gave up on restraining Emma one second longer. The girl sprinted toward the nearest ladder and started to climb. Monica’s shoes sank into the recycled rubber mulch. She ducked under the plastic tunnel as Emma launched herself into the tube. They both froze in place when they spotted the pristine Princess Clarissa doll clutched in little Sophie’s hands. A second later, Emma popped out of the tube onto a platform, waved the doll over her head and shouted, “She’s not hers!”
Emma’s mouth dipped at the corners as she squinted down from between the rails. Her baby blue eyes were wide but dry. Her lower lip trembled as she clutched the gnarly doll to her chest and hugged the nasty thing protectively. Recognizing the first signs of panic, Monica shifted into crisis management mode.
“Okay, okay. Come on down and we’ll ask around,” she coaxed, lifting her arms as if she expected her niece to catapult right into them.
Thankfully, Emma had sense for the both of them. She nodded once, and made her way to the wide, flat slide kids were hurtling down two and three at a time. Monica collected her at the bottom. Holding her hand tightly, they began to weave their way through the maze of activities, stopping to ask every little girl who crossed their path if the doll belonged to her.
As frustrating as receiving no after no was, the search went a long way to eroding Monica’s cynical outlook on life. All of the girls they questioned were scrupulously honest, even the ones who eyed the grubby doll covetously. Monica promised herself she would purchase a dozen Princess Clarissa dolls and donate them to whatever charity gave out toys to kids in need. They scored another no as they rounded the corner near the swings, and Monica mentally upped the ante to two dozen dolls. She could afford the expenditure.
Hope wore thin as they approached monkey bars anchoring the far end of the equipment. Taking a deep breath while she eyed the kids hanging from the maze of tubular steel, Monica turned and squatted in front of Emma. All the noise of the morning faded away as she stared into the crystalline blue eyes so like her own. Keeping her voice steady and logical, she held her niece’s earnest gaze.
“How about we leave the doll on one of the picnic tables and maybe whoever she belongs to will come looking for her later?”
“But we have to make sure they get her back,” Emma insisted.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but I think we’ve asked everyone,” she said, calling off the search gently but firmly.
“We didn’t ask the boys.”
Monica blinked but somehow managed to hold off a snort when she looked down at the doll’s sequin-strewn gown. Smiling, she tightened the more bedraggled pigtail and ran a soothing hand over the girl’s soft cheek. “You’re a sweet kid.”
“We can ask them,” Emma insisted, nodding to the red-haired twins Saturdaddy Number Two turned loose on the world.
Monica eyed the boys skeptically. They looked to be all boy, through and through. “Most boys don’t play with dolls, honey.”
“Some do,” a deep voice interrupted.
Gripping Emma’s arms to steady herself, Monica whipped her head around. She knew instinctively who was speaking. Saturdaddy Number One. Mr. Spotted in the Wild. He stared straight at her, his chin lifted high and his eyes narrowed to slits. Pride and defiance etched lines into his forehead. Cripes, he was even more gorgeous up close. A rugged-looking male model born to pose propped against a faux rock climbing wall.
He held a boy dressed in baggy jeans and a shirt declaring him a one-man wrecking crew on his hip. The little fellow peeked at them from the crook of his father’s neck. The shock of wavy black hair matched, but the resemblance ended there. Whereas her hunk had green eyes the color of an old Coke bottle, the little boy’s were nearly black and glassy with misery. At least some of those tears managed to overflow the fringe of lashes to streak down cheeks as brown as burnt caramel. Slowly, as if she were the predator she’d thought him to be a short time ago, he lowered the loose-limbed boy to the spongy ground.
“Go thank the little girl for finding P.C.,” he said gruffly.
“P.C.?” Monica blurted.
When he raised a challenging eyebrow, she laughed and shook her head. She watched as Emma handed over her prize as though the grungy doll were the Holy Grail.
“Not very P.C. if you can’t even call the doll by her proper name.”
“Not very P.C. for you to ask only the girls if the doll was theirs,” he countered.
“Touché.” Monica inclined her head in acknowledgment of the hit, but she wasn’t about to let opportunity slip away. “Hi, I’m Monica Rayburn,” she said, extending her hand.
He clasped her hand. “Colm Cleary.” He nodded to the boy who’d returned to his side so quickly she wondered if the two of them were magnetized. “This is Aiden,” he said, running a protective hand over his son’s head.
She smiled down at the shyer of the Cleary men. “Hi, Aiden. I’m Monica.” Colm cast a pointed look at Emma. Startled from her trance, she laughed and placed her hand on her niece’s shoulder. “Oh! This is Emma.”
“Hello, Emma,” Colm said, dipping his head in greeting. “Thank you for finding our friend for us.” He turned his attention to the boy clinging to his side. “Aiden, did you thank Emma?”
“Thanks,” the little boy murmured.
“You’re welcome,” Emma replied primly. “Monnie, can I go up to the slides again?”
Monica gave one of the lopsided pigtails a tug. “Sure, kiddo. Knock yourself out.”
Emma took three steps and skidded to a stop. Spinning around, she fixed her eyes on Aiden. “You wanna come?”
In a flash, all vestiges of shyness disappeared. With Princess Clarissa dangling by her tattered tulle overskirt, Aiden took off after Emma without a backwards glance for his father. Colm exhaled long and loud, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and dug the toe of his shoe into the recycled rubber chips.
Amused by his undisguised relief, she turned to him, her lips curving as she spoke. “Crisis averted?”
“We’re talking Charlie-Sheen-level meltdown averted. Without the swearing. Or the drugs. Or the hookers.”
“Ah, well...winning.” She grinned.
He rolled his eyes but rewarded her with a smirky smile. The lopsided flash of teeth packed a wallop.
“So, uh, Colm,” she began, hoping her voice didn’t sound as high and squeaky to him as it did to her, “has Aiden always been a big Clarissa fan?”
In an instant, the smile was gone and the squinty-eyed stare was in place. “Is there a five-year-old who isn’t?”
Monica searched her memory, trying to access the detailed wish list Emma had presented to all members of the family at Christmastime. She seemed to remember a few items with a royal theme, but frankly had no clue if they had anything to do with the scraggly doll Colm’s son clutched as he climbed the rungs to get to the slide platform.
Kid stuff was way beyond her areas of expertise. She could talk to him about buying and selling. Debate the ins and outs of various retirement plans and
