Yes, but how could she? She saw Rose, scared and sad, hugging herself on the window seat in that gorgeous bedroom that was still strangely sterile. Her face, always so serious. Her need to hold on tight to Daddy, because who else did she have?
Me. She has me, Lynn’s heart cried.
So, of course, she had no solution to the dilemma. They had to keep doing this. It was no worse, she told herself, than what many parents subjected their children to after a divorce. As long as those children grew up knowing they were loved, they forgot about the weekends when they didn’t want to go to Daddy’s, or the summers when they were packed off to Mom’s. Love was what counted.
Lynn slipped out of the room, surprised, when she checked her watch, to find that it was seven-thirty. Shelly’s usual bedtime was eight, so no wonder after her wretched and exhausting afternoon that she was already sound asleep! Muffled by a wall, Lynn heard splashes of water, a giggle followed by a deeper voice. Bath time. Maybe Rose had been “pooked on,” too.
She left the door open a crack. Two steps down the hall, Lynn turned back for another look. Shelly hadn’t stirred. Fingers crossed that she stayed that way, Lynn went into Rose’s room and sat cross-legged on the floor, putting puzzles back together. How helpful, she mocked herself, and felt like a thirteen-year-old girl who just happened to be hanging out in front of a cute boy’s house. Oh, do you live here?
Well, damn it, she wanted just once to tuck her daughter into bed! She closed her eyes briefly, imagining herself smoothing back Rose’s curls, kissing the freckles on her nose, whispering, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” seeing a soft, sleepy smile light the face of this child she had carried for nine months.
Was that too much to ask?
Adam appeared with Rose in flowered flannel pajamas. For a moment, he hesitated, then nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Keeping her voice low, Lynn set the last completed puzzle on the pile.
“For some mysterious reason, Pansy here lost her appetite. She doesn’t think she wants any dinner.”
A sleepy chuckle as Adam settled her into bed. “Rose, Daddy! Not Pansy.”
Lynn made a face. “I think I lost my appetite, too.”
“And you didn’t eat the same things Shel—” With a harrumph, he stopped. “Never mind. Rosebud, I’ll bet Lynn would like to say good-night, too.”
Oh, bless him! Instantly feeling kindlier, Lynn said, “I’d love to.”
“Sleep well, honey.” He kissed his daughter tenderly, carefully tucked blankets around her, and quietly left the room.
Lynn asked, “Do you have a night-light?”
“Daddy forgot to turn it on.” Rose sounded puzzled. “Daddy never forgets.”
Daddy had left her something useful to do. Grateful, Lynn turned on the bright porcelain light and then sat on the edge of the bed. “Sleep tight,” she said softly. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
A small giggle rewarded her. “’kay.”
Lynn let herself feel the intense pain and delight she usually denied, the bone-deep connection to this child. She hungrily looked, and saw herself as she never would in Shelly, who might be prettier and who she loved unshakably, but who did not look back sleepily with Brian’s eyes, whose forehead didn’t have a curve as familiar as the ache in her heart.
Oh, God, she wondered, Am I as bad as Brian? Is passing on my genes so important to me?
But, no, of course it wasn’t. She felt the same as she ever had about Shelly. What she had to accept was that she could so quickly also love a child she hadn’t known a month ago.
On a shaky breath, she bent and kissed her daughter’s forehead.
Rose accepted the kiss with equanimity. “Are you gonna sleep with Shelly?”
“Yep.”
“Sometimes I sleep with Daddy,” Rose confided.
“When Shelly gets scared, she sneaks into bed with me, too.”
“Oh.” Rose pondered. “Daddy says big girls sleep in their own beds.”
“Well, I guess big girls do, but you’re not so big yet, are you? And even grown-ups get scared sometimes at night, if they hear a funny noise.”
“Daddy doesn’t get scared.”
Lynn knew for a fact that wasn’t true—the idea of losing his Rosebud was enough to scare Daddy to death. But she only smiled and said, “I wish I didn’t.” Then she kissed Rose again, this time on that small freckled nose. “Now, you go to sleep. Maybe Shelly will feel better in the morning and you two can play.”
Rose smiled, sweet and shy. “’kay,” she said again. “Night, Lynn.”
Lynn’s heart swelled and her sinuses burned with the effort not to cry, but she kept smiling through them. “Good night,” she murmured.
She left the door open six inches and the hall light on. Thank God, Adam wasn’t lurking outside the door. She needed a minute alone to wipe away the tears and convince herself that it could be worse: she might never have known, never have found Rose.
A peek in the guest room assured her that Shelly still slept, her face flushed but her breathing even. Then, nerving herself, Lynn went downstairs.
She found Adam in the kitchen. He glanced up, taking in far more than she wanted him to see with one sweep of his sharp gaze. But he only asked, “Shelly still asleep?”
She nodded.
“It’s getting a little late to start the dinner I’d intended. How would French toast grab you? Or an omelette?”
“Either would be good.”
His brows stayed up and he waited.
“French toast.” She didn’t care.
He’d already had the eggs out on the counter. She watched as he put a pan on to heat and started cracking eggs into a shallow bowl.
“Thank you for letting me tuck her in.”
His jaw bunched. “Not much of a gift.”
“You could have shooed me out.”
“I hope I’m not that selfish.”
He whisked the eggs efficiently but with latent violence. Wishing she could be whipped into an acceptable, smooth form as easily?
“Adam…”
“Do you like syrup?”
Frustration infused her voice. “Yes, but…”
“Let’s eat and then talk. Okay?”
Lynn let out a gusty sigh. “Yes. Fine.”
Not at all to her surprise, the French toast was thick, golden brown and crusty. Butter—real butter—pooled like sunlight. He’d even sprinkled the top with powdered sugar.
They took their plates to the kitchen table set in an alcove surrounded by windows that looked out at the dark garden. It must be a perfect spot in the morning.
She took her first bite. “This is wonderful! Do you buy your bread at a bakery?”
“Bread machine.”
Lynn murmured with pleasure again. She must have been starved, she realized. She’d gone to a sandwich shop for lunch only to give herself something to do, one more way to kill the hours while she was exiled, but the sandwich had been dry and the turkey the kind that tasted fake. She’d had only a few bites.
“We hardly know each other,” Adam said suddenly. “I think that’s my fault.”
Lynn set down her fork. “Yes. It is.”
He acknowledged the hit with a grimace. “I’d like to change that. Tell me something about yourself. Where did you grow up? How’d you end up with a bookstore?”
“Eugene.” She sounded rusty. She had the sweaty-palmed feel of a fifth-grader standing up in front of the class to give a presentation. “I grew up in Eugene.” That sounded bald all by itself, so words kept coming. “My mother was the secretary for the History department at the university. I never met my father. I think my mother had an affair, which isn’t at all like her, but she wasn’t married and didn’t like to talk about him. ‘It was just one of those things,’ she always says.”
Adam listened to her with the same concentration he probably gave to stock quotes on the Internet. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t look away, gave no sign
of being bored. Lynn couldn’t remember the last time anyone had really wanted to hear about her.
Which might have explained why even then she didn’t shut up.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s not the truth, either. Maybe Mom went to a sperm bank and just didn’t want me to know my father was nothing but a few statistics in a catalog. You know—gray eyes, 130 IQ, five foot eleven, red hair.” Oh, God, she thought belatedly. Why was she telling him this private suspicion?
“I do know my father,” Adam said unexpectedly, “and I couldn’t tell you a hell of a lot more than that about him. He and my mother suit each other, but he’s not a warm man.”
“What’s he do?”
His grunt must have been a laugh. “He’s a pathologist. Appropriate, isn’t it? He’s very, very smart, and cold as a morgue.”
“But your mother…”
“Is an artist. A potter. She doesn’t do dinner plates or pitchers. These strange shapes connect…” His hands tried to form one of his mother’s creations out of thin air, but he shrugged and gave up. “Ugly as hell, some of what she does, but the critics don’t see it that way. It ‘speaks to the heart.’” He fell silent.
Beginning to be puzzled, Lynn asked tentatively, “Are you proud of her?”
“Mmm?” He looked startled. “Sure. I have one of her pieces in the living room. Remind me to show you. The thing is…she’s pretty distant, too. If I hadn’t seen her working at her wheel, I’d have a hell of a time imagining her and Dad tangled in bed together.”
Lynn blinked.
He closed his eyes briefly and rotated his neck. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”
“No. That’s okay. I shouldn’t have said what I did about the sperm bank, either.” He’d offered her a trade, she realized. A glimpse into his privacy in exchange for one into hers. Whatever else Adam Landry might be, he wasn’t selfish. His generosity compelled Lynn to continue, “But you’re right, we should get to know each other. Warts and all.”
Adam met her eyes, his breathtakingly intense. “What I’m trying to say is, ever since I brought Rose home I’ve been parenting by guess and by God. I’m the one browsing the parenting section in the bookstore. I can’t call Mom and ask how to handle a two-year-old whose only word is ‘no.’” Adam made another of those rough sounds meant to be a laugh. “Mom says, ‘Why ask me?’”
“Why ask her?” Lynn echoed incredulously.
His mouth curved into something more closely approximating genuine amusement. “See, she handled it when she had to, but…absently. I guess that’s the best way to put it. She was always focused on her art. I’ll bet she doesn’t remember me at two or three.”
“But…that’s appalling!” And terribly sad.
He ran a hand over a chin bristly with the day’s growth of dark beard. “No, that’s Mom. She’s a cool lady in her own way. Brilliant, passionate about her art, smart about the business side of it. Just not all that interested in wiping snotty noses or leading preschoolers around the zoo.”
Fascinated, Lynn pushed her plate back and crossed her forearms on the table. “Why did she have children, then?”
“An accident?” One cheek creased. “I’ve never had the guts to ask her.”
Lynn sat there absorbing what he’d told her. Finally, she mused, “At least I had my mother. She might have been a little mysterious about my father, but, you know, I never really cared. She was always enough. Maybe that’s why being a single parent hasn’t been that hard for me.” She smiled crookedly. “You might say, that’s the pattern I know. But you…” She started to reach out to touch his hand, but stopped herself. “You’ve done an amazing job. Rose adores you.”
“We’ve done okay,” he said gruffly.
“Better than okay.”
He shifted. “Maybe you’d better save the accolades for a few months. I screw up. Sometimes I think Rose is babyish for her age, and that’s my fault.”
“Babyish?” Why did she keep having this urge to take his hand, as if he needed comfort?
“Didn’t you notice she went to bed with a diaper on? Three-and-a-half years old, and she still wets her bed.”
“Lots of kids do,” Lynn said, puzzled at his perturbation. “Maybe she’s an extra sound sleeper. She seems to do fine during the day.”
He shoved himself to his feet and grabbed their empty plates. “She has accidents.”
“So does Shelly.”
At the sink, Adam stood with his back to her. “Not when she’s with me.”
“Rose hasn’t had one with me, either.”
He stayed completely still for a moment. “I figured I was doing something wrong.”
What could she say? Lynn fumbled for the right words. “Children, um, aren’t like a product you assemble. They aren’t perfect, any more than we are.” Then she flushed. “I’m sorry. That was patronizing.”
“I deserved it.” When he turned, he was actually smiling. The fact that one corner of his mouth crooked higher than the other lent charm to a face that was usually too austere. “Anyway, funny thing. You’ve hit the nail on the head. I was expected to be perfect. I didn’t want to lay that burden on Rose, but apparently my expectations weren’t buried very far under. As you said, patterns.”
Lynn didn’t want to feel sympathy or liking or even understanding. She couldn’t afford to. Stop, she told herself. Now.
“This isn’t working,” she said abruptly. “These visits. I hate them.”
Between one blink and the next, he became a stranger again. “We agreed to take it slowly.”
“I don’t like to shop. The movies are all made for teenagers. I dread these days.” She sounded peevish instead of firm. Me, me, me. “No,” she argued with herself. “It’s not me. If the girls were happy…but they’re not. They’re too young to be bounced back and forth like this.”
“Then what do you suggest?” His voice was harsh. “Shall we just stay in touch? Send each other photos at Christmas?”
“No.”
“Goddamn it!” he shouted. “Then what?”
“I don’t know,” she yelled back, suddenly furious. “But something different!”
“Different.”
Lynn swallowed, moderated her tone. “Maybe…maybe less often. Maybe, for now, we need to put up with each other instead of pretending we can each have both of them.”
Adam swore and massaged the back of his neck. “We are pretending, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” She pressed her hand to her chest, which inexplicably burned. “That’s exactly what we’re doing. Shelly and Rose don’t understand.”
“Today, all she wanted was you.”
“Rose cries when you leave her.”
“She cries at her day care, too. Sometimes I have to pry her hands off me.”
Lynn hated that picture, but she couldn’t blame him. He was a good father; Rose loved him. He had to work.
“What shall we do?” she asked miserably.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we went at this in too big a hurry.”
She didn’t want him to agree, Lynn was shocked to realize. She didn’t want to go back to before, however serene it seemed in memory. To not see Rose as often. To not see him as often.
Now, what did that mean? she wondered, jarred. Had she come to have some kind of fellow feeling for Adam, because he was the only one who truly understood what she was going through? Was it self-defense, to bond with him?
Or—dear God—had she developed some kind of adolescent crush on the man? Was some of her Monday morning anticipation because she would see him, not just Rose? Did that explain some of the hurt and letdown, when he didn’t invite her past the doorstep?
“Even the days I have both girls aren’t that great, because Rose wants you. And because, oh, because it’s like this special event. It’s not life. I want Rose to feel at home with me,” she struggled to explain.
He watched her with understanding that delved beneath her breastbone. “Question is, do you want Shelly
to feel at home with me?”
Lynn gave a small, twisted smile. “Probably not. How do you feel about the idea of Rose happy with me?”
“Oh, I’m jealous as hell.”
“I guess we can’t help how we feel. Just what we do about it.”
“You’re not suggesting a change because you’re jealous, too?”
He was asking for honesty. Lynn tried to give it. “I don’t think so. I hope not. Tell me the truth. Do you look forward to Mondays?”
“No. Hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “The drive is getting damned old, and I don’t like wasting a day over there any better than you do here. Okay. We can do better.”
“How about fewer but longer visits? Overnight stays?”
“Rose has never even spent the night at her grandparents’.”
“Would you, um, consider staying over the first few times?”
The austerity was back as he frowned, and she quailed a little at her boldness.
“On your couch?”
“You can have my bed,” she said, too quickly. Why so eager to persuade him? she asked herself. “I’m shorter. I’ll take the couch.”
“I do have the extra bedroom here.” He was still thinking. “They have more fun when you’re around, too.”
“I know it’s awkward.”
“At first it was awkward.” He contemplated her, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “I’m not so sure it is anymore.”
“Maybe we could be friends.” Only friends?
“All right.” The lines between his dark brows cleared. “I’m game. How about if we make it the weekend after next? I’ll come Sunday and Monday. That way I can entertain the girls while your shop’s open on Sunday.”
“It’s not too long for you to take off?”
A shrug. “I can bring my laptop. Put in a little time Monday. I can be flexible.”
“Okay.” Two weeks. How would she wait two weeks to see them again? “Um…” she began apologetically. “My place is pretty tiny. I’ve put my money into the business. Maybe we can eat out,” she decided with quick relief. But, oh God, he’d still have to use her shabby bathroom, see the chips in the porcelain sink and tub, bump his head on the too-low lintel.
Whose Baby? Page 9
