And strangely, for the first time since moving into his place, Sloan wondered if maybe the condo could stand a little improvement in the interior decoration department. This in spite of the fact that he’d paid a small fortune to one of Atlanta’s premier interior design firms to do the place for him, exactly the way he had asked for it to be done. Somehow, he suspected Naomi Carmichael had achieved her look without any outside input, and without paying thousands of dollars to someone named Serge.
“Ginny! Sophie! We’re home!” she called as she closed the front door behind Sloan, and strode past him toward the dining room, into which her other daughters had strolled and then disappeared.
Assuming he was supposed to follow the women, Sloan did so, and eventually he found himself in the kitchen—which was as old-fashioned, colorful and lived-in looking as the rest of the house, right down to the floral wallpaper, the glass-doored, natural pinewood cabinets, the braided rag rug and the ladder-back chairs surrounding a heavy, pinewood table. Once again, Sloan found himself responding to his surroundings in a way that was totally uncharacteristic, feeling oddly contented in an atmosphere that should have been alien and uncomfortable.
In response to their mother’s summons, two more girls scurried into the room to join the rest of the family. The oldest of the newcomers, Sloan saw immediately, was the identical twin of the ninth-grade point guard, Katie. The fourth Carmichael girl, though, was considerably younger than her sisters. Even to his untrained eye, Sloan could see that she wasn’t yet school age.
“Hi,” the smallest one said when she saw their guest. She smiled, her mouth full of perfect little teeth. Sloan had no choice but to smile back. “Who’re you?” she asked further.
Naomi intervened before Sloan had a chance to, telling her daughter, “This is Mr. Sullivan, Sophie. Mr. Sullivan, this is my youngest daughter, Sophie.”
“How do you do, Sophie?” Sloan asked, his smile growing broader. Automatically, he extended his hand toward the little girl, the way he would have done had he just been introduced to a new law partner or associate.
Much to his surprise, Sophie took his hand and shook it soundly, three times, before releasing it. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said with practiced courtesy.
Sloan stifled a chuckle at her formality. Like the other Carmichael women, Sophie had dark hair and a smattering of freckles, but where her sisters all had dark-brown eyes, this one had her mother’s clear gray. In fact, she was a miniature of her mother, right down to the short haircut. The other girls, though they did resemble Naomi, probably favored their father more. Which reminded Sloan that there must be a father of the girls, somewhere, and he wondered just how he might find out where the man was without seeming forward or, worse, interested.
Because he wasn’t interested, he assured himself. Not in Naomi Carmichael. No way. Even if he did find her attractive—very attractive, actually—he was in no way interested in her. Not in any kind of a—he shuddered to even think the word—romantic sense, at any rate. For one thing, Naomi Carmichael was probably married. Though, he had noticed during practice that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Not that that was an indication of anything—the absence of the wedding ring or the noticing, he assured himself—because sometimes married people didn’t wear rings, especially if they were physically active. For another thing, Naomi Carmichael had children. And for another thing, Naomi Carmichael wasn’t his type—not by any stretch of the imagination.
Sloan was just…curious. Yeah, that was it. Curious. He was curious about her because she was so much different from the women he usually met. Over the course of the evening, he’d watched her with the Lady Razorbacks, noting her skillful coaching, her graceful motion, how she nurtured the girls without being motherly, and drilled them without being harassing. And he had quickly come to the conclusion that she was one of those women he normally avoided—strong, self-confident, self-sufficient, no-nonsense. Not that he liked weak-willed, small-minded clinging vines, he hastened to amend. Au contraire. But a man liked to think he was needed. And Naomi Carmichael gave him the impression that she lived her life very nicely, thanks, without needing any intervention from anyone.
So that was another reason he wasn’t interested. Just curious.
“And this is another of my daughters,” she said, bringing him out of his troubling thoughts, “Ginny. Katie’s twin, obviously.”
“Only in looks,” Ginny was quick to point out.
“Yeah,” Katie readily agreed. “Ginny’s a total girlie-girl.”
Which, of course, Sloan could have discerned all by himself, seeing as how the girl was dressed like Sorority Barbie, her perfectly coifed hair swept back with a glittery headband, and wearing a pink T-shirt and lavender miniskirt and pink tights, and having apparently just knocked over a department store cosmetic counter in a clean sweep of goods. Compared to her sister’s bedraggled—sweaty—ponytail, ragged—sweaty—practice clothes, and cosmetic-free—sweaty—face, she was clearly a twin in looks only.
“Beats being a jock,” Ginny easily countered her sister. “At least I get dates.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Naomi was quick to cut in. “You don’t date until you’re sixteen.”
“But, Mo-om,” Ginny began to object. “I went out with Stuart Benson just last weekend.”
“Yeah, and six other kids,” Katie said. “That’s not dating. It’s mobbing.”
“Is not.”
“Is, too.”
“Is not.”
“Is, too.”
“Is not, jockstrap.”
“Is too, girlie-girl.”
“Enough!” Naomi interrupted.
Immediately, the girls quit their bickering, but they shot each other enough ugly looks that Sloan figured the argument was by no means over. No, it would probably be a while—say the year 2020—before those two settled anything.
“We have a guest,” Naomi reminded her daughters. “I know it’s hard, but try to act like human beings. You can start by washing up,” she told the two who were athletically inclined. Then, taking her own advice, tugging at the damp fabric of her T-shirt, she turned to Sloan. “I’ll just be a second. Dinner will be ready in less than twenty minutes.”
“That’s fast,” he said, surprised.
“Listen, if it has to be boiled for more than fifteen minutes or microwaved for more than ten, you won’t find it in my kitchen,” Naomi told him.
And, oh, how palate-pleasing that sounded, Sloan thought wryly. He made a mental note to stop by his favorite deli for carryout before driving to Wisteria next time.
And then Naomi was gone, abandoning him to her other two daughters. Which, at first, didn’t seem like it was going to be a problem, because Ginny immediately cited an intense need to make a phone call and left the room. Sloan waited to see if Sophie would likewise have some kind of pressing social obligation—what did nonschoolage children do with their time, anyway? he wondered—but she remained in the kitchen, eyeing him quizzically.
This was a first for Sloan. He had absolutely no idea what to say that might start a conversation. Normally, he was totally at home with strangers, could make chitchat effortlessly and for hours on end. It was a necessary talent for someone who attended as many social functions as he did. Unfortunately, none of those social functions he had attended before now had prepared him for how to make small talk with someone so, well, small.
So, going for broke, he said, “Hey, what about that Barney, huh? Is he cool or what?”
“I don’t like Barney,” Sophie told him matter-of-factly. “He’s for babies.”
“Ah,” Sloan replied eloquently. “I see. Yes. Well.”
“I’m too big for Barney. I like Thomas.”
“Jefferson?” Sloan asked before he realized how ridiculous the question would be.
“Tank Engine,” Sophie told him, smiling. “He’s a train. And he has lots of train friends.”
“Ah. I see. Yes. Well.”
“Wanna see my track?�
� she asked.
And there was something so earnest in the way she posed the question, something so genuinely pleading in her little face, that Sloan found he couldn’t say no. He supposed it wasn’t easy being so much younger than everyone else in the house. Not that he understood why she was responding to him, when he was just as old or older than the others. Still, he could see that she craved the attention of someone new, so how could he turn her down? Besides, he’d had a train set when he was a boy, and it might be kind of fun to revisit that sort of thing.
“Sure,” he said, smiling at the little girl. “I’d love to see your track. And Thomas. And all of his train friends.”
Chapter 4
Naomi left the upstairs bathroom five minutes later, after cleaning up as best she could, and changing into a pair of clean blue jeans and a nondescript, wash-faded, once-red sweatshirt. And also after trying to forget about how horrific her mirror reflection had looked after two hours of practice, and how Sloan Sullivan had seen her that way.
She hesitated in the hallway when she heard voices—Ginny’s husky, I’m-on-the-phone-with-a-boy voice coming from the room she shared with Katie, where she had evidently taken the extension, and Sophie’s British-tinted, Ringo-the-Thomas-narrator voice coming from her room next door. Silently, Naomi crept in that direction, peering through the open door to find her youngest introducing Sloan Sullivan to all the friendly, cheerful inhabitants of the Island of Sodor.
She couldn’t help but smile at the scene. Sophie lay in the middle of the floor on her stomach, knees bent, feet tracing random semicircles in the air above her, one of them missing a sock. She dragged a long line of colorful engines along one of her more sophisticated track designs, one that wound in and out on itself, under her bed and back again. Sloan sat pretzel-fashion on the floor on the other side of the track, one elbow braced on his thigh, his chin cupped in his hand, looking genuinely rapt with attention. If Naomi hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he was actually enjoying himself.
“The troublesome brake van,” Sophie was saying, “came around the curve much too quickly. ‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Edward, who barely had time to move out of the way.”
“Uh-oh, looks like that troublesome brake van is being a problem again,” Sloan said.
“He’s always a problem,” Sophie told him, using her regular voice now. “That’s why he’s the troublesome brake van.”
“That makes sense.” Sloan bent forward, reaching for one of the red engines, pushing it along the length of wooden track before him. “Who did you say this was?” he asked. “James?”
Sophie nodded. “James the red engine. He’s very useful.”
“Well, he’s about to make himself even more useful,” Sloan told her. “Because just between you and me, I think James could take the troublesome break van any day.”
Naomi bit back her laughter but was helpless to stop the smile that curled her lips. Poor Mr. Sullivan. Once Sophie corralled a willing subject—or even an unwilling one—she didn’t let go easily. She could potentially keep the guy up here for hours. Then again, from the looks of things, it didn’t seem as if Mr. Sullivan would much mind being kept up here.
And it would keep him out of Naomi’s hair while she prepared their dinner, she thought further, as would, no doubt, the presence of her other daughters. So with Sloan Sullivan’s happily offered, “You’re in trouble now, Mr. Brake Van!” echoing in her ears, she tiptoed past Sophie’s room toward the stairs and made her way back down to the kitchen. True to her word, within twenty minutes, she had the table set for six—the first time she could remember it being set for that number since her husband Sam had taken a powder more than four years ago—with stir-fry chicken and oriental salad ready for immediate consumption.
She called her brood to order and, with a series of heavy thump-thump-thumps down the stairs, they rapidly arrived, all four girls plunking down in their usual spots and reaching haphazardly for food as they chattered amiably—and nonstop. Only when each of them had filled a plate did Naomi look up to find Sloan Sullivan standing in the kitchen doorway, looking very much like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
She smiled. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, Mr. Sullivan,” she told him. “If you want to eat, you have to jump right in. But I apologize if we ran over you.”
He shook his head and smiled, but there was something decidedly flummoxed in the gesture. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… It’s just been a long time since I’ve dined in, that’s all,” he told her. Then he smiled. “I guess I’m waiting for a hostess to show up and seat me.”
Naomi nodded. He did seem more of the dining-out type, she thought. “We had to let our hostess go,” she told him, smiling back. “So have a seat,” she added, gesturing toward the only chair left vacant.
Belatedly, she realized she had assigned to Sloan Sullivan the place her ex-husband used to occupy when he lived with them, and something about the realization bothered her. A lot. So, not sure why she did it, Naomi jumped up and moved herself to that spot instead, indicating that their guest should take the seat she’d just vacated. He did so without question, and she passed him the food—or what was left of it, once her daughters had finished filling their plates.
As was the Carmichael tradition around the dinner table—and, unlike many families, Naomi made sure they all sat down to a meal together at least five nights a week, even if it sometimes meant eating late—the girls launched into rapid-fire discussions of their respective days. Naomi asked the usual questions about school and homework and extracurricular activities, the girls gave the usual answers, and all in all, everything was exactly as it should be, exactly as it always was.
Well, except for the drop-dead gorgeous man sitting in their midsts. But other than that…
Not once did Mr. Sullivan interject a word into the dinner conversation, but Naomi wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t find the subject matter interesting, or he simply felt too intimidated by the tight-knit Carmichael crew to wade in among them. Somehow, she suspected it was the latter, though, because he did smile several times during the course of the conversation at something one of them said. And once or twice, she caught him looking as if he wanted to say something, but stopping himself before he did, as if he were unsure of his reception.
After dinner, Naomi assigned the girls their usual cleanup tasks, asked Evelyn to put Sophie down for the night, then, with coffee cups in hand, she and Mr. Sullivan retreated to the living room to discuss roundball strategy. Funnily enough, though, what they ended up talking about was something else entirely. After a moment or two of idle chitchat—thanks again for your help this month, Mr. Sullivan, and how do you take your coffee?—the conversation turned abruptly to the personal, though that was thanks to Mr. Sullivan himself.
“I couldn’t help noticing as we drove here,” he said, “that you and your family live much closer to a different high school from the one where you teach and they attend class. How come the three of you don’t take advantage of the closer one?”
Thinking the question a legitimate one, Naomi shrugged and offered her standard answer. “Jackson High is where I happened to find a job four years ago, when I returned to teaching. And I like teaching at Jackson,” she hastened to add, because people tended not to believe her on that score, even though she was being perfectly honest when she made the assertion. “When the girls were old enough to go to junior high and high school, it just made sense to enroll them at Jackson with me. Sophie attends preschool near the house, and after we drop her off in the morning, the rest of the girls and I all ride to school together. And, of course, we can ride home together, too. It works very well, especially since I have such a hectic schedule.”
“And Mr. Carmichael?” her guest asked. “Is his work not convenient to the school nearer your home?”
The question sounded perfectly innocent—and was perfectly understandable—coming on the heels of her response to his first question. For some reason, though, Nao
mi got the feeling that there was something more Mr. Sullivan wanted to know about than her ex-husband’s contribution, if any, to their family life.
Nevertheless, she replied, likewise honestly, “I have no idea where Mr. Carmichael works these days, or if he works at all. I haven’t heard from him in years.”
Naomi must not have been as good at keeping the bitterness out of her voice as she’d hoped to be, because her guest had been lifting his cup to his mouth as she spoke, but halted the movement abruptly enough when she concluded that some of the coffee sloshed over and into his lap. His blue eyes widened in response to the coffee’s temperature—because surely that wasn’t incredulity she saw there—and, with his free hand, he hastily began to brush at the small stain that dampened his sweats.
“I, uh, I see,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with this new turn of conversation. “So, then, I, uh… I mean, I guess he’s not, um… He isn’t, ah… He’s not, uh…”
“Here,” Naomi finished eloquently, taking pity on Mr. Sullivan for the second time in one night. How strange, taking pity on someone whose lifestyle was, she was certain, infinitely easier than her own. “No. He’s not,” she added. “Here, I mean.”
Her guest nodded, but said nothing.
Naomi expelled a soft sound of resignation. “I’m divorced, Mr. Sullivan. I haven’t seen or spoken to my ex-husband for over four years now. He even pays his child support through his attorney.”
“But Sophie—” he said, cutting himself off immediately when he must have realized he was prying. “I’m sorry,” he immediately apologized. “It’s none of my business.”
Naomi sighed again. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Evelyn, Katie and Ginny, obviously, were old enough to know what was going on. Or, at the very least, to know something was wrong between me and Sam. I don’t like to talk about it in front of Sophie, though. Her father left right after I discovered I was pregnant with her. She never knew him.”
A Mother's Day: Nobody's ChildBaby on the WayA Daddy for Her Daughters Page 19