Needed: One Dad

by Jeanne Allan

  The four elderly ladies turned in unison to look at Addy. Self-consciously she fingered the bright cerise, wildly patterned butterfly necklace hanging around her neck.

  “Looking at you, dear, always makes me smile,” Cora said.

  Addy eyed her garish turquoise blouse with misgivings.

  Belle, in her tiger-print jumpsuit and orange loop earrings the size of small saucers, added, “Addy is an artist. Not a calculator beside a computer attached to a test tube. Like Sam.”

  “Sam used to appreciate anything or anyone out of the ordinary. The oddest things would tickle his funny bone.” Hannah sighed. “Once he would have been amused by the idea of someone like Addy being my roommate.”

  “Maybe Sam wouldn’t worry so much, dear, if Addy dressed a little less colorfully...” Cora’s voice trailed off.

  “Nonsense,” Belle boomed. “Addy is as bright and happy as her jewelry. There’s no reason for her to conform to other people’s narrow-minded standards.”

  Phoebe spoke up. “Forget about Addy’s jewelry and the way she dresses. The problem is, some people think an unmarried female artist who has a child must be living a riotous life of sin and depravity.”

  The other elderly women nodded in somber agreement. Tired of being discussed as if she weren’t present, Addy said, a tart edge to her voice, “I don’t know when I’m supposed to have time to live this life of sin. Between taking care of Emilie and trying to make enough money to support us, I don’t have a social life, riotous or depraved.”

  “Of course not,” Hannah soothed, “almost everyone in town knows you’re raising your sister’s child.”

  “I set Judith Jones, over at the grocery store, straight when she called you a single mother,” Belle added helpfully.

  Phoebe snorted. “Judith’s always been a fool.”

  Addy blinked away a threatening tear and smiled around the table at the four women. “I don’t know what Emilie and I would do without the four of you. You are such good friends.”

  “Seems to me,” Phoebe said, “a pretty young woman like you needs better friends than four old biddies like us.”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t need—”

  “Phoebe’s right, dear,” Cora interrupted. “You don’t need us.” Her bright determined gaze swept around the table. “What Addy needs is a husband.”

  Having heard Emilie’s evening prayers and tucked her niece into bed with a kiss, Addy curled up in an old armchair in their sitting room. Hannah insisted Addy and Emilie consider her house their home, and they shared the bottom floor. At the same time, recognizing everyone needed some privacy, Hannah had divided the upstairs. Claiming she rattled around in the huge master bedroom with its adjoining small nursery and bathroom, Hannah had turned those rooms over to Addy and moved into the largest of the other three bedrooms. Addy and Emilie used the smaller room for their bedroom, and the former master bedroom served as a combination sitting room, playroom for Emilie, and workspace for Addy.

  Leaning her head back against the chair, Addy sighed and closed her eyes. She ought to be working now. The owner of a Colorado Springs gallery had called earlier in the week to say they’d almost run out of Addy’s jewelry. Addy’s sales soared during the summer tourist season when she sold more of her colorful polymer clay necklaces and earrings than she did at any other time of year. The arrival in the day’s mail of her bank statement with its pathetically low balance provided further incentive for buckling down to work.

  She certainly had no business lolling about while Cora’s absurd statement from this morning replayed itself over and over in her mind. Cora couldn’t get through an hour without bemoaning the loss of her late husband Frank, so it came as no surprise to Addy the widow thought every woman needed a husband. The other three women in her Wednesday morning crafts class agreeing with Cora shocked Addy. She stirred restlessly. Even Phoebe, a confirmed spinster, maintained Addy needed a husband and Emilie needed a father.

  Emilie didn’t need a father. Not even the man who’d participated in her creation. Addy knew three things about him. He was rich, he was married, and he was a rotten slimy scumbag. She didn’t know his name. Emilie’s mother, Addy’s sister Lorie, had always refused to pass on that little tidbit of information to her older sister. Two and a half years ago Lorie had taken the name to the grave with her when she’d decided life wasn’t worth living and ended hers with an overdose of sleeping pills.

  Only Addy and Emilie remained, but two could make a family. Addy did not need a husband. Emilie did not need a father.

  She and Emilie had everything they needed. They had a nice place to live, and Addy’s income provided for them, even if they lived a somewhat hand-to-mouth existence. As long as things went smoothly... Even if things didn’t go smoothly. Picking up a worn piece of wood from the small table beside her chair, Addy rubbed the familiar talisman. Johnson women survived.

  The talisman failed to provide its customary strengthening reassurance. Fears and anxieties Addy had suppressed all day clawed their way to the surface. What if Hannah’s grandson convinced Hannah Addy wasn’t the proper companion for his grandmother? Worse, what if Sam Dawson persuaded his grandmother Addy wasn’t a suitable person to be teaching arts and crafts at the community center? Addy couldn’t support Emilie solely on the earnings from her jewelry sales. She clenched the worn piece of wood so tightly her hand ached. One more year, she prayed. Then Emilie would be in school most of the day, and Addy could resume teaching full-time.

  She should have known this situation was too good to last. No doubt Dr. Samuel Dawson, Ph.D., had condemned Addy’s character, her life-style and her clothes to Hannah. Addy had managed to avoid him since their first encounter. Mainly by keeping away from the house, since he slept down the hall and had turned the downstairs back parlor into his private office. Tonight and last night, Addy had taken Emilie out for dinner while Hannah and her grandson dined on casseroles Addy had prepared earlier and put in the freezer. Her finances didn’t allow Addy to continue eating out, so she’d have to face him sooner or later. And why not? She had nothing to hide.

  Someone rapped sharply from the hall. Dropping her talisman, Addy dashed to answer before the caller awakened Emilie. Hannah’s grandson stood on the other side of the door.

  Samuel Dawson held out her surgical blade. “You left this downstairs.”

  He’d come to evict them. She wouldn’t make it easy for him. “Aren’t you afraid I might use it on you while you’re sleeping?”

  “Thank you, Sam,” he said. “You’re welcome, Ms. Johnson.”

  Addy ignored the etiquette lesson. “What do you want?” She didn’t invite him in, but somehow he stood in the middle of the room.

  Samuel Dawson turned slowly, the vivid blue eyes not missing an inch of the crowded room. Old family photographs, Emilie’s artwork, Addy’s grandmother’s wedding dress, vintage hats, and watercolors executed by Addy’s mother hung from floor to ceiling on the rich purple walls. A tall chest and small end tables, draped with dresser scarves and tablecloths from the 1940’s, held an eclectic assortment of knickknacks, framed photos, stacks of books and children’s toys. More toys and stacks of books littered a floor spread with assorted fragments of Oriental-style carpets and scattered with heaps of huge bright pillows. A green paisley print bedsheet covered the sagging sofa, while the two old armchairs sported green, red and purple stripes. Addy’s craft tools and Emilie’s art projects filled every spare inch of the old painted dining room table and spilled over onto the floor. Addy’s storage system, boxes of all sizes and shapes, wrapped in decorative papers, wallpaper and fabric, took up what little space remained on the floor, on the tables, and on the chest. A multitude of potted plants lined the windowsills across the front of the house.

  Addy hoped Samuel Dawson’s raised eyebrows didn’t fly right off the top of his head.

  “This room must violate every fire code known to man.”

  “No, it doesn’t, and before you get the brilliant id
ea of reporting me to the fire department in hopes Hannah will be forced to evict me, you ought to know the fire chief’s son is in my puppet-making class and her daughter is in Emilie’s play group.” He didn’t need to know, if she wasn’t barefoot, Addy’d be quaking in her shoes. The barest lift of one of his eyebrows could be interpreted as his acknowledgment of her firm position. Or he could be mocking her for being so stupid she didn’t know the treacherous insecurity of her position. Addy clenched her hands at her side. She knew.

  Sam Dawson picked up a framed snapshot of an ethereal blond beauty holding a cherubic, blue-eyed baby and minutely scrutinized the photo. “Your niece and her mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look much like your sister.”

  Addy carefully set the surgical blade on the nearest table. If she held on to it, she’d be tempted to use it on him. She snatched the photograph from his grasp and polished his fingerprints from the glass and frame with her caftan before returning the picture to its resting place. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. Battles needed to be fought head-on. “She took after my mother’s side of the family. I took after my dad’s.” Practically seeing the words, “How unfortunate,” forming on his lips, she hastily inquired in acid tones what else he wanted in a none-too-subtle hint he be on his way.

  He moved further into the room. Stopping in front of one of her mother’s paintings, he studied the haphazard splotches of color and leaned closer to peer at the signature. “Lily Johnson. Your sister?”

  “No.”

  The clipped denial turned up one corner of his mouth an infinitesimal amount. “Just someone who couldn’t paint her way out of a paper bag and who coincidentally shares your last name?”

  “My mother painted the picture you’re sneering at.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “My room, my paintings, my sister, my mother and anything and everything else about my life are none of your business.”

  Her proclamation bounced heedlessly off him. “You’re worse than a damned pack rat. A psychiatrist would have a field day with this messy room and what it says about how insecure you are. Or what a control freak you are.”

  “I’m not insecure or a control freak, and this room is not messy. It’s lived in.”

  “It’s cluttered, chaotic, gaudy, and an assault to the nervous system. Why don’t you get rid of some of this junk?”

  “I’d love to. Starting with you.”

  Stepping over a ball, some crayons and an abandoned baby doll, he seated himself in one of the armchairs and pointed to the other. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  Addy considered refusing, but he’d obviously prepared a speech, and just as obviously she wasn’t going to get rid of him until he’d had his say. Ignoring the chair he’d pointed to, she moved Emilie’s play clay to one side and sat down on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her.

  “Cora did not write the letter to me,” he said.

  “There’s a news flash.”

  He gazed levelly at her. “Grandmother is satisfied you are whom you say you are.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “I’ll wait for more data before I make up my mind. Grandmother, however, not only believes you, she’s worried about you. Anyone out to get you, Ms. Johnson?”

  “Unlike you, I don’t go around offending people.”

  He engaged in deliberate, protracted study of her electric teal blue caftan before raising mocking eyes to her face. “That’s difficult to believe.”

  Addy jumped to her feet. So much for patiently hearing what he had to say. “There’s no reason for Hannah to be worried about me, so good night, Dr. Dawson.”

  He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back in the chair. “Grandmother wants me to keep an eye on you for the next couple of weeks, for your protection.”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near me, and I don’t need any protection. There is absolutely no reason for Hannah to worry about me. Some busybody doubtlessly thought it time someone in Hannah’s family bothered to visit her, and I got the dubious honor of being the carrot. Or maybe the stick.”

  His face darkened and he asked in a chilly voice, “Are you accusing my family of neglecting Grandmother?”

  Addy wasn’t about to back down. “I’ve known Hannah for over nine months, and not once has a member of her family visited her, and not once has she gone to visit any of them. Emilie and I and Phoebe spent Christmas Day with her. We—” she emphasized the word “—had nowhere else to go and no one else to spend the holiday with.” For a moment Addy thought she glimpsed a slight hint of mortification color his cheeks. The next second she knew she’d imagined it.

  “My parents opened in a play in Florida, and Grandmother no longer enjoys the hustle and bustle of backstage. As for my brothers, Harry was in Africa, and Mike had to work the hospital emergency room Christmas Day.” He added evenly, “I was involved in complicated negotiations raising venture capital for a small start-up company in California.”

  “Such busy, busy lives,” Addy mocked. “Hannah’s eighty years old. Will you all be too busy to come to her funeral?”

  Sam Dawson’s eyes narrowed to dark blue slits, and he stared at her for the longest moment. “You did it,” he said slowly. “You wrote the letter.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  His absurd conclusion rendered Addy speechless. Almost. “You’re crazy. Absolutely, positively, certifiably crazy. What possible reason could I have for writing such a letter?”

  “To convince me you’re nothing more than a meddling, busybody, who arbitrarily decided Grandmother’s family neglected her, so you mailed off a letter expressly designed to compel at least one of her family to rush to her rescue.”

  “Offering myself up as some kind of sacrificial lamb?” she asked sarcastically.

  “I can’t imagine anyone less lamblike.” He studied her thoughtfully, his elbows and hands resting on the arms of the large striped armchair. “You’re more clever than I first realized. I’m sure Grandmother’s welfare was the furthest thing from your mind. What happened? Were others around town beginning to question why Grandmother suddenly took in a strange young woman and her child? Writing me the letter would be a brilliant maneuver on your part. I’d come out, see you and Emilie living innocently upstairs, pronounce you harmless, and go home.” He paused. “You’d be free to manipulate and swindle Grandmother out of her last penny, secure in the knowledge I’d ignore any further warnings emanating from here.”

  “I should be grateful, if I’m to be called a crook, at least I’m clever and brilliant. Which is more than I can say about you. I keep looking for a glimmer of this brilliance Hannah brags you have, but you hide it well. Phoebe thinks Judith Jones is a fool. I’d hate to hear what she thinks about you.”

  “Phoebe Knight? Is she to be your next victim?”

  Addy wanted to grind her molars. Preferably with his stupid, single-minded head between them. “Phoebe spent almost fifty years working as a secretary for a law firm. I’ll bet she involved herself in all kinds of graft and blackmail and embezzlement.” Only a tiny quiver in her voice betrayed Addy’s amusement at the improbable thought of Phoebe so much as jay-walking. “Who knows how much dough she has stashed away? Of course, I’d have to be either terribly brilliant or terribly stupid to think I could bamboozle Phoebe.” Inwardly conceding Sam Dawson would leave when he wanted to leave and not a second sooner, Addy again lowered herself to the sofa. “One would think I’d victimize Cora McHatton or Belle Rater.”

  “Although Belle made out like a bandit when she sold the family hotel to that large hotel chain, I seem to recall a daughter who’s an attorney in Denver. I imagine it didn’t take you long to ferret out the fact that, although Cora is comfortable, she’s not as wealthy as some people think she is. Her husband was notorious for accepting chickens and garden produce and amateurish artwork—” he barely glanced at one of Lily’s paintings “—instead of billing his poorer
patients.”

  Believing the doctor’s widow to be rolling in dough, Addy occasionally found Cora’s little economies irritating. She resolved to be more patient and understanding. With Cora. Addy had no patience for unwanted visitors. “If you don’t quit overworking your puny little brain, inventing criminally convoluted reasons for my living here, you’re going to strain it. You’d better run back to Boston before you give yourself a migraine.”

  “You’re the one who’ll be running, not me.” The threat held no less menace for being delivered in a conversational voice.

  Addy swallowed. “I’m not going anywhere. Hannah trusts me.”

  His lazy smile held no warmth. “If it comes to her having to make a choice between us, whom do you think she’ll choose? Adeline, you’ll be out of here by the end of the week.”

  “Don’t call me Adeline.” His smile annoyed her. She wondered who’d told him he should always wear blue shirts the color of his eyes.

  “The end of the week, Ms. Johnson.” He took his time looking around the room before his steel-forged gaze returned to her. “With all this junk, you’d better start packing. Anything you leave behind, I’ll donate to the nearest thrift shop.”

  Addy grabbed a scarlet pillow, squashing it against her middle. “I’m not leaving anything behind, because I’m not going anywhere. My living arrangements are between me and Hannah, and have nothing to do with you.”

  “I won’t even ask you to repaint these outlandish purple walls, and I’ll refund any rent money owing.”

  “There is no rent money owing.”

  “You don’t pay rent monthly from the first of the month?”

  “I don’t pay rent at all.” The slightest tensing of Sam Dawson’s muscles told Addy that Hannah had neglected to mention a few minor details to her grandson.