For the Girls' Sake

by Janice Kay Johnson

  On a shaky breath, she bent and kissed her daughter’s forehead.

  Rose accepted the kiss with equanimity. "Are you gonna sleep with Shelly?"

  "Yep."

  "Sometimes I sleep with Daddy," Rose confided.

  "When Shelly gets scared, she sneaks into bed with me, too."

  "Oh." Rose pondered. "Daddy says big girls sleep in their own beds."

  "Well, I guess big girls do, but you’re not so big yet, are you? And even grown-ups get scared sometimes at night, if they hear a funny noise."

  "Daddy doesn’t get scared."

  Lynn knew for a fact that wasn’t true—the idea of losing his Rosebud was enough to scare Daddy to death. But she only smiled and said, "I wish I didn’t." Then she kissed Rose again, this time on that small freckled nose. "Now, you go to sleep. Maybe Shelly will feel better in the morning and you two can play."

  Rose smiled, sweet and shy. "’Kay," she said again. "Night, Lynn."

  Lynn’s heart swelled and her sinuses burned with the effort not to cry, but she kept smiling through them. "Good night," she murmured.

  She left the door open six inches and the hall light on, relieved Adam wasn’t lurking outside the door. She needed a minute alone to wipe away the tears and convince herself that it could be worse: she might never have known, never have found Rose.

  A peek in the guest room assured her that Shelly still slept, her face flushed but her breathing even. Then, nerving herself, Lynn went downstairs.

  She found Adam in the kitchen. He glanced up, taking in far more than she wanted him to see with one sweep of his sharp gaze. But he only asked, "Shelly still asleep?"

  She nodded.

  "It’s getting a little late to start the dinner I’d intended. How would French toast grab you? Or an omelette?"

  "Either would be good."

  His brows stayed up and he waited.

  "French toast." She didn’t care.

  He’d already had the eggs out on the counter. She watched as he put a pan on to heat and started cracking eggs into a shallow bowl.

  "Thank you for letting me tuck her in."

  His jaw bunched. "Not much of a gift."

  "You could have shooed me out."

  "I hope I’m not that selfish."

  He whisked the eggs efficiently but with latent violence. Wishing she could be whipped into an acceptable, smooth form as easily?

  "Adam..."

  "Do you like syrup?"

  Frustration infused her voice. "Yes, but..."

  "Let’s eat and then talk. Okay?"

  Lynn let out a gusty sigh. "Yes. Fine."

  Not at all to her surprise, the French toast was thick, golden brown and crusty. Butter—real butter—pooled like sunlight. He’d even sprinkled the top with powdered sugar.

  They took their plates to the kitchen table set in an alcove surrounded by windows that looked out at the dark garden. It must be a perfect spot in the morning.

  She took her first bite. "This is wonderful! Do you buy your bread at a bakery?"

  "Bread machine."

  Lynn murmured with pleasure again. She must have been starved, she realized. She’d gone to a sandwich shop for lunch only to give herself something to do, one more way to kill the hours while she was exiled, but the sandwich had been dry and the turkey the kind that tasted fake. She’d had only a few bites.

  "We hardly know each other," Adam said suddenly. "I think that’s my fault."

  Lynn set down her fork. "Yes. It is."

  He acknowledged the hit with a grimace. "I’d like to change that. Tell me something about yourself. Where did you grow up? How’d you end up with a bookstore?"

  "Eugene." She sounded rusty. She had the sweaty-palmed feel of a fifth-grader standing up in front of the class to give a presentation. "I grew up in Eugene." That sounded bald all by itself, so words kept coming. "My mother was the secretary for the History department at the university. I never met my father. I think my mother had an affair, which isn’t at all like her, but she wasn’t married and didn’t like to talk about him. ‘It was just one of those things,’ she always says."

  Adam listened to her with the same concentration he probably gave to stock quotes on the Internet. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t look away, gave no sign of being bored. Lynn couldn’t remember the last time anyone had really wanted to hear about her.

  Which might have explained why even then she didn’t shut up.

  "I don’t know. Maybe that’s not the truth, either. Maybe Mom went to a sperm bank and just didn’t want me to know my father was nothing but a few statistics in a catalog. You know—gray eyes, 130 IQ, five foot eleven, red hair." Oh no, she thought belatedly. Why was she telling him this private suspicion?

  "I do know my father," Adam said unexpectedly, "and I couldn’t tell you much more than that about him. He and my mother suit each other, but he’s not a warm man."

  "What’s he do?"

  His grunt must have been a laugh. "He’s a pathologist. Appropriate, isn’t it? He’s very, very smart, and cold as a morgue."

  "But your mother..."

  "Is an artist. A potter. She doesn’t do dinner plates or pitchers. These strange shapes connect..." His hands tried to form one of his mother’s creations out of thin air, but he shrugged and gave up. "Ugly, some of what she does, but the critics don’t see it that way. It ‘speaks to the heart."’ He fell silent.

  Beginning to be puzzled, Lynn asked tentatively, "Are you proud of her?"

  "Mmm?" He looked startled. "Sure. I have one of her pieces in the living room. Remind me to show you. The thing is...she’s pretty distant, too. If I hadn’t seen her working at her wheel, I’d have a hard time imagining how I was conceived."

  Lynn blinked.

  He closed his eyes briefly and rotated his neck. "I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry."

  "No. That’s okay. I shouldn’t have said what I did about the sperm bank, either." He’d offered her a trade, she realized. A glimpse into his privacy in exchange for one into hers. Whatever else Adam Landry might be, he wasn’t selfish. His generosity compelled Lynn to continue, "But you’re right, we should get to know each other. Warts and all."

  Adam met her eyes, his breathtakingly intense. "What I’m trying to say is, ever since I brought Rose home I’ve been parenting by guess. I’m the one browsing the parenting section in the bookstore. I can’t call Mom and ask how to handle a two-year-old whose only word is ‘no."’ Adam made another of those rough sounds meant to be a laugh. "Mom says, ‘Why ask me?"’

  "Why ask her?" Lynn echoed incredulously.

  His mouth curved into something more closely approximating genuine amusement. "See, she handled it when she had to, but...absently. I guess that’s the best way to put it. She was always focused on her art. I’ll bet she doesn’t remember me at two or three."

  "But...that’s appalling!" And terribly sad.

  He ran a hand over a chin bristly with the day’s growth of dark beard. "No, that’s Mom. She’s a cool lady in her own way. Brilliant, passionate about her art, smart about the business side of it. Just not all that interested in wiping snotty noses or leading preschoolers around the zoo."

  Fascinated, Lynn pushed her plate back and crossed her forearms on the table. "Why did she have children, then?"

  "An accident?" One cheek creased. "I’ve never had the guts to ask her."

  Lynn sat there absorbing what he’d told her. Finally, she mused, "At least I had my mother. She might have been a little mysterious about my father, but, you know, I never really cared. She was always enough. Maybe that’s why being a single parent hasn’t been that hard for me." She smiled crookedly. "You might say, that’s the pattern I know. But you..." She started to reach out to touch his hand, but stopped herself. "You’ve done an amazing job. Rose adores you."

  "We’ve done okay," he said gruffly.

  "Better than okay."

  He shifted. "Maybe you’d better save the accolades for a few months. I mess up. Sometimes
I think Rose is babyish for her age, and that’s my fault."

  “Babyish?" Why did she keep having this urge to take his hand, as if he needed comfort?

  "Didn’t you notice she went to bed with a diaper on? Three-and-a-half years old, and she still wets her bed."

  "Lots of kids do," Lynn said, puzzled at his perturbation. "Maybe she’s an extra sound sleeper. She seems to do fine during the day."

  He shoved himself to his feet and grabbed their empty plates. "She has accidents."

  "So does Shelly."

  At the sink, Adam stood with his back to her. "Not when she’s with me."

  "Rose hasn’t had one with me, either."

  He stayed completely still for a moment. "I figured I was doing something wrong."

  What could she say? Lynn fumbled for the right words. "Children, um, aren’t like a product you assemble. They aren’t perfect, any more than we are." Then she flushed. "I’m sorry. That was patronizing."

  "I deserved it." When he turned, he was actually smiling. The fact that one corner of his mouth crooked higher than the other lent charm to a face that was usually too austere. "Anyway, funny thing. You’ve hit the nail on the head. I was expected to be perfect. I didn’t want to lay that burden on Rose, but apparently my expectations weren’t buried very far under. As you said, patterns."

  Lynn didn’t want to feel sympathy or liking or even understanding. She couldn’t afford to. Stop, she told herself. Now.

  “This isn’t working," she said abruptly. "These visits. I hate them."

  Between one blink and the next, he became a stranger again. "We agreed to take it slowly."

  "I don’t like to shop. The movies are all made for teenagers. I dread these days." She sounded peevish instead of firm. Me, me, me. "No," she argued with herself. "It’s not me. If the girls were happy...but they’re not. They’re too young to be bounced back and forth like this."

  "Then what do you suggest?" His voice was harsh. "Shall we just stay in touch? Send each other photos at Christmas?"

  "No."

  "Then what?" he shouted.

  "I don’t know," she yelled back, suddenly furious. "But something different!"

  "Different."

  Lynn swallowed, moderated her tone. "Maybe...maybe less often. Maybe, for now, we need to put up with each other instead of pretending we can each have both of them."

  Adam scowled and massaged the back of his neck. "We are pretending, aren’t we?"

  "Yes." She pressed her hand to her chest, which inexplicably burned. "That’s exactly what we’re doing. Shelly and Rose don’t understand."

  "Today, all she wanted was you."

  "Rose cries when you leave her."

  "She cries at her day care, too. Sometimes I have to pry her hands off me."

  Lynn hated that picture, but she couldn’t blame him. He was a good father; Rose loved him. He had to work.

  "What shall we do?" she asked miserably.

  "Maybe you’re right. Maybe we went at this in too big a hurry."

  She didn’t want him to agree, Lynn was shocked to realize. She didn’t want to go back to before, however serene it seemed in memory. To not see Rose as often. To not see him as often.

  Now, what did that mean? she wondered, jarred. Had she come to have some kind of fellow feeling for Adam, because he was the only one who truly understood what she was going through? Was it self-defense, to bond with him?

  Or—oh, no—had she developed some kind of adolescent crush on the man? Was some of her Monday morning anticipation because she would see him, not just Rose? Did that explain some of the hurt and letdown, when he didn’t invite her past the doorstep?

  "Even the days I have both girls aren’t that great, because Rose wants you. And because, oh, because it’s like this special event. It’s not life. I want Rose to feel at home with me," she struggled to explain.

  He watched her with understanding that delved beneath her breastbone. "Question is, do you want Shelly to feel at home with me?"

  Lynn gave a small, twisted smile. "Probably not. How do you feel about the idea of Rose happy with me?"

  "Oh, I’m jealous as can be."

  "I guess we can’t help how we feel. Just what we do about it."

  “You’re not suggesting a change because you’re jealous, too?"

  He was asking for honesty. Lynn tried to give it. "I don’t think so. I hope not. Tell me the truth. Do you look forward to Mondays?"

  "No." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "The drive is getting old, and I don’t like wasting a day over there any better than you do here. Okay. We can do better."

  "How about fewer but longer visits? Overnight stays?"

  "Rose has never even spent the night at her grandparents’."

  "Would you, um, consider staying over the first few times?"

  The austerity was back as he frowned, and she quailed a little at her boldness.

  "On your couch?"

  "You can have my bed," she said, too quickly. Why so eager to persuade him? she asked herself. "I’m shorter. I’ll take the couch."

  "I do have the extra bedroom here." He was still thinking. "They have more fun when you’re around, too."

  "I know it’s awkward."

  "At first it was awkward." He contemplated her, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. "I’m not so sure it is anymore."

  "Maybe we could be friends." Only friends?

  "All right." The lines between his dark brows cleared. "I’m game. How about if we make it the weekend after next? I’ll come Sunday and Monday. That way I can entertain the girls while your shop’s open on Sunday."

  "It’s not too long for you to take off?"

  A shrug. "I can bring my laptop. Put in a little time Monday. I can be flexible."

  "Okay." Two weeks. How would she wait two weeks to see them again? "Um..." she began apologetically. "My place is pretty tiny. I’ve put my money into the business. Maybe we can eat out," she decided with quick relief. But he’d still have to use her shabby bathroom, see the chips in the porcelain sink and tub, bump his head on the too-low lintel.

  She had a suspicion he read her shame and anxiety as if her face were the open screen of his laptop.

  "Real life, remember?"

  "Yes. All right." She was taking a risk in baring her life for his scrutiny. In court, he could use her poverty against her. But he could have done that anyway, she reminded herself. It wasn’t any secret.

  And she was beginning to believe, to hope, that he wouldn’t.

  "I’d better go check on Shelly." She picked up her silverware and glass. "Unless you need help cleaning up..."

  Adam crossed the kitchen and took them from her, his fingers bumping hers. "Don’t be ridiculous. Go."

  Foolish that her pulse bumped in sync.

  "Thank you, Adam. For listening."

  His eyes softened. "We should have talked sooner."

  "No one said this would be easy."

  "Has anyone else ever had to figure it out?" He released a breath. "Good night, Lynn. Make yourself at home if you wake up before I do in the morning."

  She edged backward. "Right." At home. "Sure."

  "I left Rose’s shampoo in the shower. I’ll put out clean towels."

  "Thank you." Why was she still standing here? Why was she wondering, hoping, at the way his eyes seemed to darken, at the step he took forward?

  "Rose needs a mother’s touch."

  Rose. Not him. Of course not him.

  She was being foolish. He looked at her oddly sometimes because of her resemblance to his Rosebud. Not because she was a woman and he was a man.

  This new plan wouldn’t work, either, if she started suffering delusions. So don’t, Lynn told herself sharply.

  With a cool nod and another good-night, she went.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ADAM TRIED TO ROLL OVER and had to muffle a groan. The couch was not only a foot too short for his big frame, but it was about as comfortable as squatting against a dri
ftwood log on a rocky beach: okay for a while when the sun was hot and the beat of the surf steady and lulling, but nowhere you’d want to snooze for eight hours.

  Lynn had offered, four or five times, to sleep out here and let him have her bedroom. Offered, she’d tried to insist. But, no, he was too chivalrous to accept.

  He still didn’t regret his refusal, and not just because he liked to think he was a gentleman. It would have made sense for her to sleep on the couch instead of him. She probably could have stretched out. She might have even rested more easily on the lumps and bumps. Along with being a good ten inches shorter than he was, she must weigh fifty pounds less.

  What Adam hadn’t liked was the idea of invading her private space. Of being surrounded by her scent and her most intimate possessions. Oh, she’d have cleaned up for him, but her makeup decorated a dresser, her books covered a bedside table, the prints on the walls were her favorites, the contents of her drawers...well, he’d bet they were perfumed by homemade bags of dried lavender and rose petals.

  That one glimpse into her sanctum was enough, thank you. The bed was an old-fashioned double with a mahogany spooled head and footboard. It was heaped with pillows in lacy cases and covered by a fluffy chenille spread the color of butter. The makeup was arranged on embroidered linen darkened to old ivory. Late roses spilled languorously from a cream-colored stoneware pitcher.

  The room was utterly feminine and graceful. Pretty, but in a womanly way rather than a girlish one. The fact that Lynn Chanak was a woman, and a beautiful one at that, was something he tried hard not to think about.

  He’d become good at blocking out that kind of awareness. Living like a monk, a man had to build some defenses.

  Oh, he’d tried dating after the first year of mourning. Rhonda McIntyre, a commodities broker, had cornered him in the elevator and flirted with so little subtlety even he’d noticed. Why not? he’d figured.

  The evening was a flop. She made plain her disinterest in children. They talked trading and the bull market for lack of any other topic. He kissed her on her doorstep and declined her invitation to go in.

  A couple of months later, he’d dated another woman a few times—a single mother he’d met at the preschool. She was struggling to make ends meet as a secretary, and she had a hungry, desperate quality that scared him. She wanted marriage, and she wanted it soon.