Child by Chance. Tara Quinn Taylor

you said she took time out of her day to work with my son every day last week?”

      “Yes, sir. Her collage program, which is also part of her master’s thesis, has been tentatively approved by the school board and she was in our building, anyway. I didn’t feel there was any harm in giving Kent an opportunity for some one-on-one time with her. You told me you trusted me to make appropriate decisions for him during school hours and—”

      “Yes, yes...” he cut in. “I’m...grateful for all that you’re doing. And of course I’ll meet with anyone who thinks they can help Kent. I’m sorry. I thought... I expected...”

      “You thought I was calling because Kent was in trouble again. I understand.” Mrs. Barbour’s soft tone reminded him of his mother. Anita Paulson had remarried a couple of years after his father passed away. Another military man. Sherman had been in high school then. Unwilling to be uprooted yet again by military life. His mother had reluctantly allowed him to stay with a friend’s family while he finished high school. From there it had been college. And Brooke. His mother, on the other hand, had lived in four different states and was currently in Belgium where her husband, a full colonel now, was serving his last term before retirement. She’d seen Kent a handful of times. Brief visits that always ended with promises for more time soon.

      Mrs. Barbour was listing off times when this Talia Malone would be available to meet with him.

      “Whatever works best for her,” he said, not making note of any of them. Didn’t matter to him when it was. As long as it happened. “As soon as possible, whatever’s best for her,” he amended. If he had something on the calendar he’d switch it.

      “Tomorrow, then? Just after lunch? Which would be one o’clock. I can give you the conference room down the hall for as long as you need it,” she said, all business as usual.

      Grabbing a pen, Sherman took down the pertinent details. An appointment for a new lease on life.

      That was right up his alley.

      * * *

      TALIA DIDN’T HUG a water fountain for comfort. She didn’t throw up. She also didn’t tell anyone, most particularly Tatum, that she was meeting her biological son’s father that Tuesday afternoon. She dressed in conservative black pants, a white blouse and her tweed blazer, twisted her hair back into a bun, glued the wayward tendrils down with professional-quality freeze spray and walked into that meeting with her big-girl panties firmly in place.

      She hadn’t set out to do any of this. Had only wanted a glimpse of her son, to assure herself he was fine before she went on with her life and left him to his. She’d needed the closure of the life she was leaving behind.

      But he’d been in trouble, and she’d been able to help. Not as his mother. As the person she was becoming in her new life—the professional Talia.