Читать книгу Little Miss Matchmaker - Dana Corbit - Страница 8

Dinah watched as Alex strode out of her classroom, all muscle and sinew—proof of a man who regularly put his back into his work. A sigh escaped her before she knew it was coming. Even as she pulled her gaze away from his retreating form—from the pale yellow polo shirt that stretched across his back as he moved—her cheeks burned.

Since when did she notice broad shoulders, toned biceps or even deep brown eyes and neatly trimmed dark hair when the only thing that truly mattered about a person lay deep inside him where no one but God could see? What mattered was his heart.

A small smile settled on her lips. That argument wouldn’t work when Alex Donovan appeared to be just as appealing on the inside as he was outside where the rest of the world could see. And the world had to see unless all the people in it had simultaneously closed their eyes. Still, what other bachelor could she name who would drop everything in his life and step in to care for a cousin’s children when he had none of his own?

Her brother, Jonah? She shook her head as she flipped open her grade book and glanced down at the list of names and corresponding scores for spelling and geography tests and daily math homework. Jonah was a great guy. He’d even served his country and fought for freedom in Iraq, but he would probably draw the line when it came to becoming guardian to someone else’s kids. She wouldn’t have put it past him to recommend her for the job, though.

Okay, there was one other man she knew of who might have done something that extreme in his bachelor days, but then her father had always stood head and shoulders above other men in her opinion.

What did that say about Alex Donovan? That he was brave? He did fight fires for a living, and most cowards probably avoided that high-risk career like a case of leprosy. Did it say he was a loving person then? She had only to see the way that Chelsea talked about her “Uncle Alex” to know that one was true.

Dinah stopped herself before she applied every desirable personality trait her amazing father possessed to Alex, the majority of which she couldn’t possibly confirm or discount.

You struck me as Chelsea’s very important guardian. She reminded herself of her own words that she’d used to cut off his flirting. He had been flirting, too. She might not have been a true veteran of the dating wars, but she’d been in enough minor skirmishes to know that one for sure.

If she were honest with herself, she would have to admit she hadn’t discouraged him initially, but she decided to attribute that to the shock of seeing a massive, gorgeous man in her classroom when the males who surrounded her most days stood about waist high. Sure, she’d scheduled the three o’clock appointment with a grown-up, but this was her excuse, and she was sticking to it.

“What kind of daydreams are you having?”

Dinah jerked her head toward the sound, finding kindergarten teacher Shelley Foust standing in the doorway to her classroom, her arms crossed and a knowing expression on her face.

“What do you mean?” Dinah did her best to act nonchalant as she closed the grade book she hadn’t been looking at anyway.

“You know what I mean. Tall, dark and hunky who just walked out of this room, his shoulders barely fitting through the doorway.”

For a brand-new teacher, straight from Penn State, Shelley didn’t miss much, especially the interesting stories at Grove Elementary. “Just try to tell me you didn’t notice.”

Dinah opened her mouth to try and then closed it again, remembering how her mother and father taught her that lying was sinful. She cleared her throat. “Oh, him? That was just Alex Donovan, Chelsea White’s guardian while her mom is undergoing cancer treatment.”

Shelley stepped farther into the room and brushed away the wrinkles on her darling prairie skirt and fitted blouse. Everything looked effortlessly cute on the petite kindergarten teacher, and sometimes Dinah had to try not to envy that when she always struggled to find clothes modest enough for her too-curvy figure.

“I doubt that man could be called just anything, but whatever you say,” Shelley said. “Now I need details. Age. Occupation. Marital status.”

Dinah frowned at her but still relented. “Thirty-something if I were to guess.” Those crinkles around his eyes had given her a clue. “Firefighter.”

Shelley rubbed her hands together. “Ooh, I just knew he would be something manly like that. I was leaning toward construction worker or forester from the National Park Service or something, but I can picture him now rushing into burning buildings or rescuing kittens from trees.”

Because she could see it, too, Dinah turned her attention to the dry-erase board at the other side of her classroom. She would need to clean that and jot down tomorrow’s assignments before she left for the night.

“What about that last, all-important detail?”

“Oh, that. He’s single.”

Why was it that she wanted to be able to tell Shelley that Alex was married with a half-dozen children and a set of twins on the way? If a little forward, Shelley wasn’t a danger to local single men. She’d dated only a few since the beginning of the school year and was always kind when she ended a relationship. For some reason, though, Dinah hoped her friend didn’t set her sights on Chelsea’s kind guardian.

“But taken?” Shelley lifted a delicate brow when she glanced back at her.

Dinah shook her head. “I only met him today, but he did seem awfully busy working and caring for his cousin’s two children right now. Probably too busy for a lot of socializing.” He’d found time for a few minutes of it with her, but Dinah didn’t mention that.

Though Shelley nodded, she didn’t appear convinced.

Dinah’s cheeks burned as realization dawned. “You mean me? I told you I just met him during a conference about Chelsea.”

“You certainly know a lot of his details.”

“Because we were discussing the difficult situation that Chelsea’s in.” Maybe it wasn’t necessary for her to know his personal value regarding marriage and children, but that was beside the point.

“Whatever you say.” Shelley still didn’t sound convinced, but then she sighed. “You’re probably right. The fabulous firefighter would be too busy right now to spoil me properly, so I guess I won’t be asking you to introduce us.”

It was Dinah’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”

“You know how I expect to be spoiled when I date someone.”

Though she knew nothing of the sort, Dinah nodded. She sensed that her friend might be stepping aside for her sake, and she should let Shelley know the gesture was unnecessary, but she couldn’t speak up.

It was probably for the best. Alex’s life was complicated enough without Dinah introducing him to the spunky kindergarten teacher. She was probably doing him a favor by not giving him another distraction.

Whether he would see her sacrifice as a favor or not, she wouldn’t have to find out since she didn’t plan to tell him. She also wouldn’t have to confess to feeling relief that the firefighter she barely knew and shouldn’t be planning to get to know better wouldn’t be meeting someone else.

Ross Van Zandt set a heavy file box next to the sofa, leaning back into the cushions without opening it. He could have worked in his office this afternoon, but he preferred to be home as much as he could these days.

He reached for the remote control and flipped on daytime television, not expecting quality viewing but still looking for white noise. As if to confirm his prediction, a local celebrity’s face appeared on the screen in an extreme close-up.

“Good afternoon, Richmond. I’m Douglas Matthews, and I would like to welcome you to Afternoons with Douglas Matthews.”

“How many more times can he cram Douglas Matthews into one sentence?” Ross grumbled.

As the camera pulled away, the black-haired and blue-eyed talk show host leaned in and smiled with unnaturally white teeth, as if he was talking to his best friends. All half a million or so of his buddies outside the screen.

“You’re going to love our lineup today. First up, is your garden ready for the snowy season? Our garden expert will offer the Top Ten tips for planting, pruning and primping to ensure a plentiful spring.”

Ross rolled his eyes as he opened the box at his feet. The talk show host prattled on about how to make marinated salmon with some local celebrity or other, but Ross tuned out the rest.

Why did people watch that garbage, anyway? Afternoons didn’t deal with anything meatier than the best food for roses or favorite boat tours on Richmond’s Kanawha Canal.

From what Ross had heard, Matthews had made a scene at the Starlight Diner when Richmond Gazette reporter Jared Kierney had suggested a show on the Tiny Blessings adoption scandal. Even if Matthews didn’t want to help people by sharing their stories, at least Ross would have expected the talk show host to jump on the story for a ratings boost. With material like today’s lineup, he probably needed it.

“You’ve procrastinated long enough, Van Zandt.” Ross blew out a breath as he forced his attention back to the box of records.

He knew this drill. For the last two months he’d been going through these records systematically, comparing them to the documents on file at Tiny Blessings and trying to weed out the truth from an overgrowth of lies. He was glad he could provide pro bono private investigative services for the agency his wife headed because Tiny Blessings would never be able to afford those services otherwise.

At the squeak on the stairs, Ross was sorry he’d decided to leave the office and pore over more records at home today. Kelly didn’t need any more aggravation these days, and this newest crisis facing the agency was nothing if not aggravating.

Just when they thought they’d put the scandal involving illegal adoptions behind them, more falsified records had been discovered in the walls of the Harcourt mansion during the renovation project by Ben Cavanaugh’s construction company.

Ross had hoped Kelly would relinquish more of the responsibility, and the headaches that went along with it, to Eric Pellegrino, the agency’s new assistant director she’d hired to take the pressure off her pregnancy. But he knew Kelly better than that. For all the crises and bad publicity the agency faced, his wife believed the buck stopped with her.

The woman he loved appeared then at the end of the sofa, her hands resting on her rounded belly, her hair mussed from a nap.

“I thought you were supposed to be resting.”

Kelly frowned at him and then lowered herself on the sofa cushion. “I’m too tired to sleep, but I’m sure I won’t be sleeping tonight, either. Our little acrobat likes choosing that for gym time.”

Still, she gave her stomach a loving pat. “This counts as resting. I’ll even put my feet up if you scoot over.”

Ross did as he was told, as all husbands of extremely pregnant wives should do for their self-protection. Tucking a pillow beneath her feet that she had settled on the brown leather ottoman, he reached in the box and pulled out a stack of files.

“Who are we looking at today?” she asked, holding out a hand for him to offer her a stack.

“I just thought I would flip through these again. Maybe this time a name will ring a bell.”

“I hate thinking that some of these adoptive children searching for their birth parents will never find the answers they’re looking for though we have the answers right here.”

“With a lot of work and even more prayer, we’ll help them find those answers,” he told her.

Ross scooted closer to his wife, propped his feet next to hers and glanced down at the names on the file tabs.

“Bailey-Brock-Brown,” he read aloud. “Brown? If that won’t be like finding a needle in a haystack.” Every single name in those case files was another needle, but neither of them needed a reminder of that.

“Daley-Davenport-Dexter,” Kelly read aloud from her own pile before looking over at him.

Ross shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“Yeah, me, neither.”

They continued on, listing names back and forth, but none sounded familiar. Even if one had, it wouldn’t have made a difference since these could have been the mothers’ maiden names—if these were the real files and not just another round of doctored documents.

Ross stopped on a file that said “Harcourt.”

“Now there’s a familiar name.” He turned the tab to the side, letting Kelly take a look. “I wonder how many Harcourt offspring are running around Chestnut Grove and the rest of Virginia without any idea who they really are.”

“Maybe a few. As long as the young women’s parents were willing to pay for Barnaby Harcourt’s silence. I doubt he gave relatives a discount on his rates.” Kelly frowned as she always did when she mentioned the founding director of Tiny Blessings whose illegal acts had tarnished the agency’s reputation.

For curiosity’s sake as much as anything, Ross flipped open the file and started calculating.

“This baby’s a thirty-three-year-old man now. Birth mother is named Cynthia. Recognize that one?”

She shook her head. “And her last name could be anything now.”

“The father is listed as ‘unknown.’”

Kelly made a sound of acknowledgment in her throat but didn’t comment further. The absence of a birth father was as common an occurrence in the adoption-agency business as the lack of complete information.

Ross’s hands tightened on the folder. If he couldn’t solve the problems for the agency his wife loved, then he’d at least hoped to help her reunite some of the adoptive children with their birth parents. Even in that plan, he was failing Kelly.

Shuffling the papers again, he smacked the file closed, but when he did, something fell to the ground. It wasn’t much, just a tiny slip of yellowing paper, about the size of a sticky note.

Ross automatically reached down to grab it and stuff it back in the file, but the two words stopped him with his hand still held high: “See Donovan.”

He cleared his throat, his pulse pounding. “Honey, ever see this?”

“What is it?” she asked, but her eyes widened and she reached into the box between them.

It was all Ross could do not to shove his pregnant wife out of the way and start riffling in the box himself, but somehow he managed to wait until she was finished. Her frown didn’t leave any doubt that she hadn’t found the file, but her expression lifted again, and she tilted her head to the side.

“You don’t think—”

“No,” he blurted. He didn’t need her to finish to know how crazy the idea sounded. It was too easy. He’d been a P.I. long enough to know it was never that easy.

But what if it is? an unwelcome voice inside him suggested. Maybe just this once, a case could be as simple as someone forgetting to remove a note from a file that the owner never intended anyone to find.

Ross glanced across the room, his gaze landing on two more boxes of files next to the breakfast bar. Kelly had been bringing them home frequently, cross-checking files from the office with the duplicates found inside the wall at the Harcourt mansion.

“You don’t happen to have any more Ds, do you?”

“I think so,” she said, already trying to push herself off the couch.

“Here, let me get it.”

He couldn’t get to the box fast enough. It was the thrill of the chase, and he knew it well. He flipped through the files, his hands landing on one that said “Donovan.” He carried it back to the couch, so they could look at it together.

“It might not even be the same Donovan,” he said to keep his own hopes from getting too high.

As he opened the file, his gaze, well trained from looking at so many documents, went right to the date of birth.

“It’s a match.”

That they’d both said it at the same time made them laugh, but they stopped just as quickly. Okay, they had a match. Now what?

Ross flipped through the file, reading about George and Edie Donovan and the newborn infant they adopted and named Alex. This version listed the birth mother as Mary Something-or-other, but it was probably the bogus one.

He handed the file to Kelly, already planning his steps. First, he would do an Internet search for the Donovans’ son, and then he would start eliminating from that pool those who couldn’t be this particular guy. Part of him hated to mess up another person’s well-ordered life, but the man deserved the chance to know the truth.

For a long time, Kelly didn’t look up from the file. She simply stared at it as if willing it to complete the puzzle. She leaned her head to one shoulder and to the other as if considering, and finally she turned back to him.

“Isn’t Eli Cavanaugh’s friend, the fireman who moved from Richmond, named Alex Donovan?”

“Hey, Donovan, get out here and shoot some hoops with us,” Trent Gillman called from the court adjacent to the parking lot as Alex climbed out of his SUV.

“Give me a few.” Alex shut the door and started toward the station. Basketball was one of the ways the men and women at the station killed a few hours on slow days or burned off steam after busier or more stressful ones. Today had certainly been one of the more stressful variety.

“Make it quick. We need somebody to kill in three-on-three.” To make his point, Trent drove by Cory Long for a perfect layup and then lifted his arms in a Rocky-style victory dance.

“You mean you need me to let you win?”

When a ball came sailing toward him, Alex ducked inside the gray brick structure through the side door.

He traded his khaki pants and polo shirt for a hooded sweatshirt and loose-fitting warm-ups and jogged back outside to join the game. Already, several firefighters, including Fire Chief Nevins, were taking shots.

“Think fast.”

Alex shot his hands up to his face in time to catch the ball aimed at his head. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Trent said.

On the court, Alex executed a perfect chest shot. “You see boys, nothin’ but net.” Going in for the rebound, he balanced the ball on his right hand, setting up for a shot with his left.

“How was your afternoon with the preacher’s daughter?” Trent asked just as Alex took the shot.

No net this time, the ball bounced off the backboard with a thud and then dropped into the grass. Alex turned back to him, drawing his eyebrows together. “What are you talking about? I don’t know any preacher’s daughter. I was just at a conference with Chelsea’s teacher.”

“You mean Miss Fraser? Miss Dinah Fraser?”

“Daughter of Reverend John Fraser,” Bill Nevins filled in the blank when Alex turned his perplexed expression on him.

Fraser, of course. He’d met Reverend Fraser of Chestnut Grove Community Church, a few times during last year’s Community holiday toy drive.

It was strange, though, that when he’d asked Dinah about her common surname, she hadn’t even mentioned her well-known father. She’d said only that there were a lot of Frasers around. What was that all about? It had been difficult enough for him to picture someone like Dinah as an elementary teacher, but a preacher’s daughter? That just didn’t seem possible.

“Puts a whole new spin on the lovely Miss Fraser, doesn’t it?” Trent said.

Cory, who hadn’t spoken up until then, snickered.

Alex wheeled on his coworkers. It didn’t matter that Trent had only voiced Alex’s thoughts. He didn’t feel like cutting his tactless friend a little slack the way he usually did. Today even the fact that he had a good heart might not keep Trent from landing on his backside.

“Have a death wish, Gillman?” Bill asked, before Alex had the chance. “Then I wouldn’t say another word about the lady.” He put enough emphasis on the last two words to show he meant business.

After a few strange glances among the other firefighters, the subject fell away, leaving only six guys and a round orange ball to fill the void. Alex jumped higher, dribbled faster and guarded more aggressively than he had in a long time. That Trent happened to get fouled a few extra times—in the pursuit of the game, of course—couldn’t be avoided.

Alex couldn’t explain his need to defend a woman he barely knew, but there it was. As much as he would like to believe he would rush to protect any woman’s honor, he wondered if he would be as forceful in every case.

When the game ended, all six men poured off the court, drenched and a little bruised. The chief looked more winded than most as he came up behind Alex and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Some game, wasn’t it?” Alex said, resisting the urge to shake his boss’s hand off his shoulder. His arm was sore, and he was regretting his “enthusiasm” in the game.

Bill made an affirmative grunt and rubbed his elbow where he had battled tendonitis over the years. “There’s only one thing I can say, Donovan.”

“What’s that?”

“That must have been some conference with Miss Dinah Fraser.”