Charlie knew.
If someday he wanted to know about Alex, she’d tell him. If someday in the distant future, Alex learned he had a child, perhaps they would meet. But not now. Now Charlie was a child. He was vulnerable. He didn’t need a father who didn’t want him.
“You don’t know what he’ll do, Daze,” Cal said heavily, “if he finds out.”
“He won’t find out.” She would make sure of that.
Cal’s smile was grim. “We hope.”
A DAY went by. Two.
Daisy still kept looking over her shoulder—well, out the window, actually—feeling skittish. Apprehensive.
She checked the caller ID every time the phone rang. Her breath caught whenever she saw a shadow on the front steps.
She actually dropped the kettle she was filling this morning, even though it was just the FedEx man bringing an order to Mrs. Kaminski upstairs.
Now she was filling it again for her friend Nell, who had just brought Charlie home from preschool and was staying for a cup of tea and regarding her curiously all the while.
“Something wrong?”
“No. I just … dropped the kettle this morning. I’m trying to be more careful now.” Daisy set it on the burner and turned the gas on.
“Cal giving you trouble?” It was always the first thing Nell thought of because her own ex-husband, Scott, was a continual source of irritation.
“Cal never gives me trouble,” Daisy said. She glanced out the sliding door to the garden where Charlie and Nell’s son Geoff were playing with trucks.
Nell grimaced. “Lucky you. Scott’s driving me crazy.”
Daisy wasn’t glad to hear that Scott was creating difficulties in her friend’s life, but talking about it did avert Nell’s further interest in Daisy’s edginess. She gave Daisy an earful about her ex while they drank their tea and ate biscotti. Daisy made soothing sounds, but Nell was still grumbling when she decided it was time to go. She called Geoff in and they headed out the front door.
Relieved that her life was nowhere near as complicated as her friend’s, Daisy was feeling much more sanguine when the phone rang as the door shut behind Nell and her son.
“Daisy Connolly,” she said brightly into the phone.
“Daisy.” The voice was warm, slightly gruff and instantly recognizable. The intimate tone of it made the hairs on the back of Daisy’s neck stand straight up. Why hadn’t she checked the ID this time?
“Yes. This is Daisy,” she said crisply. “Who is this?”
“You know who it is.” There was a smile in his voice as he called her bluff.
“Alex,” she said flatly because playing the fool any longer wasn’t going to help matters a bit.
“See. I knew you’d figure it out.” He was grinning now. She could hear that, too.
“What do you want?”
“Are you married?”
“What?”
“I remembered you weren’t Daisy Connolly back then. Wasn’t your last name Harris? Morris?”
“Harris.”
There was a brief silence. “So you did marry.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“And now?”
“What do you mean, and now?” Why did he have to ask? What business was it of his?
“Are you still … married?”
What kind of question was that? Damn it. She wanted to lie. But she’d never been a good liar, and though her acquaintance with Alex hadn’t been long, it had been intense. She was sure he would be able to tell if she did.
“I’m divorced.” She bit the words out.
“Ah.”
Which meant what? Never mind. She didn’t want to know. “Alex,” she said with all the patience she could muster. “I’m working.”
“This is work.”
“No. I told you, I’m not matchmaking for you.”
“I got that. You don’t want what I want.” He parroted her sentiments back to her. “This is photography. Or are you going to turn me down for that, too?”
She opened her mouth, wanting desperately to do exactly that. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her. “What sort of photography?” she said. “I do family stuff.”
“And weddings. And bar mitzvahs. And some professional head shots. Some editorial. Recreation. Ice skating,” he added. “Frisbee in the park. Baseball games.” He ticked off half a dozen scenarios that were all shoots she had actually done.
“How do you know that?”
“You have a website,” he reminded her. “The internet is a wonderful thing.”
Daisy, grinding her teeth, wasn’t so sure. Her fingers tapped an irritated staccato on the countertop. Outside Charlie was making vrooming noises as he pushed his cars around the patio. Any minute he’d slide open the door and want a snack. To prevent it, she latched the sliding door and got some crackers out of the cupboard and cheese from the refrigerator, preempting his demand. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“I need photos. An architectural journal is doing a piece on me and some of the work I’ve done. They’ve got photos of my projects from all over the world. Now they want some of me on one of the sites.” He paused. “They said they could send a photographer—”
“Then let them.”
“But I’d rather have you.”
She wanted to say, Why? But she didn’t want to hear his answer. Besides, asking would open a whole new can of worms.
“Not my line,” she said briskly as she slapped cheese between the crackers and made little sandwiches for Charlie.
“You do editorial. I’ve seen magazine articles.”
“Yes. But I don’t traipse all over the world. I work in the city.”
“The building is in Brooklyn.” He gave her a second to digest that, then added, “I seem to remember you cross the river.”
They had crossed the river together coming
