Snow Baby

by Brenda Novak

  “Mom drives us.”

  Dillon wondered how Amanda managed to get out of bed for that. “Well, I’m going to take you this morning, okay?”

  Brittney nodded as the toilet flushed and Sydney came out of the bathroom.

  “Did you wash your hands, kiddo?” Dillon asked his youngest daughter.

  “Oops.” Sydney went back in and emerged with her hands dripping wet. Dillon dried them with a paper towel, then pulled out a chair for her at the table.

  She sat down and studied her cereal with the same morbid interest one might view a dead bug on the windshield. “What is it?” she asked at last.

  “Oatmeal,” her sister replied, the disdain in her voice revealing that it was nothing she was going to like.

  “Oh.” Sydney glumly considered the prospect of her breakfast. “When’s Mom going to be home?”

  Dillon wondered which they missed more—their mother or their Fruity Pebbles. “Your grandma and I aren’t exactly sure. She’s been delayed, but it shouldn’t be too much longer.” He stood to clear away the dishes, wondering what he was going to do about getting his daughters picked up from school. He had a full day planned at the office, complete with an afternoon of meetings that would be difficult to cancel on such short notice.

  “Do you still go home with Mary Beth Hanson after school sometimes?”

  Brittney nodded, but Sydney wrinkled her nose. “Mary Beth’s mean.”

  “Only because she doesn’t like you always tagging along with us. You should play with Jeremy. He’s your age,” her sister told her in a condescending voice.

  “But he’s a boy!”

  Dillon gave Sydney a mock wounded look. “Hey, what’s wrong with boys?”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with you,” she clarified.

  “Do you want me to call Mary Beth and see if we can go over there today, Daddy?” Brittney asked.

  “Actually, why don’t I call so I can talk to her mother.”

  He dialed the number Brittney recited, but no one answered. “Don’t they have an answering machine?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Their mom’s always on the phone, though. She’s probably talking to someone else and just not switching over.”

  “Great.” Dillon took one last look at the list of appointments he had scheduled for the day and sighed. He transferred the Hansons’ number to his day-planner, then herded the girls toward the bathroom to get their teeth brushed. They’d come to him with only one change of clothes, which had been dirty, and no toothbrushes. A stop at the drugstore had remedied the toothbrush situation, and a load of laundry at seven this morning had provided clean clothes, but Dillon couldn’t help wondering what Amanda was spending all his child support on. Twenty-five hundred a month should stretch far enough to include toothbrushes.

  The girls said little on the ride to school. Were they afraid for their mother? Dillon was starting to worry himself. Amanda wasn’t the best parent in the world, but he believed she loved the girls. She should have called by now.

  He remembered Helen’s mentioning that Amanda had disappeared on one previous occasion, and wondered how many things had changed since they’d lived together. Amanda hadn’t taken her marriage vows very seriously, but she’d been a responsible mother. Was she still? Or had she become so immersed in a life that wasn’t conducive to raising children that she was neglecting the girls? He’d tried to ask Helen this morning, but Amanda’s mother was too protective to say any more than she’d already said on the telephone.

  “Here we go,” he said, pulling over to the curb behind a station wagon and a string of minivans.

  The girls piled out, toting their backpacks.

  “Do you have your lunches?” he asked.

  Brittney waved two brown paper bags at Dillon, then handed one to Sydney. “Dad made them.”

  “Is there a treat inside?”

  Dillon chuckled. “There’s a turkey sandwich, carrot sticks, pretzels and apple slices. Plus a juice box.” Another item from the drugstore.

  Sydney groaned. “No cookies or potato chips?”

  “Not today.” Dillon looked at his daughters’ freshly scrubbed faces. In their own ways they both resembled Amanda, but Brittney, with her dark hair, piercing blue eyes and long limbs, looked a great deal like him, too. Sydney, on the other hand, was petite and blond, with dark brown eyes and a small turned-up nose.

  For a minute the doubt that had festered like a sliver beneath his skin prickled Dillon again. Was she his? Short of doing a blood test, there was no way of knowing, and he refused to go that far. Amanda would certainly never admit that there was any question, not while she had him on the hook for so much child support. But every once in a while he wondered—and was tempted to find out for sure.

  Until he thought through all the ramifications. What if Sydney wasn’t his? Would he love her any less? Would he see to Brittney’s needs and not Sydney’s?

  No. Regardless of the genetic reality, he’d committed himself to be her guardian, her protector, her father. He wouldn’t back out on her now. Which meant he would never seek the truth. And if they were both lucky, she’d never notice the physical dissimilarities between them.

  “We’ll go out for ice cream tonight, okay?” he told them.

  This proposition met with squeals of approval, just as Dillon had expected. At the sound of the bell, they gave him a hug and a kiss and hurried off.

  As Dillon sat and watched them cross the schoolyard, concern for their well-being flooded his heart. He’d never wanted to be a part-time father. He’d always imagined himself as the kind of parent his own dad hadn’t been—kind, loving, a source of unlimited strength, and an equal partner with his children’s mother.

  But Amanda hadn’t made the kind of commitment marriage entailed. She’d turned to other men, and his marriage had fallen apart. During and after the divorce, he’d refused to let the children be used as pawns, which meant he’d given in to most of Amanda’s demands. Only now he wasn’t so sure he’d done what was best for the girls. Amanda was getting too wrapped up in her own life and wasn’t taking proper care of them.

  Maybe it was time he took the gloves off.

  Except, if Sydney wasn’t his and Amanda knew it, he could never win. He’d lose one daughter trying to save the other. And he wasn’t sure he was willing to take that chance.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “SO WHAT DOES AN AIDE to a state senator do, anyway?” Stacy asked, standing just inside the lobby of the office where Chantel worked.

  Chantel slung her purse over her shoulder and slid her chair under her desk. “A little bit of everything, really. I’m not a true aide, in that I don’t represent the senator at district functions. The field representatives do that. I just open all the mail and schedule their appearances and—”

  “Do you do the scheduling for the senator, too?”

  “No. Nan at the capitol office in Sacramento does that.”

  “Is the senator ever here?”

  Chantel nodded. “He works in the district office on Fridays and whenever the legislature isn’t in session.”

  “This is a nice place.” Stacy surveyed the burgundy-and-gold wallpaper, the molding along the ceiling and the expensive drapes that made the office look more like someone’s personal library.

  Maureen smiled up at them from her desk across the room. “California senators are treated like princes, although an office this nice is a bit unusual. We got this on a sublease from some attorneys. Our capitol office certainly looks more standard.”

  Chantel introduced Maureen Ross, the office manager, to Stacy.

  “Chantel’s doing a great job,” Maureen volunteered. “She’s particularly good at helping constituents.”

  Stacy raised her brows. “I should probably know what that is, but I don’t.”

  “A constituent is anyone who lives in the senator’s district,” Chantel answered. “The people he represents can call or write us when they’re having a problem with one of the state
agencies, and we sort of act as a liaison to see that the problem gets worked out fairly.”

  “Like what kind of problem?”

  “Oh, for instance, this morning Chantel helped a guy who needed to get his real-estate license right away,” Maureen said. “He didn’t have time to wait until the Department of Real Estate got around to scheduling the test, so he called us.”

  “If he didn’t get his license quickly, he was going to lose his job,” Chantel added. “He works for a mortgage company.”

  “And did you fix everything up?” Stacy asked.

  Maureen motioned to the flowers sitting on Chantel’s desk. “She sure did. He takes his test next week. Sent those to thank her.”

  Chantel smiled, feeling a genuine pride in her job. She certainly wasn’t making the kind of money she’d made in New York, but she was doing good things for people and learning a lot about the political process. She even planned to participate in the senator’s election campaign next year. “Are you ready for lunch?” she asked Stacy.

  “Where do you want to go? Riley’s?”

  “Sounds good.”

  They both said goodbye to Maureen, then headed out the front door to Stacy’s Honda.

  “Do you think I should call and ask Dillon to join us?” Stacy asked, settling herself behind the wheel.

  Chantel focused on getting in and snapping her seat belt. While she hoped Stacy would be happy—to the point of allowing her sister the relationship with Dillon she desired herself—Chantel didn’t particularly want to spend much time in their company. She didn’t know if she could watch the two of them get closer and wonder if she and Dillon might have had a chance if he hadn’t met Stacy first.

  “If you want to,” she said, trying to sound neutral.

  Stacy started the car and shifted into Reverse. “Well, I was just thinking it might not seem like I’m asking him out that way, since there’s two of us. I don’t want to come on too strong, you know. He’s met you already, and it could be like three friends getting together for lunch. No big deal.”

  “Sure. That’s great.” Chantel couldn’t help the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. Fortunately Stacy seemed too busy concentrating on merging into traffic to notice.

  “Will you dial the number for me?” She pulled into the street, then handed Chantel her cell phone and recited the number from memory.

  Her heart sinking, Chantel dialed. “Ready?”

  Stacy sent her a nervous smile and took the phone. “Here goes.”

  Propping her elbow on the door, Chantel leaned her head on her hand as she listened to Stacy give her name to what must have been a receptionist. After a minute Dillon came on the line.

  “Hi, this is Stacy. Chantel and I were just heading out to lunch and thought it might be nice if you joined us. Any interest?”

  Please, no, please, no, please no… Chantel chanted to herself. Come on, Dillon, don’t do this to me.

  “…right now…we’re going to Riley’s Pub…Yeah, it’s by the mall…Okay, great! We’ll see you there in fifteen minutes or so.”

  Chantel choked back a groan. Dammit! He’d accepted, just as she’d known he would.

  “He’s coming,” Stacy announced, beaming with excitement. “Do I look okay?”

  Stacy’s cream sweater and slacks set off her dark hair and eyes and shaped her figure nicely. “You look beautiful. He’ll be dazzled.” And I’ll be sick.

  “He’s so handsome, don’t you think?”

  Damn, was Chantel going to have to sing Dillon’s praises every time she saw her sister? Weren’t things hard enough? “He’s very handsome,” she repeated. And fantastic in bed and courageous in an emergency, and strong in all the right ways, and soft when it really counts…

  “I mean, he’s not like Wade,” her sister went on, telling her with a fleeting glance that after ten years she was finally able to talk about him. “Wade was probably the most perfect looking man I’ve ever met. Until Dillon, I thought he’d always be the standard by which I measured other men. But for me, he was almost too fussy, you know? I mean, you were with him for ten years. Don’t you think he could be too picky, too compulsive about looking good?”

  “Definitely.” Wade’s weaknesses extended far beyond his vanity, but Chantel still carried too much pain and doubt inside her to really open up and discuss him. Reaching across the console, she squeezed Stacy’s arm. “I’m sorry, you know. For what I did. Truly.”

  Stacy kept her eyes on the road. “You’ve already apologized. And that’s not why I brought him up.”

  “He called you, didn’t he? He’s the person you were talking about this morning.”

  She nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  “That he’s still in love with you.” She shot Chantel a sideways glance and took a deep breath. “That he wants you back. That you belong together. He thinks your guilt over me drove the two of you apart. He wants me to convince you that it’s okay for you to be with him. That I’m over it and I’ve forgiven you.”

  “And?” Chantel fidgeted with the pleat on her slacks.

  “And he’s right. If you still love him, I want you to go back to him. I don’t want you to break up because of me.”

  A whirlwind of conflicting emotions assaulted Chantel. She felt guilty for not having made the sacrifice Wade and Stacy credited her with. She felt inadequate because she’d tried to make her relationship with Wade work—after all, she’d certainly paid a high enough price for it—and had failed in spite of her tremendous effort. And she felt angry that Wade would involve Stacy after what they’d both done to her.

  “Was it difficult to talk to him?” she asked.

  Stacy pulled into the pub’s lot and angled the car into a parking place. “It felt weird at first.”

  Chantel could imagine. Probably the last time he and Stacy had talked, Stacy had been wearing his engagement ring.

  “So? What do you say?” Stacy dropped the keys into her purse and leaned back without making any move to get out of the car.

  Chantel glanced longingly at the restaurant. She didn’t want to talk about Wade. She didn’t want to analyze the many reasons she couldn’t go back to him. She wasn’t even sure she could explain all of them if she tried. “I can’t,” she said simply.

  “He said your agent has more work for you. You could be on the cover of Vogue again. Doesn’t that appeal to you anymore? It was all you talked about once you turned sixteen or so.”

  Chantel stared out her window, picturing their agent, Steve, and the photo shoots and the limousines and Wade waiting for her at their artsy apartment.

  “Why would you want to give that up to work in a state senator’s office?” Stacy asked. “Think of the money.”

  Finally Chantel met her sister’s eyes. “I can’t go back, Stace. For a while there…I was sick.”

  “What does that mean? You don’t have AIDS, do you?” She sounded panicky.

  “No. Wade’s the only man I’ve ever slept with, not that I couldn’t have gotten it from him.” She laughed weakly, but Stacy didn’t even crack a smile.

  “What kind of sick, Chantel?”

  Chantel grabbed her purse and opened the door. “It doesn’t matter. I’m better now,” she lied.

  DILLON PAUSED at the entrance to Riley’s to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. He liked this place, with its Tiffany lamps, hardwood floors, brass railings and noisy crowds. The food was good here, the company was usually better. Today he didn’t really have time for lunch, especially if he had to pick up his girls at three, but the prospect of seeing Chantel again had motivated him to massage his schedule enough to squeeze another hour out of it. She’d asked him not to call her or come to her house again, and he planned to respect her wishes. Which meant he wasn’t about to miss an opportunity like this one, even though seeing her in Stacy’s presence promised to be awkward, the way it had been at the cabin.

  “Dillon!”

  Stacy waved at him just as the hostess ap
proached.

  “It looks like I’ve found my party,” he said, and weaved through the room to the table where Stacy and Chantel sat. Stacy smiled broadly at him as he sat down, then handed him a menu. Chantel barely acknowledged him before beginning an avid study of the restaurant’s offerings.

  “How’s work going?” Stacy asked.

  “Busy,” Dillon admitted.

  “Well, we’re flattered you took the time to have lunch with us, aren’t we, Chantel?”

  Chantel mumbled something unintelligible, then excused herself to go to the rest room. As she left, Dillon couldn’t help but admire how good she looked in her classy suit. And he wasn’t alone. She turned a number of heads, both male and female.

  Knowing Chantel hated the stares her height inspired, Dillon forced his attention back to Stacy. “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

  “No occasion. I thought it would be nice to have lunch with my sister.”

  “Thanks for letting me join you.”

  She smiled, a little too brightly, and Dillon remembered Chantel’s saying that Stacy thought she was in love with him. He hoped she’d wake up one day soon and realize it was just a crush. It had to be. They’d kissed once, but there’d been no real sparks, at least not on his side. Which made it hard to imagine that she’d felt something different.

  He studied the colorful ten-page menu, wondering what the chances were of Stacy’s meeting someone else. Regardless of the fact that Chantel insisted he not back away from Stacy because of her, things had changed. Rescuing Chantel, making love to her, had made a huge difference in his life. There was no going back now.

  “Are you guys ready?” A young waitress, wearing a red-striped golf shirt covered with pins and buttons, a short black skirt and running shoes, stood at his elbow, pad in hand.

  “I’m ready,” Chantel said, answering his questioning look as she returned to her seat.

  Stacy pulled absently on one of her curls. “I’ll have the chicken enchiladas.”

  Chantel ordered the oriental chicken salad. Dillon asked for the Cajun pasta, then passed the waitress their menus.