As she watched her sister settle the dispute by pushing both children on separate swings, she felt a warm sense of satisfaction. She loved her job. She loved The Hippo. Even if operating a preschool hadn’t been her first choice of career. Her dream of finishing college with a secondary teaching credential had fallen by the wayside early on--another casualty of Mark’s perfidy. But she quickly discovered she loved working with children in this fertile—everything was amazing and fresh—stage of life.
“The kids are great. The parents...?” She shrugged. Life was filled in with challenges.
Liz walked up in time to hear her muttering. “Again with the talking to yourself. You really need to watch it. Maya told me she was worried about you.”
Alexa looked at her niece, who appeared to be holding court with four of her most adoring subjects. “What did she say exactly?”
“She said, ‘Auntie Alexa needs to ask Santa to bring her a daddy to love.’ When I asked why, she said you were lonely and needed a kid of your own because the kids you love all go home at night.”
Alexa swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat. “I didn’t know Santa played matchmaker.”
“Me, either. Grace says the problem is you’ve put too much stock in Mom’s prophecy.” Liz closed her eyes to think a moment then recited the words by rote memory: "A child's laughter can heal the wounded heart, if first you heal the child."
“Child.” Alexa made a sweeping gesture. “Preschool teacher.” She tapped her chest. “I’ve got to be in the right place, but I’ll admit even though I’ve worked with dozens of kids over the years who qualified as wounded. I haven't come close to falling in love with any of their single fathers.”
Liz sighed. “I know. That sucks. But, hey, Grace is coming home next week. You can take up your complaint with her. She’s Mom’s apprentice, right?”
Alexa murmured a general, “Uh-huh,” as her gaze zeroed in on the sandbox. Her gut told her something was brewing.
She headed that way, motioning for Liz to follow. “What’s the occasion? That doesn’t mean she and Nick aren't coming for Christmas, does it? Mom will be heartbroken."
"No, they're coming then, too. This is just Grace alone. Something to do with Charles's trial. He's trying to get it postponed again." She sighed. "I'm ready for closure where that mess is concerned, aren 't you?"
Alexa nodded but was too busy redirecting William, before he could wrestle a big red dump truck out of the hands of his playmate, to answer.
Liz kept talking anyway. "Mom also said that Grace is going to train the new bookkeeper Kate and Jo hired at Romantique."
Jo Brighten, Kate's mother-in-law, had purchased Grace's share of the restaurant after Grace had moved to Detroit to be with her future husband, Nikolai.
“That's generous," Alexa said. "Especially since she misses her job so much. It's too bad she and Nick have to live in Detroit."
"Did I tell you I took my staff to dinner at Romantique two nights ago as a thank-you for hanging in with me through this horrible time? We had a wonderful meal. Jo made beef short ribs that melted in your mouth. And her seven-layer cake. To die f—“ Alexa stopped mid-exclamation. "Morgan, what are you doing? MacKensie is your friend. She doesn't want sand in her hair. Do you, MacKensie?"
She took both little girls into her arms and settled the dispute, which was more about them both being three than anything else. "Bend over, MacKensie, and shake like a wet dog. Can you do that for me? Good girl."
To Liz, she said, "Sorry. Would you do me a favor? Go inside and start setting out the snack. Carrots and raisins, I think. This week's menu is on the wall in the kitchen." She smiled as she watched her sister wind her way through the boisterous youngsters in the yard. Liz's sense of joy showed in the way she walked, talked and took time to comfort a little girl who tripped and fell in her path.
Just twenty minutes till nap time. She scanned the yard, making a mental head count of her charges. Once, early in her career, she'd "lost" a child who had crawled into a toy box and gone to sleep while the adults had called 9-1-1. Now, she relied on a kind of sixth sense to keep her connected with her charges.
"We did it,” Liz said in a stage whisper half an hour later. “The entire herd, down for the count."
"Yep. Another exciting morning in the world of childcare," Alexa joked as she walked her sister to the front door. "I really appreciate your lending a hand, Liz."
They stepped outside on the wide, covered stoop that faced the street. A chain-link fence, a four-foot-tall version of the one that enclosed the play yard at the rear of the house, followed the sidewalk. The hinged gate opened to a wheelchair-friendly ramp leading to the door. Alexa’s yard service worked hard to keep her two matching rectangles of grass alive beneath the brutal Las Vegas sun each summer. In the middle of the yard to the left was a hand-carved sign carrying her logo—a dancing hippopotamus in a purple tutu.
"No problem. David, I mean, Paul—" Liz smacked the heel of her hand to her forehead in exasperation. "I can't believe I'm still having trouble remembering my husband-to-be's real name. That sounds terrible, doesn't it?"
Alexa shook her head. “Everyone’s struggling. We all knew him as David, too.” On the run from a vindictive maniac, David and Liz had nearly been killed. But now that the maniac set on revenge was no longer a threat, David had begun resurrecting his former persona, Paul McAffee—the man Liz was planning to marry.
They hadn't set a date, but they had moved in together. "Speaking of Paul, how goes his new position at UNLV?"
“He won't actually be teaching until next semester, thank God. But even getting things ready has been a full time job. I think he's going to be brilliant, but I could be prejudiced.” She gave Alexa a quick one-arm hug. “Gotta run. We have a huge tea order to fill today, and if I'm not there, Lydia and Reezira might not get the ratio of herbs right. We're still overcoming a language barrier, although they are catching on pretty fast."
Liz's two employees were one-time illegal immigrants who had been secreted into the United States by Charles Harmon and forced into prostitution. Two more examples of people who had wound up suffering because of one man's greed and lust for power. “I’m really proud of you for helping them to get green cards and hiring them. Are the girls going to join us for the holidays?”
“Christmas? Doubtful. New Year’s definitely. Being on the strip at midnight is all they can talk about.” The sound of a car door closing caught her attention and Liz let out an audible gasp when she saw the person headed their way.
Mark.
Alexa’s breath caught in her throat, making speech impossible.
Liz backtracked a couple of steps to stand at her side as he approached. "He looks different without his firefighter gear on. Handsomer. Is that a word?"
"Dunno."
"What's he doing here?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, um, I'll stick around. Just in case."
Alexa looked at her sister and smiled. She and Liz had always shared a special bond. Growing up, each had seemed to sense when the other was upset or in trouble. But that bond had weakened, for several reasons. One was the man coming up her walk. Liz had been quicker to forgive than Alexa had thought appropriate.
"No. You've got more important things to do."
"But—"
"I know what you're thinking, Elizabeth," she said, using the formal tone their mother always employed. “Don't worry. I can handle him."
"But—"
"Tell Paul I said hi."
“Fine. Do it your way.” As she started away, Alexa heard her mutter softly, “You always do.”
The dig was too sisterly--and true--to hurt much. Plus, Liz paused to speak to Mark when they met at the gate. From the serious look on Mark’s face, Alexa imagined her sister’s words held a warning of some sort.
Liz didn’t look back as she hurried across the street where her new SUV was parked.
The gate made a familiar creaking sound as Mark opened
it to walk up the ramp. "Hi, Alexa."
"Hello, Mark. This is a surprise."
"I'm sure it is. I probably should have called first, but I thought I'd take a chance. . . um.. .do you have a minute? I could come back later."
“Wait there.”
She stepped inside to make sure her helpers had everything under control—and to give her heart a chance to quit turning somersaults.
Why does he have to look so damn good? Blue jeans that fit like he’d been born to wear them, black mock turtleneck and black leatherjacket. He'd aged some, but his neatly trimmed beard and mustache showed no signs of silver and even the lines around his eyes seemed to lend his face more character. He wasn't just a handsome young stud—he was a damn gorgeous man.
One glance told her the children were resting peacefully and her aides were preparing for the afternoon session.
She took a deep breath and returned to the stoop. She closed the door and leaned against it, crossing her arms. The late fall sunshine was warming; the wind was blocked by the house behind her. "Now is as good a time as any. What can I do for you?"
"Right to the point, as always. Okay, then, here's my question. Will you let me enroll my son in your school?"
Chapter 2
Mark braced himself for a negative response to the question he had no right to ask. A question that would never have come up if he weren’t desperate. Only a truly desperate man would ask his ex-fiancée to provide child care for the child who, for all practical purposes, was the reason they weren't married.
If not for Braden, Alexa and I would probably have a kid or two of our own by now.
His fingers curled into a fist. He couldn’t think about what could have been. He’d blown it and there was no going back. He wasn’t here for himself. He was here for his son. Period.
"You want to bring your son to the Dancing Hippo?"
"Yes."
"Why? This is a preschool. Your son must be in what— second grade?"
The puzzled look on her face as she did the math made his heart stutter. He’d spent some part of every day since that fateful night when he'd given in to Tracey's “no-strings attached” suggestion trying to make amends for his mistake. To his ex-wife, for not loving her enough to put up with her drinking and partying. To Braden, for not being able to pretend any longer that he loved the little boy's mother. To his conscience, which knew just how badly he'd hurt Alexa.
And, now he was back, probably stirring up old memories.
"He's repeating first grade this year. He just turned seven. Tracey and I split up when he was three. She started him in kindergarten when he was four. His birthday is September 23, so technically he was old enough, but I didn't think he was ready."
"It didn't work out?"
"He passed, but whenever I went to a parent-teacher conference, I could tell his teacher was concerned about Bray's socialization skills—or lack of them. He's very shy and has had a bit of a stuttering problem almost since he started speaking. At the time, it wasn't debilitating, but his teacher thought he'd be better off repeating kindergarten. Tracey disagreed. She insisted that he'd catch up in first grade."
"Didn't happen?"
"Didn't have a chance to happen. About six weeks into the school year, his teacher called us both in for a conference. She was extremely blunt. She said Braden needed speech therapy and should probably be placed in a special needs class."
Alexa winced. "I bet that didn't go over well with Tracey."
"She blew up. Accused his teacher of being lazy and showing favoritism. She called me the next day and said that since she wasn't working, there was no reason why she shouldn't home-school him."
Mark looked away. In hindsight, the battle that had ensued had been a waste of time and money and had put his son right in the middle of his parents' war. "I hired a lawyer to make her take him to school. Odessa, Tracey's mother, got involved. I filed for sole custody. Then, in March, before we had anything settled, Tracey died."
Her mouth dropped open. "Tracey's dead?"
He nodded. "A fire. She and the man she might have been involved with at the time were killed." He didn't add the brutal details: the two had died in an explosion at a meth lab where Tracey most probably had gone to get drugs from her on-again, off-again pusher boyfriend.
"Oh, how awful. Poor Braden."
Mark hurried past her sympathy. "I put Braden back in regular school as soon as I could. Probably the wrong thing to do. He had a hard time adjusting. The other kids teased him." They teased him about his stutter and picked on him because he was small and weak and lost. Mark could barely think about that time without breaking down. He'd felt like the worst father in the world.
"I know it's a cliché," Alexa offered, "but kids can be cruel. Did the school test him academically?"
Mark nodded. "He's behind in reading and math skills and has problems with peer interaction—their words, not mine. His cognitive functions—" He tried to smile. "See, I've learned a new language. His cognitive functions are within normal range, but his speech impediment has had a negative impact on his ability to make friends and communicate with his teachers. We have an IEP—Individualized Education Plan—designed to help him get back on track."
The concerned look on her face intensified. "Has he shown any improvement?"
"Not really. The school he's attending likes to mainstream its special-needs students. He's in a new first-grade class and he works with a speech therapist a couple of times a week, but she's not having a lot of success. Most of the time, he just doesn't talk."
Sympathy sparkled like tears in her gorgeous brown eyes. He'd always said he could see his forever in Alexa's eyes. But he'd been wrong. And now, he didn't want sympathy. He wanted—he needed—help.
"I'm looking for after-school care. Your website says that's something you offer. I checked with his school and the bus can drop him off here, if you'll let him come."
She frowned. "I've had a few older kids—mostly siblings of students in my preschool class—sign up for that program, but at the moment, my cousin's son is my only after-school student. Luca is pretty independent. Does his homework then plays video games until his dad picks him up. Your son would probably benefit from a more one-on-one type of program, and, frankly, I don't have the staff for that."
She hadn't said no, exactly. "He needs a place where he can feel safe and get some stimulation beyond sitting in front of the boob tube. He doesn't act out. He's not disruptive. The poor kid has missed out on a lot of things in his short life, including preschool. His mother was too busy or too broke—according to her—to enroll him in one. This kind of setting might be really good for him."
"What are you doing for child care now?"
"I have a babysitter who comes to my house. But she's found a seasonal job that pays more and is chomping at the bit to start work. I advertised the position, but I've only had a couple of applicants, and Braden didn't seem to like any of them."
Desperately searching online one evening, he'd spotted Alexa's webpage. A quick call to his friend Zeke Martini confirmed that Alexa Parlier owned and operated the Dancing Hippo.
"How many days per week would you want him to come here? What hours? If I remember correctly, a cop's shifts are pretty irregular."
A tiny flicker of hope made him reach for the wallet in his pocket. Questions are good. Better than a flat-out no. Better than he deserved.
He gave her his business card. “I’m an arson investigator with the Las Vegas Fire Department. I work five eight-and-a-half-hour days with the third Monday off. Sometimes, I might get called in if there's an emergency. There's a woman in my building who is a stay-at-home mom. She helps out if that happens, but she doesn't want to take on another kid full-time."
"So, you're just interested in after-school care, five days a week?"
"From three to six or six-thirty, depending on traffic."
Her frown made him wonder what she was thinking. Was she remembering that day when their plans had blown
up into tiny shards of anger and disappointment? The day he'd told her that Tracey was pregnant, and he was the father?
"On rare occasions I might run late. I have to know there's a safety net in place in case something comes up at work. If I don't work, I can't afford to pay for after-school care. It's a vicious circle."
Her chocolate-brown eyes looked troubled. He knew how much she adored kids. But could she look past what had been between the two of them?
"Won't he feel humiliated by associating with babies? And I'm not trained to work with speech impediments."
"I wouldn't expect you to. He probably won't say two words to you while he's here. And, honestly, I think being around younger kids would be a relief for him."
A little bell rang from inside the attractive ranch-style house that had—almost—been his. He could hear the muffled sounds of children's voices. Happy sounds. God, he prayed, please let her take Bray. He deserves a second chance. I know I don't, but Braden does.
"I really can't say for sure, Mark. Not until I've met him. Could you bring him by sometime next week? He might not like it here at all."
"He will."
Mark believed that—although he couldn't say for sure why. He'd tried everything to communicate with his son and still didn't have a clue what was going on inside that adorable blond head. Bray looked so much like his mother it was unnerving at times. Alexa might not be able to get past that—she was human, after all. But maybe she'd take pity on the poor kid, and let the past stay where it was—buried beneath a ton of angry charges and a surfeit of tears.
"How 'bout Monday? That's my day off."
Her eyes widened as if regretting her offer. “I don't know if this is a good idea—given our history, but okay. Bring him in. If he's not unhappy here, then we'll see."
We’ll see. A small glimmer of hope, but more than he'd had in weeks. He'd take it.
"Braden, eat your hotdog. There's ketchup. You love ketchup, remember?"
Mark wasn't certain that statement was true. He'd seen Braden eat hot dogs with ketchup and assumed the boy still liked the food, but he had a feeling he could have put ketchup-covered beetles on the plate and Braden would eat them just as readily.
A Match Made In Vegas Page 2
