by Melissa Beck
He jerked the paper towel dispenser's arm up and down a few times, and wiped his face, neck and hands. If she's mine, then damn you, Gretchen. He didn't need this, not at this time, not when the biggest deal of his life was about to fall in his lap.
Yeah, it was some other guy's kid. Some guy who didn't mind the word “parent.” For him, it refreshed the blurred picture in his mind of a mangled car and a rain-soaked double funeral. Connect parent to foster and Ray's harsh features popped into his head.
He stared into the mirror, trying to recall how he'd looked as that lonely, scared kid. His passive adult reflection gazed back. But the glint in his eyes and the set of his jaw revealed to him what he kept from others—the frustration, the determination to survive.
The door creaked open. “Daniel?"
He turned and discovered one of his fellow nominees standing in the doorway. “Chris."
"You left this out there on the floor.” His friend held up his plaque.
"Thanks, buddy.” He reached for the award.
"Don't mention it.” Chris grinned. “Especially since I'm taking your hot date home with me."
Daniel clenched his jaw. “If that's what she wants, that's fine."
"What she wants is your attention. But since you're so preoccupied, I thought you might not mind if—"
"I'm coming."
Holding the plaque with numb fingers, he followed Chris out of the restroom and walked downstairs with him.
But the image of the little girl so haunted him that he dropped Elena off early and spent the night in a state of restless sleep.
In his half-awake moments, he couldn't stop wondering what Gretchen was like, after all this time. Why had she left him? And what if the child was his?
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Chapter One
"She's holed up on the potty."
Gretchen Parks’ chest tightened. That explained why she hadn't seen Amy when she'd scanned the masses out front in the carpool line. Glancing past Mrs. Scarborough, she stared at the bathroom in the far corner of the pre-k classroom. “Is—is she sick?"
"No. It's that same issue that keeps upsetting her.” Jessie Scarborough's grandmotherly gaze reflected concern. “She ran in there after I reminded the class we're hosting the annual ‘Dad and Me’ breakfast on Tuesday."
Gretchen stifled a groan. Poor Amy. “How long has she been in there?"
"Almost fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes. That was a lifetime for a four-year-old. She must be really hurt. And no wonder, since this breakfast was the second “dad” zinger she'd been hit with in her first weeks of school.
"When the final bell rang, I called her to be line leader.” The teacher stepped out of the doorway to allow Gretchen into the room. “But she still wouldn't come out."
Gretchen headed for the closet-sized bathroom.
"After Miss Mary got everybody else in line, I went in and picked her up.” The heavyset teacher's voice wobbled as she hurried along behind her. “But soon as I set her down, she ran back in there."
Gretchen stopped a few feet from where Amy had taken refuge. Stepping up to the pale yellow door, she remembered that it had been painted institutional pale green in her days at Marydale Elementary. Its bottom half was bolted shut, but its upper part had been unlatched and hung slightly open like a cabinet. After drawing a calming breath, she swung it wide. Leaning over the bottom, she saw Amy sitting on the closed toilet lid, her little shoulders hunched forward. Her lower lip quivered. Tears stained her pink top.
"Amy?” she breathed.
Amy lifted damp-spiked lashes, looking as if she'd lost her best friend.
"What's wrong, sweetie?"
Tears filled her earthy eyes. “I don't have a daddy to bring."
Gretchen's throat closed up. Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. She unlatched the door and went inside. Dropping to her knees, she pulled Amy against her chest. As she kissed the crown of her baby's head, she caught a whiff of powder-scented shampoo that reminded her of Amy's splashing and laughing in the bathtub last night. Would that they could go back to that sweet, innocent time, and not deal with this heavy subject. The knot in her throat thickened.
Amy pressed her face into Gretchen's shoulder. “I wanna go home."
"Then home it is.” Gretchen released her only long enough to stand, before scooping her back up into her arms. Then she stepped out of the musty, tight quarters of the bathroom and back into the tempera-scented room.
Mrs. Scarborough had hustled over to the coat hooks along the far wall, to stuff homework pages into Amy's Cinderella backpack. She carried her daughter over there, and the teacher slipped the pack's straps over Gretchen's wrist. Amy didn't look at her “very favorite teacher,” but instead buried her head in Gretchen's neck.
"Sorry,” Mrs. Scarborough mouthed, with a sympathetic smile.
Gretchen nodded, appreciating her concern, despite the anger still knotting her stomach. Who the heck had thought up a “Dad and Me” day, anyway? She started to say as much, but decided Amy didn't need to hear that right now. Like her, all Gretchen wanted to do was go home.
"See you tomorrow,” she murmured, stepping out into the hallway.
At the car, she buckled Amy in before looking hard into her big, dark eyes. “I'll come to the breakfast,” she promised, brushing a tear off her sweet one's cheek. “It'll be fun. Okay?"
Amy shook her head, gold-tipped sienna curls shimmying against her shoulders.
"Joel can come, then.” Gretchen and Joel had been buds since grade school, and he adored Amy. “I'm sure he'd love it if we asked him."
Again the adamant headshake.
Sighing, Gretchen climbed into the car and started for home. Her shoulders ached, and a headache hovered. She didn't know what to do, what to say to soothe Amy, which left her with the most helpless feeling ever.
Behind her, Amy began crying, a hiccupping sound that seared her heart. But then she rallied, certain that four was too young to be hurting the way she had when her own parents fought all the time. She'd been twice Amy's age, or so she remembered, and had blamed herself completely for her daddy's leaving. If she'd been a better student, a quieter little girl, more talented in ballet, if she'd made the spelling bee, surely he would have stayed.
She glared at the lines in the road. Stupid school. Would they ever stop talking about fathers, and having fathers come for show-and-tell, and feeding fathers pancakes?
She sighed. It wasn't the school's fault. It wasn't Jessie Scarborough's fault, either. The teacher was only doing her job.
She was the one who hadn't provided a daddy for Amy.
But by the time he came onto the scene, you'd already shoveled aside a huge pile of garbage that men left behind in your life. Who'd want more?
Yes, she had vowed to end the Parks women's dirty laundry cycles when it came to men. She'd changed her ways so her daughter wouldn't suffer through twinges of abandonment, longing for the man who'd already left them, while she watched her mom get dressed and perfumed, eyes shining with excitement over the latest chance to meet Mr. Wonderful. And once the fighting grew fierce and doors began to slam yet again, Amy would never, ever have to curl up next to her, the way she had done, and murmur, “Please Mommy, don't cry."
When the car rounded the curve in the road and their property popped into view, she exhaled a long breath and released her vise grip on the steering wheel.
"Look, sweetie.” She forced the lift in her voice. “Our scarecrow fell off his hay bales again."
No answer.
She stole a peek into the rearview. Had Amy cried herself to sleep? No. She was staring out the window, toward their house. Good. Maybe her mind was off that darned breakfast.
She glanced at their ranch-style duplex as they pulled into the driveway. Every time she saw that “For Rent” sign that Mr. Scott had hammered into the front yard last week, it dug at her, reminding her that she didn't own the real estate. Still, it was home. The swing set had sprou
ted rust and acquired a grinding squeak, but Amy didn't seem to mind. And the flag had fallen off the mailbox, but Max the postal carrier still managed to pick up and deliver their mail without complaint. So some things weren't perfect. They still said “home” to her. However, the sign reminded her that one thing wasn't even close to perfect anymore. Their former co-renter and adopted grandma, Beatrice Holtz, had moved away. And now she realized she'd been expecting to knock on Bea's door and ask her what she thought of today's situation. Bea would know, having raised three kids of her own. It'd been such a blessing to have her living right next door ever since Gretchen returned from Chicago, pregnant, scared and alone.
Now she'd have to figure it out on her own, and she was pretty certain she wouldn't find it in those stodgy how-to books. “Simply sit the child down and have a talk with her” was easier said than done. They never listed even half the answers to the “Why?” questions a child could come up with. They definitely never told you what to do when you could hardly look at your daughter because her pain seared straight through your heart.
She parked the car and got out to help Amy from her seat belt. Once freed, she hopped out and ran for the house, and Gretchen followed.
The instant she crossed the threshold, Amy waved the portable phone in her direction. “I wanna talk to Granny Bea."
"I was thinking of calling her myself.” She read the number off a scrap of paper on the fridge and punched the Indiana exchange into the phone. When it started ringing, she handed it to Amy, and went to let Scooby in from the dog run.
Returning with the Great Dane scampering joyously at her heels, she heard Amy say, “Do you have a daddy, Granny Bea?"
Gretchen caught her breath.
"'Cause everybody has a daddy but me,” Amy said, in a reedy tone. “BJ's daddy got divorced of his mommy, but he's coming. It's a daddy breakfast. You have to have a daddy."
Amy was quiet for a moment, then nodded.
Gretchen pressed her lips together. Just as quickly, she relaxed. There was nothing to worry about. Bea would have the perfect words of wisdom.
"When are you coming home, Granny? We live in Ohio, ‘member?"
Hm. Gretchen wondered if Amy might be reacting to the lack of a father so intensely because she'd also just lost her “granny.” Until now, she hadn't considered that.
"Okay.” Amy stretched out her arm, still sweetly rounded with remnants of baby fat, and offered the phone to Gretchen.
Putting it to her ear, she watched Amy charge down the hallway toward her bedroom. When she was out of hearing range, she sighed into the mouthpiece, “Hi."
"Hi, yourself,” came that familiar, grating voice. “What's this business that's got my little girlie-pie upset?"
She explained about Amy's situation at school. “Anyway, a dad breakfast is a good idea for most kids, and I shouldn't be upset,” she said, finally. “I'm the one who caused Amy to be different. It's my fault she doesn't have a father."
"Don't sell yourself short. You give that little one twice the love some get, even with both parents around."
"That doesn't matter, though, if she doesn't think I'm enough.” She sighed. “From the first second I held her in my arms, I thought she deserved a father. I wanted that for her. But look at the guys I pick! I'm cursed with my mother's bad taste in men, especially when it came to her father. And of course, right before I met him, David had run out on me."
"Well, I didn't know your mother, God bless her, but I know you. You're strong. You can work this out. So quit blaming yourself. I can't grab you by the shoulders and stare it out of you, now Allison's moved me down here to her glass house."
Gretchen chuckled. “Is it that bad?"
"Huh! Don't get me started. For now, I'll simply say that my afternoon beer-and-peanuts break is a goner. Beer is a man's drink,” Bea said in a singsong voice. “Nuts are bad for your digestive system.” She groaned. “But that's a small annoyance compared with how they're ruining my grandkids with their paranoid coaching and tutoring and psychiatry.” After a pause, she said, “Listen to me, going on about my silly concerns. What about you? What are you gonna do about Amy?"
Gretchen rubbed her forehead. “I wish I knew."
"Now that she's asking about him, are you still glad you never told the father about her?"
"Absolutely. There's a lot I don't know about Daniel Nicholson since we only went out a couple of weeks.” And slept together during a very fertile time ... “But I know how he feels about kids because we discussed it. He didn't want them. He was adamant on the subject.” She remembered thinking it was odd that he'd even mentioned it.
"Did he say why he didn't want them?” Bea pressed.
"Who knows what his personal baggage is. He's a real man-about-town still, according to the newspapers. I'm guessing it would've seriously clipped his wings."
"Well. It's his loss. He's missing out on a wonderful child."
They talked on a while, about Marydale, the house and some mutual friends before saying their goodbyes. Afterward, Gretchen wandered to the high cabinets above the fridge, where she hid the box of newspaper clippings destined for Amy's scrapbook. Pulling out the top photo, she tapped her finger over the figure of Daniel standing beside a slim blonde at some ritzy event.
Under his leadership, The Nicholson Agency had soared to great heights of advertising success in recent years. With that and his classic good looks, he now topped the list of the city's most eligible bachelors. But when she'd known him, he'd been a fed-up man going through a nasty divorce. A man who relished his freedom.
How well she'd learned that, when she returned to Chicago weeks later to tell him about the pregnancy. She'd squelched all concerns about telling him, on the chance that her child could have the father she never had. She steeled herself for whatever he had to say. But when she found him in a bar, laughing and flirting with another woman exactly the way he had with her, shame had frozen her in place.
From that moment, she knew she was on her own with the pregnancy. What he'd had with her was a rebound fling after his divorce. For her part, she'd had a no-strings-attached affair with him after having been ditched at the altar. How could she have ever expected more from that?
Now, if it wasn't for Amy, she wouldn't give Daniel Nicholson another thought, and truth be told, she resented it that she had thought of him today. She crammed the clipping back into the box, shutting the lid with a little extra force than was necessary.
Amy shuffled into the kitchen, carrying her ceramic piggy bank. The skin around her eyes was pink and puffy. “Mommy?” she said, sniffling, “Can we buy me a daddy?"
Pain radiated through Gretchen as she pulled her daughter into her arms. “It doesn't work that way,” she said softly.
"Why?"
"I don't know, baby. It just doesn't."
Amy's tears soaked into Gretchen's T-shirt. Soaked straight into her heart, was more like it.
She closed her eyes, and swayed back and forth, making a vow while she rocked. She would show Amy every day just how much she cared about her, and that would be enough. It had to be enough. Amy would stop thinking about this daddy issue soon, and life would be sweet again.
Please God, let it be so.
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Chapter Two
"I don't want another neighbor,” Amy grumbled. She leaned in her chair to pass off her bacon to Scooby, who was in his usual sneaky begging position under the kitchen table. “I want Granny Bea back."
"I know. But her family needs her in Indiana now.” Gretchen's gaze sharpened on the dog's smacking lips. Oh, to heck with mentioning table scraps were bad for dogs. This emotional seesaw Amy teetered on lately didn't need tipping in the wrong direction.
"I want Granny here.” Tears slipped down Amy's cheeks.
Gretchen pressed her lips together, forcing control over her own glum feelings. “We'll visit her soon. I promise."
Beside them, Scooby whined for more bacon. But Amy's plate sat emp
ty now. His angel-friend's little fingers delivered no more manna from heaven. After a moment, he flumped himself down on the floor with a heavy sigh.
Gretchen sank her chin in her hands. They should all be happy and having fun instead of this moping. After all, it was Saturday, and a day off from work. But the landlord's phone call just now, to tell them about a nibble from the “For Rent” sign, had set Amy off again. And just when they'd gotten beyond her upset over the “Dad and Me” breakfast.
She wished they could rewind their lives a few months, back to the lazy days of summer. To Bea and her, sitting in lawn chairs and watching Joel squirt the hose while Amy played in its spray. To laughing over her squealing, and falling on the wet grass, getting mud clear up to her ears.
The theme song to Amy's favorite show filtered through the air from a TV in the living room, but she didn't hop off her chair and hurry in there to watch like she usually did. She just sat there, fingering loops of cereal.
A car rattled across the gravel drive.
Gretchen twisted in her chair to glance out the front window. A burgundy SUV had pulled off the road. “Great,” she muttered. “The guy's here to look at the other apartment and I haven't even had my shower.” She shoved back her chair, at the same time grabbing her mug and swigging cold coffee for mouthwash. After tucking her hair behind her ears, she snatched up the key to the other end of the house.
Hurrying to the door, she told Amy, “You stay here while I show the renter around."
The minute she turned the bolt in the lock, the dog lurched out of hibernation from under the table, and then wagged and whined beside her.
"Stay,” she commanded, noting with dismay his dilated pupils and lolling tongue.
She eased open the door.
Scooby leaped up. Before she could think, he'd slammed his full weight against her, buckling her knees. She struggled to keep her balance and snag his collar. But as she tried to grab him, he slipped through the doorway like a wily coyote, and galloped off to open ground.
"Scooby!” Crazy mutt. She hobbled after him in her slippers, across the wooden porch and down the steps.