Worse yet, what would happen when the system spewed Cleo into the world again, still damaged and helpless and incapable of taking care of herself, much less a child?
The mantle of responsibility didn’t fit well on Maya’s shoulders, but she wrapped it firmly around her now as she glared at the damning numbers on the sheet of paper in front of her. They blamed well had to turn the Impossible Dream into reality.
The alternative was starvation and living on the street.
***
Beneath a beautiful Carolina-blue sky, Maya stared at the double wooden doors marking the entrance to the restaurant known only as “Holm’s.” She had no choice. She’d called the Axell Holm listed in the book and hadn’t even reached voice mail. She’d walked Matty to school at eight and had to open the shop at ten. This was the only time she had available.
The restaurant was only a few blocks from the shop. The whole damned town was only a few blocks from the shop. Their mother had apparently grown up in this place but escaped after she married. One of these days she’d try to remember why Cleo had chosen to return, other than that she could use foot power for transportation.
Knocking on a restaurant door at nine o’clock in the morning didn’t seem reasonable. Figuring she had nothing to lose, Maya shoved at the door, nearly stumbling as it swung open on well-oiled hinges. She should have known Axell Holm would keep his place impeccably maintained, even if it was just a country steak house.
A man in a cleaning service uniform buffing the floor looked up and stared at her as she entered. Maya supposed that was better than having a whole barroom full of people staring at her. She’d never been very comfortable in barrooms, even respectable ones attached to small-town restaurants.
Donning the vague persona she used to shield herself from the world, Maya sauntered through the room, waving a greeting at the worker. “Is Axell in this morning?” she called carelessly.
It was a trifle difficult pulling off the carefree bit while pushing a two-ton belly in front of her, Maya thought wryly as the man’s eyes widened with interest. He gulped something she took for agreement and pointed toward a door on the far wall. Obviously, she wasn’t the suave, urbane Mr. Holm’s usual type.
The door in the back wall led to a corridor with a series of doors. She thought she saw one hurriedly close and wondered who else was in here at this hour. She pondered calling out and asking for directions, but the kitchen, restrooms, and storeroom doors were easily identifiable. That left only the back stairs, and she could find her way from there. Of course, over a month ago, her doctor had told her to avoid stairs. Since she lived in an upstairs apartment, she didn’t have the option of obeying, so she didn’t hesitate now.
Polished hardwood floors, a discreet silver wool carpet matching a sedate striped wallpaper, and a closed paneled door greeted her at the top of the stairs. The narrow reception area had no inviting furniture, no furniture at all. Maya shook her head at the blandness of the decor, pitied poor Mr. Holm his lifeless life in this nowhere town, and tapped at the closed door.
No response.
Frowning, she tapped louder, then deciding she wasn’t a supplicant to beg for crumbs, she pushed the door open.
Morning sunlight streaked through bare windows across a glossy black desk where a stylishly shorn head of golden hair bent over a stack of papers. The head barely lifted as she walked in before its owner returned to marking notes in the margins of what appeared to be an invoice. Maya recognized invoices. Cleo had left them, yellowed and stained with tea rings, scattered all over the storeroom.
“Have a seat, Miss Alyssum, I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Back to the “Miss” business. His cold tone didn’t hold much promise for her quest. Raising her eyebrows at the pieces of a clock scattered on one corner of his desk, she decided to stay and take her chances.
Daunted by the stiffly upright leather wing chairs in front of the desk, she ignored his command and drifted to the bank of windows overlooking the town’s main street. If one counted the old service station converted to a fruit market, Wadeville’s business district extended three blocks from the railroad. Cleo’s shop was near the tracks and fruit market, difficult to see from this angle.
Most of the town buildings between here and Cleo’s had been built in the late 1800’s or early 1900’s when cotton was still king. Their practical brick facades were now adorned with a century’s worth of awnings, painted and aluminum signs, and other atrocities. Holm’s Restaurant was of the same brick, but the huge expanse of windows spoke of a later era conceived in air conditioning. Apparently, Mr. Holm believed in discarding the past in favor of the new and convenient.
A pen clicked as it hit the desk. “How may I help you, Miss Alyssum?”
She swung around, but the sun behind his head prevented her from seeing his expression. Axell Holm exuded the impression of a dangerously successful businessman with no time or patience for sentimentality. Maybe she’d imagined that Aquarian streak. “Perhaps I was a little hasty in dismissing your offer of help the other day,” she said as winningly as she knew how. “I’ve been a trifle overwhelmed by events lately.”
He leaned back in the chair and crossed his fingers over his chest. He’d removed his suit jacket, and she noticed he had a very impressive chest and shoulders inside that fitted white shirt. Pity he hid them behind the fussiness of ties and jackets and whatnot. He looked as if he belonged in tight ski clothes. Or in a jungle with nothing on at all.
Distracted at that wayward thought, she settled her gaze on the business end of a small screwdriver protruding from his shirt pocket. As he talked at her, she studied the little pile of clock innards on the corner of his desk.
“I’m not certain the fate of the school is relevant to me any longer, Miss Alyssum. I’m considering sending Constance to live with her grandmother.”
A squeak at the door warned Maya of an eavesdropper even before the door burst open and a miniature whirlwind flew in, wrapping itself around her legs and nearly toppling her.
“Don’t make me go, Miss Alyssum! I can go home with you, can’t I?”
For one fleeting moment, as she met Axell’s gaze, Maya caught a glimpse of the window to his soul and saw despair before he slammed the window shut and glared at her as if this were all her fault.
And so it was. Kneeling, Maya wrapped her arms around the weeping fairy child. “Of course, you can, sugar baby. Give me a hug.” And she meant it. Defiantly, she knew she’d take this beautiful little girl home with her right now if she could.
As the child wrapped her arms around her throat and practically strangled her, Maya glared at the indifferent man in the desk chair. This was the reason she dreamed of success for her school. All her life, she’d searched for a place that would accept her and offer her love. She was too old to expect it for herself now, but she could offer it to other children, give them the love and acceptance she and Cleo never had.
She’d just never dreamed it would start with a child who had everything she’d never had.
***
October, 1945
I met a woman last night, Helen Arnold, the banker’s niece. I heard she owned a moonshine joint outside town and wondered what she’d be like, but I never imagined... It would be a sin to go back there. I’ve worked long and hard and survived a war to get where I am. I can’t let a fascination with the Arnold’s black sheep ruin my chances — although, with all that red hair, maybe she should be called a red sheep? No, there’s nothing sheep-like about Helen. She’s a challenge.
Four
Give me ambiguity or give me something else.
Stunned into silence, Axell absorbed the tableau kneeling on his office floor. Had it been a painting, the scene would have been labeled Madonna and Child. There was something almost pre-Raphaelite about the glorious spill of fiery red curls down the woman’s back, the pure ivory expanse of her curved brow, and the multicolored flow of her gauzy, pleated gown. The striking contrast to Katherine in her
tailored red miniskirts struck him vividly.
Constance in her short flowered skirt and padded running shoes demolished the artisttic image.
What the hell was Constance doing here? He’d taken her to school well over an hour ago.
Tortured by his daughter’s sobs, helpless to cope with them, Axell removed the screwdriver from his pocket and twisted it between his fingers as he groped for some logical means of dealing with this unanticipated problem. The teacher’s glare told him it was not the right reaction.
Awkwardly, he emerged from behind the shield of his desk and towered over them. He wasn’t the kind of man who sat on floors, but his daughter’s brokenhearted cries offered him no choice. Tugging up his trouser leg, he got down on one knee and tried to peel her away from her teacher. “Constance, come here and let me talk with you.”
“No!” Angrily, she jerked her little arm away from him. Constance was never angry.
Frightened by his helplessness, Axell threw the woman a beseeching look. What had she done to his daughter that Constance felt freer to go to her rather than to him?
The teacher’s glare relented somewhat as she stroked Constance’s long fine hair, gathering the dark strands in her hands and tugging gently. “Hey, sugar baby, look at me a minute, okay? You’ll have me crying if you don’t stop soon.”
Amazingly, Axell heard a smile in her voice. How could the woman sound happy with a weeping, hysterical child in her arms? She didn’t reveal any of the desperation he felt. Angela would have been throwing fits and screaming at him by now. This woman looked as serene as the Madonna he’d pictured earlier.
Constance shook her head, but Maya held her so firmly that there was no ferocity to the movement. A grubby hand wiped at a wet eye as his daughter peeked upward.
Frozen in the spell of the moment, Axell continued kneeling, watching. He suddenly understood how women had been cast as witches through the ages. Their spells were inexplicable by any other means but magic.
“Have you told your daddy you don’t want to go away?” she asked, still stroking Constance’s hair as if gentling a pony.
The little head shook back and forth again, and tear-filled eyes disappeared into Maya’s shoulder. Axell wanted to reach out and draw his daughter into his own arms, but he didn’t dare. He’d not been able to get a word out of Constance since last night, not that he got much out of her at any other time either.
“Constance, you don’t have to go if you don’t want,” he heard himself say. He’d lain awake all night, agonizing over his decision, unable to avoid the conclusion that Constance needed the guidance of an experienced parent, a mother.
He’d tortured himself with the realization that he was a lousy excuse for a father, that he couldn’t balance work with his daughter’s needs, and that Constance had to come first, that his hollow life in her absence would be a small price to pay to see her smiling again. He threw all those logical conclusions out the window with the fall of a few tears.
The sobs lessened, but his daughter’s beautiful innocent face remained hidden. Axell glanced hopefully at Maya. She caught his look and shrugged, apparently not impressed with his concession.
“Constance, honey, I think your daddy would like to talk with you, and I really need to sit in a chair before I fall over. Why don’t you let me get up and let your daddy hold you for a little while? He’s got big strong shoulders for crying on. That’s what daddies are for.”
Appalled at his selfishness in not seeing she must be in some pain from her position on the floor, Axell stood and tugged gently at Maya’s elbow to help her rise. She shook her head in refusal, nodding at Constance instead. With reluctance, Axell put his large hands around his elfin daughter and lifted her away. To his astonishment, Constance flung her skinny arms around his neck without protest.
A sopping little face soaked his stiff shirt collar, and the scent of baby shampoo filled his nostrils. He didn’t know what to do with her. Axell wondered when he’d held his daughter last. As an infant? A toddler who’d scraped her knee, maybe? Angela had always been there, running interference for scraped knees and childish tantrums.
Axell glanced anxiously at the heavily pregnant woman trying to pull herself upright from the floor. Shifting Constance to one arm, he held out his free hand to haul her up. The schoolteacher’s hand curled in his, and he thought he caught the fragrance of sandalwood as she used his strength for leverage, but she drifted away as soon as she stood upright. For a moment, he felt oddly protective toward this unorthodox young woman. She was much more delicately built than he’d realized.
The sympathetic moment dissipated the instant she opened her mouth.
“I believe you and your daughter have a good deal to talk about, Mr. Holm,” she snapped in a crisp California accent. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider your offer about the school and stop by the shop a little later.” Her frosty tone spoke her opinion of his parenting skills.
He almost panicked and begged her to stay, but the little arms clutching his neck decided the matter. Still completely at a loss, Axell nodded and watched a shaft of sunlight spill over the teacher’s fiery cascade of hair. She looked almost as lost as his daughter as she turned her head away and slipped into the hall, gently pulling the door closed.
A woman that pregnant should be tucked comfortably on a soft couch with her feet up, not traipsing up and down stairs and streets, Axell thought irrelevantly, before his attention reverted to his daughter. Holding Constance tightly, he collapsed into the nearest chair and prayed he could pry some answers out of her. How did one know if an eight-year-old’s answers were the best ones?
Cuddling his daughter, listening to her heartbroken sobs, Axell experienced pure fear-filled panic.
He’d thought Constance’s silence had been a natural reaction to grief, something she would have to get through as he did. What if she couldn’t get over it by herself? What if it wasn’t just grief? What if it was him?
It had to be him. Constance was a different person with Maya. How could he do what Maya did so he could keep Constance?
He panicked again as he realized he hadn’t a clue.
***
The chanting monks greeted Axell as he entered the gift shop. Sunlight sparkled through newly washed windows, but the narrow, crowded interior looked no less musty than before. The wind chimes sang a merry tune in the breeze he let in, and he hastily shut the door while searching for some sign of the red-haired proprietor.
“Anyone home?” he called. He’d like to tell her this was no way to run a business, but he had a sneaking suspicion there wasn’t much business to run and she really didn’t care.
“Down here.”
He leaned over the counter. To his shock, he discovered Maya lying flat on her back, eyes closed, hands covering her distended belly. “Are you all right?” he asked, hearing the panic in his voice. Twice in one day. They’d have him in an insane asylum within the week.
“That’s a matter of relativity,” she replied in a vague voice. Her eyes popped open, and Axell could see the mischief in them. “But if you’re asking if it’s time to call the ambulance or get out the forceps, the answer is no. You’re safe for now.”
Damn, but she’d scared him. He didn’t like being scared. Stepping back, Axell stared politely at the black-and-white cat sleeping on the shelf while she righted herself. The cat was probably the only thing in here that wasn’t a rainbow of color.
Sunset curls and a wicked smile suddenly blocked his view of the cat. “Well, Mr. Holm, has the domestic crisis been resolved?” she asked cheerily.
“I returned Constance to school,” he answered stiffly, uncomfortable beneath her beaming gaze. A woman who lived in this slum had no business being so damned happy. “She wouldn’t tell me how she got to the office.” He threw her a look of suspicion. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”
“Sorry, much as I always wished for a fairy godmother, I’ve never had one and I’ve never been one. Someone else must hav
e spirited the child there. Or she walked. It’s less than a mile, you realize. And Constance is a very resourceful child.” She lifted the steaming pot of water from the hot plate and poured it into the teapot she’d prepared.
The idea of his waiflike daughter traipsing a mile of highway through traffic and mud and all the modern-day horrors of civilization boggled his mind so thoroughly that Axell didn’t have to be told to take the cups and sit down at the table. Setting the china down, he collapsed into the ugly little chair and propped his head against his hand.
She patted his shoulder as she leaned over to set the teapot on the table. He didn’t even know this woman, but she was always touching him.
“Did you reassure her that you won’t send her away?”
Axell heard the condemnation behind the question. It was none of her damned business. He resisted spilling his guts, but he had no one to confide in. Katherine had no concern for his family life. He had friends like Headley all over town, people he’d grown up with, people who had frequented the restaurant all their adult lives, but he’d been taught to keep his troubles to himself. They no more knew his problems than they knew his bank account. This woman was a near stranger and she already knew more about him than he did himself.
“I can’t do that,” he announced heavily, leaning back in the chair while she poured the tea. If he came here any more often, he’d have to bring a coffeepot.
She lifted her arched cinnamon-brown eyebrows, and Axell could swear the turquoise of her eyes shot daggers. He winced.
“What kind of father lets an eight-year-old roam a highway?” he demanded. “I can’t be there to watch over her all the time. I’m never there,” he admitted. “She goes from school to your place to whatever baby-sitter I can find in the evenings.”
Before she could shoot the first verbal bullet, he defended himself. “I pick her up at your place and take her out to dinner, but I own a bar. I have to be there in the evening and I can’t take her with me.”
“Did I say anything?” she asked innocently, sipping at her tea, staring at him with big eyes over the edge of her cup.
Impossible Dreams Page 4
