Child by Chance

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  There were things she should say. A right way to handle this. Talia stood silently.

  “Well, anyway, just think about it,” Tatum said, stepping back from the door.

  Talia nodded. Tatum backed up a few more steps.

  “I love you, Tal.” Her sweet voice carried across the driveway.

  “I love you, too, Baby Tay.” She wanted more than anything to make things right with Tatum. Needed to do so if she was ever going to be right with her soul.

  Tatum’s frown turned into a huge grin, and Talia figured she’d done okay. This time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHERMAN PACED. BECAUSE what he wanted to do was haul his son out of bed, into the office and stand there while Kent opened the restricted file folder on his mother’s computer.

  His computer.

  Dr. Jordon had told him the key to reaching Kent was patience. If he came on strong, the boy was just going to clam up, get defensive. Kent was pushing Sherman away. He needed to know that he was loved, no matter how much he acted out. He was testing Sherman, to see if he could make Sherman leave him, too.

  Or some such thing.

  It made sense. Sherman got it, logically. And he was beside himself with worry, disappointment and a bit of anger, too, as he stood there locked out of a computer in his own home, and waited.

  As it turned out, Kent slept until eight. In spite of the vacuuming Sherman had done. And in spite of the number of times he’d let the screen door slam shut behind him after spotting a weed in the juniper tree bed from the living-room window, or checking on the mail in case he’d missed it the night before, or making sure the hose was wound up.

  Maybe he’d wanted to let the door slam a number of times to get his son up and out of bed. That was possible, too.

  Sherman had a bowl of sugared cereal sitting on the counter, ready for milk, and pushed the button down on the toaster to cook the bread he’d had waiting there.

  He poured milk over his own oat cereal and joined Kent at the table. He talked about their plans to go to the batting cages later that afternoon. About a game they were going to watch that night. He asked his son if hot dogs sounded good for dinner.

  He made it until Kent came out of his room in jeans that were too pristine to belong to a little boy and a game-day jersey tucked into them before calling his son into the office.

  “Log on for me,” he said, pointing to Kent’s computer.

  Without hesitating, the boy did just that. And then plopped down into his chair.

  “Show me what’s new,” Sherman said next.

  Kent took him through a couple of new homework folders. Showed him a new level he’d reached on a downloaded video game. A cartoon game where he had to figure out increasingly difficult puzzles to move from one level to the next. Nothing to do with death, dying or killing. The boy was not allowed to do any online gaming at all. Sherman wasn’t chancing what he might come across or be asked to do during the game chats. But Kent didn’t seem to mind.

  Leaning forward in his own chair, which he’d pulled over, Sherman followed Kent’s explanations, praising him where praise had been earned. And slowly started to crumble a bit inside.

  Kent wasn’t going to show him the folder. He knew it as surely as he knew he was sitting there. The boy had just accessed the folder that week, though Sherman had been able to ascertain earlier by clicking on its properties that it had existed for almost a year.

  “That’s it,” Kent finally said, dropping back in the chair that was too big for him. His head was resting against the back of the chair, which meant that his back nearly covered the seat of it.

  “You sure?” Sherman asked. He’d have crossed his fingers behind his back if he’d been his son’s age.

  “Yeah.”

  “You haven’t done anything else on this computer this week.”

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nope.”

  Kent’s heel tapped on the floor, his expression placid.

  “You know what happens if I find out you’re lying to me.” Just checking. Or reminding.

  “I lose my right to my own computer. I have to do homework on the laptop that’s offline and empty of all games.”

  “Right.” He waited. Giving Kent the chance to think on it and come clean.

  The boy had to know he was going to bust him. He knew the folder was there. And he’d also know that Sherman knew something. He’d never grilled him before.

  And maybe he should have.

  Or...

  Maybe he should leave Kent to his privacy. The idea was tempting. It couldn’t be a permanent condition. He was going to have to know what was going on. But maybe he should speak with Dr. Jordon first. Maybe he’d like a good, relaxing weekend with his son before they got up Monday morning and had to slay dragons again.

  Yeah, maybe. He could keep an eye on Kent all weekend. Make sure that the boy didn’t access whatever was in the troubling folder.

  Or maybe he should give Kent time alone in the office and wait for him to think it was safe to open the folder. Maybe he should bust him then, with the evidence on the screen...

  Duplicity had never been his way. He wasn’t usually a coward, either.

  And since when did he need a psychologist telling him how to discipline his son?

  He amended that last thought. He’d needed it since Brooke’s death, of course. But no matter how much Kent was struggling...

  “I can’t abide lying in this house, Kent,” he said aloud. There was no attack here. Nothing to push Kent into defensive mode. There was only impenetrable fact.

  “I’m not lying.” His son looked him straight in the eye.

  And left Sherman no choice but to lean forward, take the boy’s mouse and find the incriminating folder. Kent, still leaning back as though he hadn’t a care in the world, watched him. Sherman clicked to open the folder and got the password protection screen.

  “Open it,” he told his son.

  Sitting up, Kent did so, quickly enough that even though he was watching, Sherman didn’t catch the password. Clearly, it was one they’d never used before. He’d tried everything he could think of while his son slept in.

  The folder opened, and Sherman blinked. “There’s nothing there.”

  “I know.”

  Could Kent have come across some elaborate program that allowed him to erase the contents of a folder upon opening it with some password keystroke?

  There was no other way the boy could have emptied that folder. Unless he’d done it earlier that week and that was why he’d accessed it.

  But then why leave it there at all, if he was going to empty it?

  “What was in there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “The folder’s been there almost a year.”

  “Yeah.”

  If he wasn’t mistaken his son was hiding a grin. But not a fun one. No, his eyes took on almost a sly look. A knowing look. If a ten-year-old could manage such a thing.

  “Did you create it?” Kent seemed willing to answer anything, so he was going to ask everything he could think of.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if you were really checking up on me like you said you were going to do. I created a password-protected folder just to see if you’d find it and ask me about it. It took you almost a year. Good going, Dad.”

  Sherman sat back, his fingers on either side of his chin. He’d shaved in a hurry. Missed some spots. He ran a hand through his hair. He wore his longer than Kent’s now that Brooke was gone. She’d liked it short. He liked it more casual and...

  “You were testing me,” he said to the boy, just to clarify.

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d I do?” Had Kent
wanted him to find the folder? Or just the opposite? Had he needed to know his father trusted him enough not to look?

  Kent shrugged. “Not bad,” he said. “Took you a while to find it, but you grilled me as soon as you did.”

  As if that was a good thing?

  “You did just find it this morning, right?” For the first time since the inquisition had begun, Kent showed a sign of...fear?

  “Yes.” He sat there, taking it in, finding no concrete thoughts. “How often have you accessed it?”

  “I dunno. Maybe eight times.”

  “I guess I’ve been a little lax, huh?”

  “Nah. You did fine, Dad. Can we go to the batting cages now?”

  “What did we agree to at breakfast?”

  “I’d clean my room and help with the bathroom first.”

  “Right, and have we done that?”

  “Nooo.” Kent’s grin was all little-boy then, and it struck Sherman’s heart clear through. “I was just hoping you were feeling bad enough that we could skip the cleaning part.”

  “You want to live in a pigsty?”

  “No.”

  “You got money to pay a cleaning lady?”

  The boy’s sigh was long. “No, Dad. You know I don’t.”

  “Guess that means it’s up to us to get the cleaning done, doesn’t it?” Sherman stood, both hands on his son’s shoulders as Kent did, too. “At least you got out of vacuuming this week.”

  Kent threw another killer grin over his shoulder. “Why do you think I stayed in bed?” he asked. “I waited until I heard it in every room before I got up.”

  Sherman’s burst of laughter surprised the hell out of him.

  * * *

  SHE COULD LEAVE a written report with Mrs. Barbour and walk away. Professionally, anyway.

  Doing so would be appropriate.

  Late Sunday night, after stopping after work to see her family—adamantly avoiding any mention of Kent Paulson—and then finishing the last of her online homework, Talia pulled a jacket on over her sweats, took her laptop out to the deck on the back of her borrowed beach cottage and sat down with the ocean she could hear but not see.

  She saw a couple of lights bobbing in the far distance. Ships out to sea? There was nothing but blackness where she knew the beach to be—the stretch of space between her deck and the water.

  It fit her, this little cottage. Alone, she didn’t need a lot of space. And yet, she never truly felt lonely here. How could you when all of life was spread before you just by sitting on your back deck?

  Maybe someday she’d actually be able to afford a place like this. And not have to rely on handouts from the family she’d let down so badly.

  As she sat there, not yet opening the laptop, Talia stared out into the darkness and replayed a scene from earlier that day. She’d just finished ringing up a fifteen-hundred-dollar sale—a couple of outfits with the highest quality costume jewelry embellishments—when the store’s manager approached her.

  “Have you got a minute?” Mirabelle had asked.

  “Of course.” Even if you didn’t, you found one when the head boss sought you out.

  “You’ve been working here for well over a year now,” the savvy, middle-aged woman said, as though Talia didn’t know the length of her employment.

  “Yes.”

  “Since your first month you’ve been one of our top earning associates.”

  She nodded. Helping people look good wasn’t all that tough. Getting them to spend their money on looking good hadn’t been her doing. That was human nature coming into play. Their own, not hers.

  “While finishing up a four-year college degree in three years.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I hear that you’re in school again, adding psychology to your major?”

  “That’s right.” Though her original employment had been granted partially on the basis of her performance in the fashion area of study, surely the store wouldn’t have a problem with her continued education. She had her fashion merchandising degree with a dual in fashion design. And her work wasn’t suffering.

  “What’s the starting salary for fashion design grads who are psychology students in California these days?” Mirabelle, decked out to the nines in a red suit with black trim, gave her an assessing look.

  As far as she knew she’d have to have a doctorate in psychology to actually work in the field of psychology. She was only going for a master’s degree. She told the woman a little bit about her collage program—starting with the experience with collage that she’d received as part of her fashion design degree. And then she admitted that, so far, her collage work was all done on a volunteer basis.

  The older woman nodded. Talia held her gaze. She needed this job. The store paid the highest sales commission by far. With only two days a week to work, Talia had to make those hours count.

  “Good,” Mirabelle said after several seconds, a small smile forming on her face. “I’d like to offer you an opportunity to do far better than that,” she said. “I have an opening for a full-time buyer for women’s fashions and accessories. You’d have full purchasing privilege in all of the best houses around the world. I’ll pay your travel expenses and a small salary. In addition, you’ll get a percentage of each of your items that sell in our store.”

  Mirabelle named an amount she could expect to make that astounded her.

  “I...” She was tempted. She could buy a beach cottage. Be able to help her family if they ever had need...

  She’d get to travel the world without selling her soul. She’d have respectability.

  And she’d be spending a good part of her life traveling. She knew what being a buyer meant. Her nights would be largely spent in hotel rooms. Far away.

  “What would the small salary be?”

  “Twenty thousand a year. But if you do half as well as the woman you’re replacing you’ll make more than I’ve just told you to expect.”

  After her items arrived and starting selling, of course.

  Twenty thousand was less than she’d made at eighteen.

  But the commission was more than she could hope to make anytime in the near future.

  Still, she’d be gone most of the time. Away.

  Mirabelle had given her two months to think about the offer. The position wouldn’t be available for another three months.

  She had time to weigh the pros and cons. But her gut was telling her that she couldn’t take the job. She wasn’t going anywhere until Tatum had graduated from high school and was settled in college. And then she still wasn’t leaving. She’d learned that in her life family came first, and for her, because of her past, that meant that she had to be where they were. In case they needed her.

  So that they knew she was there for them.

  She opened her laptop. Opened a blank word processing document and started to type.

  About a little boy who was hiding things. Who had thoughts about violence. And a gentle heart. A boy who was angry, and who loved to read and have family picnics. Who wanted to lash out and liked puppies. A boy who was smart enough to keep his true feelings hidden, talented enough to mask his feelings with an artistic presentation, tender enough to see the value in doing the project at all and young enough to put his frustrations right there for all to see. If they looked.

  She was telling the story that she saw when she looked at Kent Paulson’s collage. She might be right. Or not. She could be reading him spot-on, or be a bit off the mark.

  But she knew she wasn’t completely off. Talia had a special talent for interpreting people’s collage work. Her instructors in college had seen it. The psychologist who supervised her master’s thesis work, a project involving the use of collage in assessing children, saw it.

  She finished the report. Sent it to S
edona’s home printer. Only one light bobbed on the ocean now. Didn’t mean it was the only boat out there. Inevitably there were others. But it looked like the only one. Looked starkly alone.

  Like her. She wasn’t alone. She had family who loved her. Really and truly loved her. They’d have to really love her to see the real her in spite of her past.

  Yet as she sat there, contemplating the report she would deliver in the morning, she had never felt so starkly alone.

  For one week, she’d almost felt like a mother. From a distance. On the outside looking in. But still...

  And now, she’d see Mrs. Barbour in the morning and then just be Talia again. A woman who’d given up her son for adoption seconds after his birth.

  Not if you’re doing it for me. And him.

  Tatum’s words had been playing in her head all weekend. Her little sister wanted to meet her nephew. Her only nephew as far as any of them knew. Tatum needed family almost as bad as Talia did.

  And what about Kent? She’d abandoned him once. Was it right or wrong to do so again? He’d seemed to like her.

  Maybe he’d just liked her art project.

  His “see ya” hadn’t sounded particularly...anything. Just polite. It certainly hadn’t seemed to faze the boy that they were never going to see each other again.

  If ten-year-olds even thought that way. She had. But then, she’d been an adult at five.

  What if he thought she’d still be around the school? That he’d be seeing her just like he saw all of his other former teachers?

  Was she really thinking about seeing him again?

  Could she keep pretending she wasn’t looking for a way?

  But it had to be for the right reasons. She had to do it for others. Not just for herself. Not to give her a sense of self-worth or because it felt good in the moment.

  The thought was followed by another. She wasn’t in a position to determine what was best for Kent.

  She should just let it be. Deliver her report to the principal and leave well enough alone.

  Unless she really believed she could help him.