Читать книгу A Father for Zach - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 11

On Friday, as Nathan tapped the lid closed on the can containing the soft-ochre–colored paint Catherine had chosen for the psychedelic room, Zach planted his chubby hands on his hips and inspected the transformed space.

“This looks real good, Nathan.”

Standing, he did his own survey. And came to the same conclusion. Although the flooring still needed to be laid, the rest of the room was ready for decorating.

“Thanks, champ. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

A glow suffused the little boy’s face. “I like helping. Mom says I’m a good helper.”

“She’s right. I’m going to run over to the house and tell her I’m leaving, okay?”

“Okay. You want me to put your tools back in your toolbox while you’re gone?”

Nathan scanned the room. One of his ground rules was that Zach wasn’t to touch any tool without asking permission. And the little boy had followed it to the letter. But nothing lethal was lying around. Just a hammer, a paint-can opener and a couple of screwdrivers. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As he exited the room, Nathan was pleased by the progress he’d made during his first week on the job—both with the room and with his employer. She’d begun to relax around him. To hover less. To trust him with Zach. That meant a lot. As did the routine they’d all fallen into of sharing their lunch at a glass-topped wicker table in the breezeway. Their conversation was always impersonal, focused mostly on the renovation, but the normalcy of it, and the sense of acceptance he felt, were a balm to his soul.

Crossing the breezeway, he could see Catherine through the screen door. She was angled away from him, arms akimbo, shoulders taut. As he approached, he heard her expel a frustrated breath before setting a jar on the counter.

He tapped on the door. “Looks like round one went to the jar.”

She twisted toward him and gave a rueful shrug. “Try round three. I think I’m down for the count.”

“Would you like me to give it a try?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“May I?” He gestured to the door. She hadn’t asked him in since the day she’d gotten sick, and though her wary manner was softening, he didn’t want to do anything to make her nervous.

“Sure.”

She picked up the jar and met him halfway across the room, limping a little less than she had on Monday.

“How are the toes today?” He took the jar of spaghetti sauce as he asked the question.

“The swelling has gone down, and they don’t hurt as much. Keeping them elevated helps a lot. But I don’t like sitting around.”

That didn’t surprise him. Catherine struck him as a take-charge, get-it-done kind of woman.

He took a firm grip on the lid, preparing to give it a strong twist. “Well, maybe by next week you…”

His stopped midsentence as the lid came off far more easily than he expected and spaghetti sauce spewed all over the front of his gray T-shirt, dripping onto the floor at his feet.

Catherine gave a little shriek and took a quick step back.

Recovering from his surprise, Nathan set the jar on the counter and sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. I think I’m wearing your dinner. If you have a dish towel, I’ll…”

Behind him, the screen door opened. “Hey, Mom, I heard you yell. What…”

As Nathan swiveled toward Zach, the little boy froze. In the space of a few heartbeats, every ounce of color drained from his face and he began to shake.

Alarmed, Nathan took a step toward him. “Hey, champ, it’s okay.”

The boy jerked back, his breath coming in shallow puffs.

“Oh, God!”

Nathan heard Catherine’s murmured, anguished comment a second before she brushed past him, headed for her son. Wincing as she dropped to one knee in front of him, she pulled him close.

“I’m here, Zach. Hold on to me. It’s okay. Nathan spilled some spaghetti sauce on his T-shirt. That’s all. It’s just spaghetti sauce. I guess we’ll have to eat something else for dinner, huh? How does pizza sound? Would you like that?”

No response. The little boy continued to shake, his eyes glazed.

Nathan had no idea what was going on. Why was Zach so upset?

But that question could wait. At the moment, he was more interested in comforting a traumatized little boy and his frantic mother.

Stripping off the stained T-shirt that had apparently caused Zach’s distress, he used it to wipe up the spaghetti sauce on the floor, then tossed it into the sink before joining the duo huddled near the screen door.

“What can I do to help, Mrs. Walker?”

She shook her head, still clinging to her son. “Nothing. I just need to calm him down before he hyperventilates.” She backed off a bit to examine the boy’s face. “Zach, honey, it’s okay. Everybody’s fine.” She stroked his hair, his cheeks, his hands as she spoke. “Nathan’s not hurt. He’s right here.”

Nathan dropped to their level, balancing on the balls of his feet. Following his instincts, he cocooned one of Zach’s hands in his, his stomach contracting at the child’s obvious terror. He could feel Catherine quivering beside him as well, fighting her own panic. “Hey, champ, did you finish putting away all the tools?” He kept his voice gentle, soothing—the way he wished an understanding adult would have talked him through his own childhood traumas.

No response.

He tried again.

“I was thinking that next week you could help me paint, if your mom says it’s okay. Do you know how to paint?”

A flicker of awareness dawned in the child’s blue eyes, the glaze dissipating slightly.

“It’s okay with me if you want to help Nathan paint, Zach.” Catherine jumped in, following his lead. “I might join you myself. Maybe we could have a painting party. Would you like that?”

Zach blinked. Sucked in a sharp breath. Then he gripped Nathan’s hand and stared at him wide-eyed. “I saw blood.”

His quavery words jolted Zach.

“No, honey. It was spaghetti sauce.” Catherine ran her fingers through his fine blond hair. “Nathan spilled it all over his shirt. Like you spilled that jar of applesauce when we first moved here, remember? But it’s all cleaned up now. And I think we’ll have pizza for dinner instead. Would you like that?”

A shudder passed through Zach and he tightened his grip on Nathan’s hand, exhibiting surprising strength for such a little thing. “Will you stay?”

Nathan deferred to Catherine with a silent look.

Unlike the day of the lunch invitation, she didn’t hesitate. “If you can, it would help.”

He didn’t hesitate, either. “I’ll stay.”

“Thanks.” Her grateful gaze met his for a brief second before she reached for Zach, who was still way too pale. “How about you lie down for a few minutes while I get the pizza ready?”

For once he didn’t argue. But instead of folding himself into his mother’s embrace, he lifted his arms to Nathan. “Will you carry me?”

Taken aback, Nathan checked with Catherine again.

“If you don’t mind. It will help reassure him you’re okay,” she said softly.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I don’t mind in the least.”

Wrapping his arms around Zach, he hoisted the boy onto his hip and stood, then extended a hand to Catherine. “I bet your toes didn’t appreciate that position.”

With a slight grimace, she accepted his hand and rose. “They’ll be okay. Let me show you to Zach’s room.”

She led the way down the hall, limping more than she had since early in the week. And she took the stairs to the second floor very slowly.

Meaning she was hurting a lot more than she’d admitted.

The little boy shifted in his arms, emitting a soft sigh, and nestled closer to his heart. Nathan’s throat constricted as he stroked a comforting hand over Zach’s back. In his whole life, he’d never held a child. But the boy felt right in his arms. And good.

Catherine paused to catch her breath on the landing of the dormered second floor, and he took the opportunity to get the lay of the land. It looked like the house had three bedrooms—a large master bedroom on his right, crammed with unopened boxes and furniture, and two smaller bedrooms on the left. The closest one contained a twin bed, and he started toward it.

“No…Zach’s room is next door, at the back of the house,” Catherine corrected him.

He gave the first room a quick inspection before continuing on. In addition to a twin bed, it contained a small dresser, chest, nightstand and straight chair. The bare walls were in desperate need of paint, the windows were curtainless, and the scuffed hardwood floor cried out for refinishing.

Zach’s assessment a few days ago of the state of the main house had been right on.

Yuck.

The second floor was bad. And while he hadn’t seen much of the first floor, the kitchen spoke volumes. The appliances were outdated, the flooring was cracked and the Formica countertop was chipped.

He couldn’t imagine anyone who’d been an interior decorator living in this environment.

And interior decorator or not, Catherine deserved better.

“You can set him on the bed, Nathan.”

Cradling Zach’s head, he eased through the door to the adjacent room.

Once over the threshold, he stopped in surprise. Not only was this room bigger than Catherine’s, it had been fully decorated—and with an imaginative hand. The walls were painted a cheery yellow, and a large throw rug featuring a parade of animals in primary colors hid much of the worn hardwood floor. Canvas swags at the windows were draped over stuffed giraffe heads, and the bedspread was done in a zebra pattern. Throw pillows shaped like safari hats were propped against the head-board, and a child-height coat rack was topped by silk palm leaves.