If only Cait would talk to her.
When Molly had told her about the fight between Trevor and Aaron and the possibility that there was speculation Cait was pregnant, her expression had been almost as stricken as when she realized her mother had uncovered her secret. But this time, she hadn’t said, “Mommy, what should I do?” She’d only said, “No one can prove anything.”
“No.”
Cait had nodded when Molly suggested a doctor’s appointment, although her face had been white and oh, so young when she followed the nurse into the exam room for her first ever pelvic. The doctor had wanted to talk to her privately first. Molly had been allowed in only at the end, when they sat down to talk.
The trouble was, after that first night when Molly confronted her, Cait had retreated inside herself. Instead of defiant and angry, she was withdrawn. Molly couldn’t tell if she was practicing denial, agonizing over what she saw as a very private decision or wanting to talk to someone—anyone—other than her mother. Denial was Molly’s best guess, and it was dangerous.
I’m right to push, she told herself. If Cait were to carry the baby to term, it should be because she’d made the choice, not because too much time passed and she no longer had a choice. I can do that much for her. Really, was this any different than insisting your kid get unwanted vaccines, confess to the neighbor that she’d thrown the ball that broke his front picture window, finish that assignment tonight even if every single one of her friends was going to Wild Waves water park instead because their parents weren’t mean and said it was okay?
No. It wasn’t. Helping her daughter make a truly informed decision was her duty as a parent. So there.
* * *
RICHARD TOOK A CHANCE and went over to Molly’s the next evening. Trevor was out, God knows where, and he’d found himself unbearably restless. He didn’t like how last night’s conversation had ended. He’d blown it, saying that. I don’t totally see why you’re confused. She’d given him a chance to listen, and he’d shut it down. Scared, he supposed, for Trevor’s sake.
She might be less than thrilled to find him on her doorstep, but he had to try to talk to her. To make up for his insensitivity, to give her a chance to talk in case she didn’t have anyone else she dared confide in.
Yeah, he admitted honestly, and because I want to see her, too. Last night, listening for nuances in her voice, he’d wished he could see her face.
He was relieved when she came to the door, not Cait. “Richard?” she said, obviously startled.
“Hi.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his parka. “I was hoping you’d give me a few minutes.”
“Well, of course.” She backed inside. “Wow, it’s cold.”
A puff of icy breath accompanied Richard into the entryway. “Yeah, they’re talking about a scattering of snow Monday.”
“Oh, ugh,” she muttered, as she took his parka and hung it in the closet.
Richard raised his eyebrows. “Where’s that youthful wonder? The first snowfall of the year…”
“The disaster transporting students becomes.”
“Tell me you’re not one of the people who decides whether school is going to be canceled.”
Over her shoulder, Molly wrinkled her nose at him. “You mean, one of those people who is on a conference call at 5:00 a.m.? Why, yes, I am.”
His gaze traveled over that luscious body. He wondered if she had any idea how lovingly that pair of faded jeans fit her ass. He even appreciated the big, sacky T-shirt she wore, because it made her more approachable. Her hair was bundled loosely in an elastic, but curly tendrils escaped to lie against her cheek and the nape of her neck. And—oh, damn—she was barefoot. Richard was taken aback to discover how erotic feet could be. As he took a seat and watched her settle into what was obviously a favorite spot at one end of the sofa, he remained fixated on those feet.
They weren’t dainty. She must wear a size nine or ten, but then she was a tall woman. She had particularly narrow feet with high arches and exceptionally long toes. He switched his gaze briefly to her hands and realized her fingers were long, too. As were her legs. He wondered how deft she was with those toes....
He was already aroused. Richard moved in an effort to make himself comfortable and hide his reaction from her.
“I should have offered you coffee before I sat down,” she said suddenly.
He shook his head. “I’m fine. I drink too much of the stuff as it is.”
“Me, too. And waste entirely too much money on lovely, frothy, calorie-laden drinks that may or may not actually be coffee.”
He laughed. “I love that espresso stand on the corner of Wall and Fifth.”
“Oh, yeah. Me, too.” For a moment they smiled at each other, no complications, but finally her expression faltered. “What did you need to talk to me about, Richard?”
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “I do understand why you’re confused,” he said abruptly. “Or, at least, that you are. Maybe not entirely why, because I’m not a woman and it’s not my daughter who is pregnant.”
She stared at him for a long time, her eyes astonishingly vulnerable, the gray so much softer than it seemed to him at first meeting.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s what I came to say. And to tell you I really will listen if you need to talk any of this out.” Or anything else, but he didn’t say that. “I, uh, didn’t know if you’ve told any friends. If you have anyone else you can vent to.”
“No.” She tried to smile, but it wouldn’t take shape. “No, I haven’t told a soul. I have friends, but…”
When she didn’t finish, Richard broke the silence. “Mine all have kids that are way younger. When I first realized what was going on with Trev, it hit me that I didn’t have anyone to talk about it with.”
Molly nodded. “I’ve gotten close to the mothers of some of Cait’s friends, but right now they’re the last people I want to tell that she’s pregnant.”
“Is she home?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“She’s at the dance school. She assists with a class of younger students.”
It turned out he didn’t have to say much. She started to spill. She hurt at the knowledge that Cait would lose dance, if only temporarily, should she continue the pregnancy. No, she was unlikely to go on professionally with it anyway; she was likely too tall, and she didn’t have the single-mindedness required.
“But she loves it.”
She told him that her daughter wasn’t talking to her. Her face pinched with unhappiness. “It’s not that she’s sulking or anything like that. Not like when she was mad at me over Trevor. She’s just…retreated. Gone deep inside. And…it’s always been the two of us.” She stole a look at him that was both shy and filled with pain. “Now she’s shut me out.”
Richard moved without thinking about it. One minute he was on his side of the living room, the next he’d taken the middle cushion of the sofa and her hand in his. Ms. Molly Callahan wasn’t as tough as she’d appeared. Not even close.
“I’ve been feeling some of that with Trevor,” he said. “It’s not the same because I didn’t have the chance to raise him, but I thought we were tight. Finding out how wrong I was hurt.”
She gave a laugh that wasn’t quite a sob. “And in the middle of all this, I have to ask myself why I’m getting my feelings hurt when my daughter is facing something so life-altering. And mostly it is her I think about, but sometimes…”
“You’re human,” he said softly.
She looked down at their hands, her paler fingers entwined with his. “Yes.” Her voice was even quieter than his. “I guess that’s it.”
“Hey.” He squeezed slightly. “We’re entitled to have feelings, too. God knows our kids have been sharing plenty of them.”
Her small giggle pleased him. No, not tough at all.
A minute later she regained enough composure to become self-conscious, and retrieved her hand from his. He was sorry. He relaxed where he was, stretched
his legs out as far as the coffee table allowed and asked her if she and Cait had had an appointment at either adoption agency today.
Turned out they’d gone to both places. That was one of the reasons, he realized, that she was distressed. Cait, apparently, had listened but barely mumbled one- or two-word answers to any questions asked of her.
“Then on the way home, she said, ‘I can talk for myself you know, Mom.’ Not mad, but warning me off.”
Molly might not be tough, but she did have a take-charge personality or she wouldn’t have gotten as far as she had in school administration by her age. He didn’t feel much sympathy for her daughter.
“Did she not want to go?”
Molly made a face. “Who knows? If not, she didn’t say so. Heck, I may find out she’s decided to get an abortion and done it without even telling me. At this point, I wouldn’t be shocked.”
“Can she?” he asked.
“Without parental consent, you mean?” When he nodded, she said, “I don’t know. I’m assuming there are ways.”
“Would you be angry?”
She shook her head. More of her hair slipped from the elastic. “Hurt that she was so determined to shut me out. See, there I go again. But I’m not sure I could help it. I’ve made it clear that I’ll support her decision. So if she decides not to let me support her…” She blinked a couple of times, and he took hold of her hand again.
“When they lay that squalling baby in your arms at the hospital, they should warn you what they’re going to turn into. You worry you’ll fail this small creature without realizing the creature metamorphoses into a hideous monster for one stage of its development. Maybe if we knew from the get-go, instead of misty eyes and melting heart, we’d start out wary.”
He loved what a smile did to her face, and to a mouth that was a whole lot softer than it had appeared at first meeting, too. She kept it firmly compressed entirely too often.
“You’re right,” she declared. “Baby books should carry warning labels. ‘Forget childbirth, having a kid really hurts when they hit their teens.’”
“You’ve got it.”
This time they grinned at each other like idiots.
Finally she appeared to notice they were holding hands and wiggled her fingers until he released her. He wasn’t letting her get shy. Shy? The formidable Vice Principal Callahan? “Tell me what you learned today.”
That got her going again. She admitted that she’d expected a sales job. Any adoption agency must have dozens to hundreds of desperate couples waiting for that perfect baby, and subconsciously Molly had assumed that would color how they dealt with teenage mothers on the fence.
“But it wasn’t like that at all. Both the women we talked to today were cautious, to say the least, kind and really good to Cait.” She rolled her eyes. “At least, they tried to be. They were pretty matter-of-fact about how it works. We heard about traditional and open adoptions.”
He tensed a little at that idea. “Open?”
“Caitlyn, at least, could stay in touch. They vary all the way from adoptive parents sending photos and maybe notes once a year to ones where the birth mother practically becomes part of the family.”
“What about the birth father?”
“I’m guessing that’s a possibility, too.”
He nodded. “How did Cait react to that idea?”
“Who knows?” Molly said with exasperation. “But at least she was listening.”
“They must get birth mothers who back out at the last minute.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“I’m thinking back to your expectation that you’d get a sales pitch. It wouldn’t do them any good to channel used car salesmen. Even if the kid signs on the dotted line, there’s still a period she can back out, even after the baby goes home with the adoptive parents, right?”
“Right. The law is weighted on the birth parents’ side.” She was nodding. “Of course you’re right. It must be awful to let a couple think they’re getting a baby, then have it yanked away at the last minute.”
She told him she thought she’d make herself a cup of tea, and Richard followed her to the kitchen. He kept listening for the front door, wondering what her daughter would think to find him here, but Molly didn’t seem to be worried.
Conversation strayed while they waited for water to boil and then tea to steep. He told her he’d been the electrical contractor for this development and done the work personally on some of the town houses. “Not this one,” he said, looking around a kitchen with pale cherrywood cabinets and countertops of a granite warmed by gold and pink tones. “I keep my hand in, though. Sitting in an office all day doesn’t suit me.”
“I never thought it would suit me, either,” she said, handing him one mug. They moved toward the dining nook and chose seats across the table from each other. “I loved teaching,” she said, her hands cradling the mug. “Honestly, I’m still of two minds about whether I want to stay on the administrative track or go back to the classroom. The pay is better now, though, and that counts when you’re a single parent.”
“Cait’s father doesn’t pay child support?”
“Sure he does, but so much and no more. Braces? My problem. Do you know what braces cost these days?”
“To the penny,” Richard assured her. “Trevor didn’t need them, thank God, but Bree did. After that hit, I added some orthodontic insurance for my employees. Some of them have kids.”
“Those braces came close to taking Colt’s entire year of child support checks.” She shrugged. “I’ve been trying to build a decent college fund for her.”
He saw her flinch as it occurred to her that fund might not be needed now—or, at least, not for its original purpose.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered.
He felt compelled to offer reassurance. “Things will work out,” was the best he could come up with.
Her eyes flashed indignation. “What does that mean?”
He had to laugh. “That things will work out somehow or another? It doesn’t promise that they’ll work out well.”
“Thanks a lot!” But she was smiling, too.
She stiffened at the same moment he heard the sound of the front door opening. “I’m in the kitchen,” she called.
Richard found himself hoping the kid would go straight up to her bedroom, the way Trevor usually did. No such luck. She appeared in the kitchen, pretty and ridiculously young, wearing jeans and a shiny pink leotard.
“Mom, Sabrina told me…” Her eyes widened. “What’s he doing here?”
“Cait!”
Her face got mulish. “Well, what is he doing here?”
“Talking to your mother.” He drained the last of his tea and stood. “We have some feelings about what’s happened, too, you know. Sometimes talking them out with someone who understands can help.”
She’d been raised to be polite, he suspected, because now she flushed. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
He smiled at her. “It’s okay. Looks bad, I know. Two adults, alone in the house…” He shook his head solemnly, pleased when she laughed. If she only knew, he couldn’t help thinking. She sure as hell wouldn’t like the way he’d contemplated her mother’s toes and what they’d be capable of doing. He didn’t suppose that she saw her thirty-five-year-old mother as a sexual being. Which made him reflect on what Trevor would say about his father lusting after the mother of his former girlfriend. Probably nothing very nice.
“Thanks for the tea, Molly. And for letting me drop in.”
She stood, too. “No problem.” She glanced at her daughter. “Let me walk Richard to the door, hon.”
“Richard?” The kid sounded outraged.
Even laughing, he felt every year and then some as he headed for the front of the town house.
“Your daughter is a puritan,” he suggested to Molly, while she got out his parka.
She laughed—okay, giggled—and then pressed her fingers to her mouth to hush herself. “Possibly. I’d nev
er noticed.”
“There’s a certain irony.”
“No kidding.” There was the grown-up, sardonic. And then she gave him an uncertain smile. “Thank you for coming, Richard. And for listening.”
“No problem.” Not letting himself hesitate, he took a chance, stepped forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Call anytime,” he said, and went out, not looking back. He felt a little uneasy to discover he took with him a whole lot of sensory impressions: the velvet texture of her skin, the gentle, pillowy feel of her cheek beneath his mouth, the tickle of her hair and an illusive, sweet scent. And his last glimpse—those long toes curling, because he’d kissed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TREVOR COULD NOT BELIEVE that Cait was still dodging him. He had some rights here, didn’t he? Shit, yeah, he did.
He tried to catch her between classes; she was as quick as a minnow in a lake, darting away. After school—she never again made the mistake of leaving without having surrounded herself with girlfriends first. Postdance—more friends, or else her mother or another girl’s mother was waiting in the car out front. Her phone never seemed to be on anymore, but he sent texts.
Cant we talk?
The only response he got was:
When Im ready so quit stalking me.
Sure. He sent back:
Ill quit stalking when you talk.
She ignored that one.
The weird thing was, he didn’t know what it was he needed to say, or to hear from her. Only that he felt like his skin had shrunk and now it itched and prickled and he felt trapped inside it. It was a little like when he’d thought sex with her would make him feel all better, but…different, too.
Because he knew what an asshole he’d been and he needed her to say it was all right even if it wasn’t.
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