THE WORD OF A CHILD

by Janice Kay Johnson

  When she saw him looking, they shared a smile with their eyes more than their mouths, the kind of communication he'd seen and envied between John and Natalie.

  The kind he'd never had, except perhaps for a crude form with his brothers, useful mainly when they were closing in on a perp or trying to score a touchdown in a pickup flag football game.

  Mariah had baked an apple pie, too, that was still warm from the oven. She served it a la mode, and Connor thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Zofie ate only the ice cream.

  Her mom excused her to take her ice cream out to watch TV.

  "She won't eat pie?" he said incredulously.

  Mariah sighed. "She thinks cooking makes the apples mushy."

  "More for the rest of us." He gave her a hopeful look.

  Her chuckle was as infectious as her daughter's. "Gosh, is there any chance you'd care for seconds?"

  "How kind of you to ask. Why … yes. I do think I might be able to squeeze a second piece in."

  They both laughed, quietly, as she served him and watched him dig in.

  "You really like antiques, huh?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't know a genuine Chippendale if it reached out and tripped me. I just like to look for pieces that please me. I can't afford them new," she added simply.

  "Want to go shopping with me on Saturday?" he asked. "Help me pick out some bookcases?"

  "You're serious." She studied him. "Why now, when you've been okay the way you are for four years?"

  "I turned thirty—heck, thirty-one is threatening. Maybe it's that." He scraped the plate for the last half a forkful. "I don't know. I'm just tired of living like a twenty-year-old who still has a bedroom waiting at home."

  "Do you?"

  "Do I what?"

  "Have a bedroom at home?"

  He gave a grunt of laughter. "Hell, no! My mother lives in a studio apartment. Which, she announced baldly, she chose so no one would expect to sleep over."

  Her voice and expression went soft, concerned. "You're kidding."

  "No, but you have to understand that Mom is also willing to stay over at John's anytime to take care of his kids, or help any of us in any way. She's just … brusque." That was one way to put it. He tried again, "No nonsense. Values her private space. Which might be natural, if you'd raised three boys by yourself."

  "She lives here in Port Dare, then?"

  "Mmm-hmm." He set down his fork and reached for her hand. "I'd like you to meet her. And my brothers."

  Was it his imagination that she stiffened slightly?

  "That would be nice someday." She gently withdrew her hand and stood. "More coffee?"

  "Thanks." He watched her retreat.

  Okay. Too much, too fast. What the hell was wrong with him? Why this urgent need to push her? He'd never before felt this anxiety, this dissatisfaction with a casual dating relationship. They'd had dinner together twice, and he was ready for more.

  Much more. The whole enchilada, he was beginning to think. The diamond ring in his pocket, the wait at the altar for the beautiful bride, his own child growing in his wife's womb.

  He just knew they were right for each other, however illogical that certainty was considering she'd hated his guts as of a few weeks ago, and maybe for good reason.

  Unfortunately she obviously didn't know.

  He had to give her time, and motivation to fall in love.

  If a man could make a woman fall in love, just because he desperately wanted her to. Nice trick, if he could pull it off.

  "Zofie have a game Sunday?" Connor asked casually, after she had refilled their cups.

  She set the pot down on a hot pad. "Yes, but Simon is taking her. We did a switch, and now this is his weekend. Sometimes I go to the game anyway, but this one is in Port Angeles, and…" She made a wry face. "I try to be noble sometimes. I figure he should sometimes get to be the real parent. You know? Once I'm there, she turns to me for comfort and answers. I wish I could see the game, but heaven knows there are plenty of them to go around."

  "How about that shopping trip Saturday, then?" he asked. "And dinner?"

  Her smile seemed entirely natural, if more reserved than some. "That sounds like fun."

  Yes.

  "You and Simon seem to get along pretty well where Zofie is concerned," he commented, lifting his coffee cup.

  "Actually we do." She almost sounded surprised, and gave a small laugh at her own tone. "Well, in a weird way. Believe me, I've worked at it, and I think he has, too. We still have … hard feelings, and we do fight, but out of her hearing. We've managed, miracle of miracles, to leave Zofie out of it. I worry, but…"

  From the scarred perspective of a cop, he said, "If only all divorced couples could do the same. You wouldn't believe how little thought people give to their traumatized children when they're battling. I remember one call where…" He stopped and made a rough sound in his throat. "Never mind. You don't want to hear ugly war stories."

  She looked at him with clear eyes. "That depends on whether it helps you to tell them."

  He half stood, kissed her cheek and sat back down. "Thank you. Sometimes it does help, but not tonight. My mouth was just running away with me."

  "I'm really not that sensitive." She held his gaze, determination in hers. "I don't want you feeling you have to watch what you say with me."

  He held up his hand in a salute. "Word of honor."

  She nibbled on her lower lip. "I want to feel the same way with you."

  Jolted, he set down the coffee cup he'd reached for. "And you don't right now?"

  He sensed how carefully she was holding herself, her chin high. "Saturday night, I had the impression you left just because Simon called."

  Connor would have liked to deny her accusation, but dishonesty wasn't his way.

  "His call was the catalyst," he said carefully. "It reminded me of how much I fouled up your life, and made me think what a bastard I am for taking advantage of that."

  Her forehead crinkled. "Advantage?"

  "You might still be married if I hadn't come to your door that night."

  "If you hadn't, another police officer would have," she reminded him.

  He made an impatient gesture. "Has it ever occurred to you that another police officer might have gone about the investigation differently and proved Simon innocent?"

  She looked away briefly. "Of course it's occurred to me," she said in a stifled voice. "How could it not? But after watching you with Tracy, I don't believe it anymore."

  He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

  "That's all it was? You weren't bothered because Simon and I are friendly?"

  "Of course not!" he said in astonishment. "He's her father. Three years ago, I'd have told you not to trust him alone with Zofie. Now…" Connor shrugged. "After all this time, it's hard to imagine him starting something. Maybe he draws the line at his own kid. Maybe he was innocent. I don't know. But he's her father, and you can't keep him from seeing her. I know you'll be talking to him, and he'll be here. I wish all divorced parents could handle it as well as you have."

  "Now it's my turn to say thank you." She made a face, trying to smile. "I want to trust him now. But sometimes I'm still scared when…" She pressed her lips together, swallowed. In a low voice, she said, "I want to be creeping around his house, peeking in his windows when Zofie is there."

  Connor nodded toward the living room. "You talk to her?"

  "Are you kidding? She's the best prepared kid in the state of Washington. Every time she comes home, I have to restrain myself from asking every word Daddy said, everything they did, where she slept, how Daddy touched her. Especially how Daddy touched her." Mariah looked at him, her eyes shimmering with the despair and fear of those lonely weekends. "But I can't. Somehow I have to find a happy medium between leaving her unprotected and making her fearful."

  Again he took her hand. This time, she returned his clasp, her fingers achingly tight.

  "It looks to me like you've done just that," he said, voice gr
uff.

  "I don't know. Will I ever know?" she begged.

  "About how she comes out? Sure you will. You can already see the promise."

  "And what about him? Do I have to wonder forever?"

  "He might reoffend."

  "Why hasn't he?" Frustration and anger filled her voice. "If he did it, if he needs to do things like that with little girls, how can he go years without?"

  "I wish I could tell you." He shook his head. "Maybe he has. Has he found friends for Zofie to play with when she's there?" Seeing the appalled look on her face, Connor regretted mentioning the possibility. "There might be neighborhood kids Zofie hasn't even met. Is he doing some volunteer work?"

  Her mouth opened and closed. "I don't know."

  "Maybe Lily was … an experiment. Maybe he horrified himself, and he's managed to suppress those kinds of impulses. There must be men out there who feel some sexual response to children but who don't act on it, or don't even acknowledge the feelings because they're so taboo. Simon could be basically a decent man who, just once, gave in to curiosity."

  "Is that possible?" she asked.

  "Sure it is." He sighed. "I honestly don't know, Mariah. Does anybody totally understand a pedophile? Tell me this—was he ever sexually abused as a child, that you know of?"

  "I don't… No. Wait." She frowned, thinking. "There was a grandfather. He never said that he'd been a victim. Just that his paternal grandfather was the kind of dirty old man the kids in the family avoided whenever they could."

  "Would he have admitted it if he had been abused?"

  Slowly she shook her head. "I doubt it. He was—is—too macho."

  "The one common thread in the story of pedophiles is that they were abused themselves as children."

  "Yes, I know. I even told myself Simon couldn't be one because he wasn't…" She gave a crooked, unhappy smile. "But I'd forgotten. Maybe I didn't want to remember."

  "Is there a family member of his you could ask?"

  She thought. "Maybe. But does it matter now?"

  "Probably not. It just might help settle the issue." He moved his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe what we need to do is quit flogging a dead horse, as long as Zofie is okay."

  Mariah gave a theatrical shudder. "What an unpleasant metaphor."

  "Was it a metaphor?"

  "Shall I give a lecture on similes, metaphors and analogies?"

  "If it pleases you. I won't remember."

  "Nobody ever does," she said gloomily.

  "Now come on. Don't lie." He let a grin tug at his mouth. "You have to think about which is which, don't you?"

  Her chin went up. "Certainly not!" The corners of her mouth crinkled. "Almost never." A full-blown smile was born. "Okay. Sometimes."

  "Atta girl," Connor congratulated her.

  "Which leads us from the point," she said severely.

  "Yeah." His own smile died. "I'm thinking that you'd quit flogging this particular horse until I popped up in your life again."

  She let out a small sigh. "I wish I could say yes. The truth is … sometimes. For days at a time, I might not think about what happened, or why Simon and I were divorced, or what he might do to—" she lowered her voice "—um, Zofie when he had her alone. But then, I'd wave goodbye to her, smiling like everything was just grand—" she demonstrated, this smile as bright and artificial as a theater marquee "—and then I'd shut the front door and have this massive panic attack. Did he? Would he? Why would he? I have wondered every wonder, thought every thought, ten million times. I can't stop. I want to. But I can't."

  Pity grabbed at his throat, roughened his voice. "Sweetheart, she'll grow up. She'll be a feisty kid who'll look with grave astonishment at anyone who tries to take advantage of her. And before you know it, she'll be a self-confident teenager who won't take any crap. And then she'll be all grown-up, and you can—almost—quit worrying about her safety."

  Although he'd seen the quick flare of astonishment when he called her "sweetheart," Mariah chose to let it pass. She gave him a smile that was a little better than her last attempts. "It's happening fast, isn't it?"

  "That's the way it goes. One night, you tuck her into a crib, the next she's taking a driver's test."

  "Now you are scaring me."

  From the doorway to the living room, Zofie said, "You don't look scared."

  "Actually I was kidding." Mariah held out an arm and her daughter naturally walked into the curve of her embrace. "Connor was telling me how you're going to be a teenager ready to be driving a car before I know it."

  "I wish I could drive now," Zofie said, perfectly seriously. "'Cept I'm too short. I can't see where I'm going."

  "You could sit on pillows," Connor suggested, straight-faced.

  She wrinkled her small, impish nose at him. "But then I couldn't reach the pedal to make the car go."

  "Or stop," her mother said. "Remember, you can stop, too."

  Connor pretended to frown. "You're not going to make me give you a speeding ticket someday, are you?"

  "I'll be a good driver," she declared.

  "Uh-huh," her mother said. "You, kiddo, are reckless on your bike. And on the soccer field. Why should I trust you behind the wheel of a car?"

  "'Cause you have to. Once I'm growed up, I have to know how to drive," she said logically. "'Sides, Daddy can teach me."

  "Oh, don't play your father against me!" Mariah tickled her daughter. "Besides—" she put emphasis on the first syllable "—he's scared, too. All parents are scared when their children are first learning to drive."

  "Oh." Zofie considered it. "But you'll teach me anyway, right?"

  "Probably," Mariah conceded, with another big hug. Her cheek was against her daughter's head, and only Connor saw her blink away tears.

  The evening wound down after that. Mariah started Zofie getting ready for bed, while Connor insisted on clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. He said good-night to Zofie when she reappeared in the cutest damn pair of pajamas, flannel and oversize, decorated with comical chickens. Her face was pink from being scrubbed, her hair newly braided, and her manners excellent.

  "Good night, Connor." She blushed a little more at having said his name. "Thank you for coming to dinner."

  "Thank you for having me." He smiled. "Sleep tight."

  "Mommy says that, too. 'Sleep tight, and don't let the bedbugs bite.'" Her brow furrowed. "My bed doesn't have any bugs."

  "No bugs!" He pretended dismay. "Hey, when's your birthday? Not until April? Hmm. Wait, wait. Christmas is coming." He grinned. "I promise. Bugs for Christmas."

  She went off to bed, cackling happily at his wit.

  When Mariah returned, she was shaking her head and smiling. "My daughter says she likes my 'Decktiv.' You should be flattered."

  "I am flattered." He smiled, slow and warm. "Your daughter is a total charmer."

  "She is, isn't she? And smart, and sweet, and kind to everyone. And, oh, just being her mother scares me every day."

  He snagged her into his arms. "I've heard John say the same thing about his two. It's the curse of loving someone so much."

  "I know you're right." Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "Sometimes it just … gets to me."

  His thumb caught the first tear to fall. "Hey," he said softly. "You're doing fine. You're doing great. It appears Simon is, too. I wish I hadn't scared you all over again."

  "You didn't." She smiled through her tears. "Okay, that's a fib. But it wasn't just you. It's Tracy, too."

  Connor nodded, one of his hands easing over her back, gently massaging, while the other cupped her cheek. "As a teacher, you're going to encounter this again, you know. It happens."

  "It shouldn't."

  "No, it shouldn't," he said flatly. "But it will."

  Mariah blinked hard, sniffed and said, "We're doing it again. Talking about nothing but. Why don't you come and cuddle on the couch with me, and we'll talk about something completely trivial?"

  Cuddling on the couch sounded good to
him.

  "Deal," he said. "As long as I can kiss you, too."

  Her lashes swept down shyly and pink blossomed on her cheeks, but she also nodded. "That sounds nice."

  "Nice," he said, "is only the beginning."

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  Mom wasn't working tonight and hadn't said anything about going out. She was even making dinner, a tuna casserole Tracy hated. The smell drifted down the hall to Tracy's bedroom and made her nose wrinkle. But still, she liked it when she and Mom had dinner together, just the two of them.

  They could talk. Tracy lay on her back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars.

  Maybe she'd even ask Mom about him. Tracy kept thinking about what the police officer had said, about how she'd never feel safe—never be safe—if she didn't do something. The whole idea of just looking across the table at her mother and saying, "Did you tell that guy he could have me?" scared her so bad, though. She didn't know if she could do it.

  And what if the answer was, "Sure, why not? I figured you were old enough." What would she do then?

  Even worse would be if Mom looked shocked and hurt and said, "What are you talking about?" Things would never be the same if she accused her own mother of something like that and was wrong. She felt hot one minute and then icy cold the next, even thinking about it.

  No. She couldn't do it.

  They could just have an evening like … like when Tracy was little and Mom made dinner more often. Mom would tell her about people who came into the bar and make her laugh. Tracy hadn't told her mother about the dumb requests kids had when they came to the school office, either. Picturing them laughing like they used to, Tracy hopped off her bed and headed for the kitchen where Mom was singing along with Madonna on MTV.

  "What's for dinner?" Tracy asked, as if she didn't know.

  Mom turned from the oven. "Tuna casserole. Don't make a face. I know you don't like it, but it's my best recipe, and I asked a friend from work to dinner."