Single Dad

Two

Uh-oh. It was a good thing that Ariel glanced up when the tinkling of the bell announced someone had entered the store. A second later, and she might have missed the urchin in the backward baseball cap and oversize Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt.

She hadn’t seen Patrice in days—nor expected to—but temporarily she had her hands full. The entire morning had been an exercise in commotion and locomotion. Dot wasn’t due in until three. The phone refused to stop ringing; three browsers were wandering around; a woman lunch shopper was waiting at the cash register to buy earrings; and Ariel was stuck behind the jewelry counter with a gentleman who was sweating blood, trying to pick out a present for his wife.

The young blond man fingered a moonstone-and-mother-of-pearl pendant, which was about the ninetieth thing he’d considered, and shot her a helpless look. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

Since Ariel had never met his wife, she didn’t have a clue. “I think it’s beautiful myself, and I don’t see how you can go too wrong with that—not if she likes antiquey-type jewelry.”

“She loves all kinds of antiquey stuff. But this has to be special.” He confided, “We’ve been married six months today.”

By today’s divorce statistics, enduring six months together was probably a record, but Ariel had no time to give him an “attaboy.” The woman at the cash register was impatiently tapping her foot. The phone rang again. And normally Ariel would have been happy to spend all day with blondie—he was really a darling, just a little short in the decision-making department. But she felt uneasy about Killer being in the store alone, and the urchin had already disappeared from sight.

“I’ll tell you what,” she told the gentleman. “You think about this for a minute, while I take care of the lady up front, and I’ll be right back.” She jogged to the front, quickly dealt with the phone call, rang up the sale, bagged it, answered a fast question from the browsers on stained-glass prices and galloped back to her man.

En route, she caught a glimpse of the miniature brunette near the magic aisle, which was enough to relieve her mind.

She was delighted to see the child again. She also believed the little one’s ardent promises about never stealing again. It was just that she’d met few adults who could keep their promises—especially ardently made promises—and she wasn’t about to believe the six-year-old had mastered temptation. Thankfully, the magic tricks were all safely locked inside the glass cabinet. She really didn’t want to see the urchin get into any more trouble.

The gentleman eventually chose a black-button pearl bracelet and paid—bless him!—in cash; the earrings shopper left; and the three browsers meandered to the front with their stained-glass window ornaments. Once they were gone, the transition from commotion to total silence was astoundingly quick. Ariel hustled toward the magic aisle.

Killer’s nose was pressed to the glass. “Hi,” she said, when Ariel crouched down.

“Hi, back.”

“I have money today.” To illustrate proof, Killer pushed up the Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt and dug in the pockets of her cherry-red shorts. Once all the pockets were turned inside out, five dollars in crumpled ones and change gradually accumulated on the counter.

“Wow. You have lots of money.”

“I want a magic trick. If that’s okay.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t sure if it was okay if I came back. Maybe you’re still mad at me.”

“I was never mad at you, Killer. You made a mistake. I’ve made a few mistakes myself. And you’re welcome to come in the store as often as you want, sweetie, as long as you have your dad’s permission.”

“He’s gone during the day. But I asked Mary Sue. She takes care of me, and she said yes. I can pretty much go anyplace as long as I don’t have to cross streets, and all I gotta do to get here is walk down the ravine and then up the sidewalk and then down the alley.”

Well, that settled the issue of permission, but the purchase of the magic trick was a more complicated business. The quest for the Holy Grail never took this long. The goal was to dazzle and bedazzle her older brothers, but finding a magic trick that Killer could handle and her older brothers couldn’t figure out took some experimenting.

They tried card tricks. They tried cutting-rope tricks. They made a quarter miraculously disappear in a glass of water, and a scarf miraculously change color, and a broken toothpick miraculously heal itself. By then, Killer was chattering six for a dozen. The topic strayed from magic to girl stuff. Important things, like how to braid hair. Dolls. Perfume. Best friends. How disgusting boys were—especially Tommy Bradley.

“He tried to kiss me,” Killer said with a scrunch of her nose. “What a yuck.”

“Tommy Bradley lacks a little technique, hmm?”

“He really gives me the creeps—don’t tell my dad about that, okay? My dad wouldn’t like it if a boy tried to kiss me. He already told me he’s not gonna let me date until I’m forty-five. As if I’d want to.”

“I won’t tell,” Ariel said gravely.

“I’m gonna grow my hair just like you. And wear earrings just like you. I just have to get a little older about the earrings, Dad says.”

Half the little one’s conversation was peppered with whatever her dad said and thought. Ariel couldn’t help but picture Josh surviving the incessant stream of girl talk. She’d never rationed smiles—or laughter—and she wasn’t that busy. It was easy to give the child the female companionship she was so poignantly lonesome for.

Killer had fresh French braids and the bagged-up quarter magic trick—discounted—when she skipped out of the store around three.

Fifteen minutes later, Ariel discovered the missing ruby-eyed dragon.

* * *

Lightning striped the black sky. Rain slashed down in gusty torrents. After five days of killing heat, the storm was more than welcome, but Josh was soaked through by the time he jogged from the Bronco through the alley and up the back metal stairs. When he reached the top, rain drizzled down his neck and matted his eyelashes. Still, he hesitated before knocking.

He really didn’t want to be here.

Killer had told him that Ariel lived over the shop, and lights shone through the pale curtains, fair evidence that she was at home. It was past eight. He’d been to his place, had dinner and messed around with the kids for as long as he could procrastinate this little chore. Any later than this, and an unexpected caller at night would probably scare a woman alone. Hell, an unexpected guy caller could probably scare her now, but at least eight o’clock was still reasonably early.

He just really didn’t want to knock on that door.

Rain sluiced through his hair and rivered off his denim jacket. Impatiently he set his jaw, squared his shoulders. And firmly back-knuckled the door.

The back light popped on. He heard her, on the other side, undoing a dead bolt and locks. His shoulder muscles were bunched and braced even before she poked her head out.

“Josh?” Her clear-bell voice made his name sound like a question, but there didn’t seem to be any startled shock in her expression. She glanced at him, chuckled as she said, “Good grief, are you wet! Come on in, before you drown out there—” and then looked down and past him.

It wasn’t hard to guess that she was searching for another body. “Killer isn’t with me. Killer is grounded for the rest of her life,” he informed her.

“Ah.”

The twinkle of humor in her eyes disarmed him—maybe she didn’t know about his daughter’s latest shoplifting escapade? Either way, he positively wanted this encounter over quick. One horrified glance had revealed that she was in pajamas. Silky, sexy, scarlet pajamas. And the last time he’d seen her, her hair had been all piled up. Now it was down, brushed smooth, about three miles of silvery-gold taffy that swished almost to her waist. He averted his eyes, trying to look nowhere, not at her place and for sure not at her, as he dug inside his jacket for the small wrapped package. “I believe this dragon thingamabog belongs to you.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid it does.” Her soft green eyes met his. “I realized she had it about three minutes after she left the shop.”

“You know she took it? Since yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t sure what to do. I really didn’t want to get her into any more trouble.” She hesitated. “Look, wouldn’t you like to come in and dry off for a few minutes? I’ve got some coffee on the stove. You want a splash of brandy in it?”

“I...” He never planned on coming in, not once he realized she was dressed for bed. But the friendly offer for coffee threw him. She could have been madder than a wet hen—hell, she could have called the cops on his kid. If there was some protocol for a single dad in this situation, he just didn’t know what it was. “I never meant to take up your evening. I just wanted to give the thing back to you and apologize.”

“I understand...but you’re worried about your daughter, aren’t you? Maybe it’d help if we talked about it.”

Personally, Josh never found that talking helped much of anything. But he figured he owed her some kind of explanation for his daughter’s recent kleptomaniac streak, and he didn’t want Ariel thinking he was the kind of dad who didn’t give a damn about his kids. So gingerly he stepped inside.

She took his jacket. And he had to heel off his boots or risk tracking in mud. The next thing he knew, he had a fragile-looking china cup in his hands, filled with some kind of fancy gourmet coffee, fragrant and rich and topped off with a splash of brandy.

“Come on in the living room. More comfortable to sit in there,” she said easily.

He took a gulp of the brew as he followed her, hoping the liquor might settle his nerves. It didn’t. Guessing conservatively, he figured the chances of his being comfortable around her rivaled the odds of a federal balanced budget. There’d be colonies on Mars first.

“I’m crazy about your daughter, you know.” She curled up in the corner of the couch, and motioned him to the closest chair. Her sweep of a smile seemed honest and warm. Somehow that smile made it easier for him to talk than he’d expected.

“She’s crazy about you, too. Practically everything she’s said in the last week was a quote from you. Don’t take this wrong, okay? But I think half the problem is this attachment she’s formed to you.”

Ariel nodded thoughtfully. “I had the feeling she was really lonesome for a woman’s company.”

“I know she’s lonesome for a woman’s company. She took her mom’s leaving hard. I have two boys....”

“She told me about her brothers.”

Josh rubbed his jaw. “Nancy’s leaving, the divorce, hasn’t been easy on any of them. But Killer definitely had the hardest time with it. And still is. That’s no excuse for stealing. She knows better. But I don’t want you thinking she’s a bad kid. She’s not bad. She’s...” Well, the squirt was damn near perfect in his eyes—always had been. Yes, exasperating and exhausting and an incredibly confusing little female person, but a light in his life like nothing else. Only, how was a grown man supposed to put that in words?

“I never thought she was bad, Josh,” Ariel said gently. “In fact, I can remember shoplifting a pack of gum when I was that age.”

“Shoplifting a quarter pack of gum is a little different than taking off with something that cost—what was that dragon thing worth, anyway?”

“Around sixty dollars. But I doubt she had any understanding of its dollar value. It looked like a little thing to her. Just something pretty. And she’s of the age where she’d know about dragons from fairy tales. You know, you won’t break that chair if you sit back in it,” she murmured with amusement.

Josh wasn’t worried about breaking the chair. He was worried about him. When she didn’t immediately hustle to some back room for a robe or cover-up, it finally registered that the scarlet outfit wasn’t pajamas. Apparently it was just one of those gummy-silk things that women walked around in these days. The shirtish top was loose, oversize. Not even suggestive of bedrooms or bedroom attire, if a guy didn’t have a dirty mind.

Josh was trying to keep his mind clean. He was trying, in fact, to think like a celibate monk. Only, he’d never been a monk, and a full bottle of bleach wasn’t likely to wash the X-rated thoughts racing through his mind.

She was really something. And so was her place.

The building was a good hundred years old, he guessed. The tall-pitched ceiling had to be hell on her heating bills. The old-fashioned windows were draft suckers. A white marble—cracked marble—fireplace stood in the far corner, another drafty nightmare if it wasn’t regularly maintenanced and cared for. She probably had to worry about blinking lights with wiring this old. Josh told himself he was judging the whole thing from an objective masculine perspective, but the truth was, he wasn’t thinking about her fireplace flue.

The carpet was a pale water blue and as plushy as a sponge. The couch and chairs had sink-deep cushions, the fabric soft and that same muted blue color. One lamp had a fringed shade, and the other—the one behind her head—was Tiffany-style, with roses against a blue sky background. Piles of candles sat on her coffee table. Not unused candles, like in any normal place, but vanilla-and spice-scented candles that she obviously lit and enjoyed, because the wax had swirled and pooled in the holders. She had a crystal ball on the mantel. An honest-to-Pete crystal ball, like witches used, and it picked up all the soft colors from everywhere and reflected them right back.

Nothing was bright. Nothing was noisy. There wasn’t a football in sight, no doll carriages to trip over, no dirty dishes, no video game screeching. Every scent, texture and sound was distinctly sensual—hedonistically, worrisomely sensual—and so was she.

It wasn’t her fault, Josh kept telling himself, that she looked like a guy’s seductive fantasy of a dream lover. The long legs were probably genetic. Blond hair probably ran in her family, too. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything to sell the package. Her hair had no special style, not full of gunky hairspray. It was just so silky, so long, that any man was naturally going to imagine his hands wrapped in it. And she was wearing a gold pendant—nothing big or gaudy, but the little chunk was trapped in the shadow of her plump breasts, drawing his eyes there. Forcing his eyes to the dip of ivory flesh in the vee of her shirt...especially when she was bending right over him.

“Would you like some more?”

Belatedly he realized she was holding the coffeepot, trying to offer him a refill. “Maybe one more quick one,” he said, then abruptly wiped a hand over his face. He wished he hadn’t said “Quick one.”

“A little more brandy, too?”

“No brandy for me this time, but thanks.” If that splash of brandy was responsible for this abrupt surge of hormones, he wanted no more of it. He wanted to kick himself. Maybe it had been a month of Sundays since he’d been alone with a woman, but he knew how to behave around one. He was also a practical, grounded, blue-collar kind of guy. He knew damn well when a lady was way, way out of his realm.

She poured them both more coffee, and carried her cup back to the couch, tucking her legs under her. “Killer never told me what you did for a living....”

“I’m an electrical contractor.” He almost chuckled. She cocked her head, expressing interest, but he couldn’t fathom a woman who was into crystal balls wanting to hear anything about wiring and electric circuits. It was past time he acted like a grown man who could handle a conversation without stuttering. “Have you owned your shop long?”

“Treasures? About four years now.” She grinned. “I think you met my partner the other day...the six-foot-tall black woman with the bifocals and the gorgeous mocha skin? Her real name is Dorothy, but her nickname’s always been Dot.”

He remembered the Amazon. When he walked in the shop, she’d treated him like handling lost-soul construction workers was the most fun she’d had all day. “She has quite a sense of humor.”

“She’s wonderful. We met at an antique jewelry auction a million years ago, and clicked right away. I used to work with silver, designing pieces, but I was never good enough to make a living at it. But I know jewelry, and she knows about the business end of running a shop. When the building came up for sale about four years ago, we decided to give it a go together.”

“You do okay?”

“Better than most gift stores, I suspect. The location’s great, and we’ve kept the payroll down to just the two of us and a part-time guy. Unique jewelry is our main thing. Even in recession times, most women can’t resist a new bangle or pair of earrings. Me, either. In fact, that’s what I try and stock—what I can’t resist,” she admitted humorously. “Anyway, we’re hardly banking millions, but we’re keeping afloat.”

“You seem to like kids....” Jeez. Talking with her wasn’t coming half as hard as he’d expected, but there were clearly some subjects that made her light up like a Christmas tree. She darn near bounced with enthusiasm, her smile turned up a thousand wattage.

“I’m crazy about kids. Wish I had a dozen of my own, but I make do, borrowing nieces and nephews and any relatives’ kids I can beg, borrow or kidnap whenever I have the chance.”

“Come from a big family?”

“If I told you how big, you probably wouldn’t believe it. My mother’s been divorced four times—at last count—and my dad’s on his third wife. My background hasn’t given me much faith in the institution of marriage, but I’ve collected whole clans of relatives along the way. In fact, I developed this theory, growing up.”

“Yeah?” He hadn’t a clue where she was leading, but if it was going to make her eyes sparkle and dance like that, he was willing to hear anything.

“Yeah. As a kid, I couldn’t see a reason on earth why I had to lose all my relatives because of divorce. I mean they were getting divorces. I wasn’t. So I decided to keep the relatives I was fond of. My aunt Betty, for instance, was a blood relative, but she was always a pistol. When she divorced my uncle Henry, I kept him. And my mom’s second husband’s parents—I’ve kept them as honorary grandparents. And then there are people like Jeanne—she’s a writer—she was my dad’s first wife’s niece...your eyes are crossing, Josh, are you getting a little confused?”

Damned if she wasn’t teasing him. “I’m just trying to picture who you have over for dinner on the holidays,” he said dryly. “The idea that you can keep or throw out the relatives you want is a little...unusual.”

“Families don’t seem to exist like they used to. If that’s the way it’s going to be, I figure we’ll have to create our nuclear-age families out of a new mold. And you’re divorced, so you already know how complicated it can get for the kids around birthdays and holidays—which ex-aunts and uncles get invited for which occasions—”

“Yeah, it gets complicated.” But his mind, for the first time in a millennium, wasn’t on his children. It was on her.

Vaguely he recalled that his sole reason for coming here had been to talk about Killer. Vaguely he recalled the madhouse of chores and noise and kids that he needed to go home to—soon. Yet he’d stretched out his legs. He couldn’t remember when. Her place, the warmth of lamplight and quiet and soft blues, gave him the strange feeling of being in a spellbound cocoon. When was the last time he’d shared a basic conversation with a woman? When was the last time a woman had curled up across from him, and focused her attention on his face as if nothing else mattered in the world except the conversation between the two of them?

“It’s hard to believe you mean that—about being antimarriage. Maybe the odds of a couple staying together aren’t too hot today. And just having been through a divorce, I get a case of hives even thinking about wedding rings again. But you must have been tempted to get married sometime. And if you want kids...”

“I want kids. But I’d never get married just for that reason. There’s no stigma against being a single mom these days. Obviously the situation is better for a child with both a mom and dad, but a ring doesn’t guarantee that.”

He argued with her. A damn silly argument, considering that nobody knew better than him how little a ring guaranteed. But it was fun, bickering the pros and cons of marriage back and forth with her. Eventually they moved off marriage and tried out an argument about politics—no way they could agree on anything there; she was a flaming do-gooder liberal, which he could have guessed. But they weren’t really fighting. She kept laughing, and making him laugh. She had a hatful of free-spirited wild ideas about life and love and everything else. Josh couldn’t begin to guess if she was serious, nor did it matter. For the first time in forever, he wasn’t thinking about work or bills or kids or when he was going to find time to change the oil on his Bronco.

But damn. When his gaze accidentally flickered to the dials on his watch, he almost had a stroke. How could he possibly have been there two hours?

He lurched to his feet faster than a bee-stung bear. “Damn. I didn’t realize how late it was. And I never meant to take up your whole evening.”

“I didn’t mind. I enjoyed talking with you.”

“Yeah...I enjoyed it, too.” Belatedly he realized how true that was, how much fun he’d had over the past two hours...and it worried him.

Ariel trailed him into the blue-and-white kitchen. “I’ll get your jacket. Hopefully it’ll be dry by now.” She glanced out the black windows. “It’s still drizzling, but I haven’t heard a boomer in a while. Looks like the worst of the storm finally passed.”

She fetched his denim jacket from the minuscule entryway and held it up with a smile.

“Thanks,” he said. It only took a second to put on his boots and yank on the jacket. Then he meant to reach for the doorknob and go. There was no reason his leaving her had to be complicated.

But somehow he found himself still standing there. Close to her. Awkwardly close. In her bare feet, she reached his nose in height. With the sink light behind her, her delicate features were less shadowed than simply softened, blurred. Feminine scents seemed to surround her. Not one, but a blend—mango from her shampoo, and peach from the hand cream he’d seen her reach for, and yeah, he could catch an exotic spice from the perfume where her skin was warm. Her skin looked real, real warm.

When he’d first walked in, his tongue had been tangled somewhere near the roof of his mouth. Studying her over the evening, he’d seen she was pale. Too pale. And she had a plain old ordinary chin. Discovering those imperfections had been a relief. No way a guy could have a normal conversation with his personal Christie Brinkley fantasy. But she wasn’t that now. The legs, the body, the sultry green eyes—it was all still there, all just as distracting. But somehow over the evening she’d become...real.

And she looked at him, impossibly, as if she found him real, too. “You’re not really going to ground Killer for the rest of her life, are you?” she queried.

“I haven’t a clue what I’m gonna do with her,” he admitted dryly. “But thanks...for not being mad about her taking those things. And just...for listening.”

“No problem,” she said lightly.

“Well...good night.”

“Good night,” she returned.

He reached for the door. So did she. Their hands brushed, making them both chuckle.

They both jumped back to give the other room, making them both chuckle again.