Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  Sharon crossed the scruffy, summer-baked grass to the climbing apparatus. Max stood on a high platform, his eyes level with hers. He watched Olivia, his expression vaguely worried. Sharon doubted he had any concept of the Jackson family’s problems. His worry was more likely due to Olivia’s failure to come back and play with him.

  “Who’s that?” he asked Sharon.

  “Olivia’s daddy.”

  “I want a daddy,” Max said.

  She suspected he wanted a daddy the way he wanted Olivia’s dump truck when she was playing with it, or the way he wanted a cookie when he saw her with one. What Olivia had, he wanted. His words meant nothing more than that.

  But they resonated deeply inside Sharon. She wanted him to have a daddy, too. She wanted Steve to be here, witnessing the miracle of his son. She wanted him to scoop his baby into his arms the way Raymond had scooped Olivia. She wanted her son to know the security of a man’s shoulder beneath his head, the loving rumble of a man’s voice.

  “I wish I could give you a daddy,” she told Max, reaching over the railing and scruffing his hair.

  “Olivia got a daddy.”

  “I know.”

  Max watched as Raymond lowered himself onto the bench next to Deborah and settled Olivia in his lap. Abruptly, Max reached his arms out to his own mother, as if the truth of his fatherlessness overwhelmed him and he needed to be comforted with a hug. Sharon lifted him over the railing and held him tightly. Max’s lower lip poked out in a pout.

  “How about, let’s you and me take a drive?” she suggested. He would probably fall asleep within minutes; the car’s vibrations almost always lulled him into a stupor, and it was getting close to his naptime, anyway. A drive would distract him from Olivia’s dad and get him to rest—and maybe she could scout some new locations to take photos for her submission for the Arlington commemorative book.

  “I want a daddy,” Max complained in a wavering voice. He rubbed a fist into his eye. He was already halfway to dreamland.

  “I know you do. But we’re going to go for a ride.” As if cruising around town in a car was a valid substitute for a father.

  Max whimpered slightly, as if to remind her that he was not satisfied. “I know,” she whispered into his silky hair as she carried him past the bench. Deborah shot her a quick look, then nodded. She clearly saw no reason for Sharon and Max to stick around while she and Raymond quarreled about his failure to show up on time for his day with Olivia.

  Sharon slid Max into his stroller, strapped the belt around his belly over his teary protests, and followed the sidewalk back to her row of houses. He kicked his feet against the chrome bars of the stroller, wailed a bit, then forgot how irritated he was when he spotted a large orange butterfly hovering above a cluster of dandelions. He was still chattering happily about the butterfly when they entered the house.

  She changed his diaper, packed a few snacks for him—pretzels, cubes of cheese and a lidded cup of apple juice—and grabbed her camera tote. Max seemed to have forgotten his disappointment completely. He raced ahead of her to the door, and as soon as she opened it, he bounded down the steps, heading for the street. She sprinted after him, grabbed him before he got to the curb, and carried him back up to the porch so she could lock the door. “Don’t run into the street, Max,” she scolded. “That’s very dangerous.”

  “I go to the car,” he explained.

  “You have to wait for Mommy. You have to hold my hand.”

  “I go to the car.”

  “We’ll go to the car together.” After locking the front door, she lowered him to his feet, this time keeping a firm grip on him. His hand felt like a tiny animal in hers, warm and squirming, trying to break free. She clung to him until they reached her car, then buckled him into his car seat in back.

  “Open the windows!” he screeched. The car’s interior was scorching. She kept a towel spread across his seat to keep the surfaces cool, but the air had baked all morning.

  “I’ll open all the windows,” she promised, getting in behind the wheel, revving the engine and hitting all the automatic window buttons, which allowed the hot air from outside to mingle with the hot air inside. “Once we start driving, it’ll cool down.” One of these days, she imagined, Max might start whining for an air-conditioned car instead of a daddy. For now, “daddy” was probably a simpler concept for him to grasp than “air conditioning.”

  They drove out of Village Green and the car’s motion did cause the air to lose a little of its searing heat—but not much. Arlington wore summer heavily. The pavement shimmered before her eyes, and people moved slowly. Hers was the only car on the road with its windows open; all the rest undoubtedly had air conditioning.

  For the first few minutes, Max yammered in the back seat, providing a running commentary on everything he saw. “There’s a tree! There’s a big truck! There’s a doggie!” But eventually he wound down, and when Sharon glanced into her rearview mirror, she saw that he had dozed off.

  She sighed. She wished she could give him a daddy. She wished she could give him anything he wanted. She wished she could give herself what she wanted, too. She wished she knew what that might be.

  Not a kiss from Brett Stockton. Deborah was right; the man’s inconsistency last night hadn’t been fair, it hadn’t made sense, and he wasn’t worth wasting another thought on. Sharon had desired him only because he was the first man she’d spared a thought for since Steve’s death. She was a healthy woman, she was lonely, she was horny—whatever the reason, she’d responded to Brett because he happened to be the first man to come along. There would be others.

  For some reason, that thought didn’t cheer her. She didn’t want others. Horny and lonely she might be, but she wasn’t on the prowl, desperate for male companionship. Once she’d recovered from the shock and grief of Steve’s death, she’d actually come to admit that there were a few advantages to not having a man around: a lot less laundry, the toilet seat was always in the right position, and she didn’t have to battle anyone over the remote control. The house was hers to arrange as she wished. She chose her own décor and set her own rules. Her life belonged to her—and to Max, of course.

  She missed Steve. At first, she’d missed him most at night, when she’d lain alone in their broad bed and heard the hum of the clock instead of the steady tempo of his breathing. She’d missed the way he always slung one arm around her and bunched his pillow up against the back of her head. She’d missed waking up with him, their legs tangled and his cheeks scratchy with a bristle of beard.

  Now, though, she missed him most during the day—when she felt overwhelmed by the labor of keeping the studio profitable, or when she wanted to discuss current events with an intelligent adult, or when she watched a funny movie or TV show and longed to share it with him, to laugh with him. Sex... she’d like it, sure. But it wasn’t something she thought about very often.

  She was thinking about it today, thanks to Brett Stockton.

  Who hadn’t kissed her and whom, she was sure, she would never hear from again.

  * * *

  “I’ll go,” Brett said.

  Janet glowered at him. “You’ll go where? We can send anyone over there to pick up the photos. They’re open until five today, the lady said—”

  “What lady?” he asked, trying to keep his tone noncommittal. Janet loomed in his doorway, as effectively as a woman who stood barely five feet one inch could loom. She’d just informed him that someone from Bartell Photography Studio had phoned to let them know Arlington Financial’s order was ready. For some inexplicable reason, Brett wanted to be the one to pick it up. “Was it the photographer?”

  “No, some other lady.”

  He hoped his face didn’t betray his feelings. In truth, he wasn’t sure what those feelings were. He didn’t want to see Sharon again.

  Except that he did.

  Which was really, really stupid, because he was too old to find anything exciting in a fling, but he couldn’t imagine what, beyond a flin
g, could exist between him and her. A friendship? Not the way she looked, the way his body hummed with arousal in her presence. No, he couldn’t picture himself getting together with her on a regular basis for coffee and deep conversation and nothing more.

  He’d told himself to forget about her—but he wasn’t listening to himself. He hadn’t forgotten about her all day yesterday, while he’d puttered around his house in a sour mood, plowing through the Sunday paper without absorbing much of it, grumbling through a televised Red Sox game and sucking down a couple of beers while he watched an inane movie on cable about alien space invaders. He’d grilled himself a steak for dinner, discovered he didn’t have much appetite and wished he owned a dog so he could feed it his ample leftovers.

  He didn’t want a dog. A dog was a creature that had to be taken care of—fed, walked, bathed, trained. Almost as bad as a baby.

  Damn it, why did Sharon have to have that kid?

  The fault lay with him, not her. He had no right to resent her for being a mother. He was the one out of whack, out of step. Somewhere in this world there had to be a woman who didn’t want children, and someday he’d meet her.

  He just hoped she felt as good in his arms as Sharon did.

  “I’ll pick up the photos,” he said again.

  “You don’t have anything more important to do?” Janet asked.

  “As a matter of fact, no.” Nothing as important as seeing Sharon one more time—if she was even at her studio. If she wasn’t, it would probably be just as well. “Where’s the studio located?”

  “On Dudley. Two fifty-five Dudley. You should send someone else, Brett. You’ve got a business to run.”

  “The business isn’t going to collapse if I take a ten-minute break.” He shoved away from his desk, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and sauntered past Janet and out the door. His hair was mussed, his tie dangling, and he realized, once he’d entered the elevator down the hall from his office suite, that his jacket was extraneous. August had spread another sticky, steamy day across northwestern Connecticut. Even if he thought he’d look better donning the jacket, he wasn’t going to. He had no need to make a good impression on Sharon.

  He had no need to make any impression on her at all. He was a fool to be running this errand. He ought to press the up button, return to his office and send someone else to pick up the photos. He was the damned CEO of the company, after all. He paid people to take care of the trivial stuff.

  The midday heat assaulted him as he stepped out of the building. The pedestrians strolling along the sidewalk looked wilted and weary, and as he crossed the street the asphalt felt spongy against the soles of his shoes. Sweat gathered under the loosened collar of his shirt, and the shoulder over which he’d flung his jacket felt as if it was in an oven, roasting its way to well-done.

  He didn’t turn around, though. He couldn’t. He was on some sort of masochistic mission: hiking through heat and humidity so thick he could practically swim in it to reach a studio where, if he was either lucky or unlucky, he’d get to see a woman he wanted to see but didn’t want to see. Surely people had been committed to insane asylums for less.

  Her studio was a few long blocks down Dudley, and by the time he reached the awninged front door he had to use his handkerchief to wipe his face. Stepping inside, he sighed with deep relief as cool air swarmed around him. He closed his eyes and savored the rippling chill of perspiration evaporating from his forehead and the back of his neck. Then he opened his eyes and looked around.

  The small front room contained a few chairs, a reception counter, and walls of photos: sappy bridal shots, earnest yearbook pictures, the sort of glossy black-and-white photos he associated with show-biz personalities, sentimental portraits of elders, and cloying photos of babies, children and toddlers, a few of them accessorized by fuzzy kittens or puppies so adorable his stomach rebelled. Some of the photos were huge, with museum-quality frames. Others were small, gathered collage-like in frames designed to hold an assortment of pictures. On a table in front of the chairs sat an array of photo albums.

  A woman stood behind the counter. Not Sharon. Brett tried to convince himself he’d just dodged a bullet, but disappointment overruled pragmatism.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked cheerfully. She wore a sleeveless cotton shirt and shorts, and she looked about forty degrees cooler than Brett felt.

  “I’m here to pick up an order,” he told her. “Arlington Financial Services. We got word that it was ready.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back,” she said, then departed through a doorway. Her steps were so bouncy, he wondered if she had springs imbedded in her sneakers.

  He sighed again, this time not in relief but in frustration—with Sharon for not being there, and with himself for caring. He could have sent Janet over to pick up his order. No, not Janet—she was in her sixties, and this kind of heat could wreak havoc on an older woman, even one as tough as she was. Someone else from his staff, though. Bill spent his days off scaling mountains and portaging canoes. He probably would have viewed the walk to Sharon’s studio on a hotter-than-hell day as a mini-vacation.

  He saw activity beyond the doorway, a shadow moving, and then he got lucky—or unlucky. Sharon Bartell emerged, carrying a pastel-blue box. “Hello,” she said, giving him a level stare.

  She obviously wasn’t thrilled to see him. Her mouth sat like a horizontal stripe above her chin, not even the tiniest hint of a smile tweaking its corners upward. Her jaw was set in a way that made her chin look pointier than he remembered it, and her cheeks hollower. Her eyes were a swirl of color, green and amber and overcast gray.

  “You called my office,” he said, as if informing his secretary that his order was ready was tantamount to inviting him to pay a social call.

  “Yes. Your pictures came in.”

  “Came in? You don’t print them yourself?”

  “I can print them, but I usually have a lab take care of it. The lab I work with does high quality work.” She set the box on the counter and lifted the lid. “Why don’t you check them out? If you’re not satisfied...”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. Just as well, since at the moment he wasn’t satisfied at all. He wanted her to smile, the way she’d smiled Saturday night and her entire face had radiated unadulterated pleasure. He wanted her to smile and tell him she felt like Cinderella.

  Right now, she probably felt like a studio owner impatient with a client whose engine seemed to have stalled. He knew he should look at the prints in the box, but he wanted only to look at her, to will her to smile for him. Until she did, he didn’t think he could motivate himself to deal with the box. He didn’t think he could do anything but wait, and hope.

  For what? She had no reason to smile. He’d shut down on her Saturday night, and she was probably insulted. She should be. He’d shared a lovely evening with her and then fled before she could even thank him.

  “Look, I—” He drew in a deep breath, using the time to figure out what he was going to say. The truth, maybe? At least part of the truth. “I had a really good time Saturday night.”

  “You did?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

  “You didn’t think I did?”

  “Well... I wasn’t sure.”

  She was sure. Only someone blind, deaf and extremely dimwitted would have viewed his behavior at the end of their evening as a sign that he’d had a good time.

  “Okay.” He drew in another breath. He wished his tie was neat, and he wished it had blue in it to match his eyes—eyes she’d once described as sexy. He wished Janet had nagged him to comb his hair and straighten his shirt. He wished he had the guts to tell Sharon more than part of the truth. “I didn’t handle things as well as I should have Saturday. I guess I was having second thoughts.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  About your bratty son. About how close I could get to you without the kid becoming a part of it. “I had a terrific time, and I should have said so.”

  “Okay.
” Her eyes softened a little, but she still wasn’t smiling.

  “I’d like to see you again.” There was a nice, fat chunk of truth for her.

  “Really?”

  He wished she didn’t sound so surprised. “Yes, really. If you’re free on Saturday...”

  She didn’t respond right away. Her fingers moved restlessly on the box, tracing the edges, tapping the corners. “I’m planning to spend Saturday taking photos around town. I’ve got a spec project I’m working on.”

  “The way you were photographing the YMCA building last week?”

  “Exactly. So that’s going to take up most of the day.”

  He’d been thinking about seeing her in the evening, after she’d dumped the kid on a baby-sitter. He’d been thinking they could have a nice, adult evening and he could forget, as he had for long stretches last Saturday, that she had a kid at all.

  But he was aiming for the truth, and the truth was, if he was going to continue seeing her, he ought to see her as she was: a mother. “What were you going to do with your son while you took these photos on spec?”

  “Bring him with me, of course.”

  He wasn’t sure there was any “of course” about her answer. But maybe the kid acted better during the day. Maybe she’d trained him to carry her camera around for her like a caddy, and give her pointers on the angle of the sun. “How about if I join you?” he asked.

  She studied him intently. A tiny line deepened at the bridge of her nose, not quite a frown but close. “Do you really want to?”

  No. He must have been crazy to suggest it. “Sure.”

  “Okay.” Her face remained still but her fingers bristled with nervous energy. She lifted the lid of the box, then set it back in place. “I’d like to get an early start.”

  “I can call you Friday to work out the times,” he said.

  “Okay. Fine.” She jiggled the lid of the box again, then pulled it off and removed an order form. “Why don’t you look this over?”