He felt a peculiar thump in his chest, and he immediately scanned the crowd, looking for someone else. Zofie Stavig's mother.
He found her, walking with another mother, each carrying a lawn chair in one hand and a cooler slung between them. Even looking at the back of her head, he was sure it was her.
"Excuse me," he said abruptly, shot to his feet and was halfway down the terraced slope to the soccer fields before he could think about what he was doing.
He caught up with the women and said, "Here, let me carry that."
Their heads turned; Mariah's eyes widened. "Detective!" she exclaimed.
Now the other woman's gaze was surprised and curious.
"Connor McLean," he said. "I'm with the Port Dare PD. I can't get Ms. Stavig here to call me by my first name."
She blushed, looking both annoyed and relieved that he'd gotten her off the hook from having to explain why she knew a cop.
"Lynn Kowalsky."
He and the other mother shook hands.
"I can carry that," he said again, patiently. When neither woman moved, he grabbed the cooler from them. "Your day to provide snacks?" he asked.
"Mine," Lynn Kowalsky said. "Mariah was nice enough to help me struggle across the field. After all, I couldn't watch the game without my coat, mittens, scarf and chair, too."
He lifted the cooler to his shoulder. "At least it's sunny."
They walked slowly, a woman to each side of him. He kept stealing looks at Mariah. She looked … different. Younger, lighter-spirited, less weighted by the sadness he had sensed in her every time he saw her. She was even prettier this way, whether because of mood or because of her casual Sunday clothes: blue jeans, white athletic shoes and a crimson WSU sweatshirt. Her hair was caught in a ponytail that bobbed at her nape as jauntily as her cute daughter's did.
On the other hand, Mariah had yet to say a word past that first exclamation.
Her friend glanced at her, apparently decided she wasn't going to contribute and chose to play nice. "Do you have a child in soccer, too?"
"Believe it or not," he said with what he hoped was a charmingly rueful smile, given to both women in turn, "my niece and nephew and brother and I brought a picnic to the park today."
Mariah was startled into saying incredulously, "A picnic?"
"My brother and his wife—they've only been married a year—went to Victoria for the weekend. My younger brother and I inherited the kids. My niece plays select soccer, doesn't have a game today, but she likes to hang out here and watch anyway. My nephew and I have been throwing the football."
"You don't, um, have kids of your own?" Mariah's cheeks were still pink, and she sounded shy.
"Nope." But lately he'd realized that he wanted them. He wouldn't go so far as to say he was cooing over babies, but once in a while he'd watch John with his kids, or see a father passing with a toddler on his shoulders, and feel a physical pang of … envy. "I'm not married," he added helpfully.
"Oh. I didn't know…" She stopped in apparent confusion.
"Is that Zofie up there?"
Her gaze followed his. "Yes. She's a first-grader now."
He didn't let her think about the last time he'd seen Zofie. "Did your girls win their game today?"
"Three to two," said the other mother with satisfaction. "Zofie is a dynamite goalie."
"And Susan kicked the winning goal."
"Your daughter, I take it," Connor said.
She nodded to a freckled, sturdy redhead trailing Zofie.
"Before you know it," Connor said in a portentous tone, "those girls will be playing select soccer, and every weekend you'll get to drive to Yakima or Bellingham or Vancouver and rent a hotel room and spend all day hanging out on the sidelines."
Mariah actually looked at him. "You're kidding."
"Nope. John has been heard to wish he'd yanked Maddie from soccer while he still could."
She laughed. "I'm not sure I believe that."
Connor grinned. "Actually, he's proud of her. But he's a cop, too, which means he can't take every weekend off to get her to all those tournaments. Fortunately some of the parents with kids on the team take turns chaperoning a whole gang."
"Good heavens," Lynn said. "I don't think my Susan will ever play at that level, but Zofie…"
"Don't even say it," Mariah warned.
"This is my van right here." The woman unlocked the rear door and he deposited the ice chest inside. "Many thanks," she said, then called, "Susan! Let's go. You'll be late to that birthday party!"
Retreating, Connor muttered, "Maybe I don't want to be a father."
"What?" Mariah was right behind him.
"Talking to myself." He grimaced. "Is that how you spend every waking minute? Chauffeuring Zofie?"
"Pretty much." The momentary silence was a little awkward. "Actually, yeah. Especially since I'm a single mother—" She broke off.
He felt his face go stiff.
"I'm sorry," Mariah said quickly. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I wasn't blaming…"
"I know you weren't."
Sure. "Really."
He forced a smile. "Don't worry. Is Zofie going to the same birthday party?"
"No, thank goodness." As if automatically, she looked around for her daughter, saw her and relaxed. "We have lunch plans. Which probably means whatever fast-food place has the coolest toy with their kids' meal. She pays attention to the commercials."
"Boy, do I know what you mean." He hesitated, told himself he was crazy and asked anyway. "You two would be welcome to join us. For our picnic, I mean. Evan's only a year older than Zofie."
She backed up a step, bumped against a log that edged the parking lot and started to fall. Connor lunged forward and grabbed her by both arms, setting her on her feet right in front of him. She was so close now, he could see how thick her lashes were and how blue smudged the delicate skin beneath her eyes, as if she hadn't slept well last night. Her soft mouth was parted in surprise, her eyes wide as she stared at him. God, they were gorgeous, he thought, the gold speckles in a brown-green iris so fascinating he couldn't tear his gaze away.
Let her go, he told himself. His hands stayed locked on her arms.
She took a deep breath. "Thank you," she whispered.
"You're okay?" he asked hoarsely.
Mariah nodded. The ponytail flipped against her neck. He imagined touching his mouth to the silky, pale skin of her throat.
Reluctantly, one finger at a time, Connor loosened his grip and finally lifted his hands from her arms. For just an instant, neither moved nor looked away.
"I…" She swallowed, backed up and bumped against the log again. This time, even as his hand shot out, she righted herself and laughed nervously. "I seem to be a klutz today."
He rubbed his hands on his jean-clad thighs. It should be too cold to break out in a sweat from even a vicious attack of lust.
"You're just jealous because the kids had an excuse to throw themselves around in the mud."
This laugh was more natural. "Oh, yeah. Speaking of which…" She looked past him.
Connor turned to see her daughter approaching. Closer up, he saw that her face was mud-streaked, her shorts and shin-guards filthy. Her gaze shied between her mother and the strange man talking to her.
"Zofie, this is … um…"
He could see Mariah frantically considering and discarding ways of introducing him.
"…a friend of mine. He's a policeman. Detective McLean."
"Hi," the girl said shyly. Under the dirt, she was exceptionally pretty, with those huge dark eyes and cheekbones that would make her a beauty when she grew up. "A police lady came and talked to my class about safety."
"I'll bet that was Officer Leary. Was she blonde? And so tiny she looks like that big heavy belt and all the equipment hanging on it is going make her tip right over?"
A giggle escaped Mariah's daughter and she nodded vigorously.
He lowered his voice. "She's tougher than she looks, you kno
w. She's a brown belt at karate and can take down a bad guy faster than I can."
"The boys in the class all said she couldn't be a real police officer, and that's why she's the one who goes to schools. They think only boys can shoot people and stuff."
His eyes met Mariah's over the girl's head. "Well, you know what?" he told her. "We hardly ever shoot people, anyway. Mostly, we write traffic tickets." He bent down and pretended to whisper. "Does your mom ever speed when she's driving?"
Another giggle was his reward. "Not Mommy!"
"Oh, good." He straightened and grinned at her mother. "I don't know if I want to be friends with someone who speeds."
"But you get to," the six-year-old reminded him.
"Yeah, that's the most fun part of being a cop."
Mariah cleared her throat. "I hate to interrupt, but you, kiddo, are filthy and I'm getting hungry. Say goodbye to Detective McLean."
"You're sure you don't want a sandwich and cold s'mores?" he said. "We have plenty."
She looked at him as if he was crazy. "Cold s'mores?"
"Crunchy."
Mariah shook her head, but she was laughing again. "I think we'd better stick to McDonald's."
Zofie, bless her heart, looked hopefully at her mother. "S'mores sound good."
"He's having a family picnic, though. With his nephew and niece."
"How old are they?" Zofie asked.
"Evan is seven and Maddie is ten. I'll bet she could show you some goalie tricks."
Mariah's eyes flashed and her voice cooled. "That's nice of you to offer, but we can't today. Thank you, anyway. Goodbye, Detective."
Crap. He'd pushed too hard.
He smiled lopsidedly. "Bye, Mariah. Nice to meet you, Zofie. Your mom's right. You do need a shower."
"After McDonald's."
"Before," her mother said firmly, as they walked away.
Connor watched them go, but turned before Mariah could look back. She probably already thought he was—what? Hitting on her? Was he?
Brooding, he walked back up the hill to his family, who had finished sandwiches and were squishing cold marshmallows and crunchy chocolate bars between graham crackers.
Hugh was making horrible faces as he chewed. "It's just not the same."
"I'll bet they'd be really good if we froze them," Evan said enthusiastically. "Uncle Connor! You're back. These are really good."
"I'd better eat my sandwich first."
"So," his brother said, "who was it you went charging after?"
"Yeah." Evan cackled. "Was she pretty? That's what Uncle Hugh wants to know!"
"Sure she's pretty." Connor made a production out of grabbing his sandwich and a can of pop. "But it was just somebody I wanted to have a word with."
"I know the girl you were talking to," Maddie said unexpectedly. "My class reads to little kids and helps them with their reading. She's in Mrs. Kinnard's class. Her name's funny." She frowned. "Like … like Sophie." Her face cleared and she said in triumph, "Zofie! Isn't that a weird name?"
"Well, her last name is Stavig, which I think is Slavic, so maybe Zofie is a common name where they came from. Like if your last name is Moreno, you might pick Elena instead of Hortense for a first name."
"Hortense!" Evan thought that was hilarious.
But Maddie nodded seriously.
Creases deepening on his forehead made Hugh look older. His tone, too, was grave. "So that was Mariah Stavig."
Connor grunted his assent.
"Is she divorced?"
"Yeah."
Hugh still wasn't happy. "She's not holding a grudge?"
"I think maybe she's getting over it."
"Was she mad at you?" their niece asked. "How come?"
"Back when she was married, I investigated her husband for something." Both of the kids knew what their dad and uncles did, and how people were funny about police officers, liking them a lot when they needed help, but being afraid of them, or even resentful, the rest of the time.
"Oh," Maddie said.
Hugh waited until Connor reluctantly met his eyes. "Is this smart?" he asked.
Connor thought about lying: I really did have a question for her. Lighten up.
But the McLean brothers had never lied to each other.
"I don't know," he said finally. "But it seems to matter."
Hugh thought about it and nodded. "There's more than one way to get wounded in the line of duty."
"I know."
Hugh was right: mixing business and pleasure was rarely a good idea.
Oh, yeah. There were plenty of reasons why Connor should leave Mariah Stavig alone.
But he was already planning what to say the next time he saw her.
Mariah still couldn't believe she'd practically landed on her butt right in front of him. He always made her self-conscious. Wouldn't you think being self-conscious would make you more careful where you placed your feet, how you moved? Not her. He'd had to perform heroics to save her from a humiliating if not painful splat on the wet, cold ground, and he'd had the grace not to laugh at her.
"Is something wrong, Mommy?"
Mariah turned her head to smile at a now clean Zofie buckling herself into the car. "Not a thing. Did you decide for sure where we're going for lunch?"
"I think I want pizza. Can we have pizza?"
"We can have whatever you want," she agreed recklessly.
"Then pizza." Her daughter gave a decisive nod. "Rizzotti's."
"My favorite." Mariah gave her a hug before backing out of the driveway.
"I know," Zofie said smugly. She gave a small bounce on the booster seat she still, reluctantly, used. "That was a nice man at the soccer field. The policeman."
"Detective McLean?" She congratulated herself on sounding vague and surprised, as if she had to dredge his identity from her memory, so little had it meant to her to run into him there.
"Yeah. Him."
"He does seem nice."
Her daughter turned a puzzled face on her. "You said he was a friend."
"Oh, he's just the kind of friend you chat to when you meet. Not the kind you do things with."
"He wanted to do something with us. Eat cold s'mores."
"So he did." She managed a credible laugh. "Imagine how hard the chocolate bars would be."
Zofie frowned ahead. "It might have been fun."
"Yeah. It might have been. I just didn't want to intrude."
Even at six, Zofie knew that being polite included not "intruding." "You mean, he might have asked and not really meant it?" she questioned seriously.
"Well…" Mariah temporized. "I think he meant it. But we don't know his brother or niece and nephew, who were also there. They might not have wanted strangers joining them for lunch."
"Oh." Zofie nodded. "Maybe he'll ask us to do something when they're not there."
Mariah hoped she had conveyed without words that she did not wish to be asked again. She just wished she didn't have this tangle of mixed feelings: wistfulness and distracting physical awareness and a sort of throat-stopping knowledge that under other circumstances…
But this wasn't other circumstances, she reminded herself harshly, swallowing the lump in her throat. Detective Connor McLean was the man who three years ago walked into her living room and said a few quiet words that tore her family to shreds.
Anyway, she knew perfectly well she had no business remarrying. She'd promised to love Simon. Perhaps he had a hotter temper than she'd realized when she married him. Perhaps he was sometimes impatient, sometimes dismissed her as if her wants were insignificant next to his, but he was also a kind father, faithful to his wife, a good bread-earner, a steady family man. He hadn't deserved her lack of faith. She had let a stranger's accusations have more weight in her heart than did her years with Simon.
What did that say about her?
Marriage was for better or worse. She had always despised the celebrities with their magnificent, romantic fourth weddings. Love was true and patient and stubbor
n and quite different from the wild excitement of romance.
She had promised the stubborn kind of love, and not delivered. How could she ever, in good conscience, walk down the aisle again and make a promise she hadn't kept the first time?
Casual dates, maybe. The anguish of love, no.
And somehow, Connor McLean didn't strike her as a casual man.
"You know, I may not even see him for ages," she said out loud to Zofie. "Besides, it's not his company I want for lunch."
"Whose do you want?" Zofie asked, half knowing, half liking reassurance.
"Yours, silly!"
Zofie giggled happily, forgetting the policeman. Mariah wished he'd let her do the same.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Sunday afternoon Connor took Maddie and Evan home and found John and Natalie already there.
"We missed the kids," big brother John said sheepishly, letting his wife take his place hugging them. "We caught an earlier ferry."
"You should have grabbed every minute," Connor said, as they all walked into the house. "When's the next time you'll have that kind of privacy?"
John gave an evil grin. "The kids know better than to surprise us in our bedroom."
"Ah. They've already had the visual aid part of Sex Ed 101, family style?"
"Nah. Just seen a few rustling sheets and heard Daddy snap, 'Whaddaya want?'"
"Good thing," Connor said, meaning it.
One of his most vivid memories, probably because the sight had been so disturbing, was walking in on his parents making love. He still had a snapshot tucked in his memory. He'd retreated silently, terrified by the seeming violence of the act and his mother's cries. It was years before he could put what he'd seen in context.
His cell phone rang.
"Damn," he muttered.
The caller's number didn't look familiar. "McLean," he said.
A short silence was followed by a girl's hesitant voice. "Is this, um, the police officer?"
His hunter's instincts sharpened. "Yes, this is Detective McLean. Who is this?"
"Amy Weinstein. You came and talked to me about Tracy."
"Right." He waved John on, staying outside on the arbor-covered brick patio by himself. "Did you think of something you forgot to tell me?"
THE WORD OF A CHILD Page 9
