And…and I don’t.” She tried for a smile and failed. “I wasn’t going to tell anybody. Only, then I started worrying about the other little girl. The one who was really my daughter.”
The dreams wouldn’t impress him, not this man. He reminded her too much of the lawyers. His gray suit cost more than she spent on food and mortgage in a month or more. His dark hair was clipped short, but by a stylist, not a barber. She could easily picture his big, capable hands gripping the leather-covered wheel of an expensive sedan, or resting on the keyboard of a laptop computer. Not changing diapers, or sifting through the sand for a seashell, or brushing away tears.
Who was raising Jenny Rose Landry? A grandmother? A nanny? Anxiety crimped her chest.
Softly she finished, “I wanted to be sure she was all right. Loved.”
“And that’s it. That’s all you want.” His tone said he didn’t believe her for a second.
Lynn didn’t blame him for his skepticism. Already, if she was being honest, she’d have to admit that she wouldn’t be satisfied with that modest goal.
“I don’t know.” She held his gaze, although she quaked inside. “I’m not sure anymore. I suppose I’d like to meet her. And…perhaps get acquainted. Now that I know she doesn’t have a mother.”
“What makes you so sure she needs one?” Landry stood abruptly and shoved his chair back. Looming over her, hands planted on the table, he said tautly, “Is it so impossible to believe I’m an adequate parent?”
Her breath caught. She’d obviously struck a raw nerve. “No. Of course not. I’m a single parent myself, and I think I’m doing a fine job.” Naturally she would say that; did she really expect him to believe her? More uncertainly, she continued, “It’s just that…” For all her rehearsing, she didn’t know how to express these inchoate emotions, these wants, these needs, these fears. “She’s my daughter,” Lynn finished simply.
A muscle jerked in his cheek. “You suddenly want to be a mother to my daughter.”
“Aren’t you curious, too?” How timid she sounded! No, perhaps hopeful was the word. Could it be that he didn’t want Shelly, wouldn’t try to reclaim his birth daughter? That she’d never had to worry at all?
He swung away in a jerky motion and took two steps to the window. Gazing out at—what? the parking lot?—he killed her hopes in a flat, unrevealing voice. “Yes. I’m curious. Why do you think I’m here?”
Lynn whispered, “Is that all? You’re just…curious?”
He faced her, anger blazing in his eyes. “My wife died and never held her baby. Now I find out that neither have I. Does ‘curious’ cover my reaction? Probably not. But we have to start somewhere.”
He sounded reasonable and yet scared her to death. She’d hoped for a completely different kind of man. Perhaps a car mechanic, struggling to make ends meet, grease under his fingernails and kindness in his eyes. Or a small-business owner. Someone like her. Ordinary. Not a formidable, wealthy man used to having his way and able to pay to get it. Someone she could never beat, if it came to a fight.
Make sure it doesn’t, she told herself, trying to quiet the renewed panic. You can work something out. Go slowly. He may not be that interested in parenting even one girl, much less two.
“I brought pictures,” she said tentatively. “Of Shelly.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck. Lynn could tell he was trying, too, when he said gruffly, “I brought some of Rose, too.”
They stared at each other, neither moving. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, she thought, semihysterically. How absurd. Make the first move.
Lynn bent down and took the envelope from her purse, which sat on the floor by her feet. Slowly she opened it, her fingers stiff and reluctant. She felt as if she were sharing something incredibly private, pulling back a curtain on the small, sunny space that was her life.
He came back to the table and sat down. As she removed the pile of photos from the envelope, he pulled a matching one from the pocket of his suit jacket. When she pushed the photographs across the span of oak, he did the same with his.
Lynn reached for them, hesitated.
“She looks like you,” he said, startling her.
“What?”
“Her hair.” His gaze felt like a touch. “Her nose, and her freckles, and her chin. But her eyes are blue.”
“Brian’s…Brian’s are blue.”
Her hands were even more awkward now. Did she want to see the child’s face? There might be no going back.
She turned the small pile of four-by-five photographs, peripherally aware that he was doing the same. And then the fist drove into her belly, bringing a small gasp from her, and Adam Landry vanished from her awareness.
She saw only the little girl, grinning at the camera. At her. My daughter, Lynn thought in astonishment.
He was right: Jenny Rose could have been Lynn at that age, except for the pure crystal blue of her eyes. The little girl’s face was round, solemn in the other pictures Lynn thumbed through. She was still plump, not skinny and ever in motion like Shelly. The freckles—Lynn touched them, almost startled by the slick feel of photographic paper instead of the crinkling, warm nose she saw. How like hers! Rose’s mouth was sweet, pursed as if she wanted to consider deeply before she rendered a judgment.
There she was in another photo, on Santa’s lap, not crying, but not entirely happy, either. And younger yet, a swimsuit over her diaper, the photograph taken as she stood knee-deep in a small backyard pool filled by a hose. Why wasn’t she smiling more often? Was she truly happy?
Lynn looked through the pictures over and over again, beginning to resent the meager number, hungering for more. What was she really like, this little girl who had once been part of her? What made her sad? What did she think was funny? Did she suck her thumb? Have nightmares? Wish she had a mommy?
At last, at last, she looked up, aware that tears were raining down her cheeks, that Adam Landry had made a sound. Like a blind man, he was touching one of the photographs she’d given him. His fingers shook as he traced, so delicately, her daughter’s face.
She saw him swallow, saw the emotions akin to hers ravage his features.
“Jenny,” he whispered.
“Does she look like your wife?”
His hand curled into a fist. “It’s…uncanny.”
For the first time, Lynn understood. “This must be almost worse for you, with your wife dead.”
He looked up, but his eyes didn’t focus; he might have been blind, or seeing something else. “Our daughter was all I had left.”
She couldn’t draw a breath, only sat paralyzed. He saw the wife he’d loved and lost in Shelly’s face. He would want her. She could even sympathize with how he must feel. She had to meet Jenny Rose, answer the questions the photographs didn’t, hold her, hug her, hear her voice, her laugh, feel her warm breath.
