“Ooh, Mark, look at the size of that tub. Do you know what we could do with a tub that big?” she’d teased when the Realtor had stepped away. “Oh, baby, let the splashing begin.”
He stood at the sink and looked into the mirror. The harsh overhead lights did little to minimize the effects the past few years had had on him. Gray hairs in his side-burns. Lines across his forehead and around his eyes. Usually, he only looked in the mirror to shave. He didn’t enjoy seeing evidence of the mistakes he’d made staring back at him.
“You chose to—” he stopped himself from saying the word he didn’t want his son repeating “—screw up your life when you slept with Tracey. This is what you have to deal with, so quit whining about all the things that could have been. You could have been sharing that big tub with Alex. You could have been a lot of things, but this is what you are. Get over it.”
He filled a little paper cup with lukewarm water and swallowed it in one gulp, cringing at the chlorine taste. He crushed the cup and tossed it into the garbage can beside the toilet with a snap of his wrist. He’d just clicked off the light when he heard a sound that made his knees weak.
His son’s mewling cry was usually a precursor to a three-hour ordeal in nightmare land. Unless he could head off the worst of it…He sprinted down the hallway to Braden’s room. The door was open; the SpongeBob Square-Pants night-light cast a yellowish glow across the bed and furnishings. The little boy in the bed was already starting to thrash back and forth. His covers were on the floor.
“Braden,” Mark called in a low, intense voice. “Braden, listen to me. It’s Daddy. I’m here. You’re in your room. Everything is fine. You’re safe. Do you hear me, son? You’re safe. Daddy’s here. Daddy loves you. Open your eyes, Bray. Look at me.”
Braden opened his mouth instead of his eyes, and a loud, desperate cry of pain filled the room, breaking Mark’s heart. There were no words. No explanation. Nothing to lead Mark to the source of his son’s terror. And no clue about how to reassure the little boy.
All he could do was repeat his silent vow to make sure Tracey’s mother never got her evil hands on his son.
Chapter Eight
“So, I hear you went bike riding with Mark and his son today.”
“Gregor is a worse gossip than any woman I know.”
Grace laughed and took a sip on her straw, which was buried in a root-beer float. “True. He called Mom’s house before your taillights cleared the cul-de-sac.”
Alex had expected as much, but, as she’d explained to Grace, she’d gone on group outings with other students and their parents. “No big deal,” she said.
“Uh-huh, and the fact that Mark is still a hunk has nothing to do with your decision to spend the day with him and his handicapped son.”
“Braden is not handicapped,” Alex said emphasizing the word not. “Lots of young children stutter. And many go through periods where they don’t speak. Particularly after a devastating loss or shock.”
Grace had a pleased-with-herself look on her face. “Spoken like a mama bear defending her cub.”
Alex felt her face heat up. She’d known meeting Grace for ice cream was a bad idea. Especially after her tub episode with Mark. But she’d been too flustered to come up with a good excuse, so she’d gotten dressed and driven to their neighborhood Dairy Queen.
“As I would defend any child in my care,” Alex said, trying to rationalize her response. “He’s a sweet little boy who lost his mother, and whose dad is playing catch-up in the parenting department. Plus, I think Braden’s come to the conclusion that life pretty much sucks and the best way to avoid getting smacked around is to hide behind a wall of silence.”
Grace’s eyes went big. “You think Mark hits—”
“Of course not,” Alex said sharply. “Mark would never abuse a child. He’s patient and gentle with Braden. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
Grace made a slurping sound with her straw and reached for her spoon. “To gauge your reaction.”
Alex fought to keep from blushing, but Grace’s snicker told her she’d failed.
“Besides, Zeke told Mom that Mark had been in the process of taking Tracey back to court to get full custody of Braden around the time she was killed. Apparently, he found a big, ugly bruise on Braden’s arm a few weeks earlier. Tracey blamed it on the babysitter, but Mark suspected Tracey’s mom.”
Which probably explains why Mark brought up the idea of me caring for Braden if anything happened to him, Alex thought.
“I haven’t gotten to know Braden well enough to figure out what’s going on in his head, but he’s starting to warm up. He let Maya hold his hand on Friday.”
“Really? Oh, my, a new generation of love. This is so cool. Have you told Kate? I wonder if Mother’s had a prophecy.”
Alex took a bite of her frozen-yogurt hot-fudge sundae. Something else she should feel guilty about, but didn’t. Not really. Tonight, she was enjoying her sister’s company and pigging out on a comforting dose of chocolate while secretly admitting that she wanted to share a bubble bath with a man who was totally wrong for her. Tomorrow she’d repent for her weaknesses—both gluttony and wantonness—but, first, she’d enjoy every indulgent taste…and every delicious fantasy.
THE NOTICE, WHEN IT CAME three days later, was almost anticlimactic, Mark decided, as he packed a few personal items from his desk. He’d been called into his supervisor’s office and told to bring another officer up to speed on his current cases.
“I really hate to do this, Mark,” Reuben had told him. “You’re the best investigator I’ve got, but this is out of my hands. I did argue to keep you on paid leave, though. I know how hard it is to get by when you have kids.”
Mark appreciated the gesture. He sure as hell wasn’t rich, and who knew how long this suspension might last? Until they had enough proof to charge somebody, he guessed. He just hoped that arrest warrant wouldn’t have his name on it.
Before leaving, he did what was asked of him, made a few calls—including one to Zeke—and then went home. But the walls of his apartment felt colorless, empty and claustrophobic, so he decided to drive around until it was time to pick up Braden.
He only got as far as the Dancing Hippo. Braden wouldn’t arrive for another hour, but Alex had said she could always use an extra hand. Feeling foolish, he walked up the sidewalk, but before he reached the handicap ramp, the front door opened and Yetta walked out.
She didn’t appear surprised to see him. “Mark, how lovely. I need two strong arms to help me carry some musical instruments that Alexandra stores in my spare room. What incredible timing.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. He’d always been on good terms with Alex’s mother in the past, but surely she regarded him with some antipathy given the way he’d broken her daughter’s heart. Before he could ask any questions, she took his arm and turned him in the opposite direction he’d been heading.
“The children are resting, so this works out perfectly. Come along. It’ll give us a chance to clear the air.”
He swallowed. “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”
Yetta was shorter than Alex, petite but not fragile-looking. Her grip on his arm was pretty strong for a woman dressed in a suit and low heels. Her hair was more silver than he remembered, but the pulled-back style looked rather elegant.
“That’s very generous of you, considering how mean-spirited Ernst was toward you when you and Alexandra were dating. I swear I never understood how such an intelligent man could close off his mind to certain undeniable truths.”
Truths? “You mean the fact I was a cop?”
She smiled. “No. That’s just a job. I was referring to the fact that you and Alexandra loved each other and were perfect for each other.”
He shook his head. “Not so perfect. I blew it, remember?”
She patted his arm. “Everyone makes mistakes—even Ernst.” Her smile dimmed for a moment, before her expression changed to one of resolve. “All of that is in th
e past. We must carry on and do the best we can with the present, such as it is. So, is this your day off?”
It was tempting to lie, but could one lie to a Gypsy psychic and get away with it? “Not exactly. I’m on temporary suspension while the powers that be decide whether or not I killed my ex-wife and her drug dealer in a fire at a meth lab.”
They’d reached the opposite side of the street and were in front of the house where Alex’s cousin lived. Yetta dropped her hold on his arm and stared at him a few seconds, then, to his surprise, she hugged him. “What a difficult road you’ve chosen, dear boy. I’m so sorry. I wish I could say things were going to get better, but…”
Her gaze shifted slightly so she wasn’t looking at him directly. Her gaze appeared fixed on something just beyond him—perhaps beyond what normal people could see. He held his breath waiting to see if she’d say more, but after a few seconds, she shook her head and blinked. “We need to hurry. Alexandra hates to be kept waiting.”
Mark almost chuckled at the irony of her statement. In some ways, he’d kept her waiting for nearly eight years. Well, not really. Alex had made it clear that she’d moved on where he was concerned. He needed to remember that. His life was a mess. He had even less to offer her now than he’d had back when they’d been engaged. Less of the things she deserved, such as security, money and a shot at a normal life.
ALEX WAS ADJUSTING THE VOLUME on the boom box that she used for her weekly music class when she heard her mother returning with the nesting drum set she’d asked Yetta to bring over. She’d decided to tie in this week’s lesson with the “Little Drummer Boy” song.
She pressed the pause button and turned around. “Thanks…” she said, her voice trailing off when she realized her mother wasn’t alone. Like an un-uniformed porter, Mark was laden with bongos and tambourines, and tucked under each arm were the miniature congas the kids adored.
“Oh, goodness, you didn’t need to bring the entire rhythm section,” she said, hurrying to help. “But the children will thank you for it. They all love to pound on drums, and sharing isn’t a concept most three-year-olds readily embrace.”
Mark handed her a couple of the smaller drums. “Where do you want these? I bumped into your mom outside and she asked for a hand.”
“I knew the children would enjoy each having an instrument,” Yetta said. “Mark is very strong. We managed this in one trip.”
Alex spread the drums about in front of the yellow outline of the sun on the group rug. Her day-care students were resting in the smaller common room, and her preschool students were outside with Rita and the aides. They’d be back any minute, full of energy.
“Thanks, Mom. I really need to buy another storage shed.”
Her mother added the two small drums she was carrying to the circle. “I thought you were going to convert the small bedroom into a storeroom.”
Alex’s house had four bedrooms. The one her mother was referring to served as an office and a guest room, but eventually, Alex planned to turn it into a nursery. “Um, yeah, but I still have a few overnighters once in a while.”
She looked at Mark and added, “Children. Children whose parents for some reason can’t pick them up. Doesn’t happen often, but the extra bed comes in handy.”
She blushed when she realized her hasty explanation sounded defensive. Brushing a few stray cookie crumbs off her jeans, she glanced at the big clock on the wall and said, “You’re here awfully early. Did something happen?”
“Um, yeah. I’ve been relieved of duty. Protocol. Best for all concerned, they told me. But, luckily for me, the suspension is with pay. So, since I don’t have to go out and get a job flipping burgers to pay the rent, I’m available to help here. If you want me.”
Alex swallowed. Want him? What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want a man like Mark? But none of those women had had her heart broken by him. Could Alex handle working side by side with him? Indulging in one night of secret sexual fantasies was one thing, but working together was something wholly different.
She looked at her mother, who was watching them both. “Why don’t you give it a try and see how it goes?” Yetta suggested. “Mark may change his mind about helping after he’s sat through one music class.”
Alex glanced down at the circle of drums and stifled a smile. Her mother was right. Music day. Trial by fire…
Chapter Nine
The pounding and crashing disharmony erupted like small, individual explosions behind his eyes. A dozen or more three-and four-year-olds with drums. What was Alex thinking?
And, more importantly, where were her earplugs?
She held up her hand and said something that got swallowed up by the noise, then, to his surprise, the drumbeats lessened. Heads turned to look at her—a smiling pillar in jeans and a purple Dancing Hippo T-shirt.
“Remember. We start off every music class by listening,” she said, enunciating the last word loudly and succinctly.
The last drummer—a red-haired boy with a wild look in his eyes—put his hands in his lap, with assistance from a helper, who looked enough like the child to be his mother. “Sorry,” the woman murmured.
“Very good. You’re all using your ears.” Alex tucked her wavy black hair back and pushed on her ears so they appeared to wiggle. “Me, too.”
The children giggled and followed suit.
“Where’s Uncle Claude?” the redhead asked. “He has jumbo ears. I miss him.”
Alex made her bottom lip curl sadly. “Me, too, William. Maybe if everyone writes him a letter, we can send it to my cousin’s ranch where Uncle is visiting and he’ll come back to see us.”
Mark vaguely remembered Claude Radonovic as a jovial fellow with a big laugh. He didn’t recall the size of his ears. Zeke had mentioned that Claude had been caught in the undercover sting that Grace’s future husband had orchestrated. Apparently, he’d provided information to the D.A. in exchange for no jail time. Instead, he’d been required to remain on his son’s ranch.
Changing the topic, Alex leaned forward as if to pick up her instrument—a lilac-colored tambourine adorned with multicolored silk ribbons. He could picture her dancing in costume to the passionate beat of the flamenco. God, he’d loved watching her dance.
“Wait,” she said, her hands hovering over the drum. “We are going to take turns as we learn a new song. I’ll sing it first, then we’ll do it together. You only touch the drum when you hear me say ‘bar-rump-a-bum-bum.’ Okay?”
Nearly every head nodded.
She cleared her throat and sang in a clear, crisp alto the words to a Christmas song that Mark had heard a thousand times, but never really listened to. “Come, they told me…”
Little hands flew with joy, but no rhythm.
Alex lifted her hands. The discord stopped.
He braced himself for the next cacophony, but each drum session seemed a little more musical. By the last verse, the children seemed to have caught on and were actually trying to copy Alex.
“Yeah,” she cried, cheering joyfully. “You were marvelous. Next time, we’ll sound like a real band.”
She pulled what looked like a stopwatch from her pocket and said, “Okay. Two minutes of freestyle then we put away the drums. One, two, three…go.”
She scrambled to her feet and backed up, covering her ears. The aides did the same, and Mark quickly followed suit. He walked to where Alex was standing. “Nice,” he mouthed.
“Thank you,” she returned.
He decided there was something to be said for lip-reading—especially lips as pretty and voluptuous as Alex’s. Their gazes met for just a moment. She turned away. Had she read his mind? She’d always been good at that. Too good, at times.
After the two minutes of mind-numbing noise had passed, she blew a whistle. The drumming ceased—even the redhead kid stopped, thanks to his resourceful mother who snatched up the drum and walked away. The look on her face said she was trying to be a good sport, but the whole thing might be more than she could tak
e. He knew the feeling.
While Alex and her helpers got the children organized and washed up for a snack, Mark repackaged the drums. The mother who was volunteering stayed with him. “You’re new here,” she said. “Which of these little darlings is yours?”
“My son attends the after-school session. I was curious about the preschool, and Miss Alex said I could drop in to check things out.”
“Oh, you’ll be bringing your son’s younger sibling, I take it. William wants a baby sister, but some days I’m convinced one is my limit. How many do you and your wife have?”
“My ex-wife—Braden’s mother—isn’t in the picture. He’s an only child.”
She nodded with a sort of resigned manner. “Oh. We see that a lot. More and more single fathers with full custody.”
She started pointing out which children came from broken homes. Mark decided he didn’t like this woman, who hadn’t even told him her name.
Alex suddenly appeared and lightly touched the woman’s arm. “Roberta, you’re so good at getting the children settled in their chairs, would you mind…? Thanks, you’re a gem.”
“Of course, Alex, I’d be happy to,” the woman—Roberta—said before marching off to do her duty.
A gem?
Alex looked at him, a wry grin on her lips, as if she’d heard his silent question. “Volunteers are an important part of our program. Good for the parents to be involved and good for the children. Plus, the extra help allows me to keep my prices down, which is particularly important to single parents.”
“I understand that, but do you ever think the moms are more work than the kids?” he asked, leaning in to keep the comment just between them.
Her low chuckle crept into his chest and traveled lower. “Occasionally,” she admitted. “But sometimes it’s a toss-up.”
The Quiet Child Page 8