For the Girls' Sake (11 page)

His formerly pristine shirt was rumpled, rolled up at the sleeves and wet. His hair stood on end and an unpleasant odor wafted from him.

"Shelly’s throwing up," he said bluntly. "I was about ready to call the doctor."

"Oh, no." Panic, well out of proportion, surged through her. Lynn whisked past him. "Where is she?"

"Lying down in Rose’s bed." Although she moved fast, he was right behind her. "She has a big bowl next to her. For what good it does."

Lynn paused in the hall a few steps from Rose’s open bedroom door. "She missed?"

He made a sound in his throat. "She’s puked on the floor, Rose’s bed and me. Rose is crying because she’s scared. I think Shelly has a fever, but she doesn’t want me taking her temperature. I couldn’t give her anything to lower her temp anyway. It would just come right back up."

The panic had begun to subside. Or, more accurately, she had recognized it for what it was: guilt. Her little girl had needed her, and she wasn’t here.

"I wondered why she was so tired this morning," Lynn said, remembering. "Her friend Laura has been sick."

"Now you tell me," Adam muttered.

She ignored him and went in to see her daughter. The girls had done some damage, she saw on the way. Puzzle pieces were jumbled on the floor and unkempt Barbies strewn as if a tornado had swept through the room. It almost looked normal for a child’s bedroom.

Rose curled, teary eyed, on the window seat. Face wan, Shelly lay in bed, looking so small and fragile and miserable that Lynn’s own eyes burned.

"Oh, sweetie!" She detoured to give Rose a quick kiss on the head and murmured, "Shelly will be okay. Don’t worry." Then she sat on the edge of the bed and laid the back of her hand on Shelly’s forehead. "You’re toaster hot. Gracious, you’ve had an awful day, haven’t you?"

Her daughter’s face crumpled. "Where were you?" she wailed. "I wanted you!"

Gathering Shelly into her arms, Lynn whispered, "I know, I know. But Adam has taken good care of you, hasn’t he?"

The three-year-old shook her head hard. "I wanna go home!"

Lynn glanced toward the doorway and saw the hurt in Adam’s eyes before he shuttered his expression.

Hugging and swaying, Lynn said softly, "I don’t know, sweet pea. The drive would be awful if you’re throwing up."

"Don’t go!" Her daughter latched convulsively onto her.

In a friendly voice that gave away nothing of what he must be feeling, Adam said, "Why don’t you two spend the night? Your mom can have a room down the hall, and you can either stay here in Rose’s bed, or share with Mom."

Lynn hated the alternatives. How could she say no and subject poor Shelly to the long, winding drive home over the Coast Range? But to stay, when she at least must be unwelcome...

Of course, she had no choice. As, she thought grimly, she so rarely did these days. Of course, it was unreasonable to blame Adam, who must be chafing as much as she was at losing control over such a hunk of his life.

As much? Who was she kidding? He was a man. Men wanted and expected to be in charge. Oh, yeah. If she resented him sometimes, he was probably angry enough to hire a hit man to rid himself of her.

"Thank you." She was just as capable as he was at putting on a good front. "I think we’d probably better stay."

She carried Shelly down the hall, helped her into a borrowed nightgown and bathed her forehead while he changed the bedding. Rose shyly came to visit Shelly while Daddy took a shower.

"Are you gonna pook again?" she asked.

Shelly nodded vigorously and shot to a half-sitting position. "Mama?" she begged in a strangled voice.

Lynn positioned the bowl in the nick of time. Rose watched wide-eyed. She hoped this flu bug wouldn’t be a two-week affair instead of a twenty-four-hour quickie! Especially if—or should she say, when—Rose caught it.

Lynn was helping Shelly rinse out her mouth when Adam appeared in the doorway. In faded sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair wet and finger-combed, he was breathtakingly handsome and a world more human than he usually seemed to Lynn.

"Do you want me to call the doctor?" he asked.

Lynn shook her head. "Not unless she keeps heaving once she’s emptied her stomach. I take it they had lunch before she got sick?" Unfortunately, she could have itemized the menu.

"Yeah." His expression was sheepish. "They had macaroni and cheese, and hot dogs. Ice-cream bars. Oh, yeah. And Kool-Aid. Lots of lime Kool-Aid."

"I noticed," she said dryly.

Poor Shelly’s face was flushed, but her eyes had become heavy. Lynn clicked on a bedside lamp at its lowest setting and motioned to him to switch off the overhead light. When she glanced back, he and Rose were gone.

She sang softly, smoothing Shelly’s hair back from her hot forehead, until her daughter slept. Even then she sat there, just touched by lamplight in the dim room, thinking in despair,
How can we keep doing this?
What if she told him it just wasn’t working?

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, 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."

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.

Am I as bad as Brian? Is passing on my genes so important to me?
she wondered.

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, relieved 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 no, 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 much 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, 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 hard time imagining how I was conceived."