Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicles Book 4 (18 page)

“Do you really want to argue about this?” Greg asked.

“I…no.” She forced herself to let go and studied him. When she questioned a witness, she was able to figure out what his real agenda was. With Greg, she could discern nothing. She didn't know if he was challenging her because he resented the fact that she was an absentee mother, or if he simply understood that there were so many things for them to fight about, she was crazy to focus on an issue as minor as this.

Of course, she could argue that it wasn't minor at all. But she wouldn't let herself fall into the old patterns with Greg, when one dispute used to segue seamlessly into the next, and then the next, until they were both enmeshed in a tangled web of conflict.

She set aside the schedule. “I really do mean to do this,” she told Greg. “I'm not going to bail in a few months.”

“Just keep in mind that Max is my main concern. Not your sudden revelation about being a full-time mother.”

“Of course.” She clenched her jaw, forbidding herself to lash back at him. Why couldn't he see anything good in what she had done, or acknowledge she was driven by noble goals? “There's something I hope you'll keep in mind, too, Greg. Our children have been hurt enough by me—by both of us—and I'm going to dedicate myself to them now, and hope to God it's not too late.”

A sound came from the kitchen and Sophie felt her whole being warm up with anticipation. Finally, Max was home. She turned toward the door, already hungry to feel her arms around him.

Instead of Max, a small, dark-haired whirlwind came bustling into the room. Sophie froze, rooted to the floor. “Nina.”

She had a bright, spontaneous smile that lit her face as she plucked off a knitted wool hat. “Hello, Sophie.”

Her smile seemed to light up Greg, too, as he went to take her parka, a shapeless red thing that was oddly flattering. Somehow, in taking her coat from her, he managed to give her a kiss and a shoulder squeeze all in the same motion.

Sophie wondered if he'd ever looked at her the way he was looking at Nina. Not likely, she decided. “I came to visit Max,” she said. “Sorry about being early.”

“He should be home any minute,” Nina said. “He's going to be so excited to see you. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, or coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

The three of them chatted a bit, mostly about Max. Greg and Nina were innkeepers. Hospitality experts. And Sophie was an experienced diplomat, so the conversation went well, though it didn't go deep. She and Greg had been as civilized as possible about the divorce. When it came to the kids, they had agreed not to get into any mutual pissing contest with one of them trying to outdo the other.

Greg excused himself to go hang up her jacket, leaving Sophie alone with Nina. Manners, she reminded herself. A diplomat's front line of defense. And honestly, it wasn't that difficult to be civil with Nina. She possessed the one quality Sophie needed to see in the woman who had become Max's stepmom. She genuinely cared about Max.

My son has a stepmother.

“Congratulations, Nina,” Sophie said. “I just had a look at your wedding pictures.”

“Thanks. It was a whirlwind, all planned and executed within a couple of weeks. St. Croix was beautiful.” Nina seemed comfortable being who she was. Both Max and Daisy claimed they liked her. Sophie actually didn't blame them. She was supremely likable.

This was not a quality Sophie possessed in abundance. She knew it.

“Mom!” Max burst into the room.

She forgot everything as she went to hug her son. The feel of him in her arms brought tears to her eyes. She was always glad to see him, but after what she'd survived, she keenly sensed how precious he was. He smelled of the winter air, and his arms around her were strong. And he was…“Look at you.” She stepped back. “You're so tall.”

They stood nearly eye to eye. What was Nina feeding this boy?

He grinned, giving her a close-up of his new braces—bright bands across his upper teeth, accented with Day-Glo green. She didn't say anything, worried that he might be self-conscious.

He needn't be. Her son was incredibly good-looking, with his father's strong, regular features and the Nordic fairness of the Lindstroms.

“So I thought we could go see Daisy and Charlie,” she said. “Would that be okay?”

“Sure.” Max looked at Nina. “I have math and English homework. The English isn't due until Wednesday, though.”

So very many ways to be awkward, Sophie thought. Nina was on homework patrol.

“I was going to take them to dinner,” she added. “It won't be a late night, though.” There. She had not asked permission. She was simply keeping Nina in the loop.

“Sounds good,” Nina said easily.

“Hey, Dad,” Max yelled. His voice was loud enough to make Sophie flinch. “We're going to Daisy's, okay?”

“See you later, buddy,” Greg said, coming back into the room. “Sophie, be careful on the road.”

“Always,” she said, and had to remind herself not to run to the car.

D
aisy liked having a home of her own. After she'd had the baby, she'd lived with her dad, but with the understanding that it was only temporary. She was desperate to live her own life, even though she knew it would be hard. And it was, but that only made her more determined to succeed. She was not without support. She did have a trust fund from her grandparents, something they'd set up for all their grandchildren. Daisy was given access to hers when the baby was born. This did not exactly make her Paris Hilton, but it gave Daisy the freedom to focus on her son and her education.

The house was nothing fancy, half of a duplex on the far side of town, with tree-lined sidewalks and a small public playground at the end of the street where Charlie could play when he got old enough. The rooms were small, but Daisy loved her house, because it was hers. However, her mother was coming over any minute, and Daisy was having a crisis of confidence. Suddenly the cozy rooms merely looked small and poky. The eclectic décor—mostly things left over from the renovation of the Inn at Willow Lake—reminded her of a garage sale. All she could see were the dishes in the sink, the dust bunnies on the floor, the pile of winter clothes and baby gear in the front hall. With one eye on the clock, she went flying around, fluffing pillows and shoving folded laundry into the linen closet.

Mom had said she would come over with Max after school, so her visit wasn't exactly a surprise. There had been plenty of advance notice. Then how was it that here she was, having run out of time, with the house still cluttered with baby toys and brochures and clippings of projects she was working on? How was it that she still hadn't changed out of her zip-front hoodie, the one with the frayed cuff on her left hand from drawing, and an apparently permanent yellowish spit-up stain on the shoulder? In childbirth class and in all the books Daisy had read, babies who were breast-fed didn't spit up, or if they did, it was a charming little hiccup of drool, easily expunged with a baby wipe. This was because breast milk was the perfect food for an infant. However, Charlie, it seemed, had a special gift. Even with nothing but a meal of mother's milk in his stomach, he could spew halfway across the room.

She peeked into the bedroom, where her son slept in his crib, which was set in an alcove just a few steps from Daisy's bed. Spying a big bag of diapers she'd left lying on the bed, she stuffed it into a dresser drawer. Charlie made a soft sighing noise but didn't wake up.

Daisy smoothed the bed—at least she'd made it already—and then threw some used towels into the hamper. Charlie chose that moment to wake up, calling out with a vaguely cranky moan.

“Hey, you,” she said, going to the crib and leaning over, winning a smile that had more power over her than the rising sun.

He pumped his legs and reached for her. She scooped him up—soaking wet, of course—and got busy changing him. This involved peeling off his stretchy suit and leaden diaper, cleaning him stem to stern with baby wipes, putting on a fresh diaper and coverall. She picked the fluffy one her mom had given him for Christmas. Mom would like that. Maybe she'd like it enough that she wouldn't criticize anything.

Daisy's mom had always made her feel like a loser. She didn't do it on purpose. It wasn't like her mom called her a slob or told her she didn't measure up. It was just that Mom was so freakishly perfect.

She looked like an actress in an old black-and-white movie, the embodiment of class and elegance. She had been a perfect student and became the perfect lawyer. She had been a nationally ranked distance swimmer in college, and sometimes still competed at the masters level, always beating everyone else in her age group. In her career, Mom did things that made a difference in the world.

She made Daisy feel totally inadequate. And Mom didn't even have to say a word in order to do it.

Hearing the thud of car doors, Daisy rushed to let her mother in. There was a mirror over the hall table. She paused to check her hair—
whatever
—and answered the door with a just-awakened baby in the crook of her arm and a tentative smile on her face. “Mom!”

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mom said, stepping into the house, Max following behind. The moment she set foot inside, the place seemed a bit dimmer and shabbier. Daisy hoped like hell it was just her imagination.

They hugged, with her Mom encircling both Daisy and the baby. For just a few seconds, Daisy felt nothing but warm contentment. “I've missed you, Mom,” she said.

“Same here. I missed you and Max and Charlie so much I couldn't stand it.”

“Mom, are you crying?” Daisy asked, amazed.

Her mother nodded, gazing down at Charlie's face. “It's just so good to be back with you all.”

Daisy and Max traded a glance. Her brother looked clueless, as usual. Daisy stepped back, studying that film-star face. This was unexpected. Their mother never cried. “You're not all right. Mom—”

“Not now,” she murmured.

Meaning, never. Daisy knew the ploy well. She decided not to push. “Right now, I'd like to hold my grandson.” Mom reached for the warm, soft bundle. “Hello, you precious, precious little boy,” she said in a singsong voice.

Charlie was just getting to the age where he had strong opinions about strangers. When he was really tiny, he'd pretty much go to anyone, with only a preference for Daisy, the source of all milk. Now he recognized certain people—Max, their dad, Nina. And Logan. Those weekly visits were beginning to make an impression on Mr. C.

Now Daisy held her breath while Charlie fixed a solemn stare on Mom, trying to make up his mind about whether she was friend or foe. Was this what a parent did, stopped breathing until their kid decided to behave? When had she gotten so bound up in her son's behavior? Why would she feel as though, if Charlie blew it, Daisy was the failure?

He glanced at her, and she offered a smile of encouragement. The baby stared unabashedly up at Mom. He didn't fuss, so that was a good sign. At last, he offered a gummy smile and a fine string of drool.

Way to go, kiddo,
Daisy thought, slowly expelling her breath. Mom held and cooed over Charlie for a long time. She cried a little more, and Daisy tried to figure out how to be with this new, heartbroken mother.

“Have a seat, Max,” she said to her brother. “You can watch Charlie while I show Mom around.”

“He certainly likes you,” Mom said, carefully passing Charlie to Max. “What a smart baby.”

“The smartest,” Max agreed.

Daisy stood back, watching the three of them, and realized some of the tension of her mother's visit had defused. Mom was totally into the baby, not wrinkling her nose at the cluttered little house. It didn't take long to show her around the place and she didn't have one bad thing to say.

Another thing the baby classes and books didn't tell you was that a baby had magical properties. Daisy had discovered this on her own. A teenage party girl who got pregnant was an object of gossip, judged for her lack of caution, her poor impulse control, maybe even her slutty tendencies. She was also an object of pity, especially later in the pregnancy when she turned fat and blotchy faced. The whole world pretty much liked to hate on a girl like that, a girl like Daisy had been.

Then, with the baby's birth, a miracle happened. Sure, there was the miracle of birth. Of life, and all that stuff. That was everything it was cracked up to be, but it came as no big surprise. The big surprise was that just by showing up, the baby transformed everything around him, starting with his mother. She was no longer a knocked-up teenage slut or a fat loser. People went from looking down on her to looking up to her. She was a Mother. With a capital
M
like Madonna. She was worthy of praise for giving the world the precious gift of her child. She was offered preferential treatment in grocery store lines and on trains. Suddenly, the world respected her.

And the baby's magic didn't stop there. It transformed a bratty kid, like Daisy's brother, into Uncle Max. And now as she watched her mother, Daisy saw the effect fall over her like a glowing veil.

“I need to feed him,” she said. “Then we'll be ready to go.”

“I'll be on the computer,” Max said, heading for the spare room, where Daisy's equipment was set up. He was into some online virtual hockey game that had elaborate, ongoing storylines more convoluted than those of soap opera stars.

Daisy took a seat on the sofa and freed her breast one-handed. Charlie latched on like the old pro he was. It had taken Daisy almost no time at all to get over feeling self-conscious about nursing. A few minutes of listening to your newborn screaming with hunger until his voice rattled made modesty take a backseat to expediency. Before the baby, whipping out your boob was an audition for a “Girls Gone Wild” video. After the baby, it was a political statement, as well as an act of maternal compassion.

“You'll have to excuse the shirt,” Daisy said. “I didn't want to change until after I fed him. He spews like a geyser. I asked the doctor about it, but supposedly it's normal for some babies, as long as they're gaining weight.”

“You used to do that, too.”

This was news. “You breast-fed?”

“Of course. You look surprised.”

Daisy
was
surprised. It was hard—no, impossible—to picture her mom holding an infant to her breast. Had she experienced the same terror and wonder Daisy felt when she held her baby? Had she awakened in the middle of the night and rushed to the crib, just to make sure the baby was breathing? Her
mom?
“You don't seem the type.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“No, I really want to hear this…”

“Fine. I'm just saying, it's hard to picture you whipping out your boob and nursing a baby.”

“No offense,” Mom said, “but until a few months ago, it was hard to picture
you
doing it.”

“You'd think by now I'd know better than to argue with a lawyer.”

“I'm not arguing and I'm not being a lawyer.”

“Felt like arguing to me.”

“Now we're arguing about arguing. Let's not do this, Daisy.”

“Good plan.”

They fell silent. Down the hall, the faint beeps and sound effects of Max's video game came from the study. The baby's gentle, rhythmic swallowing could be heard. After a few minutes, Daisy switched him from one side to the other.

“So I guess we're either arguing or we're not talking at all,” Daisy said.

“Don't be silly. We talk all the time. I learned IMing and text messaging just for you. Talk to me, sweetheart. I want to catch up on your life and your plans.”

Daisy felt a beat of caution. This could be dangerous territory for the two of them. Her mom was very opinionated about plans. About everything, but especially the importance of a good education. They had been arguing about that very thing the same weekend Daisy had gotten pregnant. She wondered if her mom had remembered that.

Her parents' divorce had just been finalized and her mom had given her a lecture about how she didn't need to allow it to change her plans, how it was more important than ever for Daisy to achieve great things in her education.

“Great things,” of course, being code for “getting into Harvard.”

Daisy had informed her mother that she didn't want to go to college at all. Of everything she could have said, she knew that one would get under her mom's skin most of all. To her mom, saying “I'm not going to college” was way worse than saying “I'm gay” or “I'm joining a cult.” The funny thing was, Daisy wasn't even sure she meant it. But the fight had given her a reason to explode, storm out, and go crazy for a whole weekend, which included having sex with Logan multiple times. Protection optional.

So really, she owed her mom a debt of gratitude. Without that fight, Charlie might never have been born.

“Something funny?” Mom asked.

Daisy shook her head. “Just wondering if this little guy and I are going to give each other a hard time one day.”

“Count on it,” Mom said.

The tension eased a little. “I'm enrolled in a photography class at SUNY New Paltz,” Daisy said. “Classes start Monday.”

“That's fantastic. Daisy, I'm excited for you.”

Was she? Daisy couldn't quite tell. Not so long ago, Mom had expected Daisy to go to some famous, competitive school. The state college didn't quite measure up to those standards.

“Do you think it's too soon? Sometimes I worry that I'm ditching him for selfish reasons, like—” She stopped, but too late.

“Like I did to you and Max?” her mom queried.

Daisy looked down at the whorls of red hair on Charlie's head. She used to stare at him for hours, watching the gentle pulse in his fontanel as though it was a measure of the moments of his life. Now she could barely see the soft spot, and somehow, it felt as if she'd missed something. “Mom, I'm sorry. It just came out.”