Open Secret

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Sexy, huh?

  “You’re serious?”

  God, he sounded pitiful. Like a gawky kid begging for validation.

  Instead of laughing at him this time, Carrie said, a little tentatively, “I never thought you were interested in me. I thought you were just being nice, maybe because you felt responsible for throwing me into all this.”

  “I do feel responsible,” he admitted. “I’d have listened to you talk this through no matter what. But I wouldn’t have gotten grumpy when I suddenly realized that you were so happy after meeting Suzanne, you wouldn’t need me anymore.”

  Her expression was vulnerable. “You want to be needed?”

  “I wanted the excuse to talk to you. Spend time with you.”

  “Oh.” Her smile dawned, radiant. “That’s nice.”

  The word didn’t sound so bad this time.

  “I’d like to see you before next weekend.” This was jumping in with both feet, but he needed her to know that he and Michael—and Daisy—came as a package deal. “Will you come to dinner at my place this week? Say Monday night?”

  “I’d love to,” she declared without hesitation.

  Much of his chronic weariness, cynicism and bone-deep sense of loneliness dissipated, just like that, making him feel years younger, cocky, invincible. Emily’s face flickered through his mind without its usual impact. Maybe it was premature to think he was ready to let go, but he indulged in the brief illusion.

  He walked Carrie to her apartment door, resisting the temptation to come in when she invited him. “The baby-sitter is expecting me.” She produced a scrap of paper from her purse and he jotted down directions to his place. “Can you make it by six?” he asked. “Michael’s bedtime is eight, so we eat pretty early.”

  “No problem. I’ll come straight from work.” She tucked the directions carefully in her purse and smiled at him. “I’m really glad you got grumpy.”

  “I am, too.” He hesitated—damn, he was out of practice at courting a woman!—then leaned toward her and kissed her lightly, just a nuzzle, a brush of their mouths. Her lips trembled, and she made a small sound. A sigh, maybe. He bit back a groan. Just like that, he wanted her, the need clawing at his belly. Obviously it had been too long since he’d had a woman. It was all he could do to tuck some of her curls behind her ear and straighten away.

  His voice came out gritty. “Monday?”

  She gave him a shaky smile, nodded and stepped into her apartment. “Thank you for coming today.”

  He should be backing away, but his feet refused to move. “You’re welcome.”

  “You could still come in.” She opened the door wider.

  Too quick. “No.” Finally he unglued his feet and took a step. “See you.”

  Her smile was unbelievably sweet. “See you.” She gently shut the door.

  His feet suddenly had springs in them. He had a date with Carrie. He was grinning like an idiot when he got in his car and glimpsed his face in the mirror.

  MAYBE IT WAS the glow Mark had talked about that made Carrie foolhardy enough to answer the phone the next day. Or maybe, secretly, she’d wanted to talk to her mom or dad and liked the idea of it happening accidentally.

  Whichever it was, when the phone rang she danced over and snatched up the receiver without a second, cautious thought. “Hello?”

  “Carrie?” her mother said tremulously. “It’s Mom.”

  Her heart clenched. “Mom.”

  “I’ve left some messages.”

  More than some. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. “I know I’ve been ignoring you.”

  “You have reason to be angry.”

  Her parents had made her whole life a lie, and they conceded she had reason to be angry?

  Perhaps with the intention of hurting, she said, “I met my sister yesterday.”

  Her mother’s breath rushed out. She stayed silent.

  Carrie’s turmoil swirled and tightened into a tornadolike funnel that was—yes, anger. “You’re going to have to admit she exists. Her name is Suzanne.”

  Stiffly, her mother said, “Suzanne. That’s a pretty name.”

  “It’s French. Like Linette.” She paused. “And Lucien.”

  “It’s not like you to be cruel, Carrie.”

  “Maybe neither of us knows who I really am.” Hearing her cold voice, she felt a rush of panic. This wasn’t like her. Where were these stony words coming from?

  After a second long pause, her mother said with wounded dignity, “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. I called to say that we miss you. I hope…when you’re ready to listen and not just accuse…” Her voice broke. “I love you very much.”

  She didn’t wait for a response, just ended the call.

  Feeling sick, Carrie set down the phone.

  “I love you, too, Mom,” she whispered to the empty room.

  SHE ADORED MARK’S house on sight. Built of warm brick, it made her think of Hansel and Gretel. The steep-pitched roof curved down in a wing over the heavy, elaborate front door, ending atop a brick wall that stuck out for no other purpose than to contain a doorway leading to a side garden. An iron railing separated a front yard that wasn’t ten feet deep from the sidewalk on a quiet street, the kind that was so narrow that, after residents parked along it, cars going opposite directions had to pull over to let each other by.

  She’d been lucky enough to find a parking spot only half a block away and had walked back under large trees, fresh green with spring. The door knocker was a giant brass frog that thumped hollowly when she released it. She heard a deep bark inside, a scrabble of claws and racing feet. Then nothing happened for perhaps a minute. Finally the door swung open.

  First she saw Mark, then, lower, a towheaded boy with freckles on his nose and long-lashed hazel eyes, and finally, lower yet, a dog with silky black hair, a long pink tongue and eager eyes.

  “Hi, all of you.” She smiled at father, then son, and held out her hand to the dog. “You didn’t mention him.”

  “Her,” his son corrected. “This is Daisy.”

  “Daisy.” She stroked the head and laughed in delight when the tongue wrapped around her wrist. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Do you like dogs?” Michael asked, face solemn.

  “I love dogs. I had one growing up. Dragon. I found him, skinny and terrified. For years, he flopped over and peed every time anybody but me even looked at him. My parents…” Oh, dear. She couldn’t even mention them without feeling a clutch of pain. “My parents’ house has hardwood floors and beautiful old rugs. My mother just about had a heart attack every time poor Dragon flopped.”

  The boy’s forehead creased. “But did she love him?”

  No, Carrie thought, but she loved me enough to endure Dragon. That counted for something, didn’t it?

  “Everybody knew Dragon was my dog. But he’d sit outside and keep Mom company when she gardened, which she liked.” She smiled, despite the sting of memories. “Well, are you going to invite me in?”

  Mark grinned at her and stepped back. “We intend to. But you had to survive the inspection first.”

  “I’m alive and well.” She held out her hand to his son. “You must be Michael. How do you do?”

  A well-mannered little boy, he said, “It’s nice to meet you,” and shook. Daisy pranced.

  Carrie stepped inside and fell even more in love.

  The interior was warm and informal and clearly the home of a child. There was no off-limits living room. As expected with the era of the house, the floors were hardwood, but the area rugs weren’t antiques like her parents’. These boasted more vivid colors, some modern geometric shapes. Built-in bookcases fronted with doors of leaded-glass flanked a fireplace. Big comfy chairs and sofa were paired with a sturdy, vaguely Mission-style coffee table and end tables. A Lego construction was rising on the coffee table, and a couple of heaps of books mixed Michael’s and Mark’s. Straight ahead, the dining room had more built-ins, and a table set with pla
cemats and a vase filled with salmon-pink tulips.

  “The flowers are in your honor.” Mark’s voice was low and intimate, his eyes smiling. “Michael set the table.”

  “And you did a very nice job,” she told the five-year-old, trailing them with the dog at his side. “Um…” she studied a tail that wasn’t feathery enough to go with the ears and legs that seemed a little too short for the elegant, long body. “What kind of dog is Daisy?”

  “Daddy says she might be a spaniel.”

  “That part is apparent,” Mark agreed. “The rest of her…God knows.”

  Carrie laughed. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? My mother…” Damn it, there she went again, feeling a sharp pang. “My mother suggested recently that if I get another dog, I should think about a poodle. Since they don’t shed. One of those miniature ones.”

  Mark didn’t hide his shudder.

  “They’re very cute—” she cast him a reproving glance “—but I prefer Daisy kind of dogs.”

  “Yeah! Me, too!” Michael told her. “Dad wanted me to get some puppy ’stead’ve Daisy.”

  In the background, Dad looked heavenward.

  “Well, you were smart to stick to your guns,” Carrie said, hiding her amusement. “Once a dog picks you, it would be wrong to even think about taking a different one home, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah!” He dropped to his knees and hugged Daisy, who used the opportunity to slosh his face. “She did pick me, didn’t she, Dad?”

  “Yes, she unquestionably did.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and added, “Now go wash your hands and your face while I dish up.”

  Michael giggled. “Daisy just washed my face. I don’t hafta!”

  “You hafta.”

  “Pooh,” he said, and trotted down the hall with the dog following.

  “What a great kid,” Carrie remarked.

  “Thanks.” Mark looked pleased.

  “Can I help bring anything out? What are we having?”

  “We’re having hamburgers and potato salad. Not fancy. I hope you don’t mind. Michael’s tastes aren’t what you’d call sophisticated.”

  She laughed at him. “Honestly—mine aren’t, either.”

  “And if you want to pour Michael’s milk and pick out something for yourself to drink, that would be great.”

  She poured all three of them milk. She didn’t like beer, and wine just didn’t seem to go with hamburgers and potato salad.

  Michael chatted without shyness throughout dinner. Mark seemed to assume that she wouldn’t mind; he never tried to shush his son or turn the conversation to adult topics that would exclude Michael. Carrie liked that about him.

  She heard about Michael’s kindergarten teacher and Heidi, who had the extraordinary talent of being able to fold her ears into the canal and to twitch her nose, too.

  His face dimmed a little when he told her that Heidi was going to get married. “And Dad says she might have her own kids. And be too busy and stuff. But he says I’ll be lots older and won’t care.”

  She wondered how well he remembered his mother.

  “That’s probably true,” she agreed. “You’ll probably be in at least third or fourth grade, and at that age boys think all girls have the cooties. And Heidi is a girl.”

  “Yeah! She is.” He seemed delighted at the notion of cooties.

  “Bad memories of fourth grade?” Mark asked.

  “No, when I was in college I did some tutoring at the local elementary school to get extra credit in bio and then calculus. It was great fun.”

  She’d had a lot more fun teaching biology and math to kids than she’d had learning it herself. She liked kids that age, and the subjects were just involved enough at fourth-grade level to interest the students. The mysteries of why the world worked the way it did was just unfolding for them.

  “You’d be a good teacher.” Mark raised a brow at his son. “Did I see a bite of hamburger disappearing under the table? You know the rules.”

  “But Dad…!”

  “Daisy can have leftovers after dinner. A few leftovers. Most of our food isn’t very good for her. Remember?”

  “But if I just drop it accidentally, can’t she eat it?”

  “It would appear I can’t stop her,” Mark said ruefully. “Not without shutting her out while we eat. If you have too many accidents, I will.”

  “Meany,” Carrie said out of the corner of her mouth.

  He gave her a look, but she saw the humor in his eyes. “Behave yourself.”

  “But I was being good!” the five-year-old declared in indignation.

  “I was talking to Carrie.”

  “Did she have a accident, too?”

  “Maybe,” she confessed. She had slipped a bite—okay, maybe two—under the table.

  Mark gave another of those heavenward glances. “I buy very expensive food for that dog. She eats better than we do. You two are suckers for her big brown eyes.”

  “I can’t even see her eyes. I can just feel her down there, hoping.”

  “Yeah, me, too!” Michael slithered down in his seat so he could lift the tablecloth and peer under. “But sometimes I look.”

  “Up,” his father ordered.

  He scrambled back up and poked at his nearly untouched potato salad. “Can we have pie now?”

  “Pie?” Carrie inquired.

  “Apple. Heidi slaved in the kitchen all day for our benefit.”

  “Well, thank her for me. Fresh-baked apple pie sounds heavenly.”

  Michael bounced. “Dad bought ice cream, too. He doesn’t usually buy ice cream. But he said tonight we could have a treat. Huh, Dad?”

  “Wow.” Carrie smiled at the boy and then his father. “I’m glad I came.”

  “I’m glad you did, too.” Mark’s voice was a low, meaningful rumble not meant for his son’s ears.

  She smiled at him. “Where’s the ice cream?”

  The pie was divine. Heidi, they both assured her, was a great cook.

  “Next year, Michael will be in school all day, so Heidi’s going to cut her hours,” Mark said, as they all practically licked their plates. “I’m most dreading the necessity of doing more cooking.” He grimaced. “And eating more of my cooking.”

  “Maybe she’ll double recipes and freeze them for you.”

  He looked thoughtful. “That’s an idea. Heck, maybe I can pay her to come one day a week and cook all day long.”

  “There you go.”

  In concert, they all cleared the table, rinsed dishes and loaded the dishwasher, after which Mark granted his son permission to watch a Disney video for half an hour before bed.

  Carrie and Mark took their coffee into the living room, where they could just hear the murmur of the TV in the smaller room beyond the kitchen that held the television, a sofa and a game table.

  “He really is fantastic,” she said. “You should be proud of yourself.”

  “I wonder if more of the credit should go to Heidi.” His smile was wry. “She’s with him more than I am.”

  “But you have to work.”

  “I didn’t say I had a choice. Just…”

  “If the magazines are to be believed, every parent in America feels guilty about something.”

  He laughed. “Okay. You’re right. And so far, Michael is a great kid. I’m lucky.”

  “Or talented.”

  The smile still in his eyes, he agreed, “Or talented.”

  They sipped in contented silence for a moment.

  “You know,” he said, “you’re good with him. Most friends who don’t have children of their own seem awkward.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve always liked kids. One of the teachers I worked with at the elementary school encouraged me to consider education.”

  “And?”

  “I was going to be a doctor.” She wrinkled her nose. “An ambition that had sunk by my junior year to intending to be a nurse. I was an okay student, but you pretty much have to have a four point GPA to get into med school, and I
sure didn’t have that.”

  He watched her, his gray eyes perceptive. “You’d have graduated from medical school last year if you’d made it, right?”

  She counted mentally. “Wow. Yeah.”

  “So this year you’d be doing an internship. Shopping for where you wanted to do your residency. Do you wish that’s what you were doing?”

  She hadn’t thought about it in years. Now that she did, Carrie knew the answer without hesitation. “Nope,” she said simply.

  “So maybe you should circle back to thinking about becoming a teacher.”

  She stared at him. Why hadn’t that occurred to her? She loved children. She couldn’t remember any job or class that she’d enjoyed as much as the hours she’d spent helping in that fourth grade class.

  “Maybe.”

  “I hear the U.W. has a great master’s degree program in education.”

  She tilted her head. “You trying to recruit a fourth-grade teacher for Michael?”

  An odd expression crossed Mark’s face. But he said lightly, “A teacher for Michael isn’t quite what I was thinking.” Before she could comment, he set down his coffee cup and rose. “Let me get him off to bed. If you don’t mind waiting?”

  “No.” She was suddenly a little breathless. “I don’t mind.”

  Their gazes locked, held. After a moment he cleared his throat. “I’ll be back.”

  A minute after Mark disappeared, Michael dashed in to say good-night, then Carrie heard footsteps on the stairs and the two voices, man’s and boy’s, receding.

  When Mark came back, he and she would be alone together. Nerves and anticipation both quivered in her stomach.

  She thought of his rejoinder. A teacher for Michael isn’t quite what I was thinking.

  What, she wondered, was he thinking? Could he possibly be interested enough in her to be imagining a future with the three of them?

  Whoa! Way too soon!

  But she kept seeing that fleeting expression on Mark’s face, the one that had quickened her heart.

  And hearing the faint emphasis he’d put on the word “teacher.”

  CHAPTER NINE