Child by Chance

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  What if he looked her up as an adult and she found out that he’d suffered something she could have prevented?

  She had a plan. Not that she’d told anyone. But she knew about a program that might help Kent Paulson.

  If she dared take this any further.

  If she dared... Because she might get hurt? Or because someone else might?

  The truthful answer to that was both.

  One o’clock passed. Then two. Talia sat on the back porch, watching the bobbing light become two again. And then three. Ships passing in the night.

  She held her coat close, shivering. Because she couldn’t do anything else. She was frozen on the precipice of making a new life with better choices, or remaining in the old one in a new city with the same old mistakes.

  How did she trust herself to know the difference?

  She’d thought, when she’d run away at sixteen, and then again at eighteen, that she was doing the right thing. Not all women grew up innocent. Not all were mother material...

  She sat there until her mind quieted and there was only resolution left. She stood, just before three, and went inside to go to bed. She would have to get up in a few hours, but she knew what she was going to do when she did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BY TEN O’CLOCK Monday morning Sherman had already chaired a couple of productive meetings. His staff was scurrying about the office, making things happen. He’d suffused the air with a positive energy that would make him a mint if he could sell it.

  And every time the phone rang his stomach lurched. Kent was back in class today. They’d had a fairly decent weekend. If you didn’t count the rudeness at the table when he’d taken him to meet the representative of an animal rights coalition for lunch on Sunday. He’d thought Kent would enjoy hearing about the animals. Had even contemplated the idea of adopting a pet, if Kent asked him.

  But his son had put on the headphones to the video game Sherman hadn’t even known he’d brought along and ignored every attempt he made to quietly get Kent to put the thing away.

  At eleven, when Gina stuck her head into his office, announcing that Kent’s principal was on the phone, he was almost relieved to get it over with. The principal had mentioned a private school to him a couple of times, a place where troubled boys went. He was not sending Kent to one of those places.

  But he might have to find an alternative. A private school that he could afford. So that Kent could get himself kicked out of there, too?

  “This is Sherman,” he said into the phone, his eyes closed as though he could block what was coming.

  “I’m sorry to bother you...” Sherman leaned as far back as his chair would go, throwing an ankle up over his knee, as Mrs. Barbour rattled on about another teacher, one he hadn’t yet heard of, who’d come to her about Kent. Eyes still closed to the rest of the world, he let her prattle on, knowing that somehow they were going to get through this.

  What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. His old man’s words to him before he’d left with his army unit for the overseas mission that had killed him. Remember that, son. His father’s last words to him.

  “I’ve read the report, Mr. Paulson, and I think it would be in Kent’s best interest if you at least met with her.”

  Wait. What? Foot landing on the ground with a thud, he sat up. Opened his eyes and said, “Why does she want to meet with me?” An art teacher had found signs of anger in Kent’s work. Unfortunately, this wasn’t groundbreaking news to him.

  “She’d like to tell you that herself, sir.”

  “Who is this woman?”

  “Her name’s Talia Malone.”

  “And you said she took time out of her day to work with my son every day last week?”

  “Yes, sir. Her collage program, which is also part of her master’s thesis, has been tentatively approved by the school board and she was in our building, anyway. I didn’t feel there was any harm in giving Kent an opportunity for some one-on-one time with her. You told me you trusted me to make appropriate decisions for him during school hours and—”

  “Yes, yes...” he cut in. “I’m...grateful for all that you’re doing. And of course I’ll meet with anyone who thinks they can help Kent. I’m sorry. I thought... I expected...”

  “You thought I was calling because Kent was in trouble again. I understand.” Mrs. Barbour’s soft tone reminded him of his mother. Anita Paulson had remarried a couple of years after his father passed away. Another military man. Sherman had been in high school then. Unwilling to be uprooted yet again by military life. His mother had reluctantly allowed him to stay with a friend’s family while he finished high school. From there it had been college. And Brooke. His mother, on the other hand, had lived in four different states and was currently in Belgium where her husband, a full colonel now, was serving his last term before retirement. She’d seen Kent a handful of times. Brief visits that always ended with promises for more time soon.

  Mrs. Barbour was listing off times when this Talia Malone would be available to meet with him.

  “Whatever works best for her,” he said, not making note of any of them. Didn’t matter to him when it was. As long as it happened. “As soon as possible, whatever’s best for her,” he amended. If he had something on the calendar he’d switch it.

  “Tomorrow, then? Just after lunch? Which would be one o’clock. I can give you the conference room down the hall for as long as you need it,” she said, all business as usual.

  Grabbing a pen, Sherman took down the pertinent details. An appointment for a new lease on life.

  That was right up his alley.

  * * *

  TALIA DIDN’T HUG a water fountain for comfort. She didn’t throw up. She also didn’t tell anyone, most particularly Tatum, that she was meeting her biological son’s father that Tuesday afternoon. She dressed in conservative black pants, a white blouse and her tweed blazer, twisted her hair back into a bun, glued the wayward tendrils down with professional-quality freeze spray and walked into that meeting with her big-girl panties firmly in place.

  She hadn’t set out to do any of this. Had only wanted a glimpse of her son, to assure herself he was fine before she went on with her life and left him to his. She’d needed the closure of the life she was leaving behind.

  But he’d been in trouble, and she’d been able to help. Not as his mother. As the person she was becoming in her new life—the professional Talia.

  She had to finish what she’d started. Professionally.

  Talia Malone, woman, mother, didn’t factor into the meeting. And somehow that made it possible for her to walk through that door with some composure.

  Sherman Paulson was taller than her five foot seven by a good six inches. He’d been sitting on the far side of the empty conference table, his hands folded loosely in front of him, but stood as she came through the door five minutes early with her arms full.

  She’d expected to have time to set up an easel.

  “Let me help with that,” he said, reaching for the most cumbersome item she carried—the poster board held to her side by her left upper arm.

  “No!” The harshness in her voice embarrassed her. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, dropping her satchel, her purse and her keys in a heap on the table as she rescued the poster board from under her arm. Looking for the easel Mrs. Barbour had told her would be in the corner of the room, she retrieved it and set it up on her side of the conference table.

  Crazy, but it felt safer that way. Felt as if Kent was still a little bit hers. Instead of all his. Even if for a few seconds.

  With the board still covered, she arranged it on the easel and then sat down.

  He took his seat, as well.

  “I’m Talia Malone,” she said. “I’m assuming you’re Kent’s dad?”

  “Sherman Paulson, yes,” he
said, holding his hand out across the table. She had to take it. His grip was firm. Warm. The fact that she noticed confused her a bit.

  Other than the dark hair—a little more casual than Kent’s, a little longer—he didn’t look anything like his son. But then, he wouldn’t.

  “Thank you for meeting with me.” Based on the light beige dress shirt, rolled at the cuffs, the navy-and-beige tie and navy dress pants, he was coming from work.

  “I’m eager to hear what you have to say,” he said, meeting her gaze directly. “It’s no secret that Kent’s struggling. We’ve tried, and are trying, all of the conventional methods—private counseling, extra attention at school and home. All kinds of behavioral theories have been put into practice...” He spread his hands open on the table, and out of nowhere she had the idea that this man was gentle.

  Not just on the surface but all the way through.

  “Needless to say, I’m open to suggestion at this point. Mrs. Barbour said that you know of a program that might help?”

  She felt as if she was in the middle of a snowball that had just been hurtled down a very steep hill.

  “I’d like to back up a minute if I could,” she said, and then felt guilty for taking more of his time than necessary.

  She was a volunteer, not yet a professional in any sense. What did she know?

  Unless... The thought had occurred to her several times over the weekend only to be brushed aside, but...was it possible she could see so much in Kent’s collage not just because of her artistic ability but because she’d been endowed with a mother’s instinct when he was born? Surely the nine months he’d lived inside her, feeling the very beat of her heart, could have bonded them in some spiritual way.

  “Unless you’re in a hurry,” she amended. And then what?

  She had things to tell him. Things she really thought he needed to know. And...she was hoping to glean whatever information she could from him to help her sleep peacefully without her son in her life. To help her let him go. Once again.

  “I canceled this afternoon’s appointments,” he said. “I meant it when I said I’m open to anything that might help my son. He comes first.”

  He got a gold star for that.

  “Okay, well, first let me tell you a bit about my program.” She described collaging in general, and then added, “Children, in their innocence, go for pictures that speak to them on a level that’s sometimes deeper than they even understand. My theory is that oftentimes with their collaging, they’re subconsciously telling their own stories. It’s been long understood that certain colors specify different characteristics about a person. Color also speaks to emotions that individuals are feeling. What I do is put all of that together to come up with a three-dimensional profile of the child through his or her collage work.”

  He was studying her, clearly listening intently. His brown eyes had hints of amber that seemed to pierce right through her. And she faltered.

  Could he see her duplicity?

  Tatum had asked her to meet with him, but she’d meant by going through the adoption agency so he’d know who she was.

  She’d considered the idea. Nonstop for months actually. But she couldn’t do it. Not because she thought he’d reject her. But because she was deathly afraid that if either of them knew who she was—and what she’d been—she’d bring more harm than good to an already struggling tragedy-stricken family.

  In short, they didn’t need an ex-stripper to deal with. That was a burden she’d brought on herself and she was going to do all she could to make certain that it didn’t reflect on anyone else in her life. Her thoughts flew about a hundred miles per second.

  “I’m sorry. Did I lose you?” she asked when Kent’s father remained silent.

  “Not at all. I’m processing.” His sincerity was evident. “I’m assuming that’s my son’s collage sitting there.” He motioned to the easel.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m wondering what’s there. And, quite frankly, I’m a little nervous to find out.”

  “Well, I have to tell you...my reading of collages...my program...I intended it for older subjects. High-school girls were my target, but the Santa Raquel school board wanted to trial the pilot in elementary-school art classes and so I reworked the focus of my thesis. Personally, I think they were probably thinking that if it turned out to be a bunch of hooey, there wouldn’t be any loss. The kids would still have had a fun project for art class.” Talia looked out the window behind him. She couldn’t believe she’d just told him that.

  “So it’s still in the trial stage?” His quirked brow was more curious than derisive.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re telling me you have no concrete evidence or statistics to prove that you know what you’re talking about or that any of this is accurate.”

  She could tell him about the women at the Lemonade Stand. The counselor there who’d worked side by side with her over the past year had been amazed at the results. But she wouldn’t. Their business was not hers to tell.

  “Yes,” she said instead, after a long enough pause to consider her response.

  If he walked out now, she’d lose this chance to help Kent. How could she possibly go to the adoption agency, come into their lives in a normal way, after seeing Kent’s father in this venue? Her last chance for making that choice ended when she asked Mrs. Barbour for this meeting.

  “But you obviously believe in the concept.”

  “I’m hoping to turn it into a career.” Even if it took several years of working in sales while she took her program to schools for free.

  He nodded. “What you’ve said makes sense. You have my interest. But I guess I’ll know better after I see my son’s work. And hear your interpretation.”

  That was her cue. She was too busy letting out a huge sigh of relief—silently, of course—over the fact that he wasn’t ending their meeting to dive right in.

  Her heart opened just a bit to him, too. She was grateful that he loved her son enough to be willing to consider all avenues to get him the help he needed. To put Kent first in his life.

  It was more than she’d done.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SHAME WASN’T SOMETHING that Sherman felt often. He generally looked before he leaped, considered his response before replying, his choices before acting.

  But sitting in the conference room of his son’s elementary school Tuesday afternoon, he was filled with shame.

  “Keep in mind that Kent had to work with the magazines I brought him,” she was saying as she turned toward the easel.

  Desire shot through him like hot lead every time he looked at the woman who was there to help Kent.

  “The project could possibly have been more revealing if he’d been able to browse more than eight magazines.”

  He’d had a beautiful woman in his bed before. Brooke had won her hometown beauty pageant back in Kansas. So it wasn’t just the slender blonde’s looks that were doing things to him. It wasn’t the way she held her head—though he did find her posture captivating. Something about her voice drew him, but it wasn’t just that, either. It wasn’t even how much his approval seemed to matter to her.

  “I’m going to give you a couple of minutes to study the board yourself,” she said, her fingers reaching up to loosen the taped brown paper from one corner.

  Just watching her take the tape off a corner of the board with her long, graceful fingers had him shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “You can come over here,” she invited, moving to the next corner.

  He told himself he was just nervous about seeing the poster, about getting this unexpected glimpse into his son’s psyche instead of trying to bore his way through the thick wall of stone his son had built around himself.

  He stood. She reached for the third corner. He rounded the table. S
he removed the paper. Took a step back.

  Sherman watched her. It was much easier to do that than think about the real task before him.

  “Go ahead,” she told him. “Have a look. I’m sure that with your knowledge of your son and his life you’ll find some significance I missed. My hope is that when we put your observances together with what I see, you’ll come away with some new insight that helps you help him.”

  She wasn’t coming on to him. Or even seeming to notice him as anything other than a means to helping his son. She didn’t smile into his eyes. Or smile at all.

  “I’m just going to leave you alone for a few minutes,” she said. “Would you like some coffee or a bottle of water?”

  “Water would be great, thanks,” he said. Cold enough to tamp the unexpected, inappropriate and completely unwelcome urge to ask her out. Kiss her. Take her to bed.

  The energy seemed to leave the room as the door shut behind her. Sherman dropped down to the chair she’d vacated.

  He noted the silver flathead screws holding the silver easel secure. He noted that the edge of the poster was slightly bent on one corner.

  And then he raised his gaze to the collage that promised a glimpse inside his son’s soul.

  * * *

  SHE GAVE HIM ten minutes. Or rather, gave herself ten minutes to get back on track and do the right thing. To help her son, not herself.

  And then, armed with two bottles of water, she opened the door to Kent’s father.

  He stood as she entered the room, met her gaze, and the ten minutes worth of composure she’d gained disappeared instantly. An hour’s worth, a week’s worth, wouldn’t have been enough to remain immune to the brightness she saw in Sherman Paulson’s eyes, the stiffness in his jaw. The raw emotion that emanated from him.

  And met an answering well of confusion, fear and anguish inside her.

  She was the professional here. She had to establish and maintain a degree of distance. Of calm capability.

  She reached over the table to set his water down in front of him and then sat in the chair she’d vacated earlier. Opened her notebook and turned to the poster.