by Melissa Beck
She drew back as he started past, but murmured, “Do me a favor. If you go in to town, don't tell anyone how you know me or how you're connected to Amy."
"I won't. I just need time to think."
Relief flashed in her cobalt eyes.
As he crossed the porch, he again promised over his shoulder, “I'll be back."
When he got to the SUV, he glanced back at the house.
Gretchen stood in the doorway, watching him.
Why had she moved away from him when he started past her? Was she afraid of him?
He frowned. That wasn't the emotion he wished to stir in anyone. Did she think he might grab Amy and run with her, like the fathers in the news? Definitely not his style, nor was he that confident about what he was doing. All he knew was, the child was partly his and that meant something.
He rested against the rental car a moment, palms spread and supporting his full weight. Trying to feel normal again, after days of this heaviness that had stolen his appetite and wreaked havoc on his gut.
After a moment, he climbed into his vehicle and started the engine. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he mulled over the situation. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit, pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open with one hand. Swinging the SUV out onto the highway, he clicked on his brother's number.
It rang three times.
"Hullo?"
"Sam? I'm in Marydale."
"Did you find the woman? And the girl? Is she yours?"
"Yeah. I found them. And Gretchen says she's my child."
There was silence on the other end, and then Sam grated, “How much cash is she after?"
Daniel gritted his teeth. “Dammit, take off your attorney's hat for a minute. I just learned I'm a father. Anyway, why assume it's a setup? I sought Gretchen out. Not the other way around."
"I can set up a DNA test."
"Waste of time,” he shot back. “Our genes for stubborn chins and Nicholson eyes seem a strong indication I was involved.” He rubbed his forehead. “Look, I appreciate your concern. But give me time to adjust to the fact that I found them."
"Well, if she is your daughter, you need to decide if you'll seek custody. I'll put you in touch with Mack Adams. He wins tough cases for fathers."
"Good to know,” Daniel said distractedly, as an image of Gretchen's worried face came to mind. “Sam, how does one go about being a good parent?"
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"Sam?"
Assuming he'd hit a dead zone, Daniel closed the cell phone and drove on.
To hell with Sam and his warnings. To hell with Gretchen wanting him to leave. For the time being, he'd plant himself somewhere in this ridiculously small town and figure out exactly what to do about the situation.
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Chapter Three
As Daniel pulled onto the highway, the SUV's tires spit gravel. Gretchen watched his taillights until he rounded the bend toward town. Still staring out the doorway, but now at nothing in particular, she sighed.
Her arm tingled. Realizing she had the doorknob in a clench, she released it, shook the circulation back into her hand and pulled the door shut. Turning and leaning against its hard surface, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.
As if she could relax.
With a low groan, she opened her eyes. He'd come here and turned her into a noodlehead. Where was her brain? Down in her shoes? Obviously, since she'd sat passively in her own living room while he grilled her about leaving Chicago. On the other hand, maybe her brain had a right to go on vacation as soon as he showed up. He'd shown up. That fact alone was enough of a shock to her system, even before adding in his imposing gorgeousness, enhanced by the expensive suit that accentuated his height and the width of his shoulders. He still had that direct stare down pat, could still make her feel as if she were his only interest.
She should've told him to leave before Amy came out in the yard, even though he'd gotten her all flustered, and despite the fact she harbored some guilt over not telling him about Amy. But once they'd discussed the past, why had she still stood there and allowed him to talk her into coming back later?
"Because you're a noodlehead,” she muttered low.
What'd he want, anyway? And what good could be gained by his returning?
The earlier tightness in her chest descended to her stomach. She pressed her hand against it, but the discomfort remained.
Daniel hadn't come all the way from Chicago to Marydale on a whim. Could it be that, now he knew he had a daughter, he wanted to play some sort of role in Amy's life? Fatherhood wasn't exactly in his realm of reality. He had no idea what parenting involved. You didn't pull out of anywhere slinging gravel if you had a child. You kept them safe. You taught them how to be safe.
She wandered into the living room, where Amy lay on her belly in front of the TV, absorbed in cartoons. Slipping up behind her daughter and sinking to her knees, she kissed the top of her head.
Amy flung her chin back and beamed up at her.
Soaking up the sight of those black-brown eyes, rounded cheeks and petal pink lips, Gretchen murmured, “I love you, Amy-Amy."
"I love you, Mommy."
A lump formed in her throat. “I can't hear that enough, you know."
Dipping her chin again as the TV commanded her attention, Amy recited, “Then I'll tell you a hundred million times."
Gretchen smiled. The phrase they swapped back and forth reminded her once again that the stretch marks, the laundry, three healthy meals a day and mind-numbing play dates were all tiny sacrifices, compared with the joy she got out of being Amy's mom.
She couldn't picture Daniel being corralled by parental duties. What would he be willing to give up for the sake of someone else? How much time off from his agency? How many nights of high living? Wouldn't he miss the champagne and caviar, the ladies, the publicity?
You're safe. Amy would be a rope around his neck.
So why this sense of doom hovering over her?
Because Daniel's features had softened when he first saw Amy. Just before he left, he'd smiled and tousled her hair.
What if he wanted Amy?
She lay on her back on the sofa, grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest, hoping for a moment's escape from her thoughts. Daniel's aftershave lingered in the fabric, releasing a faint clove-y, wood-shavings scent that drifted upward.
She pulled the pillow up to her nose and inhaled. Her scalp tingled.
She thrust the pillow away. So what if he smelled good? And who cared if he was so much more gorgeous in person than newsprint? He was the enemy if he had anything crazy in mind concerning Amy.
He'd only seen her for a few minutes. He couldn't understand the pure joy she'd experienced when a nurse first placed her baby, pink and squirming, in her arms. Okay, maybe it wasn't joy so much as fear mixed with excitement. Still, Daniel didn't have a clue.
But Amy was his child, too. Who else had those eyes, black-brown as the nuts from the buckeye trees out in the yard? Not to mention the wavy texture of his hair.
Reaching up to push some annoying wisps out of her eyes, she felt the bed tangles. Oh, geez! He'd seen her like this?
She shot up off the sofa. “Amy, I'm gonna go take my shower."
"'Kay."
On the way to her bedroom, she thought about what she'd say if Amy asked who this guy was, visiting them twice in one day. He'd called them friends. They were really just acquaintances. They hadn't had much of a relationship. They could forget it ever happened.
She would offer him that solution when he returned. Daniel didn't need to do anything with Amy. She had it all under control.
* * * *
Daniel drove the mile back to town and pulled into a parking spot beside a diner. He sat in his car, fooling with his keys in the ignition and wondering why the gnawing in his gut refused to go away. He tried coughing and stretching. He concentrated on the things he usually f
ixated on, like how to keep the agency price-aggressive with reduced production costs. He even rehashed his biggest worry lately, the Toyco account and all the money that prospective deal could bring in if John Chroma's agency couldn't top their offer.
An image of his daughter floated over the figures in his head, and he grasped at it, tried to hold it and know it as well as he knew these other things. But Amy proved elusive, because he hadn't had enough time. You couldn't memorize your daughter that fast. This wasn't a two-minute memory game.
Climbing from the SUV and heading to the cafe, he tried to remember how the CEO of Toyco had looked the other day as they discussed plans for positioning the toy company in foreign markets. If he could focus on him and interpret his body language, he could determine how to proceed with their most important client to date. But all he conjured was Gretchen's worried gaze and tight lips.
"Damn,” he muttered, and flung open the door to the café.
Ring ring ring.
He frowned at the leather strap on the door with jingle bells attached. Why did little places like this feel the need to announce everyone's entrance? He preferred to slip in unnoticed and leave the same way.
Stepping up behind a customer at the cashier's station, he glanced around. Vinyl booths? A countertop with dessert under a glass dome? And was that Elvis swinging his hips to tick off time on that wall clock? “Huh!” he snorted, half to himself and half to the other diners. Surely they caught the humor here.
Ten sets of eyes blinked back at him.
He glanced quickly away again, pretending interest in the large “to go” order the cashier was ringing up for the guy in front of him.
"You the new minister?"
He swiveled around to find a rotund woman in black pants and leaf-patterned sweatshirt standing at his elbow. She toted a canvas bag stuffed so full of papers, it looked as if it'd explode any second.
"I'm Olive Barnes, your organist.” Her gaze roamed over him.
"Did you say ‘minister'?” Whew, she wore that perfume like a truck wore diesel fumes. He gritted his teeth to keep from wrinkling his nose. “No, I'm not. Sorry."
A waitress sauntered up and handed him a one-page laminated menu. “It's seat yourself."
"Thanks.” He clung to the menu, grateful for the reprieve and wishing he could fan it under his nose.
He found a booth across from two teenagers who shot glances at him.
He averted his gaze.
"It's the suit."
Looking up from the menu, he discovered the waitress hovering over him. “Excuse me?"
"Your suit.” She pointed her pen at his lapel. “You wear something like that around here, we figure the bishop sent you. They keep telling us our new leader's coming any day now."
Daniel pretended disinterest, and ordered his coffee. But as she walked away, he wondered, who were “they?” Where was their old preacher? People didn't speak to each other this way in his coffee shop queue in the city. There was no time for small talk.
When the waitress—Crystal, her nametag read—returned with his drink, she set the mug in front of him and smiled. “A few people around here have one, but not like yours."
He glanced around. “Like my mug?"
"The mayor has a striped one. A few of the councilmen wear ‘em sometimes. Then there's Wally. He has a black one, of course. But it doesn't fit nice like yours."
"Oh.” The suit again. Shrugging out of his jacket, he flung it over the back of the booth. There. Now maybe everyone could just relax.
He gulped down the coffee, paid his bill and left. Once outside, he inhaled deeply of the crisp fall air. Now what to do? He'd sensed he should give Gretchen time to consider what he'd said, but how much time would she need?
He paced around the corner of the café and back, jacket in the crook of his arm and hands in his pockets. Oh, well. He supposed he could check out the sights.
He started down the sidewalk.
At the corner, he paused to study a colorful window display. A stuffed toy cat sat in a miniature rocker, reading to an assembly of mice. A cloth mallard and her fuzzy yellow brood waddled over through real leaves to hear the tale. He tilted his head to see the title on the book spine. Amazing Animal Stories. With a wry grin, he silently gave the window dresser credit for the display. This was basic advertising at its best, something that tugged at the heartstrings of all ages.
Stepping backward, he read the name of the place on its shingle above his head. “Gretchen's Cards & Gifts."
Huh. That was surprising.
He opened the door, went inside and glanced around the shop. It wasn't one of the typical gimmicky places importing tourist items and cheap souvenirs. This was definitely classier stuff.
Gretchen was classy and intelligent. What was she doing here in this town? How could his daughter benefit from being raised here? Where would she go to school? He turned and saw a little boy in the next aisle begging his mother for a watercolor set. What about the arts? Was there a museum? A theater? A symphony?
He went back outside, and walked to the square across the street to stand in front of a bench where he had a good wide-angle view of the town. The whole place was one L-shaped stretch of shops.
What was he supposed to do now?
He checked his Tag Heuer. It hadn't even been an hour since he'd left Gretchen's.
Cramming his hands into his pants pockets, his fingers knocked against his cell phone. He pulled it out, figuring he could touch base with the marketing department and see what the news was on their end concerning Toyco. He sat on the bench to search for the number and saw that he had a message. Keying in the code to retrieve it, he heard:
"I haven't gotten my money yet. What's the deal?"
Ray. He closed his eyes.
"I know you got plenty cash to spare,” his foster father went on. “I read the paper and I see your fancy company deals. Well, remember where you came from, pal. Remember who raised you. If it wasn't for me and Barbara, you'd be out selling dope on the streets. That's the way you were headed. You were a loner, an antisocial. We made you what you are and you owe us. Don't you forget that. And make it seven grand this time. Got a little gambling debt to cover."
I'll bet you do. Clenching his jaw, Daniel snapped the phone shut and just sat there. He'd talk with his office assistant later and have her send Ray a check. He rubbed the nape of his neck, wishing again that he'd gotten good foster parents like Sam's. Or better yet, if they could have fostered the both of them. Sam would kill him if he knew he was still sending the checks. He could hear it now, his “Why are you still letting that S.O.B. intimidate you?"
Because he was all I had, he and Barbara. He supposed he was still willing to do whatever, just for a jot of the affection they showered on their own kids.
He sighed. Sam was right. He had to stop sending the money. Next time he wouldn't.
"Hey. You."
Flinching, he nearly dropped the phone. Whipping around, he discovered a guy in a rumpled suit standing on the dulling lawn area behind him.
"You're in my spot.” The guy waved a brown paper bag toward the bench.
Arching a brow, Daniel slid to the other end of the bench.
The guy came around from behind him then and plopped himself down where Daniel had been. He had those cheeks that seemed to hold a perpetual flush, like the Brits. Pale skin and red hair, cut short and looking thick as Astroturf, only accentuated it.
Daniel wondered if he was the new minister, and if he should warn him about the café. The ladies in there sure were eager for spiritual enlightenment or something, and this guy looked ripe for the picking.
"Visiting someone?” he said, opening his sack and digging out a wrapped sandwich.
"Yeah.” Daniel eyed him. Was this some new opening for reeling in religious converts? He thought he'd heard them all on the streets of Chicago.
His bench partner raised the white-bread sandwich and took a bite, before squinting one eye against the sun and fixing t
he other on Daniel. “Who?"
"Gretchen Parks,” he said, out of politeness. Not that it was any of his business.
"You a cousin of Gretchen's or something?"
"No. I knew her in Chicago."
Down came the man's red brows as he took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “Chicago,” he mused. “Not a good time for her."
"Are you a relative?"
"Nah. Friend.” Brushing crumbs off his hands, he held one out to Daniel. “Wally Williams."
He gripped the guy's hand. “Daniel Nicholson."
"Gretchen know you were coming?” Bottle green eyes blared into his.
"No. Why?"
"Surprised her, eh? She doesn't like surprises."
"I didn't stay long,” he found himself saying in his defense.
Wally cocked his head. “You're brave, anyway."
"How so?"
"'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'” He chuckled. “Know what I mean?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact.” He'd scorned more than his share. “But I think you're getting the wrong idea. Gretchen and I are just acquaintances."
Williams’ eyes narrowed. “What you say your name was?"
He repeated it as he rose from the bench.
Wally appeared to ruminate on that, before his expression mellowed again. Reaching into his breast pocket, he retrieved a business card that he thrust toward Daniel.
He took it and read “Marydale Casket Company,” with “Wally Williams, Owner” printed under it.
"If I can be of any help, call me."
Daniel quirked a brow and said dryly, “I hope I won't need you anytime soon."
Wally grinned. “One never knows. Especially if one is dealing with Gretchen."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Stick around. You'll see."
Daniel studied him a moment longer, before turning and walking away. When he'd gone a block or two, he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. The park bench was empty.
Strange. Strange guy, too. And yet, he'd seemed sharp-witted and funny. His advice about Gretchen had been meant to help him, as far as he could tell. And as for the little crack about needing the casket if he dealt with her, luckily there'd been some humor in Wally's eyes then. Daniel suspected the implication was that Gretchen was willing to step to the center of the ring when it came to her daughter.