is Rachel C-Clarion. Rachel, this is my daddy.”
The woman smiled and nodded as Livvie continued talking.
“Rachel lives downstairs. We went to the lake with her this morning and I asked if she could come for tea.” Livvie trotted toward the kitchen and Gemma set her book aside to follow, no doubt to help with preparations.
Being a resident in the Carthage might be why Rachel seemed familiar, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted her around his daughter.
He’d talk about it with Gemma. She had good instincts, but might have been too shy to turn away their neighbor. Her lack of confidence at times had been his biggest concern about hiring her to care for his newborn daughter. But Olivia had liked her and the way she’d handled Livvie, so he’d agreed. Now, with his wife’s death two years ago, he couldn’t contemplate removing Gemma from Livvie’s life; his daughter had already lost too much. It would still happen at some point... Gemma was nearly twenty-six now and couldn’t stay forever.
Forcing his thoughts to the present moment, Simon nodded at Rachel and she nodded back. He regarded her dispassionately. Her eyes were almost turquoise, he thought idly, making him wonder if she wore colored contacts. She was stunningly beautiful with a cloud of long, dark hair. But he wasn’t a kid, ready to fall for a pretty face.
Friends sometimes claimed that he needed a wife and a mother for his daughter. But while he’d dated casually over the past year, he was always clear that he didn’t want anything permanent; he and Livvie were doing fine on their own. Unfortunately, the woman he’d seen most often in New York had begun hinting for more. Sandra, a well-known socialite, had been furious when she discovered he was moving away without offering a marriage proposal.
He carefully returned Rachel’s smile to show neither openness nor caution. “Hello, I’m Simon Kessler.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve seen you at the Java Train Shop next door.”
“They serve decent coffee,” he said.
“Yeah. I used to have one of those fancy machines that practically dances a cup over to the table. But I got rid of the contraption when I moved home. Since I was returning to one of the coffee capitals of the world, why bother making my own brew?”
“I see. What brought you back to the Northwest?” he asked, knowing he was doomed to a period of polite conversation. It was frustrating. He’d come home for quality time with Livvie and had to share it with a stranger.
“Business. My partners and I bought a talent agency.”
“I’ve never known anyone in the talent industry.”
Her lips curved again. They were full and sweetly shaped, with just a hint of gloss over a natural rosy color. “I’ve worked in the modeling field since I was fourteen, so except for childhood friends, I hardly know anyone outside it. What line are you in?”
“My business covers multiple areas, but these days I mostly focus on textiles for home furnishings.”
It was a dismissive description of his varied enterprises, but he didn’t see the need to go into detail. Through the years Simon had acquired and sold several companies, but he no longer did corporate takeovers; it required time and a callousness that didn’t match the man he wanted to be as Livvie’s father.
Livvie returned with a small tray, her upper lip caught between her teeth in concentration. Rachel reached up to help lower the tray to the table, and he wasn’t thrilled to see her seeming willingness to connect with his child; it reminded him of the way Sandra had started dropping by, hoping to become cozy with his daughter. Her motives had been transparent and if he hadn’t decided to leave New York, he would have bluntly told her that Livvie was off-limits. Even at his worst he’d never used a child to advance his personal or business goals and didn’t appreciate anyone who did.
“Livvie didn’t think you’d be home so early,” Rachel said, breaking into his thoughts.
Was she trying to suggest she’d come to the tea party without expecting to see him? For pity’s sake, he’d turned into both a cynic and an egotist. A woman could respond to a child’s invitation without having ulterior motives. And if Rachel had anything else in mind, he’d figure it out soon enough.
“I had a couple of meetings with people who weren’t available during the week. I expected to stay at the office longer to finish some work,” he told her, “but changed my mind after the earthquake.”
“Daddy works almost every day,” Livvie said sadly.
Guilt struck Simon. His hours hadn’t mattered as much when Olivia was there and they both could spend time with her outside their demanding careers. “I know about mommies and daddies who have to work a lot,” Rachel said as she accepted the miniature cup Livvie handed to her. “My parents run a catering business.”
Livvie looked puzzled. “What’s that?”
“They prepare food for parties and special dinners and other events.”
“Do they have to work awful hard like Daddy?”
“I don’t know if it’s the same as your daddy, but caterers work different hours than some parents, especially late afternoons and evenings. Us kids usually stayed with our grandmother when they were busy.”
“I don’t have a grandma.”
“But you have Gemma, which is great, right?”
Livvie grinned and nodded, handing one of the tiny cups to Simon.
It wasn’t entirely true that she didn’t have a grandmother. Legally, she did. Olivia’s family was gone and Simon’s mother had died when he was nine, but when he was eleven, Richard Kessler had forced his wife to adopt his former lover’s child. Karen had tried, in her awkward way, to treat Simon decently, but he’d been the living reminder her husband had never been faithful and that she hadn’t given him the son he craved. Neither Karen nor Simon’s father was a part of their lives now.
“Please have some cookies,” Livvie said, holding out a plate to her guest.
Rachel took one of the cookies and ate a bite. “Delicious. Did you make them yourself?”
Giggling, his daughter shook her head. “We got them at a bakery. I don’t know how to cook. Do you?”
“It’s one of my hobbies.”
“Did your mommy teach you how?”
Simon’s throat suddenly closed with suppressed emotion. He tried not to remind Livvie of how much she’d lost when Olivia died. Though, to be honest, cooking hadn’t been one of his wife’s skills. Instead she’d told their daughter about clothing designs and the way certain fabrics moved depending on how they were cut.
“My mother and father both taught me,” Rachel explained. “Dad is the baker. He makes breads and desserts, while Mom does most of the other stuff. I enjoy doing both.”
“My mommy can’t teach me,” Livvie answered with the curious frankness that seemed part of both her age and personality. “She went to heaven when I was five.”
“I’m
