Читать книгу With This Child... - Sally Carleen - Страница 10

Chapter One

Marcie drove slowly down the small neighborhood streets of McAlester, Oklahoma. As she stared out the window, carefully following the directions given her by the detective she’d hired to find her daughter, her fingers fidgeted with the envelope containing everything she had of her baby—the letter from Dr. Franklin, the detective’s report, and pictures of Kyla and Sam Woodward.

Kyla Woodward...twelve years old...thirteen next month... Going into eighth grade...active in sports... Lisa Woodward died seven years ago...congenital heart problems... Sam Woodward, coach of high school football team...coaches Kyla’s softball team... Neighbors say they’re a happy, well-adjusted family.

She’d read the report until she knew it by heart, looked at those photographs a thousand times, memorizing every detail, searching for her features in Kyla Woodward’s face.

Her mother, embarrassed at being caught but unrepentant, had verified Dr. Franklin’s story, but still Marcie had held back. She couldn’t face the possibility of holding her daughter, only to have that child yanked away because her mother and Dr. Franklin were wrong.

Over the past couple of days, she’d swung wildly from guarded certainty one minute to doubt and confusion the next.

She had no idea what to do now.

She had no idea why she was searching for their house.

What would she do if she saw Kyla? What would she say to her? To Sam?

She turned onto Maple Street, one hand clutching the envelope in her lap. According to the directions, Sam Woodward’s house was at the end of the third block down. Even though she couldn’t see it from this distance, she could feel its presence.

Claustrophobia suddenly overwhelmed her, making her feel trapped in her small car, propelled by forces beyond her control into a scary unknown world. She wasn’t ready for this, to know for sure whether her baby was alive, to risk seeing her only to lose her again.

Marcie lowered the windows, breathing deeply, focusing on everything around her except that house three blocks away.

It was an older, established neighborhood. Huge trees formed a canopy over the street and colorful flower bloomed everywhere.

Scents she’d almost forgotten assailed her—freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, roses, and all the other fragrances that never reached her fifth-floor condo in Tulsa.

A small boy in a blue sunsuit pedaled his tricycle across the street in front of her.

A young couple diligently painted a house they appeared to be restoring.

An elderly woman puttered in her flower beds.

A tiny Yorkie darted to the end of a sidewalk to bark frantically as Marcie drove past.

Saturday morning in a small town.

Several cars were parked in the street—a common problem with houses too old to have garages—but other than that, the area seemed well cared-for. The detective had told her that much; had assured her that while Sam Woodward might not be getting rich working as a high school football coach, he appeared to be providing well for his daughter. Her daughter.

There was absolutely nothing in this well-kept, comfortable neighborhood to send nervous chills down Marcie’s spine, to cause her palms to sweat, her hands to tremble as they clutched the steering wheel.

Nothing except the two-story white house that seemed to be approaching her, rather than vice versa.

Seeing the picture of the house hadn’t prepared her for the sense of isolation the actual structure made her feel, the sense of total separation from everything inside it.

From Sam and Kyla Woodward.

She drove past, her gaze skimming over the detached garage to scan the front porch, the open windows and doors, searching for a glimpse of the blond girl in the pictures.

She turned the corner to go around the side of the house—

And a baseball slammed onto the hood of her car, followed by a young girl and then a dull thud. Marcie swerved to the side of the road, crushing the brake to the floor, while adrenaline exploded through her body.

Oh, God! She’d just run down her daughter!

Her breath caught in her chest as she shifted into park. The trees and houses and everything else around her blurred as mat moment in time locked on itself, filling her vision with the sight of the girl slamming against her car.

“I’m sorry, lady!”

Marcie jumped at the sound of the words coming from the passenger window.

The beautiful child from the pictures, now distressed instead of laughing, peered at her from wide blue eyes.

From the same blue eyes Marcie saw in the mirror every morning.

In that instant, she knew, and in spite of the black fear that hovered around the edges of her soul, happiness burst over Marcie like sunrise after a night filled with terrors.

Her baby wasn’t dead. She was alive, breathing, speaking.

A thousand words and a thousand emotions lumped in Marcie’s throat, and she had to blink back sudden tears as she gazed at her child in the flesh only a few feet away. She wanted to fly across the distance, grab her and hold her in her arms, tightly enough to make up for all the years she hadn’t been able to hold her. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to live the thirteen years separating them in one burst... to reclaim her baby.

Instead, she sat behind the wheel of her car, paralyzed, unable even to speak.

And the child she’d carried inside her body, given birth to, shared the same hair and eyes with, that child looked at her as if she were a stranger.

Which she was.

Cold darkness pressed against her, throwing a shadow over her joy.

“Don’t cry, ma’am. We’ll pay to have your car fixed.” The girl inclined her head toward the hood. “It didn’t make much of a dent, anyway. You hardly notice it.” She smiled tentatively. “And I didn’t even make a dent at all when I ran into you.”

A tall, muscular man wearing cut-offs and a T-shirt jogged over from the yard and put an arm possessively about her daughter’s shoulders.

Sam Woodward.

The man who’d raised her baby and given her the laughter she’d seen in the photographs her detective took.

The man she was grateful to and resentful of. The man she envied and feared beyond all reason.

He leaned over and peered in the window, his face beside her daughter’s. “Are you all right?”

She forced herself to nod, though she was as far from all right as it was possible to be.

He went around to the hood of the car, peered closely at a spot and traced a small circle with one finger of a large hand, a hand big enough to catch footballs.

She didn’t want to look at him. She wanted to focus on her daughter, to never let her out of her sight again, to never risk losing her again.

But her gaze involuntarily followed him, her mind racing, as she tried to think of what she should say.

With a scowl, he walked around to the driver’s side window. He had a kind face, tanned, with laugh lines like sunbursts accenting his clear hazel eyes. Unruly brown hair tumbled over his forehead, imbuing him with a rakish innocence.

“My daughter’s right,” he said. “The ball didn’t leave a very big dent at all. I have a friend who works on cars. He can probably pop it out for you today without even hurting the paint.”

My daughter?

No! she wanted to scream. She’s my daughter! You can’t have her!

She lifted a shaky hand to her forehead.

“Of course, you can take your car wherever you want and get it fixed, and I’ll pay for it,” Sam continued, apparently mistaking the reason for her confusion.

She had to say something, she had to tell them.

“Why don’t you get out and come sit on the porch for a few minutes?” Sam asked in a concerned voice. “You seem kind of shaken up. Kyla—that’s my daughter—she’ll fix you a glass of iced tea and you can catch your breath.”

Kyla.

Not Jenny, but Kyla.

She hadn’t even been able to choose her daughter’s name. She’d given her baby’s name to Sam and Lisa Woodward’s baby. She’d buried their child with her daughter’s name.

Sam opened her car door and extended his hand to help her, as if she were an invalid.

It was an accurate assumption. Her brain and body had shut down, ceased to function. She had no idea what to say, and wasn’t sure she’d be able to speak if she did know.

She shut off the engine and accepted Sam’s hand. It was big and competent and gave her a protected feeling. As she slid from the car and stood, he placed his other hand at the small of her back, steadying her, as if she were fragile and likely to stumble.

She squelched a nervous giggle at the irony. Sam Wood-ward was helping her, making her feel protected and secure. Sam Woodward, whose life she’d come to destroy.

Kyla bounced up beside her as they came around the car. “Dad was teaching me to catch pop flies, and that one got away. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Marcie said, the words coming out barely above a whisper. “I thought I hit you. I thought you were hurt.”

“Nah. I ran into your car ’cause I wasn’t watching where I was going. Hardly anybody ever comes down that street, but Dad’s always yelling at me for running out.” She grinned at Sam. “Guess he’s right once in a while. I’ll go fix you some tea. You want sugar and lemon?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes, please. I’d like that.” She didn’t usually take sugar and lemon, but she’d have taken salt if her daughter offered it.

Her baby was there, in person, real, alive.

Kyla sprinted up the walk and into the house ahead of them, a happy, secure, obviously loved child, with no clue that she’d just met her mother.

They reached the porch, and Sam indicated a scattering of wrought-iron chairs with faded green-and-white striped cushions. Marcie sank into the closest one, grateful that she was no longer dependent on her shaky legs to hold her up.

“I’m Sam Woodward.” He offered his hand again, and she clasped it for the second time. His shake was firm and confident, and she was amazed at how much she liked him, in spite of everything.

He was the personification of a high school football coach. His open, friendly smile—the same smile she’d seen in his pictures, but even more potent in person—promised carefree autumn evenings at football games and wiener roasts in the park.

Sam looked at her oddly, and Marcie realized she hadn’t told him who she was. She smiled nervously. “I’m Marcie Turner. I, uh—” I’m Kyla’s mother? No, that probably wasn’t a good way to establish her identity.

Sam took the chair beside her, looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish her sentence. She couldn’t think of anything to say except I’m Kyla’s mother. Every crevice in her mind was filled with that thought, leaving no room for coherency.

“I’m an accountant,” she finally blurted, then wondered why she’d said it. An attempt to offer some sort of validation that she existed, that she had an identity and a life, that she wasn’t really as disconnected as she felt right now?

“That must come in handy around April fifteenth,” Sam replied, as if their conversation were perfectly normal. And maybe it was. Right now, she had no idea of what was and wasn’t normal. “I’m the high school football coach,” he continued.

“I know.”

“Then you’re from McAlester,”

“No. I live in Tulsa. I just meant you look like a football coach. All those muscles.” Oh, God! What on earth was she saying? “I don’t make a habit of running into...people.”

“Relax. You didn’t. Kyla ran into you. First I bounced a softball off the hood of your car, then my kid plowed into you.”

“Teenager,” Kyla corrected, pushing open the screen door with her hip and emerging carrying three large glasses of tea on a tray. “I’m almost a teenager, and Dad’s having a hard time accepting that I’m practically grown up.”

Your mother’s having a hard time accepting that, too! Marcie wanted to shout.

“That’s because you’re not practically grown up, missy,” Sam replied. “Not even close.”

Marcie accepted a tall drink from Kyla, trying not to stare at her, to let her eyes feast only in short, hungry glances. Her teeth chattered against the rim of the glass, but she managed to swallow several large gulps of the cold liquid.

Kyla sprawled in another chair. “Pretty soon I’ll be dating, and next thing you know, you’ll be a grandfather.”

Marcie choked on her tea, and Sam leaned over to pat her on the back.

“You okay?” he asked solicitously when she caught her breath.

Marcie nodded and forced a smile. “That was, um, kind of shocking. I mean, I know you were teasing. It’s just that you’re so young, and...” Her voice trailed off, and she took another drink of her tea to cover her confusion.

Sam chuckled. “My impertinent daughter is baiting me. It’s one of her favorite pastimes.”

Kyla grinned mischievously. “Keeps him on his toes. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it, and I’m an only child. Are you married? Do you have any kids?”

Marcie froze at the last question, but Sam saved her from having to figure out how to answer it.

“Kyla!” he exclaimed, but he smiled as he looked at Marcie. “My kid may be totally tactless, but she has no manners.”

“Oh, Dad,” Kyla groaned. “It’s a good thing you can coach football, ’cause you’d sure never make it as a comedian.”

He leaned over and yanked on her blond ponytail, and burning, icy envy washed over Marcie.

Being with her daughter was making her feel impossibly distant from her. Kyla and Sam shared a closeness she wanted desperately, but wasn’t sure she could ever have.

Her daughter was happy and loved, that was obvious. Perhaps she should leave it at that, get up, set down her glass of tea, thank the two of them politely and walk away, out of Kyla’s life. Marcie had dealt with the pain of losing her once, and that pain had been diffused and pointless. Now, if she knew it was for Kyla’s benefit, surely she could do it again. Perhaps that would be the kindest, most loving thing she could do for her daughter.

No.

Her own mother had done what she thought best for Marcie, and it hadn’t been the best at all. Marcie should have had the right to make her own decisions.

Now she would give her daughter that right. If Kyla should decide she wanted nothing to do with her real mother, then Marcie would have to somehow force herself to walk out of her life, to again learn to live with emptiness.

Whatever the outcome, the decision belonged to Kyla.

Marcie suddenly realized Sam and Kyla were staring at her curiously.

She rose on shaky legs, setting her tea on the small wrought-iron table.

“I, uh...” No, she couldn’t just blurt it out like that. “I’d better be going. Thank you for the tea.”

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Sam asked.

She tried a confident smile, but knew it came out weak and uncertain. “I’m sure.”

She moved numbly down the cracked sidewalk, with Sam on one side and Kyla on the other. At the end of the walk, her silver compact car reflected the sunlight in a painful glare as it lured and repelled at the same time—offering escape from this unknown, frightening situation, while taking her away from her daughter.

Sam opened her car door for her, as if speeding her exit, getting her out of his life, away from the child she’d given birth to but he claimed as his daughter.

“If you have a pencil, I’ll write down my name and address so you can call me about that dent,” he said.

“I don’t need your address. I—” She stopped herself before she could blurt out why she didn’t need his name and address, that she already knew it. She knew his age and where he worked and how long he’d been there and his social security number and when his wife had died...and the name of the hospital where Kyla had been born.

But this wasn’t the right time to tell him that She had to carry through with the charade. She retrieved her purse from the floorboard and, hands shaking noticeably, withdrew a pen and a small notepad, then offered it to him.

He scribbled something and returned it to her. Without looking, she shoved it into her purse.

“Thank you,” she said.

He closed the door, stepped back from the car, wrapped one arm around Kyla and smiled his wonderful, carefree smile again. She found her own lips turning up in answer, as if something deep inside couldn’t resist being sucked into such complete happiness.

Kyla lifted a hand to wave. “Bye, Marcie! Sorry ’bout your car.”

“Goodbye...Kyla.” Time seemed to freeze as Marcie gazed at Kyla, unable to break the last contact with her, but unable to do anything about it. She wasn’t sure whether she’d been staring for a second or an hour.

“So long, Ms. Turner,” Sam said, breaking the spell.

With a quick wave, Marcie started the engine and drove down the block. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest, her mouth was dry, and her thoughts darted past in unrecognizable, kaleidoscopic images.

She headed for the highway, for the fastest way home. Once inside her condo, she could lock the doors and draw the blinds and feel safe.

Except she feared she’d never be safe there again. Always she’d be trying to find a way to reach her daughter—and terrified of what would happen when she succeeded.

As Marcie Turner drove away, Sam tugged on Kyla’s ponytail again. “What happened to your manners? Wash them down the drain when you showered this morning?”

“You told me you never learn anything if you don’t ask questions.”

“There are questions and there are questions, and asking a strange woman if she’s married and has children pretty much pushes the limits.”

Kyla shrugged and gazed toward the corner where Marcie’s car had just disappeared from view. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “she did get a funny look when I asked her that.”

That she had, Sam thought. In fact, Marcie Turner had been a whole review of funny looks.

“Well, I was just checking her out for your benefit. She’s a real babe.”

Sam groaned. “Go get your softball.” He pointed down the street.

With Kyla’s own burgeoning awareness of the opposite sex, she’d begun to tease him unmercifully about women. And this time she’d nailed him.

In spite of Marcie’s nervousness, he’d found himself attracted to her. Even in khaki shorts and a plain white blouse, she had an air about her. Her shiny golden hair fell straight to her shoulders, catching and reflecting the sunlight. In the sweltering heat of the July afternoon, she’d seemed cool and aloof, yet strangely vulnerable.

She looked familiar, in an eerie sort of way. Something about her had tickled around the edges of his memory, nagging him with a resemblance he couldn’t quite place. He was positive that he didn’t know her, but just as positive that he should.

“And how about when you called her by her first name?” he shouted after Kyla.

Kyla stopped, turned back to look at him and tilted her head to one side. Her face, soft with the remnants of childhood yet edged with the approach of maturity, mirrored his confusion about the woman. “I didn’t think about it. It was like I’d known her a real long time or something.” She shrugged, grinned and trotted the rest of the way to retrieve her ball.

So Kyla had noticed the odd familiarity about the woman, too.

Well, they’d probably seen her somewhere, at the grocery store or one of Kyla’s softball games or the school’s football games.

Except she lived in Tulsa.

Heck, she probably resembled some television star. She was a babe, that was for sure.

Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his cutoffs and turned to walk back to the house.

Directly in front of him, where it must have fallen from Marcie Turner’s car, was a large manila envelope.

He picked it up, hoping it contained an address, so that he could return it. She hadn’t seemed too likely to contact him again.

Not that he was looking for an excuse to contact her, no matter how much of a babe she was. Okay, maybe he had taken her hand and put his arm around her waist to help her out of the car when it probably wasn’t necessary. And he’d certainly enjoyed the contact.

He smiled at himself and his daughter and life in general as he opened the envelope...

...and found a letter-size envelope inside, along with several typewritten pages and pictures of his house, himself and Kyla.

A cold hand wrapped around and squeezed his heart.

What the hell was going on? Why did this woman have pictures of his home and his daughter? Was she stalking them? Was that why she’d seemed familiar? Had he seen her in crowds, watching them?

Her assertion that she didn’t need his address replayed itself in his head.

No wonder she hadn’t needed it.

She already had it.

“What’s that, Pops?”

Sam fumbled the pictures and letter back into the envelope. “Nothing.” He wasn’t going to have Kyla frightened.

“Looks like something to me.” Tossing the ball into the air and catching it, she walked beside him as he strode back to the house.

“Papers. Marcie Turner’s papers.”

“Kyla!” The familiar shout came from across the street. “Wanna ride bikes for a while?”

“Sure, Rachel! Be right there.” She handed Sam the ball. “You don’t mind, do you, Dad? Rachel’s having a tough time since her mom and dad split up.”

He looked into his daughter’s beautiful, concerned face. Maybe because she had no mother, she’d taken on the role of caring for any of her friends who had problems. Or maybe she did it just because she was a wonderful, caring kid, his own personal angel.

“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll be glad to get a little rest from playing ball with you!” He grinned, trying to maintain their usual banter, hoping his grin wasn’t as shaky as it felt.

She ran toward the garage to get her bike, long legs flying in the gracefully awkward manner of fawns and twelve-year-olds, and he loved her so much it hurt.

They’d almost lost her the night she was born. He still remembered the agony when Dr. Franklin had told him she had a fatal heart defect and wouldn’t live through the night.

And he still remembered the incredible joy when she had survived the night, in defiance of the doctor’s death sentence.

Knowing they could have no more children, he and Lisa had spoiled Kyla shamelessly from that day forward. In fact, Lisa had devoted herself totally to Kyla, even to the extent of ignoring him. But he’d accepted that. He’d understood how much she hurt when the doctor told her about the hysterectomy, how frightened she was each day that the doctor’s prophecy about Kyla’s death would come true.

Kyla had been Lisa’s priority, and five years later, as she lay dying from the same heart disease the doctor had diagnosed in Kyla, she’d made Sam promise to take care of their child.

Not that such a promise was necessary. He’d gladly lay down his life for his daughter.

Whatever Marcie Turner was up to, he’d stop her. Whatever it took, he’d protect his daughter.

He carried the envelope inside, sat down at the kitchen table and dumped out the contents. The smaller envelope was a letter addressed to Marcie in Tulsa. So at least he had the woman’s address, he thought grimly. And he would take this to the police.

But then he noticed the return address—Elton Franklin, the doctor who’d delivered Kyla. Suffocating heat flushed his body, prickling his skin, making breathing difficult.

He’d worried about Kyla for the past twelve—almost thirteen—years, terrified every time she caught cold or had a childhood disease. And he’d berated himself for that worrying, telling himself it didn’t accomplish a blasted thing, but unable to stop doing it.

Now...today...into his life came Marcie Turner with her pictures of the two of them and a letter addressed to her from Lisa’s doctor. Were all his concerns being validated? Did this letter contain a death sentence for Kyla?

But if it did, why was it addressed to Marcie Turner?

He had to open that letter and read it.

Sam stared at the envelope for several minutes. He regularly bench-pressed two-hundred-pound weights, but he couldn’t seem to find the strength to lift that little bit of paper weighing less than an ounce.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his cutoffs, then drew a shaky hand across his mouth and chin. His face was damp with perspiration.

Moving rapidly, so that he wouldn’t have a chance to chicken out, he yanked the letter from inside the envelope and unfolded the two pages.