Daddy By Design? & Her Perfect Wife

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Shaking her head and, grinning, Cinda folded the piece of paper and handed it to him. “You Southern gentlemen will be the death of me one day. I swear, how anyone could think I could be gorgeous at this moment is beyond me.”

  Now, flirting he could do. “I’ve got eyes. I can see. You’re gorgeous.”

  “And you’re too kind.”

  “Never.” He fisted his hand protectively around her phone number. He told himself he wouldn’t keep it. It wasn’t right. She was just emotional right now and had that hero-worship thing going. By tomorrow, she’d probably regret giving her number to him, a grease monkey in a dangerous profession. “Well, Mrs. Cavanaugh, I’ve got to be going.” He forced cheer into his voice. “I think I might drop by the viewing window to peek in at your little girl and then I’ve got to get back to my hotel. It’s late and there’s a plane with my name on it leaving early tomorrow morning. You and your daughter take care now, ya hear?”

  “I hear,” she said.

  He met her gaze. Trey feared she could see right into his heart and could see what he didn’t want her to know…that already, in only a matter of hours after meeting her, he didn’t like the thought of having no part in her life. But when she spoke again, her voice was tinged with finality. “Goodbye, Mr. Trey Cooper.”

  3

  IN THE LAVISH NURSERY of the huge and elegant Atlanta showcase home she’d lived in with Richard, Cinda sat playing with six-month-old Chelsi. The phone rang. Every nerve ending in Cinda’s body jumped. This was ridiculous, and she knew it. If the man hadn’t called her in the past six months, what made her think he’d choose today to do it? But she’d seen in the paper this morning that the Jude Barrett racing team was back home in Atlanta. That meant Trey Cooper was, too, and could call if he wanted to.

  But he hadn’t. So obviously, he didn’t want to. That knowledge didn’t keep Cinda from waiting, her heart thumping heavily, as Major Clovis answered it in the next room. She could hear the older woman talking but couldn’t hear what she said. Cinda held her breath. Could this finally be him?

  Come on, Cinda, her conscience railed at her. This is really a bad crush you have here. You’d think that after six months without a call, you’d be over him. And what about you? You can’t call? You looked up his number in the phone book, but you haven’t used it. So get over it. But she couldn’t. He’d been this nice, handsome guy who’d stood by her during her worst possible moment. So maybe she just had a bad case of hero worship. Maybe. She tried not to look desperately up at her regimentally formal assistant/nurse/social secretary who entered the nursery with the cordless phone in her hand.

  The afternoon’s late-June sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains at the windows across the room. Major Irene Clovis—a no-nonsense older woman with severely short gray hair—walked in and out of sun and shadow as she approached her employer. “Hate to ruin your day, ma’am, but it’s The Real Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

  Disappointment ate at Cinda. It wasn’t him. It was never him. She groaned and slumped over her legs. “Not her again, Major. Not my mother-in-law.”

  “My apologies,” her unsmiling ex-Marine assistant said. “I told Dragon Lady that you’d dyed your hair and the baby’s purple and the two of you had run off with the drug-selling leader of a motorcycle gang. I further said the two of you were now known as Hell’s Belles. But she didn’t believe me.”

  “I can’t imagine why not. But still, you always know just what to say, Major.” Cinda’s grimace over the caller’s identity warred with a grin that tugged at her lips. Major Clovis was the most outrageous and loyal person Cinda had ever met. She also harbored all the love and protective instincts of a lioness toward Cinda and Chelsi. “Thanks for trying.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Next time, I’ll tell her you became a Buddhist monk and sold the only Cavanaugh heir to a zoo in Berlin as part of their mammalian exchange program. That ought to do it.” With that, she handed Cinda the phone, did a smart military about-face, and precision-marched toward the door.

  Bemused, Cinda watched her go. When Major Clovis reached the open door, she neatly executed a left turn and disappeared from sight around a corner. No doubt she was going to torture poor Marta in the kitchen. Not because the cook had done anything wrong, but simply because the ex-military nurse could hassle her—and because the tiny Hispanic woman was terrified of her. Cinda fully expected their wary stand-off to one day erupt into a weapon-based free-for-all. She hoped she wasn’t home when it happened.

  Sighing over her staff’s ongoing bilingual and multicultural altercations, Cinda put a hand over the telephone’s speaker and whispered to Chelsi. “It’s Grandma. The big scary one in New York City.”

  The bright-eyed baby girl pulled a face, as if she were about to cry. “Oh, honey, I know,” Cinda sympathized, taking a chubby little hand in hers and leaning over to kiss the tiny fingers. “Everyone has that reaction. But she loves you and has your best interest at heart. How many times this week has she told me that, huh?” The baby’s expression instantly cleared.

  “That’s my girl.” Then, forcing cheerfulness into her voice for her caller, Cinda spoke into the phone. “Hello, Mother Cavanaugh. How nice to hear from you. How are you?”

  Sitting on the carpeted floor of the nursery and listening to her mother-in-law’s familiar opening harangue, Cinda winked at her baby, who had her own problems. Perched on her diapered bottom atop a large quilted square of colorful blanket, the blond little girl wobbled tipsily, trying to keep her balance. To Cinda’s mother’s mind, Chelsi’s controlled sitting at six months of age, while a completely normal activity in the development of babies according to the pediatrician, became the newest evidence of her daughter’s extreme intelligence and precociousness. A trait she’d inherited from Cinda’s side of the family, of course.

  Cinda tuned in again to her mother-in-law in time to hear her ask a question, which Cinda promptly answered. “No, Major Clovis isn’t drunk. Or on drugs. But I didn’t hire her. Richard did. I think. Or she came with the house. One of those. Yes, I’ll speak to her about her shocking tales that upset you.” But Cinda knew she wouldn’t say a word to Major Clovis. Her shocking tales were too funny and too deserved.

  The conversation moved on to the weather. “Yes, I’ve seen the weather report. We do have television in the South now. Yes, it is hot in New York City, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll be glad to leave next week for the Hamptons. Oh, you’re too kind, but we really couldn’t join you. No we can’t. Why?” Because I flat out don’t want to. Because I’m tired of your subtle manipulation of me, your digs at my family, and your blatant disappointment that Chelsi is not a boy. “I’m afraid something’s come up down here,” was what she actually said, though, being nice but with an effort. “A thing. Yes. I told you about it.” She hadn’t. There was no thing. “The important thing with the people I told you about. Over at that place. Yes. That thing.”

  Cinda silently begged her tiny daughter not to judge her mother too harshly for lying to The Real Mrs. Cavanaugh, as everyone in this household referred to the imperious blue-blooded Ruth Heston Cavanaugh. The woman allowed no one to forget her graciousness in overlooking the fact that the late Richard the Second’s only child was female. Oh, the heartbreak of it all. Now there was no one to carry on the Cavanaugh name. As if they were royalty with their own country. Okay, so they owned most of this one. Big deal.

  “Oh, I don’t believe we can come after the thing is over,” Cinda quickly answered the next demand. “Chelsi has a doctor’s appointment later this month. No. Nothing’s wrong. There isn’t. I’d tell you if there were. I promise. She’s fine.” If you don’t count the fact that she’s sprouted another head and gargoyle wings. It was what she wanted to say, Major Clovis style, but didn’t.

  “Still, I thank you for inviting us. Yes, I’ll keep it in mind if anything changes here. No, I’m not moving back to New York. Because I like it here. I just do. My life is here now. I have friends, social clubs, volunteer work, all th
at right here. Besides, the weather is better for the baby’s health.” And my sanity. “So we’ll be staying here. I’m sorry you don’t like my decision, but there it is.”

  Cinda took the receiver from her ear, gritted her teeth, and took a calming breath. Then smiling determinedly, she resettled the phone to her ear and said, “You give Papa Rick”—her father-in-law, she liked— “our love, okay? Yes, I know I sound ‘dreadfully Southern’ now. I like that, too. Okay. Talk to y’all later.”

  Cinda pressed the off button and resisted the urge to toss the cordless phone across the room. Instead, she simply laid it beside her on the rug and smiled at Chelsi, whose blue eyes—so reminiscent of her father’s—were rounded as she gnawed at her drool-soaked fist. “Teething is the pits, isn’t it? You’re going to suck all the good out of that thing, honey. Here.”

  Cinda leaned over to pluck a toy—a cloth-covered replica of a stock car—out of the mix of toys surrounding them. She held it out to Chelsi, who batted cheerfully and ineffectually—but better than any other child her age could have done, mind you—at the toy, finally succeeding in getting it in her clutches. Joyously, she instantly stuffed as much of it as she could into her mouth and warily eyed her mother above it, as if she expected the toy to be plucked from her at any second.

  Chuckling softly, Cinda stretched out until she was lying on her stomach and supporting her weight on her elbows. She contentedly watched her daughter’s antics. “I know. It’s your favorite toy,” she said wistfully…knowing the baby didn’t have a favorite toy at this age but it was Cinda’s favorite one to give her. Because Trey Cooper had sent it for Chelsi months ago, along with his very platonic “Hope you’re doing well, Trey Cooper” best-wishes card.

  “Well, I’m not doing well,” she whispered. “I miss you. You’re all I think about. And you’re home, Trey Cooper. I saw it in the papers.” Only recently had Cinda taken to poring over the sports section. “Why don’t you call me? Doesn’t your life ever need saving?”

  ON THE OUTSKIRTS of Atlanta, out on a prime piece of land that served as Jude Barrett’s elite racing team’s headquarters, Trey Cooper was leafing through his mail and frowning. Bill. Bill. Junk mail. Bill. Letter from Mom. Sweepstakes notice. Finally. I’ve won ten million dollars. He tossed it unopened into the waste-basket at his feet.

  Still wearing his grimy service overalls, he sat perched atop a wooden stool out in the hangar-like garage. Behind him, up on the lift, being put through a checklist of fine-tuning, was the moneymaker herself. The bright red, shiny, sponsor-decal-covered racing car. Serving as background music was the whine of electric tools, the blare of country music from someone’s radio, and the chatter and catcalls of the team members.

  It was close to quitting time for the day. Trey’s work—including a meeting with the big boss man himself in the front office—was done. He’d cleaned up a bit, got some of the grease off his hands and face, and combed his hair. This was his first chance to check his mail since he’d grabbed up a week’s worth of it from his box at the post office earlier that morning. That’s how frenetic this time of year was—he only managed to get by the post office about once a week.

  Team Leader Mark Mason was on the phone behind Trey. It was a personal call, and Trey tried not to listen. But Mark’s voice kept getting louder the longer he talked with his wife. It was a familiar refrain. All the married men here had fielded similar complaints from home. You’re never here. The kids hardly know you. I miss you. Your mother’s sick. The bills are overdue. On and on with some variation of that song. It was tough and divorces happened. A lot.

  Trey felt for his friends and their families. The beefs at both ends were legitimate. But every time he heard them, Trey renewed his promise to himself not to have a family as long as he was on the race circuit. That didn’t mean he didn’t date and have relationships. He did. Well, he had. Although he hadn’t felt too much like making the effort in the past six months or so.

  He told himself he was just tired and overworked and thirty years old. All of that was true. But he also couldn’t get a certain elegant blonde’s face out of his mind. Every other woman had paled in comparison to his few frantic hours with Cinda Cavanaugh. Okay, so he could still see those unique caramel-colored eyes of hers. And, yes, so he still had her phone number folded up and stored in his wallet. He kept meaning to throw it away, but kept forgetting to do it, that was all.

  So, why should he call her? What could he offer her that she, a multimillionaire’s widow, couldn’t get for herself? And, besides, she was probably already surrounded by lots of rich guys anxious to play Papa. So the last thing she needed was someone like him—a high-school-graduate grease monkey. A man with dirt under his fingernails and not enough money in the bank.

  At this point in Trey’s pity party, Mark hung up the phone…with force. Trey looked up from his stack of remaining mail to see his boss just standing there, his expression thunderous, his complexion red with anger…and worry.

  “You okay, Mark?” Trey asked, knowing better but concerned nonetheless.

  Mark ran a hand through his brown hair and shook his head. “Hell no. Diane’s on a tear, man. All I can say is I’m lucky our team’s days off are coming up next month. Everything at home seems to be hitting the fan, you know?”

  He didn’t—he thought of his quiet bachelor’s apartment—but he could sympathize. “I hear ya, good buddy.” Then Trey took a chance. “Hey, let me ask you something, Mark. I’ve been thinking about this. Tell me if it’s none of my business. But…how do you do it? I mean the family, the hassles, the fights. The time away and the problems it causes. Here you’ve got a job you love that’s making it all bad at home where you have a wife and kids you love. How do you keep it all together?”

  Mark shrugged. Then a slow grin came to his face, which was streaked with the grease and dirt of his job. “It’s like you said, man. Love. Pure love. Passion. For your wife. For your job. It’s got to be there—at home and at work. It’s like that for me and Diane. Yeah, we fuss about things, but we always work it out.” Mark picked up a rag and began wiping his hands as he turned a questioning glance on Trey. “So why you asking?”

  Trey felt his face heat up. He swiped a hand under his nose and cleared his throat. “No reason. Just thinking, that’s all.”

  Mark tossed the rag into a bin and crossed his arms. A knowing but friendly smirk lit his fair features. “So what’s her name?”

  “She doesn’t have a name.” Not one he was going to give, anyway. “I mean there is no ‘she.’ No special ‘she.’ No one. Never mind.”

  Mark grinned devilishly. “Lord above, Trey Cooper’s gonna take the bait and settle down. You’ve been bitten by the lovebug, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve been moping around since winter.”

  Trey frowned. “I don’t mope. And how’d you get all that out of what I said? I asked one innocent question. And now I’m in love.”

  “I didn’t say it. You did.” Mark crowed with laughter and went off toward the other mechanics, no doubt bent on ruining Trey’s ladies’ man reputation with the guys. Knowing he’d only make things worse with his protests, Trey shook his head and told himself this was why men shouldn’t talk about feelings. It never ended well.

  Then he remembered saying something like that, about things not ending well, to Cinda when he’d first seen her. Those elevator doors had opened…and there she’d been. His heart had come close to jumping right out of his chest. He’d seen stars.

  And now, six months later, it was like this: And behind Door Number One, Mr. Trey Cooper, is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, someone you could come to care deeply about. And she could possibly return your affection if you can answer one simple question. Are you ready, sir? Here’s your question: How in the hell do you ever expect to have a chance with her if you don’t call her, you big jerk?

  Trey’s mood darkened. He’d call her if he had a reason. He knew that much. All he needed was a reason. A good one. Something leg
itimate, substantial. Yeah, right. Feeling deflated, he went back to sorting his mail when, sure enough, the men he worked with began whistling and laughing and calling out his name in a teasing way.

  “Why don’t y’all just shut up?” he yelled. But they didn’t. Pointedly ignoring them, muttering “Bunch of third-graders,” he turned over the next envelope…and frowned. The postmark was from his hometown of Southwood. And the return address was that of the Southwood High School Fighting Rebels Reunion Committee.

  Reunion? He’d graduated twelve years ago, so this wasn’t an anniversary year, like ten or fifteen. What could this be, then? He opened it and read the letter inside. And laughed. This was just like home. They’d let the ten-year mark slip up on them and pass…so they were having their ten-year get-together next month. How messed up was that?

  Bemused, Trey read on. According to the letter, the committee hoped to make the reunion into a town-wide celebration by inviting the alumni from every year of the school’s existence to attend. About fifty years’ worth, as near as he could remember. Sounded like fun. And a nightmare. Trey put the letter down and caught sight of one he hadn’t noticed before in his pile of mail. The Tampa return address curdled his stomach and made him want to bang his head on the workbench in front of him. Bobby Jean Diamante. Nothing like an old girlfriend to liven things up.

  Trey sighed, caught up in kaleidoscopic reflections of his and Bobby Jean’s shared past. In high school, when she and Trey had been an item, when he’d been captain of the football team and she’d been head cheerleader, when they’d both lost their virginity to each other, she’d been Bobby Jean Nickerson. Then at eighteen, she’d thrown Trey over and married a rich man from Atlanta, who’d made her Bobby Jean Whiteside.

  After not too many years of wedded bliss, the much older man had died. Some said mysteriously. Shortly afterward, Bobby Jean married a slug who’d run through her money. So she’d left him and had been forced to marry again. The last Trey had heard—his source being his mother—Bobby Jean had taken up with, then married, some really rich but hard-nosed guy from up north. His mother kept saying Mr. Rocco Diamante had mob connections. Lovely.