Caileen ignored a flash of envy for the women he’d mentioned. Years ago, when she’d started on her career, the Dalton case history had been presented to her as a most successful blending of families. This achievement represented the paradigm she was to aspire to in her cases.
The former Dalton orphans were all happily married now, their families integrated into one ideal whole.
However, one needed ideal material to work with in order to perform miracles. She was willing to settle for a functional arrangement. Turning over a page in her notebook, she noted the cleanliness of the home, the comfortable furniture and the evidence of age-appropriate games and books as well as a television.
A vase of golden daffodils adorned the dining table and potted plants filled the kitchen windowsills and various corners of the large, open living area. The walls were painted a soft golden yellow with a sienna glaze that added texture. Other colors—yellow, green and pink—had been chosen to complement the braided oval rug that artfully defined the seating area of the large living room.
A copper sculpture of a mailbox in front of a farmhouse decorated one wall. Charcoal drawings of each of the children hung on another. The drawings were caricatures that were funny and tender at the same time. She noticed the initials on the drawings were the same as his.
“Is that your work?” she asked, realizing his talents were much greater than indicated in the case study folder.
Builders and interior designers depended on him in their remodeling efforts, she’d learned. He bought old furniture, even houses, and reclaimed the useable features such as mantels, lintels, doorknobs and decorative moldings.
While investigating his character, she’d made a point of checking out two of his metal sculptures in Boise, each a featured item in the front yards of very expensive homes. The reports hadn’t mentioned his additional artistic abilities, such as the drawings.
“Yes.”
The answer was grudgingly given. She didn’t write this observation down. “They’re quite good. Children need to see pictures of themselves. It gives them a feeling of worth and self-confidence, of being important to others.”
When he said nothing, she continued on the tour.
In each of the bedrooms there was a desk and bookcase. Each desk had a dictionary on it. The bookcases were filled with reference books and novels that reflected the personal tastes of the occupants. She noted this with approval.
“Excellent,” she said, giving him a nod and closing the notebook when she finished the inspection.
His chest lifted as if he took a deep breath of relief. It was the only sign he’d displayed of being apprehensive about her visit. “The last room is down this way.”
She followed him to the opposite side of the house, although there was really no need to see his quarters.
But she was curious.
The bedroom was large and rather narrow. A king-size bed occupied one end. There were tables and lamps handily located on each side of it. An alcove with an easy chair, a rocker and a bookcase invited one to linger and read. A large bathroom was next to that. The color scheme was a soft, smoky blue with touches of tan and mauve.
Envy ran through her like a summer heat wave.
“Your home is lovely,” she managed to say. “It will be a wonderful place for children to grow up.”
“If the adults make it that way,” he said, qualifying her impulsive statement. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Her surprise must have showed.
“I want to ask you some questions,” he added.
“Coffee would be fine.”
Once they were seated at the dining room table, each with a steaming cup of fresh coffee, he gazed out the window as a nippy March breeze stirred the daffodils.
“How long do you have to check me out before you decide the kids are okay here?”
“Foster children are under the care of the state and county until they’re adults.”
“Eighteen or twenty-one?”
“Eighteen.”
The frown line indented across his forehead. “So you’ll be keeping an eye on us for several years.”
“Until Krista is eighteen.”
“Seven years and one day,” he said. “Could they be taken away at any time if you give the word?”
“Not quite as easily as that,” she told him. “I would have to be able to show cause.”
“What would that be?”
She wondered what he was getting at. “Physical abuse—”
“Like the beatings that made Tony and Krista run away from the other foster home?”
Caileen reached across the table and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m terribly sorry for that. We really do try very hard to prevent such things.”
He stared at her hand until she withdrew it, then peered into her eyes. “What else?”
“Mental abuse,” she continued. “Alcohol abuse. One of the most common causes for removal in foster families is spending the allowance for the children’s food and clothing on personal items.”
“That won’t be a problem here.”
“I didn’t think it would. Another thing the courts frown upon is lack of supervision.”
“I see.” He gazed out the window again. Caileen sipped her coffee, which was surprisingly good, and waited for his next question.
“Was Krista physically abused?” he asked. “Apart from the beatings?”
Caileen shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”
“She seems afraid of me sometimes. She doesn’t like it when both the boys are out at one time.”
“That could be separation anxiety,” Caileen said after considering the facts. “She depended solely on Jeremy and Tony for her safety during the time they were hiding out. It can be frightening to need another that much, to know that without them, she might have to return to foster care and face the same situation again but alone this time.”
“Why wouldn’t she come to me? I’ve never hurt them.”
“Perhaps she isn’t sure you really want her.” Caileen glanced at her watch. She’d been there nearly an hour and still had two other homes to visit. Rising, she gathered her purse and notebook. “I think we should give her time to realize that her life isn’t going to suddenly change again.”
“She needs to regain her trust in people,” he concluded, the cynical note back.
“Yes. Don’t rush her. Just be available if she wants to talk. Stories can help children open up. I have some good books that would be right for Krista. I’ll see that you get them. You might read a chapter to her each night. Oh, and have her read one to you. That helps enormously with reading skills, we’ve found.”
“Okay. When can I get the books?”
Clearly he wasn’t one to waste time. “I’ll bring them over tomorrow.” She checked her day planner. “Around noon. That’s the only time I have free.”
“Fine. At noon then.”
He strode toward the front door, the interview over as far as he was concerned. She found herself as much amused by his manner as touched by his obvious concern for the orphans in his care.
“Mr. Aquilon—”
“Jeff,” he corrected. “Since we’re on day one of a seven-year