Читать книгу No Ordinary Child - Darlene Graham - Страница 9

CHRISTY SURVEYED THE STARK interior of Sam Solomon’s home with a mixture of dread and awe. She was actually going to be Sam Solomon’s nanny, in Sam Solomon’s house.

She wasn’t exactly sure how that had happened, except that Mrs. Solomon—Gayle, the woman kept insisting—had been very persuasive. She had shown Christy pictures of Sam’s beautiful daughter, and Christy had recognized Sam in the child’s wide blue eyes. And then when the grandmother had told Christy about the child’s disabilities, about the fact that this darling child’s mother was gravely ill, Christy’s heart had melted.

So, here she was.

The outside of the arts-and-craft-style house in this historic Tulsa neighborhood had actually looked inviting. But the inside…

Mrs. Solomon had gone upstairs to get the child, Meggie, and so Christy took a moment to explore the surroundings before they got down to business.

Her mama always said you could tell if a person was happy or not by looking at their home. And from the looks of this place, Sam Solomon was not a happy man. His home looked as cold as the lobby of a bank.

The more she looked, the more she wondered if she’d made a huge mistake. What kind of man lived in such a home? Uptight? Austere? Controlling? Cold?

So much black. So much black that even the banks of bare mullioned windows failed to brighten the place. Even the floor where she stood was painted black. Everything seemed dark, shiny…slick. The man actually had an entire wall of his foyer covered in smoky mirrors.

But Christy was adaptable, she had proved that. Flexible. Creative. Sunny and positive under any circumstances. The fact that her new charge had been brain-damaged at birth did not deter Christy in the least. But this house…that was another story.

A little girl was living here? Already Christy was formulating plans to get the child out of this place as much as possible.

She peeked around the corner into the living room. It was spacious, airy. Really high ceilings. At least the walls in here were painted off-white. But still, starkness prevailed. Black marble fireplace. Black leather couch. A big old painting with slashes of hot red, yellow and lavender in birdlike shapes. As her eyes traveled over it, she realized the thing spoke to her on some level. She supposed she could live peaceably with the painting, at least. She really liked art.

Oh.

Oh, my.

In an alcove of windows draped in gray velvet gleamed the most gorgeous black-lacquer grand piano Christy had ever seen.

She went to the keyboard as if drawn forth in a Sleeping Beauty-like trance.

She slid onto the bench and plucked a few keys with her delicate fingers. The notes resonated, perfectly tuned, like sounds from heaven. Magnificent! This piano would surely be her salvation in this bleak house. Impulsively, she drifted into a few bars from Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major. Then she cut loose, momentarily filling the barren room with trilling sounds of magical notes.

“Hello,” a man’s voice called above the music.

She swiveled her head with her fingertips guiltily poised on the keys. “Hi,” she said, a little breathless. He’d startled her.

“You must be Christy Lane,” he said as she straightened and stood. “Mother said that you play.”

Christy examined the man—a tall, blond man with Nordic good looks—leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. He wore tasseled loafers and a smooth black mock turtleneck tucked into sharply creased chinos. Were it not for his wild mane of caramel-and-cream hair, his appearance would be as stark and forbidding as his house.

“Or did I see that on your résumé?” He slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and perused the piece of paper in his hand.

He was still in great shape, but it was a surprise to see Sam the Athlete in reading glasses. She supposed since he was an architect he spent a lot of time at the computer.

“I love music,” she said. “This is a wonderful piano. Do you play?”

“No. I got a good deal on it and thought it looked great in the alcove.”

“I hope it’s okay that I tried it out.” She trailed her fingers over the keyboard. She felt a little self-conscious about playing Sam Solomon’s piano before she’d even been introduced to him. But his mother had said he was out of town, up at some place called Moonlight Grove. She thought about explaining herself. But the explanation would be long and complicated. She certainly couldn’t tell her new employer how she had chosen to subsist in a series of undemanding jobs so that she could pour her creativity into her music. “You must be Sam Solomon.”

She marched toward him with her hand stuck out. As she came closer, she suspected that he didn’t remember her. It was important to make a good first impression, if, in fact, this was Sam Solomon’s first impression of her. She hoped to goodness it was. She didn’t enjoy being associated with her sad past.

For one protracted second he held her hand too tightly, then dropped it. “Yes. I’m Sam Solomon.”

“Yes. You’re Meggie’s daddy.”

From up the stairs a child’s protesting wail curled through the house.

Christy watched Sam Solomon wince and run his fingers through that thick chamois-colored hair and thought, This man looks stressed.

Hmm.

“Sounds like Meggie’s having a bad day,” he said. “She didn’t want to come to Oklahoma. And she didn’t get to bed until very late last night.”

“I know. Your mom told me.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting into, Christy—may I call you Christy?”

“Sure. Listen, Sam—may I call you Sam?—don’t worry about me. I’ve been a nanny to some world-class brats. And I’ve also been a waitress, a Merry Maid, a vet’s assistant and, until yesterday—” she made a wry little grimace “—I was a checker at the local Wal-Mart. I think I’m up to this job.”

“But do you have any experience with mentally challenged children?”

The wailing broke into one long, eardrum-piercing shriek. Miss Meggie was apparently giving her granny hell.

“No. But there are worse things. And I like to think I’m patient and that I am very intuitive about how to handle people.” The shrieking upstairs stopped abruptly. “And, Mr. Solomon? Sam?” She smiled at him. “I love kids, even the kind that scream at you.”

Gayle Solomon burst into the room then, looking careworn and surprised to see her son. “Sam! What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

Mrs. Solomon gave him an irked look. “You know what I mean. I thought you went out to Moonlight Grove.”

“I just popped in for lunch. I wanted to see how the new nanny was working out.”

Mrs. Solomon raked her silver hair back with the exact same gesture her son had used. Christy wondered if either one was aware of the similarity. With her fingers still in her hair, the woman shot an apologetic glance at Christy. “Yes. Well, I’m afraid we haven’t even gotten acquainted yet. Christy just got here.”

“We introduced ourselves,” Sam said.

“And I’ve already played a little Chopin for him,” Christy added brightly. She smiled at her little joke. But neither of the Solomons did. Oh, boy. This family was going to be so much fun.

“Meggie won’t come downstairs.” Gayle Solomon remained tense as she explained the situation to Sam. “Sometimes, with Meggie,” she explained, turning toward Christy, trying belatedly to compose her face in a smile, “patience is required. Sometimes it’s better to just let her decide things for herself.”

Christy seriously doubted that. Easier, maybe, but not better. Behind his mother, she saw Sam Solomon roll his eyes.

“Why don’t both of you have a seat.” He indicated the couch across the room. Then he disappeared into the foyer. He returned carrying a briefcase.

They settled onto the leather furniture—Mrs. Solomon sinking into an overstuffed armchair, leaving Sam and Christy to position themselves uneasily, side by side, on the low couch.

Sam reached into the briefcase and pulled out some papers, then he reached in front of Christy to lay them on the glass-topped coffee table. When his shoulder came near hers she felt a wave of attraction. In high school, they had never gotten this close except for that one time when they’d bumped shoulder to chest between class periods. The hallways of Central High were so overcrowded that no one ever excused themselves in the jostling. Except Sam. He’d looked straight into Christy’s eyes and said, “’Scuse me.” She had felt the impact of that incident for days. Now the memory came over her like a spell. He even smelled the same. Overwhelmingly clean and fresh and strongly masculine.

She forced herself to concentrate on the papers. Before her was an actual contract. He was thorough, she’d give him that. After they agreed on the terms and signed the thing, Mrs. Solomon scurried into the kitchen to make lunch.

“You realize I have hired you to take over for my mother,” Sam explained after his mother was gone. “Which won’t be easy. Mom’s a dynamo who’d rather do things herself than turn matters over to somebody else. She’s already made arrangements to continue Meggie’s speech therapy here in Tulsa.” He raised an eyebrow, skewering Christy with an assessing blue-eyed gaze. “She’s also a hoverer.”

“I suppose that’s natural when you have a granddaughter with disabilities.”

“Yeah. Well. My mom was a control freak long before Meggie arrived. The truth is, my daughter can be a holy terror. So much so that hardly anyone can stand to be around her.”

Christy wondered if that included the child’s own father. “How sad.” She did not make a habit of glossing over the truth. And if what Sam Solomon had just said was true, it was, indeed, sad. There was no other word for it.

“I take it you haven’t met my daughter yet.”

Christy smiled and she shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard her.”

Again, he didn’t smile.

Goodness. Maybe she was losing her touch.

“I’m going up to try to reason with Meggie now. Want to come?”

“Sure.”

AS SOON AS THEY OPENED THE door of a sunny upstairs bedroom, Christy sensed that here was big trouble. The child, who was jumping in the middle of her rumpled bed, leapt off of it and into her father’s arms, almost knocking the big man over.

“Dad-dee,” she whined as he hitched her up over his hip, “I don’t want no nandy!” She glared at Christy, who stood a discreet distance away, just inside the doorway.

“Now, Meggie,” Sam chided. “Christy seems nice.”

Christy smiled, opened her mouth to introduce herself, but the child shrieked, “I don’t want that nandy!” From behind a wavy fringe of bangs, she skewered Christy with intense navy-blue eyes. A dominant Solomon trait, Christy decided.

Sam chastised his daughter again. “Meggie!”

“It’s okay, Sam,” Christy said mildly. “Is this your new room, Meggie?” She stepped inside.

Though the underlying decor was minimalist like the rest of the house—mullioned windows with white plantation shutters covering them, black lacquered floor, mission furniture—the childish debris made it look as if a tornado had just passed through. And the child in Sam Solomon’s arms looked as if she had been at the center of that storm.

She was lanky, painfully thin, actually, still wearing rumpled pajamas at noon, and her wild, frizzy blond hair was tangled and matted. She buried her head under her father’s chin and continued to regard Christy with an openly hostile stare.

Christy stepped farther into the room and bent to pick up a stuffed brown bear that had all the threadbare markings of being loved to pieces.

“Who’s this?” She raised her eyebrows at Meggie.

“Mr. Bear,” Meggie answered uncertainly.

“Mr. Bear—” Christy regarded the impassive stitched face “—did you make a mess of this room?”

Meggie giggled.

Sam Solomon looked mildly astonished.

Watching Christy’s eyes as she took in the child’s face, then her hair, Sam said, “Meggie, let Daddy brush your hair so we can all go down and have a nice lunch now.”

“No!” Meggie screamed, and struck her father’s shoulder with her skinny fist. “I don’t wanna comb my hair.”

“Meggie, stop that.” Sam clutched her thin little fingers. “You may not hit Daddy.”

“No!” Meggie repeated, and pummeled his shoulder with three more thumps. “I don’t wanna eat no yucky old lunch. I want IckDonald’s.”

Christy only smiled. “Ooh,” she cooed in a soft, low voice as she sidled farther into the room. “I love McDonald’s. Big Macs and chicken nuggets and ooey, gooey sundaes.”

“Me, too!” Meggie reared back from her father, suddenly distracted. With obvious relief, he dropped his daughter to her feet. “And fench fies.” The child’s eyes lit up as she walked toward Christy and stuck her thumb into her mouth with an expectant look.

Christy reached out and smoothed back the child’s untidy hair, then gently withdrew the little thumb. At her touch the poor little baby actually blinked in surprise, then, predictably, became as docile as a kitten. Christy, who loved to calm people with her touch, tucked a strand of hair behind Meggie’s ear.

“Well, then,” Christy crooned as she stroked Meggie’s hair back, “maybe we can have McDonald’s for supper…to celebrate my first day with you in your house.”

At first Meggie only nodded docilely, but then her eyes snapped and she jerked away. “This ain’t not my house.”

Christy could fully understand the child’s resistance to calling this sterile black box “home.” Why hadn’t the father done more to make this vulnerable child comfortable? But it was too late—or perhaps too soon—to change that now, and Christy had her ways of smoothing over unpleasant things that couldn’t be helped.

“So. McDonald’s for dinner. Would that be okay?” Christy addressed the question to Sam, who didn’t answer immediately because he was staring at Meggie, who was now actually leaning toward Christy. “I guess so,” he said absently. “Sure.”

“All right. Now.” Using a light touch, Christy fanned out Meggie’s tangled hair. “Let’s brush your hair until it’s all pretty and then get dressed in something nice so we can see what kind of delicious surprise Nonnie has fixed for our lunch. I’m starving!”

“Me, too!” Meggie echoed.

“Okay. Then let’s find your brush.”

Again, Sam stared at his daughter as she lurched around the room, searching high and low in the mess. Then he stared at this strange new person that had invaded his home like a pixie sprinkling fairy dust. She was bent at the waist, peeking under the bedskirt. Her shapeless clothes did little to disguise her curvy figure.

When he had paused in the doorway downstairs, listening to the music, studying the tiny woman perched at his piano playing with such expert energy, he had experienced a moment of disorientation. Watching her now, he realized he should never have trusted his mother’s judgment. He should have called Bob Barrett and tracked down the dependable, matronly Mrs. Waddle on his own. This little imp of a woman before him was so beautiful that she could have passed for a model, except—his gaze traveled down over her garish outfit—she was dressed like a…well, there was no other word for it…like a clown.

Her masses of curly light-blond hair were smashed under a wide, hot-pink polka-dot scarf, which was tied behind one ear in a big floppy bow. She wore a long, flowered skirt with a baggy denim shirt atop it, buttoned—strangely—right up to her neck. The shirt was cinched at the waist with another scarf, this one actually decorated with fringe and sequins. Striped socks peeked out over ankle-high red boots. The overall effect was definitely of a clown, perhaps a slightly demented one, recently escaped from the circus.

But when Sam had taken Christy Lane’s hand and looked into her impossibly blue eyes, he had experienced the most amazing sensation. An electric thrill, as they say. No, it was much more than that. He felt an unmistakable lightness somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. At the same time, he had been seized by a sudden urge to hold tight to that tiny warm hand.

Weird. He’d never felt anything quite like it.

“I can’t fine it!” Meggie whined, ready to give up.

“Let’s keep looking,” the nanny said. “Nonnie’s waiting.”

How had this woman already discovered that Meggie called his mother Nonnie? It was the kind of small detail that mattered, that would win over Meggie’s childish heart—that apparently already had. As he squinted at Christy Lane’s backside, he tried to figure out why she seemed so familiar. Realizing what he was doing, he cleared his throat and looked away. It didn’t matter. What mattered was, in less than five minutes, this impish woman had gotten through to Meggie. Sam felt a pang of something like jealousy as Meggie called out, “I fine it, Christy!” with a note of cheery cooperation that he had never heard from his own daughter.

He watched in utter disbelief as Meggie fairly skipped across the room, retrieved her brush from the rumpled bed and proudly presented it to Christy Lane.