“Yeah, I’m sure it is. I probably should have called first, but I thought I’d take a chance…um…do you have a minute? I could come back later.”
She poked her head inside to make sure her helpers had everything under control—and to give her heart a chance to quit turning somersaults. Why did he have to look so damn good? Blue jeans, black mock turtleneck and black leather jacket. He’d aged some, but every line gave his face more character. He wasn’t just a handsome young stud—he was a man.
She’d been doing this job for so long that she could tell at a glance that the children were resting peacefully and her aides were preparing for the afternoon session.
She closed the door and leaned against it, crossing her arms. The late fall sunshine was warming; the wind was blocked by the house behind her. “Now is as good a time as any. What can I do for you?”
“Right to the point, as always. Okay, then, here’s my question. Will you let me enroll my son in your school?”
MARK BRACED HIMSELF for a negative response. He had no right to ask the question, but he was desperate. Only a truly desperate man would ask his ex-fiancée to provide child care for the child who, for all practical purposes, was the reason they weren’t married. If not for Braden, he and Alex would probably have a kid or two of their own by now.
Instead, Mark had spent nearly every minute since that fateful night when he’d given in to Tracey’s no-strings-attached suggestion trying to make amends for his mistake. To his ex-wife, for not loving her enough to put up with her drinking and partying. To Braden, for not being able to pretend any longer that he loved the little boy’s mother. To his conscience, which knew just how badly he’d hurt Alex.
“You want to bring your son to the Dancing Hippo?”
“Yes.”
“Why? This is a preschool. Your son must be in what—second grade?”
“He’s repeating first grade this year. He just turned seven. Tracey and I split up when he was three. She started him in kindergarten when he was four. His birthday is September 23, so technically he was old enough, but I didn’t think he was ready.”
“It didn’t work out?”
“He passed, but whenever I went to a parent-teacher conference, I could tell his teacher was concerned about Bray’s socialization skills—or lack of them. He’s very shy and has had a bit of a stuttering problem almost since he started speaking. At the time, it wasn’t debilitating, but his teacher thought he’d be better off repeating kindergarten. Tracey disagreed. She insisted that he’d catch up in first grade.”
“Didn’t happen?”
“Didn’t have a chance to happen. About six weeks into the school year, his teacher called us both in for a conference. She was extremely blunt. She said Braden needed speech therapy and should probably be placed in a special-needs class.”
Alex winced. “I bet that didn’t go over well with Tracey.”
“She blew up. Accused his teacher of being lazy and showing favoritism. She called me the next day and said that since she wasn’t working, there was no reason why she shouldn’t home-school him.”
Mark looked away. In hindsight, the battle that had ensued had been a waste of time and money and had put his son right in the middle of his parents’war. “I hired a lawyer to try to make her take him to school. Odessa, Tracey’s mother, got involved. I filed for sole custody. Then, in March, before we had anything settled, Tracey died.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Tracey’s dead?”
He nodded. “A fire. She and the man she might have been involved with at the time were killed.” He didn’t add the brutal details: the two had died in an explosion at a meth lab where Tracey most probably had gone to get drugs from her on-again, off-again pusher boyfriend.
“Oh, how awful. Poor Braden.”
Mark hurried past her sympathy. “I put Braden back in regular school as soon as I could. Probably the wrong thing to do. He had a hard time adjusting. The other kids teased him.” They teased him about his stutter and picked on him because he was small and weak and lost. Mark could barely think about that time without breaking down. He’d felt like the worst father in the world.
“I know it’s a cliché,” Alex offered, “but kids can be cruel. Did the school test him academically?”
Mark nodded. “He’s behind in reading and math skills and has problems with peer interaction—their words, not mine. His cognitive functions—” He tried to smile. “See, I’ve learned a new language. His cognitive functions are within normal range, but his speech impediment has had a negative impact on his ability to make friends and communicate with his teachers. We have an IEP—Individualized Education Plan—designed to help him get back on track.”
The concerned look on her face intensified. “Has he shown any improvement?”
“Not really. The school he’s attending likes to mainstream its special-needs students. He’s in a new first-grade class and he works with a speech therapist a couple of times a week, but she’s not having a lot of success. Most of the time, he just doesn’t talk.”
Sympathy sparkled like tears in her gorgeous brown eyes. He’d always said he could see his forever in Alex’s eyes. But he’d been wrong. And now, he didn’t want sympathy. He wanted—he needed—help.
“I’m looking for after-school care. Your ad in the Yellow Pages says that’s something you offer. I checked with his school and the bus can drop him off here, if you’ll let him come.”
She frowned. “I’ve had a few older kids—mostly siblings of students in my preschool class—sign up for that program, but at the moment, my cousin’s son is my only after-school student. Luca is pretty independent. Does his homework then plays video games until his dad picks him up. Your son would probably benefit from a more one-on-one type of program, and, frankly, I don’t have the staff for that.”
She hadn’t said no, exactly. “He needs a place where he can feel safe and get some stimulation beyond sitting in front of the boob tube. He doesn’t act out. He’s not disruptive. The poor kid has missed out on a lot of things in his short life, including preschool. His mother was too busy or too broke—according to her—to enroll him in one. This kind of setting might be really good for him.”
“What are you doing for child care now?”
“I have a babysitter who comes to my house. But she’s found a job that pays more and given notice. I advertised the position, but I’ve only had a couple of applicants, and Braden didn’t seem to like any of them.”
Thumbing through the Yellow Pages one evening, he’d spotted Alex’s ad. A quick call to his friend Zeke Martini confirmed that Alex owned and operated the Dancing Hippo.
“How many days per week would you want him to come here? What hours? If I remember correctly, a cop’s shifts are pretty irregular.”
Questions were good. Better than a flat-out no. Better than he deserved. “I’m an arson investigator with the Las Vegas Fire Department. I work five eight-and-a-half-hour days with the third Monday off. Sometimes, I might get called in if there’s an emergency. There’s a woman in my building who is a stay-at-home mom. She helps out if that happens, but she doesn’t want to take on another kid full-time.”
“So, you’re just interested in after-school care, five days a week?”
“From three to six or six-thirty, depending on traffic.”
Her frown made him wonder what she was thinking. Was she remembering that day when their plans had blown up into tiny shards of anger and disappointment? The day he’d told her that Tracey was pregnant, and he was the father?
“On rare occasions I might run late. I have to know there’s a safety net in place in case something comes up at work. If I don’t work, I can’t afford to pay for after-school care. It’s a vicious circle.”
Her chocolate-brown eyes looked troubled. He knew how much she adored kids. But could she look past what had been between the two of them?
“Won’t he feel humiliated by associating with babies? And I’m not trained to work with speec
h impediments.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. He probably won’t say two words to you while he’s here. And, honestly, I think being around younger kids would be a relief for him.”
A little bell rang from inside the attractive ranch-style house that had—almost—been his. He could hear the muffled sounds of children’s voices. Happy sounds. God, he prayed, please let her take Bray. He deserves a second chance. I know I don’t, but Braden does.
“I really can’t say for sure, Mark. Not until I’ve met him. Could you bring him by sometime next week? He might not like it here at all.”
“He will.”
Mark believed that—although he couldn’t say for sure why. He’d tried everything to communicate with his son and still didn’t have a clue what was going on inside that adorable blond head. Bray looked so much like his mother it was unnerving at times. Alex might not be able to get past that—she was human, after all. But maybe she’d take pity on the poor kid, and let the past stay where it was—buried beneath angry charges and a surfeit of tears.
“How ’bout Monday? That’s my day off.”
Her eyes widened as if regretting her offer. “I…I don’t know if this is a good idea—given our history, but okay. Bring him in. If he’s not unhappy here, then we’ll see.”
We’ll see. A small glimmer of hope, but more than he’d had in weeks. He’d take it.
“BRADEN, EAT YOUR HOT DOG. There’s ketchup. You love ketchup, remember?”
Mark wasn’t certain that statement was true. He’d seen Braden eat hot dogs with ketchup and assumed the boy still liked the food, but he had a feeling he could have put ketchup-covered beetles on the plate and Braden would eat them just as readily.
Braden generally did what he was told. He didn’t talk back. He objected to taking a bath most nights, but Mark didn’t think that made him unique. He ate, slept—except for the nightmares that hit like clockwork—and watched TV like a normal kid. But Mark knew in his gut his child wasn’t “normal.”
Something had happened in Braden’s short life that had left him traumatized. Considering Tracey’s erratic behavior during their marriage—and her turbulent, high-drama relationship with her mother—the possibilities were endless. Mark had been a cop for four years before he’d switched to arson. He’d seen enough cases of child abuse to fear the worst.
Hell, Mark had lived through the worst himself. The son of an alcoholic father and codependent mother, Mark had found himself on the receiving end of many a beating. “You’re a total screwup,” his father would shout. But Mark had joined the police academy, found a mentor who believed in him, and had eventually moved to Las Vegas and met Alex.
Then, he’d blown it. How his old man would have laughed if he hadn’t managed to fall asleep with a burning cigarette and set fire to the house, killing himself and Mark’s mother.
After Mark and Alex had broken up, he’d married Tracey in a quick civil ceremony. A few months later, he’d taken the necessary tests to become a fireman. He’d changed jobs so Tracey’s position in the department wouldn’t be in conflict after she came back from maternity leave—and maybe to some degree because of what had happened to his parents. Serendipitously, he’d discovered his true calling—arson investigation.
Unfortunately, Tracey’s life hadn’t gone so well. Trouble at work, trouble keeping a qualified babysitter, trouble with her mother, trouble with her marriage. Tracey had sunk into a depression, and nothing Mark said or did seemed to help.
Mark loved his son, but any tender feelings he’d tried to coax to life for Tracey had died before their son was a year old. At some level, Mark had known that she’d sensed his ambivalence about their marriage, and she’d blamed Alex for it. Her anger slowly poisoned her whole life. An altercation with a junkie during an arrest brought her under scrutiny for excess use of force. She probably would have been kicked off the force in disgrace if she hadn’t been injured in the scuffle. Chronic pain may have added to her need for alcohol and street drugs.
Mark was still picking up the pieces of the wreck he’d made of his life. The only good thing to come of his mistake was Braden, but at the moment, he felt very close to losing his son. His gut told him Alex Radonovic—dauntless advocate of children, and the kindest, most loving person he’d ever known—was his last hope.
Chapter Two
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Kate said at the weekly gathering of sisters. Kate and Liz—Grace sometimes joined them by phone from Detroit, but hadn’t called that morning—were already seated at their mother’s kitchen table when Alex arrived.
She’d gotten off to a bad start when her newest hire had called in sick. Fortunately, a substitute aide had been available to fill in.
This would cost Alex extra, but she’d pay it gladly. Today was the day Mark was bringing his son to her school. A fact that she’d just shared with her sisters.
“Are we talking the same Mark who broke your heart?”
Alex made a face. “That’s ancient history. And it’s not as if I’m enrolling Mark. After-school care only. I think I can handle that…if his little boy likes it here.”
“What’s not to like?” Liz asked. “Every kid I know loves the Hippo.”
Alex smiled her thanks. “Mark’s son has some special needs. His name is Braden, by the way. He sounds…wounded. Poor little guy. His mother is dead, you know.”
“Dead?” Liz croaked, nearly choking on a sip of tea. “I hadn’t heard that. How?”
Alex shrugged. “I didn’t ask for details. Mark seemed so…I don’t know, defeated. Really not the way I remember him.”
The old Mark, the man she’d fallen in love with the first time they’d met at a New Year’s Eve party at Sam’s Town casino when he and a couple of buddies had crashed her family’s party, had been brash and edgy and so handsome he could have been a model. Her first thought had been He could be Romani. But he wasn’t. Worse, he was a cop. A fact that had become an issue between Alex and her father.
Changing the subject, she looked at Kate. “Mom said Romantique is booked solid through the holidays. That’s great. Are we still doing the charity dinner on Christmas Day?”
Kate nodded, her curly hair fluttering in an unstyled mess that made her look waiflike. “Unless I collapse first. Was I this tired when I was living at home?”
Liz grinned. “You didn’t have a husband when you lived here, but it’s not too late to come back. Reezira and Lydia aren’t moving in until next weekend.”
Since Liz had a new roommate—Paul, her fiancé—the two young Romanian women had decided it was time to strike out on their own. When Yetta had offered to let them rent Kate’s and Maya’s former rooms, they’d jumped at the chance.
Kate looked toward the hallway as if missing her old sanctuary. “Are they excited?”
“Delirious,” Liz said. “They’re convinced Vegas is way hipper than Henderson. Plus, Alex has promised them extra work at the Hippo any time the tea business is slow.”
“Don’t they need credentials to work in child-care?”
“I can always use a hand making snacks, handling the sign-in desk and prepping for art projects. I keep dreaming of finding someone like Jo, who will step in and handle things when I need a day off.”
Kate’s mother-in-law had gone through a difficult period health-wise that had included a misdiagnosis of lung cancer, but she was on the mend now and fully committed to the restaurant.
Kate nodded in agreement. “Jo is a gift. That’s for sure. And once we get the paperwork side of things covered, I’ll be able to breathe again.”
Alex was about to ask about their new bookkeeper—she was thinking about hiring some part-time clerical help herself—when Kate sighed and said, “That is if I can get Maya back on track. Why didn’t anyone warn me about the terrible fives?”
Maya was turning five in February.
“She can’t help it that she’s an adult in a child’s body,” Alex said with a chuckle. “Have you broken the new
s that she’s going to a new school after the first of the year?”
Kate stood up and started to pace. “We drove by it on Friday after I picked her up at the Hippo. She called it an Ugly Duckling school and flat-out refuses to go.”
“Change is tough at that age,” Alex said. Or any age. She wondered what kind of changes a seven-year-old boy would bring to her school’s dynamic.
Mark had called the night before and left a message on her answering machine, confirming that he’d be bringing his son in today. His voice had the power to transport her back to an earlier time in her life. A glorious, hopeful time when she’d been blissfully in love. Until the day Mark had shown up and couldn’t look her in the eye. Her gypsy ESP had known immediately that something bad had happened. Even before he could confess, she’d seen the shadow of another woman draped around him. Blond. Curvaceous. Sexy.
“You were with Tracey,” Alex had charged.
He hadn’t bothered to deny it. But he’d pleaded with her to give him another chance. At the time, Alex had been too hurt to consider reconciliation, and when she’d finally called him to talk, he’d told her there was a baby on the way.
Mark had married Tracey.
“I’d take back that night with my soul, if I could,” Mark had told her—just days before his scheduled nuptials.
“If you had one,” Alex had cried, wishing she could hurt him as much as he’d hurt her.
“Alexandra.”
Alex looked up at her mother’s voice. Yetta had apparently entered the kitchen through the door that opened into the garage. She was in the process of hanging up her coat, and from the concerned look on her face must have said Alex’s name more than once.
“Oh, hi, Mom. I thought you were at the cemetery.”
“That was yesterday. Are you feeling okay?”
Alex felt her cheeks heat up. The last thing she wanted was for someone to bring up her health issues. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind. You know how the holidays are.”
“Which parents are volunteering today?” Liz asked. “Not Mrs. Moorehouse, I hope.”
The Quiet Child Page 2