Brutus jumped up, barking like a maniac, and ran to the front door.
Christy dropped one last pellet into the fishbowl, then stood to gather her things: a giant red bag she’d made herself from one of her grandmother’s old quilts, the yellow legal pad, some books and tapes she’d borrowed from the library for Meggie. Dealing with Meggie had proved a challenge, but the child was already coming around nicely. Now, if Christy could only find a way to get Meggie’s daddy to spend a little more time with his daughter.
WHEN SAM ENTERED HIS FOYER, he almost tripped over that barking Brutus, then over a large paper box decorated with cut-up construction paper. “Brutus,” Sam snapped, “will you kindly shut the heck up?”
The dog flipped to his back, showing Sam his belly.
The box looked like a little red choo-choo train. While he rubbed Brutus’s tummy, he peered inside. Toys. One lonesome dirty sock. A torn, scribbled-on storybook. Meggie’s flotsom and jetsom. Did it have to sit right here, smack in the middle of the foyer?
He spotted Christy through the double doors of the dining room. She was cramming stuff into that hideous red bag she hauled around with her. He stepped over the box, put on his glasses and started flipping through the mail as he strolled into the dining room with Brutus sniffing at his heels. “Hello,” he said without looking up.
“Hi.”
“What’s the deal with the box in the foyer?”
“I hope you don’t mind a few changes around here. I’m training Meggie to pick up her clutter before we go out. She pushes the choo-choo train around and puts her toys and so forth inside. Then we end up at the station—the foyer—and we’re ready to go. It’s working.”
“Really?” Sam couldn’t help giving the nanny an approving glance. Hers was a simple, but clever, idea. He continued to flip through the mail. “And she does this willingly?”
“She does if she knows we’re going someplace fun, like swimming, and if I tell her we can’t leave until the train is in the station.”
He shot Christy a look over the rim of his reading glasses. “Swimming?”
“Yes. I’m teaching Meggie to swim. In your mother’s pool. You should drop by some afternoon and watch her.”
“Meggie isn’t coordinated enough to swim.”
“Of course she is. It’s just a matter of persistence.”
“We’ll talk about it later.” He went back to checking the mail, but inside, he was battling a rising anxiety. He didn’t want Meggie attempting anything dangerous or difficult. But why? Because Andrea was already in danger? That wouldn’t be fair to Meggie.
Christy finished gathering her stuff. “Well, I’m off.”
“Where is my daughter, by the way?”
“Asleep.”
He stopped sorting the mail and frowned. “Asleep? So early?”
“It’s only a short nap. I think part of the reason Meggie is cranky is because she doesn’t get enough sleep. I’m trying to get her to take a short nap at the same time every day. She watches her favorite TV show when we get home from speech therapy and then she drifts off. It’s working. I was thinking the two of you could have dinner together when she wakes up.”
“I see.” He quirked an eyebrow and, without thinking about what he was doing, looked her up and down.
She tugged at her patchwork broomstick skirt and fiddled with the drawstring of a hideous red georgette peasant blouse, then raised her chin.
“Before you go, would you mind telling me—” he tilted his head at the fish bowl “—what is that?”
Christy bent down to look at an orange fish swimming around in a small, cheap glass bowl. “I think it’s a man-eating shark, but I’m not sure.” She grinned.
Sam frowned.
“This is Mr. Charlie.” She peered into the side of the bowl, addressing the fish. “Say heh-woe to Sam, Mr. Char-wee.”
“I hope you don’t talk like that around Meggie.”
Christy straightened and faced him, looking puzzled. Her startled, defensive expression seemed to ask if she’d said something wrong.
“Meggie’s speech certainly isn’t going to improve if you use baby talk around her.”
Christy bent to address the fish again. “But Mr. Char-wee is a baby. Baby talk is the only wang-widge Mr. Char-wee understands.” She glanced up, this time with a slightly defiant gleam in her eye.
Sam Solomon didn’t favor her with even the hint of a smile. Meggie was his daughter, and though it was a small thing, this baby talk concerned him.
“Okay,” the woman sighed. “No more baby talk. Mr. Charlie—” she bent to speak to the side of the fishbowl again “—as of this moment, we shall speak nothing but proper Queen’s English in this household. Understood?”
Sam managed a wan smile. She was kind of cute. “Christy,” he said as he finished sorting the mail. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s nice that you bought Meggie a fish. And I also want you to know—” he tossed the last letter onto the table “—that I appreciate everything else you’ve done for my daughter these past three weeks. And you can do whatever you want with the house as long as it benefits Meggie.”
“I appreciate it that you appreciate it.” Christy smiled, but then her expression grew serious. “I enjoy my work.” She dug around in her bag for her keys.
“I can see that,” he conceded. She had done many small things to make Meggie’s life better. She certainly fed the child well. She deserved to hear a compliment. He rotated his head toward the kitchen. “Something smells good.”
“It’s my secret spaghetti sauce. The pasta is cooked and drained, dressed with a little olive oil. There’s a magic salad chilling in the fridge.”
“Magic salad?” Maybe he should have chosen something other than her culinary skills to compliment.
“I call it magic so that kids will eat it. Orange Jell-O with carrots and cottage cheese stirred in.” She smiled brightly again.
Carrots and cottage cheese? Sam eyed her and decided Christy Lane’s smile was almost reflexive. Why did she smile so much?
“And then,” she went on as if it mattered, “I fold in a little Dream Whip to disguise everything. That’s the—” she made quotation marks with her fingers “—magic part.”
Sam suppressed the urge to say, “I’ll pass.” He sensed that he’d probably come on a little too strong about the baby talk and he didn’t want to hurt this sweet young woman’s feelings again. He tilted his head at her. “Magic, huh? My mom used to call it orange-Jell-O-with-carrots-and-cottage-cheese salad. Guess that explains why I never ate the stuff. Maybe if she had called it magic, I would have scarfed it up.”
She smiled again, almost a laugh. A bit self-consciously, he thought. Unsure. Maybe she thought he was being sarcastic. He was actually trying to be nice. Had he become such a drudge that he’d forgotten how to just be nice? What was the matter with him, anyway? A mess a minute out at the Moonlight Grove site this week, that’s what was wrong with him.
Still, he couldn’t stand the idea of hurting this sunny young woman’s feelings, even unintentionally. She had been working so hard, making amazing progress with Meggie. And managing his household in unconventional ways he hadn’t counted on. He was astounded at the amount of food she’d managed to purchase with the money he’d given her. Pasta, beans, croutons, cereal, whole-wheat crackers. Three kinds of rice. Salmon, chicken, peanut butter. Flavored vinegars. Olive oil, canola oil, real butter. Tortillas and bagels. Fresh garlic, basil and cilantro. Yogurt