by Roz Denny
Island Child
By
Roz Denny
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
Sarah Michaels—Her first marriage was a disaster. The only good thing that came out of it was her son. But life's not easy for Sarah— raising a child alone, working full-time, running a household, paying her bills. She copes, though. Her worst fear is that, without a husband, she can't provide the kind of male companionship an eight-year-old boy needs. That's why she signed up with Befriend an Island Child…
Farrell Michaels, Jr.—He's crazy about soccer, hates having his grammar corrected and would rather be called Mike. He knows his mom loves him—but he can't help wanting to do "guy things." Can't help wanting a dad…
Gabe Parker—He volunteers with Befriend an Island Child because he believes in children, believes in taking responsibility for his community. It takes Gabe a while to understand why Sarah reacts to him with such mistrust. But as he and young Mike grow closer—and as he falls in love with Sarah—he's determined not to let the ghost of a dead marriage come between them.
Dear Reader,
Children have a way of blending innocence with wisdom, and the result is often the kind of naked honesty we adults avoid. Not only do these innocents get away with saying absolutely outrageous things, but we love them for it! "Out of the mouths of babes" come some amazing truths.
Children beguile and charm their way into our hearts, as no other creature can. (Except maybe a puppy. But children and puppies go together, don't they?) Since I worked for a number of years as a secretary to three pediatricians and later in an elementary school office, you might think I wouldn't be so easily beguiled anymore. You'd be wrong! Because even now I'm still captivated by wide eyes, gap-toothed grins and childish giggles. It doesn't matter whether it's a little girl with a dirty face and skinned knees or a mischievous freckle-faced boy.
In the case of Island Child, it's a freckle-faced boy doing the captivating. Much as I love eight-year-old Mike, I've tried not to let him take over here. This is really his mother Sarah's story. I have met a number of remarkable single mothers who, like Sarah, deal with their little charmers on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis. However, Mike is such a scamp, I thought Sarah needed help—which I provided in the form of Gabe Parker, adult male. At first, Sarah didn't appreciate my interference. But later… Well, you know, some rascally boys grow up to become pretty beguiling men!
Sincerely,
Roz Denny
P.S. I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at
3520 Knickerbocker #224, San Angelo, Texas 76904
ISBN 0-373-03320-6
ISLAND CHILD
Copyright© 1994 by Rosaline Fox.
CHAPTER ONE
"Phew! What a day. What a week! Where are those five-o'clock trade winds when we need them?"
Sarah Michaels drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and offered her best friend a look of sympathy. But as Mitzi was getting into the car, Sarah glimpsed a toy airplane in the passenger seat—where Mitzi was about to sit without looking. Her son must have left it after their mid-morning trip to the dentist.
Sarah dove for it. Success! She grimaced and tossed it into the back. Only slightly winded from the effort, she picked up the conversation, never missing a beat. "Oahu with record spring heat, and my car's air conditioner on the fritz. Murphy's Law," she said wryly. "You know, Mitzi, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't pay a cent toward gas this month. I'm only hoping I can swing fixing it next payday." Sighing, she lifted a heavy fall of mink-brown hair from her neck and waited while her friend buckled up.
"Why won't you let me lend you the money?" Mitzi Kealoha asked as she unsheathed a lacy ivory fan.
"It's not your problem, Mitzi." Sarah shook her hair loose and met the other woman's gaze squarely, even though her fingers tightened imperceptibly on the wheel. "Look at you. Nobody in this day and age carries a fan."
"So I'm a traditionalist. I swear, Sarah, you're the most stubborn woman I know."
"I prefer to think of it as independent. Don't forget, I'm in this mess because someone we know lived beyond his means."
Mitzi fanned herself furiously. "Farrell Michaels hoodwinked a lot of people. Borrowing from me wouldn't be like second-mortgaging your house. If you didn't drive me to and from work every day, I'd have to take the bus. At least let me call my cousin with the garage. He'll give you a good deal." Moments later she nudged Sarah and giggled. "Did you see the once-over we got from the hunk loading his surfboard?" She peeked over the fluted ivory and batted her eyelashes. "It's the fan. I bet he thinks we're rich and mysterious."
"In this beat-up old junker? You nut." Sarah shook her head and her soft brown eyes twinkled. "Anybody but a surfer, and I'd stop to warn the poor devil that you're married to the island's top college-wrestling coach."
"Not all surfers are like those jerks your ex hung out with, Sarah." Mitzi closed her fan. "Osamu and I know what a struggle you've had since Farrell cleaned out your bank account and sailed off into the sunset with that bimbo. We want to help. What else are friends for?"
Sarah navigated the turn into Mitzi's driveway. "You and Osamu do too much now. I didn't just fall off a turnip wagon, you know. There's the small matter of you two inviting little Farrell and me to dinner at the end of every month. And I fight your mom to pay for the days she keeps him before or after school—never mind all those months I took night classes."
Mitzi waved a hand. "We love being needed."
Not wanting to get emotional, Sarah turned to stare out at the busy highway. Adroitly she changed the subject. "I remember when we had a definite tourist season here. Now it's year-round. Do you think traffic on the mainland is better?"
Mitzi gave a start. "Sarah, you wouldn't leave Oahu? This is home."
Sarah shrugged. "I've considered it. Maybe if we got completely away from here, Farrell would be happier."
"He'd be happier if you called him Mike."
"I do—when I remember. But that's, only the tip of the iceberg."
"What's this mood really about, Sarah? Not just a faulty air conditioner. Is Farrell, Sr. causing trouble?"
"Other than being his normal eight months' delinquent on child support?" Sarah motioned toward the overcrowded beach and sighed. "You know, I can't remember my last vacation. Oh, don't listen to me." She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe I'm going through midlife crisis."
"At thirty?" her companion scoffed.
"My son isn't even nine yet," Sarah lamented, "and already I can't cope."
"What? This from the woman who recites child-care experts word for word?"
"Theory and practice are two different things, I've discovered." A sad expression flitted across Sarah's face. "So many times I find myself wondering how a man—a real father—would handle things."
"Farrell was never a real father. Surely this isn't about wanting him back?"
"Not on your life."
"Good!" Mitzi exploded. "After the way that louse squandered everything your father left you on a yacht! He'd be some dandy role model for a boy, living with that beach bunny young enough to be his daughter."
"He never wanted children. Having a baby was my idea. I can't believe I was so naive. I actually thought it might change him—keep him home more."
"We were all wrong. When you were dating, he was different. Charming. He sounded like he wanted a wife, family, the whole bit. So you can't tell me he didn't know how babies are made."
Sarah colored. "He left
precautions up to me."
"Farrell Michaels wanted the convenience of marriage, but none of the responsibilities. Not all men are like that, Sarah. It's been five years. Time to get out where you'll meet some nice men."
"Mitzi, we've had this discussion before."
"I hate to be blunt, but Mike talks a lot about wanting a father. When my brothers were his age, our dad spent hours with them. What do your child-care experts say?"
"Of course they say all boys need a man to emulate at some point in their formative years." Sarah gave a troubled shrug.
"You know Osamu would fill in more if he wasn't out of town with the team so much." Mitzi touched Sarah's arm. "That's the big reason we haven't started a family of our own yet."
Sarah let a smile chase her moodiness away as she said her goodbyes.
Mitzi was half out the door when she paused. "Hey, that reminds me—did you ever get in touch with that group Osamu told you about? What's it called? Befriend Our Kids or something?"
Sarah's eyes widened. "Befriend an Island Child. Funny you should mention them. When Osamu first gave me the brochure, I filled out the application and we were put on a waiting list. Yesterday the director called to say one of the children in the program just moved to the mainland. Apparently that freed up a man they've already screened and approved." She gripped the wheel. "I didn't commit myself. I mean, what kind of men volunteer?"
"Entrepreneurs. Local men who like kids. Call them," Mitzi urged. "Osamu said several members in his Rotary are involved in the program."
Sarah looked unsure. "If only Harvey and Farrell—" she stopped and corrected herself. "I mean Mike. I wish those two could communicate."
"Harvey Denton?" Mitzi snorted. "Who could communicate with that pompous ass? What you see in such a stuffed shirt is beyond me."
"We both enjoy opera and theater. Besides, who else asks me out?"
"I'd be the last to begrudge you an outing. But Harvey is so…so…" Mitzi didn't finish what she'd been about to say. "You need to hang loose, Sarah."
"Hang loose, indeed!" Sarah shooed Mitzi from the car. "That was Farrell's philosophy. It's how he ran through a trust fund set up by his grandfather and why his family disowned him—along with any kids he might have. I'm not a party girl, Mitzi. I never will be. Anyway, I hate to rush you, but I need to stop at the grocery store before I go home. Mike's soccer coach goes right by the house tonight, so he's dropping him off after practice. He doesn't like it if parents aren't there to meet their kids."
"So tell him to try being a single mom."
"He has a big family. Tuesday, he lectured me about parenting responsibilities." Sarah made a face. "Me! Can you believe it?"
Mitzi shook her head. "Point taken. I'll get off my soapbox now. See you tomorrow. Promise me you'll think about calling that agency back. Could be the friend they assign Mike will pick him up sometimes from soccer. Either you find some time for yourself or you're gonna crack, woman."
When Sarah didn't respond, Mitzi poked her head back inside the car. "Sam's out of town for two weeks. You wanna take Mike out for pizza, Friday? My treat," she added hastily.
"Sounds great, but you'll have to suffer a soccer game first. And I'll pay our share of the pizza." Sarah tugged the door out of Mitzi's hands, then backed out before her friend could argue. She narrowly missed a bright Jeep filled with tourists. She had to get a grip. This was ridiculous.
Except that melancholy descended again before she reached the freeway. She knew Farrell Sr. was a louse, darn it. But knowing didn't necessarily make it easier to accept. At times she still felt like a failure because of his leaving. Lord knew she'd given all she could to make the marriage work. She'd never intended her son to be an only child, either. Her own youth, lost in caring for an invalid mother while her father traveled with the military, was a big reason she wanted Mike's childhood to be enjoyable.
Her private musings were cut short when a van, loaded down with jet-skis and surfboards, crowded in front of her.
Forced to brake suddenly, Sarah leaned on her horn and muttered an oath under her breath. She could write a book about lordly muscle-bound surfers and their sex-kitten girlfriends. Her home had been overrun with them for the whole of her marriage. And that included air-headed DeeDee Forbes, who had blithely sailed away with Farrell.
Suddenly weary of reminiscing, Sarah rolled her head around her shoulders, trying to relax. That last thought had been unworthy of her. Lately it seemed her tolerance for even little annoyances was zilch. For instance, she had no patience for this bumper-to-bumper traffic. Sighing, she checked her watch to see if she still had time to stop for groceries. Mike knew where she kept the extra house key, but she did always try to beat him home. The books all said how important it was to spend time listening to your child when he came in from school.
Well, eating's important too, she thought as she whipped into a parking space outside the store. No matter how carefully she shopped, it seemed they were always out of milk and bread.
She dashed inside and down the familiar aisles at top speed. Then she had to wait in line at the checkout. Two young men in front of her were involved in surfing talk. It was difficult not to overhear. Surf was up at Makaha and they were as impatient as she was to get through the line.
It didn't take Sarah long to see that those two had the same preoccupation with waves that her former husband had. She tried blocking out their words—which were mostly about getting into the curl of the Banzai. The Banzai Pipeline was a surfer's ultimate dream.
Or obsession, as in Farrell's case, Sarah recalled. If she lived to be a hundred, she'd never understand how grown men could put surfing ahead of everything and everyone else, including family. Sadly, Farrell hadn't been alone in that respect, either. Was she way off base to want a well-balanced male in her son's life?
It was a moment before Sarah realized one of the two young men was attempting to flirt with her. She pressed her lips into a tight line and looked away from the tanned muscles he was showing off. Honestly. Did surfer types think all women panted after their half-naked bodies?
"Hey, baby," the dark-haired fellow murmured, "wanna hang loose? Surf's up. It's party time. Sun and fun." He winked.
Sarah was set to tell him what he could do with his brand of fun, except that the line moved and it was their turn at the register. Heavens, it wasn't like her to get into verbal battles with perfect strangers. Maybe she really was undergoing some sort of midlife crisis.
The men forgot about her as they paid for their purchases. Hot dogs, chips and beer. Standard fare for beach parties. She hadn't stocked any of those items in years. How unfair to Mike, she suddenly realized, making a mental note to add picnic supplies to her next grocery list. She watched the young men clowning around as they left and again resented Farrell for having stolen whatever carefree piece of herself there might once have been.
Her resentment wilted, however, under the force of the late-afternoon sun as she walked out to her car. By the time she arrived home, Sarah was completely drained of energy. Coach had said five-thirty on the dot, and she'd made it with one minute to spare.
But the coach was late. As six o'clock approached, Sarah worried that something might have happened. She called the school. No answer. Between storing her groceries and dumping two cans of stew into a pot to simmer, she almost wore a path to the window. Which was another thing Mitzi scolded her about—worrying. But how did one not worry, she wanted to know, when there was no one else to care?
Unable to help herself, she was heading for another quick peek out the front window when the coach's consumptive van pulled into her long driveway. Relieved, Sarah hurried to open the door. Her heart swelled as she watched the pride of her life scramble from the van and meander toward the house, aimlessly kicking his soccer ball. Sunlight filtered through his golden curls, turning the outer edges flaxen. A lump rose in her throat and Sarah almost felt sorry for her ex-husband—that he was missing the joys of parenting.
Not
that parenting was always joyful. Like now… As she caught sight of heavy grass stains covering both her son's knees. And the ragged tear in the pocket of his brand-new shirt. Sarah rubbed her temples, hating when dollars and cents got in the way of simply loving him.
Swallowing any reference she might have made about the condition of her son's clothes, she called out a greeting. "Hi, Mike." The nickname she tried to use, but sometimes forgot, came out sounding a bit choked—enough so that he was taken off guard and lost his ball in the bushes.
"Mom?" He retrieved the ball, then, at the foot of the steps, shaded his eyes to study her.
"Did you have a good practice?" She acted nonchalant.
"Naw, we did lousy. Coach said!" He wiggled through the door past her and screwed up his face, showing white teeth with several gaps between them. They were responsible for a slight lisp, and just last week his teacher had suggested speech therapy. But Sarah insisted on waiting until his permanent teeth grew in. If that didn't take care of the problem… well, she'd just have to handle it, along with everything else. The dentist was hopeful—but not certain. A sigh welled up before she could stifle it.
"Guess what, Mom?" Mike shouted from the kitchen. "Our first workout this Friday is against the Dolphins. They're tough. But Coach said if we practice, we can cream 'em."
Sarah rolled her eyes and picked up his jacket, which had slid from the chair where he'd aimed it and missed. She'd been hearing all these "Coach said" tidbits since practice started a week ago. But except for the added expense of fees, uniform deposit and ball, she didn't really mind. Mike seemed happier, and she'd manage. She always had. Sneaking up behind him, Sarah dropped a quick kiss on his ear. "Hey, boyo, Mitzi's coming with me to watch you play on Friday, so you better be good."
He wiped her kiss away and asked eagerly, "Sam, too?"