For the Girls' Sake

chapter FIVE

HOW LONG HAD IT BEEN since she had sat beside the phone waiting for a man to call? Years. Eons, Lynn thought wryly.

And this was more like being a teenager, when she’d desperately wanted to pick up the phone and hear his voice, and yet was terrified every time it rang that he might be on the other end of the line. She’d never felt at ease socially, never known the right thing to say. If the boy she had a crush on called, she’d blow it, Lynn had been certain during those difficult years. Her mother had said comfortably that she’d learn.

Lynn scowled at the silent telephone. Yeah, Mom? she demanded. Then how come I haven’t?

This was different, of course. She wasn’t interested in him. It was Rose, sweet, shy Rose, whose voice Lynn hankered to hear. But she couldn’t see Rose without going through her daddy, which Lynn fiercely resented even as she felt as protective about Shelly.

Seeing her natural daughter once had seemed as if it might be enough, back when they planned the one-day visit. Just knowing that she was healthy and loved...

She made a sound in her throat and prowled the kitchen. Silence from the bedroom, where Shelly napped.

Enough? Sure. Like that first piece of chocolate would be enough. Like you could eat three potato chips and then put the bag away.

A taste was worse than never having any.

Feeling Rose’s chubby arms around her neck and hearing her throaty giggle in Lynn’s ears had been amazing. Rose and Shelly had taken to each other immediately, and yet they were so different. Lynn had applauded but never understood Shelly’s boldness and flamboyance. In Rose she saw herself, not because of the freckles or the hair, but because Rose hung back when a braver soul forged forward, because Rose’s hand clung to Daddy’s instead of letting go, because Rose wanted oh so desperately to be sure she would be safe before she leaped.

Lynn understood all of that. She had been—was—afraid. Her own mother had had to boot her gently out of the nest. When the time came, Shelly would fly without hesitation. Rose would wobble, come back, flap her wings and try again.

Lynn wanted to be there to coax and urge and comfort, just as her mother had been for her.

It wasn’t as if Rose had another mother, she thought defensively. Then she might have made herself let go, though it would have hurt terribly. But Rose needed her. She was certain of that.

Oh, why didn’t the man call?

When he hadn’t on Sunday, she had figured he wanted to wait until Rose wasn’t around. Or perhaps he needed to think. But now it was Monday, and there wasn’t a reason in the world that he couldn’t phone from his office. Why wait? Why not settle this now?

Perhaps she should call him. The anxiety that immediately swelled at the very thought annoyed her terribly. There she was, frightened of doing something straightforward. She wanted to talk to him. Why not call?

She didn’t reach for the phone. After buckling Rose into her car seat and circling the car to where Lynn and Shelly stood, Adam Landry had said, "I’ll call." His eyes had met Lynn’s; she had nodded. Of course they had to talk. More than ever, they had to talk.

I’ll call.

Why should the ball be in his court? She had rights equal to his.

But, oh, she didn’t want to pick up the phone. She didn’t want to catch him at a bad moment, hear that brusque, impatient note in his voice. She wanted him to be the one calling, because he was eager. She imagined him conciliatory, agreeable.

Was he ever, except with his daughter?

Lynn sighed and considered making blueberry muffins as a surprise for Shelly when she woke from her nap. It would give her something to do.

The telephone rang.

Lynn stared at it, a lump clogging her throat. On the fourth ring, she snatched it up before her answering machine could do so.

"Hello?"

"Lynn, this is Adam."

"Oh." Brilliant. "Yes. Um, hello."

No "how are you?" Or "we had a great day, didn’t we?"

Instead, he said straight out, "I want to see Shelly again. I’d like to keep seeing her."

Relief washed over her even as worry began its familiar niggle. To see Rose, she needed him to want to visit Shelly. But how far would he go? What if he went to court for custody, claimed he would be the best parent for both girls?

She’d borrow the money from her parents and fight him, of course. Tooth and nail.

"I’d like to keep seeing Rose, too," she said.

A pause ensued. She wondered if he had the same mixed feelings. Or was he so confident of his ability to win that he didn’t consider her a threat?

"It was awkward, all of us together," he said at last. "Maintaining a pretense."

"Yes," she agreed, but with a thrum of hurt she chose not to examine. "Do you have another suggestion?"

"That’s why I called. What if we were to take turns dropping one of the girls off for the day? Maybe work our way up to weekends? For now, surely you could spend a Saturday shopping or seeing a movie or something in Portland?" The last was thrown out carelessly; why should he care what she did? "When I drop Rose off, I could take a drive up the coast, have lunch in Cannon Beach, maybe. Just to give you time with her."

"Won’t they think it odd, after we said we were friends?"

"We’ll make excuses." A hint of impatience sounded in his voice. Obstacles weren’t to be considered.

"Yes. All right," Lynn said. "We might have to make the visits short at first. Shelly has never played at a friend’s house for more than a couple of hours at a time."

"Rose is used to day care."

He spoke arrogantly, and yet she heard something. Uncertainty? Did he remember Rose’s clinging hand? Her reluctance to climb onto the strange lady’s back, even after several hours spent building a sand castle together?

"Does it have to be a weekend?" Lynn asked.

"Does it have to be?" The surprise in

Adam’s voice cleared. "I suppose leaving the bookstore is difficult on weekends."

"Saturday and Sunday are my busiest days. And I have to pay someone else to be there when I’m gone. The store is closed anyway on Monday and Tuesday. Later in the winter, on Wednesday, too."

"I suppose I could take some Mondays off," he said thoughtfully. "Sure, why not? Rose would be thrilled to stay home from day care."

Aha. So Rose might be "used" to day care, but was not necessarily enthusiastic.

"Shall we say next Monday?" he continued. "Can you bring Shelly here?"

"Certainly." They might have been arranging a transfer of funds or the repair of an appliance. She reached for a notepad. "Tell me how to find your place."

A moment later, she hung up, the plans firmed, a map drawn. She would take Shelly to play at Rose’s house. Go shopping herself for a few hours. It would give her a chance to see Rose briefly, and in return Adam would bring Rose here the next Monday.

It sounded simple enough, but a gnawing hole in her stomach told her simple didn’t mean easy. She was going to hate leaving Shelly with her father. Not being there to see what he said and did.

What if, after a few visits, Shelly wasn’t happy to see her mom after the day spent with Daddy? What if she wanted to stay, and he encouraged her? What if Shelly always had to go there, because Rose was too shy to be left here?

Lynn squeezed her eyes shut on a burning sensation and thought, what if I die of loneliness, on one of those Mondays?

* * *

"ARE WE ALMOST THERE?" Shelly’s neck stretched as she tried to peer ahead.

"I think so." Lynn glanced again at the directions and address that lay on the seat beside her. The neighborhood was reinforcing her worst fears. Adam Landry had money. Plenty of money.

What chance would she have if he took her on?

"There," she said, spotting the numbers on the mailbox. A paved driveway led onto wooded grounds. Rhododendrons grew under mature cedars and hemlocks and firs. She caught a glimpse of a tumbling stream and an arched stone bridge.

Money.

Ahead, the house seemed to grow out of the hillside and the forested land, the cedar siding and shake roof blending in, the several levels and the rock work around the foundation somehow disguising the sheer size of the structure. Lynn suddenly imagined Rose wandering in the middle of the night, lost and scared, trying to find her daddy’s bedroom.

Don’t be silly, she told herself sharply. Rose seemed loved and secure. Her bedroom would be near his. Surely.

Lynn admired the flower beds filled with shade-loving plants like hostas and Solomon’s seal that flowed into the natural landscape. She couldn’t quite see Adam Landry on his knees in the dirt pulling weeds. Even if he had built a sand castle with gusto. No, he’d have a gardener, as well as a housekeeper.

The car rolled to a stop. "Well," she said, trying to sound hearty. "We’re here."

"Oh." Shelly’s enthusiasm seemed to have dwindled. She stared at the house, her voice small. "I don’t see Rose."

"She doesn’t know we’re here yet." Lynn attempted a cheerful smile. "Did you see the bridge? I’ll bet Rose will show you around her woods."

"Like I showed her my beach."

"Right." Except, these woods really were Rose’s.

Shelly unbuckled her own car seat and inched forward. "Can we go see Rose?"

"You betcha."

They didn’t reach the front door before Adam came out with Rose holding his hand. Today he wore crisp khaki slacks and a polo shirt with a tiny—and probably expensive—emblem on the pocket. What he looked was handsome, unapproachable and not quite real: the wealthy professional pretending to relax.

Lynn had felt more comfortable with him when he wore jeans and a T-shirt.

The two girls murmured, "Hi," and hung their heads.

Adam’s dark gaze met hers. "Come on in."

She wondered if he would have invited her at all if their daughters had gone racing right off to play.

Inside the carved-wood door, a slate entry led to a large living room with a wall of windows, pale nubby carpet and warm, comfortable leather furniture. A few antiques lent character to a room that might have been too colorless and modern for Lynn’s tastes. She loved the wool tapestry that hung on one wall, a dark African mask on another.

The elegance of the room made her confidence plummet another inch.

"What a beautiful room."

"Thank you." He barely glanced at her. "How are you, Shelly?"

"Fine," she whispered.

"Rose has been excited about having you come."

Shelly peeked at her friend but said nothing. Rose hid behind Daddy’s leg.

He tried again. "Would you like Rose to show you her room?"

Shelly didn’t let go of Lynn’s hand. In her piercing voice, she asked, "Mommy, are you gonna go?"

"That’s the plan." She sounded as bright and fake as a dinner-plate dahlia, Lynn thought ruefully. "Remember? We talked about it. I’m going to do some mom things. Shop, and call a friend. I’ll bet you won’t miss me for a second."

"Yes, I will," Shelly said clearly.

“Not once you start to play—"

"I like to shop, too."

Out of the corner of her eye, Lynn saw Rose’s face start to crumple. A crease deepened between Adam’s brows.

"Honey," she said gently, "I know you’ll have fun with Rose. We don’t want to disappoint her."

Shelly held her hand in a death grip. This time she whispered, "Can’t you stay, Mommy?"

Despite herself, she was pleased that Shelly hadn’t dashed off without caring whether her mother left. How petty could you get? These visits had to work! She was an adult. She owed it to both children to be selfless.

Crouching, Lynn looked her daughter in the eye. "Honey," she began.

Adam interrupted, "Maybe I can talk your mom into staying for a while. Rose and I planned a nice lunch. You’ll join us, won’t you, Lynn?"

Oh, right, she thought. Now be cordial. Pretend this "dumping her daughter for the day" thing was her idea. His easy, "of course you’re welcome" voice made her the villain.

Torn between her daughter’s pleading brown eyes and her own flash of anger, she couldn’t speak for a moment. Just as well, because the pause gave her time to realize that he was right: they had to pretend. And she could do it as well as he could!

"I’d love to," she said, smiling. "Maybe first Rose would show me her bedroom."

Her gaze met his briefly, with a chill on both sides that neither of their voices revealed. You don’t want me in your house, her eyes said, but she’s my child. I’ll sit on her bed and admire her toys and coax her into friendship, whether you like it or not.

Sure you can, his said in return. Today. Because the girls have left me no choice. But don’t get your hopes up, lady. We’re not setting a precedent here.

"Good idea," he said with the same charm he’d show a new client. "Rosebud, I’ll bet Lynn will enjoy seeing your dolls."

The floors were hardwood beyond the living room, the halls spacious. She caught glimpses into other rooms: one that held a dark big-screen television and a bank of stereo equipment, a formal dining room, an office with a huge leather chair and a state-of-the-art computer and a fax machine that hummed as it rolled out pages. Rose led the way, Shelly gaining enough confidence to peer through doorways and finally let go of her mom’s hand when Rose said, "My bedroom is that one."

All the way, Lynn felt Adam behind her with a prickling, disquieting awareness.

What she hated most was the knowledge that her reaction was partly physical. Adam Landry would have been the kind of boy she’d watched from afar in middle school and high school and college. With that build, he must have been an athlete. With his confidence, he was probably the student body president. Petite, sparkly blondes would have hung on his arm, not quiet, shy girls with difficult hair.

This man was that boy all grown up, and she was no more capable now of exchanging snappy repartee or sultry looks than she’d been then.

Worst of all, the man he’d grown into was obviously capable of kindness and restraint and intense love. Then, she had told herself the popular boys were shallow. Her mother had agreed, hugged her and told her to look for a late-bloomer, they were the best kind.

How disconcerting to discover that she still secretly wished he would notice her. Not as if she really truly wanted him to like her, but because his attention would mean she had arrived. She could be one of those girls who casually slipped an arm around any boy’s waist, who laughed with him and boldly asked him to dance and assumed she would have a date on Friday night.

No, it wasn’t that she wanted Adam Landry to share her unnerving awareness. He was the enemy. He only represented something to her. He awakened girlish longings she’d thought long dead. He was a symbol.

She grimaced when the girls weren’t looking her way and wondered for the forty-second time: Why couldn’t Shelly’s birth father have been a nice plumber?

"See? This is my room," Rose said shyly.

"Ooh," Shelly breathed, and Lynn’s heart sank anew.

Right behind her daughter, she stepped into a young girl’s fantasy kingdom, all pink and purple, with shelves and shelves of dolls, some porcelain, some meant for play. And horses—Breyer’s statues of the Black Stallion and Misty of Chincoteague and a unicorn with a glittering horn. The gleaming mahogany rocking horse was an objet d’art, not a child’s plaything. Rose had her very own cushioned window seat heaped with stuffed animals, and a small Ferrari parked in front of a huge pink plastic Barbie house, completely furnished.

Lynn stood there with her mouth open. Her worst fear had come true. Rose would never want to visit her. Shelly would never want to come home.

He had bought his victory.

* * *

SHE’D TRIED. Adam had to give her that. She clearly didn’t want to stay any more than he wanted her to.

Or so he told himself. If he were being brutally honest, he’d admit that he had sweated all week over this visit. He felt inadequate enough with Rose. What would he do if Shelly skinned her knee and cried or got homesick and wanted her mommy?

His mother wasn’t a feminine woman. A potter, she had most often worn denim overalls and rubber boots she could hose off. Barb Landry was a creative, passionate, intelligent woman, and not for a moment even in his childhood would he have traded her in for any of his friends’ mothers, but she hadn’t been terribly interested in her son’s childish problems, either. She wanted nothing more than to be back in her studio, as if the spinning of her potter’s wheel had mesmerized her so that she could never wander far from it. He’d always known, when she made him lunch or looked at his artwork or helped with homework, that she would have preferred to be footing a bowl or delicately incising a pattern in a vase or experimenting with firing temperatures.

From her he’d learned to focus with an intensity most people couldn’t manage. A single-minded commitment to work brought success. He’d learned the power of words and books and ideas. He’d grown up to be self-sufficient.

He hadn’t learned a thing about parenting. Especially about parenting a little girl.

Adam envied and resented Lynn Chanak’s ease with both Shelly and Rose. He doubted she ever wondered whether she was doing everything wrong. Her ability to talk warmly and directly to a child without patronizing was exactly why he didn’t want her here. In comparison, he felt wooden, even less capable of appearing to be the perfect father-figure than usual.

Her same ability explained his relief when she’d graciously agreed to stay.

It didn’t explain why he couldn’t seem to take his gaze from her nicely rounded hips and tiny waist as he followed her down the hall. Today she wore a little black skirt that exposed plenty of leg.

He swallowed.

Then there was her hair, gathered into a high ponytail that spilled thick auburn curls to the middle of her back. The wanton disorder of those curls was an intriguing contrast to her slender, pale neck and firm chin. Her hair would be glorious loose and tumbling over her bare shoulders.

Adam almost groaned.

Think of Rose, he told himself. Think of Shelly, and the awful mess all their lives already had become.

His mouth twisted. Add even a flirtation, and he and Lynn wouldn’t have a hope of achieving the friendly, flexible, rational relationship they would need to make this bizarre attempt to share their daughters work.

Through his preoccupation Adam finally became aware that Lynn had been silent for too long. Still on the threshold of Rose’s bedroom, Lynn studied every shelf, every corner, with a care that made him nervous. What was wrong? Had he tried too hard?

"Does she know how lucky she is?" Lynn asked.

He plumbed her tone for sarcasm and came up with sadness. Because she’d never be able to buy as much for Shelly?

"I wanted everything to be perfect for her." He took a step closer, looking over her shoulder into his daughter’s room, where both girls crouched in front of the Barbie house and talked animatedly. "I wasn’t trying to spoil her."

"I didn’t say you were."

"But you don’t like her room."

She gave him an anguished look. "It’s fairyland. What little girl wouldn’t be thrilled?"

He still didn’t get it. "You think Shelly will be jealous?"

Her smile trembled. "I think she won’t want to come home."

Adam felt stupid for not understanding. "You can’t buy love." Although Rose’s room looked as if he’d tried, he saw suddenly.

The next instant, he squashed his chagrin. He’d worked hard for his success! He sure wasn’t going to be ashamed of his ability to buy his daughter what she wanted.

"No. You can’t buy love." But she didn’t sound certain. "It’s all so neat. Did you clean specially for Shelly’s visit?"

His grunt held little amusement. Here was the kicker. "Rose doesn’t play with most of this stuff. She doesn’t want to be up here by herself. She has friends over once in a while, but otherwise..." He shrugged.

Rose still cried at night, too. A couple of times a week she crept down the hall, whimpering, and slipped into bed with him. The books he’d read said parents should never let their children sleep with them, but sometimes he weakened. He’d never been good at listening to his Rosebud cry herself to sleep.

One more thing he wished he could ask other parents, but didn’t have the nerve. Did other three-year-olds need a diaper at night? Did they wake with nightmares, fear the shadows in the closet?

He had done everything he could to make Rose’s bedroom beautiful and friendly. Obviously he lacked the knack. If Jennifer had been here...

But she wasn’t. All he could do was his best.

“I’d better go work on lunch," he said abruptly.

Lynn gave him a distracted glance. "Can I help you?"

"It’s a one-man job."

As he turned away, she went into Rose’s bedroom. All the way back to the kitchen he could hear her voice, sweetly feminine and bubbling with delight, as she chattered with the girls. He had no doubt she would admire everything Rose most loved and succeed in entrancing his daughter. She would know exactly what to say, would feel perfectly comfortable sitting cross-legged on the floor joining in their games.

He’d expected Rose to talk about Shelly this past week, and she had. What he hadn’t anticipated was that she’d also keep bringing up Lynn’s name.

Tuesday, on the way home from day care, she had pulled her thumb from her mouth and said out of the blue, "Lynn is prettier than Amanda’s mommy."

Amanda’s mommy was sensational, but as it happened he agreed with Rose. Lynn was prettier.

Wednesday, in the middle of Ann’s dinner, Rose had said shyly, "Lynn is funny, isn’t she?"

Lynn had freckles, Rose had also told him another day, as if he hadn’t noticed. And she ran fast, didn’t she?

Lynn, it appeared, had acquired a fan club. And he was jealous. Adam scowled and savagely chopped a green pepper, then scraped it into a bowl.

He’d moved on to whacking an onion when he realized he was no longer alone.

She stood hesitantly just inside the kitchen. "You could use help."

"I can chop. It’s one of my few kitchen skills."

Her smile looked too much like Rose’s. "Are you sure you have enough for me? Shelly is more comfortable now. I could probably get away."

"No. I should have suggested this in the first place."

She nodded seriously, her ponytail bobbing. "Why don’t we do the same next week? You join us for lunch, then slip away for a bit. There’s no reason not to take it slowly."

He resented her wisdom, as well as the implicit truth: they had years to get to know their respective daughters. This relationship was nearly as permanent as marriage.

"You’re right," he said curtly.

She bit her lip. "I’m sorry."

"For what?" He looked up, jaw muscles locked.

Antagonism flared to life in Lynn’s eyes. "No. I have nothing to be sorry for, except that this happened in the first place. I won’t apologize again."

Adam shoved the cutting board away, setting down the knife. "Well, I will. I’m being a jerk. I just... I had visions of my two daughters and I having a carefree day. The truth is, I have no idea how to talk to Shelly. I’m not exactly a natural parent. Not the way you are."

Shock replaced the hostility. "But Rose obviously adores you. Why on earth would you think..."

He immediately regretted having opened his big mouth. "Forget it. I’m just not used to kids. You think when you have your first baby that the two of you will learn together."

"Yes," Lynn said softly, that indefinable sadness creeping over her. "You do."

He wasn’t the only one raising a daughter alone, he belatedly remembered. "How long ago were you divorced?"

"Six months after Shelly was born—" She stopped abruptly. Shelly, of course, was not the baby born to her that day. "Three years ago," Lynn amended.

"What happened?" None of his business, of course, but he found himself unexpectedly curious about her, not just Shelly.

"Oh, it was a mistake from the beginning," she said vaguely. "Having a baby didn’t help. It wasn’t his idea."

He made a sound and reached for the fresh mushrooms. "Jennifer wanted a baby so badly. She had a couple of miscarriages." Now why had he told her that? "When she got past four months with her pregnancy, she was so happy." His throat closed.

"And then she never knew..." Lynn pressed her lips together. "That must haunt you."

"You could say so." He cleared his throat. "I want you to understand why I need to be part of Shelly’s life."

"I do," she said so quietly he just heard her. Lynn had bowed her head and was staring down at the pattern she was tracing on the tile counter. Her face was colorless and vulnerable when she looked up. "But I still won’t let you have her."

Was that what he’d hoped? If so, he’d been a fool.

“We’re stuck with each other," he said.

"It would seem so." She sounded as conflicted as he felt.

Adam set down the knife for the second time. He held out his hand across the kitchen island. "Well, Ms. Chanak, I suggest we make the best of it."

This smile, a twist of her lips, didn’t produce dimples or the tiny crinkle of lines on the bridge of her nose. Her gray-green eyes remained grave as she took his hand, her own small and fragile in his stronger grip. "You have a deal."

Somehow her hand lingered in his; somehow he was reluctant to let her go. Solidarity, he told himself. Relief. Maybe they could be friends.

"Tell you what," he said. "Why don’t you call the girls? This is a do-it-yourself pizza lunch, and I’m ready for everybody to make some hard decisions."

This smile was more natural, dimples and a curve of cheek as she started from the kitchen. "That kind of decision," she agreed, "I can make."

He didn’t have to wonder what she meant.