“It was a first offense, the only offense, the record was sealed when you turned eighteen and no one will ever know about it.”
“I’m not prepared to be a father, Les.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t got a clue about raising a kid.”
“I know. Me, neither.”
“But you’re going to take her, aren’t you?”
His breathing stopped during the second she nodded her head.
IN A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR, she was going to meet Cal’s children. Leslie didn’t have any idea how one prepared for such a thing. Should she just be herself? Wear a pantsuit and fancy jewelry and pretend she wasn’t afraid, at least in some measure, almost every minute of every day?
Or should she put on the one pair of jeans she still owned—left behind from a visit to her mother six or seven years ago, when Cal had been white-water rafting—and top it with the pink sweater she’d brought to wear under her black suit? Her black boots would be fine with jeans. And she could wear the butterfly necklace from her Purple Rain collection—it had blues and pinks and violets. Little girls liked butterflies.
Oh, God, how do you expect me to do this? In bra and panties, Leslie sank onto the white eyelet coverlet on the double bed she’d slept in as a child growing up in her mother’s house. She’d handled incredible pressures during her thirty years on earth, but somehow none of them seemed as insurmountable as the decision before her now. Her eye caught the rose-colored angel night-light she’d had since she was a child.
It had burned the night before. Just as a similar one burned in her own home every night. Angel, where’s your calm?
A call to Jim Brackerfield just after breakfast that morning had resulted in this Saturday-afternoon visit with the children. Her mother was coming, too. If all went well, Leslie could take Kayla home with her to Phoenix the next day.
Staring at the white eyelet curtains, the yellow walls with their pictures of butterflies and tacked-up posters of “feel-good” quotes from her teen years, she wondered who’d be supplying the definition of “well.” If it was her, there wouldn’t be one.
KIP, FRESHLY SHOWERED, shaved and dressed in jeans, a beige sweater and an open brown leather jacket, was standing outside by the rental car when Leslie and her mother left the house.
“You’re coming?” she asked, afraid to hope. She was determined not to sway Kip, make him feel guilty or give any indication of how much she wished he’d take her nephew—to love him. Even more than that, she wanted him to do whatever he needed to do.
“I didn’t put you down as a driver on the car,” he said, referring to the rental they’d brought from the airport.”
“We can take mine,” Clara said.
Kip opened the front passenger door for the older woman, who slid in without another word.
Leslie climbed in back, thanking God for giving her the strength Kip’s presence offered—even it was only for the afternoon.
ADA KING’S WRINKLED FACE and arthritic fingers looked more like those of an eighty-year-old woman than the sixty-two they’d been told she was. Her smile was gracious and genuine when she opened the door of the three-story condominium.
“The children are downstairs in the playroom,” she said. “I thought it best for you to meet them down there….” She stepped aside as they entered. “Then, if you all have any questions…”
She had a million of them. And couldn’t think of one. “I’m Leslie,” she said, holding out her hand.
“The picture your brother had was old, but I recognize you,” Ada said, gripping her hand. “Your brother thought the sun rose and set on them curls of yours.”
Leslie blinked back the tears she’d been fighting all the way across town. Oh, Cal. How can I possibly miss you so much? How can you still matter to me? How am I ever going to love your children and not lose myself?
After shaking hands with Clara and Kip, Ada led them toward a staircase at the back of the living room they’d entered.
“Kayla’s toys are all down here,” she said. “It’s best to keep plenty of things handy for that one to do.”
Leslie’s heart started to pound. “She’s active?”
“She’s two,” Ada said as if that explained everything, glancing over her shoulder at Leslie as they slowly descended the stairs. Kip and Clara were right behind her.
Breathe. Leslie took a step. And then another. Real breaths, not those shallow gasps that barely keep you alive. She heard Juliet’s voice in her head.
The carpet was short, variegated browns and beiges, and thickly padded. Expensive. But easy to clean and it hid stains. There wasn’t a single fingerprint on the light beige walls. She could hear a childish lisp in a high little voice, couldn’t understand the words. If there’d been a reply, it had been uttered too softly to hear.
Leslie turned, met her mother’s tremulous gaze, and then her eyes locked with Kip’s. For a second she saw naked fear—an emotion that echoed all the way through her.
She hadn’t even known these children existed until the day before. And now one of them was supposed to be hers?
And Cal’s. Always Cal’s. Could she raise her brother’s daughter?
Could she not?
“Jonathan, Kayla, they’re here to meet you,” Ada said, rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs.
Light-headed with tension—and probably lack of oxygen—Leslie turned the corner, vaguely aware of her mother and Kip coming up beside her. All she really noticed were the eyes staring at her from a mahogany-brown face topped with straight red hair, exactly the same as her brother’s. Jonathan Sanderson was the most striking little boy she’d ever seen.
And then the slightest movement drew her eyes downward to the chubby little girl hugging her brother’s leg. Kayla’s head was covered in frizzy braids. Her overalls were pink, swarming with butterflies, as was the long-sleeved shirt she had on underneath them. And her skin was creamy beige, beautiful. Kayla was beautiful.
“Da da da?” Tears flooded Leslie’s eyes the second she heard the voice. And just like that, she fell in love.
Jonathan pulled the child even closer, wrapping an arm protectively around her shoulders.
“He’s not comin’ back, Kayla,” the little boy whispered, leaning down to his sister, but still watching the three outsiders who’d just invaded his territory. “’Member? We talked all ’bout it.”
“Da da da,” Kayla said again, her voice softer as she, too, stared at the strangers.
“Come forward, boy,” Ada said, her hand beckoning.
So slowly he was hardly moving, Jonathan came forward, bringing his sister with him. Ada waited patiently. And when he arrived, put an arm around his skinny little shoulders.
“Jonathan Sanderson, this is your grandma.” She stopped him in front of Clara, who knelt, tears streaming down her face.
“Hello, Jonathan, I’m so happy to meet you,” she said quietly.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Jonathan peered at Clara for a moment and then back at Ada, who moved him along.
“And this is your aunt Leslie.”
Leslie didn’t know where the ear-to-ear grin came from, but when that little body stopped in front of her, gazing up at her with distrusting eyes, she saw a world of happy times ahead of them.
“Hi, Jonathan. I didn’t even know about you until yesterday, but I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, reaching out to touch his hair. “It’s like mine.”
“It’s like my daddy’s.” The boy’s chin trembled, but otherwise he was completely composed. Although Leslie had only limited familiarity with kids, that seemed unusual to her.
She knelt down beside her mother, who was still on her knees watching the children she obviously longed to pull into her arms. “You must be Kayla,” she said to the little girl peering out from behind her brother.
Kayla stepped out then. Nodded. Poked her finger at Leslie’s hair. “Da da da.”
“She don’t know what she’s sayin’,”
Jonathan quickly inserted. He looked up at Kip, eyes narrowed. “Who’s he?”
“This is Kip Webster, child,” Ada said, and Leslie thought of the most important question she should’ve asked Ada King before they’d come downstairs. Did Jonathan know the terms of his father’s will?
“Who’s he?” Jonathan asked again, pretty much confirming what Leslie had feared. The little boy hadn’t been told that he was about to be taken from the only home he’d ever known.
But at least if Kip decided not to take him, Jonathan wouldn’t realize that Kip hadn’t wanted him.
“He was your daddy’s best friend from the time they were wee like you,” Ada said. She dropped her arm from around the boy and stepped back.
But not too far back, Leslie noted.
The boy studied Kip for a long moment. “You want to see my radio control helicopter that really flies?” Jonathan finally asked Kip. “It’s pretty cool.”
Leslie watched, holding her breath.
“Sure,” Kip said, smiling at the little boy with a natural ease that confirmed something Leslie had always assumed but that Kip Webster hadn’t yet figured out. Someday he was going to make a wonderful father. “You got one control or two?”
THREE HOURS LATER Ada walked them to the door, but Kip wasn’t ready to leave. He wasn’t ready to end this segment of his life—to move on to whatever was coming next.
“We’ll call you in the morning,” he told the older woman in a low voice. Jonathan and Kayla were downstairs, glued to a Disney video on the large-screen TV that took up one end of the huge sitting room. Still he wouldn’t put it past the precocious little guy he’d spent the past couple of hours playing with to have crept up the stairs far enough to listen in.
“Mr. Brackerfield says you might be takin’ Kayla tomorrow.” Ada looked at Leslie.
“I—”
“This all happened so fast,” Kip interrupted and he wasn’t even sure why. Driven by some unidentifiable tension inside him, he continued anyway. “You’ve known about these kids all their lives,” he said. “We’re not only grieving Cal’s unexpected death, but dealing with the shock of finding out that he kept something like this from his entire family.”
That wasn’t it at all. But Ada was nodding so maybe she’d accept his rambling explanation as a reason for delaying any final decision.
“Just give us the evening to talk, and then we’ll call you with some solid plans.”
“Take all the time you need,” Ada said, her expression gentle. “I ain’t in no hurry. Just want to have the little one’s things packed if she’s got to go.”
“We’ll let you know,” Kip said again, before Leslie could make some definite commitment.
“What was that about?” she asked him as soon as the front door of the condo closed behind them.
“I just—”
“I’m taking her, Kip.” She walked to the parking lot, holding the edges of her black suede coat together as she shivered in the cold. “You aren’t going to change my mind about that.”
“I have no intention of trying,” he admitted honestly. But that was all he could tell her. It was all he knew.
CHAPTER FOUR
CLARA SUGGESTED that Leslie and Kip go out alone for the evening, someplace neutral, and have their talk. Which was why, just after seven, Leslie found herself walking along High Street, the main drag, which ran through Ohio State University in downtown Columbus, with her high school crush beside her. Dressed in her lone pair of jeans and the pink sweater beneath her mother’s borrowed winter parka, Leslie was at least glad to be out of the house.
“It’s just like your mom to insist that we get away from her and all the memories of Cal at the house as we try to figure out what to do,” Kip said, his breath visible in the cold night air as they walked past noisy bars interspersed with tattoo shops, fast food restaurants and closed bookstores. “She was always one to respect personal space, always trying not to pressure you unduly to her way of thinking.”
“Yeah,” was the only response Leslie could manage. If her mother hadn’t been so determined to give her and Cal their “space,” would things have turned out differently?
A group of college-age girls passed, parkas open to reveal the belly rings and bare skin that showed between the button on their jeans and the hem of their shirts. One of them knocked the shoulder strap of Leslie’s black Brighton bag off her shoulder. At least three of them had been talking at once, and she wondered how any of them ever got heard.
“You hungry?” Kip asked.
“A little.” They hadn’t eaten since a quick sandwich before going to meet the kids. Leslie hadn’t finished hers. “Not really.”
Too much on her mind. “That place looks exactly like it did when I worked there.” They were passing the popular hamburger joint that had provided her spending money during her undergraduate years.
“You had money from your father,” Kip said, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I never could understand why you’d choose to work in a fast food place.”
Leslie shrugged, not expecting him to understand. “I wanted to be like everyone else.” And to have long hours with lots of lights and activity and noise—to keep her from panicking her way right out of college.
Secrets isolated people, casting them into an internal darkness, a loneliness that often resulted in bouts of anxiety.
A convertible drove by with the top down and a group of husky young men wearing blue and gold University of Michigan letterman jackets sitting up on the back seat. They were whooping and hollering loudly enough to be heard at Ada King’s home in Westerville fifteen miles away.
“I forgot, today was the Michigan game,” Kip said. “They must’ve won!”
Michigan versus Ohio State was the big football rivalry, often determining which of the two teams would be playing in the biggest college bowl game at the end of the year.
“Good for them!” she said, smiling. “They won only once when I was a student here, but I wore my Michigan jersey up and down High Street that night, doing my father proud.” She hadn’t had many typical college weekend nights during her time at the university; that November Saturday of her junior year had been one of the few.
“I never understood why, considering the fact that both your father and grandfather graduated from U of M—and you were so obviously a fan, even when you were a kid—you chose to go to OSU.”
Because Cal had been at U of M doing graduate work. “I got a full scholarship to Ohio State.”
Her mom had accepted the explanation, and there was no reason to expect that Kip wouldn’t.
The street was so brightly lit it could almost have been daytime, and teeming with young people intent on a night of living it up. Leslie wondered how many of them would be living it down the next morning. She’d occasionally done that, too. Never again.
“You want a drink?” Kip asked.
They needed to talk. A noisy High Street bar wasn’t conducive to serious conversation. Or any conversation that could actually be heard. “Sure.”
She could use a glass of wine. Take the edge off, at least a little. She was going to take Kayla. Telling Kip wouldn’t be easy.
Neither was making the request she had to make—if he wasn’t taking Jonathan, she wanted Kip to sign him over to her.
But then, she’d never found life particularly easy. And that hadn’t stopped her yet.
LEAVE IT TO KIP to find a quiet corner in a quiet bar—one that actually served food as well as drinks—a couple of blocks down from Ohio State. There was only one other patron in the room and the hostess sat them in a scarred wooden booth all the way at the back, far from the door.
“How’d you know about this place?” she asked, the menu open in front of her.
“I didn’t,” he said, laying his menu down. “I’ll have the steak sandwich,” he told the young man who approached the table, pad in hand. “And a beer. Tall.”
He’d lucked into a quiet bar on High Street. Was th
ere nothing in Kip Webster’s life that wasn’t charmed? Other than his childhood, she reminded herself. From all accounts, that had been sheer hell.
Which could explain why the man felt compelled to turn his back on fatherhood.
She ordered the turkey wrap and a glass of wine. She wasn’t like Kip. She couldn’t be like him, couldn’t let herself think about not doing as Cal wished. The irony of that wasn’t lost on her, either.
“SO WHAT DID YOU THINK?”
“About the sandwich? Quite good, thank you.” She smiled across at her dinner companion, finding a curious humor in the fact that her dreams had finally come true—she was out on High Street, alone with Kip, on a Saturday night—albeit ten years too late and not quite for the reason she’d hoped. But then fate had a way of doing that to her.
“I wasn’t talking about the sandwich,” Kip said with a small grin. The flip-flop in her stomach had nothing to do with the food, either. And everything to do with the man.
“I’d like another glass of wine first.”
“I THOUGHT THEY WERE ADORABLE,” Leslie said before her second glass of wine arrived. “I’m guessing they were on their best behavior, but they seem like really good kids.”
“Jonathan’s a brainiac.”
“A what?”
“Brainiac,” Kip said, worrying the edge of his drink napkin between his thumb and index finger. He’d removed his jacket, and the green sweater he was wearing brought out glints of gold in his eyes. “His word, not mine. He said the kids at school call him that. Means he’s smart.”
Her wine was served. Leslie took a gulp, hoping she’d camouflaged the gesture as a ladylike sip. “For a five-year-old, he’s far too aware of others,” she said.
The Promise of Christmas Page 4