by Kara Lennox
“I don’t, and he’s not a boyfriend. Just a friend. Acquaintance, really.” But she couldn’t rule out that he might become more.
* * *
“COME ON, MACKENZIE, don’t cry,” Eric pleaded as he pulled out of the school parking lot. The school nurse had called him a few minutes ago with the news that MacKenzie was sick, and someone needed to pick her up. She’d started throwing up and was running a slight fever.
The nurse had said some stomach bug was going around, but that didn’t stop Eric from a slight sense of panic he struggled to tamp down. He knew childhood illnesses were a normal part of growing up and that whatever she had, it would probably run its course in a day or two. But MacKenzie had always been so healthy, at least physically. As a toddler, MacKenzie would remain completely unaffected even when both Tammy and Eric came down with colds or flu or viruses. While in prison, he’d gotten regular progress reports on MacKenzie from his brother, and Travis had not once in three years mentioned that the little girl had suffered so much as a sniffle. The kid had the immune system of a rhinoceros.
Eric had tried to contact Elena and ask her to pick up MacKenzie. His sister-in-law had been incredibly helpful watching MacKenzie after school, but she was also helping Travis to organize and expand his construction business, and this afternoon she wasn’t answering her phone. She was probably driving and wouldn’t check her messages until she arrived. Eric had realized he would have to pick up MacKenzie himself despite an important meeting scheduled for three o’clock—fifteen minutes from now.
He had a sofa in his office, he reasoned. If he could persuade MacKenzie to take a nap, the meeting could go on as scheduled. Eric and the foundation’s CPA needed to review some tax documents relating to the building owned by Project Justice, and since real-estate law was Eric’s area of expertise, it wasn’t a task he could dump on any of the other lawyers.
“My stomach hurts!” MacKenzie complained.
“I know, pumpkin. We’ll get you some medicine as soon as we get to my office.” One of the cabinets in the break room was filled with any over-the-counter remedy anyone could want, including pain relievers, first-aid cream, antacid and—thank God—Pepto-Bismol. The nurse had said to try that first.
Please don’t throw up in the car.
“I wanna go home,” MacKenzie wailed. “I want Elena.”
“Elena is working today, so you’ll have to make do with me.”
That only made her cry harder.
MacKenzie had been elated when Eric was freed from prison. For the first few days, she’d wanted him to hold her constantly. Although she’d been only three when they’d been torn apart, he represented security to her.
But she’d been in love with the idea of him more than the actual man he was. Although he tried, he wasn’t the same man she’d known as her daddy. Prison, not to mention losing his wife in such a horrifying way, had changed him. Sometimes his mind went to dark places, places MacKenzie couldn’t go.
Elena, so gentle and loving and great with kids, had quickly bonded with her niece, and all three of them—Elena, Travis and Eric—had done everything they could to give her the love and security and understanding she’d been lacking.
Was she starting to see Elena as a mother figure? Because there was danger in that way of thinking. They wouldn’t live with Elena and Travis for much longer. Soon he would have to find a place of their own so that Travis and Elena could get on with the business of being newlyweds. Neither of them had said a word, but if he were in Travis’s shoes, he would want some privacy with his new bride.
MacKenzie was still sobbing softly as Eric carried her through the garage entrance, juggling his magnetic key card and entering the security code. His meeting was in five minutes.
He was still trying to figure out the logistics of caring for his daughter and meeting with the CPA when he entered the break room, intent on finding medicine for nausea. He skidded to a stop. Was he hallucinating?
Bree was sitting at a table drinking coffee and chatting with Jillian.
“Oh, you’re back.” Bree looked surprised to see him, which didn’t make much sense, since she’d come to his place of business. Then he realized her surprise had to do with the bundle of sick little girl in his arms, because her attention was focused squarely on the child rather than him.
“I happened to spot Bree in the lobby a few minutes ago,” Jillian said. “You weren’t in. I thought she’d be more comfortable waiting here for you.”
“Hey, MacKenzie.” Bree’s voice was all soft concern. “What are you doing here?”
MacKenzie hid her face against her father’s neck.
“She’s sick. I just picked her up from school.”
“And you brought her here?”
“I have a meeting in two minutes.” He walked past Bree, set MacKenzie on the counter and opened the first-aid cabinet. “It’s important. I just came in here to get some— This stuff.” He showed her the pink bottle.
“You can’t take a sick child to a meeting,” Bree reasoned. “Give her to me. I’ll take care of her and you go do your lawyer thing. If I can’t find proper medicine and whatnot in here, I have a doctor’s bag in my car.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea....” Foisting MacKenzie off on an almost-stranger when she was sick?
“Oh, don’t be such a helicopter dad,” Jillian said. “Your kid couldn’t be in safer hands. I mean, Bree’s a doctor, after all.”
“True, but—”
“She’ll be fine,” Bree said with easy confidence. “Won’t you, MacKenzie?”
MacKenzie had stopped crying, at least for the moment. She’d stuck her thumb in her mouth and was contemplating this new threat. Normally Eric fussed at her when she sucked her thumb, but he’d cut her some slack today.
“How about it, MacKenzie?” Eric found a clean spoon and poured some of the pink liquid into it. “Okay if Dr. Bree looks after you for a few minutes?”
MacKenzie’s eyes widened with alarm. Mutely she shook her head. Eric held the spoon in front of her face, but she pressed her lips together and shook her head again.
“Come on, pumpkin, the medicine will make you feel better.”
In reply, she looked straight at Eric and vomited.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“OH, HELL!” ERIC just stood there holding the spoonful of medicine. He had no idea what to do. All he could think of was that hideous scene from The Exorcist.
Bree calmly grabbed a wad of paper towels and started mopping up the mess on MacKenzie’s shirt. “Poor baby, you really aren’t feeling well, are you?”
MacKenzie shook her head, watching Bree suspiciously.
Bree felt the child’s forehead. “She’s running a temperature, I think. Has she taken anything?”
“The school nurse gave her some Children’s Tylenol.”
“Okay. Hopefully that’ll kick in pretty soon.”
“What else should I do?” he asked.
“Nothing right now. Go on to your meeting,” Bree said. “I’ve got this covered.”
“No, really, you don’t have to—”
“I deal with this every day,” she said, cutting off his lame protest. “Go.” Bree deftly placed herself between MacKenzie and her father so the little girl wouldn’t see him leave.
But Eric couldn’t skulk away like that. Bree might think that was a good idea, but MacKenzie wouldn’t. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” Even if he had to get up in the middle of the meeting, he would keep his word. He handed the spoon to Jillian, who had remained sitting at the table watching with barely disguised amusement.
“Hey, how did I get involved in this?” Jillian objected.
MacKenzie didn’t disappoint. The second Eric started for the door, she began crying. “Daddy! Daddy, no!”
Bree looked over her shoulder. “Go,” she mouthed.
Eric left. As he walked down the hall to the conference room, he decided he was a terrible father. And he would owe Bree big after this.
* * *
MACKENZIE STOPPED CRYING thirty seconds after her father left, as Bree knew she would. Kids loved to manipulate their parents. Children a lot younger than MacKenzie could do it. She saw it all the time in the E.R.
“Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better,” Bree said soothingly. She worked gently but efficiently to clean up MacKenzie’s face and clothes. It would have been better if she could have taken off the little T-shirt and tossed it in a washing machine, but Bree guessed MacKenzie didn’t have any extra clothes stashed around here.
The little girl watched her solemnly.
Once MacKenzie was clean, Bree reclaimed the spoon of medicine from Jillian, who appeared to be enjoying the show.
“Do you always find sick children amusing?” Bree asked. She held the spoon in front of MacKenzie and opened her own mouth. “Ahhhhhh.”
The child obligingly opened her mouth and accepted the medicine. Little trick she’d learned. Kids would rather be shown what to do than told.
“Oh, no!” Jillian objected. “I’m really sorry you’re sick, MacKenzie. I just enjoyed watching your dad and Dr. Bree deal with the situation. I mean, it’s not every day we get a barfing kid at the office. Then again, I shouldn’t really point and laugh, since I don’t have kids. Someday I will, and karma is a bi— I mean... Oh, never mind. Can I help?”
Bree knew Jillian was hoping the answer was no. It was hard to picture the polished, stylish investigator sopping up puke or doling out pink medicine. “I’ve got everything under control, thanks. Unless... Do you happen to know where a blanket might be?” She felt MacKenzie’s forehead again; yup, she definitely had a fever. Bree would keep her warm and watch her for signs that her temperature was going up.
“I can find something.”
Bree scooped MacKenzie off the counter and propped her on her hip. It always felt nice to hold a soft, vibrant child, but it was a bittersweet pleasure. Bree never held a child without remembering her own—so tiny she felt more like the size of a puppy than a human baby. She’d been allowed to hold the tiny baby girl for only a few seconds. Then she had been whisked away to a world of Isolettes, tubes and needles.
MacKenzie instinctively put her arms around Bree’s neck. Bree stopped at the fridge to grab a bottled ginger ale. A bit more searching turned up a straw. Then she headed to the lounge area where she and Eric had had their first meeting. She smiled now as she recalled him ripping off his shirt and Jillian’s stunned look of embarrassment as she’d backed out of the room.
But she quickly sobered. That scar was no laughing matter. It was clearly the result of a serious injury that should have seen stitches but hadn’t. Proper medical care would have resulted in a much neater scar and probably would have prevented the infection, too.
Why hadn’t Eric gone to the prison doctor to get stitched up? Had he been that afraid of Kelly? If so, why? Could Eric be right? Could Kelly have turned into a different person in prison, a mean, violent man who compartmentalized his less socially acceptable side so that she never saw it? And if that was possible... No. She knew him. He hadn’t raped Philomene or killed those other women.
Bree settled onto the sofa and snuggled MacKenzie against her. “You want a sip of ginger ale?” It would be good to get some liquids into the child, but she didn’t want to do anything that would provoke more nausea.
MacKenzie nodded, and Bree held the soda up so MacKenzie could wrap her lips around the straw. She sucked up a small amount, then smacked her lips, evaluating the taste. “Good,” she declared. “What is it?”
“Ginger ale. You never had it before?”
“Uh-uh.” She took another small sip, then leaned back. “I’m cold.”
Bree was wearing a lightweight cardigan sweater. It wouldn’t be much help, but it was all she had. She peeled it off and draped it over MacKenzie’s shoulders. “That better?”
“Mmm. Read to me?”
Bree glanced around, but there wasn’t any child-appropriate literature handy. “How about if I make up a story?”
“Okay,” MacKenzie said uncertainly.
“Once upon a time there was a princess.” All little girls liked stories about princesses. “And her parents, the king and queen, wanted her to marry a prince of their choosing. But the princess fell in love with a peasant. He didn’t have much money, but he was good at...” What? Motorcycles?
This was a fairy tale she used to tell herself. In her version, the peasant opened his own Harley-Davidson dealership and they lived happily ever after. But that was before the princess got pregnant, and the harsh realities of life put so much pressure on the peasant and princess that they fell out of love. Not the sort of story to tell a sick child.
“What was he good at?” MacKenzie asked.
“Racing horses,” Bree finally said. “He had only one prized possession, his noble steed, Harley. Harley was pure black, and a very special horse, the fastest one in the kingdom.
“The king said he would give permission for his daughter to marry the peasant if Harley could beat the fastest horse in the royal stable.”
“What was his name?” MacKenzie asked.
“The other horse? Umm, let’s see—”
“Billy,” MacKenzie suggested.
“Okay, Billy. Now, the king—”
“What color is Billy?”
Bree could tell this story was going to take a while. But that was okay. Anything to keep the sick little girl focused on something other than her upset tummy.
Jillian returned with a lightweight plaid throw. “I found this in someone’s office.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Jillian.” She tucked the blanket around MacKenzie, who was still shivering slightly.
As soon as Jillian left, they resumed the story. “What color do you think Billy is?” Bree asked.
“Pink.”
“Okay. Billy the pink horse was really, really fast, because he ate special food and lived in a really nice stable with a feather bed and air-conditioning. He had won many races and he had a hundred prize ribbons hanging in his stall.
“But the peasant wasn’t worried. He knew that Harley was still faster than Billy, because Harley—”
“He was magic!”
“How did you know that? Yes, Harley was magic....” And the story went on effortlessly from there. Bree didn’t have to work very hard coming up with plot twists, because MacKenzie did it for her. The little girl seemed to enjoy helping craft her own story. Maybe she was destined to be a writer someday.
As the minute hand on her watch crept toward three-thirty, Bree found herself wishing it would stand still. She couldn’t remember when she last spent quality time with a child.
Yeah, she saw them all the time in the E.R. But usually they were very sick or seriously injured. Once she got them stabilized, they moved on. She passed out the occasional sticker or coloring book, but she never got to snuggle quietly with any one child for extended periods of time.
This felt way too good. As she and MacKenzie continued with their fairy tale, something deep inside her began to unfurl, a tight ball of petals that had closed up when her own chance at motherhood had so abruptly ended.
Back then, she’d told herself she would never get pregnant again, not even under the best of circumstances. To love a child was like no other emotion she’d ever felt. It went down to the bone—no, even farther. It went soul deep. The pain of losing her precious, tiny baby was beyond description.
She’d locked her pain away in a box that she’d never intended to open. To be vulnerable to that kind of torture—it was too much.
But for whatever reason, the bo
x had opened a crack today.
Why this child, at this time, had gotten through her defenses, she didn’t know. But her eyes burned and her voice cracked as she uttered those familiar five words: “They lived happily ever after.”
MacKenzie was asleep. Bree noticed a thin sheen of perspiration on the child’s skin, which probably meant her fever was going down. If this was the same stomach bug she’d been seeing frequently at the hospital the past couple of weeks, MacKenzie wouldn’t truly be on the mend until tomorrow. She would have a hard time keeping anything down, and the fever would return. But hopefully it wouldn’t be any worse than that.
Bree glanced at her watch. Eric was five minutes late, but thankfully, his daughter wouldn’t know. Meanwhile, Bree was content to sit there quietly with the child tucked up against her, wondering how she was going to stuff all those feelings back into their box, where they belonged.
* * *
ERIC HAD BEEN standing in the doorway of the break-room lounge for a good five minutes, his heart in his throat. He kept expecting Bree to look up, but her attention was riveted on the child snuggled against her as she spun an improbable story about a pink horse named Billy. She didn’t have a book open, so the story must have come either from her memory or pure imagination.
But the thing that had shocked him—and the reason he hadn’t wanted to interrupt them—was his daughter’s response. She was helping to create the story. And despite being sick, she was smiling and even laughed a time or two when Bree came up with a particularly ridiculous detail to add to the story. There was a fairy named Ooga-Booga, who gave someone magic oats that would make his horse run fast, and a princess with a dress made out of spun gold and cotton candy.
This was the kind of scene he’d never come upon when Tammy was still alive. It wasn’t that Tammy had been a neglectful mother. She’d made sure MacKenzie had healthy food to eat and clothes and medical care and toys. She had loved MacKenzie in her own way, Eric was sure. And MacKenzie had loved her mommy and had missed her acutely. But Tammy had left a lot of the warm, fuzzy parenting to Eric. At the end of a long day, when Eric had walked through the door, Tammy had handed off their child and disappeared to take a long bubble bath.
