Talia felt the prick of tears and blinked them away.
“I can’t turn my back on him a second time,” she said. “And an ex-stripper as a birth mother isn’t going to do him any good. The kid has sitcom ideals and he’s already lost so much. But as a collage expert and his connection to a great program, I really think I can help him.”
“You’ve thought this through.”
“Yeah.”
“And it still doesn’t make me feel any better about the heartache you’re walking into.”
“My son’s heart is hurting, too.”
“He has his father...”
“And I have all of the love that you and Tatum and Tanner give me,” she said. “It’s going to have to be enough.”
“Just do me a favor.”
“What?”
“You come talk to me, or someone, if you get in too deep.”
She nodded. But knew from experience that when you were in that deep, you didn’t see it.
“Don’t shut me out, Tal, please? If I get worried and come to you? You’ll let me in?”
A quip about Sedona owning the house she lived in and thereby having the right to come in at any time was on the tip of Talia’s tongue.
She held it there. Nodded. And when her sister-in-law let go of the car door, she climbed in, shut the door and drove away.
Before she started to do something really stupid like cry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“HERE, TRY THIS.” Sherman put a pinch of powdery coffee creamer in his son’s hand. “Throw it above the flame, and stand back,” he said, ready to grab the boy’s arm if he stumbled or got too close to the fire.
Kent shot his little hand above the flame and was rewarded with some sparkly flashes. “Cool!” The look he turned on Sherman was one he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see again—it was as if he was actually looking up to him again. “What else have you got?”
Sherman had taken a few minutes to collect a bucket full of stuff before coming out to the fire with Kent that night.
Their first fire without Brooke. He’d needed it to be special. And different.
He needed Kent amenable to him when he worked up the courage to talk to his son about the program he wanted him to participate in. He had until the morning when he’d told Ms. Malone he’d call and let her know whether or not to make the arrangements.
Pulling out his next sample, he handed it over to Kent. “Table salt,” he said as Kent tossed the crystals.
“Orange flame, way cool!”
“Water softener salt,” he said with the next pass off.
“Purple!”
“Epsom salt.”
“Wow, I’ve never seen white flame. Let’s do that one again,” Kent said as he tossed the substance into the fire. So they did.
But the boy wasn’t done. “What else?” He turned, looking at Sherman’s bucket as if it was Santa’s sack.
“Laundry detergent.” He handed over the sample.
This time Kent surprised him. He held the powdered chemical and said, “What color is it going to be?”
He was testing him.
Thank God it was a test he could pass. “Light green flame,” he said. And was rewarded with an impressed glance from his recalcitrant son.
They went through other chemicals. Other colors. And then Sherman said, “Sugar. I’ll throw this one.”
Kent stood back without being asked and waited. Sherman tossed the sugar and watched his son as little tiny sparks flew around the fire.
“Like a sparkler,” Kent said, watching. “Hey, maybe we can make our own homemade sparklers,” he said next, standing beside him in their backyard under the stars.
“I’ve never done it, or heard of anyone doing it, but we can look it up on the internet,” he agreed.
“Then we wouldn’t have to wait until the Fourth of July.”
With a pang, Sherman remembered that he’d taken Kent to a professional baseball game with a client on the Fourth last year. They’d seen fireworks there and he’d called it good.
“Now for the flour,” he said, not wanting to ruin the moment with regrets. “Stand back.”
Kent obeyed immediately, anticipation in every line of his body as Sherman filled his palm with flour and threw it above the flame.
He quickly grabbed Kent’s arm, shielding the boy as the flash flame shot up in front of them.
“Do it again!”
Sherman did.
And Kent laughed out loud.
* * *
AS IT TURNED OUT, Sherman didn’t get around to asking Kent about Ms. Malone’s program until he was tucking his son into bed a couple of hours later. They’d stayed out by the fire for a while. They’d tossed on some copper that made multicolors. And then, thinking of his son’s collage, of the fact that his son opened up when he was being artistic, he’d had another idea. He’d run into the kitchen, emptied a bottle of beer into the sink and then dropped it into the fire. With their outdoor barbecue tools, he’d helped his son pull at the glass as it softened, until they’d made what they both decided was a slightly off-kilter ship.
Their ship in the night.
At least they were on the same one.
“You had a good day at school today,” Sherman said as he looked at that brown-bottle ship on his son’s dresser, right where Kent had put it when they’d come in the house.
“It was okay.”
It was great! The boy hadn’t been in trouble.
“I met Ms. Malone today.”
“My art teacher? What about her?”
“She’s not the regular art teacher.” Sherman wasn’t sure why it was important to him that Kent understood that. “She’s a collage specialist.”
“I know. She told me.” He was lying on his back, his head on his pillow, sweet and clean and innocent-looking as he stared up at Sherman. Sherman sat on the side of the bed.
“So she showed me the collage.”
“It’s dumb. Just a bunch of glued magazine pictures.”
“I didn’t think it was dumb. I thought it was pretty amazing.”
“Yeah, right, Dad. You have to say that.”
Okay, so this was going nowhere fast. He had to change tactics before something besides household chemicals blew up in front of him.
“She knows you’ve had some trouble.”
“Duh, Dad. I was suspended from school last week. That’s why she was there. Of course she knows.”
“So she told me she has a program that she thinks might help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
There’d been nothing in Kent’s collage against the doctor, but there also hadn’t been one thing that indicated any outside help in the boy’s life. And, clearly, Kent wasn’t opening up to the man.
“If it works out well, you might be able to skip some of your meetings with Dr. Jordon.”
“For real?” Kent’s sudden seriousness told Sherman that even if Kent didn’t agree to sessions at the shelter, it was time to get him out of his current counseling sessions. Even though Dr. Jordon was Kent’s second one-on-one therapist and came with the highest recommendations.
“For real.”
“Okay.”
That was it? He’d been worried for over eight hours for an easy okay?
“For real,” he quoted his son.
“Yeah,” Kent said, yawning. “I like Ms. Malone.” With those words the boy turned on his side and closed his eyes.
Sherman waited until Kent’s breathing steadied into an obvious indication of sleep, then bent over, kissed him on the head, tucked his covers around his shoulders and wished him a very quiet good-night.
* * *
TALIA WAS STILL on the back porch, head
back and eyes closed, almost dozing with the ocean waves in the distance, when her cell phone rang. Tatum had a habit of calling her before bed. Not every night. But often.
“Hey, Baby Tay, I’m fine,” she said, picking up the phone from the table beside her without opening her eyes.
A very male cough responded, and she sat straight up. “I’m sorry, Ms. Malone, is this a bad time?”
Pulling her phone from her ear, she looked at the screen, recognizing the number, though she’d only officially had it since that afternoon. Sherman Paulson.
Almost as though she’d conjured him up. She’d just been thinking about him...
About his son.
“No, Mr. Paulson. I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“Baby Tay.”
She couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her or not.
“My little sister. She calls me to say good-night.”
“And that’s how you say good-night? Telling her you’re fine?”
He was sharp. She’d hand him that.
He was also her connection to her son. To helping her son. He was the man who’d clearly give his life for Kent.
“She’s a worrywart.”
“You called her Baby and said she’s your little sister...” His words were innocuous but his tone sounded just a tiny bit flirty.
And she was just a tiny bit flattered. For a brief second.
“She’s sixteen and Baby Tay is her nickname.”
“So why is she worried about you?”
It wasn’t a professional question. So she couldn’t answer.
“I’m sorry. I overstepped and made you uncomfortable.”
She didn’t want him apologizing to her any more than she wanted him flirting with her. And she wanted both.
“It’s fine. I’m... Did you talk to Kent?”
“I did. And he said okay.”
“Good.” Oh, my God! She was going to see him again for sure! She got to help him! And she would be able to keep track of how he was doing. Her heart pounding, she stepped off the deck and walked in the sand that led down to the ocean.
“He likes you.”
Her toe caught in the sand. But she kept walking. The water wasn’t far off. It was chilly, but she had a sudden urge to feel the water on her feet. Pulling her hoodie close, she kept on.
“I like him, too,” she said softly. “More than that, I really think this program is going to help him.”
“It’s all young boys, you said.”
“Yeah, there are currently four of them. The group meets every day. The more often Kent can join them, the better. We want him to feel as much a part of things as the other boys.”
Amazing how comforting the beach was to her, even in the dark of night. The constant sound of the waves crashing was her company.
“I wish I could just take every afternoon off from work, but while my schedule is flexible, sometimes I can’t help being late. Mrs. Barbour has been good enough to watch him for me until I can get to school.”
He stopped. And then said, “I’ll see if I can arrange transportation for the days I can’t get him there.”
Step. Step. Step.
“I can take him if you’d like.” Speak without thinking it through. That was her way. “I hold sessions there three afternoons a week, anyway.”
She told him very little about herself. And had to keep it that way.
“I can’t ask you to...”
Step. Step. Stumble. Step. “You aren’t asking, I’m offering.” Talia felt as much as heard the change in her voice. The throatiness. It came naturally. When she was talking to a man and wanted to manipulate him into giving her what she wanted.
A necessary skill for a stripper if she was going to make good money.
“He likes you.”
“So you said.” Step. Step. Step. She couldn’t let it go to her head.
Step. Step. Step. Or her heart.
“No, I mean, I’m going to have to be in your debt and accept your offer because he really likes you. You have no idea how refreshing that is in his life these days. I firmly believe that if anyone has a chance at getting him to buy into this with full commitment, you do.”
Step and... She dipped her toe into the frigid ocean. “So I’ll take him,” she said. “And you aren’t in my debt.”
Quite the opposite. Not that he could ever know that.
“How soon can we start?”
“You’ll need to go down and have an interview with Lila. She’ll run a background check on you. As soon as that’s cleared, we’ll be ready to go. The group meets from four until five Monday through Friday.”
“I’ll go in tomorrow morning,” he said. And something cracked. Loudly.
“What was that?”
“A bottle.”
“What?”
“I’m outside by the fire Kent and I built tonight, melting a beer bottle. I put it too close to the middle of the fire and it burst.”
She pictured him sitting alone by a backyard fire. Maybe he’d changed from his work clothes to jeans. Or sweats.
How far away was he? A mile or two? More?
Waves lapped gently against her toes, numbing them, as the night air chilled her skin.
Inside, Talia was burning up.
Sherman started to talk about a ship in the night and the look on their son’s face when he’d seen copper change flame to colors. He thought he was only talking about his son. Not theirs.
And Talia, sitting in the sand, had tears on her cheeks.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHERMAN LIKED LILA MCDANIELS, the managing director of the Lemonade Stand, on sight. Somewhere in her fifties, the woman could have passed for non-descript with her brown linen suit and mostly gray hair back in a bun, but the depth of caring shining from her eyes filled her office with life.
She wasn’t overly friendly. To the contrary, she was all business as she put him through the ropes, asking what he considered to be completely private questions about his past relationships, his current relationships, about his home life growing up and his current home life. She asked about his career history. And asked him to tell her about his son. He answered every one of her questions without hesitation. He’d strip naked and crawl on hot coals if it would help Kent.
And on Wednesday afternoon, after getting a call from Ms. McDaniels saying he’d passed his background check, he left work again to drive Kent to his first meeting with Sara Havens, the therapist who facilitated the anger management session for young boys at the Lemonade Stand.
He’d told Kent the boys were his age, give or take a year. And that there were four of them.
“I get it, Dad,” Kent said, staring out the passenger window, preventing Sherman from seeing his expression. “It’s another grief thing, and I don’t need it, but it’s better than talking to stupid Dr. Jordon.”
“You know, if you’d clean up your act in class, you could be done with all of this.”
“Whatever.”
“And no, it’s not so much about grief,” Sherman said. He’d met Sara Havens that morning, as well. She’d suggested that he let her introduce Kent to the group, and Sherman had been relieved to abdicate the job to her. At the same time, he wasn’t sending his son in there without at least some kind of preparation. “The boys, three of the four, are currently living at this place.”
“It’s an orphanage?”
“No. It’s a shelter for people who’ve been physically hurt by a family member. Most of these boys have mothers who’ve been beaten up by their husbands or brothers or someone close like that.”
Not anything he’d choose to expose his ten-year-old to. In a perfect world. But Kent’s world was far from perfect these days. And if he didn’t straighten up, he
was heading for far worse life lessons.
He glanced over and saw the boy staring at him. “Were the boys hit, too, Dad?”
In his preppy green pants and green-and-beige sweater with his white short-sleeved shirt showing at the neck, Kent looked like his mother’s little darling. Sweet. Innocent. The complete antithesis of a troublemaker.
“I don’t know. Probably some of them.”
“Why do I need to go there? You never hit Mom or me.”
“No, but someone hit Mom’s car and hurt her and maybe you can help these boys know how to feel about that.” Whoa, man. He was really winging it here. But life was often better if you were thinking of others instead of yourself, right?
Kent didn’t say a word for a couple of blocks. And then asked, “Is Ms. Malone going to be there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not today. But this group...it meets every day after school. And she’s going to be driving you here.”
The ten-minute drive from Kent’s school to the Lemonade Stand had passed quickly.
His son’s mouth dropped open. “I have to go every day?”
Shrugging, Sherman said, “Let’s just give it the rest of this week and then talk about it, okay?”
“Whatever.”
He parked the car. “Kent?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“You said you’d give this a try.”
“Yeah, before.” He said the last word with disgust.
“Before what?”
“Before you were just using it as a day care so you don’t have to come get me at school. How come Ms. Malone can’t just take me home? I don’t need a babysitter.”
Taking his keys out of the ignition, Sherman waited for the instant flare of anger to pass before saying, “That’s unfair, Kent. We’ve talked about these accusations of yours.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t really sound it, but the belligerence was gone from his voice.
And that was good enough for Sherman. “Look at me.”
He waited. Eventually, Kent turned his blue eyes up his way. “I am not trying to get rid of you.” His tone was deadly serious. “I could enter you in any number of after-school programs, and still might, if my work schedule requires it. I have to make enough money to pay our bills and put money in your college fund, too.”
Child by Chance Page 10