Читать книгу Christmas with Daddy - C.J. Carmichael - Страница 11

BECAUSE BRIDGET’S DAYS were busy with the dogs, she saw most of her numerology clients during the evening. This worked well for her clients, too, who juggled their timetables around the demands of work and family life.

Bridget ate a tofu stir-fry for dinner, then went to her office and spent an hour charting. At ten minutes to eight, she put water on to boil. She had tea steeping in an antique pot and two cups at the ready in her office when the doorbell rang.

Annabel Lang was a beautiful woman in her late thirties. Today she wore a trendy sweat suit, the kind that only looked good if you were a size six or smaller.

“Hi, Annabel. Come in.”

Annabel managed only a brief, tense smile. She’d sounded upset on the phone and Bridget led her to the office, concerned that something serious must be wrong.

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Would you like tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Annabel had been coming to Bridget for numerological readings ever since she’d heard Bridget speak at a workshop on goal-setting two years ago. Like many of her clients, Annabel was a planner. Someone who thought about her future and wanted as much information as she could get in order to make the best decisions for herself and her family.

She was also struggling with a marriage that was far from ideal. With the help of numerology she was trying to see the bigger patterns in her life as a way to guide her through these rough patches.

“Last night you said you wanted to talk about your daughter.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Bridget pulled out the cover sheet of the report she’d prepared. “Let’s start with Tara’s life path number. I see your daughter as having an overabundance of nine energy in her life. This would make her somewhat naive for her age, highly emotional and unrealistic.”

Annabel nodded vehemently. “So true. Can you tell me what might be on her mind right now?”

“I see her feeling isolated and not necessarily comfortable sharing her feelings.”

Annabel shielded her eyes for a moment, then sighed. “That’s an understatement. In the past year she’s become so withdrawn. It’s all I can do to get her to the dinner table for a meal. As soon as she’s finished eating, she scurries back to her room.”

“Yet what she longs for most right now is probably love.”

Tears shimmered in Annabel’s eyes. “I have plenty of that for her. But she doesn’t let me in.”

“It’s partly her age, but partly who she is. Tara’s looking for love, Annabel, but I don’t think it’s from her parents. I don’t even think it’s from her peers.”

As Bridget read through the rest of her analysis, Annabel seemed to become increasingly restless. Finally Bridget had to stop. “Is something wrong?”

“No. It’s just that I’m so worried about my daughter right now. And what you’re saying…I’m afraid it isn’t very reassuring.”

“Is there something specific you’d like to talk about?”

“Yes. But I can’t. I promised my husband.” She stopped to gather her composure. “Bridget, are you free later this week? I may need to talk to you again.”

“Of course.” Much as she wanted to help right now, Bridget didn’t press for more information. This was Annabel’s life, Annabel’s child. When the time was right, Annabel would let her know what was going on. Perhaps Tara was involved with a boy her parents considered inappropriate. Given her profile, maybe someone older. Certainly the signs pointed in that direction.

ACCORDING TO Jessica’s schedule, Mandy went to bed at eight o’clock. Tonight, however, Mandy seemed to have other ideas.

Nick had followed Jessica’s instructions to the letter, feeding Mandy dinner, giving her a bath, putting on her sleepers, then finally offering a bedtime bottle before laying her into the crib in the spare room.

Mandy had slept in that crib before she and Jessica had moved out.

But tonight, every time he tried to settle her there, she started to cry. Was she missing her mother and her familiar bedroom? Nick had no idea. As ten o’clock approached and Mandy’s blue eyes remained wide open and alert, he started to feel desperate.

Whenever he picked her up, she’d start to relax. Her breathing would slow and her eyes would droop. But put her down in the crib? No way.

“Daddy can’t hold you all night long, honey. Daddy needs to go to work tomorrow.”

Mandy just stared at him.

Nick paced for another half hour. Finally, when he was certain Mandy was sound asleep, he eased her into her bed. Yes! She was still sleeping. He covered her with the flannel blankets, then tiptoed for the door…

Before he’d made it to the hall, Mandy was crying again. He pressed his head to the door frame and froze in place. Maybe if he gave her a few minutes…

But she only cried harder and, after five minutes, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Okay, baby, it’s okay.” He rescued her from the crib and held her to his chest. Immediately she calmed.

It was almost eleven now and he was more tired than usual for some reason. He needed to hit the sack. Maybe one of his brothers could help. They’d both been through this before.

Nick grabbed the phone and hit Gavin’s speed dial number. His brother sounded as if he’d been sleeping.

“Sorry to call so late, but I’m desperate.” He explained the situation. “Do you think she’s sick or something?”

“If she’s eating okay and it doesn’t feel like she’s running a fever, probably not.” Gavin yawned audibly, then added, “Most babies like routine. It’s probably going to take Mandy a while to get used to sleeping at your place again. If I was you, I’d expect a few restless nights.”

“That’s it? That’s the best you can offer me?”

“Just make her feel safe, bro. Comfort her. Hold her close and sing to her.”

“I’ve been doing that, man.” And it wasn’t working. He’d thought his brother would be more helpful than that.

Around midnight, Mandy started fussing, even when he was holding her, even when he tried singing one of the songs on her lullaby CD.

Nothing he said, or did, seemed to soothe her. He tried warming another bottle. She wanted nothing to do with it. Her fussing turned into sobbing.

Finally, when it was almost one in the morning, Nick decided to try the one thing that hadn’t let him down so far. He bundled his daughter into her snowsuit, strapped her into the stroller, swaddled a bunch of blankets around her, then wheeled her outside.

Mandy instantly grew quiet.

The winter night was magical. Snow fell softly, the crystals glittering like suspended diamonds under the streetlamps. His boots and the tires of the stroller crunched as he moved forward. Street traffic was minimal and in the silence he could hear the steady inhale, exhale of his breath.

Nick pushed the stroller up and down the block. Thankfully he didn’t see anyone he knew. They’d think he was nuts.

He thought he was nuts.

Yawning again, he retraced his route, waiting for Mandy to fall asleep. It didn’t take long to happen. The next time he checked, her cherry lips were parted ever so slightly and her eyes were closed.

He went up and down the block two more times to be certain, then rolled the stroller back inside his town house. Quietly he removed his jacket and boots, then looked down at his sleeping daughter.

She looked so peaceful. He felt a bone-deep sense of satisfaction until he realized he had a problem.

How the hell was he supposed to move her from the stroller to her crib? He just knew that as soon as he tried, she’d wake up and start crying again.

After a moment’s consideration, he wheeled the stroller into his bedroom. Staring down at her, he wondered if she was going to get too warm with all those blankets, plus the snowsuit. He removed a few blankets, unzipped her snowsuit and removed her mittens.

What else should he do?

Frankly, he had no idea.

He collapsed on his bed and fell asleep himself.

USUALLY NICK AWOKE to the six-o’clock news on the local radio station. Not this morning though.

An obnoxious sound had him cramming his pillow around his head and over his ears. Why the hell didn’t those people do something about their kid?

And then it hit him.

The crying was from his kid.

His eyes opened and he jerked upright. Blankets were rustling in the stroller. Once he’d flipped on the bedside lamp, he could see Mandy’s face, red and angry. She flailed her little fists at the sight of him, as if to say, Don’t just stand there. Do something, Daddy!

He picked her up and she was quiet. With her bundled next to his chest, he went to the living room where he’d left Jessica’s notebook. For about the tenth time that night, he checked her instructions.

Eight o’clock, put Mandy to bed. She should sleep through until six or seven the next morning. He checked the time—it was only three!

Why hadn’t Jessica written any instructions about what to do if Mandy woke up this early?

Should he feed her breakfast? Offer her another bottle? Try to lull her back to sleep?

He was sorely tempted to call Bridget and ask what she thought. Though she had no children of her own, she seemed to instinctively know how to deal with babies. But to call her at three in the morning…he might be pushing his luck just a little if he did that.

He lifted Mandy until her face was right next to his. “It’s early, sweetheart. You’re supposed to be sleeping right now.” They were both supposed to be sleeping right now.

He put on the lullaby CD, but again, it was useless. Mandy seemed fine as long as he was holding her. A few times her eyes drooped shut…but as soon as he tried to lay her in the crib she started crying.

After forty-five minutes, he finally gave in to the inevitable and strapped her back into the stroller.

Outside, another inch of snow had fallen. He felt the thick flakes brush against his face as he headed to the far end of the block, then back. He did this four times. A man exited a town house on the opposite side of the street. He gave Nick a long look but said nothing, then continued to his car.

Remembering his own years of shift work, Nick felt a moment’s sympathy for the guy. Then he shook his head. Was he crazy? He was the one who deserved the sympathy tonight.

It was past four when Nick’s head finally hit his pillow for the second time that night. He could have sworn only five minutes had passed when suddenly his favorite news lady was talking about political developments in the Middle East.

Forget that. He pounded on the snooze button to shut her up. But he was too late.

Mandy started to cry.

AT HER FIRST SIGHT of him the next morning, Bridget could tell Nick had had an uneasy night with Mandy. He looked terrible. Eyes red, face badly shaven, his hair as rumpled as the shirt beneath his unzipped jacket. She opened the door wide to make room for the stroller. Nick was also carrying the pink diaper bag and another black vinyl bag.

“It’s a portable crib,” he explained, as she took it out of his hands with raised eyebrows. “So Mandy has a place to take her naps. Assuming she’ll sleep for you, that is.”

He slipped out of his boots and pushed the stroller into the living room. Glancing around, he asked, “Where are the dogs?”

“Out back, romping in the new snow.” She deposited the bag with the crib near the doorway to the spare room. “How did things go last night?”

“Terrible.”

“What happened?”

“Mandy didn’t go to sleep until one in the morning. Then she was awake from three to four.” He picked up his daughter, then extricated her from the snowsuit with the expertise of one who had done the same task many, many times before.

Mandy smiled winningly, then held out her arms to Bridget. “Hey, sweetie.” Bridget scooped her up. She smelled clean and looked happy.

“I just changed her diaper,” Nick confirmed. “And she’s had her breakfast…unlike me.”

The last two words were spoken so quietly Bridget didn’t think she’d been meant to hear them. “I baked muffins this morning. Would you like a couple?”

His face brightened. “That’s what smells so good in here.”

Hoisting Mandy to a hip, she headed for the kitchen.

Nick followed. “How do single parents cope? I doubt I had five hours of sleep last night. And this morning I had to rush through my shower and didn’t even have time to shave properly.” He rubbed the side of his face and shook his head.

Bridget watched him, fighting an urge to touch the other side of his face with her free hand. He did look rough this morning, she had to agree.

But on Nick Gray, rough wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

She put two muffins into a plastic bag, then added an apple. “You can eat on the way to work. And don’t worry about Mandy. I’ll take good care of her.”

“I know you will. Thanks, Bridge.”

Bridge? Normally she hated it when people shortened her name that way. But coming from Nick, it sounded good. Friendly…almost intimate.

“You okay?” Nick’s voice held a touch of concern. “You got a strange look on your face for a second there.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Now you better hurry and get to work.” And get out of my sight so I stop fantasizing about you.

“Okay.”

She thought he was leaving, but instead he moved closer. So close that Bridget’s heart stopped. Good Lord, it was almost as if he intended to—

“Bye-bye, Mandy.” He lowered his head, his hair brushing against Bridget’s nose as he planted a kiss on his daughter’s cheek.

Bridget inhaled the scent of his shampoo. Kiss me, too, she couldn’t help wishing, even as she had the good sense to step back.

“I’ll see you around five,” Nick promised on his way out the door.

Bridget moved to the kitchen window and watched as he headed toward his car. She was willing to bet he was a good athlete. He was so sure-footed and confident in the way he moved. A man who knew where he was going and what he wanted.

What would it be like to be the sort of woman that Nick Gray was attracted to?

Over the years she’d often wondered that, experiencing a touch of envy for the girlfriends she’d seen dangling from his arm. A harmless crush was what she’d called these yearnings for her appealing neighbor. She’d never imagined that one day she might be tempted to act on her feelings.

Nick’s car started. He drove away. She stepped back from the kitchen window and, closing her eyes, remembered how it had felt to have his face so very near to hers.

NICK HAD NEVER been so happy to be at work. Boring paperwork seemed like a breeze compared to changing diapers. And he’d rather put up with a lecture from the captain about results, results, results, than deal with a crying baby in the middle of the night.

The priority today, of course, was making progress on the Tara Lang case. There’d been no new developments overnight, which was probably a good thing. It meant that with any luck Tara remained alive and well.

Though he figured the teen was still in Hartford, Nick checked the crime reports from nearby centers just to be sure. He tensed when he read about a murder-rape, in Springfield, of a young woman about Tara’s age, then felt a guilty wash of relief when he saw the victim had been already been identified as someone else. It seemed Tara had managed to survive another night out on the streets.

If, indeed, that was where she was.

“Hey, Gray, what’s up?” Glenn Ferguson, his partner, sank into the chair next to Nick’s. He was back in the city after tidying up loose ends on another assignment. “Any leads on the kid?”

“Just that tip yesterday.”

“Right. The mall. You checked it out?”

“Yeah. Nothing. I didn’t get even one positive ID.”

“Too bad.” Glenn leaned in for a look at the reports strewn over Nick’s deck. Getting a whiff of Glenn’s usual body odor, mixed with a good measure of stale alcohol and cigar smoke, Nick decided it was time to grab a refill of coffee.

Though he and Glenn had been partners for just a few weeks, Nick had already figured out that Glenn’s idea of a good time involved an expensive smoke, one-too-many drinks at his favorite pub, and talking some woman into sharing his bed for the night.

Not that different from Nick’s idea of a good time, perhaps, if you substituted a medium-rare steak for the cigar, but Nick was only thirty-four, while Glenn was pushing fifty.

Nick did not want to be in Glenn’s shoes when he was fifty. But his failed marriage with Jessica wasn’t a step in the right direction. They’d lasted less than a year as a married couple. It was a damn embarrassment. Worse was the potential impact on Mandy. His daughter would never have the security of living with a mother and a father under the same roof. How would that affect her?

As Nick reached for the full coffeepot, his thoughts shifted to Bridget. This morning her hair had been still damp from the shower and he’d been surprised at the way the baby-doll ringlets had framed her face.

He thought about how her house smelled and looked, so warm and inviting. Then about her eyes, that verdant green. Thinking about her gave him the same feeling as breathing in a lungful of cool, crisp air. More alive, yet somehow more relaxed, as well.

Nick filled a second cup, then returned to his desk. He handed a coffee to his partner, who gave him a grunt in return. Glenn shifted aside the report he’d been reading, exposing a family photograph taken for the Langs’ Christmas cards.

The pose was casual. Vincent Lang was wearing a shirt and sweater, probably cashmere. His wife, wearing a silky blouse and pearls, stood behind him, one arm looped around his neck, her chin resting on his full head of silver hair. Just off to one side Tara posed stiffly. Her mother’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, but that was the only thing linking her to the attorney general and his wife.

“The kid doesn’t look too happy,” Glenn said. “I’m betting she didn’t like having her photograph exploited for the sake of her father’s political career.”

Nick laughed. Glenn was on the money with that observation, no doubt about it. He studied the picture closer. “What about the wife? Do you think she minded?”

She had the expensively coiffed appearance of a woman who was used to the rich life. But did her eyes betray a little of the daughter’s resentment? Or was he imagining that?

“Hard to say. Has anyone spoken with her?”

“I interviewed her late Wednesday afternoon.” Nick pulled out his notebook. He’d gone to the Langs’ house, an impressive Tudor home in the Hartford Golf Club neighborhood.

“Mrs. Lang was polite and cooperative, but also quite reserved. I asked her about Tuesday night and the alleged argument between Tara and her father.”

“What did she say?”

Nick read from his notes: “Tara has always hated the obligations that come with her father’s position. Those obligations are especially numerous at Christmas time. There are parties and other functions that Vincent simply must attend and many of them require his family’s attendance, too.”

Glenn snorted. “I’ll just bet. So what did you say next?”

“I told her that I supposed most teenagers would resent having to attend a bunch of stuffy parties.”

“I bet she didn’t like that.”

“You’re right. Mrs. Lang looked offended then said, ‘We’re invited into some of the most beautiful homes in Hartford. Last night we had tickets to the gala performance of the Nutcracker Ballet.’”

“Big, frigging deal.”

Nick nodded. Not too many fourteen-year-olds liked going to the ballet. But neither did they run away from home to escape the obligation. There was more going on in this kid’s head than that.

And perhaps, in the mother’s, too.