“See that?” he said as the referee leaped into the fray and started counting the Pit-Bull out. “Once he counts to three, the bout is over. Pay attention, Sammy. It’s time for you to learn your numbers. One…two…three.”
“Fee!” Samantha squawked.
Jamie bolted upright. “What did you say?” he demanded, turning her to face him.
Her head bobbled, and he quickly cupped his hand behind it to hold it steady. Her eyes flickered open and shut, and she screwed up her face as if revving up to cry. But although her cheeks turned red, she didn’t cut loose with a scream as Jamie expected. “Fee!” she babbled.
“That’s right! Three.” He planted a loud, smacking kiss on her forehead, then lowered her back against the cushion of his chest and grinned like a druggie on a high.
“Fee,” she’d said. One, two, fee. Scarcely more than a month old, his daughter could count.
Maybe she was a certified genius. And maybe he wasn’t such a bad father, after all.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE you did that!” Molly groaned.
Allison sighed. The shoe store was glaringly bright, as if to compensate for the fact that it was nearly 10:00 p.m. and dark outside. But she’d been putting in long shifts at Arlington Memorial the past few days, and Grammy needed new shoes, so this was the only time they could shop.
She probably shouldn’t have brought Molly along. But Molly had phoned just as Allison was ushering Grammy out the door, and when Allison had told her where they were headed, she’d invited herself to join them. They’d already had supper—bad pizza at a shop in the minimall, a few doors down from the shoe store. The pizza crust had been rubbery, the cheese dripping with grease. A half hour after consuming only half a slice, Allison’s stomach continued to churn.
“The program is about to go down the drain, Jamie offered to help you find some money to keep it going and you said no. How could you do that?” Molly said in a harsh stage whisper.
“I told you,” Allison repeated for the umpteenth time. Not only was her stomach churning, but her back ached from the hard bench where she and Molly sat, waiting while Grammy paraded around in a pair of leather sneakers to assess the fit. “I don’t want to be indebted to him.”
“You wouldn’t have been indebted to him. At worst, you would have been indebted to the bank or the funding organization or whatever. I don’t get it, Allie. He was only trying to help you.”
“He wants—Well, he wants a lot from me,” she said vaguely. “If I let him help me, then he might expect something in return.”
“What? What might he expect?”
Fortunately Allison was spared from answering by her grandmother, who appeared before them. She peered down at the sneakers, then glowered at Allison. “I hate these shoes,” she announced.
Ignoring Grammy’s declaration, Allison rose from the bench, hunkered down and prodded Grammy’s toes through the soft white leather. “They’re the right size, Grammy. They seem to be a perfect fit.”
“I don’t care.” Grammy poked at the floor with the rubber tip of her cane. “They’re ugly as sin.”
“They’re sneakers. What’s ugly about them?” Allison pointed to her own plain white sneakers. She owned several pairs. Nothing was more comfortable for work, where she was constantly on her feet, running down the halls, leaning over beds and pushing isolettes.
“They look like something a sweaty, smelly marathoner would wear. I found another pair of shoes I want to try on.” Grammy held up a strappy gold tone sandal with a narrow two-inch heel.
“You can’t wear that,” Allison said, straightening up and trying not to laugh.
“Why not?”
“You’ve got arthritis.” She took the sandal from her grandmother and scrutinized it. If the sneakers Grammy had tried on looked like the sort of footwear designed for a long-distance runner, the sandal looked like the sort of footwear designed for a runway model—one who didn’t have to walk more than a few steps at a time in the real world. “Look at this heel, Grammy. You’d break your neck wearing shoes like this. I’d break my neck in them. That’s why I wear sneakers. Do you really think my shoes are ugly as sin?”
Grammy eyed Allison’s feet and then her own. “Yours look better than mine. At least they’ve got real laces.”
“I picked out the pair with Velcro straps for you because they’re easier to fasten.”
“What, you think I’m too old to tie a bow?” Grammy turned from Allison and glanced at Molly. “You don’t think I’m too old to tie a bow, do you?”
“I think you’re the perfect age for who you are,” Molly answered tactfully.
“A diplomat. This is what I’m stuck with—a nurse and a diplomat. I want the sandals,” Grammy declared.
“And I want a grandmother who’s just a little bit sensible,” Allison countered, carrying the sandal back to the display shelf from which Grammy had removed it.
“The heck you do. You’re sensible enough for both of us,” Grammy called across the store.
The criticism resounded inside Allison as she paid for the new sneakers and placed Grammy’s old, worn-out oxfords in the box the sneakers had come in. Yes, Allison was sensible. Sensible enough to want to steer clear of Jamie until he’d worked out his problems. Sensible enough not to want to get into another relationship where it became her job to make everything better for her man.
As if Molly could guess her thoughts, she lit into Allison as they walked through a chilly drizzle to her car. “I don’t think you’re too sensible,” Molly murmured. “In fact, I think you’re an idiot. If you had half a brain, you’d let Jamie raise some money for the Daddy School.”
“Molly, I told you—”
“You don’t want to be indebted to him,” Molly recited. “Well, you know, I’ve got a vested interest in all this, too. If the Daddy School goes under, I’ll never be able to set up the toddler program.”
“Fine. You go to Jamie and beg for money,” Allison snapped, as impatient with her best friend as with her grandmother.
“I just don’t see the big deal. You don’t want to date him, so don’t date him. You’re both adults. You could still work together on fund-raising for the Daddy School.”
“I don’t want to work with him on anything right now.” If she worked with him, she’d fall in love with him—and with his little daughter. And then, if he decided to give his daughter up, she’d be doubly heartbroken. It wasn’t even her business whether or not he retained custody of Samantha. She didn’t want to be a part of the decision. And she didn’t want him leaning on her for support. She didn’t want to be telling him what to do and then doing it for him when he couldn’t manage to do it himself.
“All you ever want to do is help everyone else,” Molly said, her shorter height forcing her to take three steps to every two of Allison’s. “You have no trouble being the one giving the help. But when it comes to letting anyone else help you, you just can’t take it.”
Allison’s retort died before it could take shape. She knew Molly was speaking out of her own frustration—she wanted to be able to work with floundering fathers in a class of her own, and as the sole owner of a small preschool, she had even less access to institutional support than Allison did. But behind her anger, Allison heard truth in her accusation. She did devote most of her energy to helping others because she genuinely enjoyed helping people. But Molly was right: she had a real problem accepting help from others.
Especially from Jamie. To accept his help in raising money for the program would throw the precarious balance between them way off. If she could demand that he take care of his own problems, then she couldn’t very well turn around and ask him to take care of hers. They simply shouldn’t be depending on each other for these things. She wanted their relationship simplified, each of them having resolved their own issues before they attempted to become a couple.
She unlocked the car door for her grandmother, helped her onto the seat and handed her the box containing her old shoes. Then she
turned to Molly and sighed. “You’re right. I have trouble accepting help from Jamie McCoy.”
“Why?”
“Because I—” Allison swallowed. Even though Molly was her best friend, it was still difficult to admit the truth. “I’m half in love with him already, Molly. And I shouldn’t be. I need to put some distance between us.”
She’d forgotten her grandmother was sitting within earshot. “She’s a wreck, Molly,” Grammy reported. “A lovesick little puppy. No appetite. You saw the way she picked at that pizza.”
“The pizza was too oily,” Allison argued.
“And she’s mopey and surly. I don’t see what the hang-up is, myself. The boy is rich, he’s handsome, and so what if he’s made a few mistakes? Find me a man who’s never made a mistake and I’ll call the Guinness Book of World Records.”
“Grammy.” Allison smiled in spite of herself. “You were the one who said he had the morals of a tick.”
“At my age, I can say whatever I want. For all I know, ticks operate by their own strict moral code. As for this man’s problems with frisky sperm, well, there are worse things a man can do in the world than knock up a woman by accident. It’s not like he ever raised a hand to you,” Grammy continued, naming the one evil no Winslow woman would ever tolerate. “At least he’s doing right by his baby.”
So far. Unless he decided to give up the baby, to send her back to her rich, spoiled, irresponsible mother.
“This isn’t a topic open to general debate,” Allison declared firmly. “It’s my life.”
“It’s my Daddy School class,” Molly muttered.
“It’s my ugly new shoes,” Grammy added.
Allison couldn’t help herself. She succumbed to a laugh. “You two are going to drive me crazy!”
“As long as you drive us home,” Grammy said, buckling her seat belt around her and smiling complacently.
LATE THAT NIGHT, Allison was still awake, staring at the shaft of moonlight that spilled through the dormer window into her bedroom and wishing it could illuminate her tangled musings. Was Molly right? Was it a sign of weakness on Allison’s part that she couldn’t accept help from Jamie? Would it have been easier or harder for her to accept his help if she had gone back to his house Monday night?
She had wanted to. Three days later—three long, lonely nights later—the ache of denying herself what Jamie had offered still gnawed at her. She replayed the memory of his kiss Monday night over and over, masochistically. How had she ever found the integrity to walk away from him?
Why had she?
Wisely or foolishly, she had walked away. She’d done the right thing. She wanted to believe that Jamie understood, that once he’d come to terms with his paternity and with the woman who’d given birth to Samantha, he would contact Allison and they could pick up where they left off.
But she doubted he would do that. She read his column, and it gave her a pretty clear hint of how a guy like Jamie would respond to a woman’s turning from him. He would most likely go out in search of a woman more flexible and less hardheaded than Allison.
She’d made her choice, and it would probably save her some emotional wear and tear in the long run. But it was the short run that was causing her pain. The short run of long, lonely nights.
The silver sheen of the moon burned her eyes— or maybe what was burning them was tears. She squeezed them shut and rolled away from the window. The telephone beside her bed rang.
She jumped, and her heart pounded. When a telephone rang at midnight, a person—especially a nurse—had to assume bad news loomed at the other end of the line.
Grammy was safe and sound, asleep downstairs in her first-floor bedroom. It must be Allison’s mother or her stepfather. Or maybe an emergency at the hospital, although the head nurses on night duty would have used her pager to summon her.
Before the phone could ring a second time and awaken Grammy, she lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Allison?” Jamie’s voice came through the wire, breathless with tension.
She didn’t need him to identify himself. She’d been hearing his voice in her head for days. “Jamie?”
“I’m sorry to call you, Allison—especially so late, but—”
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Sam.” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know what’s bothering her. She won’t stop whimpering and she won’t take a bottle—I’ve been trying all day, but she won’t eat. She just keeps clinging to me and whimpering, and she’s so hot. It’s like she’s on fire or something. She’s burning up. I’m scared, Allison. I don’t know what to do.”
“Get her over to Arlington Memorial right away,” Allison ordered him. A baby with a high fever could be suffering from any number of different ailments, the majority of which weren’t emergencies requiring a hospital’s care. But it didn’t pay to play guessing games with Jamie over the phone or to try to diagnose the baby without seeing her. Better to get Samantha into a doctor’s hands immediately.
“The hospital?”
“Yes. Take her right into the emergency room.”
“And then what?”
“And then give her to me. I’ll be there, waiting for you. Just bring her to me and I’ll take care of everything.”
It wasn’t until she hung up that she realized what she was doing—exactly what she’d sworn she wouldn’t do. She didn’t want to sweep in and take care of everything. She didn’t want to solve Jamie’s problems.
But this was Samantha. The baby was obviously sick. Jamie was desperate. And no matter what Allison felt about him, what she wanted, how much she needed to protect herself, she had to help him with this.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT MIDNIGHT, the emergency room at Arlington Memorial Hospital was an eerie place. The daytimebright lights illuminating the room glared; the daytime energy of the staff glared even more. Nurses and orderlies swarmed and stalked around the area with purpose, ducking in and out of curtained examining areas, transporting impressive-looking equipment and appearing terribly important. They chatted and joked among themselves, their eyes clear and focused. Unlike Jamie, they were completely awake.
Jamie was sort of awake, but he was running on adrenaline, not the healthy power derived from eight hours of sleep. Only two things kept him from reeling outside through the glass double doors and collapsing on the grass that bordered the parking lot. One was Samantha. The other was Allison.
She’d been at the hospital, as promised, when he’d arrived. Cradled in his arms, wrapped in a thick blanket, Samantha had been sweating profusely, and he wasn’t sure that the blanket was necessary. But without it, she might get a chill, pneumonia or something. As if he knew what caused pneumonia in babies. As if he had any idea what to do with a child running a high temperature.
Hell, he didn’t even know what Samantha’s temperature was. He had a thermometer at home, but it was designed for adults. He couldn’t imagine explaining to Sammy that she had to hold a fragile glass rod under her tongue for three minutes. This was something she could not be expected to do, especially given that she was so obviously distraught. She’d been whining and crabbing for several days now—long enough that he could no longer rationalize her mood.
He shouldn’t have phoned Allison tonight. She had made it clear that she didn’t want to hear from him. But it had been late, Sam had been sobbing inconsolably and he’d been frantic. His baby was obviously sick, and he didn’t know what to do.
He’d considered calling his new pediatrician, but the alignment of the hands on his wristwatch argued against that. So he’d called Allison—because she was an expert when it came to babies, he told himself, even though he knew the real reasons he was reaching out for her: he trusted her and he needed her. He had absolute faith that she would know what to do, and she would make sure it got done.
She’d come through for him. She’d been there in the emergency room when he skidded the Range Rover to a halt near the entrance and charged inside with h
is forlorn little girl. Allison had taken Samantha from him, pointed him in the direction of the admitting clerk and sent him a smile that said, Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.
He knew everything would be fine as long as Allison was with him, with his baby.
Right now, medical practitioners were doing things to Samantha. They’d carted her off somewhere to examine her, leaving him to thumb blearily through month-old magazines while all those livewire hospital workers strutted around him. On the opposite side of the waiting area sat an aromatic gentleman, swatting at imaginary flies and singing a ditty about saints and streetwalkers. None of the orderlies paid him any attention as they scurried past, pushing carts and gurneys and shouting chipper greetings to one another.
Above the admissions desk, a wall clock announced the time: nearly one. It occurred to Jamie that he could catch a few winks while Allison and her colleagues figured out what was plaguing Sam. But the room was too well lit and noisy, and Jamie was too keyed up.
Middle-of-the-night emergencies hadn’t been covered in the Daddy School, but he supposed it wasn’t all that rare for parents to find themselves in such a situation—not necessarily hospital emergency rooms, but long, dark hours sitting up with a sick child or chasing away nightmares or slaying the monsters under a tot’s bed. And parents would probably have to contend with daytime emergency-room trips, too, thanks to tumbles out of tree houses and spills from bicycles. Years would pass, and there would be more long, dark hours of pacing while one’s adolescent progeny stayed out past curfew, like the baby-sitter Jamie had tried to hire last week. Once a parent made the commitment to raise a kid, twenty-four-hour-a-day crises were bound to be part of the package.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to accept delivery of that package. He was only thirty. Admittedly that placed him squarely in the “adult” category, but he wasn’t even married. He had never sworn before God and family to love someone else in sickness and health. How had he gotten stuck with a sick daughter?
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