by Pamela Bauer
“At least I’ll know where Tyler, Wisconsin is if the question ever comes up in Trivial Pursuit,” Kika called over her shoulder as she hurried to her car.
* * *
“MELODY THREW HER carrots on the floor,” six-year-old Patrick Miller announced calmly.
“I knew she wouldn’t eat them. She hates ‘em,” nine-year-old Zachary said in an I-told-you-so voice.
“Her eyes are gonna go bad.”
“I think she’s going to get rickets.”
“What are rickets?”
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re only six.”
“She’s not going to get rickets.” Annabelle Scanlon’s booming voice silenced the boys’ chatter. “Nor will she have bad eyesight because she doesn’t eat her carrots.”
The two brothers exchanged dubious glances.
“What’s that?” Zachary asked as his grandmother scooped a serving of her prizewinning tuna hot dish onto his plate.
“It’s tuna casserole.”
Zachary eyed it suspiciously. “Melody’s not going to like it.”
“Don’t you worry about your sister,” Annabelle advised, spooning a smaller portion into a bowl decorated with purple dinosaurs. As soon as she set down the dish, Melody shoved it to the edge of the high-chair tray.
“Maybe you should make her a peanut butter samwich,” Patrick suggested.
“We all eat the same dinner in this house,” Annabelle stated in no uncertain terms. To Melody she said, “Grandma made this hot dish especially for you. Won’t you try it?”
There was no response from her granddaughter.
Zach’s fork poked at a piece of macaroni on his plate. “Does this have mushrooms in it?”
“What’s wrong with mushrooms?” Annabelle demanded.
“I don’t like them.”
“They’re good for you. They’re brain food,” Annabelle told him, moving to the refrigerator to get a carton of milk.
Zachary wrinkled his nose and Patrick rolled his eyes. Melody took one more look at the noodle concoction before her and with a quick swipe sent it flying.
“Melody threw her food on the floor!” Patrick exclaimed.
Annabelle slammed the refrigerator door with a bang and gave her granddaughter a look that had the power to make even the crankiest of postal patrons cower. Twenty-two-month-old Melody didn’t so much as move a muscle. She sat in her high chair with her eyebrows knit, her lower lip pushed out in a pout.
“I knew she wouldn’t like it,” Zachary stated matter-of-factly. “Dad makes her French toast when she doesn’t like what we’re having.”
“She needs more in her diet than French toast and peanut butter sandwiches,” Annabelle declared as the boys exchanged guarded glances. “Your father has spoiled her.”
“Dad says she’ll develop a taste for other foods as she gets bigger,” Zachary said in a tone that reminded Annabelle of her son-in-law.
“Not if your father doesn’t start providing you kids with a balanced diet,” she warned. Nutrition was one of the many subjects about which she and her son-in-law had a difference of opinion.
Annabelle was well aware of the mistakes Nick Miller had made in raising her grandchildren. In the short time they had been in her care, she had seen more than enough to convince her that as loving and attentive as Nick was, he needed someone to give him a few pointers on parenthood. Annabelle figured she was just the one to take on the task.
It wasn’t going to be easy. Having her grandchildren come stay with her until their father completed moving arrangements had already proved to be a mixed blessing. She loved having them under her roof, yet at that same time it pained her to see them in such of state of need.
For they were needy. It was as plain as the nose on her face. What Melody, Zachary and Patrick needed was a mother. Since her son-in-law was in no hurry to do anything about providing one, they would get the next best thing—a grandmother’s influence. It was a job Annabelle did not take lightly. She only wished that she had followed her instincts and demanded that Nick bring the children home when Beth had died, nearly two years ago.
Annabelle looked at the three redheads gathered around the kitchen table and felt a rush of sympathy. Their loss had been just as great as hers. At the time of her daughter’s death Annabelle had been so consumed by her own grief she hadn’t protested Nick’s decision to remain in California. But that was over. No longer was she going to be a long-distance grandma.
She poured each of her grandsons a glass of milk, then grabbed several quilted paper towels and attacked the mess on the floor. Next she spooned a small amount of the tuna dish—a casserole she had made from scratch and baked in the oven in spite of the ninety-degree heat—into a clean bowl.
“Melody, Grandma wants you to eat a little of this. It’s good for you.” Annabelle set the bowl on the high-chair tray beside a double-handled cup.
A chubby little hand pushed the bowl to the edge of the tray.
There was a battle of wills as wide green eyes met narrowed blue ones. Annabelle could feel the green ones winning and consequently said, “Don’t throw it on the floor or Grandma will have to send you to bed without any ice cream.”
A threat. Annabelle wasn’t proud of the tactic, but it had worked when Melody’s mother had sat in that very same high chair.
But one thing Annabelle had discovered was that Melody’s similarity to her mother ended with the red locks and green eyes. In temperament she was nothing like Beth.
When Melody heard she wasn’t going to get any ice cream, her lower lip began to quiver. Before Annabelle could sit down to the dinner table, the tuna was on the floor again and the pout had become a howl.
“That’s it, Melody. No ice cream for you.” Annabelle wagged a finger at the screaming toddler. Her dictum only caused the howling to escalate.
Zachary spoke up in his sister’s defense. “Dad says food shouldn’t be a reward or a punishment.”
His comment produced a look from Annabelle that had him sinking lower in his chair and eyeing the tuna on his own plate as if it were a life preserver. Melody continued to wail and once again cleared her tray with a swipe of her chubby little arm. Milk and several green grapes joined the food on the floor.
Annabelle decided it was time to change tactics. She would ignore her granddaughter’s temper tantrum, for that was what it had become. She sat down and asked Zachary to pass her the butter. He complied.
The howling grew louder, but Annabelle refused to look in Melody’s direction. In the short time she had been in Tyler, Melody hadn’t uttered one single word. Annabelle knew from experience that the average two-year-old’s vocabulary was limited, but Melody had none. Several of Annabelle’s friends had commented on her lack of speech. Even the staff at TylerTots had said she was exceptionally quiet for her age. The only one who didn’t seem to be concerned was her own father.
But then Nick Miller wasn’t overly concerned about any of his children. It was another of those parental points Annabelle intended to share with her son-in-law. He needed a more hands-on approach when it came to Melody. Nick’s philosophy in raising children was not to have a plan, to just do whatever needed to be done and expect that things would work out for the best.
Annabelle knew that when it came to Melody, a plan was needed. That was why when Patrick said, “Grandma, I think she’s turning purple,” she switched to plan C.
This was a battle Annabelle did not want to lose, yet the tiny little veins in Melody’s head did look as though they might burst. No longer did the tears sound like those of a strong-willed child approaching the terrible twos, but rather the painful plea of a motherless little girl who needed love more than she needed discipline. She had slipped down in the high chair so that her splotchy red face was all that was visible.
Annabelle quickly extracted Melody from the chair and cradled her in her arms, murmuring words of comfort. “There, there now, Melody. Grandma doesn’t care if you don’t eat the tuna. Just quit cry
ing so you don’t make yourself sick.” Zachary and Patrick exchanged knowing glances.
“One of you boys get me the peanut butter from the cupboard,” she instructed, reaching for a slice of white bread from the plate in the center of the table.
Patrick dutifully got up, which suited Zachary just fine. With his grandmother preoccupied with Melody and Patrick away from the table, he was able to slip his mushrooms into his napkin. It was a feat he accomplished with the ease of a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick.
Annabelle, Zachary and Patrick ate the tuna casserole. Melody ate her peanut-butter sandwich. All four of them had chocolate chip ice cream for dessert.
By the time her grandchildren were tucked in bed, Annabelle was exhausted. Only one thought saved her from slinking into a blue funk: tomorrow their father would be here.
* * *
NICK MILLER ZIPPED the last suitcase shut, then looked around the empty room. Everything was gone—the four-poster bed he and Beth had slept in for thirteen years, the chest of drawers that had held her clothes, the oak shelves that had been filled with figurines she had painted in her weekly ceramics classes.
All the familiar rooms where he and Beth had laughed together, slept together and even wept together were now empty—just like him. In the first few months after her death he had tried to keep everything just as she had left it, but that had been impossible. Her house plants had turned brown, the highly polished floors had become scuffed and the brightly colored linens had faded. Instead of finding comfort in the knowledge that she had loved fixing up the three-bedroom rambler, he could only feel pain that she was no longer there.
That was why, when his mother-in-law had pleaded with him to move the children closer to her, he had finally agreed it was time he left the house in Sherman Oaks, California and all of its memories. The one-day-at-a-time approach hadn’t worked. He needed a fresh start.
The problem was he wasn’t sure that settling in the town where Beth had been born and raised was going to help him move forward with his life. It would, however, give his children a chance to get to know their grandmother and the rest of the Scanlon family, who lived in the small Midwestern town of Tyler, Wisconsin.
For someone who had spent all his life on the West Coast, living in the middle of America would be quite a change. The first time Nick visited Tyler he had been charmed by the nineteenth-century flavor of its architecture. There was something about the white-framed Victorian homes with their large porches and velvet-green lawns that was refreshingly peaceful compared to the concrete congestion of L.A.
Of course, whenever he had visited Tyler Beth had been with him. Now he was going back alone, and he wasn’t sure it would hold the same appeal. For that reason, instead of buying a house, he had rented a smaller version of the grand Victorian homes on Elm Street. It was a two-story with a porch, and a white picket fence that meant Melody could play outside and he wouldn’t have to worry about her wandering away.
At the thought of his daughter, his breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes and fought back a familiar wave of guilt. Melody was the daughter he had always wanted, the third child he had insisted they have and the true reason he was moving to Tyler.
Something was badly broken in his relationship with Melody, something that needed to be put right. Professionals had assured him that in time he would bond with the little girl, whose life had begun when his wife’s had ended. So far that hadn’t happened. In less than six weeks she would be two years old, yet he still felt like a new father with her.
Annabelle insisted that what all his children needed at this point in time was a woman’s touch. Nick wouldn’t argue that Melody needed a mother, only he wasn’t quite sure how he could make that happen. The thought of dating held no interest for him. No woman could replace Beth. There was no point in looking for love.
There was only one thing to do. He would go to Tyler, give the kids the chance to get to know their grandmother. She was the next best thing to having a mother, even if she did sound a bit like a female General Patton at times. Beneath the tough exterior there had to be a gentle woman. After all, Annabelle had raised Beth and Cece, women Nick admired for their gentleness.
Actually, he looked forward to raising his children in a town that wasn’t populated with surgically assisted bodies. When he’d been younger it hadn’t bothered him that people in Tinseltown reshaped their body parts as often as they redecorated their houses. Lately, however, he had grown tired of living in the shadow of the glittery entertainment industry.
It was time to leave. He lifted his suitcases and looked one last time at the empty room. As he left the sprawling rambler he didn’t look back. The time had come to move forward and hope that he would find peace of mind in a town called Tyler.
CHAPTER TWO
“PAPA! WHAT ARE you doing here?” Kika’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her father standing outside her apartment door.
“I stopped by to see how you are.” He glanced over her shoulder and saw the suitcase standing in the hallway. “You’re not flying off to L.A. again, are you?”
“No.”
“Good.” He grunted as he walked past her. “Your mother will be happy to hear that. When you’re in California you seem to forget you have a family in Minnesota.”
“I could never forget you and Mama,” Kika assured him. “This is a business trip, Papa.” She tossed several legal-size pads into her briefcase and snapped it shut. “I need to hurry.”
“You’re always in a hurry, Kika.” He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “A woman shouldn’t travel alone. Where’s Frankie, anyway?”
Frankie Donato was one of her father’s employees, a hardworking, first-generation Italian like her father, with very definite ideas about what women should and shouldn’t do. Kika knew that despite her parents’ matchmaking attempts, Frankie would never be a member of the family. He wanted a wife who would stay at home and have babies. That wasn’t in Kika’s future.
“I can’t ask Frankie to come with me.”
“Why not? Just because you turned down his marriage proposal doesn’t mean he’s stopped caring about you.”
She knew that what her father said was true. Frankie had made it perfectly clear that he would wait for her to get what he called her “independent streak” out of her system. The problem was she didn’t want him waiting.
“Frankie has a job,” she reminded him.
“I’m the boss. I’ll give him tomorrow off.” He reached for the phone, but Kika stopped him.
“It’s not a good idea. This is business.”
He raked a hand through dark hair peppered with gray. “That’s what bothers me—this business you’re in. Here you are, flying off to who-knows-where in the middle of the night. You’re starting to act just like Lucia. No wonder your mother’s worried about you.”
Lucia—or Lucy, as Kika called her—was her mother’s sister. The head of a modeling agency, she had never married or had children, much to the rest of the family’s disapproval. To Kika, she was a mentor, a woman to be admired for surviving in an industry that often chewed women up and spat them out again. To Kika’s parents, she was a woman to be pitied.
“Aunt Lucy’s a successful woman,” Kika stated firmly in the woman’s defense.
“And a lonely one. Which is what you’re going to be if you’re not careful.” He wagged a finger at her.
“I’m not lonely, Papa.”
“Maybe not now, but in a few years—”
She held up her hands, palms outward. “Stop. You have to stop planning my life for me. Did you ever think it might not be my destiny to be married, Papa?”
“Marriage is in every Mancini’s destiny,” he proclaimed.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need a job.”
“A job is fine, but family must come first. I’m afraid you’re going to discover this job has kept you from finding what really matters in life.”
Kika sighed. “Pap
a, you’re the one who taught me to reach for the stars. Don’t you want me to succeed?”
“Of course I do, but I can’t pretend I’m happy with this business you’re running—the people you meet, the hours you have to keep. I don’t trust these showbiz types.”
“I can handle them.”
He harrumphed. “How are you going to meet a real man to settle down with when all you’re ever surrounded by are ones made up of plastic parts?” He gestured wildly with his hands.
Kika knew it would do no good to tell her father that she wasn’t looking for a man, that she was looking for a rewarding career. To him, the career a woman strived to achieve was that of wife and mother. All three of her brothers had given him grandchildren. Now she was expected to follow in their tracks.
Unfortunately, her tracks led to the fast lane. She wanted to be the best casting director in the Midwest, and she was well on her way to earning that reputation. The Fancy contract was proof. She looped her arm through her father’s and smiled up at him affectionately.
“Papa, you don’t need to worry about me falling for an actor or a model. When I fall in love, it will be with someone who is genuine and down-to-earth—like you. Now we’d better get going or I’ll miss my plane.”
He sighed. “I wish you weren’t traveling alone. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
“And watch out for the men. You’re a beautiful young woman, Kika. Any father in my position would worry.”
As much as Kika wanted to be impatient with her overprotective parent, she found it rather endearing the way he honestly believed that she was irresistible to men.
“I’m going to Tyler, Wisconsin, not New York City. And I’m going in search of a baby, not a man.”
But it was a man who caught Kika’s eye at the Milwaukee airport. As she dragged her wheeled suitcase through the terminal, she spotted him in a crush of people deplaning at one of the gates.
He was tall with short dark hair, deepset eyes and a wholesomeness that made Kika think she could cast him in a dozen parts as the “guy who gets the girl.” He looked familiar, but it was only when he smiled at one of the flight attendants that Kika recognized him from T.J.’s Playmates video.