Читать книгу The Wrong Man - Laura Abbot - Страница 8

“WEEZER!” Libby greeted the leather-skinned woman with the single silver braid of hair who was walking toward her classroom. Her legs were encased in worn jeans, her feet clad in knee-high moccasins, and around the neck of her colorful western shirt, she wore a thong of beads, stones and feathers. But it was Louise McCann’s dark eyes and wrinkle-encased smile that captivated people. A member of the Blackfeet tribe, the longtime widow owned the Kodiak Café, a Whitefish institution.

“Greetings, little one. Ready for me?”

Libby moved into the hall. “Oh my, yes. The kids can’t wait.”

“With the Christmas vacation so close, I imagine they’re more restless than usual.”

Libby rolled her eyes. “Remember that Super Bowl commercial about herding cats? You get the picture.” Grinning, she ushered Weezer into her classroom. “Trust me, you’re a godsend.”

“I’m no savior, just a storyteller.” Weezer moved to the back wall to examine the construction-paper Santa Claus figures plastered there. “Are you going home to Muskogee for Christmas?”

Home? “No. My stepfather is staying in D.C., and I’m not excited about presenting him with a holiday photo op.” Weezer turned to face her, but said nothing. Libby knew people didn’t understand why she avoided her stepfather, the Honorable Vernon G. Belton, United States senator from Oklahoma. But neither Washington, D.C., nor Muskogee, Oklahoma, had been home for a long, long time. And “Daddy” Belton, as he’d insisted she call him after he married her mother, had always been far more interested in politics than in his albatross of a stepdaughter.

“We’re having a community Christmas dinner at the café. You could pull up a chair with us.”

“Thanks, but I’ve been invited to the Traverses’.” Libby warmed at the thought. She’d spent Thanksgiving there, too, surrounded by Doug’s parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. Norman Rockwell couldn’t begin to do justice to the gathering.

“I’m glad. You won’t be alone, then.”

Weezer didn’t have to complete the thought. Like you were that awful Christmas twelve years ago. Libby willed away the painful memory, then cupped her ear. “Hark! Is that the prancing and pawing of little feet?”

In trooped the second-graders, flushed from recess, and the room filled with excited chatter and the odor of damp mittens. “Weezer, will you tell us about Brother Moose?” “No, I wanna hear ’bout Winter Wolf.” The children hurriedly removed their coats and boots, then clustered around the old woman, who calmed them with one raised hand and a softly spoken, “Once, many moons past, Old Man made…”

Libby sank into her desk chair, drawn into the legend by the gentle cadence of Weezer’s voice, the expressive gestures of her hands and the sense of something ancient, unchanging and enduring. She envied the woman her roots and traditions.

What were her own legacies? Libby closed her eyes, weariness suddenly overcoming her. They didn’t bear thinking about.

TRENT ROLLED OUT of the unfamiliar bed and moved stealthily to the window. He glanced back at the other twin bed where Kylie slept, one hand curled beneath her chin, the other clutching a white plush polar bear with a red plaid neck scarf. Though it was still dark, a glaring street lamp had awakened him from a restless sleep.

The Chisholms had invited Kylie and him to spend the night of Christmas Eve with them. Holidays were for family, they had insisted. Trent could hardly refuse. As the day of their departure for Whitefish neared, his in-laws had become increasingly protective of Kylie, and while Gus maintained a stiff upper lip, Georgia, saying little, targeted Trent with accusing eyes. In fairness, he could hardly blame them. Since Ashley’s death, the two of them had grown even more attached to Kylie and she to them. He couldn’t expect jubilation when he was moving their only grandchild nearly five hundred miles across the state.

Their Christmas Eve dinner had been formal, even pretentious, complete with china, crystal and enough forks to confuse Miss Manners. Ashley’s place was conspicuously vacant, and the conversation among the three adults was forced, at best. Gus had talked business, then switched to sports until Georgia, a distressed look on her face, objected. Kylie had kept silent, picking at her food, occasionally casting worried glances at her grandmother, who addressed the girl’s nervousness by slipping her after-dinner mints.

Trent returned to his bed, lying on his back, his hands cradling his head. Gus was all right, a fair person. But Georgia’s disapproval of him had been obvious from the get-go. He was the man who had gotten her unwed daughter pregnant. The one who wasn’t worthy of Ashley, who, as Georgia had taken pains to inform him, had been destined for marriage to a white-collar professional, not a jack-of-all-trades with a limited future. Even Kylie’s birth had failed to mellow her at first, as if the baby had symbolically represented Georgia’s failed hopes for Ashley. But soon the infant had won her over, and from that time on, the challenge had been to keep her from spoiling Kylie rotten. A fussy, particular woman, intent on overcoming her humble origins, Georgia fixated on appearances, sometimes failing her granddaughter in fundamental ways, although she would vigorously have denied that assessment.

Trent turned onto his side, watching the gentle rise and fall of his daughter’s chest. She needed a warm, cuddling grandmother who smelled of cinnamon and flowers and read stories and played Pretend.

As for his own mother… Lila did her best on her infrequent visits from Las Vegas, where she worked as a cashier at a casino, but even her best was questionable. Always so busy making a living, she’d had little opportunity to exercise her maternal instincts. She had the ready laugh of a survivor, but she would never be one to sew doll clothes or bake cookies. Teaching Kylie Crazy Eights was about as good as it got.

Was this one reason he couldn’t stop thinking about Libby, the most selflessly loving person he’d ever met? She would be so good for Kylie.

He forced himself to derail that train of thought. He couldn’t imagine she would ever give him another chance. Not after what had happened.

Flopping over on his back again, he struggled to think about St. Nicholas, reindeer, even visions of sugarplums dancing in his head, whatever the hell that meant.

But all he could think of was Lib, and how she’d be good, all right. Not only for Kylie. For him.

THIS WAS A PICTURE-BOOK Christmas. Libby glanced around the living room of the Traverses’ large chalet-style home. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows was a breathtaking view of Whitefish Lake. In one corner stood a nine-foot-tall spruce, decorated from base to top with ornaments made through the years by Doug and his brother and sisters. Aromas, savory and tantalizing, wafted from the kitchen. Doug sprawled on the floor, helping his brother and nephew lay track for an electric train, while his sister Melanie’s four-year-old twin girls cuddled on either side of Libby as she read Dr. Seuss’s “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.”

Bedecked in green tights with a long red-knit sweater, Mary Travers entered the room carrying a bowl of frothy eggnog, which she set on the buffet. Smiling from one twin to the other, she addressed Libby. “You look like a natural.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice at school.”

Mary shook her head, an impish smile playing across her lips. “That’s not what I meant. You look like a mother.”

The illustration of the Whos down in Whoville blurred. “Maybe someday,” she managed to say.

Slanting her head toward Doug, Mary winked and said, “I’ll work on it. Meanwhile, after you get that mean old storybook Grinch in the Christmas spirit, come have a glass of eggnog.”

“You gonna drink eggs?” Margot, the twin dressed in green, stared up at Libby. “Yuck.”

Maddy, the more serious of the two, shook her head. “Not eggs. Nog.” The triumphant look slowly faded from her face. Finally she got up on her knees and whispered in Libby’s ear, “What’s a ‘nog’?”

Giving her a quick hug, Libby answered. “It’s what the Grinch drinks to remember how much he likes Christmas.”

Across the way, Doug caught her eye, a sappy grin on his face. “You gals make a nice picture.”

Brushing aside the implications of the compliment, Libby quickly finished the story, then moved to the buffet and helped herself to the eggnog. Doug came up beside her and put his arm around her. “Having a good time?”

“Yes, I am.” It was the truth. The easy give-and-take of this family and her overwhelming sense of welcome, especially from Mary and her adorable husband, felt heady for a woman accustomed to living alone with her cat.

“Feel like a walk before dinner?” Doug asked.

“Do we dare sneak off?”

He tightened his grip on her waist, then grinned wickedly. “Dare? I think it’s expected.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Outside the air was crisp, and the sun shone weakly through the snow-dusted trees. Doug tucked her arm through his as they started briskly down the road.

“I’m glad you’re here with us for Christmas. That’s the best present you could give me.”

“Your family has made me feel very welcome.”

“They’re crazy about you.”

Flustered, she stopped to adjust her scarf. “I, uh, I like them, too. Your sister Melanie is such fun, and your brother makes me laugh.”

“And don’t forget Izzy.”

Isabelle, Doug’s other sister, had been busy in the kitchen all day. A chef at a pricey Seattle restaurant, she was cooking the Christmas dinner. “How could I forget her?” Libby rubbed her stomach. “I’ve gained five pounds just smelling that food she’s preparing. And I haven’t even eaten.”

Doug gently held her by the lapels of her coat, his expression turning serious. “And what about me?”

“You?”

“Yeah. Do I rate as highly as my siblings?”

She fumbled to keep her answer light. “Well, you’re fun like Melanie and your brother, but as for your cooking…”

He laid his forehead against hers. “I’m not talking about cooking.” He hesitated, his breath forming small clouds in the frosty air. “I guess I’m asking…could you love me, Lib?”

His eyes were close, so rich and deep a brown they took her breath away. Could she? Love him? Suddenly, in that moment, she thought perhaps she could. “I think maybe so, Doug.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling something from his pocket.

Libby didn’t know what she’d expected, but not the sprig of mistletoe he now held over her head.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he whispered, before tossing the mistletoe in the air and kissing her in a way that would have delighted the reformed Ebeneezer Scrooge.

AT HOME LATER that evening, Libby sat, pensive, in the rocker she’d brought from Oklahoma, the only piece of furniture she’d moved. It was the chair in which her mother had cuddled her before bedtime. Mona, a sleek gray cat with a white, diamond-shaped mask, sat in her lap, purring with contentment. The occasional crackle of a log settling and the ticking of the cuckoo clock were the only other sounds.

The perfect Christmas.

Convivial company, delicious food, laughter, plenty of hugs. It was the Christmas she’d always dreamed of—and a far cry from those girlhood holidays after her mother died. Oh, there had been no shortage of gifts. To the contrary. Everything she’d ever wanted had been provided. And that was the operative word: provided. Not given.

At that time Daddy Belton was serving in the Oklahoma legislature. His secretary bought and wrapped Libby’s presents. Christmas Eve at their Muskogee home was traditionally celebrated with a huge open house for her stepfather’s influential constituents and political allies. On Christmas Day, the two of them opened their gifts, Daddy made obligatory phone calls, and then they were served a late lunch by the housekeeper in the drafty old dining room. Libby spent Christmas afternoons alone in her bedroom.

In her youthful naiveté, she had dreamed of creating a real family, complete with a loving husband and a houseful of children. Life, however, had taught her the folly of such dreams.

She nestled Mona closer, drawing her fingers up and down the cat’s ridged back. Today had been both perfect and disturbing. It scared her how badly she wanted to be part of a family like the Traverses. This afternoon she had sensed Doug was on the verge of offering her the fulfillment of her fantasies.

Could you love me? he’d asked. She had been taken aback by the directness of his question. A marriage without love would be empty. Ruefully, she bent her head and nuzzled Mona’s neck. Had she committed herself by giving Doug a definite “maybe”? And what kind of cowardly answer was that?

On the wall, the cuckoo clock repeated its call twelve times—each syllable taunting her. She was “cuckoo,” all right. Doug hadn’t asked the one question she would ultimately have to answer.

Not could she love him, but did she love him?

WEEZER RUBBED her gnarled hands in anticipation. Dark, and still no sight of them. She checked the mantel clock. No point standing at the window fretting. She strode to the fireplace, picked up the poker and jabbed at the bottom log, sending sparks up the chimney. Trent knew how to drive in these conditions. He’d be careful. Yet what if…

Despite Trent’s eagerness to get back to Whitefish, Weezer had picked up on his concerns. Kylie’s aversion to school. Separation from her grandparents and her familiar surroundings. Beyond that, the child had to still be grieving her mother, probably struggling to mask her pain.

Trent ought to know all about that. He’d been skilled at it. From the day that worthless cowboy Charlie Baker walked out on Lila and Trent, the boy had acted as if he didn’t give a damn, practically daring the gods to zap him, be it on a skateboard, bicycle or snowboard. Then later in a two-man raft shooting rapids, or rappeling from precipitous cliffs. Whenever Lila or Weezer had asked him if he thought he was invincible, he had merely laughed and said, “A guy’s gotta have some fun.”

By now, Weezer suspected, he’d learned the hard way that life was about more than fun.

She shook her head sadly. Kylie’s mother’s illness and death had been tragic. It seemed as if every time Trent risked love, something happened to steal it from him. Or he did something to sabotage it.

Lights flared against the spruce and pine trees lining the driveway. Beside her, Scout, her German shepherd, thumped his tail, then ran to the entry hall, looking expectantly back at her. Weezer hurried to the door, fumbling with the knob—darned arthritis—then stepped out onto the porch.

When the pickup pulled to a stop, she peered through the darkness, but couldn’t see the child. Trent stepped out of the truck, a crooked smile on his face. “We made it. I hope you weren’t worried. A semi jackknifed near Lakeside, blocking the highway.”

Weezer took the porch steps carefully, then moved into Trent’s hug. “Glad you’re here safely.” She stepped back. “Now, where’s that daughter of yours?”

Trent took her hand and led her to the truck. He opened the door and pointed. Lounging against the back seat, sound asleep, was the rosy-cheeked child Weezer hadn’t seen since she was tiny.

“Poor little thing.”

Trent sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

Just then, Scout threaded his way between them and climbed into the back seat.

“Scout!” Before Weezer could restrain him, he stood over Kylie, gently licking the girl’s face.

Kylie’s eyes fluttered opened. “D-Daddy?”

“Don’t be frightened, honey. It’s just Scout.”

Rubbing her eyes, Kylie sat up straighter. “A dog? I love dogs.” She wrapped her arms around Scout’s neck.

Weezer nodded sagely. “I think your little girl has made her first friend in Whitefish.”

Through dinner and unpacking, Kylie never let Scout out of her sight. Although the child didn’t say much, she seemed to keenly observe her surroundings.

Finally, after Trent had unloaded the truck and seen to Kylie’s bath, the three of them settled in the guest cabin’s living room for hot chocolate. In her footed flannel pajamas, Kylie curled up on the sofa with Scout. She seemed overcome with shyness, but finally, she turned to Weezer. “Is this a real log cabin like Little House in the Big Woods?”

“Well, we have more modern conveniences than Mary and Laura Ingalls did, but, yes, little one, this is as real as it gets.”

“Good,” Kylie said. “I can pretend I’m Laura. Or Mary.”

It was an innocent enough remark, but Weezer felt a chill pass through her. Would Kylie deal with her problems by retreating to a make-believe world the same way Trent had lost himself in derring-do?

“It’s about time for bed, sugar,” Trent said. “I can’t wait to show you this beautiful place in the daytime.” He set down his mug and held out his arms.

“How about a good-night hug?”

Kylie nudged Scout’s head from her lap and joined Trent in the big recliner. Lacing her fingers together, she gazed up at him, then said softly, “I’m trying not to be scared, Daddy.”

“I know. It’s natural for things to seem strange at first. But you’ll soon feel at home.” He wrapped his arms protectively around his daughter.

The love on his face, commingled with sadness and concern, tore Weezer’s heart. But then came Kylie’s response, plaintive and wistful, and Weezer had to turn away so neither father nor daughter would see the tears gathering in her eyes.

“Please, Daddy,” the child whispered, “be happy.”

ALTHOUGH THE HOLDIAY break had been more than welcome after a challenging first semester, Libby was glad to get back to her second-graders. To settle them on this first day of class, she’d put them to work making models of trains, boats, planes or any other form of transportation out of old cereal boxes, empty toilet-paper rolls and assorted odds and ends from her crafts bin. Now, as she helped Rory pour glue onto a Popsicle stick, she concluded she must have lost her mind. This was not a good idea. No sooner would she assist one child, than another would call out, “Miz Cameron, help!” She needed the legs of a centipede and the wits of Machiavelli.

“It’s ruined.” Behind her, ginger-haired Lacey Ford began to cry. “He did it!” The girl pointed her finger directly at Bart Ames, the class bully, who stood with his arms folded over his chest in imitation of a superhero.

“Did not!” Bart shouted. “It was just a stupid ole submarine.”

Libby mentally counted to five—ten was clearly out of the question—and took hold of Bart’s arm, directing him to a chair at the reading table. Then she returned to Lacey, who was in dire need of a tissue. “Calm down, honey, and tell me what happened.”

After Lacey told her story, Libby joined the sullen-face boy and squatted beside him. “Did you smash her submarine?”

Bart looked up at the ceiling, then shrugged. “Didn’t mean to.”

“What do you think you should do now?”

Another shrug.

“How would you feel if someone destroyed your helicopter?”

“Mad.”

“Do you think you could tell Lacey you’re sorry, and that you’ll help her build another sub?”

The boy’s hands moved nervously over his corduroy-clad knees, belying his tough-guy exterior. “I guess.”

Libby patted him on the shoulder. “Scoot, then.”

She remained hunkered down, trying to take a little breather. Then she heard the classroom door open, and out of the corner of her eye she spotted three sets of feet—Mary Travers’s Birkenstocks, a pair of scuffed cowboy boots and a small pair of white tennis shoes laced with pink. Please, she implored the patron saint of elementary-school teachers, not another new student.

“Miss Cameron?” Mary’s voice carried across the room. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

As she swiveled around, Libby took in the slightly built girl with downcast eyes and shoulder-length straight blond hair. Immediately she reprimanded herself for her insensitivity. The poor kid was practically shaking with fear. The class had quieted of its own accord, intently scrutinizing “the new girl.”

Libby rose to her feet to meet the girl’s father and welcome the child to her class. But as her eyes traveled up the long, muscled legs, past the tapered waist to the broad shoulders, her heart caught in her throat. It couldn’t be. And then the face, each contour so familiar that her fingers twitched to touch the closely shaven skin once more. Her gaze took in his sensual lips, crooked nose, thick eyebrows and curly sand-blond hair, and then she could no longer put off the inevitable. She had to look into those intoxicating deep blue eyes. “Trent,” she said, stumbling against the reading table.

He took a step forward, then stopped. “Libby.” The one-word acknowledgment halted time.

For a moment the walls blurred in a kaleidoscope of primary colors. Then, to Libby’s great relief, Mary bridged the awkwardness by taking the girl by the shoulders and urging her toward Libby. “Kylie, this is your new teacher, Miss Cameron.”

Struggling to ignore the cascade of emotions that threatened to drain her of all sense, Libby approached the child. “Kylie, what a lovely name. Welcome to second grade.” She put her arm around the girl’s thin shoulders and turned her to face the class. “Boys and girls, isn’t this exciting? It’s a new year and we have a new student. Could you say hello to Kylie?”

The girl blushed painfully as the chorus of voices greeted her. “Hello, Kylie.”

Mary handed Libby Kylie’s transfer-student folder, then smiled from Trent to Libby. “I gather you two know each other?”

With effort, Libby forced herself to look at Trent again. The features were all there, just as she remembered them. Yet sadness weighed down his eyes, and the worry lines and Norse-blond hair, now darker with the passage of time, made a stranger of the happy-go-lucky man who had once been her husband.

“Yes, we knew each other,” Libby said. “A long time ago.”

“Good, then. Shall we leave now, Mr. Baker?”

Mary turned to go, but Trent stood his ground, his eyes never wavering from Libby’s. His voice caught.

“Take good care of her, Lib.”

Libby wanted to look away, to be anyplace but here, doing anything but this. “I will,” she said quietly.

They left the room, and when Libby caught up a tissue for Lacey, she also took one for herself.

TRENT SLUMPED BACK against the leather seat of his truck. Of all the crazy things! He’d known Libby was teaching in the area, but what were the odds of her being in the same school—the same grade—where Kylie was enrolled? Last he’d heard she was the kindergarten teacher in Polson, at the far end of Flathead Lake.

Not that he’d heard much about her in recent years. After their divorce, he’d gotten out of Dodge and made a new life for himself in Billings. Weezer and Chad had known better than to mention Libby. When he’d left northwest Montana, he’d erased that slate. Or so he’d thought.

Miss Cameron? It sounded somehow like a missed chord. He’d known she’d taken back her maiden name, but still… Hearing it like that hurt.

On some level, he’d anticipated that returning to Whitefish would resurrect old memories, but seeing her today had knocked him for a loop. Just like that first time he’d clapped eyes on her coming out of the administration building at Montana State. When he was a little kid, his mom had taken him to see Disney’s Snow White, so when he’d spotted Libby walking toward him across the campus, all he could think was that here, in the flesh, was his own personal Snow White—the same dark, wavy hair, high color in her cheeks, rosebud lips. The only difference was that Libby had sparkling blue eyes instead of brown.

He blew out a puff of air. Hell, she wasn’t older, she was better. The same trim figure, but now with more generous, womanly curves. When she’d smiled at Kylie, he’d had to force himself not to reach out to touch her.

Pull yourself together, Baker. The woman was going to be Kylie’s teacher. He was grateful for that. If anybody could ease Kylie through this transition, it would be Lib. His own confused emotional state was a small price to pay.

Checking his watch, he started the truck. He would be late meeting Chad at the bank. However, as he drove the familiar streets, his thoughts were far from business loans. He could fantasize all he wanted about getting back together with Libby, about providing Kylie with a loving stepmother. But that’s all it could ever be. Fantasy.

Libby would never forgive him. Hell, he’d had a tough enough time trying to forgive himself. He’d been a complete asshole.

And if she did?

Things would have to be very different. He would have to be different.

And yet?

He thought about Ashley and those last few days when he’d sat by her bedside holding her hand. And the important things they’d had just enough time to say to each other.

He knew one heckuva lot more about love now. And loss. Especially loss.

TRENT? Here in Whitefish? Nothing could have prepared her for the onslaught of emotions, everything from shock, grief and anger to joy, hope and confusion. And of course regret. Somehow Libby pulled herself together enough to settle little Kylie. She paired her with Lacey, who seemed pleased to be singled out to help and relieved that Kylie, not Bart, was now assigned to help repair the damaged submarine. Kylie, however, sat mute, turning the glue stick over and over in her hand.

She blushed furiously when Bart pulled on her hair and said, “Hey, new girl, where’d you come from?”

She didn’t look at him, but merely whispered, “Billings.”

“You prob’ly don’t even know how to ski,” the boy scoffed.

“Kylie will learn,” Libby said, deftly steering him to his seat.

Then it was time to put away the craft projects. Amid the clatter of drawers and bins opening and closing, Libby had a moment to study Kylie. She had Trent’s square face and generous mouth, but the hair must be her mother’s. Trent’s was curly. A hitch caught in her chest. She remembered the springy feel of those curls that refused to be tamed. When the bell for recess rang, Libby felt relieved. She didn’t want to think too much about what Kylie looked like. Whom she resembled. Whose child she could have been…

Libby threw on her coat. Stop it! But the unfairness burned in her throat like bitter medicine.

On the playground, the girls headed for the swings while the boys clustered around a soccer ball, dividing up into teams. Kylie, however, stood just outside the door, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her pink-flowered parka. Every so often, her eyes darted around the playground before settling back on her boots. Weezer had told Libby that Trent’s wife had died within the last year. Her heart went out to Kylie Baker. Libby understood what it was like to lose a mother, to have the idyllic world of childhood shattered, replaced by emptiness and uncertainty.

Libby approached Kylie. “Did Lacey invite you to play with the girls?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to.”

The thrust of the child’s chin was hauntingly familiar. “Why not?”

Kylie merely shrugged.

Libby put her arm around the child. “It’s hard being new, isn’t it?”

The answer was a sniffle.

Pulling her closer, Libby said, “Moving involves lots of changes. Everything seems unfamiliar, I’ll bet. We all want to help you, though. Will you let us?”

When Kylie turned her face into Libby’s coat, Libby could feel her shoulders shaking with sobs she didn’t want her classmates to observe. Digging out a tissue, Libby knelt with her back to the playground, shielding the girl from view. “Here, sweetie.” She handed her the tissue.

“That’s what—” sniff, sniff “—my daddy calls me sometimes.”

“Daddys are nice that way.”

“I guess. But I don’t have a mommy.”

“You miss her a lot, I imagine.”

Eyes streaming, she nodded vigorously.

Libby helped dry her tears, then stood. When Kylie shyly slipped her hand into Libby’s, a satisfying warmth traveled through her. This little girl was so desperate for love. But she was Trent’s daughter. Libby mustn’t get too involved.

“Can I tell you something?” Kylie said, adoration in every feature.

“Certainly.”

The little girl gripped Libby’s hand more tightly. “I think you’re beautiful, Miss Cameron.”

“Thank you, Kylie.” Libby blinked furiously, blaming the cold wind when she knew darn well why she was really in danger of blubbering.

Throughout recess, Kylie remained by her side. Libby drew her out about the move and learned that Trent and his daughter were living at Weezer’s, and that Kylie loved dogs and Barbie dolls. Libby told her about Mona, inviting her to come see the cat someday, then reassured her that she would learn to ski in no time. But it was the girl’s answer to her final question that lanced the emotional scar Libby had thought was forever sealed. “Why did you move to Whitefish, Kylie?”

The wistfulness of the whispered reply explained everything. “So my daddy could be happy.”

Of course. Wasn’t that just like the Trent she’d been married to? His happiness, his comfort. That was all that mattered.