The Water Baby

by Roz Denny Fox

  “I love it here. Anyway, I’m not selling your brother my boat. I offered to lease it to him for the rest of the season. You’d really better go, Daniel. That muck is drying on your skin.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go. But I’ll be back. So don’t be going to the bank with your part of Sal’s catch. If I can’t talk sense into him, I’ll beat it into him.”

  Daisy crossed her arms. She leaned against the screen door. “Listen to you, Daniel. You’ve got a man’s head and a boy’s brain.”

  At the bottom of the steep steps, Daniel’s irritation overflowed. “I suppose you think you’ve found your ideal man in Wyatt. If you figure Mr. Megabucks will sink roots in Galveston, you’re nuts. But don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart.” Spinning on his heel, Daniel stalked off toward the pier where he’d tied his small runabout.

  Daisy’s fingers curled into her palms. “I don’t know what you mean, Daniel Coletti! I’m my own woman! You take that back!”

  “You think I’m blind?” he yelled over the roar of his runabout’s motor. “I saw you two. Thick as mosquitoes over a shrimp hold.”

  “Men!” Daisy growled as she stormed inside. They were all petulant boys when women didn’t fall into line to suit them. Well, tough. She would’ve slammed the door had she not seen Temple at the sink, a satisfied smirk twitching his lips. She caught the door in time and closed it quietly. “Don’t you have something better to do than hang out in my kitchen?” she demanded.

  He grinned and held up the bowl of shrimp. “I thought someone should finish these. Frankly I wasn’t sure Coletti wouldn’t haul you off by your hair.”

  “Not bloody likely. Quit smirking and go foreclose on somebody’s resort.”

  “I try to keep them afloat. I don’t foreclose on them.”

  “Out of my kitchen, Wyatt, or I’ll put a double shot of Tabasco in your jambalaya.”

  His laughter was full and deep. “I thought you didn’t feed your boarders.”

  She stared at his well-shaped mouth a moment, tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear and coughed. “Consider it a fair trade for the leftover cinnamon rolls.”

  Temple felt himself being pulled into her warm dark eyes, and he swallowed his laughter. “Coletti’s right,” he muttered. “I would break your heart.”

  By the time Daisy gathered her wits, she heard his tread on the stairs. Stepping into the hall, she shouted after him, “You arrogant jerk! What makes you think I’d let someone with your conceit get anywhere near my heart?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m having a run of bad luck lately.”

  “Of all the egotistical…”

  While she ranted, he continued upward. Outside his bedroom, he paused and snapped his fingers. “Forgot to tell you,” he called down. “While you were chasing Danny-boy, I got hold of your electrician, Jeb. I convinced him you were ready for that new wiring. He’ll have a crew here early tomorrow.” Temple saw that she was gearing up to explode. “Listen. I transferred funds from my bank to yours. It gives you complete control of the project.” With that, he went inside and closed the door.

  Daisy would’ve followed him and settled the money issue once and for all, but Becca cried out. Stomping upstairs, she smacked on the lights in her bedroom as Wyatt’s fax machine whirred—and another fuse blew. Dammit! She did need new wiring. But she hated being indebted to anyone—especially to that overbearing resort mogul. She’d already told him she didn’t have a price.

  Maybe she could call Jeb and delay the work until after Becca made her breakthrough, Daisy thought as she rushed into the alcove. The child stopped crying instantly and held up her arms. So, no breakthrough yet. Daisy was still Becca’s anchor. That meant she wasn’t going to be rid of Wyatt and his equipment anytime soon.

  As she settled Becca on her hip, another thought struck. Island gossip had probably already made the rounds about that blasted money he’d put in her account. She frowned. No way would she take money for saving this child.

  Day care now—that was a different matter. Wyatt probably shelled out plenty for summer day care. Eight thousand dollars would buy a lot of baby-sitting. A Cadillac job. And she’d pay him back the balance with her next income tax refund. Satisfied she’d hit upon a solution, Daisy took Becca downstairs to play.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DAISY FOUND it wasn’t easy being the perfect baby-sitter. She knew next to nothing about what kept kids occupied eight to ten hours a day. Inside, they lacked the tide pools and sea creatures that had once held Becca’s interest. So she’d picked up a few toys to entertain her, instead. Granted, not the caliber her sisters bought their kids at FAO Schwartz, but she’d selected a few simple sticker books, several puzzles, coloring books and a super-duper box of crayons. More colors than she remembered from her own childhood.

  At first Becca didn’t seem to know what to do with any of the things until Daisy showed her how to lick the stickers. During the few minutes she had her back turned slicing peppers and onions for the jambalaya, Becca stuck scratch-and-sniff stickers all over the table and fridge. They smelled ghastly, worse when mixed with the scent of onion. It was enough to make Daisy’s eyes water.

  She finished what she was doing, then soaked the stickers off. They were stubborn little buggers, too. But she triumphed, and settled Becca at the table with a pirate’s coloring book next. Returning again to her cooking, Daisy had barely set the cast-iron pot on a back burner to simmer when she spied Becca munching on a purple crayon. From the colored rings around the kid’s mouth, she’d already sampled a green one.

  “Oh, no, baby!” Daisy snatched the box and read the fine print to see if the crayons were toxic. Hadn’t she read about red and yellow dye? As Daisy pried what was left of the purple crayon from Becca’s viselike grip, the girl began to kick and scream. Who’d have thought a fiveyear-old could be so tenacious? Or that she’d throw such a fit? Lord, but the neighbors would think she was killing someone.

  Daisy’s heart was already beating like a buoy bell in a high wind when Temple strode through the door and demanded to know why Rebecca was screaming and banging her head on the wall.

  Daisy looked stricken. “She ate a crayon. Maybe more than one. I’m so sorry. If you stay here, I’ll run and call Dr. Rankin.”

  Temple laughed. “All kids eat crayons.”

  “They do?” Daisy pulled her fingers from between Becca’s lips and swept a lock of hair out of her own eyes.

  “Well, I mean they do at first,” he qualified. “It surprises me about Rebecca, though. From the time she was two, she’d sit quietly and color. She kept inside the lines, too,” he said proudly. “At least she used to,” he muttered as he paused to examine the outline of a pirate ship slashed through with purple, green and orange stripes. Something akin to sorrow flickered across his face and shadowed his eyes.

  Every time she saw that look in Temple Wyatt’s sky blue eyes, Daisy wanted to assure him that his daughter’s present state was temporary. She said nothing, however, because Dr. Rankin’s team hadn’t given any guarantees that it was.

  “You probably think all parents claim their kids are precocious,” Temple said when he saw what appeared to be doubt etched on Daisy’s face.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have many preconceived notions about kids.” She dampened a washcloth and set to work scrubbing Becca’s face clean of its rainbow hues. “I never baby-sat as a kid, and I rarely see my nieces and nephews.”

  “That’s too bad.” Temple flashed her a sympathetic glance. “Although, I didn’t feel the same about my friends’ kids as I do about my own. There’s something humbling about the process of childbirth, especially when it’s your child.” He thrust his hands into his back pockets and gazed out the kitchen window at the brackish water lapping at the dock a short distance away.

  Daisy lifted Becca to her hip long enough to stir the mixture on the stove. Was what he said true? Daisy had never thought Violet or Jasmine seemed particularly moved by the birth of their chil
dren—other than to dress their newborns like little dolls to show off. But then, look at the example they’d had to follow. Their mother hadn’t been humbled by anything. Without remorse she’d walked away from her daughters. Just as Becca’s birth mother had done.

  Daisy slapped the lid on the pot and turned the gas flame to its lowest. “If motherhood is so great, why do so many moms just take off?”

  Temple whirled from the window, surprised by her vehemence. “Are you asking why my marriage failed?”

  “No.” Daisy’s breath caught. The raw pain was back in his eyes. Not wanting him to misunderstand, she blurted, “I…my own mother flew the coop. I always wondered how she could up and leave her kids like that.” Her shrug was offhand—meant to hide how deep the hurt went.

  Temple wasn’t fooled. “Maybe it wasn’t about you,” he said quietly.

  Daisy’s temper flared. “My father, you mean? He was a wonderful gentle man. She wanted fancy clothes, a better house, a newer car. So she went out and found someone willing to give her those things. And she never looked back. At least not until my father had us raised.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So weren’t you better off living with your dad?”

  “You’re darned tootin’. Only…he and my sisters forgave her.” Daisy’s eyes glistened unexpectedly with tears, and she spun away so he couldn’t see.

  Temple heard a decade of hurt in her last sentence. He wished he had the power and the knowledge to ease her pain, but he didn’t. He’d been on both ends himself. Hurting and being hurt. “Forgiveness doesn’t come easy,” he said slowly, feeling the truth of it coil like a tight knot in his stomach.

  Daisy turned back, her eyes clear again. “I wouldn’t have figured you for a philosopher, Wyatt.”

  He massaged the back of his neck. “I spent the last hour on the phone with Miranda’s parents. They asked a million questions I couldn’t answer. Not that they’d listen. They’ve got a blind spot where their daughter’s concerned.”

  “Oh, Lordy.”

  “Yeah. They want me to hire a boat and take a run out to Rum Row.” He gazed into the distance again, looking troubled.

  A shiver snaked up Daisy’s spine as she recalled the speedboat that had seemed to vanish into thin air. She hugged Becca tight. “There’s nothing out there but endless miles of white caps. The Coast Guard didn’t turn up any identifiable debris. In those crosscurrents, it probably all washed out to sea. What do her folks think you’ll find?”

  He closed his eyes and dragged thumb and finger across both eyelids. “A miracle maybe. The kind I prayed for every night during the months she had Rebecca. I just wish I hadn’t said such terrible things about Miranda. It’s hard not to feel this… this superstitious fear that my thoughts might have killed her. That they cost Dwight and Ila their daughter.”

  On the spur of the moment, Daisy placed her free hand on his arm. His eyes flew open and their gazes clung for several seconds before she said lightly, “In some circles you might be that big a cheese, Wyatt. Not around here, though. The sea sort of lives by her own rules. Mere man doesn’t have a whole lot of clout. So don’t go beating yourself up. Okay?”

  Temple couldn’t help smiling. Daisy Sloan was trying to make him feel better—she was the last person he’d have expected to do that. Strangely enough, her backhanded attempt did lighten his mood. “Okay,” he said, covering her hand with his larger one. Again he was shocked by uncommonly soft cool skin. He fought an impulse to carry those same fingers to his chest for warmth. The awkwardness of his feelings compelled him to switch subjects. “Whatever you’re cooking is making me hungry. When’s dinner?”

  “Supper. We call the evening meal supper.” She quickly withdrew her hand from beneath his and in a reflex action wiped it down her shorts, hoping to rid herself of the strange tingle. “And tonight its pretty plain,” she said. “Jambalaya and French bread. Anything fancier, and you’ll have to take a run uptown.”

  “It’ll be fine, Daisy. What time?”

  They were both surprised at how easily her first name rolled off his tongue. Temple recovered first. “Calling you Miss Sloan does seem ridiculous, given our present living arrangement. For Rebecca’s sake, let’s bury the hatchet. Will you call me Temple?”

  She cleared a throat suddenly gone dry.

  “Or stick with Wyatt,” he said as he watched the red stain of embarrassment creep up her neck.

  “Temple.” She tried it out. “It’s an unusual name.”

  His lips curved in a smile. “It beats Taj Mahal. I was conceived there, so I’m told. Actually Taj is my legal name. Use it at your own risk. It caused me many a bloody playground fistfight, until my mother recognized the error of her hippie ways and finally began using Temple on school documents.”

  She shook her head. “Taj Mahal, huh? Isn’t that a mausoleum? However do you suppose your parents… ? I mean, can you imagine…?”

  He coughed discreetly and her face erupted in flames.

  “Forget what I said,” she mumbled. “This discussion has gone far afield from Becca eating crayons.”

  “Rebecca. You have no idea how hard I argued to get my daughter a normal name. Miranda wanted something unpronounceable. ‘Something transcendental.’”

  Daisy bent her head and brushed her nose across the child’s pugged one. “Pardon me for saying so, but it doesn’t sound as if you two were well suited.”

  “I, uh, was ready to settle down. Mutual friends introduced us. Miranda was very beautiful. And very seductive.”

  The blush crept higher on Daisy’s neck. He’d made no mention of love. Obviously she was out of her league here. “So, getting back to names, I suppose it’s a good thing she didn’t end up being named Moon River or something.”

  “You mean Moon Unit? Not a chance. I wasn’t the hippie. My parents were. Actually they weren’t,” he corrected. “They were upper middle class and they fell in with a trend during the early hippie days. Flower children dropping out and all that. My grandmother called it a phase, and she was right.” He smiled ironically. “Mother would die if she dreamed I knew about this.”

  “I doubt we’ll ever meet, so I sure won’t tell. And Rebecca still won’t like her name, you know. Her friends will have names like Jordan and Whitney, and she’ll think Rebecca’s old-fashioned.” On failing to coax a reaction from the girl with that bit of wisdom, Daisy turned and rolled her eyes at the father.

  Temple laughed. Then he sobered and gazed longingly at his daughter. “I’d give anything to see Rebecca complain about her name or anything else. I want her the way she was. Bright. Happy. Talkative. Perpetual motion of the mouth.”

  He shifted and looked away from the silent girl who had her head buried beneath Daisy’s chin, her right thumb in her mouth. “It’s almost as if she’s a different child,” he said, voice strained. “Rebecca never sucked her thumb. Not even as a baby. I couldn’t sleep last night for wondering if she’d ever be the same again.” His voice broke. “Will she ever be all right?”

  Daisy’s heart went out to him. How difficult it must be to see his daughter like this, so far beyond his reach. Lordy, he must feel helpless.

  “Did you discuss those things with Dr. Rankin?” she asked suddenly, bending to show the child in her arms the black cat, Troublemaker, that had just sauntered in.

  “No.” A futile gesture followed Temple’s admission. “Guess I was too busy being angry. I need to go talk with him again. Really talk.”

  “That’d be a good idea. The doc’s a nice guy. Social Services wanted to put her in foster care, you know. Dr. Rankin fought them.”

  “I didn’t know that.” The pressure of the past few days closed in on Temple. He rotated his shoulders to ease the tightness there. “Sounds like I owe him for more than her medical care.”

  “Around here we don’t keep score.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t. He honestly didn’t know why she’d taken umbrage at his well-meant words. “Then why did you invite me to dinner in
exchange for the breakfast I fixed? And why did you throw a fit about the rewiring?”

  Visibly flustered, Daisy went to the stove and made a show of stirring the mixture, which had begun to thicken. “It’s just different, that’s all. It’s because…you’re a man and I’m a woman.”

  “Do tell.” Temple hid a wry smile. “You strike me as a woman who believes in equality between the sexes.”

  “I do,” she snapped. “Fixing dinner for breakfast is a fair trade.”

  “Ah. But if our positions were reversed, you wouldn’t give me money to rewire my house.”

  “I would so!” she flared.

  He watched her square her shoulders and angle her chin, and he decided to let well enough alone, instead of probing further. “Well, I’m glad we had this enlightening talk. What time is supper, did you say?”

  “I didn’t.” After a brief silence, she shrugged. “Seven. Sharp.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, managing to sound humble. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned. “That’s not seven bells or anything, is it? With all these ship’s clocks around here, I want to be sure we’re both working off Greenwich mean and not some weird nautical time.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “Go by your diamond-studded brass works, bucko. Seven o’clock, central time.”

  He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. “A collegegraduation gift from my mother,” he muttered. “I did mention she’d reverted to type, didn’t I?”

  He tossed off a wave and ducked out. Daisy listened to his tread on the stairs. It did her heart good to glimpse another crack in his facade. Wiping a smug grin from her face, Daisy set Becca in a chair at the kitchen table and gave her a picture book.

  Not long after that, she heard Temple come downstairs again. A moment later, the front door slammed. In the alley, an engine roared. Daisy hopped up and pulled the window curtain aside. She was in time to see him drive off.

  “Hmm.” She frowned. Of course he didn’t owe her any explanations about where he was going or how he spent his days. On the other hand, she was the person looking after his child. What if something happened to Becca, er, Rebecca while he was out? Besides that, he was new in town. He didn’t know the people or the places. Other than the hospital or Dr. Rankm. Maybe that was where he’d gone?