by Irene Hannon
“As a matter of fact, I had a call from Lisa yesterday.”
Clint’s breath hitched, but he did his best to maintain a conversational tone. “That’s a surprise. What did she want?”
“She asked me to pass the word to you that she’s getting married to a fellow attorney.”
The world went silent, as if a clear bubble had been dropped over him. The birds stopped singing, the waves stopped crashing, the seals on the rock below stopped barking as his father’s words echoed in his mind.
He’d assumed this would happen someday. Lisa was young, attractive, accomplished. A broken engagement might have slowed her up, but it wouldn’t stop her from creating the life she wanted. A life that included career, husband and kids—perhaps in that order.
Funny. He’d tried to prepare himself for this moment, had assumed he’d be devastated when he finally got the news.
But he wasn’t.
And he suspected a certain concierge could take a lot of the credit for that.
“You okay, son?”
At the concern in his father’s tone, he refocused on the conversation. “Yeah. I’m fine. Really. Lisa and I were over three years ago. I knew there was no chance of a reconciliation.” Not after the hateful words she’d flung at him that night at the hospital—though they’d been no worse than the ones he’d heaped on himself. He’d deserved every bit of censure she’d directed at him.
“Well, she thought it was only right to let you know, since the two of you were engaged and all. She also asked me for your address. She wants to write you a letter. I told her I’d have to check with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m over it.”
“Maybe it’s necessary for her.”
Clint’s first inclination was still to say no. But if Lisa wanted to do this, if it helped give her closure, he ought to honor her request. It was the least he could do.
“Fine. You can give her my address.”
“Okay. I’ll pass it on. So how’s everything out there? Meet any interesting people?”
Clint did the translation and answered the implied question. “Everything’s fine. And no, I’m not dating anyone.”
“Isn’t it about time you did, if you’re really over it?”
Checkmate for his dad.
“I’ll get around to it one of these days.”
The sound of a sigh came over the line. “I worry about you, you know. A man like you ought to have a passel of kids running around. But I expect the pickings are slim in Starfish Bay. That’s one of the downsides of small towns.”
“I don’t know. New people show up every day, especially with the inn open now.”
“That’s a plus, I’ll grant you. And you sure did pick a pretty place to settle. By the way, the kids are looking forward to another trip to Agate Beach when we come out.”
“I’ll add that to our agenda. Give my love to everyone, okay?”
“Will do. And you take care of yourself. Go meet some of those new people at the inn.”
His father had a one-track mind.
“I’ll think about it. Talk to you soon, Dad.”
Clint rang off, glad he’d resisted the temptation to mention Kristen. His father would be all over that news, and it was too soon to raise his dad’s expectations.
Or his own.
Before he let himself get carried away about any possibilities with the new concierge, he needed to get to know her a whole lot better. And until she felt comfortable sharing personal information—like the reasons why she’d written off romance, didn’t want friends and took mysterious trips—that wasn’t likely to happen.
* * *
Choking down a few more of her French fries, Kristen checked out her daughter’s almost-untouched meal. Beatrice had taken only one small bite of the burger, nibbled at a couple of fries and sipped a half inch of milk, all the while clutching her Raggedy Ann doll.
Nor had she done much better this morning before they’d boarded their flight in Denver. Her breakfast had consisted of one piece of bacon and a glass of orange juice. And she hadn’t eaten a thing on the plane, even though Kristen had stocked her shoulder bag with cookies and peanut butter crackers and potato chips—all the bad stuff kids were supposed to like.
But in light of the past few traumatic days, her daughter’s lack of appetite was no surprise. The poor child had lost the only parents she’d ever known; sat through the heartrending ritual of the private memorial service; watched as the contents of her home were labeled for shipment to the West Coast, storage or charity; and was now being whisked across the country to a place she’d never been with a mother she didn’t know.
Still, she had to eat. Since they’d met on Sunday afternoon three days ago, she’d barely ingested the equivalent of one full meal a day. At this rate, she’d be malnourished in a week.
A tsunami of panic crashed over Kristen, and she took a sip of her soft drink, trying to wash the taste of fear from her mouth. She wasn’t equipped to handle a traumatized child. She had no idea how to...
“I need to use the bathroom.”
Her hand jerked, rattling the ice in her cup. Her daughter had spoken so seldom, and usually in monosyllables, that she wasn’t yet accustomed to her soft, musical voice.
“Okay.” She looked around the fast-food place and spotted the sign. “I’ll leave my jacket here so people know we’re coming back.”
“We don’t have to if you don’t want. I’m finished.”
Hesitating, Kristen once more examined her daughter’s uneaten meal. Should she pressure her to take a few more bites? Or use the trip home to try to ferret out what foods her daughter liked, then grab them at the Mercantile and encourage her to eat once she’d settled in?
“Are you sure you don’t want any more?”
Beatrice gave her a solemn nod.
“Okay.” Decision made, she gathered up the food, stuffed it all back in the bag and slid out of the booth. Beatrice followed her, holding her cup and the doll. “Why don’t you drink some more milk during the drive?”
Again, the girl nodded.
Ten minutes later, buckled into her seat, Beatrice sipped at her milk and held her doll close as they started the drive north on 101.
The car was silent as Kristen tried to think of some topic that would engage the child. She needed to open the lines of communication. Establish a connection that would...
“How come you gave me away when I was a baby?”
At the soft, unexpected question, Kristen’s heart stuttered and the air whooshed out of her lungs. She’d known this issue would come up sooner or later, but she’d been praying for later. With all the trauma of the past few days, she hadn’t had a moment to think about how to handle issues like this.
Beatrice deserved an answer, however.
She’d have to wing it.
“I...uh...was very young. I didn’t think I would be able to take care of you very well.”
That was true enough—as far as it went.
“Didn’t my real daddy want me, either?”
God, I could use some help here! Please!
“He was very young, too. It’s better if a little boy or girl is raised by a couple who’s going to stay together and has a nice home where they can all live.”
“Doesn’t my real daddy live with you?”
Her palms started to sweat.
“No, honey. I haven’t seen him in a very long time. Not since before you were born. I don’t know where he lives now.”
She had to change the subject. Fast. She wasn’t prepared for this discussion, and she could do more harm than good if it continued.
“I liked where you lived, though. It’s a very pretty house. And the lady and man who adopted you were very nice, weren’t they?”
&nbs
p; As Kristen glanced over, Beatrice’s chin quivered. A tear rolled down the child’s cheek, and she buried her face in her doll. “Yes.” The word came out muffled. Wretched. “I loved my mommy and daddy—and I hate God for taking them away from me! Why would He do that?”
Her thin shoulders began to shake, and Kristen’s throat tightened. “I don’t know, honey, but God always has reasons. Maybe He wanted the two of us to be together.” She knew it was a lame response the instant the words left her mouth. Worse than lame.
“I’d rather be with my mommy and daddy! You’ll never be my mommy!”
The vehement declaration was like a punch in the gut.
And she deserved it.
But they were stuck with each other now. She’d made that commitment, and she wasn’t backing down—even if her daughter’s sudden burst of antipathy didn’t bode well for a smooth transition for either of them.
Kristen removed one hand from the wheel and wiped her slippery palm on her slacks. She’d probably made a mistake by turning down her mother’s offer to take some vacation from her job and come out for a couple of weeks. She’d thought it would be better for her and Beatrice to have some one-on-one time together before any other new players were introduced.
From all indications, however, she was going to need every bit of help she could get.
The sun glinted off the water to her left, and she ventured a quick look at the placid sea, willing some of the calm to seep into her soul. Much as she’d dreaded the conversation with her mother, their heart-to-heart had turned out to be the sole bright spot in her life since Connie had dropped her bombshell Friday night.
Funny. All these years she’d been afraid to admit what she’d done, afraid to face her mom’s disappointment. Yet once her mother had absorbed the news, she’d been totally supportive—making Kristen wonder why she’d waited so long to share the secret that had burdened her soul, and reminding her again of what a terrible mistake she’d made nine years ago when she’d let pride and fear stop her from doing the right thing.
Quiet sobs from the passenger seat sliced through her heart, and once more she looked over at Beatrice. The little girl had wedged herself into the corner, as far away as possible from the mother she didn’t want.
Kristen longed to comfort her. To pull her close and hold her and promise her everything would be okay. She’d stop the car and do that if she thought it would help, but she doubted Beatrice would welcome such a gesture.
Everything would be okay, though. For in her long night of prayer and soul-searching, interrupted only by the unexpected visit from Clint, she’d vowed that this time there would be no mistakes. She was going to win the affection of the daughter whose life until now had unfolded before her only in photos. She was going to be the mother she should have been all along. She was going to make things right.
Whatever it took.
* * *
Kristen was back.
As Clint swung into his driveway and spotted her car, his growing fear that she might never return evaporated. He’d even called the inn yesterday, asking for her. One of the assistant concierges had told him she was expected back later in the week, but that hadn’t reassured him.
The presence of her car, however, did.
Still, he wanted to see her in person. Needed to see her—and the sooner the better. He wouldn’t even bother changing out of his uniform first.
Once past her car, he parked, hurried inside and grabbed her few pieces of mail off the hall table. While their delivery could wait until tomorrow, he couldn’t—even if that meant interrupting her dinner.
Back outside, he took the steps two at a time. Once on the landing, he paused outside her door to let his pulse slow, then knocked.
No response.
He knocked again.
The door cracked two inches.
But no one was there.
At a sudden, sharp intake of breath he dropped his gaze. A little girl, who looked like an older version of the child in the photo album he’d seen on Kristen’s coffee table, stood half-hidden behind the door.
Before he could speak, she gave a terrified shriek and raced, sobbing, back into the apartment.
What on earth...?
He took one step over the threshold. In the recesses of the apartment, a door slammed, cutting off the sobs. Two seconds later, another door opened.
“Kristen?”
At his puzzled call, she poked her towel-wrapped head out of the hall, her eyes wide with alarm. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. A little girl answered my knock, and then she started crying and ran away.”
Without a word, Kristen disappeared. He heard a door open, and the gut-wrenching sounds of the child’s sobs once more echoed through the quiet apartment.
He fisted his hands on his hips. What was he supposed to do now? No one had invited him in. Yet how could he leave after seeing the flashes of fear on both female faces? He wasn’t accustomed to walking away from people in need, but he didn’t want to intru—
Clint frowned and sniffed. What was that smell? Was something burning?
The sudden raucous screech of the smoke alarm in the kitchen answered his question.
Spinning toward the sound, he saw black smoke seeping out around the edges of the oven door.
The burning smell intensified.
He strode toward the oven, yanked the door open—and found himself engulfed in a black haze.
Over the sound of his own coughing and the strident, ear-piercing alarm, he heard Kristen’s half-hysterical comment. “I forgot all about the pizza!”
Mystery solved.
Kristen thrust some pot holders into his hand, and he grabbed the charred pizza. “Open the front door.”
Eyes burning, he passed through to the landing and tossed the pizza over the railing to the grass below. Then he braced himself on the wooden banister, palms flat, drawing in lungfuls of clear air.
“Are you okay?”
At Kristen’s shaky question, he turned. The towel had slipped sideways and was half off her hair. She was wearing a mismatched T-shirt and shorts, and there wasn’t a speck of makeup on her face.
But what he noticed most was her pallor—and her frantic expression.
“I think I should ask you that question.” He raised his voice, as she had, to be heard over the alarm.
“I’ve been better.” She backed toward the door and gestured vaguely inside. “I need to check on Beatrice. I’ll be back in a few minutes, unless you don’t want to wait around. Don’t feel obligated.” With that, she took off.
He got the message. She didn’t want him to hang around.
Too bad.
Reentering, he propped the door open and waved the lingering smoke out with a dish towel until the alarm fell silent.
The muffled sobs from down the hall had ceased, but in their place he heard the murmur of voices, the words too soft to discern.
Mouth settling into a determined line, he crossed the room, planted himself next to the sliding door and waited.
Five minutes later, Kristen reappeared in the doorway that led from the hall to the living room, keeping her distance. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“I don’t walk out on trouble.”
“It’s not your trouble.”
“Part of it is. I don’t make a habit of scaring children.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “It wasn’t you. It was the uniform.”
“She doesn’t like park rangers?”
“Policemen.” When he raised an eyebrow, she sighed and grabbed at the slipping towel. “Her parents were killed last Friday in a small plane crash, and a policeman came to speak with the friend’s parents who were watching her. I guess she associates the uniform with bad news.”
“Why don’t you let me talk to her? I’ve done a fair number of programs for kids in my ranger job, and I had plenty of experience as a cop dealing with traumatized people. Including children.”
A ray of hope chased some of the distress from Kristen’s features. “Do you really think you can calm her down?”
“It’s worth a try. Give me five minutes to change.”
He crossed to the door and clattered down the steps, mulling over the task ahead. While he’d do his best to convince the little girl that not all men in uniform brought bad news, he couldn’t help her cope with the tragedy that had left her parentless. That task seemed to have fallen to Kristen.
Why?
That was a question only his tenant could answer.
And this day wasn’t going to end until she did.
Chapter Nine
“He’s a park ranger, Beatrice. You know, like Smokey the Bear? He’s not a policeman. He lives on the first floor, and he’s a very nice man. He was just coming up to say hello.”
Perched on the edge of her daughter’s bed, Kristen had delivered three different versions of that message since Clint had left five minutes ago. But as far as she could tell, it was having zero impact. The little girl was curled into a ball, facing the wall as she clutched her doll with one hand and the strap of a backpack containing favorite items from her bedroom with the other. Her shoulders continued to tremble, though the sobs had ceased.
Kristen laid a hand on her arm. “Beatrice, honey, I...”
The girl recoiled at her touch.
Tears pricking her eyes, Kristen dropped her hand back into her lap. So much for her attempts to comfort the little girl.
Nor had her whirlwind efforts to make her daughter feel welcome been any more successful.
She scanned the room, taking in the Cinderella bedspread and the stuffed animals and the fairy princess posters. All the things she’d run around buying on Saturday, in between talking to Connie and the lawyer and the funeral home. If Beatrice had even noticed the decor, she’d given no indication.