Child by Chance

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  The therapist had been frustratingly noncommittal on the subject.

  There are no easy answers.

  “We really should have told her goodbye.”

  Sherman swung, and hit the ball flat-on.

  “Wow, Dad, you really overshot that one.”

  Yeah, he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

  * * *

  TALIA MADE UP her mind that she should take the promotion. She’d be in training for the first couple of months and could finish her course work. The following semester would have to either be completed online, or...she’d have to defer her graduation. Maybe she’d eventually get her degree. Maybe not.

  She’d approached Mirabelle with a plan that would allow her to travel no more than fourteen days a month. The woman had surprised her with more freedom than that. Her schedule was up to her. She could come and go as she pleased as long as she brought in money commensurate with the company’s expectations.

  “You have a rare talent to know what looks good on women,” her boss had told her. “I’ve been watching you,” the woman continued. “You dress a woman and she immediately feels different. More beautiful. Confident.”

  Talia couldn’t explain what she did, but she understood what Mirabelle was saying. “A woman is not just the sum of her body parts,” she said softly. “She is a combination of many complicated and sometimes warring factions. I just try to bring those factions together.”

  And in the process, she was bringing herself together.

  “You fill our store with your vision, and I have faith that our associates will be able to sell whatever you bring them.”

  “I’d like to try.”

  Because she was doing something she was good at. And traveling so much wouldn’t be a problem for a woman who lived alone.

  Talia also concluded her trial period with her sixth-grade art classes. One young man was getting help for his fixation with fire, thanks to the report she’d written. A few other kids had exhibited self-esteem issues in their collage work that might have been contributing to bad grades.

  And hundreds of children now had a piece of pretty artwork to hang on their parents’ refrigerators for a time. Until it was taken down either to be tucked away for safekeeping, or thrown out in the trash.

  At the end of April she met with the school board to discuss the trial program and to explore the possibility of taking her program to high schools to work exclusively with young women as she’d originally intended. They offered her a part-time paid position to continue her work in the sixth grade and add the fifth grade the following year.

  At first, her heart leaped at the opportunity. She’d loved her time in the schools. And while she’d veered far off her intended career course, she knew she’d found value in being able to give something back to others. Something more than just helping them look good.

  Sitting in the private board meeting at the conference table that night, in a conservative blue suit with a cream-colored silk blouse buttoned up to her neck, she faced the elected parents and community business members who made up the board, words of grateful acceptance on her lips.

  They didn’t spill forth. As she considered her response and processed the ramifications of accepting their offer, she realized she had to be completely honest with her new employers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “As much as I want this, and believe that collaging is a formidable tool in exposing the hidden demons that lurk within all of us, I’m afraid that I’m not the best candidate to work with your children.”

  Nine shocked faces stared back at her. Talia focused on the woman directly across the table. Her kindly expression seemed to encourage Talia to continue talking.

  “I worked for a time in Las Vegas,” she said, the words coming calmly, clearly. “I was a dancer. A stripper.”

  The entire room seemed to shift uncomfortably. She could feel male eyes on her, undressing her. Whether they were or not.

  Conversations broke out, quiet ones, members leaning over to whisper to their neighbors, until someone realized she was still sitting there, watching it all.

  “Can you excuse us a minute, please?” The board’s president, a kindly looking older gentleman in an impeccable suit and tie, stood as he made the request, looking Talia in the eye.

  “Of course.” She’d been prepared for this. Had told Tatum and Tanner and Sedona that she didn’t expect to get the job.

  “Wait.” Another member of the board, a mother of seven children, five of whom had graduated from the Santa Raquel school district, stood. “I don’t see why this should change anything,” she said. “I’m as surprised as the rest of you—I’ve never actually met a...an exotic dancer before. But I don’t see how this affects our business here tonight.”

  “Well,” another woman spoke up. “I think we need to be free to have a candid discussion here. This woman will be working with our boys. Can you imagine? What if a photo of her...you know...turns up? I mean, we all know what strippers are about. Their sole purpose is to get men going...”

  Talia turned to leave.

  “I disagree,” a third woman said.

  And a man Talia didn’t know added, “So do I.” She turned to see him stand.

  “Really, Reverend?” the woman who was so concerned about her “boys” said.

  “Ms. Malone has a gift that can help our children where other traditional means have failed. In just a few short months she’s made a difference. Her past was another time in another place. Furthermore, she’s never alone with the children. Their teacher is always present when she’s working with them—not that I’d have any problem with her being alone with them, mind you. She also doesn’t spend more than a couple of weeks in any one class, and isn’t in any one school for a long period of time, either.

  “Who among us doesn’t have a past? The key issue here is that she made the choice to change her life. She went to school, got a degree and moved home. She comes from a good family. Many of you are aware of her brother Tanner, who turned the old Beachum farm into a successful winery, and from what I hear is growing some pretty valuable grapes. Another brother, Thomas, graduated from our district with a full scholarship to Harvard. And her little sister, Tatum, just received some of the highest SAT scores we’ve seen in our district.”

  Talia swallowed. And tears welled in her eyes. If only her brothers and sister were present to hear this. They deserved this gift, not her.

  The Malones a good family? Tanner, Thomas, Tatum—they’d done what they’d all grown up believing was impossible. They’d become respectable citizens in a community of people who’d once refused to let their children play with them.

  Maybe she was the only one who’d thought the transition was impossible. Maybe the rest had made something of themselves because they’d believed they could.

  “And what do we do when one of our sons turns up a picture on the internet?”

  “In the first place,” the school board president, standing at the head of the table, interrupted. “Any boy of ours who would be on a site where photos of that nature would show up is breaking the law himself.”

  “Excuse me.” Talia stepped back to the table. If she was going to be there for the crucifixion, she was going to at least stand in the light—not the shadows. She’d purposely and consciously left those behind. “Just to make this a little easier...there are no photos. It was part of my contract that photos of me were not taken. And just to clarify, in case it ever were to come up, I was a dancer. Period. I didn’t do private parties. Or take personal clients.” She was speaking for her family now, not a job. She couldn’t change having been a stripper. But her family had worked hard to clean up their reputation, and if by her very existence she was hurting that, she was at least going to do as little damage as possible.

  “I don’t know any of the Malones,” ano
ther man said from his seat at the table. “But I don’t see why this should be an issue. She’s not dancing now. She dresses appropriately. Acts appropriately. And most importantly to me, she has ethics. Which is more than can be said for some others in our district.”

  He didn’t name names, but the board seemed to know who he was referring to. One by one, they sat back down. Talia took her seat, as well.

  “Ms. Malone didn’t have to tell us about her past,” the man continued. “We’d probably never have known. She did so because it was the right thing to do. It couldn’t have been easy.” He gave a brief glance in her direction. “But she did it, anyway. This is the type of behavior, the type of example, I want for my children.”

  The room was silent.

  “Would you like me to leave so you can reconsider your vote?” Talia asked.

  The board president looked around the table.

  Then all heads turned as the door to the room opened. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

  Talia’s heart pounded, her skin getting instantly hot. And then cold. The reaction had nothing whatsoever to do with the job at stake.

  And everything to do with the man whose voice she heard in her sleep. And in her mind when she lay awake in the middle of the night.

  Whispering delicious compliments in her ear while he took her to heaven.

  The man who’d taken his son from her, left the Lemonade Stand and never contacted her again. Except to leave a message on her cell phone the following day to let her know that he’d made other plans for his son’s travel arrangements.

  Sherman Paulson, wearing a full suit and tie, looked as though he was dressed for a funeral.

  Hers.

  * * *

  “I WAS TOLD to wait outside and that I would be called if I was needed,” he said, addressing the board’s president. “I couldn’t help but overhear—I’m not sure if you know, but the room’s speaker is on.”

  The boardroom wasn’t large enough to accommodate members of the public, but the meetings were open to the public. Benches in the outer vestibule allowed members of the public to sit in on board meetings.

  This meeting, however, as Sherman had been told, was not open to the public.

  “Oh, my gosh.” One of the female board members jumped up and tended to a control on the wall. “I’ll just go out and apologize and... Oh, my, I am so sorry.”

  “There’s no one else out there,” Sherman said, approaching the table. “The meeting was designated private.” And if there had been anyone else present, he’d have interrupted far sooner and asked to have the intercom switched off.

  “I came specifically because I’d asked about Ms. Malone’s status with the district and had been told that the topic was the agenda for tonight’s meeting.”

  He didn’t look at Talia. He couldn’t. He’d get hard, or go soft, and he couldn’t afford to do either. His presence had one purpose and one purpose only.

  Addressing the president, Walter Pendergrass, a man whose campaign he’d run, he said, “I am aware of Ms. Malone’s past. Because, like with you all, she told me about it. She worked with my son. As some of you know, Kent’s been struggling a bit this year. He’s been through several therapists, is still in therapy, has worked with school counselors, his teachers and Mrs. Barbour, his school principal. But even with all the extra attention and help, no one had been able to get through to him. Not even me. He was sitting by himself in the office after being expelled from school when Ms. Malone noticed him. She offered to do a collage with him, on her own time, and the end result has been miraculous. Through her work, her insights, we were able to get Kent the help he needed. She gave my son back to me.

  “Mr. President and members of the board, as a long-standing member of this community, I recommend that if you are considering rescinding your job offer because of a job she held in the past, you talk to some of the parents of children she’s had contact with first. I think you’ll find the support you need to hire her full-time, which was my original reason for being here tonight, to request that the position be full-time. Thank you.”

  Turning, he left the room, then left the building.

  And went home to his son.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ONCE AGAIN, TALIA had to rethink her life. Thanks to Sherman Paulson, the first week in May she received an offer for a full-time position with the Santa Raquel school system. The position was only for one year starting out, and fluid. She’d be working with grades four through twelve, conducting traveling art classes with the elementary-school grades and working one-on-one with older students as an alternative or complement to other options of assisting those who were struggling—either emotionally or academically.

  She talked to her family before accepting the position. And afterward, sent a note to Sherman, thanking him for his support. She didn’t hear back from him.

  Mirabelle was gracious, though not pleased, when she told her she wouldn’t be taking the buyer position, after all, but she agreed to let Talia keep her sales position through the summer, and for as long after that as she chose.

  She’d be taking classes all summer, as well, and hoped to complete her psychology course work by December.

  All in all, she was pleased with herself. And starting to feel like a real Malone. Worthy of being a Malone.

  So much so that she’d talked to Sedona about letting her buy the beach house, on a land contract. They’d signed the deal the day after she signed her contract with the school board. And Talia was spending her free time—now that she was done with collage reading for a few months—looking for new furniture for her place and adding other little changes to make the place her own.

  One of the first things she’d done was take down a couple of decorative mirrors and change out the mirrored closet doors. She still wasn’t at the point where she felt good looking at her own nudity.

  Her first major undertaking was to paint the kitchen a pale yellow to mimic the sunrise over the ocean.

  Her social life had also picked up a bit. She’d been invited to the theater—by the brother of a woman she’d been dressing for more than a year. She’d already had dinner with him. Found him charming. Funny. Entertaining. And...lacking in spark. She wasn’t going to waste his time. Or her own.

  On this third Friday in May, she’d pulled back her hair and, dressed in cutoff jogging shorts and an old T-shirt, was taping the windowsills in the kitchen to prepare them for painting. The tiles she’d purchased for a backsplash border around all of the countertops lay in neat stacks along the wall behind the table. As did the thin set and grout. Tanner was on call if she needed help.

  With her iPod blaring her female empowerment playlist, she didn’t know a car was in her driveway until she heard the door shut. A single door.

  She glanced out the front window and saw the tail end of a silver BMW.

  Sherman.

  She had no time to think. He was probably counting on that. Damn him if he thought he was just going to walk in her unlocked back door, unannounced, and take her to bed.

  The old Talia might have thought she deserved no better, but the new Talia, the healthier Talia, knew better.

  She’d lock her door. And keep it locked until he called her and asked her for a proper meeting. Even then, it was debatable whether or not she’d let him in.

  Decision made, she grabbed her keys and went over to the only unlocked door. The one he’d always used. She’d just locked the keyed dead bolt when she heard steps on her back deck.

  Heard them because while she’d been locking the door, she’d somehow managed to position herself on the outside of it.

  So she’d talk to him. It had to happen at some point. They lived in a small town. And neither of them appeared to be going anywhere anytime soon.

  If he wanted assurances that she woul
d stay away from Kent while she was in his school, she’d give that to him. She loved her son. She wasn’t going to confuse his life.

  “Hi.”

  The voice was male. Definitely Paulson. But it wasn’t Sherman.

  “Hi.”

  She stood there, barefoot, in her ugly painting clothes, and tried not to cry.

  Her son looked so...grown-up. Easily an inch taller. His hair was still as short. His clothes as preppy. Today he was wearing light-colored khakis, a white short-sleeved shirt and a blue, sleeveless sweater vest.

  The boy needed some serious help loosening up.

  And he was absolutely perfect to her.

  God, she’d missed him.

  “Where’s your dad?” Kent might look all grown-up, but he was still ten. For another two months, three days, six hours and seventeen minutes, give or take a second or two.

  “In the car.” He shrugged. Trying to look so manly. His right thumb and forefinger were working each other to the bone at his side. “He offered to come with me but I said no.”

  She nodded. She was just so glad to see him she didn’t want to ask any more questions.

  “I came to give you this.” He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and held it out to her.

  An invitation? To his birthday party? A formal thank-you from his father for agreeing to leave him alone?

  That didn’t make sense. Not when the boy was delivering the missive himself.

  With shaking hands, she opened the envelope. Pulled out the worn piece of folded paper. Lifted the top from the middle and recognized it immediately. She didn’t need to open it any further to read a word, to know what she held.

  A generic copy of the letter, minus names, they’d all later signed, giving each other permission to access the other’s information. It was a copy of the generic letter she’d chosen to use for their contract. Before their contract had been drawn up, Sherman and Brooke had been sent a copy, given the opportunity to approve the generic letter. Then Talia had signed and they’d signed, separately and separate copies of the same letter. Neither had seen the other’s names.