“A game that keeps kids occupied, and teaches them how to be curious about their surroundings.” Christy and Meggie had peeked inside the tiny area with a steel door and a reinforced ceiling next to the washer and dryer in a corner of the basement. There she found two plain wooden benches and some shelves that were well stocked: flashlights, bottled water, rain ponchos, a weather radio, warm clothes for Meggie. Sam Solomon was as prepared as any Boy Scout.
“Was that room already here when you bought this house?”
“No. I built it after the F-5 blew through O-K-C a few years back.” He jerked a thumb toward the southwest, where the killer tornado had cleared a path through central Oklahoma. “My firm went down to the city and did some of the restoration work.”
She frowned, remembering the pictures on TV and in the papers. “That must have been hard.”
“Seeing devastation like that makes a believer out of you. I installed a safe room before I moved into this house. Besides, I figure it’s my civic duty. No self-respecting architect would resell a house without a safe room. Bad example.” He grinned.
“Are you selling this house?” Maybe, she thought, that accounted for the barren feel of the place.
“I thought I was. My plan was to remodel one old home after another—living in each one while I did the work. Then sell, make a handsome profit, and repeat the process all over again.”
“But…” She supplied the word because he’d said it as though his plan was history.
“But now I’ve got to consider the possibility that…” He sipped his wine.
“That Meggie may be living with you permanently.”
“Yeah.” He winced.
Christie couldn’t decide if his discomfort was because he didn’t want to be a full-time dad or if he was thinking that Andrea might not survive. She hoped it was the latter.
“I suppose there’s always Meggie to consider.”
His eyes shadowed and he downed more wine. “Yes. Meggie.”
“You expect to have Meggie past the summer?”
“Who knows?” His expression grew darker, like the clouds outside. “The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll have Meggie. Her mother’s pretty sick. It could…it could go badly for Andrea.”
“I understand. Mrs. Solomon—Gayle—told me a little bit about it. Poor Meggie. And poor…what did you say your ex-wife’s name is?”
“Andrea.”
“Poor Andrea.”
“Yes. Andrea’s illness still seems very surreal to me, you know?”
“Has she always been healthy?”
“Well, healthy…no, that’s not the word I’d use. She’s always been way too thin…like Meggie. But still, you don’t expect something like this.”
Christy nodded. “Were the two of you married for a long time?”
“Eight years. It felt like a very long time.”
“Oh?” Something in his tone sounded so sad that Christy didn’t think he meant to be bitter or unkind toward his ex-wife, only honest.
“Andrea and I were like the proverbial oil and water. There’s nothing worse than being married to the wrong person.”
Christy absorbed this frank statement about his former marriage for a moment with accepting silence. Personally, she had made up her mind to never, ever divorce. Not after the childhood she had endured, watching her mother having to beg for every penny from her distant father. Though it was sometimes hard, especially when one of her friends got married, she had remained firm in her resolve not to settle until she found a man she could love forever. “I have always imagined,” she said softly, kindly, “that being married to the wrong person would be a torment. But at least you got Meggie out of the deal.”
“Yes,” Sam admitted, seeming glad that someone understood that he treasured his daughter despite her limitations. “I got Meggie.”
They sipped their wine, and there passed one of those silences that sometimes follow the speaking of a profound truth.
“I’ve always thought where a person lives affects them in subtle ways.” Christy decided to lighten the conversation by returning to the original topic of selling his house. “To me, a home isn’t just an investment.”
He ran a hand through his hair, and the gesture had the look of relief this time. “I suspect you’re right. Where do you live?”
“In an apartment.”
“Your résumé said you’re single. I take it you’ve never been married?”
“No.”
“Just haven’t found Mr. Right?”
“Oh, I’ve met my share of Mr. Rights. Just haven’t found Mr. Perfect. I do have a boyfriend right now, in fact,” she added, realizing she sounded almost defensive. Was it because she wanted Sam Solomon to know that she had prospects, despite her lingering crush on him? But that was silly, because Sam didn’t even know about the crush.
“Oh?”
“Yes. Kyle. He’s really very sweet.”
“And what does Kyle do?” Sam shifted uncomfortably on his stool.
“He’s a cop.”
Sam grinned. “A sweet cop?”
“Yeah. Aren’t they all?” Christy grinned back.
His eyes studied her with curiosity. “How old are you, if I may ask?”
Christy wondered if her cheeks were turning as pink as they felt. Here was the perfect moment, if ever there was one, to tell him that they’d gone to high school together. He had given no indication, over this entire three weeks of her employment, that he remembered her at all. In fact, this was the first time they’d actually sat down and talked, face-to-face.
“Oh,” she evaded, “I’m old enough to have a boyfriend.”
Sam chuckled despite his confused emotions. Why was he feeling this twinge of disappointment to discover that Christy Lane was attached?
He smiled to cover his discomfort, then squinted at her, studying the woman sitting across the counter from him. She was actually quite pretty, quite feminine, despite the funky clothes. She had the kind of looks that made it impossible to judge her age. Flawlessly smooth skin. Long, lush, naturally curly blond locks. A petite, curvy figure. Full. Very feminine. The more he looked at her the more he thought there was something fascinating—and something oddly familiar—about Christy Lane. He’d been with lots of pretty women since his divorce, and the truth was, they all seemed the same. But this Christy Lane…she was…absolutely unique. Her face looked flushed, and he wondered if he’d embarrassed her, prying about her boyfriend that way.
The phone on the counter trilled, defusing the charged moment.
Automatically, Christy snatched up the portable unit near her elbow. “Solomon residence,” she answered with a smile in her voice, the way her mama had taught her to.
The woman’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded young, but weak and weary…and maybe just a touch wary, too. “Hel-lo. Uh. Who is this?”
“This is Meggie’s nanny.”
“Oh.” There followed the kind of stillness that indicates some small mental shift. “Of course. Then you’re…Mrs. Waddle?”
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