The elder Henderson kept his son on a tight budget. For Kirk’s own good, Lillie had discovered.
“Braydon’s medical bills are going to be exorbitant,” she said. “We’ll have co-pays.”
His upper lip puckered. “Do you really think it’s wise to run up bills when the doctor says there’s no hope? Why put ourselves in debt, or put him through all kinds of tests, if there’s nothing they can do?”
“Until he has the tests, we don’t know for sure that there’s nothing they can do.”
This was her field of expertise now. She spent her days advocating for and providing for the needs of children who were suffering in a long-term care unit at one of Phoenix’s largest children’s hospitals. She was there during treatments, to see that the patient suffered as little as possible, to make certain that environments were best suited to the comfort of the child. To be soothing when pain was impossible to avoid.
But with her degree, she was qualified to work in schools, in the court system, even at funeral homes to help children cope with the trauma of losing loved ones. She was trained to make sure that everything possible was done for the good of the children. Her own included.
With a heavy sigh, Kirk stood, hands in his pockets again, his mostly untouched drink on the table.
“You haven’t said anything about me moving in with Leah.”
“I don’t want you home with me if you don’t want to be there.”
“You’re okay with it, then?”
“No, Kirk, I’m not okay with my husband moving in with his pregnant lover,” she said, her shaky voice evidence that she must be feeling something. She stood, too. “How could I possibly be okay with that?” she asked, tears in her eyes as she finally faced him. Stood up to him.
“I’m also not foolish enough to believe anymore that you want me or our marriage, and I know that you always get what you want.”
That didn’t come out as she’d meant it to. “I...don’t want you in my home wishing you were with someone else. Thinking about someone else.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry, Lillie.”
She believed him.
And two months later, on the day Braydon breathed his last, she filed for divorce.
CHAPTER TWO
Present day
JON SWARTZ KNEW everyone in the room was looking at him—with horror not admiration. He might have cared. If his heart hadn’t been fully engaged with his red-faced little man. Two-year-old Abe was clearly not planning to have a good time at day care that Thursday in October. The boy’s screams had reached at least eighty decibel levels—a feat even for him.
“Noooooo!” The shrieks were continuous.
Jon, struggling to pry his son’s small but surprisingly strong arms from their locked position around his neck, was speaking continuously, as well. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.” But he was fairly certain that Abraham Elias Swartz couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t even hear himself.
Pumpkins bearing smiling faces hung on the walls around them. A larger lit up jack-o’-lantern sat on the counter behind which sat a young woman with a frown on her face. Four women with various-aged children stood in front of him.
“It’s okay, son,” Jon said again.
He had to be at work in less than an hour and could not afford to be late. Jobs with flexible hours for students who were also single parents in a town as small as Shelter Valley were not easy to come by.
Holding on to Abe’s butt and back with one arm, he reached up to pull his son’s hands down from his neck with the other—disengaging the death grip without bruising the toddler’s tender skin.
“Abie baby, let go. Daddy wants to talk to you,” he said directly into his son’s ear.
“Nooooo!”
Tears soaked Jon’s neck. He knelt down, putting the boy’s feet on the floor.
“Noooo!” Abe picked his feet back up, kicking as Jon tried to take hold of one of the boy’s ankles and put his foot back on the floor.
What in the hell was he going to do?
When he’d first brought Abe to Little Spirits Day Care a couple of months before, his little guy had whimpered a bit, but he’d been happily engrossed in playing before Jon had made it to the door.
“Noooo!” A tennis shoe caught him in the groin, taking Jon’s breath away. Abe’s red short-sleeved shirt had come loose from the beige cargo pants he’d chosen from his drawer that morning and the skin on Jon’s arm was sticking to his son’s sweat-slicked back.
“Abraham,” he spoke again in the boy’s ear as soon as the pain in his lower region dissipated enough to allow conversation. He spoke more firmly this time. As firm as Jon got. “Daddy has to go and you have to stay. It’s not negotiable.”
Abraham kicked. And wailed.
Jon picked him back up, encased once again in a death grip.
“Let’s go in here.” A female voice sounded from just beside him.
An angel’s voice?
With a hand on his elbow, a jeans-clad woman led him through a door off the day care reception room—a door that had been closed every other time he’d been there.
Abraham quit kicking and screaming long enough to look around.
“Hey, little guy.” The woman’s smile was warm, her tone nurturing, as she offered a finger toward Abe’s hand.
The boy snatched his hand into his chest and whined—a sure sign that more histrionics were on their way.
“My name’s Lillie.” The beautiful, long-haired brunette who’d rescued them from the day care lineup apparently hadn’t received Abe’s imminent tantrum memo.
“Noooo!” Abraham said, the word breaking on a wail. Jon would be damned glad when his son’s vocabulary progressed beyond the three or four words he’d been using clearly to express himself over the past six months. Even a slight progression, a one-word addition—yes—would be nice.
“The itsy bitsy spider climbed up...”
The woman started to sing. Abraham’s cries were building back up to full force—and the strange woman was singing.
Standing in the small room with a cluttered desk and a couple of chairs, Jon had no idea what to do. Who the woman was. Or if he should have automatically followed her just because she’d told him to do so. At least in here Abe wasn’t upsetting the other kids.
The toddler’s fingers were digging into Jon’s neck as Abe engaged in full-out wailing.
The woman continued to sing. Her voice was good. He’d give her that. And rising in decibels equal to Abe’s. But...
“Down came the rain and...”
Abe stilled long enough to turn around and look at Looney Lillie.
“Out came the sun and...” Her volume lowered but she didn’t miss a beat.
The toddler stared at the strange woman. Jon did, too. Who the hell was she?
Jon had never seen her before. But she had the most compelling violet-blue eyes.
“Climbed up the spout again.”
Letting go of Jon’s neck Abraham pinched his little fingers together on both hands and, holding them out in front of him, twisted them together.
“That’s right,” Lillie said, matching her thumb and index fingers from opposite hands and switching them back and forth in a crawling motion. She started to sing again.
Abraham watched her, his little fingers moving. By the time the song was done he was sitting calmly on Jon’s hip—looking around as though waiting for the adults in the room to figure out what they were doing so he could get on with his day.
“Thank you.” Jon didn’t know what else to say.
Lillie smiled, rolling up the sleeves of her white oxford. “Abe and I met last week,” she said. “Didn’t we, buddy?”
Abe stared.
The slender woman, only a few inches shorter than Jon’s
six-foot height, held out her hand.
“I’m Lillie Henderson.”
“Jon Swartz,” he said, meeting her gesture with his free hand. And...getting a stab to his gut. It had been too long since he’d touched a woman’s skin. In any capacity. “You work here?”
“Yes and no.” The woman’s smile was unwavering. And all-encompassing. He just didn’t have time to fall under her spell as his son had done. He had to get to work.
“I’m a freelance child life specialist,” she said, as though he knew what that meant. “I have a small office at the clinic in town, as they pay the largest part of my salary and take up the brunt of my time, but I work out here at the day care and with some other private clients in the field, as well.”
“In the field?” He didn’t have time to be ignorant, either.
“Doctors’ offices outside of the clinic, the funeral home, schools. I go anyplace a child might need support getting through trauma.”
He nodded. And noticed that the entire time she’d been talking, she’d been softly rubbing the top of Abe’s hand.
“You ready to come with me and play for a while?” she asked the boy, switching her focus from father to son without missing a beat.
Prepared for the next onslaught, Jon tensed. And felt his son lean toward the arms outstretched in front of him. Without so much as a peep, the little boy made the switch from Jon’s arms to Lillie’s.
Acting as though he and Abraham had intercessions from heaven every day, Jon nodded and slid his free hands into the pockets of his jeans. Did he just leave now?
The woman, Lillie, was running a finger along Abe’s lower lip. “Let’s see if we can find you some juice, shall we?” she asked, and as the toddler nodded, she turned and headed through a door on the opposite side of the office leading into the day care. Just before the door closed behind her, she glanced over her shoulder at Jon, winked and was gone.
With no time left to spare, Jon hurried out to the front desk, confirmed that Lillie Henderson was permitted to have physical custody of his son and left.
But not before making one very clear determination.
He had to see her again.
* * *
LILLIE PULLED INTO the parking lot of the Shelter Valley Clinic a little past three on Thursday afternoon. She was early. Bailey Wright’s blood work wasn’t scheduled until four, but she wanted to make certain she was there to greet the six-year-old when her mother brought her in.
Bailey’s doctor suspected the little girl might be anemic and the six-year-old was deathly afraid of needles. Lillie’s job was to explain the blood draw procedure to the little girl in nonthreatening, nonfrightening terms―the pinch and pressure she would feel―and then to support her through the procedure, distracting her from anything and everything that upset her.
If Bailey tensed, the procedure would hurt. Lillie was there to see that the child stayed relaxed.
Her cell phone rang and she answered immediately, as always. “Lillie Henderson, can I help you?”
“Ms. Henderson, Bonnie Nielson gave me your number.” Bonnie, the owner of Little Spirits Day Care, had her permission to pass out all of her contact information. “This is Jon Swartz. You helped my son, Abraham, this morning.”
The gorgeous guy who’d had his ass whupped by a two-year-old.
“Yes, Mr. Swartz.” She and Bonnie had talked about Jon and Abe over lunch. Bonnie thought Lillie could help the single dad. Lillie wanted to try. For Abe’s sake. “Thanks for calling.”
“I owe you a huge thank-you,” the man said. “Abe’s going through a rough time with separation anxiety right now, but his pediatrician says it’s all part of the terrible twos. He assures me we’ll get through it.”
“Of course you will.” Grabbing her bag, she locked her car and, entrance card in hand and ready to swipe, headed toward the service door at the back of the clinic.
“I just didn’t want you to think he’s like that all the time.”
The man was on the defensive, she ascertained, distracted by the even timbre of his voice when she should have been 100 percent focused on his son’s issues.
“I’ve seen Abraham a couple of times over the past week,” she assured the harried father who, in all fairness, sounded completely calm. “He’s a very sweet, responsive boy,” she added, because it was true. “Except when he’s, as you say, exhibiting anxiety.”
“Usually he’s a prince,” Jon Swartz said as though they had all the time in the world, which she didn’t. Curiously, she didn’t tell him so. “He does whatever I ask of him.”
“He’s not a discipline problem at the day care, either, if that’s what’s concerning you. He does what he’s told, when he’s told. He doesn’t have altercations with the other children. But he has been experiencing seemingly inexplicable moments of extreme anxiety.”
Tantrums that in no way seemed to be a result of temper upsets. And because, a couple of times, they’d happened in the middle of the day, she wasn’t sure they were separation related, either.
“Mrs. Nielson suggested that I call you. She says that, as part of your work for her, she asked you to observe Abraham. She says you’re certified at what you do. And I need to know, do you think my son has a problem?”
“I think he’s struggling and I’d like to help, Mr. Swartz.” Holding her phone with one hand while she swiped her card and quickly pulled open the door with the other, Lillie lowered her voice in deference to the office suites opening up off both sides of the hallway.
From a therapeutic masseuse to an orthopedic surgeon, a dentist, several general practitioners, counseling services and three pediatricians, the Shelter Valley Clinic was home to more than forty health care professionals—including Lillie.
“I’d like a chance to speak with you. Is there a time we could meet?” she asked the father who’d been on her mind for much the day.
“With or without Abraham?”
“Without would be best, but either is fine. I understand that you don’t have a lot of free time. I will make myself available to fit your schedule. Early morning, late evening...”
She didn’t mind the long hours. She didn’t mind time off, either.
“I’m a little in the dark here about what we have to discuss.”
She’d reached the small room designated for Bailey’s procedure and had to go. Had to get the room ready for Bailey. She didn’t have time to explain what she, as a child life specialist, did.
“I’m trained to help little ones deal with anxiety—from trauma, separation or even just the stress inherent in learning to share. I’m at the day care a few hours every week, and Bonnie calls me in more when she thinks I can help. She’s noticed Abraham’s escalating stress in your absence and asked me to observe him. I have some ideas where he’s concerned,” she said, still on the phone when she shouldn’t be. Pulling stuffed animals out of her bag, she placed them around the room.
“You want to talk professionally?”
“Yes.” Her work was her life. Professional was pretty much all she was. The purple bear with the heart on his chest toppled over and she righted him.
“I can’t afford another bill right now. If he’s sick or exhibiting some symptoms that concern you, I’ll get him to his pediatrician immediately.”
“I don’t think your son is sick.” She was fumbling this entire conversation. Which wasn’t like her at all. “I’m talking about observations, not symptoms...” Placing the portable music player in a corner of the room, she scrolled through songs until she found the lullaby she wanted—soft, soothing.
“...and Bonnie pays for my services,” she added. Occasionally she took on private clients, but she made most of her money from the clinic, which used her services on behalf of its young patients. Shelter Valley schools called her in on occasion. And she got the weekly stip
end from Little Spirits, too, but only because Bonnie wouldn’t let her work there without pay. Lillie had more than one client that she’d helped on a pro bono basis. And that was nobody’s business.
Turned out Jerry Henderson, Kirk’s father, had had different ideas than his son regarding Kirk’s mistress, Leah. And Lillie, Kirk’s wife. Lillie’s divorce settlement had been generous.
Which was nobody’s business, either.
Lillie could hear voices at the end of the hall. It sounded like Bailey’s mother.
“I have to go right now, Mr. Swartz. But I’d love to talk more if you’re interested.”
“I’ll be at the university in the morning,” he said. “I have a break between classes from nine until ten. We could meet there if you’re free.”
She had a procedure at the clinic at eight. And another, a PICC change for a little preemie who’d been released from a hospital in Tucson, at ten-thirty. “I’ll do my best,” she told him. She could make the date if the procedure at eight happened on time and without problems, and if she left the university by a quarter to ten.
Arranging to meet him outside the student center at nine, or to call him if she couldn’t, Lillie shoved her phone into the pocket of her rainbow-colored scrub top just as an extremely frightened-looking blonde sprite came hesitantly around the corner.
A genuine smile on her face, Lillie moved toward the girl and took Bailey’s small hand in hers. She spent the next half hour engrossed in the six-year-old’s trauma and doing everything she could to make the experience better for her.
Bailey made it through without shedding a tear.
CHAPTER THREE
“GOGGLES ON,” JON said as he stood back from the apparatus he and his lab partner, Mark Heber, had just built inside a safety-glass room at Montford University. If all went well they would soon know how quickly glass would craze when set five feet from a fire started by nail polish remover, and if, in the same amount of time, the same type of standard window glass would craze from a ten-foot distance.
“On,” Mark said, grinning as he joined Jon. “Light the fuse.”
Second Time's the Charm Page 2
