Charmaine wouldn’t own up about Kat’s father. “This is hardly the same,” Addie said. “I know who Skip Dalton is.”
“But,” Lee said, “you’ve never accepted your feelings where he’s concerned. You’ve shoved them into the back closet. Just like Mom.”
Just like Mom. No way. Addie ran toward the trail’s bend, the bend where he’d told her he loved her, that he would never leave her, that one day they’d be two old people rocking on the porch, watching sunsets. And when she reached the curve, when she might have stumbled, she ran harder, faster, escaping what she believed buried for thirteen years….
That Lee was right.
Standing on her back stoop, Addie called for Michaela. No response. She hurried to the honey house in case her daughter had gone there. The child liked sitting on the wooden floor in a sunny spot playing with her dolls, and Addie suspected it had to do with the waxy-honey scent and quiet warmth. “Michaela!”
The door was closed.
Worry spiking, she rushed inside the building. Empty.
Where was she?
Running to the front yard, she called again. Then stopped when the sound of hammering echoed through the late-morning air.
Hadn’t he finished building over there yet?
And suddenly she knew where her daughter had gone. The birdhouse.
The one Becky described to Michaela last night on the phone—already they’d exchanged numbers. The one the girl had convinced Skip to buy following the library trip two days ago and their discussion about tree swallows nesting in Addie’s backyard.
Quickly, she walked down the path shaded by evergreens and birch, and across the road. At the end of his driveway, a spanking white mailbox stood on a clean-cut wooden post. The mailbox he’d purchased while she jogged with Lee and Kat.
Across each metal side the name DALTON had been stenciled in black block lettering, and for a second, she couldn’t breathe.
A strong name for a headstrong man.
He’d always done what he wanted, what he deemed necessary for his profession. Once, she had loved his name. Written it a hundred times in her school notebooks and carved it into a tree along with her own in the woods behind her mother’s house.
A.W. + S.D. enclosed in a heart.
Stupid. A stupid girl with silly dreams and impractical hopes.
Today, she was a woman of independence, living under the rule of pragmatism and common sense—she hoped—and Skip Dalton had neither.
She walked down his graveled drive, her mind on retrieving her daughter, whose giggles erupted from behind the white-and-green house.
Michaela and Becky were attempting cartwheels on a grassy patch several yards from the wide-lipped back porch, while Skip read the instructions to what appeared to be the celebrated birdhouse. Pieces of cardboard lay scattered on a stone walkway in front of the porch stairs.
Addie stared. The scene appeared almost ruthless. Skip the family man—a father with two girls—working in the yard, fixing things. All they needed was a dog lying in the sun, thumping its tail.
And a woman—
Addie refused to let the thought gel. Refused to think of the woman connected to Skip through his child. Refused to wonder who and why—
“Mommy!” Spying her, Michaela ran forward. “Me ’n’ Becky can do cartwheels!” She grasped Addie’s hand. “Come watch, Mommy.”
At her child’s shouts Skip turned his head and his dark gaze streaked through her like a hot wind. She remained where she stood. “It’s time to go home, button. We have to check the bees.”
Michaela shook her head, her lips working her thoughts. “B-b-but I want to s-s-stay with B-B-Becky.”
“It’s all right, Ms. Malloy.” Becky walked over. “Mick can stay with us until you get back. Can’t she, Dad?”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “She’s welcome anytime.”
Mick. Hadn’t she told the girl a week ago Michaela hated the nickname? Dempsey used to call her Sticky Micky when she stuttered. Except today, her daughter seemed at ease and happy with the butchered version.
“Please, Mommy. I wanna s-s-stay with them. I wanna do m-m-more c-c-cartwheels. B-B-Becky’s t-t-teaching me.”
“Michaela.” Addie knelt on the grass in front of her child.
“You can come back another time, okay?”
Her daughter’s bottom lip poked out. She shook her head, swinging her long dark pigtails. Tears plumped in her brown eyes and clung to her lashes.
“P-p-please, Mommy,” she whispered. Her little arms wrapped Addie’s neck. “Becky’s my f-f-friend.”
Oh, God. How could she refuse? This preteen, this child of Skip’s, had offered something Michaela sorely lacked: camaraderie.
He walked over to where Addie knelt with Michaela in her lap.
“She’ll be safe with us, Addie.” His deep voice seeped into her pores. “Count on it.”
Count on it. The way she’d been able to count on him when he’d said, This was not my choice.
“I’m not counting on anything.”
Rising to her feet, she hoped her eyes conveyed exactly what she meant. She hadn’t depended on a man in a long, long while. She wasn’t about to start now. And definitely not with Skip Dalton.
“I understand,” he said, and she saw he’d connected the dots.
Becky interjected, “So can Mick stay, Ms. Malloy?”
“Please, Mommy.” Michaela leaned against Addie, tear-streaked face upturned.
Becky’s my friend. “Honeykins, I…” Would rather you find someone else. But who? Last year, some of the first-grade kids had teased her about stuttering. Becky was different. Kind and sweet and genuine. “All right.”
“Goody!” Michaela rushed to her newfound pal and grabbed her hand. “I get to stay, B-B-Becky.”
“Yep. Want to go in and get a Popsicle?”
“Mom,” Michaela yelled. “I get to have a P-P-Popsicle!”
“I heard, love. Only one, okay?”
“Uh-huh, or my tummy g-g-gets sick.” She skipped at Becky’s side as the pair went up the deck steps and into the house.
Addie glanced at Skip. “Do you have a pen? You’ll need my cell number in case something happens.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. The girls will be right here with me.”
She
