My Babies and Me (13 page)

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Authors: Tara Taylor Quinn

BOOK: My Babies and Me
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As Michael sat there, listening to Melanie against his will, a strange thing began to happen. He felt less constricted suddenly, less suffocated. And he felt a sense of...renewed strength. Or purpose, maybe. Or will.
In the long run, it changed nothing. He still didn't have any answers.
But he welcomed the relief just the same.
CHAPTER TWELVE
T
HERE WERE VERY FEW things in life Susan could control at the moment, which meant she had to put all her energy into controlling what she could. Michael had been living with her for almost a week. Sort of. He'd been sleeping at the condo, even in her bed, but she saw very little of him.
And he hadn't made love to her since he'd returned from Chicago.
Her body wasn't her own; rather, it belonged to two other people she hadn't even met. She had no say over what she did, what she ate, even how much she slept. But there was one thing she
could
do something about. One thing she had to do something about. Ronnie McArthur.
On Friday, a week after her day at the races, she met his plane at the airport, helping his mother wheel the boy out to her car and get him settled in the back seat. Dressed in clean jeans, a short-sleeved knit shirt and tennis shoes, he looked like any other American kid, except for the wheelchair. And the limp left arm.
“Thanks so much for coming,” she told them both as she slid behind the wheel of her Infiniti. She hoped to God she wasn't making another major mistake,
“Of course we'd come,” Mrs. McArthur said. “We'll do anything that might give Ronnie some
hope.” The woman was tastefully, though inexpensively, dressed in a pair of dark dress slacks and white silk blouse. Her dark hair, cropped short, looked freshly cut.
The boy hadn't said a word since he'd been wheeled off the plane. Susan shot a quick glance at him in her rearview mirror, wondering how to make him smile, and found that he'd fallen asleep.
“He's been excited about the trip since you called on Tuesday,” his mother said. “He's exhausted.”
Once she was safely on the freeway, Susan turned her thoughts to the ordeal that lay ahead. “I have to warn you again,” she told the younger woman. “Tricia Halliday doesn't know you're here and I have no idea how she's going to react.”
Susan had spent two sleepless nights worrying about Ronnie McArthur, afraid she might be doing more damage than good by exposing him to the possible heartless rejection of her boss.
“Ronnie knows she's the bad guy,” his mother assured Susan. “And he's John Wayne, riding into town to fight the bad guys.”
“An eight-year-old kid's heard of John Wayne?”
Smiling for the first time Susan had ever seen, the other woman said, “His father's a John Wayne addict. We have videos of every movie that man ever made.”
Susan's worries returned. “John Wayne always wins.”
“Only at the end,” Mrs. McArthur said softly. “And Ronnie will, too. This may not be the end. He knows that.”
“You and your husband sound like pretty remarkable people.”
“We just love our son.”
“Do you have any other children?” It wasn't a question Susan had allowed herself to investigate earlier. She couldn't get that close.
The other woman shook her head. “We tried, but we only got lucky once.” She glanced down at Susan's stomach, the pregnancy fully visible in the new blue maternity suit Susan was wearing. “When are you due?”
“October, but the doctor thinks I'll probably be early.”
Frowning, Mrs. McArthur asked, “You're having problems?”
It might just have been politeness, but Susan had a feeling the other woman was sincere in her concern. Even in the midst of her own heartache, she was capable of having compassion for someone else.
“No problem.” Susan smiled a little, still feeling a secret thrill when she thought of her babies. “I'm having twins.”
“Congratulations!” There was no doubting that Mrs. McArthur's delight was genuine.
“I want you to know,” Susan said, biting her lip as she signaled their exit. “If this doesn't turn out well today, I'm not giving up. Not until Ronnie wins.”
“Why are you doing this?” Ellen McArthur asked, tears in her eyes.
“Because it's right.”
“But you fought against us in court.”
And she hadn't slept peacefully since. “That was
right, too.” she said, slowing as she hit the exit ramp. “I was under obligation to Tricia Halliday then. But that part's over now, so I'm free to try something else.”
“I've never thanked you properly for your help with money for Ronnie's surgery. Or for the lawyer.”
“You may not be thanking me shortly,” Susan felt compelled to warn again as she pulled into Halliday Headgear, her stomach in knots. After what she'd done to Michael, she'd lost a lot of confidence in her own instincts.
And this was a shot in the dark.
Susan pulled into her reserved parking spot. “I'm curious,” Mrs. McArthur said before she turned around to wake her son. “Why do you think a meeting with Mrs. Halliday is going to make any difference?”
“Just a hunch,” Susan said. She was going on so little; she should be hanged for putting the McArthurs through this. But Michael had told her to keep looking. She had—and the only thing she'd found was Tricia's aversion to dealing with this entire episode.
Tricia had insisted that she didn't want to know anything about the boy, about his situation. She hadn't gone to court. Hadn't even wanted to discuss the case. Which could all have been put down to the woman's coldheartedness. Except that every other incident Susan had taken to Tricia had been met with professional interest. Tricia always wanted details. And follow-up.
And Susan had discovered on Monday that the woman was on the board of the local chapter of the Children's Heart Association. Not the act of a selfish
woman. Nor a woman who was indifferent to sick children.
Her stomach churning, Susan took one deep calming breath before she ushered her guests into Ed's old office a few minutes later. She just kept telling herself that Ed Halliday had loved his wife for a reason.
“Mrs. Halliday, I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Oh!” Tricia started to stand, and then, as she saw her guests, fell back into the chair behind her desk.
“Cool room!” The childish voice tumbled into the sudden silence. They were the first words Susan had heard Ronnie say.
“Ronnie!” his mother whispered, leaning over the child's wheelchair.
“It's okay,” Susan said, aware of Tricia's striken look, her stunned silence, but more aware of the little boy who desperately needed a chance to live. She knelt down by Ronnie's chair, smiling at the cute little dark-haired boy.
Having heard the child's voice, Annie got up from beneath Tricia's desk and lumbered over.
“A dog!” Ronnie cried, leaning over the side of his chair to pet the old setter.
“Her name's Annie,” Susan said, giving the dog a reassuring pat.
“His, Annie,” Ronnie said, still petting the dog. Annie returned the greeting by licking Ronnie's arm, then sauntered out of the room.
Probably on her way to the stairwell that was always kept open for her.
Ronnie watched her leave, his eyes lingering. “Where's she going?”
“Who knows?” Susan shrugged, smiling. “The cafeteria maybe, or down to the first floor where her doggie door is—it leads to the courtyard. Or maybe she'll go to my office.”
“Why would she go there?”
“She likes the carpet.”
Ronnie nodded politely, but his attention was straying to the basketball court beside them.
“You ever shoot hoops, Ronnie?” she asked him.
“Used to.” His eyes dropped to his lap.
“Well, here.” Susan retrieved a basketball from a rack on the wall and handed it to the boy. “It's okay if you miss. I do all the time.” She wheeled his chair beneath the basket.
The boy looked from Susan to the hoop and back again. He was ignoring Tricia.
“Go ahead,” Susan urged. Another couple of minutes passed in tense silence.
And then, without. warning, the boy launched the ball with his one good arm. And actually hit the rim.
“Here, try again,” Susan said, placing the ball back in the kid's lap. Ronnie did. And again. And again. He just kept trying, rising out of his chair as much as his limp left leg would let him in his attempts to sink a shot.
And then he succeeded. “Two points!” he hollered, looking back at his mother with a grin.
Ellen McArthur's eyes were brimming with tears.
Tricia Halliday didn't say a word, barely moved, as she watched the boy.
“Cool! What's that?” Ronnie asked, trying to turn his chair to the right. It moved easily enough on the
ceramic tile floor, but he still had trouble maneuvering with only one arm.
“It's like an arcade game,” Susan replied, wheeling Ronnie over to the big machine.
“It's soccer,” Ronnie said, grinning over at his mother.
“That's right, it is,” Susan continued, forging on ahead because she simply didn't know what else to do. Tricia still hadn't moved. “You kick the ball into the net like this, see,” she said, slipping out of her pumps to demonstrate. “See how it's attached to this rope?”
Ronnie gave a thoughtful nod. “That way the machine can send it right back to you.”
“We make headgear for soccer goalies.” Tricia's voice fell into the room, freezing all the occupants in midmove.
Straightening slowly, her attention focused completely on her employer, Susan slipped back into her shoes. “They weren't on the production line that day,” she said softly.
Still staring at the boy, Tricia flinched. And Susan knew the older woman had understood.
“Come on, Ronnie.” With a quick glance from Tricia to Susan, Mrs. McArthur moved to her son's chair, wheeling him toward the door. Susan let them go.
Holding herself regally until they were gone, Tricia faltered the second the door closed behind them. She tried to speak, her eyes bright with anger. But she closed her mouth without saying a word.
She tried a second time, Susan standing mute in front of the soccer game where Ronnie had left her.
And then, slumping back in her chair, Tricia buried her face in her hands.
The sounds of Tricia Halliday's weeping seemed amplified in the silent room, touching Susan in spite of her disdain. She approached the older woman, placing a gentle hand on Tricia's back.
“Tricia?” she asked softly. She wished she felt closer to the woman, wished Ed were there, guiding her.
“I never wanted to do this,” the woman cried, her words muffled by her hands.
“Do what?”
Tricia looked up at Susan, her usually immaculate makeup streaked with tears. “Run this company,” she said. “I'm a mother, not a businesswoman.”
Leaning on the desk beside Tricia, Susan said, “Overall, you've done an impressive job, Tricia. You
are
a businesswoman.”
“But I don't want to be.” The words were whispered, full of shame, of regret. “I enjoy my volunteer work, I like organizing benefits, but what's most important to me, what makes me the happiest, is taking care of my family.”
“And Halliday's is getting in the way of that?” Susan asked. She supposed she could see it, considering that Tricia had three teenagers at home.
Tricia shook her head. “No, it's because of them that I'm even here.”
“I don't understand.”
“Would you mind terribly if I asked you to sit down?” Tricia's question held not even a hint of the hard woman who'd been her boss these past months. “You're a bit intimidating as it is,” she continued,
“and it makes me uncomfortable to have you standing over me.”
Rounding the desk, Susan sat.
Tricia pulled out a tissue and a compact, drying her tears, repairing some of the damage to her face.
“My oldest son has his heart set on running Halliday Headgear some day.” Tricia eventually spoke again, having put her makeup away. She'd regained her composure, but not her coolness. “He's got to finish his last year of high school and then get through college before he can do that.”
Susan turned cold. “Are there...money problems?” she asked. She'd had absolutely no indication that Halliday's was in trouble.
“No.” Tricia shook her head firmly. “Nothing like that.” She gave Susan a sharp look, as if determining how much of her personal business to impart. “Ed has a brother, an older brother, who's never amounted to much. Gambles away every dime he's ever had.” She fiddled with the edge of a paper on her desk as she spoke. “But back when they were younger, right at the time Ed was trying to come up with the money to finance this factory, his brother hit a lucky streak playing the stocks. He offered to give Ed the money he needed.”

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