A Mom for Callie (7 page)

“I did. The wiffle ball and bat, too.” He gestured toward the door. “Give it another one, I don't think she heard.”

Callie knocked again, this time even louder. Still there was no response.

“Why don't you try the doorbell?” he suggested.

The doorbell, too, went unanswered.

Her eyebrows furrowed as Callie peered up at Kyle. “I thought you said she was coming to the park with us…that she was packing a picnic.”

“I did. Because she said she was.” Stepping away from his daughter, Kyle peeked through a narrow window beside the door, the empty hallway providing no clues to the woman's whereabouts. Had she fallen ill? Had something happened?

The thought was no sooner through his mind when fear gripped his heart, squeezed it in time with the memory of his lieutenant's words. Stepping to the left, Kyle pressed his face to the window, scanning the small yet tidy living room but to no avail.

“Daddy, is everything okay?”

Waving away his daughter's question, Kyle stepped to the right, his gaze traveling around the front parlor and down a second hallway that led to—

Betsy.

Squinting, he stared at the woman in his sights, her petite body hunched over her laptop as she tapped away at her keyboard, completely oblivious to their presence at her door and their plans to spend the day together….

Was it possible she simply hadn't heard Callie's knock?

He tried again. Still, she didn't move. Didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge his presence in any way, shape or form.

Grabbing hold of his daughter's hand, Kyle fairly dragged her down the stairs and over to his car, anger coursing through his body where anticipation had been just moments earlier.

“Where are we going, Daddy?”

“I told you. Paxton Park.” He knew his words were clipped, his tone angry, but he couldn't help it. He was furious.

“But what about Miss Anderson? I thought you said she—”

He yanked the car door open and gestured Callie into the backseat, his reply bringing an end to her parade of questions. “I made a mistake, Callie. About the picnic…
and
about our neighbor.”

If there was any chance he simply hadn't heard her, it disappeared the moment their eyes locked through the windshield of his car. Kyle Brennan was mad, of that there was no doubt.

But she hadn't intended to forget their date. She'd looked forward to it from the moment he'd asked her to join them at the park, had planned their picnic meal down to the color napkins she would bring. Yet it had all faded away as she sat at the keyboard with Marsha's grueling deadline ringing in her ears.

When she'd started, she'd been aware of the time, planning to write until one and then shutting down for the day. Her intentions had been good, however her execution had been awful. As the words poured from her fingertips she'd gotten caught up in the story that was beginning to unfold.

Before she knew it, the natural light that streamed through the windows of the sunporch had all but faded, the necessity of lamplight failing to alert her to the mistake she'd made—a mistake that hit her between the eyes as she opened the refrigerator for a midnight snack and saw the makings of their forgotten picnic dinner.

In an instant her ravenous hunger had dissipated only
to be replaced by a wave of nausea that left her shaking. She'd considered apologizing right then and there but the midnight hour had convinced her otherwise. Instead, she'd set her alarm for an early-morning wake-up that would allow her to catch Kyle on his way to work. She just hadn't counted on his refusal to hear her out, or to even acknowledge her presence, for that matter.

Her shoulders drooped as she watched him back his car onto Picket Lane and speed away, her apology lodged in her throat so tightly it posed a viable choking hazard. She'd hurt him. That was obvious.

What wasn't quite so obvious was how to fix it short of rewinding the hands of—

“That's it,” she whispered as Kyle's car disappeared from her line of vision once and for all. There was nothing she could do about yesterday. She, of all people, knew that. Yesterday was over, done. All she had was today and tomorrow.

Glancing at her watch, she jogged across her front lawn and onto her front porch, a sense of hope propelling her through the door and straight to her laptop which stood open, waiting for another day's work. Only this time she'd set an alarm for noon, a gentle nudge to get showered and dressed for what she hoped would be an apology Kyle Brennan would never forget.

 

S
HE WAS WAITING IN THE
backyard when he pulled into the driveway, the sound of his parking brake making her pulse race. For the umpteenth time in the past thirty minutes, Betsy looked around, her gaze taking in the wineglasses for them and the princess cup for Callie.

Everything had come together perfectly right down to the traditional red-and-white checked blanket she'd
found on sale at a department store in town. She'd stopped writing long before the alarm had sounded, the promise of seeing Kyle and Callie motivating her to accomplish far more than she'd expected in far less time than she'd planned.

Pushing off the blanket, she ran a nervous hand down the sides of the flowered skirt she'd chosen for their picnic, its tiny lilac flowers a perfect complement to the delicately laced lilac camisole she wore. Ordinarily she might have considered the outfit a bit too dressy for a backyard picnic, but not today. Today's picnic was about so much more than just eating. It was about admitting when you were wrong and making amends to people who mattered. People like Kyle and Callie.

For a moment she remained silent as she watched him walk up the driveway, his attention focused on his feet. There was something about Kyle Brennan that excited and calmed her all at the same time.

Maybe it was the simple fact that his inner confidence and outward strength left her feeling as if nothing would ever go wrong under his watch. It was an aura he exuded in spades.

Today, though, there was more. Like tension and sadness and even worry. Had she caused that? Had her carelessness brought him that much unhappiness?

Exhaling the sudden urge to run the other way with her tail between her legs, she stepped forward, her sudden movement making him jump and reach for his hip. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I—” And then she stopped, the fury in his eyes making her unsure of her words.

For a long moment he studied her, his hand finally falling to his side. “What do you want? Run out of paper or something?”

“Paper? No I…” Her voice trailed off as the meaning behind his statement became crystal clear. He didn't need her to explain anything. He knew she'd missed their outing because she'd been writing.

“Look, Betsy…or Elizabeth Lynn…or whoever you are today…I'm really not in the mood for playing games. Especially with someone who makes up rules to serve her own needs.” Kyle stepped around her and headed toward the backyard, his shoulders rigid, his pace quick. She turned in her place and followed his movement with her eyes, the coldness of his words bringing a stab of pain to her chest.

And then he saw it—the blanket, the glasses, the basket, the cutting board, the pan of still-warm brownies. Stopping in his tracks, he said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, her heart thudding inside her ears.

“What's this?” he asked, his voice husky.

“It's my apology for a yesterday I ruined. A yesterday that slipped between my fingers because of sheer carelessness on my part. I stuck my earbuds in, turned on my music and started writing. And I wrote, and I wrote and I wrote.” She caught her breath as he turned around, his gaze locked on hers as she continued, the words pouring from her lips of their own volition. “I lost track of time, Kyle. I know how lame that sounds. I know how lame it is to
say
it. But it's the truth. I didn't stop—for anything—until midnight. And when I realized what I'd done, I wanted to come over right then and there and beg you and Callie to forgive me.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because it was midnight and I didn't want to wake you.”

“You wouldn't have. I was awake.”

She swallowed over the lump that threatened to render her speechless. “I didn't know that. Instead, I set my alarm for five this morning. So I could catch you before you left for work.”

He looked away, a pinkish hue appearing in his cheeks.

“But I hurt you. And Callie. I know that. And I can understand why you didn't want to see or talk to me this morning.” Sensing a slight break in his rigidity, she took a step forward, the distance between them still too wide. “I realized, all over again, how badly I messed up. But if I've learned one thing in the past twelve months it's that no matter how awful you may feel about yesterday, you can't change it. It's done. All you can do is make today better.”

“The past twelve months?” he asked as he cocked his head and studied her, his expression softening as he took in her attire.

Shaking her head, she took another step forward, her voice breaking. “Can we take a rain check on that question?”

“If you'd like.”

“I'd like.” Taking yet another step, she reached out for his hands, a gesture that was met willingly enough. “I tried to think of picnic foods that you and Callie might like. We could eat it right here where I've spread the blanket…or we could throw it in my car and go to Paxton Park the way you'd intended. I just hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me and allow me to make it better somehow.”

“Callie's not here. She's—” He stopped, cleared his throat and started again. “My mom normally comes here to babysit. That way Callie can come home after school just like her friends do. But after yesterday—well, let's
just say I had to send her to my mom's for the day. She's going to spend the night there, too.”

Blinking against the instant sting in her eyes, Betsy looked down at her feet. “She hates me, doesn't she?”

A soft laugh made her look up, a genuine thawing evident in Kyle's eyes and stance. “Callie? Hate you? Not even close. She handled your preference for writing in a far more mature way than I did, I'll say that much.”

She winced at his choice of words. “It wasn't a preference, Kyle, please believe that. It was nothing more than an oversight. When you write, you tend to get lost in what you're doing sometimes. I know it sounds lame, and I know it's hard to understand, but it happens. And I'm so very, very sorry. For what it's worth, I'd been really looking forward to spending time with you and Callie. But then my editor called and imposed a deadline and I started to write and—” she exhaled a piece of hair off her face, felt it fall back across her forehead undaunted “—I simply messed up. I'm sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

Her head jerked upward, her mind almost unwilling to believe what her ears heard. “You forgive me?” she repeated.

“I forgive you.” Squeezing her hands, he looked over his shoulder, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Am I smelling fried chicken?”

“Yes.”

“And brownies?”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“Wine?” he guessed.

“There's wine, but you couldn't possibly smell it.”

“I saw the glasses.”

“I figured that.” Releasing one of his hands, she tugged the other in the direction of the blanket. “And
there's crackers and cheese, grapes and mashed potatoes, ice cream—”

“Did you say ice cream?”

“I did.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Won't that melt?”

“That part is in the house. I'll pop over there when it's time for dessert.”

He stopped as they reached the blanket, taking her hand as she lowered herself to the ground. “Maybe I'll go with you.”

Her cheeks warmed at the implication, a tingle of pure arousal winding its way to every nook and cranny of her body. “That would be nice,” she whispered.

The picnic was wonderful, the food a perfect complement to the conversation they shared. He talked about his job and asked about hers. She probed him for department stories and shared some of her craziest book ideas. They talked about Callie and her interest in writing and all things girlish.

“Does she miss having a mother?” she asked, the question surprising even her.

He shrugged. “She doesn't seem to. I try to play both roles.”

“You are very good with her.”

“Thank you.” He touched her face with a gentle hand. “Now may I ask a question? Or, rather, re-ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Earlier, you said you'd learned a lesson over the past twelve months about what you can and can't change in life. Will you tell me more about that now?”

She closed her eyes, inhaling as much courage as she could muster before opening them once again. “I was married before, too.”

“Oh?”

“His name was Mark. He was a firefighter in New York City.”

“Was?”

“He was killed in the line of duty.”

He grabbed her hand. “Oh, Betsy, I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

I'm so sorry…

His words played in her mind, her heart as empty to them as always. She didn't deserve his or anyone else's sympathy. People who grieved their loved ones earned that kind of sentiment. Not people who grappled with guilt.

“We didn't say goodbye when he left that afternoon,” she admitted, her voice wooden and stilted. “We didn't say anything to each other, for that matter.”

She glanced up at him, expecting to see disgust but found a compassion that encouraged her to go on. “The honeymoon phase only lasted a few weeks before we started drifting apart. It was as if I was just there to fill a role…to be the little woman at home rather than a true partner.”

“He was all about the firehouse, wasn't he?”

His question surprised her and she could only nod.

“Some guys are like that. Cops, too. But we're not
all
like that.” She closed her eyes at the feel of his finger under her chin, opened them again as he guided her face upward. “Don't get me wrong, my job is important and I take my duty very seriously. But I'm a father, first and foremost. And Callie will never doubt that.”

The sincerity with which he spoke made her swipe at her eyes, a futile attempt to stop the threat of tears in their tracks. In an instant his arms were around her, pulling her close, his chin coming to rest on her head
as she buried her face in his neck. When her sobs subsided, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away just enough to make eye contact. “The state of your marriage was his responsibility, too, Betsy. But more than that, you have to see that fire was not your fault. Forcing yourself to express a sentiment you no longer felt wouldn't have changed what happened that day. For you or for him. People grow apart. It happens. It happened with Lila and I, too. We wanted different things.”

“You wanted a family. She wanted a career.”

He seemed to ponder her words as he shifted his position on the blanket and pulled her backward, reclining her body into his. “A simplistic summation, but true nonetheless. And it sounds as if the same was true of your marriage, as well, yes?”

She nodded, his words hitting home in her heart. He was right. Like him, she'd wanted a family—a feeling of connectivity and completion and being one another's priority. But just as the stage had been for Lila, Mark's world had been his department and his badge. “I supported his work as a firefighter, I really did. I admired him for it. It was the other stuff—the constant need to be at the firehouse whether he was on duty or not, the near nightly poker games with the guys at the station, the disinterest in my life—that dragged me down.”

“And I supported Lila's dream to be on stage. I just hadn't realized how much she cared about the spotlight and the chance to be a celebrity. It was like a lightbulb switched on inside her when she was on stage…and then turned off the second the attention was gone and she was left with Callie and me.”