“Probably not.”
“I’m going to do some paperwork,” he said loudly enough for the women to hear.
“You’re going to have to clear off your desk first. And your chair, and maybe some room on the floor. The historical society wasn’t the only group that brought donations for your daughter.”
“She is not my . . . !” He glanced at the elderly women. Their eyes were big as saucers as they waited for him to shout the denial. He wasn’t going to do it. He’d take a paternity test before he made another public statement. That way he’d have undeniable proof that Zuzu wasn’t his.
Or that she was.
The thought gave him a momentary pause, that one-percent chance that she could be his eating away at him. He wasn’t father material. Would never be father material. God help the kid if he turned out to be her dad.
“You were saying?” Emma prodded.
“Never mind,” he muttered. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
“Might want to take some coffee with you. You look like you need it.”
He wanted to ignore her, but she was right.
He needed coffee. Badly.
He poured a cup from the carafe near her desk and retreated to his office. He planned to sit at the desk, drink his coffee, try to get his head together. One look at the room, and he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
The desk was overflowing with stuff, his computer draped with a pink blanket that had little white flowers all over it. The chair was covered with more stuff. Pink stuff. Purple stuff. Little girl stuff. Even the floor had piles of clothes and toys and dolls.
“Shit!” he muttered, lifting the pile from his chair and tossing it onto the desk. He’d need a wheelbarrow to get it all out of there and another apartment to store it all.
He only had himself to blame for his troubles. He could have just let Morgan leave with the kid. He could rectify the situation. It would be easy enough to track Morgan down. He knew her name, her destination. He could put out an APB on her Mazda, find her, and ship Zuzu back where she belonged.
He couldn’t make himself do it, and he wasn’t sure why not. Old memories, maybe. Thoughts about what it had been like to be a fatherless kid pawned off on whatever adult was willing to take him. Maybe a generic sense of responsibility. Zuzu was a little kid. Someone needed to protect her from her mother’s selfishness.
Damn his civic-mindedness. He blamed his grandparents for it. If they’d left him with his drug-addict mom for a few more years, he probably wouldn’t have cared all that much about one little kid.
He did care, so he and Zuzu were stuck with each other until Morgan returned. Or until he got fed up and sent out a posse to find her.
At the rate the kid had been screaming, that might happen sooner rather than later.
Thank God for Charlotte.
There was something inherently maternal about her. Maybe it was her need to feed everyone around her. She was constantly dropping cookies or cupcakes or breads off at the front desk. Max wasn’t much for sweet treats, but when it came to Charlotte’s baked goods, he could pack down some serious calories.
Hopefully Zuzu had done the same.
A kid her age couldn’t go very long without nourishment.
Or water.
He frowned. She’d barely even taken a sip of the juice that he’d tried to get her to drink that morning. For all he knew, she was dehydrated, her little kidneys shriveling up and shutting down.
He needed to check in with Charlotte, make sure that Zuzu had had something to drink.
He grabbed the phone and realized he didn’t know her phone number. He should have gotten it before he left, given her his cell phone number in case she needed to reach him. Dang if he wasn’t completely inept at this babysitting thing.
“Deputy Stanford,” Emma called through his radio. “We have a 398 in progress.”
“A what?” He knew all the codes, but this was one he’d never heard before.
“Cows on the interstate. Larry Beasley’s son left the pasture gate open, and all Larry’s prize Herefords escaped. They’re trying to cross I-90 at McTravis Road. I’ve gotten five calls about it.”
“I’m on my way.”
He’d call Charlotte later. Better yet, he’d stop in. See how little Zuzu was doing. He grabbed a couple of pink pieces of clothing from the pile on his desk, dropped a pair of shoes on top of them, tucked a doll under his arm, and walked out of the office.
He was pretty damn sure he heard Emma laughing as he passed her desk and left the building.
Three deliveries down. One to go.
Charlotte glanced at the clock as she dragged a lemon yellow mixing bowl from the cupboard and set it on the counter. It would be fantastic if she actually managed to bake the cookies before they were scheduled to be delivered to Apple Valley Elementary School’s PTA holiday party.
At the rate she was going, she’d be carrying in bowls of batter. Having a toddler around was really slowing her stride. Having Zim around . . .
Yeah. That was even worse.
“How’s the baking going, Charlotte?” he asked as he lumbered into the kitchen, Zuzu toddling along beside him.
It would be going a lot better if you didn’t keep interrupting me, she wanted to say.
“I have one more batch of cookies to make.”
“What kind?”
“Oatmeal with walnuts and dark chocolate.”
“Had ’em before. They’re good. We’re running a little behind, aren’t we?” Zim asked, squinting at the dry erase board tacked to the wall. Her schedule was written out clear as day there. Anyone who could read could see that she was running behind.
“About an hour.” She grabbed butter and eggs from the fridge, pulled dark chocolate from the pantry. If she worked fast, she’d still get the cookies delivered on time.
“Hmmm. Think we’ll finish before those things have to be at the school?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, if we’re running too far behind, I can bring Zuzu to the store and we can buy a few packs of oatmeal cookies. Just put them on one of those fancy trays of yours and no one will be the wiser.”
“I’d rather die,” she muttered.
“No need to be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being honest. The PTA paid for home-baked cookies. That’s what they’re going to get.” She slapped two sticks of butter into the bowl, measured in sugar and vanilla. Thank God she was past the point of needing recipes.
“Take it from someone who knows. They’re not going to care. Add a little fresh fruit into the mix, and they’ll think they’ve died and gone to heaven.” He stuck his head into the refrigerator. “You have any fresh fruit in here? Strawberries? Grapes?”
“Probably.” But there was no way she was going to toss store-bought cookies onto the tray with the lemon bars, Russian tea cakes, and praline crunch cookies she’d spent hours baking. She certainly wasn’t going to slap fruit in the center of the tray and call it good.
“Where’s the tray? I’ll start setting it up for you.”
“I appreciate that, Zim, but it might be better if you and Zuzu just waited in the other room.” She turned on the mixer and started creaming the butter, hoping that the noise would be enough to put a stop to the conversation.
She should have known better.
Zim moved closer, staring down into the bowl while she whipped the butter and sugar into a fluffy mound.
“You want me to get some other ingredients for you?”
“No.”
“You sure? Many hands make light work.”
“And too many cooks spoil the broth.”
“Are you saying that I’m bothering you?” He scowled, the lines in his face deepening.
“Not at all.” She added vanilla to the mix, cracked in two eggs. “It’s just that I have a routine, a certain way of doing things. When I’m in a hurry—”
“I’m bothering you. That’s exactly what you’re s
aying.”
“No, I—”
“No need to pretend otherwise. Zuzu and I know when we’re not wanted. Don’t we, doll?” He lifted Zuzu. “We’ll just go outside and play for a while.”
“Outside!” Zuzu squealed, clapping her hands excitedly.
“That would be great, Zim, but she doesn’t have a coat. You can’t keep her wrapped in a blanket while she’s playing,” Charlotte pointed out, measuring a cup of flour into a small bowl.
“We’ll find her something. You must have a spare coat around here.”
“She’s too little to wear my coat.”
“We’ll make it work. Won’t we, Zuzu?”
“Yes!” Zuzu agreed.
“Even if you could find a coat that would work, she doesn’t have shoes. Just those feety pajamas.” Charlotte measured out baking soda and baking powder and hoped it was the right amount. Usually she baked in peace, a little music playing in the background. She wasn’t used to conversing and measuring ingredients. She’d probably end up with cementlike flavorless cookies. Maybe she should consider throwing fresh fruit on the tray.
“Do you need shoes, doll?” Zim asked Zuzu.
“No shoes,” she said.
“See?” Zim preened, his white hair standing up around his wrinkled face.
“She’s barely past babyhood. How does she know what she needs?”
“She doesn’t, but I’m as close to an expert as you’ve got, and I say she’s going to be fine. Besides, I’m not bringing her far. Just out back. She’ll love the baby swing you’ve got.”
“You mean the one hanging from that rusty old swing set?” The thing looked like it was about to collapse under the weight of time. She’d been meaning to take it down, but every time she thought about it, she imagined the children who had played there and she didn’t have the heart to do it.
“It’s not that rusty.”
“It’s not that sturdy, either.”
“Sturdy enough for a twenty pounder.” Zim set his coffee cup into the sink. “Your coat closet is in the living room, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Now don’t fuss, Charlotte. You want the girl to be a wilting flower when she grows up?”
She didn’t suppose that she did, but since Zuzu wasn’t going to be her responsibility for more than a few hours, she didn’t think it mattered.
She pressed her lips together and kept her thoughts to herself.
Facts were facts, after all.
And the fact was, she had about three hours of baking to do in two hours.
“Stay here for a minute, Zuzu.” Zim hurried from the room.
Charlotte eyed Zuzu, wondering if she planned to start screaming again.
Zuzu eyed her right back.
She’d been doing fine since Zim’s arrival, but they’d spent the majority of the morning making deliveries. When they hadn’t been doing that, Zim had been entertaining the little girl.
Charlotte had always wanted children. Now that she had a child standing in front of her, she realized that she had no idea what to do with one.
Fortunately Zim reappeared, Charlotte’s old sweater in one hand and one of her old coats in the other. Somehow he managed to get Zuzu into both garments. “Here we go, doll! We’re all set.”
He rolled up the sweater sleeves and zipped up the coat. Fabric puddled at her feet and the shoulders of the coat slipped down her arms.
“Well,” Zim said with a frown, “it’s not the best result, but we’ll make it work.”
“Zim, I really don’t think—”
“You just get those cookies done and let me worry about Zuzu.” He took Zuzu’s hand, but the little girl tugged away when he tried to lead her to the back door.
“Where’s my coat?” she asked, her little hands planted firmly on her hips.
“I think your . . .” Father? Max? “You forgot to put it on this morning.”
“Where’s Mommy?” Zuzu responded.
Another question Charlotte didn’t know how to answer.
She glanced at Zim. He didn’t seem to have any bright ideas either.
“She’ll be back soon, Zuzu,” Charlotte finally said, and hoped to God she was right. For the kid’s sake. She deserved better than to be pawned off on two strangers.
“I want Mommy,” Zuzu insisted, her chin wobbling, her eyes filling with tears.
“Don’t cry, doll,” Zim murmured, patting her on the head. “We’re going to go have fun. Before you know it, your mommy will be back.”
He met Charlotte’s eyes. Maybe looking for assurance that he was right.
Charlotte had no idea when Zuzu’s mother would be back. She didn’t know where the woman had gone or why she’d decided to leave her child with a man she hadn’t seen in years. Even if Max was Zuzu’s father, he was as much a stranger to Zuzu as Zim and Charlotte were.
“I’m sure she will be back soon, Zuzu,” she murmured even though she wasn’t sure of anything except that the fact that she was behind on her schedule. Very, very behind and getting more behind every minute.
“Good. Great.” Zim nodded and scooped Zuzu into his arms. “Let’s go get on the swing for a while. You like swings, right?”
“Yes,” Zuzu said, but she still looked like she might start crying again. She shot Charlotte a reproachful look as Zim opened the back door, then stuck her thumb in her mouth and turned away, her nose as high in the air as it could get.
She’d learned attitude early. It would probably serve her a lot better than Charlotte’s easygoing nature had served her. Too bad her mom hadn’t taught her to stick her nose in the air and leave in a huff. She might not have wasted so many years on Brett.
She looked down into the bowl of butter and sugar. Had she added vanilla? Was there baking powder in the dry ingredients?
She couldn’t remember for sure, and she couldn’t deliver flat cookies to the PTA. Great. Perfect. She dumped the bowl of dry ingredients and started over, carefully measuring everything, chopping dark chocolate, mixing it all together. Outside, Zuzu was giggling, the high-pitched sound drifting through the single-pane glass windows.
She was having fun, but she was freezing in the process.
Charlotte glanced out the window.
The swing set stood at the back edge of the fenced yard. Old and neglected, left for decades untouched by children or adults, it had two rusty metal swings and a plastic baby swing that must have been a later addition. Mary had willed the house to Charlotte. It had been a surprise. A nice one. Charlotte had heard stories about Mary’s childhood home. She’d heard all about the summers that Mary had spent playing in the backyard and planting flower gardens in the shade of the old apple tree. Mary had moved to Billings with her husband, but had kept the family home as a rental property. Other children had used the swings in the years since Mary had lived there. The red paint had faded to dingy brown, but Zuzu didn’t seem to mind. Zim had her wrapped in the coat, her little shoeless feet hanging out of the holes in the swing. Her cheeks were pink, her hair bouncing as Zim gently pushed the swing.
She was a cute kid. That was for sure.
She was also a loud kid.
Charlotte’s head ached from a sleepless night and hours of toddler chatter. Throw Zim chatter in and she’d had just about all she could take for the day. What she wanted to do was nap, but she had to bake the cookies and make the delivery on time. Her reputation depended on it. In a town like Apple Valley, that was everything to small businesses.
Right now she was doing well, making money, shoving it all in savings. She almost had enough for a full year’s rent on the storefront she’d been eyeing. Right on Main Street, close to Riley Park, it had been a soda shop in the fifties, a five-and-dime in the seventies, and a coffee shop in recent years. The current owner planned to retire to Florida as soon as he found someone to rent the property.
Charlotte wanted to be that person in a bad way. She wanted it so much that she’d almost signed the contract a month ago. If she’d
had enough money for the first year’s rent, she would have, but she’d learned the value of being prepared after Brett’s death. Everything she’d thought was hers hadn’t been, and if she hadn’t had a good job, she’d have been forced to live in her car until she’d found one.
Brett had been a bastard, but his kids had deserved better than a long drawn-out court battle over the property he’d left to them and their mother.
His other wife.
Thinking about it still made her blood run cold.
Charlotte had relinquished the house, the property, the money that Brett had been hiding away in a secret account. She’d also given up the pots and pans and linens and everything else that they’d received as wedding gifts.
She’d left all of it behind.
She wished she could have left the memories behind too. Most days, she didn’t think about all the years she’d wasted with Brett, but seeing Zuzu . . .
Yeah. That was hard.
She’d wanted children more than she’d wanted anything.
Maybe after she got a little more settled, got her life a little more together, she’d adopt.
At the rate she was going, she’d be ninety by then.
She sighed and took the cookies from the oven. Golden brown and studded with dark chocolate, they were perfect.
She might not have had the marriage she’d thought, she might not be living the life she’d dreamed of, but she could make a perfect cookie.
That had to count for something.
Chapter Five
They walked out of the house with five minutes to spare. A miracle, considering how far behind Charlotte had been.
“You put Zuzu in her car seat, and I’ll put these in the back. If we hurry, we’ll be there in plenty of time to set up the table before the PTA meeting.” She slid two trays of cookies into the station wagon.
“We have to set up a table?” Zim grumbled as he put Zuzu in her car seat. “I thought we were just bringing the cookies.”
“It will only take a minute. If you can just watch Zuzu—”
“Haven’t I been watching her all day?”
“Yes, and I appreciate it. Once we’re done with this delivery, you can go home and . . .”
The Cottage on the Corner Page 6
