by Loree Lough
As he gave it some thought, her voice echoed in his head. “The children need a good woman in their lives,” she’d have insisted.
Yes, his kids deserved the best, and he’d done everything humanly possible to provide it. But he didn’t know how to embellish an outfit for Angie, as Francine would have. And even he could see that the rooms of this new house were stark, almost puritanical in their plainness. But what was he to do? Even if he knew which doodads to buy, where would he put them!
A woman would know. And Dara, his prayers had convinced him, was that woman. Somehow, he had to convince her of that, for the children’s sake. And for my sake, he added.
He’d be a good husband, as good as he’d been for Francine—maybe even better, thanks to her constant tutelage—but he’d never let himself forget who’d made it possible for those precious treasures named Angie and Bobby to come to live in his world.
Not even if Dara did agree to marry him.
Not even if one day he grew to love her.
Dara tossed and turned on the couch, wishing she’d let Noah open up the sofa bed. But even if he had, it wasn’t likely she’d get any sleep.
Thoughts of him filled her mind as steadily as the snowflakes piling up against the French doors. Noah had said they had a lot in common. One thing they shared was a desire to say things straight out.
“It’ll be a win-win situation,” he’d said.
And maybe it would…if not for the fact that she had a little pride. Of course she wanted to clear her father’s name, but that was no reason to get married…not even to someone as appealing as Noah Lucas. In the old days, plenty of people consented to arranged marriages to merge kingdoms, to pay debts, to secure a safe financial future for their families. But these aren’t the old days! We’re living in a modern world, where men and women marry for love! she told herself.
She rolled onto her back and focused on the ceiling fan above her head. Its brass trim reflected the brightorange firelight glowing in the woodstove. But nothing, it seemed—not the soothing warmth of the fire, not the comforting heft of the downy quilt—could distract her from one dismal thought: This may well be your only chance at marriage and family, Dara Mackenzie.
She’d dated dozens of men since her sixteenth birthday but had rarely seen any of them on more than one occasion. “You’re too picky, Dara,” her mother would say when she dismissed yet another eligible bachelor. “Do you want to end up an old maid? Don’t you want me to be a grandmother?”
Fact was, she wanted that more than just about anything. But if it meant she had to settle, then maybe she’d have to resign herself to life as a single woman.
“What’s wrong with Jeremy?” her mother had wanted to know. “He’s handsome and successful and—”
“And he talks too loud,” Dara had said.
“What about Matthew?” she’d asked. “He owns his own business.”
“And that’s the only thing he can talk about”
“David seems nice.…”
“But he isn’t a Christian.”
“I give up!” her mother had said, throwing her hands into the air in vexation.
But she hadn’t given up. Instead, Gloria Mackenzie had scouted around town, searching out potential sonin-law material. Feeling she owed it to her mother to at least try to find a common interest with the men, Dara agreed to dinner at Tersequel’s, movies at Palace Nine, sailing on the Chesapeake Bay. When she came home from the outings, the message light on her answering machine would be blinking. “Well,” her mother’s excited voice would ask. “How’d it go? Call me!”
It would have been nice seeing her mother bounce a grandchild on her knee before she died. Sometimes, great waves of guilt washed over Dara, knowing her “pickiness” had been the reason it hadn’t happened.
She’d known what kind of man she wanted since her stuffed animal and dolly tea party days: a man exactly like her father.
But what kind of man stole nearly a quarter million dollars, for…Only the Lord knows why…so only the Lord should condemn him, she thought.
Since learning about his crime, Dara had tried to focus on his good qualities, such as the way he volunteered to play Santa at Johns Hopkins Children’s Oncology every Christmas, stuffing his big green bag with toys he’d bought with his own money.
Now she had to wonder, had it been his money?
And what about the summer when their next-door neighbor had been laid up with a back injury and he’d mowed the Jensens’ lawn, from spring thaw straight to the first frost.
He’d gone grocery shopping once, all by himself, to buy food for a family displaced by a house fire. Had he paid the bill with money he’d earned? Or had he borrowed from Pinnacle’s till to finance his charity work?
She hadn’t been too nonplussed about her solitary status, because in her heart, Dara believed the Lord had chosen her mate long before she drew her first breath. It was merely a matter of finding him, she kept telling herself.
He’d be tall and handsome.
She guessed Noah to be five foot eleven, at least. And he certainly filled the “good-looking” category.
Her intended would be a good and decent man. One who was successful and hardworking. And he most certainly would be a devout Christian.
Like Noah Lucas.…
The only negative, really, was the fact that she didn’t love him and he didn’t love her.
Dara sighed, rolled onto her side. Could you love him? she asked herself. Yes, she probably could—if she’d let herself—because he had all the qualities of a fine, upstanding husband and then some. His easy manner with his children, though, was probably Noah’s most redeeming trait, because it had been that that made Dara see him as something other than a pencilpushing stuffed shirt. When he looked at them, it was as if the rest of the world and everything in it ceased to exist. His voice automatically gentled when he talked to them, and the big hands that could probably perform that “strong man rips phone book in half” trick combed tenderly through their hair.
Those same hands had touched her, too, testing the softness of her cheeks, bringing her close enough to kiss.
What would it have been like, she wondered, if Noah had kissed you? Would the golden mustache have tickled? Would those full lips have felt as soft as they looked?
Exhaling harshly, Dara rolled onto her back again, frowning at the night-blackened blades of the ceiling fan. Stop it, she scolded. Stop it right now. You have no business thinking such things about a man you barely know!
But that wasn’t true. Wasn’t true at all.
She did know him, not in ways measured by calendar pages but in her heart. It didn’t make sense that she felt so secure, so protected, so comfortable in his presence…in his arms. Didn’t make sense that she understood the reasons he was drawn to Francine back when he’d been a lonely orphan. (Was he still an orphan? How old did a man have to be to shed that title?) Didn’t make sense that when his voice had gone all ragged with pent-up grief, she’d wanted to console him with big hugs and little kisses and reassuring words, the way a mother comforts her child when a nightmare has wakened him.
That especially didn’t make sense, because the feelings bubbling inside her now were not in the slightest maternal.
Yes, she could love him.
If she was honest with herself, she’d have to admit that maybe, just maybe, she loved him a little bit already.
*
The soft sounds of their pajama feet scraped across the kitchen’s white-tiled floor, announcing their approach. Dara had been up for hours. Actually, she’d never gone to sleep at all. She sat at the table, sipping coffee and reading yesterday’s newspaper, when Angie and Bobby ambled into the room, rubbing sleep-puffy eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Bobby asked around a yawn.
“The snow got too deep for me to drive home, so your dad invited me to sleep on your couch.” They looked so adorable, so angelic with their tousled hair and sleep-pinked cheeks, that she wanted to
hug them. “C’mere,” she said, giving in to the feeling, “and gimme a hug.” Dara extended her arms, and the children fell into them as if they’d been doing it every morning of their lives.
They smelled so sweet, like a beautiful blend of baby powder and sunshine, that she couldn’t help but give each little forehead a lingering kiss. “Did you sleep well?”
Angie stepped out of the hug and, nodding, said, “I had a dream.”
“Good or bad?” Dara asked.
“Very good.” Smiling, the girl wiggled her dark eyebrows. “You married Father and became our new mother.”
Heart pounding, Dara resisted the urge to gasp.
“That wasn’t a good dream,” Bobby said into Dara’s sweater. She looked into eyes as blue as cornflowers. “It was a great dream!” Grinning, he tightened his hold on Dara. His cherubic smile broadened as he added, “You’d be a good mother, I think.”
It was amazing how uplifting his words had been. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re fun and nice and you give good hugs. And,” he tacked on as mischief danced in his eyes, “you’re very pretty, too.”
She felt her spirit soar. “Well, thank you,” she said simply. “Now, are you hungry?”
Both children nodded. “Father keeps the cereal in the pantry.”
Opening the double doors, Dara inspected the shelves, where cold cereals of every brand and variety filled one whole shelf. “Say…there’s pancake mix in here,” she said over her shoulder. “How about a nice, tall stack of flapjacks, instead of cereal?”
“Flapjacks?” Bobby echoed, giggling. “That’s a funny word.” He marched around the kitchen, arms pumping, knees churning, repeating it like a chant. “Flapjacks, flapjacks, flapjacks.”
“Be still, Bobby,” Angie said. And to Dara, “He’s such a baby.”
He stopped midstep. Hands on his hips, he leaned forward. “I am not a baby!”
“No. You’re six years old,” his sister noted. “So act it.”
The boy met Dara’s gaze. Pouting, he asked, “Is marching for babies?”
Down on one knee, she pressed a palm to his cheek. “Have you ever been to a parade?”
“Of course we have,” Angie volunteered in his stead. “Every Fourth of July.”
Ignoring the girl’s too-old demeanor, Dara said, “Then I’m sure you’ve seen all sorts of people—grown-ups included—marching. Musicians and soldiers and—”
“And clowns!” Bobby squealed.
“It’s rude to interrupt,” Angie said.
Dara made up her mind then and there to find out what was at the root of Angie’s rigid, unchildlike behavior. For now, though, it seemed in everybody’s best interests to distract her.
“Where do you guys keep the maple syrup?”
“‘Guys’ is not the proper way to refer to—”
“Angie,” Dara said, hands on the child’s shoulders, “how would you like to help me make pancakes?”
“Flapjacks!” Bobby corrected.
Dara grinned at him. “Flapjacks.”
The girl’s dark eyes brightened, widened, and a big smile lit up her face. “You mean it?”
“Sure!”
Angie clapped her hands and jumped up and down. “The only time we’ve ever had pancakes was in a restaurant. Father always burns them, and Mother never liked them.” She turned to her brother, still bouncing like a rubber ball. “Pancakes! Right here in our own kitchen!”
“First,” Dara instructed, “we’ll need a great big bowl and one of those giant mixing spoons.”
Bobby rummaged in a low cabinet, withdrew a stain-less-steel bowl large enough for him to sit in. When he held it out in front of him, he all but disappeared behind it. “How’s this?” he asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
It was, in fact, five times larger than necessary, but Dara didn’t have the heart to tell him that. “Perfect!” she said, putting it on the counter. “Now, how about a step stool?”
“In the pantry,” Angie announced, dragging it from where it stood between the ironing board and a dust mop. The broom handle teetered for a moment before toppling from the pantry. “Watch out, Bobby!”
But her warning came a tick in time too late. The handle landed square on the back of the boy’s head with a horrible thump that put him onto his hind end.
Dara didn’t quite know what to make of the fact that the broom handle’s blow had knocked Bobby off his feet. It wasn’t as if it had been wielded, like a bat. Its slow descent surely would have smarted, but this? On her knees, she wrapped him in a fierce hug, kissing his temples and cheeks. “Oh, sweetie,” she crooned, “are you all right?”
He was trying hard not to cry. “Yes, ma’am,” he said around a sob. Wincing, he rubbed his head. “I’m fine.”
“Well, then, what do you say we get busy on those pancakes.”
He grinned past his tears. “Flapjacks,” he corrected again.
Laughing, Dara helped him up. “Maybe we can have the flapjacks ready before your dad wakes up.”
“He’s sure gonna be surprised,” Bobby said, rubbing the back of his head.
Dara couldn’t help but notice the way he staggered those first few steps. Lord, she prayed, frowning slightly, what’s going on here?
No sooner had she completed the thought than the boy was back to hopping and skipping around the kitchen. Thank You! she told God. And sighing with relief, Dara gathered the ingredients to make the main course.
After positioning the stool near the counter, she found a package of link sausage in the fridge, a dozen eggs and a loaf of unsliced Italian bread. Quickly and efficiently, she dumped the meat into a cast-iron skillet, and while it sizzled, she sliced the bread. “Have you ever made toast, Bobby?”
“No, ma’am.”
But it was obvious by the excitement gleaming in his blue eyes that he’d love an opportunity to try. “Well, you’re in charge of toast.” She pulled open several drawers until she found the one where Noah kept the silverware. Handing the boy a butter knife and a stick of margarine, she slid two pieces of bread into the toaster and patted the stool. “Now, you have to be very, very careful not to touch anything until I tell you it’s safe,” she said as Bobby climbed onto the seat. “We don’t want you to burn your fingers, now do we?”
Grinning from ear to ear, he said, “No, ma’am.”
She tucked in one corner of her mouth. “Bobby, sweetie, would you do me a really big favor?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dara rested a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’” She wrinkled her nose. “Makes me feel like an old fuddy-duddy.”
His brow crinkled. “What’s a fuddy-duddy?”
Laughing, Dara drew him into a hug. “A fuddy-duddy is a stuffy crone.”
“Oh,” he said gravely, his expression and tone telling Dara he didn’t know what a crone was, either. “What would you like me to call you?”
If it were up to her alone, they’d call her “Dara.” Period. But since Noah never corrected them when they referred to him as “Father,” like youngsters out of an old Dickens tale, she presumed he wouldn’t approve of that. “How about calling me ‘Miss Dara,’” she suggested. “You’ll have to call me ‘Miss Mackenzie’ when we’re in Sunday-school class, of course, so the other children won’t be jealous, but when it’s just us—”
“Why would they be jealous?” Angie wanted to know.
Standing, Dara slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “They might think that since we’re, ah, special friends, I might give you special treatment.”
“I get it,” Bobby blurted. “They’ll think we’re teacher’s pets!”
“Exactly!” Dara said. “Now, we’d better get busy, or your dad will be down before we even get started.”
“I can’t believe he’s sleeping so late,” Angie admitted. “He’s usually the first one up. Most days, when we come downstairs, he already has our cereal in a bowl and our milk and
juice poured.”
Bobby nodded in agreement. “And a spoon on our napkin, with a vitamin next to the spoon.”
Her heart skipped a beat as she acknowledged all the little, caring things he’d been doing since the children’s mother died. She opened the cupboard where Noah kept the plates, took four from the shelf and carried them to the table. “Let’s get this out of the way so we won’t have anything to distract us.”
In minutes, it seemed, breakfast was ready.
Noah came into the room as if on cue, his eyes still sleep puffy, sheet wrinkles dimpling his cheeks. He’d put on jeans—black ones this time—and a gray-andwhite flannel shirt and, in place of the sneakers, a pair of well-worn leather loafers.
“How’s a guy supposed to sleep with all these wonderful scents flittin’ through the air?” he croaked.
Dara began filling their plates as Bobby giggled. “You sound like a frog, Father.”
Grinning, Noah picked up his son, planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Sorry,” he said, and proceeded to clear his throat.
“Now you sound like a bear,” Angie put in.
He scooped her up, too, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “G’mornin’, darlin’. Did you sleep tight?”
She nodded. And smiling, Angie said, “You sure slept late today. What happened? Did your alarm clock break?”
Gently, he put the children on the floor. “No,” he said, focusing on Dara, “I just forgot to set it.” And grinning, he added, “Don’t know where my mind’s been lately.”
She’d already filled the juice glasses and now poured coffee into his mug. “Everything’s ready,” she announced. “Let’s sit down before it gets cold. Angie and Bobby worked very hard to make you this feast.”
Eyes widening, he smiled at his kids. “You made breakfast?”
“Yup,” Bobby proclaimed.
“Well,” Angie said hesitantly, “we helped.”
“I couldn’t have done it without them,” Dara put in as Noah took his place at the head of the table and the children sat to his right and left, leaving the chair straight across from him for Dara, just like last night. She slid onto the caned chair seat and flapped a napkin across her knees. “Pass the salt, please?”
