by Lily Kate
“Impossible.”
“Great. Deliver these, then, please.” Emily shoves the tub of warm towels in my hands. “Tyler’s home. I checked. I’d appreciate you seeing if he wants to stay his allotted time instead of cancelling, but if you don’t feel like it, I won’t push you.”
“Thanks,” I hedge, grudging. “Maybe you have a point, but I don’t want to hear it.”
“Didn’t say you had to—I’m just giving you my thoughts. I’m good at that.”
I offer her an apologetic smile and take the tub. “Would you mind checking on Mila? No books, no reading, nothing tonight. I meant it when I said her bedtime is early. There’s no excuse for the way she acted today.”
Emily sucks in a breath and shakes her head. “I’ve never seen you so upset with her.”
“Well, Mila’s never acted this way,” I tell her. “And I don’t agree with it.”
“Can you blame her?” Emily can barely hold back a cheeky grin. “I mean, there’s obviously something in the Marshall blood that reacts like dynamite to the Daniels family blood.”
I purse my lips, but I don’t argue. I’d been thinking that very same thing. While Emily polishes off my cake and chortles at her own joke, I head down the hallway to face Tyler Daniels—praying he doesn’t give me a reason to smack him in the face with a lavender-scented towel. I’m on shaky ground as it is, uneasy at having to punish Mila—and not used to being the mean parent. I don’t think my nerves can handle much more.
When I reach the outside of his room, I pause, my arms shaking. The tub isn’t all that big, and, since I distributed most of the towels already, the remainder really aren’t that heavy. But it feels like I’m trying to hold up the weight of the world as I shift my weight from one foot to the next.
Two knocks on the door later, and it appears my nerves are unfounded.
“Yes? Oh, Margaret.” Tyler immediately shifts into a straighter position as he appears in the doorway, but his typical smile isn’t there tonight. “Can I help you with something?”
I lose my words. I’d come here armed for another confrontation, but the way Tyler looks—beaten down and sad—I can’t bring myself to do it. “I brought over...um, sorry to interrupt, but we bring by warm towels for our guests, and—”
“Thanks,” he says, and his voice is crisp. “I don’t need one.”
“Are you sure?” For some reason, I find myself sticking my foot in the door as he begins to close it. “They’re incredibly soothing, and after the day you’ve had, I bet you could use a few minutes to relax.”
A wry smile crooks his lips upward, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Do you run on commission selling this shit?”
I feel my cheeks warming as I glance down at the towels. “No,” I mumble, “I’m just trying to do my job. Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
“Dammit.” He curses, running a hand over his face, looking more exhausted and aged than he did when he first opened the door. “I’m sorry, Margaret.”
“No problem—long day.”
“Jess won’t stop crying.” He looks weary at this, and in the background soft sobs radiate from the second bedroom of Tyler’s suite. “I’m running out of things to say to her. Sometimes, I suck at this parenting thing.”
“No, you don’t.” I don’t know where my conviction comes from, but deep down, I know the statement is accurate. I can see the love in his eyes when he talks about Jess. “Give her a break. You just moved to an entirely new—and vastly different—town, and it’ll take her awhile to adjust. Mila’s been having trouble making friends this year, so she’s struggling, too. I’m sure they lashed out at each other because they’re both scared.”
“Mila has trouble making friends? What do you tell her?”
“Advice. Not that it always works.”
“What sort of advice?”
An idea strikes me. “Why don’t you take a lavender towel and relax. Let me have a shot at talking to Jessica—woman to woman.”
“No, you don’t have to do anything like that. I’ll go back in there and...”
“Exactly.” I find my basket pushing itself forward into the room, stopping only when it bounces against a rock-solid chest. The thunk my basket makes against Tyler’s lean physique is impressive, and I look up in awe. “Most dads I know don’t look like you. You do know that, right? This...dad bod is, uh, unexpected.”
Finally, I see that bit of sunshine I didn’t even know I needed. Tyler looks confused for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs, and laughs; he laughs for so long that eventually, when he stops, he wipes the beginnings of tears from his eyes. The sobs from the next room have stilled and don’t resume immediately.
“I needed that,” he says, recovering. “Thanks, Margaret.”
I don’t know what I said that was so funny, but it seems to have lightened the mood and eased the tension lingering between us. “Why don’t you sit down like I told you to do, and let me into the room?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “You seem to have picked up this parenting business like a natural.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, my hand reaching out for his arm as I guide him to the couch and plunk him down. When I realize this sounds too much like flirting, I add, “I mean, from what I can tell.”
“I’ve gotta be honest, Margaret.”
“Yes?” My breath hitches as his hands encircle my wrists and ease the basket of towels from my hands.
His eyes twinkle at my reaction. “I don’t think I’m a lavender scented towel sort of guy.”
“You haven’t had mine then. Sit down and close your eyes.”
“I like where this is going,” he says. When I lean close, he whispers against my ear. “Pants on or off?”
“You’re a pig,” I say, though the image is all but unpleasant. “Shut your eyes.”
As he does, I’m left to my own imagination, and the imagery there sends tingles all down my spine. I’m going to need to slap a lavender towel over my head pretty soon in order to calm my jets.
To say my jets haven’t fired to life in ages would be accurate. I’m pretty sure there’s no fuel left in the tank, which is why I’m mystified at the effect Tyler has on me. My hands seem to reach of their own accord, as if drawn by magnets.
Tyler shuts his eyes finally, and I take my time preparing the cloth. He looks tired sitting there, his lean, muscular body sprawled across the couch. He’s so tall and broad he makes the furniture feel small, and I imagine that if he were to put his hands on me and pick me up, I’d feel the same way.
I shake the feeling off, focusing instead on the towel. “This is one of those little perks people seem to like,” I tell him, leaning over him as I gently rest it across his eyes. “A fun little addition to the turn down service for our starred guests.”
“Show me the magic,” he says, that cheeky smile twitching his lips upward as I gently pat the towel down against his eyes.
“I’m glad you use humor as a coping mechanism,” I fire back, wanting to pull my hands away, though I can’t seem to do so. “I came in here thinking you needed some help, but I guess that was just an act.”
I start to pull my hands away, relieved when Tyler’s fingers catch my wrist.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’ll stop.”
An awkward stretch of silence follows. I debate telling Tyler it’s fine, that I don’t mind his teasing—that maybe, I even enjoy it. But that would give the wrong impression.
With a start, I remember that my fingers are pressed gently onto the lavender towel as Tyler sits motionless beneath them. I ease my hands away and speak to his blindfolded face. “Do you mind if I go talk to Jessica?”
The sobs have quietly resumed in the other room. Tyler tenses at the mention of his daughter’s name, then raises a hand and lifts the towel just enough to peek underneath. “You really don’t have to do that.”
“I have no clue if I’ll be successful, but I’d like to give i
t a shot,” I admit.
I truly mean it, too. Jessica’s probably having a tough time of things. I know from experience how difficult it is to play mom and dad, and I can only imagine Tyler’s struggling with the same feeling.
Tyler gives a nod of confirmation, and I leave him on the couch and pad quietly toward the bedroom.
“Jessica?” I call from the doorway. “Do you mind if I come in for a second?”
She peers up from her pillow. The room is pretty and pink, filled with an antique desk pressed against one wall and an ornate queen bed that’s the centerpiece of the room. An old, gorgeous trunk sits at the foot of the bed, stuffed to the brim with fluffy blankets and squashy pillows.
“It’s me,” I add, taking a tentative step into the room. “You can call me Maggie. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” she snaps, showing off a bit of the personality that rubbed Mila the wrong way. “You’re Mila’s mom. I met you today—remember?”
I thought Mila had sass, but it’s nothing compared to Jessica’s style. If I stick the two girls side by side in a mental image, I picture Mila as the scrappy little first grader she is, compared to Jessica’s more cynical, seven-going-on-seventeen attitude.
On the positive side, I am well versed in the language of sass. In addition, I know that more times than not, those toughest girls on the outside are most tender on the inside. It just takes a bit of digging and poking and prodding to see it. Jessica won’t make it easy, but I’m a stubborn woman, and I don’t plan to give up easily.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” I say, taking a few more steps into the room. “Can we chat for a minute?”
“I don’t want to chat.”
“Well, you seem like you’re sad, and I want to help you.”
“If my dad can’t help me, what makes you think you can help?”
“For starters,” I tell her, “I’m a woman. Which means I was once a young girl like yourself, believe it or not.”
“But you’re old now.” She sniffs, runs a hand over her nose, looking more like a child. “So you don’t know what it’s like.”
I laugh heartily and walk over to stand in front of the mirror. “Honey, you don’t know how well I know what it’s like to be standing in your place.” I lean closer. “Damn, there’s another wrinkle. Maybe I am getting old.”
When I turn around, I find Jessica’s mouth open in surprise. “You said a swear word in front of me.”
“Sorry.” Strolling over, I test the waters by perching on the edge of her bed. “It’s not fun to move to a new place, is it?”
She furrows her eyebrows. “What would you know about that? I thought you were from here.”
“I moved here when I was about your age.”
“From where?”
“California.”
Jessica perks up. “From a city?”
I give a smile and nod of my head. “Los Angeles.”
Jessica’s eyes are calculating, and her cheeks are dry, a pleasant change from the traces of salt left behind by tears. “And did you like it here when you moved?”
I shake my head. “Hated it.”
“Did your mom move, too?”
Her question sticks me in the gut a little harder than expected. “Yes, she did. And I’m sorry yours didn’t; I know that makes things extra tough.”
Jessica tries for nonchalant, but she shrugs her shoulder. “She’s busy. We don’t see her that much.”
I should’ve figured that to be the case, but the words still surprise me.
“She works a lot,” Jessica adds, and I recognize the note of desperation there as she tries to spin a story. “She is basically famous. Sometimes, she takes me shopping and we buy fun things.”
“What sorts of fun things?”
“Makeup,” she says with a frown. “Sometimes clothes.”
“Your mom must be nice,” I tell her, raising my eyebrow. “I don’t let Mila wear makeup yet.”
Jessica looks down at her hands and clasps them together. “I guess.”
I note that Jessica hadn’t worn any makeup today, nor had she worn particularly flashy clothes. She looks like a normal kid who doesn’t know these things exist.
“Do you like shopping?” I ask.
She shrugs again. “My mom likes it.”
“What else do you do with your mom?”
She shrugs twice this time around. “My mom said she’d come for Thanksgiving.”
“That’s coming fast! That’ll be fun to see her,” I say. “I bet you miss her.”
A few more shrugs—if I don’t stop asking questions, the poor girl’s going to have whiplash.
“Listen,” I say, reaching out to rest a hand on her little leg. “I have to let you in on a secret.”
She looks up through thick lashes. “What sort of secret?”
Jessica is a beautiful girl, but then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Tyler is more deity than man, and Anastasia had been born with a head cheerleader’s body—perky breasts, slender little waist, bouncy blonde hair—it really isn’t surprising that Jessica is a stunning mix of them both.
“Mila’s been having a hard time making friends in class, too, and she was born here. Sometimes it’s hard to make friends with other girls,” I tell her. “I don’t know why that is, but it’s true. I didn’t always have a lot of friends either.”
“You have a lot of friends now.”
“No,” I correct. “I have a few friends, and I keep them really close by.”
“Is my dad one of them?”
“Well, that’s a long story,” I say, shifting uneasily. “Probably better if he tells you about it.”
“Did you love him?”
“He was a very good friend a long time ago,” I hedge. “I cared a lot about him.”
“Is that why you were mad at him earlier?”
“What?”
“You guys were fighting today. We could hear you.”
“We weren’t fighting,” I say. “We were catching up. Very loudly.”
“It sounded like arguing.”
“I like your father very much as a friend. That’s all.”
“If you can argue with my dad, then why can’t I argue with Mila?”
“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “You have a point. I should practice what I preach, huh?”
Jessica gives a perfunctory nod.
“Well, let’s schedule a date this Saturday.”
“For you and my dad?”
“What? No!” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice, despite the fact that the idea would be interesting—under different circumstances. “A playdate for you and Mila, except your dad and I will have to play nice, too. We can all work on getting along.”
“My dad dates sometimes.”
“Well, that’s his business, not mine.”
“Do you date?”
I can honestly answer this one. “Nope.”
“Then how did you get Mila?”
“What?”
“My mom and dad used to date, and that’s how they got me,” Jessica explains. “They loved each other, but it didn’t work out, so they didn’t get married. But they’re still friends.”
“Yeah, well, I suppose I did date once, a long time ago.”
“Are you going to date more to get another kid?”
“You know what? One’s plenty to handle right now,” I say, searching desperately for a safer topic. Seems I’d tried to help out Jessica, and now I’m the one in need of a lifejacket. “What would you like to do for our weekend date?”
“Mila won’t want to go.”
“Of course she will! Why do you say that?”
“Because she doesn’t like me.”
“Do you like her?”
Jessica bobs her shoulders. “I don’t have friends. They say I’m too smart.”
“Believe it or not,” I tell her. “I used to be smart, too. I graduated first in my high school class.”
Jess gives me a skeptical look. “
What happened?”
“Hey!” I ruffle her hair, and this earns me a giggle. A giggle that’s been harder to earn than gold, and one I cherish ten times more. Once she settles back in bed, tucked under the covers in cute pink pajamas, my easy smile turns tighter. “It can be hard; I know that.”
“How did you...” Jess clears her throat and starts again. “You have friends now.”
“I learned that being right isn’t always the most important thing. I’m not a genius by any means, but I worked really hard for good grades. Doesn’t feel like it means a whole lot if nobody sits with you at lunch, though.”
Jessica hangs her head a bit, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve.
“I promise you this. Mila would love to get to know you. She has crabby days just like you and I do, and maybe if we spend some more time together, it’ll help you get used to being in town.”
Jessica wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to get used to being here.”
I hesitate. This reminds me I need to talk to Tyler about his lodgings while he’s in town, as per Emily’s request. Another conversation I’m not thrilled to be having tonight. “I know, and I didn’t want to either. But look at me now, twenty years later. I’m still here.”
“That’s a bummer.”
“No, it’s not,” I say, and I realize I mean it. “I really enjoy life here. I’m not saying you have to stay, but I do know one thing. If you try to hate this place, you’ll find plenty of reasons to dislike it. But, if you try to find things you love, you might just enjoy your time here.”
“Maybe I want to hate it.”
“Then hate it—I don’t blame you. But I would think it’s more fun to give it your best shot.”
I see Jessica’s eyes flash, and I know I’ve hit on her driving force. She took my statement as a challenge, and she’s wired not to give up. She’s wired suspiciously close to the way I work, which is why I understand how to get through to her.
“Think about what you want to do this weekend,” I tell her, standing. “I thought it might be fun to go apple picking.”
“Shopping,” she says quickly.
“Great,” I say. “We’ll do one thing for our city gal,”—I point to her—“and one thing for this country gal.” I point to myself and grin. “Apple picking, shopping, and dinner. What do you think?”
