by Leigh Riker
Natalie Brewster’s sharp gaze went roaming—with obvious suspicion. The living room was empty, except for her and Molly, and so was the adjacent dining room. She glanced out the side window where Molly’s father had been hiding behind the curtains moments ago, then homed in on the archway to the kitchen.
“I thought I saw Thomas,” she said.
Molly hated to lie. There was only silence from the other room, but she could imagine Pop sitting motionless at the table, behind the wall where he couldn’t be seen, praying the woman would leave him in peace. Still, it wasn’t Molly’s place to turn him in. And if she got the chance, she had something in mind for their visitor that might help Brig.
“Pop isn’t available right now. Can I do anything for you?”
Natalie Brewster’s face fell. “I had something to ask him. I’ll come back later.”
Another swift look at the nearby kitchen told Molly their new neighbor didn’t believe her for a second, and a twinge of guilt ran through her.
“Hmm,” Natalie said, bright blue eye shadow shimmering in the light. “I hope he doesn’t think he can avoid me forever. I need his help. I’m chairman of the rummage sale we’re having soon at the community center.” She refocused her gaze on Molly. “If you have anything to donate...”
“Let me check my day care. See what I can find.” Molly tilted her head toward the backyard. “I might have some unclaimed lost items there that could be donated now, and a used baby crib or high chair that we’ve recently replaced, some toys...”
“We’d appreciate that. You can have Thomas drop them off. I bet he’s a crack painter and in no time could turn that crib into something that appears brand-new.” She turned to go, then whirled back, purple sequins sparkling. One manicured hand with Day-Glo green-painted nails waved in the air inches from Molly’s face. “You at least must have seen me ringing the bell next door.”
Pop, Molly thought, had fooled no one with his disappearing act. Still, she almost felt sorry for him. Natalie couldn’t have been more different from Molly’s mother if she tried. Her dad just didn’t know how to cope.
Molly glanced toward the Colliers’ house and seized the opportunity she’d been handed. “Mrs. Brewster,” she began.
“It’s miss, honey. I never took the plunge. And call me Natalie. By the way, do you know where Joe and Bess have gone?”
“No, I was hoping you did. Or rather, their son is. He’s been in Liberty for a few days now and expected them to be here, but they haven’t come home. Brig is becoming more and more concerned.”
“It’s not like them,” Natalie agreed. She cast another knowing look at the kitchen archway, her brow furrowed. “Now that you bring it up, I’m worried, too. Days, you said?”
Molly nodded. “I wonder who else might be in on their plans.”
Natalie thought for a moment, then ticked off half a dozen names that Molly didn’t recognize. Her usual contacts—the day care parents and her friends—were a lot younger than Pop or Miss Brewster or the Colliers.
“Let me see what I can find out,” Natalie offered.
“Maybe you could give me their numbers, and I’ll call. That would save you the trouble.” But Natalie was having none of that.
“I left my phone on the charger at home, so I don’t have any numbers handy, but I’d be happy to let my fingers do the walking later,” she said with a gleaming, white-toothed smile. “Then I can come by to tell you what I’ve found.”
And have another excuse to see Molly’s father?
“Why not just call instead? It would save you a trip.”
“Nonsense. I only live across the street.” With a last, jaundiced glance toward the rear of the house, Natalie put a hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be back,” she said, as if it was a threat. “Once I set myself a task, I don’t waver.”
Molly did, though. Well, Pop would simply have to deal with his admirer when the time came. As she shut the door behind Natalie Brewster, she decided he was on his own—just as she’d teased Brig the other night.
And her thoughts returned to him.
Their time inside the darkened center, even with the baby between them and a bathing ritual for distraction, had been hard enough. Molly groaned. And unfortunately she’d already promised to start those lessons in infant care for Brig tonight.
* * *
“OH, BABY, IT’S all right.” Late that afternoon in the nursery Molly cradled little Ashley Jones to her chest, whispering words of comfort. They were for herself, too. She was trying not to think about a classroom accident earlier involving Debbie Crandall’s child and Ernie Barlow, and Molly’s spirit always ached whenever one of her charges felt unhappy or unwell. “It’s no fun cutting that tooth, is it?” she told Ashley. “But it will be over soon, you’ll see. And you’ll have a grand new way of dealing with the world.” She was about to comment on Ashley having her first solid food when Ann walked into the room.
The baby kept crying. She tried desperately to shove a fist into her tender mouth but kept missing the mark, which only made her wail louder. Molly’s attempts to help her out with a gel pacifier, chilled in the freezer to numb her gums, hadn’t worked.
“Debbie Crandall is here,” Ann announced with a frown.
“Ah, yes. Benjamin’s mother.” Molly held out Ashley. “Here, spend some time with this little one. She’s miserable and needs a friend.”
Except for the baby’s cries, the rest of the center was quiet, the lights dimmed for nap time, the twos and threes in one room, the fours across the hall. Some of the older children were out in the play area with one of the other teachers. It seemed to reassure both parents and kids when Molly and her staff referred to themselves as educators in classrooms.
One more reminder that she was only a surrogate to other people’s children.
Still, Molly took pride in her work. She loved her kids, and she was adamant about providing stimulation and opportunities to learn. Many of the older children were already reading simple books and counting to ten, and most could print their names and recite the alphabet as well as sing the alphabet song.
Ready for the battle she anticipated with Debbie Crandall, Molly glided into her office with a professional smile. The woman was on her feet, eyes flashing, before Molly stuck out a hand.
“Mrs. Crandall, it’s a pleasure.”
“Never mind the niceties, Molly. Benjy came home with my husband today weeping his eyes out. He’s suspended? Whatever happened was Ernie’s fault—”
There was a mischief maker in every classroom and at every age level, in Molly’s experience. They all started young, but in this case Ernie wasn’t the instigator. She easily remembered Benjamin pushing Ernie in the hallway yesterday when Jeff was here.
She sat at her desk. “It’s true the boys are inclined to fight with each other, and I agree we have a problem here. But it isn’t Benjamin’s first time. Has something changed at home?”
“No.” Debbie paced the small office. “I’m not here to discuss my situation. What are you going to do about Ernie?”
“Debbie, please.” Molly clenched her hands. “I’ve been around children here for the past few years. Before that, I worked in several other day cares in Cincinnati. I think I know more about children—”
“Than a mother does?” She spun around. “Let me tell you. Until you have one of your own, Mrs. Darling, a child you carry in your body and give birth to and love more than your own life—”
Molly rose from her chair, shaking. “How dare you say this about me?”
Debbie Crandall didn’t apologize. She didn’t appear ready to back down, either, or want to listen to reason. “Oh, it’s about you, all right. I can see that now. You would defend Ernie Barlow against my Benjy, show favoritism—”
“I try to treat all my children alike. But your son—”
“Ernie Barlow has a two-inch gash on his forehead. When your son hit him with that metal truck—which he did more than once—he also laid Ernie’s nose open almost its entire length. His father had to take him to the E.R. for stitches. He certainly didn’t give himself those injuries.”
“Ernie hit Benjamin first.”
“So your son told you.”
“My son is not a liar! He’s a sweet little boy. He’s only four years old.”
“And I’m sorry, but he is showing aggressive tendencies.”
Debbie Crandall ignored that comment. “As for Ernie Barlow, I wonder. He and his father are living alone without a woman’s influence in the home—”
Oh, brother. This was getting completely out of hand. What could she say to salvage the situation?
Molly took her seat. “Please, sit down, Debbie.”
Instead, the woman planted herself in front of Molly’s desk, hands braced on top of it in an intimidating posture. “I don’t need a seat.” Her voice trembled. “Ernie is growing up with a cop for a father who probably has an arsenal of guns in that house. I saw Ernie only a few days ago with a pistol.”
“A water pistol. And we don’t allow them here. I asked Ernie to put it in his backpack to take home—and he did. Without, I might add, giving me an argument. Now, let’s talk about Benjamin.” Molly paused, searching for the right words. “Perhaps you could speak to him, urge him to come to me or one of my staff if he has a problem with another child. You and I can talk again, too. And try to channel Benjamin’s energy in a more positive direction.”
Silence. A heavy, condemning silence.
“There is nothing wrong with my son,” Debbie said at last. Her face was still red as she started toward the door.
Molly tried again. “If you’d just listen—”
But Debbie was already striding into the hall, her back stiff with anger. Then, after only a few steps, she stopped and turned. Her gaze met Molly’s, and her voice echoed in the empty space, loud enough to wake the sleeping kids nearby and even reach, Molly was sure, Ann’s ears, her other helpers and the two mothers working as aides that afternoon.
“You don’t begin to treat everyone the same way,” she said. “And how could you understand?” She paused, then delivered the coup de grace. “My Benjamin, Ernie Barlow...they are not your children.”
* * *
MOLLY SAT IN her office for long moments after Debbie Crandall left.
I try to treat all my children alike.
Benjamin Crandall wasn’t a bad kid, but his parents, especially his mother, weren’t doing him any favors by indulging his outbursts, then rewarding him with treats after he finally got his way.
But what did she know?
They are not your children.
She couldn’t deny that Debbie was right. She should stop referring to the children as hers.
“Hey.” Ann stood in the open doorway, holding Ashley Jones. The baby had quieted—Ann was always good with the youngest children at the center—and Molly hadn’t seen them come in. “You all right?”
She sighed. “Getting there. I just needed a few minutes to myself.”
“No wonder.” Ann dropped onto the chair in front of Molly’s desk. “Everyone heard her in here.”
“Benjamin needs his mother to admit there’s a problem, then try to deal with it. Like that will happen. I could tell something else was bothering her, but she wouldn’t say.”
As if reluctant to ask, Ann looked away. “How’s Ernie?”
“Jeff kept him home, but he called. Ernie’s okay—probably better than Jeff, from the sound of his voice. The little fellow is a bit bruised and swollen, but nothing time won’t heal. The doctor said he shouldn’t even have scars.”
“Those were some blows he took. None of us could arrive fast enough to prevent them. I’m amazed Jeff Barlow hasn’t threatened to sue the Crandalls—or the center.”
“He understands what’s going on. I promised to keep a careful eye on Ernie, but I won’t be surprised if Debbie Crandall quits the center.”
“Her loss,” Ann said. She gazed down at Ashley, who was almost asleep, her rosebud mouth working furiously at a new pacifier. “She likes this one better. Sometimes it’s a matter of trial and error—maybe with Benjamin, too.”
“Thanks, Ann,” Molly murmured, feeling only a little better. “I hope no one else on our staff is upset.”
“All I saw was a lot of eye rolling.” She carefully rose to her feet, Ashley cradled close. “Here,” she said. “You have her. You could use a bit of sweet, sleeping baby for a while. I’ll help get the kids up from their naps and out to play while you take another few minutes.”
Molly held out her arms. “You know me so well.”
Ann tiptoed from the room, leaving Molly alone in the office with just the sound of Ashley sucking on the pacifier. The baby curled her fingers around Molly’s hand, and warmth spread through Molly like a soothing balm.
Oh, yes, she had needed this.
But as she gazed down at the sleeping baby, tears filled Molly’s eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t. There was nothing she could do. Andrew was gone, and these little ones were all she had. Yet despite the comfort they gave her, she could still hear Debbie’s words.
They are not your children.
Neither was Laila. Molly needed to remember that, too.
She didn’t relish seeing her, or rather Brig again, tonight.
Still, she had promised. For Laila. Because caring for children was what Molly did.
Hey, Collier. Too bad about your missing parents. What are you going to do? You promised us some pix of the little lady. What gives? H.
“CHECK THIS OUT,” Brig said, turning his cell phone so Molly could see the latest message from his team. Henderson was the one keeping in touch. “For a bunch of hardened troops, they sure have a soft spot for Laila.”
Molly’s mouth tightened. “Very cute.”
Brig watched her pull a fresh diaper from the stack on the dresser and prepare to show him how to put it on the baby, but their first lesson obviously wasn’t going well.
Had he done something wrong? Earlier Molly had insisted they meet here in the house with Thomas nearby as a chaperone. Or was she still reacting to the bathing incident with Laila that had stuck in his mind, too: the intimate little room and the way he’d kept inhaling Molly’s scent along with the smells of baby wash and powder?
Better to focus on finding his parents. But no amount of running next door or gathering their mail had brought them home. Brig didn’t know where else to look or what to tell Henderson.
And how long would he be able to stay here at Molly’s, or even next door once his folks showed up? No lessons in baby care could change the fact that, sooner rather than later, he would have to return to duty. Maybe the email from the team had reminded Molly of that, too.
She held out the disposable diaper imprinted with colorful images of what she had told him were Hello Kitty figures in pink. He noticed that she avoided actually touching him and was holding the diaper by two fingers. Brig started to take it, then stopped. He couldn’t handle any more of the tension.
“Molly. What’s wrong?”
For a moment she didn’t answer.
“Sorry, I had a bad day,” she finally murmured. “One of my—one of the parents whose child is in the four-year-old group objected to something I suggested.”
Brig waited for her to go on.
Laila was lying in her crib with the side down so it could double as a changing table, and was gazing up at him with unblinking dark eyes. He smoothed a hand over her little chest and smiled, although Laila didn’t quite smile back. Instead, she kicked her legs and gurgled.
Beside
him, Molly shifted. Her gaze stayed on the baby, too.
“I’m worried that her son isn’t socialized properly even for his age—he’s acting out with the other children, grabbing toys, hitting...” Then she told him about Ernie Barlow’s injuries.
Brig winced at her description but was at a loss to respond. So he said nothing. He didn’t know much about four-year-olds. He had enough trouble trying to figure out Laila’s daily schedule—which so far didn’t seem to be a schedule at all. With a frown of concentration, he took the diaper from Molly, opened it, lifted Laila’s bottom and slid Hello Kitty underneath.
“That image goes in the front,” Molly said.
Every movement he made with the baby still felt awkward. Brig wondered if he would ever become comfortable, at least before he had to leave her.
Molly reached over to fan the sides of the diaper to better cover Laila.
In a low monotone she told Brig about Ernie Barlow’s stitches. But that wasn’t the whole problem tonight.
“What else?” he asked, because Molly was still avoiding his eyes.
She lifted a shoulder as if to downplay what she was about to next.
“I have this habit of referring to the day care kids as ‘my’ children. Debbie Crandall reminded me that it’s only a fiction. That I can’t possibly understand how she feels when I’m not a mother myself. Quote, unquote.”
“Molly.” He knew her well enough, even after an eight-year absence from her life, to guess just how badly that had wounded her.
Again she shrugged, then she forced her mouth into a stiff smile. “Reality hurts.” She leaned closer, daring to cover Brig’s hand where it rested on the diaper tape. “No, pull this tighter on both sides. You won’t hurt her—the tape stretches—and trust me, you don’t want to leave any gaps.”
“Like the other night,” he said, not meaning only Laila’s mishap before her bath. He and Molly were still tiptoeing around each other. But every small meeting, every conversation had seemed to ease the tension between them. Until now. He wished he could give that woman a piece of his mind for hurting Molly and interfering with his efforts to win Molly’s forgiveness.
