Second Time's the Charm

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Shaking his head, Jon motioned toward the long piece of fuse protruding from the puddle of accelerant. “It’s your turn,” Jon said.

  A little more than halfway through the semester, the two “old men,” as they’d been dubbed in the freshman chemistry lab, had gained a bit of a reputation for the ingenuity, scale and success of their experiments. Jon’s lab partner, Mark, who’d worked as a forensics safety engineer for years without the title, and who was now in school to get the degree that would allow him to officially work in the field, deserved most of the credit.

  Mark stepped forward, lit the fuse and ducked as a whorl of flame exploded from the puddle, bursting in front of them.

  “Whoops.” Mark wasn’t smiling.

  “Guess our calculations were a little off on this one.”

  “The velocity of the fire was greater than we’d calculated for the amount of polish remover,” Mark said.

  Straight-faced, they looked each other over.

  “No singeing,” Jon declared.

  “Make a note that idiots should not be allowed to play with fire,” Mark said as they stood, watching their piece of window as the fire burned down.

  On the upside, the glass at the five-foot distance crazed—bearing spiderweb-type cracks that would allow arson investigators to determine that the fire had been set by an accelerant and that the glass had been close. The point of their experiment was to help arson investigators determine how long the fire had burned.

  The glass at ten feet did not craze.

  Another correct prediction.

  “Nice experiment, gentlemen.” Professor Wood came up behind them. Several students had found their way to the room at the back of the lab to take a peek.

  “A little less velocity,” Jon said, “and we’d have been perfect.”

  “At least it didn’t burn out of the controlled area, or burn anything other than the intended substance,” Mark added.

  Professor Wood nodded and, without another word, turned and left. “I’ll bet he’ll have some choice words for us when he tells his wife about this one,” Jon said.

  “Is he married?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  Marriage wasn’t something he thought a lot about. Didn’t spend much time thinking about women at all these days. Or he hadn’t until the past twenty-four hours.

  “Abe threw another fit yesterday at the day care,” he offered casually as he and his lab partner set to work cleaning up the mess they’d just created. He had half an hour before he was supposed to meet up with Lillie Henderson to find out what she had to say about his son.

  “Yesterday was Thursday.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought he only threw fits on Saturdays. When you went to work instead of school.”

  Jon had told Mark about the first fit. More than a month before. At work at the cactus jelly plant outside town where Mark, a supervisor, had gotten Jon a job as a janitor. They’d been having lunch.

  He hadn’t seen Mark much at the plant since then. After one of the plant’s machines had broken down and Jon had been able to repair it and get it back up in time to make shipment, he’d been promoted to maintenance engineer. A fancy title for a guy who could fix things.

  “That theory, that his tantrums were the result of an extra day of day care, proved to be false,” Jon admitted.

  Frowning, Mark sprayed water on the metal piece that had held the puddle of accelerant. “You didn’t mention that you’re having more problems with him.”

  Jon shook his head and, with gloved hands, lifted the crazed glass and put it in the trash receptacle. “I’m not,” he said. “Doc says it’s just the terrible twos, and from what I’ve read, we’re getting through it a lot easier than some.”

  The room was half-clean. He had another fifteen minutes before he had to leave.

  He’d pulled on his nicer pair of black jeans that morning and had been thinking about looking responsible, respectable, as he’d buttoned up the oxford shirt and rolled the cuffs to just below his elbows.

  “He’s never had a problem when you leave him with us,” Mark pointed out. The thirty-year-old, together with his fiancée and grandmother, watched Abe one evening a week, giving Jon time to do whatever the hell he pleased.

  Which usually meant homework but he was good with that.

  “Maybe it’s the day care,” Mark offered. “Must be something there upsetting him.”

  “Tantrums are normal. All I have to do is stay calm, not give in to him and this phase will pass. He’s testing his limits.”

  Mark glanced his way for a long minute and then shrugged. “If you say so.”

  His doctor said so. And he trusted his doctor.

  * * *

  JON DIDN’T TRUST Lillie Henderson. He found her attractive. But he didn’t trust her. He didn’t believe in angels. She’d told him that his son was not a discipline problem—Abe followed instructions and got along well with others.

  But she’d said they needed to talk.

  Like Abraham’s terrible twos were different from everyone else’s?

  She’d also said that she’d met Abraham the week before, yet he hadn’t been told about a child expert being called in.

  And that had his mind spinning noises he didn’t like.

  Was someone making charges behind his back? Questioning whether or not Jon—a single guy in his twenties who worked and went to school full-time—was capable of providing for the needs of a two-year-old child?

  Someone outside Shelter Valley?

  Had Lillie been hired by someone other than Bonnie Nielson? Hired in secret by an older woman she wouldn’t ever mention?

  An older woman with enough money to stay at Jon’s back until she got what she wanted?

  The thought could be considered paranoid. He might even be able to convince himself of that if he hadn’t learned the hard way, more than once, about the duplicity of women.

  At least, the women in his life.

  Even then, he wasn’t afraid of the power of the opposite sex. What scared the shit out of him was his own culpability.

  He’d made mistakes. Big ones. He wasn’t kidding himself. His past could be used against him—but only if his present supported the theory that he was still the loser he’d once been.

  Had Lillie been hired to watch him? And his handling of his son? Could Abraham’s crying bouts—and Jon’s ineffectiveness in controlling them—be used against him?

  One thing was for sure, university scholarship or not, he’d leave Shelter Valley immediately if anyone thought they were going to take his son away from him. Clara Abrams could follow him forever and he’d just keep moving one step ahead of her. She was not going to get Abraham.

  Abraham. Named for the mother who didn’t want him, Kate Abrams. Jon’s first mistake as a parent.

  His second had been in offering to let Abe’s maternal grandparents meet their grandson.

  Abraham might not have everything life had to offer—he might not have designer clothes, or a mother who wanted him—but he did have a biological parent who would go to the grave for him.

  Kids needed that.

  And Jon was going to see that Abraham got it.

  He’d learned a thing or three during his years of growing up in a system that didn’t always listen to the children in its care. He’d learned that the best way to find out what was being planned for you was to pretend to cooperate.

  He had to meet Lillie Henderson. He had to appear to agree with her suggestions, whatever they might be—to accept her at face value. He had to pretend he had no suspicions regarding her sudden advent into his life.

  And all the while, he’d be watching his back. His and Abraham’s. And be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

  He’d pack the bag a
gain. The one Kate had helped him pack when she’d come to him over a year ago to tell him that her parents—mainly her mother—were planning to take Abraham away from him. She’d only found out herself in enough time to give him a few hours to skip town.

  He’d played the disappearing act before. He knew the score.

  He’d had to leave another town before Kate had managed to blackmail her mother into leaving him alone.

  But Clara was crafty—her daughter had come by the talent naturally—he’d give her that. She could be on the warpath again.

  After all, as Kate had told him on more than one occasion during the months they’d lived together, Abramses didn’t give up.

  He’d pack the bag. Keep it ready in the closet. He’d put aside enough money to get them by on cash for a while if necessary. With the toddler, he’d need diapers and nonperishable food, too. And a warm blanket.

  His mind spun, plans forming with a familiar clarity.

  Running wasn’t new to Jon.

  He’d just been fool enough to hope it was over.

  * * *

  WITH ONLY A minute to spare to get from the back of the public parking area to the Montford University Student Union, Lillie ran the entire way, thanking her joy of jogging and the serviceable rubber-soled shoes she wore to work for allowing her to sprint half a mile without passing out. She’d texted Jon Swartz, letting him know that she was on her way. She didn’t expect him to leave. She just hated to make people wait.

  Spotting him leaning against the trunk of a paloverde tree, she slowed to a walk and took a second to smooth the blouse and jeans she’d put on when she’d changed out of her stained scrubs twenty minutes before. Her hair, in a ponytail, thankfully was still presentable.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, her breath even as she approached.

  “No problem. I have an hour.”

  Less than that, actually, if he wanted to get to class before it started. At least according to what he’d told her.

  Not that it was her business.

  Nor were those big brown eyes or the ease with which he held his body. The man was...all man.

  And she wasn’t one who generally noticed. Or cared. Except in the most superficial sense.

  She would walk away from this meeting and have nothing more to do with him, except as it pertained to his being Abraham’s father. The little guy had been on her mind all week. She couldn’t shake him. Which meant that she had a job to do.

  “We can walk toward your class if you’d like,” she said, and without a word, he fell into place beside her. Not too close. But closer than he might have if they hadn’t been on a busy campus sidewalk thronging with students heading to and from classes.

  “Bonnie tells me this is your first year at Montford,” she started. She had to get a feel for him if she was going to help him. Her job extended to family support as well as client support. Children needed healthy families.

  “That’s right.”

  He didn’t sound defensive so she continued. “What are you studying?”

  “Premed. I’d like to be a doctor.”

  “So you’d transfer after you get your undergraduate degree?”

  He shrugged, his satchel riding against his denim-clad hip with ease. “I’ve looked at University of Arizona’s medical school in Tucson, but that’s a long way off. My first consideration is Abraham. He’ll be almost six by the time I graduate. I’m not going to uproot him if he’s settled in. I can always go to medical school when he graduates from high school.”

  “So why major in premed?”

  He turned, and she had no explanation for what his brown-eyed gaze did to her. “How much do you know about my situation?”

  “Not much.” Lillie almost missed a step. Something else she didn’t usually do. “I just know that you’re raising Abraham by yourself. And that your son obviously means a lot to you.”

  Jutting his chin, he nodded, his gaze turned in front of them again. His hands in his pockets, he continued to head across campus with the ease of a man who knew where he was going.

  “I know that you work at the cactus jelly plant,” she added, wanting to be completely up front with him. The files of the children enrolled at Little Spirits contained the names of their parents’ employers. “And I know that you live in an apartment not far from my house,” she added. The complex was less than a mile from the home she’d purchased the previous year.

  “That’s more than I know about you.”

  “You’re right, it is. And that can change,” she told him. Her current life was an open book. “I admire what you’re trying to do,” she told him.

  Was that why she couldn’t get the two Swartz men off her mind? Why thoughts of little Abe—and his dad—continued to pop up throughout her day?

  She hardly knew them.

  And here she was pushing services that he clearly didn’t want. Like she needed the work. Which she didn’t.

  Another direct glance from him, and she reminded herself to put herself in his shoes, to seek to understand, to listen and find out what he needed so she would know if there was anything she could do. She was not only well trained, she was experienced.

  And she knew she could help make his job easier. If he’d let her.

  “What exactly is it that you think I’m trying to do?” he asked.

  Students jostled against them on both sides, snippets of their conversations filling the air around them. The sun was uncharacteristically absent overhead. Lillie was aware of her surroundings—and not really. The man beside her was an enigma.

  “Raising your son, getting a degree and working. It’s admirable.”

  “It’s life,” he said. “I fathered a child. I was offered a scholarship—a chance to better myself—and I have to work to buy diapers.”

  “Right. You didn’t have to accept the scholarship.”

  Another glance. Were they growing sharper? “You’re kidding, right? You’d expect me to turn my back on an opportunity to be able to provide my son with more advantages as he grows up?”

  “Of course not! I’m not saying I thought you should have passed it by. I’m saying that many people in your situation wouldn’t have dared to accept the opportunity.”

  “Oh.”

  “Especially since you have to work, too.”

  “The scholarship actually provides living expenses, but only for one. And in addition to Abe’s living expenses, I have to pay extra for the student health benefits that are provided to me to cover my son.”

  “Like I said, I think what you’re doing is admirable.”

  “I don’t want to be admired.”

  She was missing the boat on this one. And running out of time.

  “I want to help you.” Bonnie paid her to help children adapt to day care life. Not to help single fathers raise their children.

  But she knew she could make a difference here. Abe was a motherless baby boy who could benefit from her services and she didn’t care about being paid.

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Hey—” Slowing, she touched his wrist and stepped out of the flow of traffic on the sidewalk. He followed her, standing facing her, both hands in his pockets. “I’m not judging you, Jon.” And then quickly added, “May I call you that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Call me Lillie.”

  “Fine.” He glanced over her shoulder. Presumably at the sidewalk they’d left. He seemed eager to be on his way, but still had time before he was due in class.

  “Have you ever worked with a child life specialist before?”

  “Never heard of one until yesterday.”

  “Which makes you like a lot of people,” she said, offering him the first natural grin she’d felt since their meeting began. “Child life specialists have
college degrees, generally in a child development field. After college, they complete a practicum, followed by an internship, usually at a hospital. Finally they take a national, several-part exam and, upon passing, receive certification. Our goal is to reduce the negative impact of stressful situations on children and on their families. Most commonly, we’re found in hospitals or in the medical field, supporting kids and their families through procedures or long-term illnesses, but we work in schools, with the courts, and even in funeral homes.” She spoke like a parrot in front of a classroom. Not at all like herself.

  And wasn’t happy about that. She’d like to have walked away, to put this man, and his son, out of her life, but something was compelling her to press forward.

  “Abraham’s not sick or in court. He doesn’t go to school and no one’s died that I know of.” Jon started to walk again.

  “You just moved to a new town, a new apartment. You’ve started school and working at a new job. Your situation could be having a negative impact on him.”

  That stopped him.

  “What kind of impact? He’s throwing tantrums like a normal two-year-old.”

  She shook her head. “That’s just it. He’s not. Other than his bouts of panic, Abraham is probably the most well-behaved two-year-old I’ve ever met. His tantrums don’t seem to be a product of testing his boundaries like you’d normally see at his age. They aren’t temper related. He doesn’t throw tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. He doesn’t have problems sharing. To the contrary, he lets the other children take things from him. His tantrums appear to be emotionally based. A symptom of stress, as opposed to part of his normal development process.”

  “Are you suggesting that I quit work? Or school?”

  “What I’m trying to suggest, Mr. Swartz—” Jon just didn’t do it “—is that you let me help you. Or at least let me try.”

  She’d never pursued a client before. Why was she doing so now?

  Her schedule was kept plenty full with the clinic and Bonnie and the school, and the once-or-twice-a-year call from the local funeral home.

  “How can you help?” He didn’t slow down. Or look at her. She wasn’t sure if he was just humoring her or not.