Now, sitting on her terrace, chronicling the day’s events in her journal, she felt mired up in melancholy. She needed some fun.
Dylan was throwing a ball against the wall beside their door. True to his word, he’d waved when he came out, but he hadn’t come over, hadn’t bothered her in the least.
“Hey, Dylan.” She closed her journal and put away her pens. “Want a glass of Orangina?”
The boy’s grin lifted her spirits faster than the shopping spree she’d been considering—and was definitely cheaper.
“Sure!” He sprinted over to her, dropping his ball and glove into a chair. “It’s hot today.” He wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Almost too hot to play ball.”
The boy answered with a vigorous shake of his head. “It’s never too hot to play ball.”
“Well, you sit here and catch your breath, and I’ll go fix us a cool drink.”
She left him at the table, but when she returned a couple of minutes later with the drinks, he was standing in the middle of the terrace with his babysitter, who was on the phone, crying and obviously frantic.
Tara’s first thought was of Garrett. Had something happened to him? She rushed to Dylan’s side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Dylan’s look was one of concern but he wasn’t distraught, and Tara’s heart slowed a tad as he took one of the lidded cups from her. “Thanks.” He took a deep draw on the straw.
Keeping an ear to the conversation, he translated the blur of words for Tara. “Something’s wrong with Monique’s father. They’ve taken him to the hospital. That’s her mom on the phone. She wants her to come to the hospital right now, but Monique doesn’t want to take me.”
“Tell her to go. You can stay with me until your dad gets home.”
Dylan grabbed Monique’s arm to get her attention and pointed to Tara. His words were too fast for Tara to pick up anything, but Monique’s look of surprise and relief told her the message had been received. The babysitter nodded and spoke into the phone again briefly before hanging up and turning her attention to Tara. “Monsieur Hughes—”
“Garrett won’t mind, I’m sure,” Tara said. “Dylan will be fine with me, won’t you, Dylan?”
Dylan spoke in French to Monique first. “I told her we’re good friends,” he said to Tara.
Tara wasn’t sure if Monique understood English, so she shifted her gaze from the young woman to Dylan as she spoke. “I’ll tell Garrett what happened. You just go on and be with your father.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Monique’s English was perfect. “I will call Monsieur Hughes later when I know more of my father’s condition. My mother does not handle the crisis very well.”
She ran to the door, stopping for a last look. “Oh, and Monsieur Hughes has an important meeting and will not be home until around nine-thirty. The dinner for Dylan is in the refrigerator. His bedtime is nine o’clock.” She gave a quick wave before disappearing.
Tara checked her watch. It was only six-twenty, so she and her new charge had a few hours to fill. “Want to play some catch after all?”
“Can we go to the park instead? Monique and I go there a lot. It’s close. Just down the street.”
Tara wasn’t sure which park he was referring to. There were several nearby. “Are you sure that would be okay with your dad?”
His eyes grew big, opening a window to his soul as he nodded. The look was too cute to be anything but honest. “It’s okay as long as I have an adult with me.”
Tara caved quickly. “Well, okay, then. But you’ll have to lead the way because I still don’t know my way around the neighborhood very well.”
“I know how to get there. We go there all the time. It’s easy.” The child slipped his hand into hers, catching her two fingers in his grip. His brow buckled with concern. “Does that hurt?”
“Nope. Just don’t squeeze hard,” she warned him.
His grasp was firm, but easy, as he led the way through their apartment. “Your hand feels weird. It’s little. My dad’s hands are great big.”
Tara remembered Garrett’s big hands. More than once during her nap after their first encounter, she’d fantasized about how big and warm those hands might feel on her naked back. But that was before he’d been a jerk. Since then, she’d banished such thoughts...or, at least, most of them.
Dylan guided her easily through the labyrinth of corridors to the ancient wooden door at the back of their building.
Le Parc Royal was just at the end of the block. As soon as they arrived, some children called Dylan by name, and he dropped Tara’s hand to go join them in their game of what appeared to be freeze tag.
Tara found a spot on a bench close by and watched, fascinated. Dylan seemed to be popular and well accepted by the group. He had an obvious kind streak—staying close to the younger or slower children so they didn’t have to stay frozen out of the game long.
His poor mother...missing out on all this. What a privilege it was to be able to sit here and watch him. An emotion stirred deep in Tara’s chest that hit several vulnerable areas at once. Being a mother someday was her highest hope. Kids were one of the greatest treasures of life. But to have that treasure and then lose it? Her hand trembled as she pushed a curl out of her eye. Did Jacques Martin feel the same way? Would he be sorry he’d missed out on her childhood?
She shook away the melancholy that threatened for the second time that day and glanced at her hand, her constant reminder of the blessing of life.
“Boo!”
She jumped and let out a little squeal, which brought a hoot from Dylan, who’d sneaked up beside her.
“Are you hungry?”
She took his hint. “I am hungry. Shall we go eat supper?”
He cocked his head. “Is that another word for dinner?”
“Sort of. Supper’s a light meal at night, like lunch is a light meal during the day,” she explained. “Dinner’s a big meal either time.”
He thought about that for a moment. “I think I want dinner.”
“Dinner it is.”
He took the hand she extended without question, and they strolled home at a leisurely pace. Dylan must have decided it was time for her to learn the French language properly because, for the rest of the evening—through eating the shish kebabs Garrett had left to be grilled until she tucked him into bed—he pointed to things and drilled her on the correct word, insisting on proper pronunciation. By the time he fell asleep, she figured her French vocabulary had doubled.
Barely a week past the summer solstice, a hint of sun still lit the evening sky even though the clock read 9:33 p.m. Tara had just stepped out onto the terrace to enjoy the last remnants of sunset when she heard the snick of Garrett’s key in the lock. She hurried back in to greet him.
He had a broad smile when he stepped through the door, which vanished the instant he saw her. “Tara? What are you doing here?”
The panic in his voice spurred her to the important matter first. “Dylan’s fine. He’s already asleep. Have you spoken with Monique?”
“No. I just got out of a long meeting.” Panic had been replaced by disapproval. He dropped his keys and briefcase on the desk. “What’s going on?”
Tara’s hackles rose at his tone. She clipped out her response as if she were answering a police interrogation. “She got a call from her mom that her dad had been rushed to the hospital, and she needed to get there right away. She was upset and crying, so I told her to go on, and I stayed with Dylan.”
“He’s okay?” He stepped lightly over to his son’s door and peeped in.
“He’s fine.” Her voice dropped to a normal level as her neck muscles loosened. “We went to the park, and he played really hard. Then we came back and grilled the shish kebabs you had fixed, and I threw
a salad together. It was a lovely meal, which we topped off by sharing one of your bold cabernets. Dylan chose it,” she taunted, keeping a straight face.
Garrett’s eyes widened just like she’d seen Dylan’s do so many times. “You let Dylan—” He stopped when her grin broke, and he gave her the first real smile she’d ever received from him. Her toes curled in reaction. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah. I had my own cabernet, and he had Orangina.”
“You could’ve opened one of mine. I wouldn’t have—” He was interrupted by his cell phone. “Allô? C’est Garrett.” He paused. “Oui, Monique...”
Tara watched the easy manner they’d briefly reached a few moments before dissolve as Garrett spoke to the babysitter. His voice held sympathy, but Tara could also see a milder form of the panic settle into the crease between his brows. It may have been her imagination, but the scar that cut into his lip seemed to have deepened by the time the call ended.
“How’s Monique’s father?” she asked.
Garrett rubbed his brow. “Not well. It’s his heart. They’re talking about open-heart surgery, but they’re trying to decide if he’s strong enough to take it.”
“Oh, the poor girl. She said her mom didn’t handle crisis well, so she’s got her hands full.” Thinking about her dad, Sawyer, in the same situation caused her chest to tighten. “I assume Monique’s going to need some time off? I sure would.”
Garrett nodded absently. “At least a week, probably.”
“What will you do with Dylan?”
“There’s an after-school program until six. He hates staying for it, but we have to use it occasionally.”
“But you haven’t been getting home until later than that,” she reminded him, immediately regretting doing so when he squeezed the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“Yes, well, normally, I could be off by then, but we’ve got this media blitz for another three days, so we’re having to keep late hours.”
“I’ll keep him for you.” The words came out before her brain fully processed the ramifications of what she was suggesting.
Garrett’s head jerked toward her, and she got the feeling he’d forgotten she was there. “No. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered.”
His hands went to his hips, and she saw his fingers tighten their hold. “I really appreciate what you did tonight, stepping in and taking care of him. I’m grateful. Really. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be around Dylan too much.”
That comment pushed her too far. Just what in the hell was he implying? “Look, Garrett, I don’t know what your problem is with me.” She realized her voice had risen. She lowered it to a whisper as she moved away from the child’s door, and continued to spit out the words. “I’m a schoolteacher. Kids are my life. I love them, and I’m very good with them. Now, you can stick Dylan in that after-school program, which he hates, if you think that would be better than spending the time with me. But Dylan and I get along well. We genuinely like each other. So if you come to your senses and change your mind, you know where to find me.”
She charged onto the terrace and crossed to her flat without looking back. Once at her place, she headed straight for the shower, where she could stand in the steam and let the hot spray beat away the day’s frustration.
When she got out and dried off, she felt better—more relaxed—but still too wired to go to bed. She left her hair up in the clip and slipped into some loose cargo pants and a camisole, intending to plot out her Jacques Martin search for tomorrow.
She’d just gotten settled on the couch when she was startled by a soft knock on the sliding door that led to the terrace.
It could only be one of two people, and Dylan had been asleep for over an hour.
She looked out. Sure enough, it was Garrett. She slid the door open, but before she could speak, he held up a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been rude to you and have been a terrible neighbor. I’d like to start over.” He tilted his head toward the table on his side of the terrace. “Will you forgive me and join me for a drink? I just realized I have a lot to celebrate tonight.”
CHAPTER NINE
“DOES THIS MEAN YOU’VE changed your mind about my keeping Dylan?” With her arms crossed firmly across her chest, Tara’s green-eyed stare bored into Garrett, steady and unflinching—the quintessential teacher look.
Hell, he might as well confess everything. Her look had him convinced she’d find out anyway. “Yeah. I...um...I called Josh Essex after you left. He says you’re a great teacher. Honest. Trustworthy. Always concerned about what’s best for the kids.”
His confession didn’t relax her stance even the slightest. Her eyes tightened at the corners, and she tilted her head in question. “What else did he say?”
He gave a sheepish grin. “He said you have a lot of energy, and everybody wants you on their committees because you’re willing to do most of the work.”
She dropped her arms and her protective wall at last, answering his grin with one of her own and stepping out on the terrace to join him. “Okay, then. I get to babysit Dylan, so I have something to celebrate, as well.”
Garrett pointed across the way, where he already had some candles lit on his table to drive away mosquitoes. “Is it okay with you if we sit over there...in case he wakes up?” He hoped the candles didn’t look too presumptuous...or romantic.
“Sure.” She nodded and turned to slide her door closed. A gentle night breeze caught some of the curls that had worked loose from the clip in the back of her hair. They stirred around her face, and his fingers twitched with an unsettling urge to brush them back and linger for a moment in their softness.
He shifted his gaze from the enticing curls, only to have it land on the tattoo below her ear. It looked different in the moonlight, like an exotic jewel embedded into her long, elegant neck at one of the tenderest areas. He imagined following the intricate design with the tip of his tongue...her warm breath quickening in response against his naked shoulder.
“Are we...waiting for something?”
Her question slapped him out of his inappropriate reverie. “No. I, uh, was just noticing the...” He wiggled his finger toward the area that had held him spellbound. “The, uh, tattoo on your neck. It must’ve hurt like hell.”
“Not really.” She held up her hand. “Compared to losing two fingers, it was a picnic.”
“I’m sure. Well...” He gestured toward his table. “Après vous.”
“So, what are you celebrating?” She gave him a sidelong glance as they crossed the imaginary line to his section of the common space. “Other than the fact that you came to your senses, I mean.”
Josh had warned him the woman was known for not mincing words. He set the bottle and the glasses on the table and pulled the chair out for her to sit down, then began removing the foil from around the cork. “I think I told you before that I’m the head of marketing for Soulard Beer?” She nodded. “Well, we’re in the middle of a media campaign. I don’t want to jinx anything by talking too much about it, but suffice it to say that it appears the campaign has passed all our expectations.” A small pop punctuated his words.
Tara rose to her feet again in overstated ceremony. He filled the two glasses she held out, then he took one and, continuing the drama, held it aloft. “Here’s to Soulard Beer and the venture of your choice. May our successes continue to grow in direct correlation to our friendship.”
“To Soulard, new friendships and successful ventures,” she answered.
They clicked their glasses together and sipped. The candlelight heightened the color of the liquid to amber and cast a golden glow across Tara’s face that was quite bewitching. Pleasant warmth from the shared toast and the fine drink bloomed in his chest making hi
m happy he’d invited her to join him.
They sat, and Tara held her glass out again. “Here’s to Dylan, one of the cutest, sweetest, most lovable kids I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.”
Her words caused the muscles in Garrett’s throat to constrict, making it difficult for the second sip of champagne to pass. “Tara...” Getting too personal would be a mistake, but she deserved to know where he was coming from in regards his son. “I need to explain my concerns about Dylan, so you don’t think I’m a total asswipe.”
“Jerk was my epithet of choice.”
He let that mull in his mind as he swirled his glass, causing a tempest of bubbles to rise to the top. “Okay.” He took another sip. “We’ll go with jerk.”
Tara settled back in her chair, stretching her long legs out in front of her as if preparing to hear a lengthy story.
He took a deep breath. Where to start? “It wasn’t so much you personally, as much as...well, how certain things about you remind me of my wife.”
“Oh...really?” Tara straightened, brows knitting in concern. “Is there a resemblance? Is that why Dylan took so quickly to me?”
“No, no, it’s not like that. Angela was short, black haired, dark complexioned.” Garrett wiped his hand down his face. Hell, he needed to just say it. He took another sip, hoping the bubbles would lighten the weight in his chest. “She was bipolar.”
Tara’s brows shot up. “Oh.”
“When she took her medication, she was fine.” He continued. “The problem was that she didn’t like to take the medication. She said it repressed who she really was. During her pregnancy and then after Dylan was born, she went without it more and more often, and her mood swings flitted from one extreme to another. She could go from the most manic high to the most depressed low in a matter of hours. When I came home from work, I never knew if the woman who met me would be the same one who was there when I left or someone totally different.”
Moonlight in Paris Page 8
