a reputation as a problem child, and it was no wonder considering what she’d been through, poor thing. Connie felt deep compassion for the troubled toddler and her father. Marcus told her that Mrs. Oakes had died suddenly months earlier and that the child, Larissa, had suffered great trauma as a result.
Connie knew Mr. Oakes only in passing, but she’d had dealings with Larissa that past Sunday when she’d stopped by the church’s day care to check on Russell and found herself calming the shrieking child. The day care attendants—most of them older ladies—were beside themselves when she happened along, and their relief was painfully obvious when Larissa unexpectedly launched herself at Connie and held on for dear life. It took several minutes for the sobbing child to exhaust herself, but she was sleeping peacefully against Connie’s shoulder when her father arrived to gently lift her away.
Recognizing a deep sadness in him, Connie supposed that, like his daughter, he must still grieve his late wife dearly. He had whispered his thanks, and in truth Connie hadn’t minded in the least, but she’d come away from the experience more grateful than ever for her son’s placid—if somewhat determined—nature. It was a trait, or so Marcus insisted, inherited from Connie. It certainly hadn’t come from his biological father.
She pushed thoughts of Jessup Kennard to the farthest recesses of her mind as she walked along a hallway toward the toddler area. No good ever came of dwelling on anything to do with Jessup. She prayed for the man regularly, but she couldn’t help but feel relieved that he would very likely spend every day of the rest of his life locked behind bars. And yet, she’d have done much to spare her son the shame of carrying the name of such a father.
Wails of protest had turned to angry screeches by the time Connie turned the corner and came on the scene. Kendal Oakes was doing his best to subdue his child above the closed half door of the room, but while he attempted to capture her flailing arms and twisting little body, Larissa was alternately bucking and clutching at her teacher, Miss Susan.
For some reason, all of the day care workers went by the title of “Miss.” Only twenty and still a college student, the young woman looked as if she was near to tears herself, while Miss Dabney, the day care director, hovered anxiously at her shoulder.
Tall and whipcord-lean, Kendal Oakes looked not only agonized but also out of place in his pin-striped suit and red silk tie tossed back haphazardly over one shoulder. One thick lock of his rich nut-brown hair had fallen forward to curl against his brow, and the shadow of his beard darkened his long jawline and flat cheeks. He was speaking to his daughter in a somewhat-exasperated voice.
“Larissa, please listen. Listen a minute. Daddy is taking you to play with Dr. Stenhope. You like Dr. Stenhope. Larissa, Dr. Stenhope is waiting for us. Come on now.”
“Is she ill?” Connie wondered aloud, and for one heartbeat, everything froze.
All heads turned in her direction and Larissa stopped screaming long enough to see that someone new had arrived. The next instant, the child propelled herself out of her caregiver’s arms and straight into Connie’s, clapping her hands around Connie’s neck and grasping handfuls of Connie’s hair and coat.
Grappling with the sudden weight of a flying body, slight as it was, Connie staggered slightly. Larissa lay her head on Connie’s shoulder and sobbed inconsolably. The sound of it tore at Connie’s heart, and by the look in his cinnamon-brown eyes, it ripped Kendal Oakes to shreds.
For a moment, Connie saw such despair in those eyes that she mentally recoiled. She knew despair too well to wish further acquaintance with it.
The next instant, compassion rushed in. The poor man.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, but she shook her head and instinctively stepped back as he reached for his daughter.
Connie noticed that he had quite large hands, with wide palms and long, tapered fingers.
“It’s all right,” she told him softly, hefting the child more securely against her.
Larissa felt warm, her tiny chest heaving, but whether it was with exertion or fever, Connie couldn’t tell.
“Has anyone been able to take her temperature?”
Kendal shook his head grimly. “It’s not a physical ailment. Dr. Stenhope is a pediatric psychiatrist.”
Poor baby, Connie thought, rocking from side to side in a gentle swinging motion. Connie knew that the child had to be under two; otherwise, she would have been in a different class than Russell. So young and already under the care of a psychiatrist. It was heartbreaking.
Larissa’s weeping subsided to huffs and gasps. Connie reached up and instinctively patted the child’s back. Kendal stared at her hand as if he was studying just how she did it. He betrayed a patent desire to learn how to handle his daughter, and once more Connie’s heart went out to him.
After a moment, he glanced reluctantly at the thin gold watch encircling his wrist and grimaced.
“We really have to go.”
Cautiously, almost apologetically, he reached for his daughter, but as those big hands settled at her heaving sides, Larissa shrieked and arched her back, clutching on tighter to Connie. The one clearly in pain, though, was Kendal. Leaning closer, he pitched his voice low and spoke to the bucking child.
“Larissa, we have to go. Dr. Stenhope is waiting for us. Don’t you want to see Dr. Stenhope?”
What Larissa wanted was to hang around Connie’s neck like a necklace, and she fought for several moments, shrugging and twisting and clutching. Her father patted and cajoled and stroked, but Larissa screamed and flailed in sheer anger. Finally Kendal grasped her firmly by the sides and pulled her away from Connie.
“I am so sorry. She misses her mother still. She…” He gave up trying to speak over Larissa’s shrieks, turned her chest to his and gulped. “I’m sorry,” he said again before striding down the hallway, Larissa’s head clasped to his shoulder to keep her from hurting herself as she bucked.
“You don’t suppose…” Miss Susan murmured, breaking off before completing the thought.
Connie glanced at her, sensing what she was thinking, what they were both thinking, Miss Susan and Miss Dabney.
“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t believe he would harm that child.”
It seemed a logical conclusion, Connie had to admit, but she’d seen child abusers up close and personal during her many years as a foster child. She’d seen the children come in, battered in body and spirit, and watched as the state tried to retrain the parent and reunite the family. If the abuse had been mild enough in nature and the parent willing to work at it, the outcome had sometimes been good. Too often, it had not. More than once, a child of her acquaintance had died after reunification.
Everything she knew told her that the worst that could be said about Kendal Oakes was that he might not be a very skilled parent, but he was obviously trying to get help. It occurred to her that she might have handled this situation better herself.
“Miss Susan, would you get Russell ready to leave, please? I won’t be a moment,” she said crisply, turning to follow Kendal down the hall.
He was moving quickly and she had to run to catch up, but she was with him when they reached his car. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys. Larissa wailed, but she no longer struggled. When he had
