was patient? Or what if they loved her, these parents, but they were raising her the only way they knew how, by spanking her when she got cranky or broke something, by screaming at her with the anger of their own childhoods in their voices?
“If only…” Lynn breathed soundlessly. If only she could know. See that this other little girl was loved and cared for, read to and hugged, that her artwork was on the refrigerator for all to admire.
If she knew, the dreams would go away.
But how could she ever find out, without contacting the hospital and telling them? Without taking the chance of losing Shelly?
That was the torment. Risk the little girl who was the center of her life, who meant everything to her, for the sake of one who couldn’t possibly remember her voice. Who would have forgotten her songs and the stories she’d promised to finish someday, when they could giggle together.
She crept down the hall like a ghost to her daughter’s room, hovering in the doorway because the bed nearly filled the space, which in a house of this era had probably been meant as a sewing room or a nursery. Sunny yellow and black cats frolicked among sunflowers on the wallpaper that climbed the slanted ceiling. Yellow curtains covered the tall sash window. Under a pale lemon-yellow and white comforter, Shelly slept peacefully. Lynn could just make out her face in the glow from the hall, and thought, Ruth is right. She looks like a Celt from old stories, a fairy child, with that small, pointy chin, that high curving forehead and glossy brown hair as straight as promises that were kept.
Risk her, for the dream child?
Lynn closed her eyes on a soft, agonized exhalation. How could she?
How could she not?
CHAPTER TWO
LATE AGAIN.
Adam Landry swore at the driver of the car in front of him, which hesitated just too long and missed the one and only opening to make a left turn before the light became red.
Damn, he thought bitterly. They’d both be sitting through another full light. And he was already—he snatched an edgy look at the clock on his dash—ten minutes past the closing of his daughter’s preschool.
This was getting to be routine, and if he wasn’t careful they’d ask him to make other arrangements for Rose. But the Cottage Path Preschool and Day Care was the best.
Oh, hell, why lie to himself? He didn’t know if it was best. He didn’t know a thing about it, except that Jennifer had chosen it, an eternity ago when she was pregnant and joyful, not planning to go back to work but figuring she’d need a place for drop-in sometimes.
Over dinner, she’d told him about it, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “It’s the Cottage Path Preschool. Isn’t that perfect? Can you believe it? Our Rose will trip up the path to the cottage. Oh!” She shivered in delight, and he’d momentarily seen the vision that had become the center of her life: a little girl with the same mahogany brown hair as her mommy, her legs skinny, dimples flashing and her giggle a trill like a flute solo that reached for heaven and found it.
Their child.
And him? What had he said? A gruff, “You’re not letting the name of the place suck you in, are you?”
She’d only laughed at him, her joy undimmed. “Don’t be silly. It’s a wonderful preschool! The director’s written a book about early childhood development. They have animals—chickens and goats and this big lazy dog that lets kids climb all over him and only grunts. And puzzles and books and blocks and puppets! It’s wonderland.”
Pain stabbed now and Adam rubbed his chest. He’d never considered any place else for Rose. He was trying to raise their daughter as Jennifer would have wanted to, which meant he scraped his memory for nuggets his wife might have dropped, perhaps in bed when he scanned the financial news a last time while she chattered on in her light voice as if oblivious to his lack of attention.
Adam took another savage look at the clock and swore. Was he screwing up one more thing Jennifer had wanted for Rose?
But maybe it wasn’t the best choice now. Maybe he should go for a nanny.
He tensed when the light turned green and willed the driver of the Buick to make a dash before cross-traffic began. But, hell, no. The car didn’t even inch forward. The heel of Adam’s hand was on the horn when he clenched his teeth and made himself wrap his fingers around the wheel again. Shit. If he hadn’t stayed for that last goddamn phone call, he wouldn’t be in such a hurry he wanted other drivers to take their lives in their hands just to get out of his way. Why hadn’t he walked out, ignored the ringing?
He couldn’t do everything.
He had to try. He owed it to Rose. And to Jennifer.
An interminable five more minutes had passed before he barreled into the parking lot, yanked on the emergency brake and killed the engine, slamming his door before he strode in.
The director of the preschool, a woman of his own age named Melissa Gearhart, waited in the entry, eyes cool.
“Mr. Landry. Rose has been worried.”
His intense anxiety made itself felt in a long huff of breath. “God, I’m sorry. I’ve done it again.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to start charging you when staff has to stay late, like today.”
“I understand.” He swallowed. “Where’s Rose?”
The dark-haired woman with tired smudges beneath her eyes turned. “Under the climber.”
He stepped past her into the main activity room, where the floor was covered with bright mats to pad falls from the slide and wooden peg climber. He had to circle a playhouse before he saw his daughter, lying on the mat with her thumb in her mouth.
Wearing clothes he’d never seen before. Ill fitting and mismatched.
“She had an accident again,” Melissa said softly behind him. “No big deal. I’ve got her clothes in a plastic bag for you. Just bring those back when you’ve washed them.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, acknowledging more failure. Or maybe not—he hadn’t had the guts to ask the mothers who picked up their three-year-olds whether they had potty accidents still, too. Or the occasional father, none exclusive parents the way he was. Adam didn’t even like to ask Melissa, because he didn’t want to know something was wrong, that he’d already warped his beloved child.
If only he knew what the hell he was doing.
If only Jennifer were alive to help him do it.
“Hey, Rose Red,” he said softly, crouching. “Ready to bloom?”
“Daddy!” She erupted to her feet and into his arms, her sky-blue eyes flooding with tears. “You’re late, and I’m hungry, and I had a accident, an’…”
He stemmed the flow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Here you were, all by yourself.”
“Except for Lissa,” Rose mumbled against his shoulder. She snuffled. “Lissa didn’t leave me.”
He
