Читать книгу Marrying For A Mom - Deanna Talcott, DeAnna Talcott - Страница 11

Miss Timlin’s School of Dance was an institution in Melville. Parents sent their daughters to Miss Timlin’s for more than ballet or tap or jazz. They sent them because it was the proper thing to do. Young ladies who went through all twelve years of Miss Timlin’s carried themselves with a distinguishable grace. They possessed a presence that made their movements smooth, their voices confident and their smiles benign. It was no surprise to Whitney that Logan chose that for his daughter.

The foyer of Miss Timlin’s smelled of old wood and lemon oil. The interior of the great hall was cool, and the mahogany banister curving up to the second-story studio was polished to a satin finish. Whitney looked up, over her head. The antique chandelier, suspended from a tin ceiling, hung from a single tarnished chain. It swayed from the staccatoed thump of little feet on the floor above.

A receptionist greeted Whitney, indicating the session had already started, but that she was welcome to observe, provided she found a seat in the back. Quietly, the woman admonished.

Whitney turned to the steps, trying to imagine how Logan felt once a week, as he put his hand to the banister and climbed the magnificent old staircase. She gingerly put her palm across the top of the newel post, then tested the first stair tread. It groaned beneath her weight, like an old woman wearied from raising too many children.

Whitney took the stairs slowly, amazed that Logan had been within blocks of her for months—and yet their paths had never crossed.

At the top, Whitney paused on the landing and peered into the first open doorway. The studio, awash in pink and white leotards, warm-ups and floppy hair bows, teemed with discipline. Miss Timlin, sixty if she was a day, with her gaunt face resembling a road map of wrinkles, and her arms and legs as sinewy as chicken bones, stood sternly at the front of the room. She thumped her staff on the hardwood floor.

“Stretch, Melissa! Hannah! You are not to preen in front of the mirror, you are to reflect upon your position before it.” In tights and leotards, Miss Timlin’s paunchy middle and sagging breasts were a mere testament to her resilience.

A gaggle of mothers waited, on hard-backed chairs that had been pushed against the wall. Two held magazines, one a book; none of them scanned the copy. Another woman’s knitting needles copiously clacked together, but her gaze was riveted to what was happening on the dance floor.

Logan was the only man in the room, and he appeared impervious to be outnumbered by the opposite sex; his attention, too, was directed solely to the activity on the floor.

“Excuse me,” Whitney whispered, apologizing to the master knitter as she carefully stepped over a bag of turquoise yarn. She slipped into the chair next to Logan.

His head turned, his eyes rounding into irresistible crescents as he smiled. “Hello,” he mouthed. “Glad you could make it.”

The chairs were so close that Whitney inadvertently leaned against him as she sat, her shoulder brushing his. The flesh beneath his dress shirt was hard, warm…and definitely bothersome to her senses. Whitney tried to look unaffected. “I hope Miss Timlin doesn’t yell at me for making a disturbance,” she whispered, as the aura of his aftershave enveloped them.

“I’ll protect you if she does,” he whispered, sliding an arm to the back of her chair in order to give her more room.

Whitney’s smile was taut, self-conscious. Everyone around them had peeled their eyes off the dance floor, to notice that Logan Monroe had welcomed this newcomer.

Whump, whump. “At the bar, ladies!” Miss Timlin directed, wielding her staff like a shepherdess. “Now, please.”

A dozen ballerinas scampered to claim their place at the mirrored wall. Logan nudged Whitney. “That’s Amanda,” he said. “Second from the left.”

The child, with round blue eyes and fat cheeks, exuded a Shirley Templesque sparkle. She didn’t walk; she pranced. A riot of strawberry-blond curls, bound with a diaphanous pink-and-white scrunchie, and pulled to a curious angle at the top of her head, swung against her nape. She paused long enough to look over her shoulder at her father, then offered up an outrageous wink and an infectious smile.

A chuckle of appreciation rumbled through Logan’s chest. Women on either side of them snickered. “She has my comedic sense of timing,” he whispered.

“She’s darling.”

“She’s a ham. A darling ham. I know it. And I love it.”

Whitney drew a deep, amused breath, and settled back against Logan’s arm, to bask in the enthusiasm of a gregarious six-year-old. Another mind-bending matter also weighed heavily on her mind: What brand of cologne did Logan wear?

The lesson ended much too quickly. When it was over, Amanda went flying into Logan’s arms.

“Daddy! Did you see it? My plié?”

“I did.”

“Much better, don’t you think?”

“Without a doubt.” He cocked his head, to study her floppy ponytail, then awkwardly tried to pat it back into place. “We still didn’t get this hair thing right,” he muttered.

Amanda didn’t seem to care about that, but her expressive mouth drooped. “I wish Mommy would have been here to see it.”

“What?”

“My plié.”

“Oh.” An uncomfortable moment of silence passed, then Logan pulled her into his arms. “I think, Amanda, that she knows,” he said gently. “Mommy loved you so much that she’s never really far from you.” His forefinger tapped her chest. “She’s right here, you know…in your heart.”

Amanda nodded bravely, but her eyes were solemn, sad. Whitney’s heart wrenched.

“Miss Timlin said I might be a swan in the recital,” Amanda announced.

“Really?” Logan pulled back, feigning intrigue.

“If I have another good lesson,” she said, dipping her chin as she scooched, uninvited, onto his lap. “That’s what she said. The swans get to wear feathers in their hair, you know.”

“Ah. Well, either way, feathers or no feathers, I’m proud of you.” He gave Amanda a quick, congratulatory hug. “Amanda, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Amanda leaned forward. Her gaze, neither friendly nor hostile, unabashedly met Whitney’s. “Must be you,” she concluded. “You’re the only new person here.”

“Hi,” Whitney said, extending her hand. “I’m Whitney Bloom.”

Amanda briefly regarded her, then politely dragged her fingers against Whitney’s palm. The greeting was a curious mixture of an infant’s patty-cake and an adolescent’s high-five. “Like the flower?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” Whitney stopped, perplexed.

“You know. It’s a saying. Daddy always says we should bloom where we’re planted.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” Whitney lifted her eyes, to exchange an amused look with Logan. To her delight, he winked.

“He says it means we have to do our best, no matter where we are or what happens to us.”

“I see. Good advice.”

“You’re lucky to have a name like that,” Amanda went on. “Sometime I’m going to get a name I can keep, that’s what the social worker says. Of course, I wish I had a name like Daddy’s.”

Both Logan and Whitney blanched at Amanda’s unwitting reference to the muddled adoption.

“Do you have a little girl?” Amanda asked unexpectedly.

The question startled Whitney, and she pulled back, half-afraid of disappointing the child. “No,” she said slowly.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to have one?”

“Amanda,” Logan reproved. “That’s kind of a personal question, even for a chatterbox like you. We don’t ask—”

“No, that’s okay,” Whitney said quickly. “I don’t mind. Really.” She paused, wondering how much she could safely reveal. “Someday I’d love to have a little girl. More than anything. But I’m not married and, actually, I’d like to have a daddy for my little girl. I’d want to make sure she was safe, and happy, and loved by her mom and dad.”

“You don’t have a husband?”

An ominous feeling swept over Whitney, making her feel as if she was stepping into something as dangerous as quicksand. “No, not anymore.”

Amanda sat back, and thoughtfully regarded Whitney. “My daddy doesn’t have my mommy anymore, either.”

“I know, and I’m sorry to hear it.”

“She went to heaven,” Amanda matter-of-factly explained. “Where did your husband go?”

Whitney did a stutter-step over her answer. She certainly couldn’t explain to a six-year-old what had led to the breakup of her marriage. For, after Logan caught Kevin skimming money from the petty cash, and threatened to press charges, it had been the last straw for Whitney and her marriage had immediately crumbled. There had never been a blacker, more degrading moment in her life. She suddenly realized how she supported him while he wandered from one job to another, how she’d suffered through his rude behavior and insolence. It had come as an epiphany to her, to realize she had married Kevin for the wrong reasons—and Logan, whether he knew it or not, had had a hand in her decision to move on with her life.

Logan, seeing Whitney’s distress, flushed uncomfortably, then leaned over and sternly whispered in his daughter’s ear.

Suddenly a wry response struck Whitney, and she impulsively offered it up. “My husband,” she announced glibly, “went to California. With a cardboard suitcase, and a beat-up Chevrolet. And, let me tell you, he was a funny sight, going down the highway.”

Logan clamped his lips over an irrepressible smile, his eyes shuttering closed. Amanda’s lips wiggled, even as she looked genuinely confused.

When it hit Whitney, she was appalled at the jingle she’d just concocted. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t explain that very well. And I didn’t mean—” lowering her voice, she caught Logan’s eye “—to make it sound like…”

“It’s okay,” he mouthed over Amanda’s head. Then, he chuckled. “Whitney and I went to school together, Amanda, and for as long as I’ve known her, she has always put an interesting spin on life.”

Nagging embarrassment colored her cheeks, but Whitney took the plunge, determined to be honest with Amanda—and with Logan. “Amanda,” she said seriously, “my ex-husband wasn’t very happy—and he wanted things I didn’t want. So, how it ended up was that he left—and I stayed. We got a divorce because we couldn’t be happy together and agree on how to live our life.”

“Is he ever coming back?”

Whitney shook her head, afraid to look at Logan, afraid of what she’d see in his eyes. “No. Never.”

Amanda’s gaze never wavered. “Then you’re all alone, too. Like us.”

The candid observation knocked the wind out of Whitney. She steeled herself to show no emotion. “Single, and independent,” she confided, leaning closer to Amanda. “It’s not a bad thing for a woman to be. Honest.”

Amanda studied her, quizzically. Then she reached over and carefully touched the gold charm, the teddy bear that Whitney always wore. “I like that,” she said shyly.

“You do?” Whitney’s smile reached her eyes. “You know there’s a story behind that little bear.”

“There is?” Amanda’s eyes widened hopefully.

“Mmm-hmm. When I was a little girl, not much bigger than you, we had to move. We were kind of in a hurry, so my mom thought she’d leave some of our stuff and go back and get it later. But there was this mix-up, and everything got lost. All my books, my dolls, all my favorite things. They were all gone. Not one thing was left.”

Amanda’s face fell. “You must have felt awful,” she said soberly, dropping the charm, to awkwardly pat the back of Whitney’s hand.

“For a while I did. But then my gram, who had some old scraps of fabric, helped me make a rag doll. It turned out so wonderful that we started thinking we could make a teddy bear.” For emphasis, Whitney rolled her eyes. “Well, we had the craziest looking teddy bear you ever did see. My gram said it looked like something the cat dragged in.”

Amanda laughed, imagining.

“So my gram went out and bought me a brand-new teddy bear, and I thought it was the best present ever.” Whitney glanced up at Logan, but his eyes were brooding, dark. “I…” Whitney hesitated, “I have a little store not far from here, and everything in it has teddy bears on it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Amanda sat back, in the circle of Logan’s arms, considering. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Is that where you got the coloring books and stuff?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, at Whitney’s shop.”

“Maybe sometime, Amanda, you’d like to visit me there, and see all the teddy bear things.”

“Can we, Daddy? Do you think we can go?”

“What I think, gumdrop,” Logan said, carefully avoiding an answer, “is that you’ve pestered Whitney long enough. Come on. You ready for our weekly pilgrimage?”

“Can Whitney come? Please? This could be the day for the Lollapalooza.”

Logan pulled back, baffled. This was a first. Since Jill’s death, Amanda had been reluctant to invite people into her life. She didn’t warm up to people anymore, not as quickly as she used to. But, with Whitney, he saw vestiges of the old Amanda coming back.

“That’s a great idea, to invite Whitney,” he agreed. “Well?” he slid Whitney a sideways glance, and didn’t bother to explain. Everyone in Melville knew the Lollapalooza was the Ice Crème Shoppe’s 27 scoop, thirteen topping treat. “What do you say? Can you join us?”

“Oh…no, I’d feel like I was intruding…” If Whitney could have kicked herself all the way home, she would have. She’d automatically offered up the no, and passed up another rare opportunity to be with Logan.

“Whitney. C’mon. Join us,” he insisted. “The Lollapalooza may be a little too much, but maybe another time…for a special occasion…” He lifted one shoulder higher than the other, letting the suggestion hang.

“You’re goading me into playing hooky,” Whitney chided. “I have rent to pay and shelves to stock.”

“And you work too hard. You’re too dedicated.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost closing time anyway. A four o’clock sundae is the perfect way to end the day and spoil your supper.”

Whitney considered supper. It would be another single serving size eaten in front of the TV.

“My treat,” Logan persuaded as Amanda slipped off his lap.

“They have Chocoholics Anonymous,” Amanda said, balancing on one foot as she wiggled the other bare one into a sandal. “When I don’t get that, I get Mississippi Sludge.”

Whitney raised an eyebrow, and squelched a smile over Amanda’s Mithithippi Thludge lisp. “Mmm. Sounds yummy.”

“Daddy says I’m a chocolate freak.”

“A trait I share,” Whitney admitted. “I never ever pass up chocolate.”

Logan offered Amanda an oversize shirt to slip over her tights and leotards. The shirt, though clean, looked like it had spent the last few weeks forgotten in the bottom of the dryer. “I take it that’s a yes,” Logan said, as he helped Amanda turn the sleeve right side out.

“Okay. I can’t refuse. Besides, the day’s shot anyway.”

Logan’s expression grew pensive, thoughtful. Then he looked at her, and winked. “Somehow, I get the impression it’s just beginning.”

The Ice Crème Shoppe was rocking. A group of teenagers were celebrating a sixteenth birthday and the jukebox was cranked up full-blast. Amanda, who knew two of the teens as baby-sitters, didn’t miss a trick. She was elbow to elbow with them, oohing and aahing as the guest of honor opened her presents.

Seeing she was occupied, Whitney extracted the flyers on the teddy bears and offered them to Logan. They were in a circular back booth, isolated and protected from the noisy crowd. “Here. Look at these. See what you think.”

He studied the hot pink flyers, then stopped at the full page advertisement she’d torn from a collector’s catalog.

Fascinated by Logan’s intensity, Whitney couldn’t imagine ever tiring of his focus, his concentration. He’d always been like that. In high school chemistry, Logan could crack jokes one minute, then buckle down and become absorbed in the most complicated lab experiment the next. That part of him had always intrigued her.

“Whitney. I don’t think…this is quite what…They aren’t right.” He shook his head. “How close are they?”

“Not very.”

A sinking feeling washed over Whitney. She’d spent three grueling days hunting for this teddy bear, and she knew, from what Logan said, time was short. “Logan,” she said carefully, “this could take a while.”

He folded up the papers and reluctantly handed them back to her. “I never imagined the world had gone teddy bear crazy. I thought I’d just get another one…for old time’s sake—or a fresh start. For her, you know.” He shrugged, trying to make it look like it didn’t matter. His gaze narrowed, the blue color almost disappearing as he looked over to Amanda, who, at the player piano, sang along with the crowd.

Whitney watched Amanda from the corner of her eye. “Logan, why don’t you bring her over to my shop and let her look at the teddy bears? Maybe she’ll find something she likes. We could do it later tonight, or…” She let the words trail off, lifting her shoulders.

Logan tapped his thumb against the table’s edge, momentarily debating. “I can’t tonight. I’ve got a seven o’clock appointment for a closing.”

Whitney chose to ignore his abrupt tone. “Maybe another time?”

A shadow crossed his handsome features. “Maybe.”

Whitney knew it would never happen. Not knowing what to say, she feigned interest in all the activity around her, swiping at the perspiration on her water glass.

Logan sighed. “You have to understand, Whit, that I’m being selfish about this. I don’t want her to just pick out another toy…it means more to me than that.”

“I understand.”

The strains of “Happy Birthday to you,” faded, then someone tacked on a falsetto version of “and we do…ooo mean you.”

“This is stupid. How the hell can you replace something like that?”

Logan’s angry words sent chills through Whitney; she knew he wasn’t talking about the teddy bear; he was talking about Amanda. When she was six, Whitney would have crawled over hot coals and bargained with the devil to have a daddy like that.

“You can’t, Logan,” she said softly. “You can’t replace this wonderful, precious child you’ve raised. But…if it helps…I’ll find you the bear. I promise.”

“Thanks. I…” Logan’s attention remained on the partygoers clustered around the piano. Then, with a burst of energy that startled Whitney, he swiveled on the bench beside her, and tossed an arm around her shoulders.

Whitney went weak, feeling too much of him: the warmth, the bone and sinew. She shivered, her mind fast-forwarding to recount how many times he’d thrown an arm around her in high school. Three? Four? She’d cherished every moment of his attention, and every time he made her feel special, she had fallen a little bit more in love with him.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate all you’re doing,” he said, leaning closer and making the words go fuzzy against her ear. “I do.”

Whitney’s eyes involuntarily closed, and she savored the inexplicable whisper of sexual attraction. “You baffle me,” she said without thinking.

“What?” He absently rolled his thumb over the shoulder seam of her sweater. “Why?” he probed.

Whitney opened her eyes, aware Logan’s face was only inches from hers. “Because you have it all, Logan. You own a successful company, you have a lovely home, and a standing in the community. Friends. Family. And yet your priority seems to be keeping your little family together.”

His thumb stopped stroking the ridge of her shoulder seam. “Why should that surprise you?”

“Because this is your opportunity to walk away without any responsibility.”

“You think I’m the kind of man who would do that?”

“Most men would. I’ve known men who’ve walked away for a whole lot less.” He stared at her, the pressure on her shoulder going heavy.

“That’s what doesn’t make sense to me. Because you could—and you don’t.”

“Then you’ve known the wrong kind of men, Whitney. I guess you’ve known men who wanted the easy way out.”

Whitney grimaced, thinking Logan’s appraisal of her ex-husband must be somewhere between a cad and a cheat. What must he think of her for picking him?

“I’ve never been a man who took—or even wanted—the easy way out.” Logan studied her guarded reaction, and realized he’d delved a little too deeply. Her mouth wobbled—just enough to make the words kissable and comforting simultaneously roll through his head. Her eyes had a spark of fear, of vulnerability; one he wanted to douse and soothe. “Whitney?” he asked.

She nodded, but wouldn’t look at him. “Hey. I could have used you as a role model,” she said tremulously. “You know, the first man in my life, my dad, wasn’t ever around. Not ever. I remember my mom used to joke, and refer to him as the ‘phantom,’ the guy who simply visited in the middle of the night.” She hesitated. “And I guess I don’t have to tell you about my ex. He was a piece of work, wasn’t he?”

Empathy washed through Logan, and he shook his head, imagining the kind of verbal abuse she’d endured. “Whitney,” he said finally, “I know the men in your life left a lasting impression, but…” His hand strayed to her temple, to push back a wispy strand of her summer-blond hair and hook it behind her ear. “I’d like to leave one, too. Just a different one.”

“Logan—”

“No, listen. You’ve gone out of your way for me over this bear thing. If you need something, ever, you can always count on me. Okay?” he asked gently, his fingertips drifting down the smooth column of her neck before loosely settling on her shoulders. He leaned toward her, and without waiting for an answer, he impulsively brushed his lips against Whitney’s temple.

Against the side of his mouth he felt her eyelashes flutter, and they left tingly butterfly kisses in their wake. Her skin was so soft, and her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo. His lips inched down and he found himself spiraling into a vortex of male need as his mouth hovered near hers.

Yet the moment he felt her tremble, he pulled away.

Her eyes were huge and round, and filled with surprise and trepidation. “That,” she said, her voice jumping off track, “is a count-on-me kiss?”

For a moment Logan was so appalled at what he’d just done—in the middle of the Ice Crème Shoppe, no less—he couldn’t answer. What had gotten into him? Being that familiar with Whitney Bloom? “No, it’s a—” he swallowed “—a thank-you.”

Whitney’s jaw jutted slightly forward, as if she was hurt, and the silvery-white scar quivered as she lifted her chin. The brilliant color of her dark eyes faded between narrowed lids. “I don’t need that kind of a thank-you, Logan,” she said. “Two words will do it.”