Her tone was accusatory, but Therese didn’t chastise her. If Keegan was sole caretaker of his daughter for the time being, he did need the practice.
Mariah stirred again when they made the transfer, then sank against Keegan with a soft sigh, her lashes fluttering shut. She seemed so peaceful, though that would probably change if she opened those big brown eyes and saw whose arms cradled her.
With a Good night directed to the room in general, Abby went down the hall. For the first time in a long time, she took the stairs quietly. No stomping, no rattling the pictures on the wall, no slamming the bedroom door. It was heavenly.
Therese lifted her coffee cup, realized it was empty, and set it down again. It was too late for more caffeine. She pushed the cup away, then leaned back in the seat. “What is Sabrina’s story? Did she need me time, too?”
The question increased Keegan’s uneasiness. It couldn’t be easy having a casual conversation about the woman who’d abandoned his daughter. Though Paul had been thrilled to have his kids living with him again, he’d never gotten over wanting to strangle Catherine for hurting them like that.
“I don’t know,” Keegan said at last. “I haven’t seen her in a long time. Right after she told me she was pregnant, she moved out. Moved on. Then a month ago, a social worker contacted me. Said she’d dropped off Mariah at day care and never came back. I was listed as Mariah’s emergency contact, so…”
So Sabrina had been fine with Keegan before the pregnancy but had moved out after. Had she had an affair? Suspected the baby wasn’t his? Or had she decided he was fine for a fling but not father or family material?
Despite his awkwardness, he was clearly both father and family material. Considering Mariah hadn’t been in his life long, and had entered it under stressful circumstances, he wasn’t doing badly. He was learning.
Though it meant nothing, Therese saw no resemblance between the two. His hair was much darker, his eyes blue, his jaw squarer, his nose stronger. Not a single feature suggested they were related. Had he noticed that? Did he wonder?
“She’s a beautiful girl.”
“When she’s not screaming.”
“Even when. Abby put on the ugliest face this morning, and I thought, ‘Darn, she’s gorgeous even when she’s trying to be ugly.’” Therese chuckled. “They both look like angels. Maybe their halos are a little crooked, but still angels.”
Keegan gazed at Mariah for a moment, then looked up again. Some of the stress that had lined his face when she’d opened the door had eased. It warmed her that simply being there could make an evening easier for someone else.
Following his lead, she studied Mariah, too, and some bit of longing eased out of the dark places she hid it. She’d always wanted kids—had loved the idea of getting pregnant, her body changing, nurturing another life inside her that would mean more to her than her own life. She’d anticipated all the milestones: the positive test. The first ultrasound. Labor. Birth. One-month, two-month, three-month birthdays. First Easter, Halloween, Christmas, first day at school…
Paul had shared her desire. He’d loved Abby and Jacob so much and wanted two more, maybe even four. But they’d waited. Waited for his deployment to Iraq to end, waited to get settled at his new duty station, waited for the kids to adjust to the idea of living with them, waited for the deployment to Afghanistan to end.
Waited too long, it had turned out.
Too long for them. Not too long for her. She was only thirty-four. Even if she gave up the notion of sending the kids back to Catherine, she would still be young enough to get pregnant once Abby had gone to college. If she was lucky.
“I missed the baby parts,” she said wistfully. “Jacob was two and Abby four when Paul and I got married. They’d already outgrown sleepers and diapers and cribs and cuddlies and rocking to sleep and bottles and pacifiers.”
With her cupid’s bow mouth slightly opened, Mariah made a soft, steady sound that didn’t quite qualify for snoring. Keegan smoothed a curl back from her face with one fingertip, and Therese watched, fascinated by the gesture, so sweet, so touching.
“It’d be easier if we’d met when she was born, I guess,” he said.
“Or with her mama there to smooth the way.” Therese waited a long time, then took a breath and asked, “Are you going to keep her at some point or let your mother raise her?”
He stroked that curl again a time or two before finally meeting her gaze. “I don’t know.”
It was a simple, honest answer, and it made perfect sense. He was single. In the Army. Worked long hours. Was likely to get orders back to the desert or wherever the next conflict broke out. Could be moved anywhere in the world at the Army’s whim.
Raising a child in that environment was a job for two people. There would be times when he couldn’t be home for Mariah no matter how hard he tried. He needed his mother’s help.
Unless he married. Unless he found a woman who didn’t mind raising another woman’s child, with a family who could welcome that child wholeheartedly. Therese’s own parents were sweet and affectionate with Abby and Jacob, but they didn’t love them the way they would if she had given birth to them. They didn’t feel that blood-of-their-blood bond with them.
How could they when Therese had never quite been able to form it herself?
Just one more way that stupid dream of a happy, loving, blended family had failed her.
One more way she’d failed the kids.
“I think it’s time to go. You’ve got dishes to do, and my arm’s going to sleep.”
She smiled, though she was willing to sit there a few more hours in exchange for the peace—and Keegan’s company. “Take my advice,” she said as she stood up. “If she doesn’t wake up on the way to the motel, just let her sleep. Change her clothes and bathe her in the morning.”
He eased to his feet, his grimace making the movement appear awkward. “Yeah, I kind of figured that. Tonight’s not the night for new experiences of the Mariah sort.”
A soft laugh escaped Therese. “Which have you never done—bathed her or changed her clothes?”
“Neither.”
“Oh, Daddy, you are in so much trouble.”
“I don’t suppose you’d have time before school…” He looked so hopeful as they walked down the hall that she couldn’t help laughing again.
“Only if I brought a video camera to tape it.”
When he turned at the door, he was scowling good-naturedly. He would do fine with Mariah. It might take a few days, and he’d probably lose more than one battle, but eventually…
“I’m glad you came over.” She bent close to brush a kiss to Mariah’s cheek and whispered, “Good night, sweetie.”
When she straightened, she was closer to Keegan than she realized. Close enough that she wouldn’t have to lean more than an inch or two to brush a kiss to his cheek. Close enough to do a whole lot more than that.
Primly she backed away and opened the door, keeping the solid wood between them. “If you survive tomorrow, why don’t you come over for dinner?”
“Thanks for the boost of confidence.”
“I don’t boost confidence, but I do make delicious baby back ribs, baked beans, and sweet corn salad.”
“I make the best baby back ribs in the entire history of the Logan-Dupree families. Just saying.”
She followed him out onto the porch, where the night breeze sent a cooling rush through her. “I doubt they meet the standards of the Matheson-Wheeler families, but I’ll loan you my kitchen and/or grill sometime, and we can find out.”
“What time should I come, and what should I bring?”
“Six. Yourself and Mariah.”
“It’s a date.” He carried Mariah down the steps and past Therese’s van to his car, bending on the passenger side to fasten her into the child seat in the rear. When he came back around to the driver’s side, he waved.
She returned the wave, then went inside. She wouldn’t stand on the porch like a lovesick teenager and
watch until he’d driven out of sight. And no matter what he said, tomorrow’s dinner wasn’t a date. It was two friends getting together with their families for dinner because that was what friends did. Two friends with a boy and two very loud girls between them was as far from a date as possible.
Still, as she began loading dishes into the dishwasher, she found herself softly repeating, “It’s a date.”
* * *
When Jessy’s alarm went off Thursday morning, it was louder and more obnoxious than usual. Mumbling curses—Thursdays always came too soon in the week for her—she blindly felt for it on the nightstand, stabbed the button to silence it, and was just sinking back into the pillows when the noise sounded again.
It wasn’t the alarm, but the damn cell phone. God, who knew a ringtone could destroy her brain as effectively as a dozen bulldozers? Eyes still closed, she fumbled until she found it, propping it against her ear. “H’lo.”
“Jessy, where are you?” a woman’s voice whispered loudly. “Mrs. Dauterive is looking for you because you’re an hour late!”
It was Julia. From the bank. And she was whispering because that old hag of a supervisor was somewhere around causing trouble. But why was Julia at work so early in the morning? And why was she—
“An hour late?” Jessy’s eyes opened wide and she rolled to her side to see the clock. It was 9:08. The sight made her pop up as if on springs. Her alarm should have gone off at a quarter to seven; she should have left the apartment an hour later. Lord, what was she doing still in bed?
“Get over here fast as you can!” Julia hissed, then abruptly her tone turned sweet. “Not a problem, Mrs. Hitchens. I’m happy I could help.”
As the line went dead, Jessy dropped her phone on the bed, swung her feet to the floor, and stood…and immediately swayed with a bout of nausea. She clamped her hand to her mouth and took a cautious step toward the bathroom, then another.
The reflection in the mirror wasn’t too horrible. A sniff test showed she could skip the shower, the upright tufts of her hair could be tamed with a dunk under the faucet, and a good scrubbing would take care of the roadkill taste in her mouth. As far as covering the shadows under her eyes, well, she usually spent a good chunk of each paycheck on cosmetics that worked wonders for the under-rested and hung-over.
Too bad they couldn’t remind her of what she’d done last night. A few drinks—that was a given. But where? When? With whom? Nothing in the apartment gave her a clue, and her brain…Even as it came slowly to life, thanks to blood flow, sticking her head in cold water, and downing a cup of strong java, the place where last night’s memories were stored remained one big blank.
She worried the thought as she hustled down the stairs and along the sidewalk, swilling her second cup of coffee faster than she was taking in breath. She remembered getting off work at five. She’d laughed with Julia on their way out, then she’d headed toward the apartment. She had been tempted into a detour, though, walking the extra blocks to CaraCakes Bakery, carrying home the distinctive pink-and-black box filled with a variety of single-serving desserts. And then…
Then nothing. But there’d been no sign of the CaraCakes box in the kitchen when she’d made coffee.
She was through the first set of glass doors before she turned her thoughts to Mrs. Dauterive. The woman loved displays of authority, and she never believed anyone’s explanations for why they were late. At least, not Jessy’s. Granted, Jessy’s were usually lies. Still, should she build on the tale from Monday about a sick father and a worried mother?
Inside she bypassed her desk and went straight to the boss’s office. It was one thing to behave casually when she was a few minutes late, but more than an hour required remorse.
She tapped lightly at the open door, then stepped inside. “Hi. I know.” She raised one hand to stave off the woman’s usual You’re late. “I am so sorry. I’ve been having trouble sleeping, so I took something last night and slept right through my alarm.” It was true on the surface: either she’d eaten herself into a CaraCakes stupor or she’d drunk herself into a Patrón stupor. Either way, she really had slept through the alarm.
Mrs. Dauterive stared at her so long that she fidgeted. The woman’s expression was severe, but there was something in it, something…searching. Like she knew Jessy hadn’t told her everything and if she just looked hard enough, she could find the truth.
Finally she broke the silence. “Perhaps you should get some help for your…sleeping problem.”
That hesitation tightened the muscles in Jessy’s neck. Mrs. Dauterive couldn’t possibly know about her personal problems. They never saw each other outside the bank. They didn’t have any friends in common. All she could do was doubt the veracity of her excuses.
Jessy swallowed, forced a smile, and said, “You’re right. I should. It won’t happen again.”
Keeping the smile in place by sheer force of will, she went to her desk and logged on to the computer. But the smile on the outside couldn’t keep the worries quiet inside. There was a name for when a person lost a whole chunk of time—blackouts—and it wasn’t a good sign.
How could she go about discovering her movements for the previous evening? Call friends, hint at whether she’d been with them? Stop in at CaraCakes at lunch and see if she’d mentioned anything to the clerk about her plans for the evening? Call the bars around town?
Silently she snorted. Oh, yeah, there was an easy task. She could start with Bubba’s out on the edge of town, her most frequent hangout. Buddy Watson’s was just a few blocks from the bank. TwoSteps, Jammerz, and Yellow Moon were all within walking distance of her apartment. Then there were all the restaurants that served liquor, dives she wouldn’t be caught dead in—assuming she knew what she was doing—and liquor stores every few blocks.
Hell, she could have met some stranger on the street and gone home with him, or shared a bottle with someone in the front seat of his car. She could have been anywhere, doing anything. Including in her own damn apartment drinking from her own damn bottle.
So she’d lost a few hours of her evening. It’d been Wednesday. Nothing important ever happened on Wednesday. It was no big deal. She was just overreacting.
But the nerves knotted in her stomach showed no sign of easing anytime soon.
Chapter 9
Keegan had followed Therese’s advice, putting Mariah to bed on the sofa without changing her into pajamas. He’d tucked a stuffed alligator into her arms, then covered her with a quilt his mom had sewn for her, and then he’d sat, all the lights off but one, and watched her sleep for two hours before finally crawling into his own bed.
Now she stood beside the bed, hair sticking straight up on the left side, two fingers stuck in her mouth, and watched him as intently as he’d watched her last night. He pushed himself up to sit with the headboard against his back and said, “Hey.”
“Potty,” she said, or at least that was what he guessed. The fingers made the sounds hard to distinguish.
Hell. As he shoved back the covers, last night’s conversation replayed in his head. Abby: I wouldn’t know what to do.
Jacob’s laugh. Crap, even I know that.
Keegan had never taken a little kid to the bathroom before. It had to be easier with a girl than a boy: just set her on the commode, right? Nothing to aim. In the years since joining the Army, he’d learned to do all kinds of things he’d never imagined before.
When he was standing, he started to pick up Mariah, but she backpedaled out of his reach, spun, and walked into the bathroom on her own. He switched on the light, then looked at her. Okay, at least she was wearing a dress, so no need to remove that. Just lift it and pull her underwear down, set her on the seat, wait…He could do it.
He set her on the commode, then took a few steps to the bathtub, intending to turn the water on to heat for her bath, but a splash sounded before he’d even reached the knob, and a wail filled the room.
He turned back to find Mariah wedged partway through the toilet sea
t, her face scrunched up, her fingers clenching the rim, her feet in the air. Along with the tears, to say nothing of the shock of having her butt plunged into cold water, she was giving him a look that could kill.
“Sorry, Mariah. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—” Grabbing her under the arms, he jerked her up, then, unsure what to do with her, set her on her feet in the sink.
She continued to cry, adding to the mix hiccups and a mournful sound. “Celly, Celly, Celly.” It was her name for his mother, since he hadn’t wanted her calling Ercella any version of grandmother. He’d thought it would somehow be harder on Ercella when Mariah left, but he knew now it couldn’t get any harder.
He turned on the bath, shoved the plug in, then began undoing the ridiculously small buttons on the back of her dress. “Celly’s not here, Mariah. Shh. There’s no need to get louder. I’m gonna give you a bath and put some clean clothes on, then we’ll get something to eat, okay, and everything will be better, I promise. Just—just don’t scream.”
Of course she screamed.
His mother always acted like bath time was fun time, playtime, but it’d been a lie. Mariah fought him on getting her dress off. She kicked him when he picked up her naked little body and set her in the tub. She climbed out when he turned to get the shampoo and body wash Ercella had sent. She screamed so loud it made the small enclosure vibrate and sliced a sharp wedge into his brain. When shampoo got in her eyes, she screamed even louder, and when he was soaked to the skin and she was clean and relatively free of suds, she leaned forward, lowered her head, and puked in the water.
God help him.
He drained the tub and started the process again, and she didn’t like it any better the second time around. The only good thing was she skipped the vomiting.
After wrapping her in towels that seemed skimpy for the job, he carried her into the bedroom in time to hear his cell ring.
“They just took your brother to surgery,” Ercella said before he could even say hello. “They think he’s going to be okay, though he took an awful hard hit to the head.”
A Man to Hold on to (A Tallgrass Novel) Page 15
