It was that moment when she knew how much he hated having a daughter who couldn’t do anything right. He’d mostly hidden it until then, but he’d finally cracked. Now she hated him, too, and dreamed about running into him by accident sometime when she was grown-up, and slim, and so beautiful she drove men crazy. And wildly successful, too—maybe a federal judge or mayor of Seattle or a movie star. She’d raise an eyebrow, just so, as if in faint surprise at his temerity in approaching her. Her expression would say, Do I know you? He’d mumble something about how much he admired her, or he’d say, “I tell all my friends you’re my daughter.” Mostly in these daydreams she was gracious, saying, “How nice,” before noticing someone more important she had to speak to. Sometimes, when she was in a bad mood, she’d imagine the scathing look she’d give him. “I have no father,” she would say icily, before moving on as if he was nobody.
Right this minute, she wished she had no mother, either. Because then she’d be living with Uncle Ryan, and he wouldn’t have committed her like a crazy person who needed twenty-four-hour guarding.
Realizing that even Summer was almost done with her dinner, Emma took another bite of mashed potatoes. Her stomach growled, startling her. Two more peas, then a tiny sip of the milk.
“Do you have to drink the milk, too?” she whispered, because Karen was strolling back her way.
Summer stole a glance toward their captor and kept her voice low, too. “Uh-huh.”
I can’t! Emma cried inside.
She hastily took another bite of potatoes.
“Try your meat,” Karen said pleasantly, with another tap on Emma’s shoulder.
Regina stood and lifted her tray to bus it. “It’s hard the first time,” she said quietly, nodded and left.
Summer left a few minutes later, too, and one by one so did just about everyone else. Only one other girl was left at another table, gazing down in dismay at her plate. Emma saw that her glass of milk was still mostly full, too.
Emma started to stand, but Karen materialized instantly.
“I’m sorry, Emma, but you’re not excused until you’ve finished.”
Bubbling with resentment, Emma said, “I was just going to sit with that other girl.”
“Oh, I don’t think either of you need to socialize when your food is getting cold.” Karen smiled, for all the world as if she’d just said something upbeat, like, You’re doing great. “Finish, and you’ll both have a chance to get acquainted.”
Three hours and thirty-four minutes later, tears in her eyes, Emma cut her cold pork chop, put a bite in her mouth and grimly began to chew.
CHAPTER FOUR
LOGAN FELT LIKE A DAMN IDIOT, making excuses so he could have a chance to see a woman. A woman, at that, who was way out of his league. It was like being a tongue-tied teenager again, coming up with elaborate reasons for taking a round-about route so he could pass her house.
Hesitating, then ringing her doorbell, he hunched inside his coat against the spring chill. It would serve him right if she wasn’t even home. Hell, maybe the missing teenage daughter would sulkily show him into the kitchen and sullenly show him out when he was done measuring.
Despite her present circumstances, Kathleen Mon roe exuded class and money. He’d bet his entire savings account that predivorce this woman lived some place like Laurelhurst. With a man who wore a custom-tailored suit and tie every day, read books on how to motivate employees, and had calluses only from gripping a tennis racquet.
Logan didn’t want to be that man. He liked working with his hands, seeing solid, enduring, beautiful evidence of his craftsmanship and care. But the Kathleen Monroes lived in a different world from his.
Yeah, okay. But he was already here, and he’d heard distant chimes. Footsteps approached.
The door opened, and there she was, a beauty with thick wheat-gold hair loosely braided, a warm, welcoming smile and a tall, leggy body. She looked like she should be seen in the pages of Town & Country, striding through the stableyard of her estate.
To her, he probably looked like the groom who watched the lady of the manor from afar.
Maybe, he thought with rueful amusement, it was just as well that he’d shut his mouth last week when the impulse to ask her out to dinner swept over him.
“Hi.” He nodded. “Sorry to inconvenience you, but I’d like to get a few more measurements.”
“Heavens! You’re not inconveniencing me.” Still smiling, she stood back. “Come in.”
In the foyer, he cocked his head. “House is quiet.”
“Oh, everyone is here somewhere.” She waved blithely. “Ginny has homework, even in first grade, Jo has grown-up homework—did I mention that she’s in graduate school?—and Helen is researching on the Internet, looking for places that might handle our soap and also checking out the competition. I’m the only idle one.”
The teenage daughter was conspicuously missing from this recitation, he noticed. The genuine distress in her sobbed, “Emma hates me,” kept him from doubting that the girl existed. He was beginning to wonder whether she’d flown the coop, though. A runaway teenage daughter would explain the sadness that clung like a haunting scent to this beautiful woman.
“Can I get you coffee?” she asked over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen.
“Thanks.” Any excuse to linger.
“Black, right?”
Pleased that she remembered, he said, “Right. Thanks.”
Aware of her behind him, opening and closing cupboard doors and drawers, clinking a spoon against stoneware, Logan methodically rechecked his measurements. All were dead-on. He rarely made that kind of mistake. Although he considered himself easygoing, he was also precise. He liked corners squared, and “good enough” wasn’t good enough for him.
When, satisfied, he hooked his measuring tape on his belt and turned around, Kathleen Monroe was just setting two mugs of coffee on the round oak table. Something cramped in his chest. He didn’t know what triggered it. A combination, maybe: the table—even at this time of night, set with pretty quilted place mats, a bouquet of bright yellow and creamy daffodils in the center—the quiet of the house, the dark beyond the windows, and the copper-shaded light hanging above the table shining on the beautiful woman smiling at him.
That odd, fleeting, but intense moment of longing made him realize he wasn’t as content with his solitary life as he had considered himself.
“Thanks,” he said again, hoping he was the only one to notice how hoarse he sounded. Nodding at the mug of coffee steaming on the table, he added, “It’s cold outside tonight.”
“I noticed.” She sat in an easy, graceful motion, tucking one stockinged food under her. “We might even have a late frost.”
“Are you a gardener?”
“Not yet.” She smiled ruefully. “How can you ask, after walking by those ugly junipers out front?”
“They’re easy care.”
“And dark and brooding and prickly.”
“Well…yeah.” And ugly.
“I just don’t have time to lavish on digging them out and putting in flower beds. I used to garden…” She stopped herself, her mouth twisting. “I had a gardener. What I did was putter in the garden.”
She’d probably had a housekeeper, too, and maybe other staff. He wondered how much she missed that life and why she wasn’t still living it. Had the ex-husband lost all his money in some dot-com failure? Otherwise, why hadn’t she walked out with half their fortune and possessions?
“You have a funny look on your face,” she said.
Chagrined, he stumbled, “I, uh…” Oh, hell. Why not be honest? “I was wondering how a woman who looks like money ended up in a fixer-upper with roommates to help pay the mortgage.”
“You mean, Ryan didn’t tell you?” Kathleen said dryly.
“He only ever said that his sister was divorced.”
“And living in a ramshackle money-gobbler of a house.”
“Well…” He grinned. “Yeah.”
&nb
sp; Conflict showed on her face, as she probably debated telling him—politely—that her history was none of his damn business. To his surprise, she blew out a puff of air and said, “Do you want the short story or the long?”
He shrugged. “Whichever you want to tell me. If,” he added scrupulously, “you want to tell me either.”
She grimaced. “The short will do. I lived a fairy-tale life with a wealthy and handsome businessman, until our darling daughter developed an eating disorder. He refused to acknowledge as much, displaying aspects to his character that drove me to take said darling daughter and leave.”
Logan studied her proudly tilted chin and the defiance in her eyes and knew she disliked admitting to any personal problems.
So why had she?
He took a sip of coffee. “Surely said husband could pay for the floors to be refinished and the kitchen remodeled in this house.”
More that was none of his business, but his curiosity was sharp and he figured what the hell. What was the worst that could happen? She’d crisply, coolly, put him in his place.
Instead she laughed with a noticeable lack of humor. “I had an insane moment of self-discovery and told him to take his money and shove it. I didn’t need it. I thought it was time I make a life for myself, not take advantage of somebody else’s.”
“He does pay child support?”
“Oh, of course.” She sighed again and cupped her hands around her mug. “He has also instructed his attorney to offer me a settlement on a regular basis. So far I have nobly turned it down. Some winter day when the furnace gives up the ghost, I may succumb.” Her smile became more genuine. “Are you sorry you asked?”
“No. I’d only be sorry if I upset you.”
She made an unladylike sound. “Heck, no! Just about every night when I go to bed, I brood about all of this anyway. Was there a point to turning down his money? Is Emma suffering because of my pride? Is my pride the real thing? I mean, do I truly want to see what I can be?” This laugh was self-deprecating. “Or is it directed at Ian? A way to stick out my tongue and say, I don’t need you anyway. So…no. You didn’t upset me. I just hope I didn’t bore you.”
“You’re a gutsy lady,” he said quietly.
“Oh…” She flushed, the color tinting her ivory skin right where it stretched over finely cut, high cheekbones. “Thank you, but…say it someday when I deserve it. When I’ve proved myself.”
“You don’t have to succeed in a worldly way to prove you have guts.”
“You know,” her very blue eyes met his, “you’re a nice man, Logan Carr. Is this what you do? Make cabinets and listen to sad stories?”
“A jack-of-all-trades.” He smiled. “I’m nosy. That’s one of my besetting sins. After the way we met…” He shrugged.
“Right.” Kathleen took refuge in another slow sip of coffee. “I suppose, since I’ve told you all my other troubles, I might as well admit that Emma had collapsed that morning, hit her head and been carted away in an ambulance. Despite counseling and weekly weigh-ins, she is still starving herself, and I’ve now checked her into a residential program. She is furious at me, needless to say.”
Mystery solved. “Anorexic?”
She nodded. “Emma is bright and pretty and talented and sweet. But this, this monster has come to dominate her. She clings ferociously to it, and it’s all I see anymore.” Silent for a moment, she finally shook herself. “Well. That’s enough of my life story. What about you, Logan? Are you happily married? Unhappily unmarried? Or something in between?”
He laughed. “Probably something in between. I was married young, we had a good couple of years, and then my wife died when a drunk driver hit her car head-on.” He could mention Brynn now, the manner of her death, matter-of-factly, as a piece of his history that no longer carried a great emotional load. Then, he had been stunned, shattered. Rebuilding his life had taken years. Quietly he said, “I didn’t know whether to be glad or regret that we hadn’t had a baby yet.”
“I’m sorry.” Kathleen stretched out a hand as if to touch his, then curled it into a fist and withdrew it. “How long ago did she die?”
“It’s been almost eleven years. Sometimes I have to look at a picture to remember her face. Time passes.” And he sounded like a greeting card.
Tiny lines furrowed Kathleen Monroe’s brow. “You must miss her.”
“It’s been a long time,” he said again.
“But you haven’t remarried.”
Logan shrugged. “It just hasn’t happened.”
It. That heady, potent awareness that grew into all-consuming need, the liking, the curiosity, the ability to talk for hours, to kiss until you forgot to breathe, to bury yourself in her and claim her and be claimed. He’d dated, had sex, enjoyed women’s company. He hadn’t felt even the faintest tingling of it.
Until he stepped into this house and took a crying woman into his arms. A woman who was now chatting with him over coffee in her quiet kitchen because she needed company, needed to talk, not because she felt any answering awareness of him.
“I’d better get going,” Logan said abruptly, gruffly, draining the last swallow of coffee and pushing back the chair.
For a moment he thought—imagined—that he saw disappointment on her face before a warm smile took its place. She stood with the lithe ease of a cat, stretched and said, “You’ll let us know when you’re ready to install the cabinets?”
“I’m going to come and do some prep work first.” He still sounded gruff and impersonal. “I’d like to get the fan in, take care of a couple of bumps in the plaster, remove the molding. Say, Wednesday? Will anybody be here?”
“Um…” She glanced toward a calendar hanging near the door. “If you can get here before nine-thirty, Jo should be able to let you in.”
“Sounds good.”
At the front door, Kathleen said, “Thanks for listening.”
Damn it, she had to go and get personal, when he’d almost escaped without making a fool of himself.
“Listening?” He gave a bark of laughter. “You did notice I was conducting an inquisition, didn’t you?”
She smiled. “No, I thought you were politely enduring my whimpers.”
“Kathleen.” God. Was he really doing this? “This may be way out of line.” You think? he mocked himself. “I just thought, uh, well, wondered whether you might have dinner with me sometime.” Oh, very smooth.
He braced himself.
She blinked. “Dinner?”
The very concept must be so absurd to her that she had to check: Are you really asking me for a date?
“Yeah. Or just coffee. Or we could do something. Go to a movie, or a Mariners game, or…” Men who dated her probably took her to the opera and Brasa or the Seattle Art Museum and Palisades. But, hey, who knew? Maybe she hated wailing sopranos and modern art, and hankered for pizza and a ball game.
He hoped.
“I haven’t dated much.” Surprisingly, she sounded…tentative. Even timid. “Emma got so upset when I did, that I just…well, figured I should concentrate on her.”
Which, he gathered, had not resulted in any noticeable improvement in their relationship.
Or did Emma not care what her mother did evenings? Logan gave his head a shake, realizing he’d been a little slow. Kathleen was letting him down easy, trying to avoid denting his fragile male ego.
“Sure,” he said, backing away. “Makes sense, under the circumstances. No big deal. I’ll plan on being here at nine Wednesday morning, okay?”
Her quiet, “I didn’t say no,” took a minute to sink in.
“What?”
“Do you always give up so easily?” she asked, her tone gently teasing.
Stunned, he said, “You will have dinner with me?”
“Why not?” This smile trembled on her lips and failed. “I’m not allowed to visit Emma the first week anyway. In case I damage her progress.”
He heard in her voice how much it hurt to be told that she would ever do dam
age to her child.
“Maybe,” he said, “they know you both need a break.”
Her mouth curved again, although her eyes remained sad. “Like I said, you’re a nice man. And—” she squared her shoulders “—I’d enjoy having dinner with you.”
Logan very much feared he was part of the break. She was lonely, bewildered; he was here. Chances were, he wouldn’t be anymore, once Emma discovered his existence.
But, hey. He would take what he could get, which was more than he’d expected.
“Friday night? Say, six-thirty?”
“That sounds nice,” she said primly. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Once she’d shut the door behind him, he vaulted down the steps to the sidewalk. There, safely alone in the dark between street lamps, Logan mimicked the motion of leaping to make a jump shot, waiting, hands still suspended in air, for the ball to sink through the net with a whisper.
Yes.
SITTING ACROSS THE DESK from Emma’s therapist, Kathleen tried to look assured and even serene. “How is Emma?”
Fingers steepled, Sharon Russell said, “Health-wise, she’s doing fine. Her attitude isn’t very good yet, however.”
“If you’d told me it was, I’d have been shocked,” Kathleen admitted, then flushed. “I’m sorry. That sounds negative…”
“But honest.” No more than thirty, Sharon was a psychologist who specialized in eating disorders. Emma had seen several therapists before her, but had seemed to respond the best to Sharon. Maybe because of her relative youth, Kathleen had thought. She often wore jeans and T-shirts, and her brown hair was short and disheveled when she ran her fingers through it. Yet she had poise and an indefinable air of confidence that reassured Kathleen. She was firm with Emma.
Now she sighed. “Did I tell you that Emma’s jeans had lead fishing weights tucked into the hems? I’m guessing she drank a bunch of water before she came, too. She did often go to the rest room right after weighing-in.”
Kathleen nodded. “Is she eating?”
“Yes. Reluctantly, but the staff at Bridges don’t take no for an answer.”
The Perfect Mom Page 6
