face, pushed her toes into the floor mat and offered a watery smile. “Yes, thank you.”
“Do you have any other family?”
Anna was the last of my family. She shook her head, stared out the window, and whispered, “No.”
“It’s just you, then? That’s rough.” He rested his hand over hers and squeezed. “Were you close?”His brief touch played havoc with her senses. Jill eased away and rubbed her hands. Structurally, the brain is sympathetic to comfort through touch, but hers blew past comfort and crashed straight into a dopamine dump, causing her to experience an intense sensual attraction. Electrical rivulets teased their way through her body. She drew a deep breath. “The closest. She even lived with me for awhile. After a few months, she asked to go back, to where things were familiar—she needed a strict routine. She worked part time cleaning houses for several years and took a lot of pride in being independent.”
“Which begs the question, why not work with Down Syndrome kids? Or the developmentally disabled? Why choose TBI?”
Jill focused on the car in front of them, noting the sunshine decal on the bumper. “I knew I could never maintain enough emotional distance—they’d all make me think of Anna. I didn’t want to spend my life trying to save my sister over and over again. TBI intrigued me, and frankly, there’s ground-breaking research that’s very encouraging.”
He cocked his head. “Much of it, yours.”
His comment warmed her and she smiled. “Some of it mine.”
“And so, you found something you love more than the cello.” He wheeled into the Maple Tree Inn parking lot.
They were seated outside at a small table overlooking the river. People frequently rushed out to cheer as rowing teams from the university shot by, chasing after each other in hot pursuit.
The waitress chewed on the tip of her pen. “What’ll you have today?”
Jill turned from the excitement and looked into the face of the same server who waited on her yesterday.
The server tipped her pencil in Jill’s direction. “You again. Come back for more, honey? Better watch out. Those caramel rolls are addictive.” She patted her hips.
Jill and Gavin looked at each other.
“Baines?” He lifted a questioning eyebrow.
She dipped her head and grinned. “Baines.”
Gavin chuckled. To the server he said, “She’ll have anything but egg salad and dill pickles.”
Late that afternoon despite her best efforts, Jill arrived at the unavoidable conclusion that although Gavin believed he had his daughter’s best interests at heart, his expectations were unreasonable and therefore detrimental to her recovery. In her notes she wrote, G is gentle and demonstrative with O. They share a healthy closeness during play and routine interactions. However transitions from one activity to the next are tense as O tries to anticipate what G expects. G looks for opportunities to encourage her musically. Both exhibit frustration and confusion.
Jill summoned Gavin for a private conference and suggested the library.
He closed the door and joined her in the chairs by the fireplace, his blue-gray eyes bright.
Fighting an unexpected flair of nerves, Jill began, “Olivia exhibits a high level of intelligence, and I believe that over time we can help her.”
Gavin nudged his chair closer.
Relief flooded his handsome features, smoothing some of the worry lines around his eyes and between his brows. Her heart sank. He thinks I’m going to recommend Olivia for my advanced program. She paused, taking great care with her next words. “But I ask you to consider how unfair placing her in the program you’ve chosen would be, given her emotional state. Do you really believe she can handle the pressure?” She watched his energy downshift.
He slumped against the back of his chair, his blue-gray eyes pensive. “Jillian, Liv is still a musically gifted child. The accident hasn’t changed that.”
Jill leaned forward. “Olivia is still a highly intelligent child—but she is no longer musically gifted.”
Gavin jerked up, walked to the window, and stared out.
“This loss, coupled with the loss of her mother, has been catastrophic. And, I can’t help but notice how concerned she is about pleasing you.”
The maestro swiveled to face her, and crossed his arms.
Jill met his gaze. He looked as indomitable as he had fourteen years ago. Her stomach constricted. Perhaps he hadn’t changed at all? “There’s no easy way to say this. Your hope that Olivia will one day return to her music will singlehandedly prevent her recovery.”
His mouth tightened.
There it was again, that stubborn set to his mouth. She slowed her speech to be certain she was being clear. “Your hope drives an expectation that is inherent in everything you do with her. Each time you look at her, talk with her, play with her, she feels the pressure of your expectations. That kind of pressure would be a daunting burden for anyone. Think how a ten-year old girl responds to such pressure.”
His eyes shuttered.
She found him impossible to read. Jill leaned back and spread her arms, intentional about her body language. “If you want to help her, you must abandon all hope for Olivia as a musician. If you serve as her guardian without your current expectations, I’d be open to recommending her for one of the more basic programs. At least to start. That lit
tle girl needs a break from the pressure she feels, just by being who she is.”
Gavin left the window and eased himself onto the sofa. He straightened his cuffs with deliberate movements and avoided her gaze.
Jill’s heart went out to him, aware she had just forced him to face the demon of reality. She broke her rule of physical distance and moved to the sofa, turning her body into his. “Olivia is in a high-risk category. She doesn’t remember the accident, has only just realized her mother is dead. She’s lost her ability to express herself musically—her music and her identity have been inextricable since she was three. People, including you, still expect her to be that musician. She has immense creative ability but no real outlet. All this adds up to a very frustrated, frightened little girl whose entire world has been turned upside down.” Her voice rose, “Why, the death of her mother alone, would be enough to—”
“Her mother's death!” He exploded, jolting upright, and then relaxed with his fists clenched. He glanced at Jill and blew out a breath. “Vivienne was livid when she found out she was pregnant. Every day I lived in fear that she’d end the pregnancy.”
Jill waited, careful not to react to this latest admission or allow it to affect her behavior which might be construed by Gavin as judgment.
Gavin drew a hand across his eyes and let out a long sigh. “I met her working summer stock when I was nineteen. She was older, worldly, exotic. At the end of that summer, we ran away and got married. My parents were furious and they had a right to be. She only married me for my money. Later, she stayed because of the recognition provided by my name.”
Jill opened her mouth but closed it again when she saw the savage vulnerability in his gaze.
“After Liv was born, Vivienne would have almost nothing to do with her.” Gavin clasped his hands around his knee. “Her care fell to me when I wasn’t traveling. I should have realized Vivienne would neglect Liv while I was away, but I naively thought she only did it to punish me and keep me from my work.” Gavin leaped up and began to pace. “We almost lost Liv at four months old when I was in New York. Mother dropped in on them and found the baby lying in a pool of sodden diapers with a dangerously high fever, seriously dehydrated. Vivienne was under noise- canceling headphones listening to an audition tape.
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