by Marta Perry
He shrugged. “His seat on the board gives him access to the office and the site. What he thinks he’s going to find escapes me, but it’s annoying, all the same.”
She rubbed her arms, thinking of Frank’s smile. He made her more uneasy than annoyed.
“Are you cold?” Link put his arm around her shoulder in a quick hug.
It warmed her. Down to her toes.
“No, I’m fine.” She stepped casually out of the circle of his arm, because it was too tempting just to stay there. “Just thinking about what you said.”
“Look, don’t start worrying.” He frowned. “My part of this deal is to take care of the business, and I will. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t. I want to understand.” She should have made more of an effort from the beginning. “After all, this is Marcy’s project, too, thanks to her father.”
He nodded, his face lightening a little at the mention of the baby. “Too bad she’s not as good at keeping the books as her daddy was. That’s a talent that was left out of my makeup all together.”
“Don’t you have a bookkeeper?” She should have interested herself enough in the business to know that, at least.
“Vera does some of it, but Davis actually kept most of the records on his computer. I’ve been struggling to keep up with it, but half the time I can’t even find the right files.” One corner of his mouth quirked. “Give me a blueprint and I know what to do. A computer’s something else again. As for a spreadsheet—forget it.”
The need might as well have been written in large letters over his head. Link needed—the company needed—something that she could very easily do. The bookkeeping he was talking about would be child’s play to her. It might actually be fun.
If she offered to help, that would be one more thing bringing her close to Link. One more reason to be in his company, to be telling herself he didn’t mean anything to her anymore, to know she was kidding herself.
The more she was around Link, the harder it would be to protect her heart.
Still, she couldn’t escape the fact that she’d asked God to guide her in this situation. She’d always believed that if the Lord dropped a responsibility right in your lap, it was pretty safe to assume that burden was for you, whether you wanted it or not. She couldn’t ignore this one.
“Why don’t you let me take over the record-keeping Davis was doing?”
She couldn’t mistake the relief that washed over his face. Then, almost immediately, he shook his head.
“No, that’s not fair. You have all the responsibility of Marcy. I can’t ask you to do this, too.”
“You didn’t ask, I offered.” She hoped she sounded confident. “I’d be glad to keep my hand in with something I know how to do. I can work on it in the evening after Marcy goes to bed.”
“Are you sure?” He turned so that he was looking full in her face, the movement bringing him very close.
I’m sure I should be looking for ways to stay away from you, not get closer. “Yes. I mean it.”
He let out his breath in a whoosh of relief. “I can’t tell you how great that would be, Annie. I can work with you in the evenings on it. Maybe you can even show me how to open the spreadsheets.”
“I think I can manage that.” The question was, could she manage to do this and not get even more involved emotionally with Link?
That was a good question. Unfortunately, she thought she already knew the answer.
Link felt like a husband and father coming home to the family he loved. Alarms went off in his mind, and he braked so abruptly that the truck shimmied as it came to a stop in the driveway.
Unfortunately, being together every evening in the week since Annie had offered to help him with the company books had put too many thoughts in his mind that didn’t belong there.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and he made no effort to get out of the truck. He’d better get this straight in his mind. This wasn’t real. The warm, cozy, welcoming home wasn’t his—not for keeps.
Ironic, that he of all people should be put in the position of having what amounted to a counterfeit family. Maybe God was trying to tell him something.
Whatever the lesson might be, he could only assume he wasn’t learning it very well. But one thing he’d better get right, and quickly. He couldn’t let Annie and Marcy grow to depend on him, any more than he could depend on them. This situation was dangerous enough without that.
He slid out of the truck and walked quickly to the house, knowing how much he wanted to see them even while he was telling himself to be careful.
They were both in the family room, looking just like the cozy picture he’d been imagining. Marcy ran to him, carrying a block in each hand, and threw herself into his arms. The feel of her soft cheek against his nearly undid all his careful resolutions.
He put her down, and she held out the blocks. “Bock,” she announced, then ran to put them in her bright red plastic wagon. “Bock.” She ran to the far corner of the family room, where it looked as if a wagonload of blocks had been dumped, to pick up two more.
“She’s been doing that for the last hour,” Annie said. She was curled up in the corner of the couch, wearing jeans and that soft yellow sweater that made you want to touch it. Touch her.
Concentrate, he told himself. “Doing what?” He sat down next to her, drawn by the smile that curved her mouth as she watched Marcy.
“She carries the blocks over two at a time and puts them in the wagon. Then when all the blocks are in, she pulls the wagon to the corner, dumps it and starts all over again.”
“Maybe she’s getting ready for her partnership in Conrad and Morgan,” he said.
Annie transferred her smile to him. “It’s more likely the fact that toddlers are into sorting things and putting them into containers.”
“You’ve been reading that toddler book again, haven’t you?” He reached for the volume she held in her lap. “Is that what this is?” But he realized immediately that it wasn’t.
“There’s no harm in reading up on the subject.” She sounded a little defensive. “But no, this is one of our old family albums. I knew Becca had it somewhere. I told you we’re all bringing pictures of mommy and daddy to play group tomorrow.”
“I remember.” He smiled, opening the album. “I also remember I promised to vacuum tonight.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
He leafed through the book. “Let’s see which one I think you should use.”
“Those are just pictures of me.” She reached out to flip the page for him. “Becca is farther on.”
He pulled the book out of her reach. “No harm in checking out Aunt Annie’s baby pictures, is there?”
She made a soft sound that might have been disagreement but she didn’t try to take the album away.
He leafed through the first few pages. “You were a cute kid.” Annie had been a solemn-looking baby with dark hair that stood up in a little tuft on top of her head. After he’d turned a page or two, he realized something was missing. “I don’t see your mother in any of these pictures.”
Annie clasped her hands together in her lap, as if she didn’t know what else to do with them. “She… My mother had to go into the hospital after I was born. She was never very strong.”
He wanted to ask for details, but Annie so clearly didn’t want to talk about it that he wasn’t sure what to say. He turned a few more pages.
There was her mother, appearing in the photos when Annie was about six months old or so. A photo of the three of them showed Annie looking solemn, her mother strained and her father tense.
He glanced at Annie, wondering. Her face was averted, and a wing of shiny dark hair swung down over her cheek, shielding her expression.
Becca appeared on the next page—bright as a new penny, all chubby cheeks, dimples and blond curls. He looked from the photo to Marcy.
“Okay, I guess I have to give in on this one. Marcy does look like Becca did as a baby.
”
Annie turned back toward him, her smile flashing. “I told you.”
She leaned closer, pointing to one of the pictures. Her hair brushed his cheek, and he could smell the aroma that identified her, a clean mixture of soap and baby powder that was irrationally attractive.
“I picked this one. What do you think?” she asked.
“Cute.” He glanced past the photo of Becca standing in a playpen to the next one, then found he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Annie’s mother was on her knees, arms spread wide, face relaxed and lit with love. Becca, arms reaching, toddled toward her laughing.
Annie stood in the background. It was probably only the quality of the old photograph that made it look as if she stood in the shadows while the other two were in the light.
But the quality of the photograph had nothing to do with the message that her little figure communicated. She hung back, an expression of longing on her face. She clasped her hands behind her, as if unwilling to ask for something she wouldn’t get.
His stomach twisted. He recognized the longing because he’d felt it himself. Annie, with her nice, ordinary, middle-class background, still hadn’t had the one thing a child needed most—that sense of being loved unconditionally.
You setting up as a psychiatrist now, Morgan?
Trouble was, he couldn’t jeer himself out of this. He’d seen Annie make that exact same gesture in the past few weeks, as if inside she was still that little girl who didn’t think she was the loved one.
“Link?” Annie looked at him, brown eyes questioning. “Is that photo okay?”
“Yes, sure.” He handed her the album, trying to dismiss his thoughts.
A man who couldn’t risk loving. A woman who didn’t think she could be loved. They were caught in a marriage that could cut both of them to pieces.
Chapter Nine
If she’d accepted Link’s offer to go in late to work and help her get ready for play group, maybe she wouldn’t be so stressed. Annie smoothed her hands down her slacks, trying to suppress the butterflies in her stomach, and assessed the kitchen and family room.
Ridiculous, to be so worried about having everything perfect for a play group. She ran through her mental checklist, grateful that Marcy was happily watching her favorite video. The fruit salad was cut up and in the fridge, the juice and coffee ready. Jenna had said she’d bring bagels and spreads.
They’d do the photo project on the folding table, and the pictures she’d chosen were already laid out. She paused, looking at the image of Becca at Marcy’s age. Blond curls, big blue eyes, a happy smile. Even perfect strangers had responded to that smile, stopping Mom in the grocery store to say how beautiful Becca was.
The picture was perfect. She just couldn’t help wishing that Link hadn’t seen that album the night before. She’d had the sense that those pictures had revealed more about her family than she wanted him to know.
The barriers she’d been trying to hold up between her and Link kept crumbling, one by one. There didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it, so maybe she’d better just concentrate on the task at hand.
She still had to put the quiche into the oven. She walked back into the kitchen and looked critically at the quiche. Not bad for her first-ever attempt to make something that complicated. She glanced at her watch. Should she start baking it yet?
A knock at the door decided her. If Jenna was here already, she may as well put it in. She slid the pan into the oven, then hurried to the door. Hopefully Jenna would be able to tell when the quiche was done.
She grasped the knob and pulled the door open. “Jenna, I—”
But it wasn’t Jenna. It was Mrs. Bradshaw, looking formal and intimidating.
“Mrs. Bradshaw.” She tried to keep the shock from her voice. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
She couldn’t possibly have forgotten something as important as a visit from the social worker. What on earth was the woman doing here unannounced?
“I thought I’d drop by to see how Marcy does with her play group. I understand you’re hosting it today.”
How do you know that? She couldn’t come right out and ask that question.
Mrs. Bradshaw raised an eyebrow, giving the impression that she tapped her foot impatiently. “May I come in?”
No. “Yes, of course.” She stepped back away from the door. The butterflies in her stomach had turned into fire-breathing dragons. “I was just getting things ready for the group.”
The woman greeted Marcy, then put her bag down on the sofa and glanced at Annie. “You did realize there would be unannounced visits, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I didn’t.” Did that make her sound ill-prepared? “But you’re very welcome to stay and observe or—”
Maybe she was ill-prepared. What etiquette was involved here? Did she ask the woman to stay for brunch? How were the other mothers going to react to having a social worker sit in on their play group?
“I won’t stay long.” Mrs. Bradshaw settled herself on the sofa as if to belie that remark. “How does Marcy feel about the play group?”
“She loves it.” She brushed a strand of hair out of Marcy’s face. “Don’t you, sweetie?”
Please, don’t let this be one of the days when Marcy decided to get possessive about her toys. Please, Lord, let this go well.
The doorbell rang, and with another silent prayer she went to answer it. Jenna was first, carrying a bag from the bagel shop, but before she could unpack it, the others arrived. The room filled rapidly with the mothers’ chatter and the children’s squeals.
“Nothing quiet about this bunch.” Jenna settled on the couch next to Mrs. Bradshaw as if she’d known her for years. “Hope you’re not allergic to noise, Enid.”
Her use of the first name sent an unpleasant chill down Annie’s spine. Apparently Jenna knew the social worker. It was a small town, as Link kept reminding her.
“Annie?” Jenna looked concerned. “Do I smell something burning?”
“The quiche!” Annie ran to the kitchen, snatching the pot holders from the counter and yanking open the oven door. Too late.
She stared down at the blackened remains of her beautiful quiche, tears prickling her eyes. Could this morning get any worse?
A deafening clamor erupted from the ceiling smoke alarm. Most of the toddlers began to cry.
She wanted to join them. Apparently the answer was yes, it could get worse.
“Come on, Annie. It couldn’t have been as bad as all that.”
Link had come home from the work site early to see how the play group had gone, since Annie had been so tense about it. He’d found Marcy peacefully napping and Annie sitting in the living room. That had been the first sign that something was wrong. They seldom used the formal room.
The second distress signal was Annie’s tear-stained face. She’d tried to smile when he came in, but it had been a dismal failure.
He sat gingerly next to her on the peach-colored couch, half afraid he’d leave a mark. “It wasn’t, was it? I’ll bet people found enough to eat, even without the quiche.”
“That’s not the point.” Her brown eyes were still bright with tears. “I messed up, not just in front of the play group mothers, but in front of Mrs. Bradshaw, too.”
He’d rather have her annoyed with him than crying. “I don’t get it. We weren’t expecting her.”
“She just showed up. Apparently we should have been expecting unannounced visits. She said she’d heard I was hosting the play group here, and she wanted to see how Marcy made out.”
His sense of unease deepened. “How did she know about the play group being here?”
“I’ve no idea. She couldn’t have come at a worse time. I’d just put the quiche in the oven, and having her here rattled me so much that I totally forgot about it.”
They were back to the quiche again. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t just laugh it off, but obviously she couldn’t.
“I�
�ll bet everyone who was here had burned something at one time or another.”
“That’s what they said—” she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, like a child trying to disguise her tears “—after we turned off the smoke alarm, aired the place out and got all the children to stop crying. All the women tried to make me feel better with stories of their own culinary disasters.”
“There, you see.” He took her hand, hoping to comfort her and not sure how. “They understood.”
“They were being nice,” she corrected. “They’re all kind, and they were Becca’s friends.”
He thought about that revealing family picture he’d looked at the previous night. The relationship between Annie and Becca was more complicated than he’d realized, and he’d better be careful if he didn’t want to make things worse.
Annie straightened, brushing her hair back from her face and attempting a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to turn the waterworks on for you. It was just such a fiasco.”
He could still read the distress in her eyes, and it troubled him. “You don’t have to be perfect, you know. Even Mrs. Bradshaw can’t expect that.”
“I hope you’re right. I just wish I knew what she expected. What does she think is important? I feel as if I’m stumbling around in the dark, trying to do what Becca would do and not succeeding very well.”
She looked down, clasping her hands in her lap. It reminded him of the younger Annie in the picture, hands clasped behind her, left out of the relationship between her mother and sister.
“You’re not Becca,” he said cautiously. “You can’t—”
“Don’t you think I know that?” She flared out so suddenly that her emotion shocked him. “Becca made people’s eyes light up when she came in the room. I can never replace that.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” He felt his way through unexplored territory. “Okay, Becca was a special person. No one expects you to be just like her.”
He saw the movement of the muscles in her neck, as if she had trouble swallowing. She shook her head, turning away from him again, her brief anger apparently spent. Or maybe it was that she couldn’t talk about this. He put his hand tentatively on her back, feeling her tension through his palm.
