“No!” Meggie repeated, and pummeled his shoulder with three more thumps. “I don’t wanna eat no yucky old lunch. I want IckDonald’s.”
Christy only smiled. “Ooh,” she cooed in a soft, low voice as she sidled farther into the room. “I love McDonald’s. Big Macs and chicken nuggets and ooey, gooey sundaes.”
“Me, too!” Meggie reared back from her father, suddenly distracted. With obvious relief, he dropped his daughter to her feet. “And fench fies.” The child’s eyes lit up as she walked toward Christy and stuck her thumb into her mouth with an expectant look.
Christy reached out and smoothed back the child’s untidy hair, then gently withdrew the little thumb. At her touch the poor little baby actually blinked in surprise, then, predictably, became as docile as a kitten. Christy, who loved to calm people with her touch, tucked a strand of hair behind Meggie’s ear.
“Well, then,” Christy crooned as she stroked Meggie’s hair back, “maybe we can have McDonald’s for supper…to celebrate my first day with you in your house.”
At first Meggie only nodded docilely, but then her eyes snapped and she jerked away. “This ain’t not my house.”
Christy could fully understand the child’s resistance to calling this sterile black box “home.” Why hadn’t the father done more to make this vulnerable child comfortable? But it was too late—or perhaps too soon—to change that now, and Christy had her ways of smoothing over unpleasant things that couldn’t be helped.
“So. McDonald’s for dinner. Would that be okay?” Christy addressed the question to Sam, who didn’t answer immediately because he was staring at Meggie, who was now actually leaning toward Christy. “I guess so,” he said absently. “Sure.”
“All right. Now.” Using a light touch, Christy fanned out Meggie’s tangled hair. “Let’s brush your hair until it’s all pretty and then get dressed in something nice so we can see what kind of delicious surprise Nonnie has fixed for our lunch. I’m starving!”
“Me, too!” Meggie echoed.
“Okay. Then let’s find your brush.”
Again, Sam stared at his daughter as she lurched around the room, searching high and low in the mess. Then he stared at this strange new person that had invaded his home like a pixie sprinkling fairy dust. She was bent at the waist, peeking under the bedskirt. Her shapeless clothes did little to disguise her curvy figure.
When he had paused in the doorway downstairs, listening to the music, studying the tiny woman perched at his piano playing with such expert energy, he had experienced a moment of disorientation. Watching her now, he realized he should never have trusted his mother’s judgment. He should have called Bob Barrett and tracked down the dependable, matronly Mrs. Waddle on his own. This little imp of a woman before him was so beautiful that she could have passed for a model, except—his gaze traveled down over her garish outfit—she was dressed like a…well, there was no other word for it…like a clown.
Her masses of curly light-blond hair were smashed under a wide, hot-pink polka-dot scarf, which was tied behind one ear in a big floppy bow. She wore a long, flowered skirt with a baggy denim shirt atop it, buttoned—strangely—right up to her neck. The shirt was cinched at the waist with another scarf, this one actually decorated with fringe and sequins. Striped socks peeked out over ankle-high red boots. The overall effect was definitely of a clown, perhaps a slightly demented one, recently escaped from the circus.
But when Sam had taken Christy Lane’s hand and looked into her impossibly blue eyes, he had experienced the most amazing sensation. An electric thrill, as they say. No, it was much more than that. He felt an unmistakable lightness somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. At the same time, he had been seized by a sudden urge to hold tight to that tiny warm hand.
Weird. He’d never felt anything quite like it.
“I can’t fine it!” Meggie whined, ready to give up.
“Let’s keep looking,” the nanny said. “Nonnie’s waiting.”
How had this woman already discovered that Meggie called his mother Nonnie? It was the kind of small detail that mattered, that would win over Meggie’s childish heart—that apparently already had. As he squinted at Christy Lane’s backside, he tried to figure out why she seemed so familiar. Realizing what he was doing, he cleared his throat and looked away. It didn’t matter. What mattered was, in less than five minutes, this impish woman had gotten through to Meggie. Sam felt a pang of something like jealousy as Meggie called out, “I fine it, Christy!” with a note of cheery cooperation that he had never heard from his own daughter.
He watched in utter disbelief as Meggie fairly skipped across the room, retrieved her brush from the rumpled bed and proudly presented it to Christy Lane.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHRISTY’S FIRST FEW WEEKS in Sam Solomon’s household flew by in a kaleidoscopic swirl of change. She had determined on the very first day that there was much to be accomplished in this odd situation. She had gone home and made an extensive list on a large yellow legal pad. Each day she hauled the pad around with her and took delight in scratching items off.
-Give Meggie a thorough bath and grooming. (Trim her bangs?)
-Teach her to pick up her room before dinner and at bedtime.
-Straighten her closet. (Get suitcases unpacked!)
-Launder and press all her clothes.
-Get some cash from Sam in order to stock the pantry with nutritious food to entice a child.
-Establish a routine naptime for Meggie.
-Write a song especially for Meggie.
And last but not least on Christy’s list:
-Have some fun.
Fun was a big priority for Christy Lane. And the Solomon household seemed to be sorely lacking in that particular commodity. In fact, it was obvious to Christy that the Solomons were so overwhelmed with the unexpected arrival of Sam’s mentally challenged daughter that fun was the farthest thing from their minds.
She had learned from Gayle that Sam usually arranged not to work at all during Meggie’s brief visitations. It sounded like he went into some kind of survival mode until he could ship the child back to California. Just as Christy had suspected, this was not a household that accommodated the needs of a small child easily.
But Christy loved a challenge.
By Friday of the third week, her to-do list had shrunk nicely. She was sitting at the bowed window by the dining room table, feeding Mr. Charlie, the betta fish she’d bought Meggie that day, when Sam Solomon’s black Suburban pulled into the circular driveway. Meggie was upstairs, konked out. A pot of mildly seasoned spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove. Quiet classical music drifted from the CD player. Brutus lay like a warm pillow across Christy’s feet. Mr. Charlie swam to the surface of his fishbowl and snagged a pellet. “What a good fishy-wishy you are,” Christy cooed.
She glanced up, watching Sam climb out of his Suburban. She had seen little of the man all week. He usually left the minute she arrived at 7:00 a.m., long before Meggie was awake, and many nights he didn’t get home until Meggie was in bed for the night. Christy was determined to fix that situation, hoping that Meggie’s new routine of an afternoon nap would allow her to stay up later so she could get to know her daddy.
For the last few days Christy had also been debating about whether or not to tell Sam that they went to high school together. He didn’t seem to remember her at all. She got to thinking that since she had allowed three whole weeks to pass without bringing the subject up, it would seem silly, even self-conscious, to suddenly mention it now. As if it were a big deal or something. As if she expected him to remember her. And he clearly didn’t.
Better