Читать книгу No Ordinary Child - Darlene Graham - Страница 8

GAYLE SOLOMON WAS USED to answering distress calls from her youngest son. And since his pleas for help invariably involved her darling Meggie, she felt she had to heed them. She wanted to heed them.

She was used to coming into Sam’s house and making herself right at home—if one could make oneself at home in such a stark, cold atmosphere. And why her son favored so much black was an inconsistent mystery. Couldn’t the man at least get some green plants?

In his work Sam favored color, lots of it. Persian blue and misty mauve and hot tangerine. He restored Victorian houses in lavish colors, calling them “painted ladies.” The interiors he designed always felt rich, cozy and golden. But in his own home it was unrelenting black. Black, black and more black. Black leather couches. Black granite kitchen counters. Even a black shower curtain upstairs. Sam’s home looked as stripped and clinical as a dentist’s office.

Gayle sighed. What her son needed was a wife. Sometimes she wondered if Sam would ever really get his act together. He worked too much, for one thing. Tonight he looked exceptionally frazzled, exceptionally tired.

She watched him as he trudged down the open stairs into the kitchen, one loose-hipped step at a time, removing his tie.

Sam was an undeniably handsome man. Beautiful, in fact. Although that was a word she would never use aloud to describe any of her very masculine sons. The Solomon Sons. All gorgeous, but Sam had indeed been the most beautiful of all her children except, of course, for— She forced herself to smile up at Sam, focusing her love and attention on him.

Of all her sons, Sam was the most like her late husband, Edward, which had made the constant father and son friction all the more troubling and confusing. She watched as he ran his long fingers through his hair, a habit from childhood that, for Sam, could signal anything from frustration to shyness to happy excitement. The full head of curly white-blond hair from his childhood had deepened to a burnished gold with rich taupe undertones. He wore his hair in a casual lionlike mane, curling behind his ears, touching his collar, stubbornly raked straight back from his brow and temples, an occasional lock falling forward.

At thirty-one, he already had telltale sprigs of gray lacing his sideburns, though his body was still athletically honed and his face had only grown more handsome as he reached full manhood. His forehead was broad, his nose straight, his jaw square, and his deep-set dark blue eyes were as compelling as a midnight sky.

“She’s finally asleep.” He slumped when he got to the last step.

“Have you eaten?” Gayle asked.

“Only the finger food we served to the investors.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Gayle said, turning toward his kitchen.

“I can make it myself,” he said as he followed her. “Mom? Do you remember that woman—the one the Barretts used for child care before their kids were old enough for school? You know, that older lady? The one you got to take care of Meggie a couple of times for me on Saturday nights? Mrs. Waddle?”

“Cloretta?”

“Yeah. I wonder if she’s available now?”

Gayle turned to him with a look of horror. “You aren’t considering Cloretta Waddle as a possible full-time caretaker for Meggie?”

“Why not? Bob Barrett always talked about how efficient she was. He said she was clean. Sensible. I think he even told me the woman used to be a nurse.”

“That woman used to be a Panzer tank,” Gayle practically shouted, “and just because she’s strapped an apron around her middle that doesn’t mean she can take care of my grandchild on a daily basis!”

“Shh. You’ll wake Meggie.”

“Sorry. But you listen—” Gayle hissed, grabbing Sam’s arm and hauling him around the corner into the kitchen as if he were still five years old. She flipped on every last one of the recessed lights. Sam knew his mother hated his dark, sleek kitchen. But he liked the shimmering stainless steel, the professional chef-style gas stove, the massive nickel fixtures.

Gayle whirled to face him. “Cloretta Waddle ran the Barrett household like an absolute drill sergeant. You cannot possibly be serious about bringing her into your home.”

Gayle watched as Sam rammed his fingers through his thick blond hair again. His frustration level was definitely peaking. Putting Meggie to bed could try anyone’s patience, but it was this whole situation that was killing him. In the twenty-four hours since he’d found out Andrea was ill, he’d probably repeated that gesture so often that it was a miracle he wasn’t bald.

He flipped off several of the lights, then jerked open his massive side-by-side—black, naturally—built-in refrigerator and started pulling out shaved ham, cheese, mustard. “As I recall, Bob Barrett told me that Mrs. Waddle is a licensed practical nurse who is trained to care for children.”

“Trained to care for children is one thing. Doing it kindly is quite another.”

He turned to his mother, his rugged features, highlighted by the cold light from the refrigerator, looking older than his years. “Mom, look. I can’t exactly be picky here. Meggie is upstairs right now—” he pointed at the kitchen stairs “—and just getting her tucked in wore me out. I have got to have somebody here—tomorrow. The investors are in town. Men like Mr. Yoshida do not understand the concept of a family crisis, and they do not like to be ignored.”

Gayle’s heart clutched at the worry and sadness etched in her son’s face. He had withstood so much. Lord, when will it end? “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I will keep Meggie tomorrow.”

“And what about the next day? And the next? Andrea is going to be sick for a long time and you can’t stay away from your work forever. Now, let’s think. How can we find out if this Cloretta Waddle is still around Tulsa?”

Gayle took the sandwich things from him and placed them on the center island. “We simply must find a better solution.” She tried to keep her tone from sounding overbearing, but she knew how her son tended to act in a crisis. Just like his father. Efficient to the point of ruthlessness. And sometimes that efficiency vanquished things of greater importance—like Meggie’s contentment and happiness, for example. Putting Meggie in the hands of Cloretta Waddle would be like putting a wild bunny rabbit in the hands of an ape. “Sam, that woman is not an appropriate match for a sensitive child like Meggie.”

“Then exactly what do you suggest?”

“I told you, I will keep Meggie myself.” She found a knife in a militarily neat utensil drawer.

Sam sighed. They had tried this arrangement before on one of Meggie’s summer visits. His mother had raised four rowdy sons almost single-handedly while his father had been off building his legal dynasty. Sam, being the youngest of the Solomon sons, felt the most strongly that his mother deserved some peace and quiet—or at least the luxury of pursuing her own interests for once in her life. It bugged him that he was the one who seemed to call on her for help the most often. His brothers and their wives were all too involved in their high-powered careers to help with Meggie. His mom seemed like the only one in the family who had time for Meggie and her problems. Yet, every time Gayle took over with Meggie, Sam ended fighting a roaring case of the guilts.

“Mom, are you telling me that you are going to drive across town to my house at the crack of dawn every weekday, then haul Meggie around to school and her therapy and her various activities in your minivan?”

“Absolutely.” Gayle calmly spread mustard on two slices of bread.

Sam threw up his hands, then planted them on his belt. “And then I suppose you’ll go home and somehow find the energy to pursue your photography, which, I’d like to remind you, is going rather well these days.”

“Oh, poo.” Gayle flapped her palm at him. “Let’s be honest. My photography is merely a hobby.”

“You’ve been winning awards, selling some stuff at art fairs. And what about your trip to Belize?”

“My photography is not going so well that I’d turn my helpless granddaughter over to a battle-ax like Cloretta Waddle.”

“I hardly think the woman is a battle-ax.” Sam rubbed his brow. But that was a lie. Three hundred pounds if she was an ounce, Cloretta sported kinky gray curls that looked rubberized, wore hideous flowered polyester pantsuits and size-twelve white nursing oxfords. She topped it all with a perpetual scowl. Okay. So what if Cloretta was a bit of a stereotypical battle-ax nanny? “It wouldn’t hurt Meggie to come under a firm disciplinary hand for once.”

“Oh, really? What good would that do? Discipline or not, Meggie is always going to be age three, mentally.”

“But she doesn’t have to be a bratty, unmanagable age three,” Sam argued. He had long worried about the fact that Andrea spoiled their child to pieces, but he felt powerless to change that when he only had Meggie for short visits three times a year. But now, for the foreseeable future, their little terror Meggie was going to be his sole responsibility. He didn’t exactly have a ton of options here. “I’m calling Bob Barrett.”

Gayle stopped making the sandwich and clapped her hands once. “Wait! I know who we need!” She darted in front of Sam on his way to the built-in kitchen desk. “Christy Lane! Do you have a phone book?”

“Who?” Sam followed his mother as she turned and charged to the desk. The name Christy Lane had a familiar ring.

“The Pearsons’ nanny. That child is delightful! Very creative. Does origami and stuff like that with the Pearson children. Why, she actually gives those kids piano lessons.”

“Mom, Meggie doesn’t need piano lessons and origami. She needs constant management and close supervision.”

“Meggie has the right to have fun just like any other child. And from what I hear, Christy Lane is an absolute bundle of fun. Lou said she is adorable.” Gayle was rapidly opening and closing cabinet doors above the desk.

“Lou who?” Sam said.

“Trustworthy. Kind. Talented. Lou can’t say enough good things about her. The girl is a regular Mary Poppins.”

Finding Sam’s cupboards predictably bare, Gayle started opening the desk drawers. “Where on earth do you keep the phone books in this house?”

Sam wondered how his mother knew so much about this Christy Lane woman. “If this nanny is so special, won’t the Pearsons be determined to keep her?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. The Pearsons don’t actually need a nanny. All Amy Pearson does is shop. Ah-ha!” She pulled a Tulsa telephone directory out of a drawer.

“I swear, every time I pass through Dillard’s at Utica Square, there’s good old Amy,” Gayle muttered as she flipped the pages of the phone book. “Pawing through a sale table or examining some ridiculous little purse as if it were an archeological find. It wouldn’t hurt that woman to stay home with her children once in a while. And I saw Christy running a register at Wal-Mart the other day, so I’m thinking the Pearsons probably don’t employ her full-time. I’m sure she’d much rather work for you.”

Again, Sam wondered how his mother could possibly know what Christy Lane would rather do. “Mom—” he slapped his palm onto the open phone book “—I refuse to hire somebody else’s nanny right out from under them.”

“This—” Gayle yanked the phone book out, jerking Sam off balance “—is a family emergency. Besides, I’m not calling Christy Lane. I’m calling Lou Allen—” She flipped the phone book open.

“Lou who?” Sam asked again.

“Lou Allen. Amy’s mother? I’ll talk to Lou and then she’ll talk to Amy and then Amy will talk to Christy. It’s how these things get done—with a little finesse. Before I’m through with them, the Pearsons will feel like they’ve done a great kindness for us.” She glanced at his skeptical frown, then started punching numbers into the phone. “Sam. Your situation is dire, even if it is—” She paused with her finger above the phone and gave Sam’s face a searching look. “This is only temporary. Isn’t it?”

Sam didn’t know what to say. The thought that it might not be temporary had snaked across his mind, but he’d banished it. Andrea would get well. Andrea had to get well. She would get well and they would all return to their former lives—patched together and painful as those lives sometimes were.

How he longed at this moment for his former imperfect, sometimes hectic life. Drumming up enough projects and contracts to keep a business with twenty employees thriving. Keeping track of a handicapped daughter who lived all the way across the country. Staying at the office until the wee hours to finish the drafting on a project. Sometimes he got lonely, but now that his imperfect life was about to be torn to pieces, he decided it hadn’t been so bad, after all. He could visit the remote building sites whenever the mood struck. He could indulge in late-night dinners and drinks at the Polo Grill with his buddies. He never had any trouble arranging the occasional date with an attractive young woman. But now…now his solitary life was about to become totally disrupted. His mother’s meddling couldn’t possibly make it any worse.

“Okay,” he said, caving in, “call your friend Lou and ask her to see if Amy Pearson might be able to loan me this Christy Lane woman for a while. Let’s say just for the summer.”

“Yes. We can make it through the holiday weekend on our own.” Gayle Solomon was already punching in the final numbers. “And then Christy can start next week.”

CHRISTY LANE SMILED AT THE next customer. Smile. Smile. Smile. It’s a good thing she had perfected that little habit. The average patron at Wal-Mart seemed to be in sore need of a smiling face. Especially on a Memorial Day weekend when the crowds were crazy.

This next guy was a fat old sourpuss who whomped a very corroded battery onto the conveyor belt beside the shiny new one he obviously intended to buy. “I’ll want the battery deposit refund,” he announced to the whole store. “You got any idea how to do that?”

“Sorry. You’ll need to stand in our special battery-deposit-refund line on the other side of the store for that.”

His face shot red and his fat lips dropped open, ready to spew out a diatribe, no doubt, about how he’d already been standing in line for half an hour, or whatever. But quick as a flash, Christy tapped his rough hand with her pen. “Just kidding.” She winked. “Five bucks, coming right up.”

If her smile didn’t work, a little touch usually did. The old sourpuss grinned, visibly relaxed.

A little girl in the line started whining about needing to go to the bathroom, so Christy punched the necessary keys lightning fast. “Here you go.” She dismissed Mr. Sourpuss with his receipt, the refund and another quick smile.

Christy treated every customer special. Every customer got her full attention. Her friendly, laid-back style was deceptive. Christy’s line actually moved faster than the other checkers’.

The next lady, a slender, petite woman with stylishly bobbed graying hair, smiled and said hi. Christy could sum people up pretty fast, and this one was not your typical Wal-Mart maven. She wore an expensive-looking gray silk outfit with a tiny black alligator shoulder bag strapped across her chest. She was buying a bunch of kiddie stuff, and while Christy ran the items over the scanner, the woman leaned forward confidentially. In a strange, low voice she said, “Christy?”

Christy glanced up from her work with her habitual smile. Her name tag read Christina, so how did this woman know she preferred to be called Christy? “Do I know you, ma’am?”

“No, you don’t,” the lady said. “I’m a friend of Amy Pearson’s.”

“Oh!” Christy relaxed. “Yeah. Mrs. Pearson.” The beep of the scanner continued rhythmically. Some little kiddo was sure getting a load of stuff. Beginner coloring books, Barney videos, musical cassettes, preschool toys. Maybe she was shopping for two kids, because there were also socks and underwear big enough for a school-age child.

The woman leaned in a little more. “I called Amy a couple of days ago, asked her to give you my number. Did she?”

“Me? No. Not that I know of. But I haven’t been home enough to check my machine.” Between this Wal-Mart job at night, her part-time nanny job in the daytime and writing her songs, there was little time to take care of details at her own humble apartment. Lately, Christy had been praying for a breather.

Beep. Beep.

“I’m Gayle Solomon.”

Christy’s hand halted and so did the beeping. Solomon. As in Sam Solomon? This woman, though incredibly well preserved, certainly did look old enough to be his mother. Christy took a closer look. As a matter of fact, the deep-set dark blue eyes were amazingly similar.

“Do I know you?” Christy said again, although she already knew that the answer was no. If she had ever met Sam Solomon’s mother, she would have surely remembered it.

“No, you don’t know me, but I believe you went to high school with my son.”

Gayle Solomon decided to leave it at that. She didn’t add that she’d had a soft spot in her heart for Christy Lane ever since she delivered a new coat to Christy’s house on behalf of the Junior League. The beautiful, tiny blond child who had answered the door had caused Gayle’s breath to catch in her throat.

“Are you the coat lady?” the child had said with the sweetest little smile.

Gayle hadn’t been able to stop herself from staring. The delicate little girl before her could have been Lila’s twin.

Through the years, Gayle managed to find ways to encounter Christy over and over, always from a distance, always with a strange mixture of longing and curiosity and sorrow. At the Junior League vision screening in third grade, when it was determined that Christy desperately needed eyeglasses, Gayle quietly arranged to pay for the eyewear herself. She had seen the conditions at Christy’s home firsthand—there would be no money for glasses in that impoverished family of four children. Later, Gayle had come to the same conclusion about braces.

And years later, when the arts council was choosing its scholarship recipients, Gayle had squared Christy’s application in front of her on her mahogany desk and reminded herself to remain strictly impartial. Then she opened the folder and stared at Christy’s senior photo, at her pretty, round blue eyes, her sweet smile. She remembered thinking, Is this what Lila might have looked like?

Through the years, Gayle had managed to keep track of Christy’s progress, and her struggles. And through the years, Gayle had kept Christy close in her heart, wishing the best for her, as if she were her godchild or something. As if she were her lost daughter.

And now here they were, face-to-face in Wal-Mart. If only Amy Pearson had cooperated and allowed Gayle to do this behind the scenes, the way she’d done everything else for Christy Lane.

The beeping started again.

“Your son? Is his name Sam?” Christy smiled her famous smile again. But she imagined it looked just a touch uneasy now. She could never think about Sam Solomon without getting a little confused. She’d actually written a song about him once, to get him out of her system: “I Should Be Over You.” It never sold.

“Yes. My son’s name is Sam Solomon.” The beeping finished and Gayle swiped her card to pay. “Do you remember him?”

“Kinda.”

“I was wondering if I could talk to you when you get off work,” Gayle said while Christy finished the transaction.

“That won’t be until midnight.” Christy handed Gayle the charge slip to sign.

“That’s okay,” Gayle said while she scribbled her name. “Would you mind giving me a call then?”

Christy frowned. “What is this about?”

“My son needs a nanny.” The woman looked up, and Christy thought her eyes had grown sad. “For his little girl.” She fumbled in her slim shoulder bag.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for another nanny job.” As much as Christy loved kids, being a nanny hadn’t been as undemanding as she’d imagined. Originally, she had wanted to free up her mind and her time to concentrate on her songwriting, but she’d ended up funneling all of her creativity into her little charges. For her, this mindless Wal-Mart job was a better fit.

“My granddaughter is special,” the woman said as she withdrew a card from her purse. “Sam will pay you very well.”

To Christy’s astonishment, the woman snapped the business card onto the counter along with the signed charge slip. Christy separated the receipts, then picked up the card, examining it. It had unusual angular lettering slashed across thick gray paper.

The center read:

Solomon Architectural Masterpieces

Samuel Solomon, AIA, Restoration Architect

“I’m staying at my son’s house,” Gayle Solomon explained. “Call the number in the right-hand corner. It forwards automatically.”

The customer in line behind Mrs. Solomon shoved her goods toward the register with an impatient scowl. Christy smiled apologetically at the woman, remembering that the little child with her needed to go to the rest room. She started scanning the stuff as fast as she could.

“Okay,” she said as she worked, “I’ll call you.” Mrs. Solomon picked up her plastic bag, bulging with kids’ stuff, and they smiled at each other one last time.

Later Christy slipped the card into the pocket of her blue Wal-Mart vest. Life was so weird, she thought. Who would ever imagine that she’d be standing here, minding her own business, scanning stuff at Wal-Mart, and suddenly Sam Solomon’s mother would appear and say “Call me.”

Sam Solomon, the blond Adonis that Christy had fantasized about all through high school. Christy hadn’t thought about him in a long time. Well, at least she’d tried not to think about him. Christy had heard, somewhere, that Sam had gotten some sorority girl pregnant and they ended up married. End of fantasy.

But Sam Solomon remained stubbornly imbedded in Christy’s heart, in her dreams. And if she was honest, she’d have to admit that over the years he had become the haunting benchmark for all other men. And now she was going to work for him?