In profile, her features were delicately carved. He saw the shuddering sob that signaled the end of her catharsis. Tears were good...for women at least. Sometimes he envied the fairer sex for their ability to express emotion. For him, it was usually chopping wood or hiking seven miles that took the edge off when he felt overwhelmed or sad.
“Talk to me, Lila.”
It took a long time, but finally she answered. “I don’t think I can keep Sybbie.”
Inwardly, he recoiled, but he kept his expression impassive. “Why not?”
“Look at me. You know who I am. I’m not the Martha Stewart type. I’m good at my job, but it requires long hours. That’s partly why you and I broke up. I don’t want Sybbie to be raised by a nanny. She deserves a traditional home with two parents. You and I both missed out on that. Surely it would be hypocritical of me to keep her when I can’t devote my time to raising her myself.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Lila froze. His sharp question had spewed out uncensored, revealing his visceral reaction to the idea that she would give away her niece. “Thanks for the support,” she said.
For a split second he saw anguish in her eyes. He didn’t want to cause her pain, but he also didn’t want her to make a decision she would regret later. Carefully, he put a hand on her arm, expecting her to knock it away. Instead, she froze. “I’m not your enemy, Lila. Let me help you.” He was trying to reach her through touch. They weren’t a couple anymore, but they were neighbors, and surely they could become friends again.
“You’re already helping me,” she said.
“That’s different. You hired me to do a job. Anyone could have done that for you.”
“Then what do you mean?”
He squeezed her arm and let go. “I want to talk to you about something, but I’d feel more comfortable if we were closer to Sybbie. Let’s go back and I’ll pour us a couple glasses of wine.”
* * *
Lila had hit rock bottom. It was bad enough when she and James broke up. But she’d had her job and her friends to distract her. Tonight, she knew she had disappointed him. Why couldn’t he understand that she was proud of her job...that she enjoyed her work?
James surely had gleaned some of his ideas about women from 1960s sitcoms. He wanted a wife who would greet her husband at the door with a baby on one hip and a beer in the other. For him. Of course. His attitude really made no sense, because his own mother had worked her whole life, though admittedly in the family business.
Most of his sisters-in-law had careers. She’d never heard him be judgmental about them. Maybe it was only Lila’s life choices he found unacceptable.
In every other way, he seemed to be an enlightened male. But apparently not when it came to the future mother of his yet-to-be-born children.
James was already standing. She pretended not to see his outstretched hand. Instead, she got to her feet and brushed the sawdust from her legs. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll talk. But I can’t see how that changes anything.”
She absolutely had to show up for work Monday morning. Taking Sybbie with her was not an option. She was out of answers. Not only did she have zero prospects for a nanny, she had also bombed out when it came to lining up a few temporary babysitters. Of the two problems, the babysitter issue would be easier to solve. If she made another series of phone calls, she could surely find a few dependable people who could tag team during Lila’s working hours.
But did she really want to come home from an exhausting ten hours of work day after day and take care of Sybbie? She wasn’t a selfish person. Already, she loved the baby. Intellectually, she knew that many families with two working parents made this happen.
The difference was, Lila wasn’t married. Once the babysitters went home, she would bear the responsibility for everything else. The thought was not only daunting, it was terrifying.
And that was something James wasn’t going to understand. Not unless she told him her secrets. The things that gave her sleepless nights and caused her to wake up in a cold sweat from nightmares.
Stomach churning, she locked her front door and followed him across the yard. With the monitor in her hand, she was reassured that Sybbie was okay. The small, grainy image of the baby kept Lila from imagining the worst-case scenario.
She had assumed James would suggest they sit in his comfy living room to have their drinks. He must have thought that was too cozy, because he took the wine into the kitchen, opened it and poured two glasses. He offered her one and invited her to sit down.
Despite the late hour, there was nothing intimate or suggestive about the locale. The overhead illumination was bright. The refrigerator hummed quietly.
Finally, she couldn’t bear his silence any longer. “You said you wanted to talk.”
He nodded, his long, tanned fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “May I ask you a question?”
“I suppose.” Her stomach tightened.
“I honestly thought you didn’t like kids, but when I watched you with Sybbie, your face lights up. You are tender and caring and I’m pretty sure you already love her almost as much as if you had given birth to her. Am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong.” She’d been trying to decide whether or not to open up all her skeleton-filled closets. James had cut to the chase and simply asked. Flat out. “I do love children,” she said. “I always have. And yes...Sybbie stole my heart the first moment I saw her.”
“So what’s the problem? Tell me, Lila-belle. I want to understand.” The goofy nickname was not fair. It made her yearn for a happier time with James.
For her to explain was only going to make it more certain that the two of them were never ever getting back together. Perhaps this was for the best.
“I used to babysit,” she said simply. “A lot. From the time I turned thirteen. I took a class offered by the Red Cross at the hospital. Received my certification. I was responsible and dependable and kids gravitated toward me.”
“So far, I’m not hearing any negatives.”
“I had a very scary experience when I was in the eighth grade. I was babysitting after school for a woman who had a mentally and physically challenged three-year-old. He only knew a few words, but he was extremely sweet and cooperative. His walking was jerky, but he could do it.”
“Was this a one-time thing?”
“No. I had a regular job with this lady. She cared for him all day, and by the time I came to her house after school, she needed a break and a chance to cook dinner for her family. There were two other children and a husband.”
“Okay.”
James was completely tuned in to her story, his expression intense. She felt like a bug under a microscope. Wine in hand, she jumped to her feet and paced. “One day, the little boy and I were playing with Lincoln logs in the living room. He was old enough not to put little pieces in his mouth.”
“But he choked on something.”
James’s attempt to finish her story made her smile, though there was no humor at all in the memory. “Not exactly. He went into a seizure, fell and bashed his head on the glass coffee table. Blood went everywhere. I screamed. His mother came running and knew immediately what had happened. She told me to call 911, and she held him so he wouldn’t hurt himself further.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“I was. She had never mentioned that he might have a seizure. The whole family made sure I knew it wasn’t my fault that he hit his head. But it traumatized me. He could have died. On my watch.”
“Is