by Loree Lough
He harrumphed.
Time to terminate this conversation, she told herself, before you say something that gives him the excuse he needs to take Liam away from you now. “Have a safe flight.”
“Will do.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he said. “Gotta go. I have a call waiting.” And he hung up.
Jaina stared at the dead receiver for a moment. Of all the arrogant, pompous—
“Dih?” Liam asked, pointing at the phone. “Dih-dih?”
Fear gripped her heart. It sounded an awful lot like he was saying Da-da. No, you’re just imagining it, she assured herself. But the baby was clearly responding to Connor. Had the baby somehow sensed that he and Buchanan were related? Had he recognized something in the man’s voice that told him they were family? She picked him up, then hugged him protectively, possessively. “Time for bed, little one,” she cooed into his ear. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
Jaina tucked him into the crib she’d gotten from Ronnie’s Rent-All and turned out all but one dim lamp. And after dragging her bentwood rocker closer, she did what she’d been doing for five consecutive nights. She slid her hand between the bars and let Liam hold on to her forefinger. If the night ran true to form, he’d fall asleep in minutes, snuggled against her hand, and long after slumber overtook him, she’d continue to watch him until drowsiness overtook her, too.
Jaina woke, wincing at the discomfort of the cramp in her hand. When she sat up in the rocker to flex it, she noticed another knotted muscle in her neck. How long have I been asleep? she wondered, stretching as tall as her five-feet-three-inch frame would allow. A glance at the glowing red numerals of her alarm clock answered the question. Buchanan had called shortly after ten and talked all of five minutes. She’d put Liam to bed immediately after his uncle hung up. It was now one thirty-five. No wonder she was stiff and sore. She’d been out for nearly three hours!
Taking a deep breath, she raised and lowered her shoulders, rolled them forward and backward, tilted her head left, right, left again. The alarm clock blinked as it changed to one thirty-six…a silent reminder that its radio music would come on in less than four hours.
In less than twelve hours, Connor Buchanan would arrive.
She tiptoed over to the crib, leaned on its oaken rail and smiled. She’d tucked a light blanket around him earlier. He must have kicked it off when he rolled over. Grinning, Jaina shook her head. How can you be comfortable in that position? she asked him silently, covering the round rump that protruded into the air, the pudgy fingers splayed on Winnie the Pooh sheets. She patted that well-diapered little behind…and wondered about the sob that ached in her throat.
It hadn’t even been a week since his mother’s disappearance. If not for Skip’s influence, Jaina didn’t know what might have become of Kirstie’s innocent little boy. Since the demand for suitable foster parents was far greater than those available, Liam would likely have ended up in some impersonal, overcrowded children’s ward. Surely, if that had happened, the doctors and nurses on duty would have given him the best they could, despite the demands of their busy jobs. But a hospital is a place for sick people, not for abandoned youngsters. The day after Kirstie’s disappearance, Jaina had taken Liam to a pediatrician recommended by Skip. “The only thing wrong with this baby,” the doctor had said, “is that he has no family.”
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had Connor Buchanan….
But despite the age-old cliché, blood wasn’t always thicker than water. And the proof—at least in Jaina’s mind—was the lawyer’s cavalier attitude toward Liam’s well-being.
How could he have gone off to New York, knowing Kirstie’s little son would be in the care of strangers, without checking on him from time to time? For all he knew, Jaina was the overambitious career woman Skip had described, who’d put business ahead of the child’s welfare. How did he know she even liked children? What made him so certain she wouldn’t abuse or neglect the baby? Why did he believe Liam would be in safe hands?
Blind faith must run in the Buchanan family, she told herself, remembering the trusting way Kirstie had left Liam at the diner in the first place. Odd, she told herself, because faith was primarily a spiritual thing, and Buchanan didn’t seem the religious type….
Liam sighed in his sleep, a delightful, musical sound that made Jaina’s heart throb with love. She hadn’t known it was possible to love this deeply in such a short time. Indeed, she didn’t know it was possible to love this much at all!
If she was the one who’d given birth to him, she might have understood the all-consuming tenderness she felt for him. If she’d held him in her arms in the delivery room, nursed him, sung him lullabies in their hospital room, she might have had an explanation for the overwhelming fondness beating in her heart. If she’d watched him thrive and grow as she showered him with attention and affection as he struggled to sit up and then to crawl, eager to learn about the world around him, she might have comprehended the powerful sense of devotion she’d developed toward him.
But he’d been with her less than a week. Was there something wrong with her, that she’d so quickly succumbed to this innocent baby’s charms? Could there have been such a void in her life that she’d be so utterly filled with love for this tiny being?
There was no denying how lonely she’d been until he came into her life. Lonely for someone to care for, someone to be needed by, someone to spend years of pent-up love on. How strange that she didn’t know it, didn’t recognize it for what it was until Liam came into her life. He’d filled the emptiness in her soul, in her heart. But what had she done for him?
Any foster parent could have provided him with safe surroundings, healthy food, wholesome activities, a clean diaper when he needed it. If Skip had been able to find a home that wasn’t already overrun with children, that’s exactly the kind of care Liam would be getting. It was only because her best friend believed Liam would suffer less anxiety and disruption if he remained with Jaina as the investigation surrounding his permanent placement continued that she’d been given this time with him.
Jaina wondered if her mother could be right…that Liam was God’s reward for her stoic acceptance of her barrenness.
Jaina padded into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of lemonade, then unlocked the back door and stepped out onto the porch. Standing at the rail and looking beyond the parking lot, she could see rolling hills, pastures and farmland, a fence here, a barn there.
As a child, she’d moved every other year on average, from apartment to apartment on air force bases between New York and California. It had been fun and exciting—meeting new people, seeing new sights, learning new things—yet Jaina had always dreamed of living in a place surrounded by acres of grassy, tree-lined knolls. Since owning The Chili Pot, she’d been saving every spare dime, intent upon making her dream a reality. For the time being at least, she must be satisfied with her vision of the two-story farmhouse she’d someday call home.
It would have a wraparound, covered porch. She’d paint the railing and the floorboards white so the bentwood rockers flanking the front door would be clearly visible from the road, telling passersby that the house and its views were thoroughly and frequently enjoyed by its owner.
There’d be lots of tall, narrow windows, where she’d hang gauzy white curtains that would billow gently in the summer breezes, a gray-with-age split-rail fence, lined by black-eyed Susans, and a winding flagstone path that would lead visitors from the crushed-stone driveway to her red-enameled front door.
Ancient trees would shade the house, creating a cool canopy on sizzling August days and a place for birds to build their twiggy nests in the springtime. Out back, she’d plant a garden and grow vegetables for freezing and canning, enough for friends and neighbors, as well as a few to set out on a table near the road, where a sign would invite city folk passing by to partake in nature’s country glory.
If she had that place now, she’d certainly have a be
tter chance at being allowed to adopt Liam. What judge could refuse her, when the home she’d provide for the boy would have a tree house, a swing set, a pond for catching toads, a stream for snagging fish, and a big, bright bedroom overlooking it all.
She had always been happy in her modest apartment above the diner. Soon after moving in, she’d torn off layers of peeling wallpaper and painted the whole place a creamy off-white. She’d taken up the green shag rug, refinished the mellow oak floors and laid down the Persian rugs her family had collected when stationed with her father in faraway places. She’d scrubbed years of grease and grime from the windows and replaced the heavy draperies with tap-topped curtains she’d sewn herself. She’d furnished the rooms with an eclectic mix of comfortable traditional-style pieces, family heirlooms and some interesting old “finds.”
But there was only the one bedroom. And no backyard. The only way to reach the apartment was by way of the long, narrow staircase at the back of the diner. Worse…whatever noise was going on downstairs could easily be heard through the floorboards. Then once the sun went down, the chili red neon sign she’d had crafted by an Ellicott City glassblower beamed steadily, casting an orange glow over everything in the living room.
The diner was open 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. every day except Sunday, but it took two hours to get ready for the public and two hours to clean up after the last customer had gone home. Would a child-care specialist see this as a stable home for a growing boy…or as a virtual three-ring circus?
She should have bought that little farm she’d found last year, she scolded herself, instead of being such a perfectionist. It hadn’t been such a bad place; a little time and elbow grease would have turned it around, just as her efforts had improved the apartment.
But the house had been a rambling ranch, not a stately Victorian. In place of a cozy wraparound porch, there was a concrete slab near the front door. She couldn’t hang a tree swing from the branches of the pathetic sapling in the side yard. The house had a contemporary modern kitchen and two equally sleek bathrooms. And the only antique that would have fitted into the low-ceilinged, narrow-doored house was the player piano she’d found at the Westview flea market.
But the price had been right, and considering that it was situated less than a mile from The Chili Pot, the location couldn’t have been better. With a farm to her right and woods to the left, she’d have at last those wide open spaces she’d yearned for while living on cramped air force bases.
“You’re such a tomboy,” her mother would lament when, as a girl, she’d come home with cuts and bruises sustained in a rousing game of touch football. “What a wild one,” her father would exclaim when Jaina slunk into the house with holes in the knees and seat of her jeans…holes put there by reckless slides into home plate. She’d always been a spur-of-the-moment girl, a do-it-now, worry-about-it-later kind of kid.
Except about that house. To make that dream come true, Jaina had been more than willing to wait.
It had been that very mind-set that prompted her to get onto her first stage in response to a dare from Skip and sing with Bobby Pierce and his four-piece band. If she had known her guitar wasn’t tuned to scale, she’d never have agreed to stand at the mike and croon the tune she’d written all by herself. Somehow, Bobby’s lead guitarist provided backup to her little ditty, and when the song ended, it had been the plaudits of the musicians that gave her the incentive to repeat the performance again the very next week. She had a natural talent with the guitar, they’d said; she could go places with a voice like that, they’d insisted.
And she had. After signing with Artists’ Corporation of America, her agent had booked her all over the country. It had been after a benefit performance in Chicago that a record producer approached her about signing a contract. She’d gone to Nashville with the grandfatherly gentleman, done a stint with the Grand Ole Opry and cut a record.
The tune went national, and within the first week, radio stations from coast to coast were broadcasting “Lovin’ Arms,” the song she’d written about the love of her life, drummer Bill Isaacs.
She’d met Bill during that first year of touring the country, when the agency scheduled her to do a show at a college in Virginia. She’d been slated as the feature act, and Bill headed up the backup band. They had clicked both musically and personally, and when the gig ended, they’d arranged to meet as often as possible.
Like everything else she’d done in her life to that point, Jaina decided in a snap that she loved him, despite his heavy drinking and bouts of bad temper. Her devotion, she’d told herself, would give him the incentive to quit.
And then one night, when his band wasn’t booked, Bill drove from Illinois to Wisconsin to spend a weekend with her so they could discuss their future. And in a snap, she knew if he asked her to marry him, she’d say yes.
He had shown up nearly an hour late. If she’d known he’d been drinking, she’d never have gotten in the car with him, but Bill was good at hiding his drunken state. As she later realized, Bill was good at hiding so much of his real personality from her. Or, was it only that she chose not to see his weakness?
As she walked toward the car, something warned her not to get in. She hesitated a moment, and Bill called to her. Hollered at her belligerently and honked the horn. Everything in her warned her not to get into the car with her wild-eyed boyfriend.
In a snap, she’d cast caution aside.
And she would pay for that mistake for the rest of her life.
You’re paying for it now, she thought dismally, big time! If it hadn’t been for that night…
Fear seized her soul.
What if Connor found out about that night? It wouldn’t matter one whit that you were totally innocent of any wrongdoing and that the records have been expunged. A lawyer like Connor Buchanan will pounce all over that black mark in my past and use it to take away Liam so fast it will make my head spin.
Jaina gave the view a last forlorn glance and went back inside. After locking up, she stuck her empty glass into the dishwasher and headed for her room. On the way to the extra wide four-poster, she stopped beside Liam’s crib. He’d kicked off his covers again, and she gently pulled them up. Tears filled her eyes. As she watched him sleep, Jaina did something she hadn’t done in a very long time.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “I want to do Your will, and I want to keep Liam.” Softly, her fingertips traced his cheek. “Please help me find a way to do both.”
Her father had been an early riser ever since his air force days, when he’d get up before dawn to climb into a cockpit and “test drive” the latest, fastest, most powerful fighter planes. “I’m at the market,” read the note propped against the carving board. “See you by six. Hugs and kisses, Dad.” He’d been penning the same words every day for all the years they’d run The Chili Pot together.
The name on the diner’s deed said Jaina Clarisse Chandelle, but she had never considered herself sole proprietor. Without her father’s keen eye for picking only the best fruits, vegetables and meats, and her mother’s knack for creating delectable sweet treats, Jaina’s menu would be sparse indeed.
The rest of the staff, she believed, owned a piece of the place, as well. Take Eliot, for example. It had been a risk, hiring the cook; with nothing more than the say-so of Pastor Cummings, she’d given the ex-con a job, knowing full well that he’d spent the past three years at Jessup on charges of car theft. To this day, he proclaimed his innocence, but guilty or not, in Jaina’s mind the man had served his time and deserved a chance to prove he’d righted his life.
It had been one of the smartest business moves she’d ever made, and the proof could be found in the crowded lot, where vehicles with license plates from West Virginia, New York, Delaware, Virginia and Maryland’s Eastern Shore parked every day of the week. It was one of the best personal choices, too, because in the six years he’d worked for her, the stocky black man had become one of her dearest, most trusted friends.
Hiring Billie
had also required a leap of faith. She’d come to Jaina’s attention thanks to the pastor’s youth rehab program. Billie had been drawn into a gang and couldn’t see a way out, until Pastor Cummings had come into her life. A youthful offender, she’d been arrested for shoplifting, truancy, driving without a license and a few other minor offenses. In the pastor’s program, she’d decided to turn her life around, get a job and leave the gang. Now Jaina was determined to help her anyway she could. In Jaina’s opinion, Billie was the best all-round waitress in the tristate area. She could keep a twenty-party order straight without writing down a single word and balance six plates on one arm while carrying four cups and saucers, stacked one atop the other, in her free hand.
Eliot’s cousin, Barney, a recent graduate of Cummings’s Say No To Drugs project, could operate and repair every piece of equipment in the diner, from the twenty-slice toaster to the industrial-size dishwasher, from the extra large stove and grill to the walk-in freezer.
And Joy, who had hung out with Billie on one of Baltimore’s meanest streets, rounded out the diner’s offbeat employee roster.
Until now, Jaina hadn’t given much thought to the things they’d done before joining the Chili Pot family. But Connor Buchanan changed all that. Skip had warned her that if Buchanan discovered the dubious résumés of her employees, he’d use them against her in court.
There was a chance, she supposed, that he’d be as broad-minded as Pastor Cummings, the way she and her parents had been. But then, they’d had reason to be understanding. Her friends deserved at least as much of the fairness and open-mindedness that she’d been given since her release from Jessup.
Would he be fair and open-minded? Jaina was in no position to take chances. Not when Liam’s future was at stake.
She crumpled her father’s note and tossed it into the trash can. “Dad ought to save himself the bother and carve the message into the countertop,” she told Liam. Secretly, she’d have been disappointed if he did, because when she came downstairs from her apartment every morning, finding his brief note was like running into an old dependable friend.
