Kayla's Daddy

by Laura Bradford

  He knew these people. Knew their families and where they lived. Knew their triumphs and hardships. Knew their likes and dislikes.

  Sure, they’d aged. The walkers and hunched postures were evidence of that. But their expressions, their auras, were the same. Mr. Borden pushed his walker across the porch with the same lighthearted step he’d possessed back when Tate was a little boy. Ms. Weatherby looked heartbroken at the assistance she needed to get down the steps, yet recovered her pride and dignity the second her feet hit the concrete. Mrs. Haskell still looked as if she’d pop around the corner with a plate of homemade cookies, despite the thick glasses and snow-white hair that hadn’t been there when he and Johnny were friends. Tate’s thoughts traveled back in time as he watched his best friend’s mom wave goodbye to an attractive woman holding a baby—

  Phoebe.

  He sat, motionless, as he watched her turn to talk to Mrs. Applewhite, a sleeping Kayla cuddled in her arms. Despite her age—which he gauged to be midtwenties—Phoebe Jennings looked completely at home with her elderly neighbors. Her smile was genuine, her posture carefree. He felt a yearning in his body as she tightened her arms around the baby with an air of innocence and vulnerability—qualities he’d missed the first two times they’d met.

  Though, technically, missed was probably the wrong word. His bizarre knack for sticking his foot in his mouth whenever they were together probably chased away those traits in favor of disbelief and dislike. Maybe even revulsion.

  But today would be different. He’d make sure of that. He wanted her to see him for who he was, not the insensitive Neanderthal he’d been at the Dolangers’ party.

  Ever since she’d walked out of the hearth room last night, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. Guilt, perhaps. At least partly. But it was more than that. Because he knew darn well his thinking about her had begun the day she’d showed up at his home, letter in hand.

  He’d pictured her often in the days since, imagined what it would be like to kiss her. To hold her. To have her.

  And it wasn’t hard to know why.

  Phoebe Jennings was a beautiful woman. Anyone could see that. But it was the other stuff that made him dream about her—the shy smile, the genuine heart, the hardworking soul. She was a woman who, by all appearances, was a good mother. Something he respected more than anything else.

  Propelled by the idea of seeing her again, Tate stepped from his car and crossed the quiet street, his slick red sports car standing out like a sore thumb among vehicles that were decades old. His pace quickened to a trot as Phoebe turned up her walkway.

  “Hey, Phoebe! Hold up a sec.”

  She turned and looked at him, the corners of her mouth turning upward in what appeared to be a smile. Wishful thinking, perhaps. But he’d take it.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  A shrill voice he remembered from his youth drew his attention to the right, to the sight of Gertrude Applewhite’s pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

  Oh, boy.

  It was amazing how a simple tone and expression could transport a person back in time. For Tate, at that moment, it was as if he was standing once again, beside Johnny Haskell on the sidewalk, their hair sweaty from kickball, their shoelaces untied. And there in front of them was Mrs. Applewhite, chewing them out for some life-shattering offense such as spitting too close to her driveway or leaving a footprint in her mulch.

  “Hi there, Mrs. Applewhite. You look nice today.” He stopped as he reached the sidewalk and waved his hand in the elderly woman’s direction.

  “Save the pleasantries, Tate. I see right through them. Why don’t you turn around, get back in that flashy status symbol of yours and go back where you came from?”

  He felt his fists tighten at his sides, his shoulders tense. For years he’d held his tongue, conducted himself according to his mother’s teachings of respecting one’s elders. But he’d had enough. Even his mother would have wanted him to stand up for what was right—although her words would have been far more diplomatic than the ones running through his head at that moment.

  Still, it was long overdue.

  He opened his mouth to speak, to tell the woman exactly what he thought of her, when he felt a hand grip his arm. A touch so gentle and so warm that his skin tingled in response.

  And as he looked down into Phoebe Jennings’s khaki-colored eyes, he knew the war of words wasn’t worth sacrificing the chance to start fresh with this woman. A woman who’d stirred something deep inside him from the moment they’d met.

  Chapter Five

  She couldn’t help but feel his hurt as she balanced Kayla’s bottom on her left arm and unlocked the door. She’d always known Mrs. Applewhite to be cranky, even rude at times, but what she’d said to Tate went way beyond rude.

  Phoebe pushed the door open and moved aside, gesturing toward the front hallway with her free hand. “Please, come in.”

  Tate’s face, still red from his public flogging, stretched into a tentative smile as he nodded and stepped into the foyer, his head moving from side to side, taking in the room.

  Quietly, she pushed the door closed behind her, wincing when it clicked shut. Fortunately, Kayla didn’t notice.

  “I’ll be right back. I just want to put her down.” Phoebe climbed the steps, keenly aware of Tate Williams’s eyes following her as she went, her mind whirling as to the reason for his visit. Had she left something at the party? Dropped something?

  She couldn’t imagine what it would be. But whether she had or she hadn’t, she couldn’t ignore one tiny fact; she was glad to see him. Despite his unreadable personality there was something about the man that got to her, made her think about being with someone again one day—a notion she’d dismissed from her mind the day Doug had abandoned her and their child.

  For just a moment, she lingered by Kayla’s crib, looking down at the eleven-month-old child who had turned her life around the moment she’d arrived. Suddenly, Doug’s betrayal had faded into the background, Kayla taking front and center, evoking more joy and happiness than Phoebe had ever thought possible.

  Kissing the tip of her index finger, she lowered it to Kayla’s lips, felt the tug in her heart as they came together in a sucking motion. “I love you, baby girl,” she whispered as she tiptoed into the hallway, leaving the nursery door slightly ajar.

  When she returned to the foyer, Tate was still standing there, his face a normal color, his smile genuine and relaxed. “It’s been a long time since I stood in this hallway. It feels strange and wonderful all at the same time.”

  Phoebe watched him for a moment. “It’s sure different from where you live now, huh?”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes closing briefly. “In so many ways.”

  She didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure exactly what he meant or if he even wanted a response. Instead, she offered him a drink.

  “Sounds great, Phoebe, thanks.”

  She led the way into the kitchen, the scent of Tate’s aftershave making it difficult to think of anything much less what drink options she had in the house. For the past two years she’d done little else besides mourn her grandmother, lick her relationship wounds, care for Kayla and struggle to make ends meet. Men and relationships had been the last thing on her mind.

  She’d given her love and trust once. And it had been tossed back in her face…Not because of who she was on the inside, but because of a role she might not be able to play convincingly enough. As if love and honor and loyalty were traits one could purchase if necessary, while throwing elegant parties and coordinating one’s outfits were attainable only through bloodlines.

  Her attraction to Tate Williams was purely physical—like the first sighting of water after trekking through the desert. But just because the view was alluring didn’t mean she needed a drink. In fact, she’d gotten rather used to dehydration and her body had adjusted quite nicely.

  She pulled the refrigerator door open and surveyed its contents. Apple juice, check. Whole milk, check
. Infant cold medicine, check.

  “It’s not looking good in here, I’m afraid. Just goes to show how rusty my hostess skills have become.” She nudged aside a blue-capped pitcher and pointed at a long white carton. “Now, if you have a penchant for the lactose-free milk my neighbors all drink, we’re in luck.”

  His laugh started deep in his chest, a wonderfully rich sound that seemed to echo through the room, bringing a smile to her own lips. But it was the feel of his warm hand on her shoulder that allowed her body to relax.

  “I think I’ll go ahead and pass on the golden oldies drink, but I’ll take a glass of water if it’s okay.”

  She turned to face him, the cold refrigerator air bringing a chill to her bare legs, a sensation she welcomed as a way to counteract the lingering heat from his unexpected touch. “Um. Water. O-kay. I can do that.”

  Pushing the fridge door shut, she maneuvered around him to the sink, noting how his gaze swept across her pale pink T-shirt and white denim shorts. The naked longing she saw in his eyes both surprised and rattled her, making it difficult to think of anything, much less where she kept the glasses.

  Funny, but she was suddenly thirsty. Quite thirsty.

  “So much for the allure of dehydration,” she mumbled as she yanked open one cabinet after the other, feeling more foolish and desperate with each passing second.

  “Excuse me?”

  Uh-oh.

  She waved her hand in the air. “Don’t mind me. Just babbling.”

  “Did you move things around?”

  Phoebe looked over her shoulder as she opened a third cabinet. “What?”

  “You’re looking for glasses, right?”

  She gulped. “I, uh, no. I was looking to see if I had any lemonade mix I could offer.”

  He lifted his hands in the air. “Really. Plain water is great. Preferable, in fact.”

  When she finally located the glasses she filled two with ice water and handed one to Tate. He winked at her and pointed up at the wall. “Nice border.”

  Grateful for the chance to take control of her emotions, she nodded. “I loved it the moment I laid eyes on it. The Realtor was going through all the things I could do with this room, and the whole time she was talking I knew I wasn’t going to change a thing. The hand-painted hearts and flowers bring a warmth and sense of family that no wallpaper ever could.”

  He raised his glass to her and took a long sip. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and low. “Warmth. Family. That’s what my mom intended. And she spent a lot of hours trying to get it just right.”

  Phoebe felt her mouth gape open. “Your mom painted this?”

  “She sure did,” he said proudly. “Took her weeks to finish it, but she was always a perfectionist. I’m just shocked to see it’s still here. You’re at least the second owner since she di—well, since she’s been gone.”

  A hint of sadness flashed across his expression as he dropped his head and trained his focus on the glass in his hand. Instinctively, Phoebe reached out and touched his arm, hoped the gesture would bring the sparkle back to his soft brown eyes. “Your mom was a talented artist, then. Her fine detail work is amazing. I’ve spent many hours admiring it over the past six months.”

  It was true. She had. In some ways his mother’s work had even served as an inspiration on days when she wondered if she’d ever make it with her own art.

  She told him that.

  When he placed his free hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze, she held her breath. She was afraid that if she moved, if she spoke, the closeness she felt at that moment would disappear with a poof.

  “That portrait of Shane and his family is stunning. You are a talented artist. A very talented artist.” He set his water glass down on the counter and removed her hand from his arm, holding it in his own instead. “I can’t even begin to explain how sorry I am to have assumed you were a house painter. I don’t know where that came from. Ignorance, I guess.” He kept his eyes locked with hers as he continued. “My mother would’ve given it to me good if she’d heard me last night.”

  Phoebe tried to laugh but his apology, coupled with the warmth of his touch and his obvious sincerity, was more than she could take at the moment.

  “It’s my fault,” she answered. “That first day, at your house…I should have corrected you then about my profession. But I didn’t. And your offer to help me find work? It was very thoughtful. I’m sorry.”

  She gently removed her hand from his and wrapped it around her glass, finding the intensity between them more than a little overwhelming. The feelings swirling in the pit of her stomach were both foreign and familiar all at the same time.

  “Why didn’t you correct me that first day?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

  His gaze held hers for a long moment, as if he were trying to unearth something inside her. “It doesn’t. Work is work. The world needs craftsmen just as much as they need CEOs. Probably even more so.”

  She shifted from foot to foot, unsure of what to say. On one hand, she wanted to question his words, challenge him. On the other, she couldn’t ignore the sincerity in his voice or the way it made her throat tighten.

  Tate Williams was a tough one to figure out.

  “But more than that, you have an amazing gift as a painter. You should be proud of it. That’s why you should have corrected me…put me in my place.”

  She’d been a fool. An absolute fool. She’d branded him unfairly because of his wealth, using Doug’s preference for money and power as a reason to stereotype. And in doing so, she wasn’t much better than Kayla’s father.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated sincerely. Her regret and shame were threatening to erupt in a flood of tears if she didn’t change the subject fast. “Would you like to sit for a little while?”

  If he noticed the way her voice broke as she pointed toward the sitting room, he didn’t let on. And she was grateful. He’d struck something in her—something deep and primal that she couldn’t ignore.

  She followed him, deliberately choosing the single chair instead of the cozy love seat he’d claimed. There was just so much temptation she could take at the moment without making a complete fool of herself.

  “I’m sorry about what Mrs. Applewhite said outside. It was out of line.” Phoebe dropped her hands into her lap and twisted them together. “I know there’s bad blood between all of you, but maybe—”

  “That’s an understatement.” Tate raised his own hands into the air, clasping them together before bringing them down to cradle the back of his head. “Though it’s bogus. I hope you realize that.”

  She looked at him questioningly.

  “Do you know why they hate me so much? What I did wrong to become the black sheep of Quinton Lane?”

  Phoebe glanced down at her hands and then back up at Tate, her desire to answer truthfully tempered with her inability to knowingly hurt people. “I know some.”

  “Tell me.” He rested his right ankle across his left leg, his head still leaning against his hands.

  “Look, I don’t want to get in the mid—”

  “I don’t want you to, either,” he interrupted. “I just want to know what I did. In their eyes.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t know?”

  “I know how they made me feel. But I can’t quite grasp why or how they turned on me the way they did.”

  “Okay…” She took a deep breath and tried to think of the nicest way to convey what she’d heard over the past six months. “You grew up here and everyone adored you. They were excited for you when you went to college to pursue your dreams of becoming an architect.”

  After hesitating just a moment, she continued. “When you’d finished, you abandoned your roots and the people who’d loved and supported you. Opting for greener pastures without so much as a glance backward.”

  The silence that followed her explanation was weighty and uncomfortable, the tension emanating from his body impossible to ignore. S
he’d made him mad. That was obvious. “Look, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. I’m sorry.”

  He closed his eyes briefly then shook his head before opening them once again. “I’m not angry at you. Not at all. Their version is just so wrong. So very, very wrong.”

  She waited, unsure of what to say or do.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “I know. But I want you to hear the truth. Let you make up your own mind about me.” He unclasped his hands and dropped his foot to the ground, scooting forward in his seat so their knees touched. “The part about them being supportive of me going off to college was true. They even got together a little collection to help with my textbooks that first year. I’d grown up here, spent some of the happiest days of my childhood with these people and they meant the world to me.”

  Tate placed his hands on his thighs and lowered his voice slightly, the hurt resurfacing in his face as he continued. “I had every intention of coming back to Quinton Lane after I graduated. And I did, for a while. Lived downstairs while I waited for something to go on the market.”

  She noted the way his expression changed as he seemed to retreat into the past. “Shortly after I graduated, I landed a job. Nothing special. But a good filler position until something more interesting opened up. I was essentially a paid apprentice in Cedarville’s planning department. It wasn’t what I wanted long-term, but it was a way to get that golden experience all employers expect to see on your résumé.”

  He took a long, deep breath. “Anyway, I was working there when the city came after Les Walker’s property.”

  Les Walker. She’d heard that name.

  “Did he live next to the Haskells’ house? Where the park and walking trail intersect with our sidewalk?”