The Water Baby

by Roz Denny Fox

  Daisy stared at the man stretched out on her pink braided rug. “For your information,” she drawled, “I didn’t call her Pipsqueak. I was talking to my dog.”

  Temple blinked. “Dog?” He looked around, then drew back from the animal who’d quit barking, but now stood behind him with bared teeth and a growl bigger than the pooch himself.

  “I do see a decided resemblance to his owner,” he muttered. Then louder, “Have you been inoculated against rabies? Both of you?”

  Vexed, Daisy set Becca aside, stood and reached out a hand to help Wyatt up. As if dealing with a stubborn shrimp net, she gave a good solid yank on Temple’s arm.

  “Ow!” he bellowed, clutching his left hip, which refused to straighten. In a half crouch, he suddenly choked on what he’d been about to say. From this angle, the view had changed dramatically. Temple found himself staring through his shapely landlady’s almost transparent white cotton nightie.

  Daisy heard his loud gulp. She noticed the problem at once. Not only did she release his hand, but she shoved him back to the floor and took satisfaction in hearing him groan. Gathering up the child and her stuffed toy, Daisy stepped over Wyatt’s writhing body and swept from the room.

  By the time he’d recovered enough to hobble after her, Daisy had donned her robe. Still clutching his daughter, she stomped down the curved staircase.

  Temple clung to her bedroom door and measured the angry set of her shoulders. “Wait!” he called. “I apologize.”

  Shaken and embarrassed, Daisy continued toward the kitchen. Temple Wyatt was a lecher. If he tried something like that again, he’d be feeling pain in more than his hip.

  Once in the kitchen, however, she stopped short. A mouth-watering cinnamon aroma wafted from her oven. Whatever could it be? Daisy hadn’t shopped for groceries in more than a month.

  Closer inspection revealed a quiche on the top rack, and on the lower a pan of cinnamon rolls. Not pop-from-the-can cinnamon rolls, either. These looked homemade.

  Still in Daisy’s arms, Becca leaned forward and reached a small hand toward the pan of rolls. Daisy jumped back just in time to keep Becca from burning her fingers.

  The girl buried her face in Straylia and sobbed as if her heart would break.

  Even more of a shock than finding fresh-baked goods in her oven, was Becca’s reaction. Nothing they’d fixed her at the hospital held any interest for her. Not pizza, not hamburgers, not even ice cream. None of the foods that most kids loved.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Convinced they were making headway, Daisy danced Becca around the room. “I’m with you. They look dee-licious. Mrs. Parsons from next door must’ve brought them over. Bless her. Look, Becca— when this bell rings, they’ll be ready.” She pointed out the timer, its hands nearly at zero, before resuming their dance.

  In the midst of their two-step, Temple limped into the room. He tossed the mangled pieces of his cellular phone on the counter, plucked a pair of oven mitts from a drawer and said authoritatively, “Step aside, please. My breakfast is almost done.”

  “Yours?” Daisy’s feet stopped moving.

  “Yep. That was one of the terms of our agreement, right? I do my own cooking?”

  Daisy didn’t reply. She could practically taste those rolls.

  “No wonder you’re skinny as a post,” he muttered. “All you had in the house was a chunk of moldy cheese. I’ve already been to the store and back.”

  Daisy’s stomach tensed as he took out the quiche and set it on the counter, followed by the delicious-smelling rolls. But now Becca no longer seemed to want them; she did her best to shinny up Daisy’s torso and get as far away from the man as possible.

  Daisy jiggled the child to calm her. “You made these?” she asked Wyatt, sounding skeptical.

  “You think it was a ghost?” Temple stripped off the mitts and set them aside.

  She shook her head, licking her lips when he picked up a saucepan of glaze and proceeded to drizzle frosting over the hot rolls. She hadn’t even noticed the pan on the back burner.

  “This, and a tall glass of milk, is Rebecca’s favorite breakfast,” he said, eyeing his daughter sadly. “I used to fix it on weekends when I was home.” With a resigned shrug he put the pan in the sink and ran it full of water. Then he opened the refrigerator and brought out a carton of milk. After filling the two glasses that were on the counter, he hesitated, and reached into the cupboard for a third glass. Cocking an eyebrow, he said, “You’re welcome to share. I made plenty.”

  Daisy feigned disinterest. “I’m not hungry,” she declared. But it was impossible for either adult to ignore the loud rumble of her stomach.

  “Look, I really am sorry about what happened upstairs. It won’t happen again.” Temple looked Daisy in the eye and handed her a glass of milk. He hoped she’d take it as a peace offering. “I’m afraid I haven’t lived with a woman in a good long while.”

  “And you’re not living with one now.” Daisy snatched the glass, plunked Becca into a chair and placed the glass in front of her. She continued to glare at him as she seated herself. “I thought you said your mother took care of Becca.”

  “Rebecca,” he reminded Daisy patiently. “I said that’s where she was when Miranda took off with her. Miranda claimed it upset her to visit my penthouse—she thought it should’ve come to her in the divorce settlement.” Casting a glance toward his daughter, he murmured, “I wish now I’d given her the damned place.”

  “Sure you do,” Daisy shot back. “Kids usually come after money in a divorce.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Temple said angrily. “Rebecca was always my first consideration. But Miranda’s trips to court invariably had to do with money. I pressed her to continue the visits—I didn’t care where. Miranda’s parents weren’t in very good health, so my mother offered her town house. The visits went okay for about four months. I had no reason to believe that particular day would be any different. Neither did my mother. Miranda usually showed up after lunch and spent an hour or two playing with Rebecca. She rarely stayed long.”

  He took down plates and cut three pieces of quiche. “That visit Rebecca wanted chocolate ice cream. Miranda didn’t approve of sweets, but she said her health club made a carrot shake.” He shook his head as he served up the rolls. “I think it was spur of the moment. That’s how Miranda was. My mother blames herself. Frankly I probably would’ve let her take Rebecca, too.” Looking distant, he set a plate in front of Daisy.

  She tore off a hunk of the roll and tested it to make sure it wasn’t too hot before she gave it to Becca. Daisy didn’t want to feel sorry for Temple Wyatt. She wanted to think he deserved whatever he’d been dealt by his ex-wife; however, she doubted it. Plus, the picture she was beginning to get of Miranda matched Daisy’s own mother a little too closely.

  “We don’t need to make idle conversation about your divorce,” she said primly, keeping her gaze on the quiche she was cutting up for Becca. “And from here on, ask before you enter my room.” She had to insist on it for her own preservation.

  Temple wadded his napkin into a ball. “All right,” he said, after studying her at length. “I’ve noticed you’re skittish around men. Why? Is your boyfriend jealous?”

  Daisy hadn’t intended to eat any of his blasted food, but it had looked so good. She’d barely sneaked a bite of roll and now she choked on it. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she informed him the minute she drew a clear breath.

  “What’s Coletti? Last night he sounded plenty possessive.”

  “Yes, well, Daniel has big ideas about a lot of things. But whatever our relationship, it doesn’t concern you. You rent rooms from me. Nothing more.”

  His eyes still bored through her with the intensity of a laser.

  Flushing, Daisy concentrated on feeding Becca the last of the quiche. “Look at that, will you?” she said, indicating Becca’s empty plate. “I think this is the most I’ve ever seen her eat. If you’ll tell me what else she likes, I’ll go for groceries right after I
bathe her.”

  Temple set his fork aside and rubbed a thumb thoughtfully across his lips. “She used to like flaming things—peach flambé, cherries jubilee, baked Alaska. Of course I limited her rich foods.” He smiled at his daughter. “She was fond of mahi mahi dipped in basil and butter. Oh, and artichoke hearts. Then there’s kiwi fruit, endive and banana salad.”

  Daisy’s mouth fell open and her eyes rounded. “Yuck.” She smoothed a hand over Becca’s curls. “Are you putting me on?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “It tasted a hell of a lot better than the wheatgerm and brown rice Miranda tried to serve her.”

  Daisy pushed back from the table and stood. “Tonight she’ll get jambalaya. Tomorrow, maybe, blackened redfish. I cook Cajun.”

  “I thought you Texans were into beef, thick cut and rare.”

  She snorted. “Texas. I’ve been meaning to visit there someday.”

  Temple looked confused.

  Grinning, Daisy balanced Becca on her hip and started for the door. “Galveston’s an island. ‘A waif of the ocean waiting to be reclaimed’—that’s what one historian called it in the nineteenth century.” She paused. “Didn’t your Yankee textbooks tell you anything? Tax collectors and our esteemed governor are the only ones who consider us part of Texas.”

  Temple watched her dramatic exit. He couldn’t help being irritated by her flippancy. But he liked the sway of her hips beneath that old jersey robe. The woman was an enigma. A sailor with perfume and soft hands. He found himself wondering about the rest of her family. Had one of her ancestors been Acadian? Or maybe Creole? It might explain her unusual coloring—that mop of tight blond curls and the darker eyebrows. If Temple had to put a color to her eyes, he’d call them burnt umber. Her temper, though, defied description.

  He sat back and poured himself another glass of milk. It wouldn’t do to think about her at all. He’d been burned once. Wasn’t once enough? He should stick to building resorts. It was safer. Speaking of building, he wanted someone to check the wiring in this old house.

  After he cleaned up his mess in the kitchen, the first thing he needed to do was get his phone fixed. On second thought, if the islanders were as tightknit as his landlady insinuated, he’d better just buy a new one, rather than try explaining what had happened to his. Potentially embarrassing—for both of them.

  Temple’s mind kept straying to Daisy Sloan. She could deny all she wanted having a relationship with that muscle-bound Coletti. But Temple had seen the look in his eye. A smart man wouldn’t risk having his nose bashed in to test the waters. No siree!

  IT WAS AFTERNOON before Daisy’s path crossed Temple’s again. Becca was napping, and Daisy was storing her groceries when Wyatt walked in, a spanking new cellular phone at his ear.

  He reached around her, opened the refrigerator and shifted things until he came up with a bottle of mineral water.

  Daisy sniffed as she donned her rubber gloves. Her feelings on the subject of mineral water were easily read. It was a sissy drink. “Galveston’s drinking water is the best in the world,” she stated flatly.

  Temple uncapped the bottle, tipped back his head and drank thirstily before he straightened and let the phone slide down his arm into his hand. In a fluid motion that spoke of practice, he hit the off button and tossed the instrument down on the counter.

  “What’s with these local contractors?” he complained as he recapped the bottle. “Don’t they need money?”

  Daisy glanced up from the bowl of shrimp she’d begun to devein. She wiped her chin across her shoulder and darted him a puzzled look. “What are you building?”

  “Nothing. Your wiring is deplorable. I can’t function without computers and a fax. Not to mention the safety risks in this place. You’d think these guys would beat a path to the door. No one’ll give me the time of day, let alone an estimate.”

  “You’re asking for estimates to rewire my house? What gall. No wonder no one’ll talk to you.”

  “I said I’d pay cash up front.”

  “I pay my own way.” She tapped a wet-gloved thumb to her breast. “Everybody on the Island knows that.”

  “Then they must know you haven’t earned a dime this month. Are you going to let pride get in the way of good sense?”

  “Now, wait just a darn minute,” she said as a shrimp shot through her fingers and landed in the sink. “How would you like it if I waltzed into your house and started calling electricians?”

  “You wouldn’t have to. The wiring in my house is perfect.” He sidled past her and returned the bottle of water to the fridge.

  “Brother!” She jabbed the knife into the belly of a fat shrimp and blew at her bangs, which had fallen over her eyes. “In case it went over your pointed head, Wyatt, I got along fine before you blew into town.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want this house rewired? You told me you’d had an estimate of eight thousand dollars.” He stepped forward and sighed. “Give me that shrimp. You’re butchering the damned thing.” He took the glistening shrimp out of her hands and deveined it with a quick flick of his thumb.

  Daisy saw purple, then red. “I can devein shrimp that way. It’s just hard on fingernails.” She felt like dumping the whole bowlful over his head. He was saved by the musical chime of his telephone. As he rinsed his hands and picked it up, she wondered if he had any idea how close he’d come to wearing the main ingredient for her jambalaya.

  He talked business for a few minutes while Daisy fumed silently and mutilated seven more shrimp. The instant he clicked off, she turned from the sink and let him have it with both barrels. “You just don’t get it, do you? You can’t bulldoze your way into my home and take charge. I’ll wire this house when I can pay for it. Not before.”

  A look of surprise crossed his face as he closed the phone and clipped it to his belt. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Well, I’m not.” She whirled back and ran water over the shrimp, her body tense.

  “I can see that.” Temple stepped up behind her. After a moment’s hesitation, he placed both hands on her shoulders and massaged the tense cords that lay along her neck. “You refused the reward,” he said quietly. “Is it so terrible of me to want to help someone who’s put her life on hold for my daughter?”

  Daisy stiffened a moment, then she relaxed and let the lethargy wrought by his clever fingers steal over her. “I guess not,” she murmured. “If that’s really what’s behind your offer. I’m afraid I thought you were motivated by something less charitable. Like personal profit.”

  A wave of guilt swept over Temple. Had the art of saying what needed to be said to get what he wanted in business become so second nature that he let it spill over into his personal life? She had him dead to rights. In the beginning his main purpose had been to keep his business operations running smoothly while he suffered through his self-imposed exile. Now, feeling the softness of her flesh under his hands and smelling the subtle scent of magnolias on her skin, the reasons blurred.

  However, he was saved a confession when Daniel Coletti burst through the kitchen door without knocking. A dirty, bloody, smelly Daniel Coletti.

  Temple found himself recoiling from the odor of dead fish or, in Daniel’s case, probably dead shrimp. At any rate, the smell was godawful.

  Daisy took a step toward him, then she, too, pinched her nose. “Ugh! Why haven’t you gone home to shower?” Suddenly she stiffened. “Has something bad happened on the wharf?”

  “You bet it has, babe.” Dark eyes glittered with anger. “I understand you called last night and offered Sal your boat. What are you trying to do? Steal my help?”

  “You know Sal wants his own boat,” she said defensively. “He almost has enough saved. He wouldn’t be hauling nets for you next season, anyway.”

  “Next season,” he snapped. “Not this season.”

  “Could we continue our discussion out on the back porch?” Daisy asked, her chin jutting to a stubborn angle. “I’ve had my fill of men ordering me abo
ut today.”

  Daniel’s lip curled in a sneer. “I’ll just bet you have.” His gaze shifted to Temple’s hand, still resting on Daisy’s shoulder. “I got eyes, babe. I can see what’s goin’ on between you and the prissy dude.”

  Temple snatched his hand back, at the same time drawing himself up to his full six feet. “Who are you calling prissy? I believe the lady asked you to step outside.” He took a menacing step toward Daniel.

  Daisy slid between them. “Pulleeze!” she drawled. “Give me a break, you two.” She motioned Daniel out and glared at Temple. “I am perfectly capable of handling this. I don’t need a man to fight my battles. The deal on leasing the Lazy Daisy is between me and Sal. It doesn’t concern anyone else.”

  The doorknob refused to give under Daniel’s slimy hand, even though he yanked at it several times. “Sal’s just a kid. He’s already more than half in love with you, Daisy. But maybe you like having a school of men panting at your heels.” His gaze swung to Temple.

  Picking up a dish towel, Daisy strode past the burly shrimper. With a flourish, she wiped the knob, then jerked the door open. “Goodbye, Daniel. Go home and clean up. Rethink what you’re saying before you destroy a life-long friendship.”

  “I thought we were more than friends.” He threw a last bitter glance at Temple before he stalked out.

  Daisy’s voice turned gentle as she followed him. “Let friendship be enough, Daniel. Your soul’s too restless for me. Mine finds peace standing still.”

  A look of chagrin creased his brow as he shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t want to die on a trawler like my old man did. Just once in my life I’d like to come home from work not smelling like a dead mackerel.”

  “I know that, Daniel. And you should find a way to do that.”

  “I’ve got almost enough saved for me and Sal to get outta here. Enough to take you, too.”