Together With You (3 page)

The stares of other customers ate into him, their smiles smug and slightly superior, as if their perfect children would never behave in such a way. Ignoring them, he made eye contact with Kyle and jerked his chin to signal where they were going, then he followed Carly to a narrow room with a sagging couch, a mini-fridge, and
a low table littered with magazines. Penny's shrieks echoed off the walls.

“I apologize,” he shouted over the ruckus. “This is going to take a while.”

She acknowledged him with a nod, circled to the side where Penny could see her, then started to hum “Amazing Grace.” Ryan didn't believe in God, but he knew the words to the old hymn. His mother had been quietly faithful in the face of his father's intellectual pride, and she'd taken Ryan and his sister to church until he was old enough to protest.

The soft humming shifted into da-da-da's that blossomed into the lyrics about grace and fears relieved. Ryan wished life really was that simple—that a prayer could wipe away FASD like bleach on a stain, but it couldn't. With her hot tears soaking his shirt, he closed his eyes and held her even tighter, his aching arms a small penance compared to the price Penny paid for the worst mistake of his life.

Carly sang the old hymn until Penny's sobs eased into hiccoughs, then silence, and finally the steady breath of sleep. Limp in his arms, his daughter was free from confusion and the chains that bound her.

“She's out cold,” Carly whispered. “Why don't you lay her on the couch? I'll get a blanket.”

He eased Penny onto the sagging cushions and stepped back, savoring the moment of quiet. Carly covered her with a blanket decorated with stupidly grinning bears, then motioned for Ryan to follow her to the far side of the room.

Considering the intensity of the meltdown, she deserved an explanation and Ryan needed to give it. “This isn't what you think.”

“Yes, it is,” Carly replied. “She had a meltdown. It happens.”

Her compassion stunned him. When Penny fell apart like this, people usually assumed she was a spoiled brat having a tantrum. He wished she was, because then she could learn how to behave. “She has FASD,” he blurted to Carly. “That stands for—”

“Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder.” The blood drained from her face, leaving her ashen under the buzzing fluorescent light.

“You know what it is?”

“I do.” Blinking hard, she knotted her fingers at her waist in a pose that hinted at a prayer or maybe a fist.

He'd been expecting criticism, especially judgment of Penny's mother. Instead pain gleamed in Carly's eyes. Determined to understand, he latched on to the most obvious answer. “Do you have a child with fetal alcohol?”

“No,” she said. “I'm single. No children.”

“Then how?”

She raised her chin. “It's not important.”

But it was—both to Carly, who was struggling to hide some deep reaction, and to Ryan, who needed a nanny for Penny. If Carly was that person, he'd gladly put up with lectures, talking lions, “Amazing Grace,” and the treacherous attraction that lit his hair on fire.

“I'm looking for a nanny,” he said to her. “Any chance you'd be interested in coming for an interview?”

N
o.
A thousand times no.

Carly stared at the smudged floor, her heart shriveling at the memory of that last night with Allison. Closing her eyes, she relived that moment in all its hideous glory—her refusal to take Allison with her to Boomer for the weekend, the teenager's accusations and drama-queen tears, and finally the phone call she'd received the next day from her boss.
“Is Allison Drake with
you?”

“No. Why?”

“She's missing. She told
Chyna she was running away because you didn't want her around anymore.”

Carly still winced at the memory of her boss's tone, slightly accusing because Carly had been cautioned before about being too open with Allison. It was a mistake Carly would never repeat and the reason she had left hands-on social work.

“Carly?” Dr. Tremaine tilted his head to the side in an effort to make eye contact.

“I heard you,” she murmured, dragging her head up. “The answer is no.”

“That was fast.”

“I'm not interested.” No more personal involvement, she reminded herself. With Allison, she'd lost the professional distance meant to protect them both. The teenager paid a price, and Carly had left Sparrow House with a load of guilt and the determination to help FASD kids by preventing the affliction in the first place. That's why she was working on her PhD at the UCLA School of Social Welfare. When she finished, she'd go home to Kentucky and dedicate herself to national prevention programs.

She normally talked about FASD whenever the opportunity arose, but she needed to discourage Dr. Tremaine. “I hope you find the right person. It's not me.”

“I'm desperate. Penny's had four nannies in six months. The last one quit yesterday. I didn't want to bring Penny to the mall, but there wasn't much of a choice.”

“I know it's hard.” Oh, did she ever. “But the answer is still no.”

“It pays well.”

She shook her head.

“You can live in or keep your own place. I'll even negotiate hours.”

“No,” she said again.

“What'll it take?”

For Allison to be found alive and unharmed.
Maybe then Carly could forgive herself. As things stood, the confident woman who had marched into Sparrow House with a newly minted social work degree had crawled into a hole and died. It was Carly's father who had pulled her out with the suggestion of more grad school. When she'd won a full-ride scholarship, she'd taken it as God's hand, packed her Chevy Cavalier, and sped west.

Somewhere in the tornado-touched plains of Oklahoma, she stopped being Carly Jo and became simply Carly. The name change seemed appropriate, though she missed Kentucky terribly. Given a choice, she'd pick grits over salsa any day of the week. Californians might have lower cholesterol than folks in Kentucky, but they didn't know beans about good cooking.

Thoughts of home put a faint smile on her lips. Maybe she'd cook up a real meal tonight and share it with Bette Gordon, her neighbor and only true friend in Los Angeles.

“You're smiling at something,” Dr. Tremaine broke in. “What is it?”

“Fried chicken.”

His brows collided in confusion, then lifted with the start of a smile. “I have a big house with a remodeled kitchen. If you live in, you can cook or not cook. Plus there's a view of the ocean, a pool—”

“I'm sorry. I have to get back to work.”

“Two more minutes.”

“I can't.”

“Please?”

He was practically begging, and her earlier impression told her it was something he rarely did. “All right. But I really do need to get to the register. That birthday party's about to end.”

He gave a crisp nod. “I'll be quick. If you understand FASD, you know what Penny's facing.”

“I do,” she admitted.

“I think you know how to help her.”

If she revealed her experience, he'd increase the pressure. “That's irrelevant. I don't want the job.”

“Are you sure?” He lifted one dark brow. “From what I've seen, you love kids and you know them. You're also compassionate. There's no way you can turn your back on a child who needs you.”

“That's not fair—”

“But it's true.”

She'd expected a bribe in the form of a high salary, not a jab at her conscience. Who did he think he was, manipulating her like this? Carly propped her hands on her hips and glared up at him. He was a good six inches taller than she was, spit-shined and wearing a designer polo shirt, but Kentucky pride flowed in her veins, and
she didn't take guff from anyone. “That's a little presumptuous, don't you think?”

His eyes glinted back at her, a sign that he didn't take guff from anyone either. “Yes, but I'm right. I saw your face when I said FASD.”

“So?” Her voice quavered. She hoped he'd take it as a sign of anger, not weakness. But in truth she was fighting tears.

“You care and it shows.” He pinned her in place with an unyielding gaze that belonged on a battlefield or maybe in an operating room with a beating heart exposed and in his care. The heart belonged to Penny, and Carly knew unequivocally that this man would fight to the death for his daughter.

Ignore that pull in your gut. Don't feel their need. Don
't feel anything.

But even as her common sense lectured her heart, her hands slid off her hips in defeat. He was right. She wanted the job. If she could make a difference in Penny's life, maybe she could forgive herself for failing Allison.

But the risks were too great. Penny would become attached to her. What would happen in the future when she went home? Grad school was temporary; Kentucky was forever. Nothing good would come from forming a deep attachment destined to be broken. There was also the matter of Carly's shattered confidence. She couldn't stand the thought of failing Penny the way she failed Allison.

“You are partially right,” she conceded. “I care about kids like Penny, and I know what you're facing. But I can't get involved with your daughter. It wouldn't be wise.”

“For you?”

“For her,” Carly corrected him, though he was right about her own tender heart. “Penny needs someone who'll stay in her life. That's not me. When I finish school, I'm going home.”

He rocked back on his heels. “So you're not from around here.”

“No.”

“Where do you go to school?”

“UCLA.”

“Undergrad?”

He was bulldozing her into an interview, and she didn't like it a bit. But at that moment, Penny rolled on the couch, drew up her knees, and pulled into a fetal position. A lump shoved into Carly's throat, and she answered his question without thinking. “I'm working on a PhD in social welfare. I have a masters' from UK.”

“UK? As in England?”

“No.” She was used to the misunderstanding. “Where I come from, UK stands for the University of Kentucky.”

“Basketball.”

“Go, Cats.” She gave a little fist pump. If talking Wildcat basketball would change the subject, she'd wear UK blue for a week.

“I hear it now,” he said.

“What?”

“Your accent.”

“Well, that's where I'm from—Boomer County, Kentucky.” She let the mountain drawl come out in full force. People in L.A. were either charmed by it or snobbish—mostly snobbish.

Dr. Tremaine didn't seem to care either way. “How much longer will you be here?”

“At least a year.” More like two years. She'd finished most of the class work and was in the preliminary stages of her dissertation.

“To Penny, a year is a long time. At this point I'd be grateful for even two months with the same person. Would you at least think about it?”

Every time he said the child's name, Carly inwardly winced. If he pushed much harder, she'd cave in, and they'd all regret it. It was time to be country tough, so she put her hands back on her hips. “The answer is still no, and there's a second reason for it. A very good one.”

“What is it?”

“You.”

“Me?” He poked his index finger into his chest.

“Yes, you.” With one hip jutting, she lifted her chin even higher. “If we were in Boomer County, I'd know everything there is to know about you and your family for three generations, maybe four. You're a stranger to me, Dr. Tremaine, and my daddy taught me not to talk to strangers. My gut tells me you're a good man, but I've learned to be careful.”

“Good for you.”

“No, it's not. I don't like being suspicious.”

“Here.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a business card. “Call my office on Monday and ask for Fran. She's the office manager, and she's known me for years. She'll tell you I'm not a jerk.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“I'm not. At least not anymore.”

Carly didn't know what inspired his defensiveness, but she recalled Penny saying her mother was in heaven, which meant Dr. Tremaine was a widower. “I'm sorry about your wife.”

He hesitated. “My wife?”

“Penny told me her mother's in heaven.”

“She is, but we weren't married.”

“Oh.” A blush stained Carly's cheeks. “Forgive me. I thought—”

“It's all right.”

“It's just—”

“I know what she said.” He shoved his wallet back into his pocket. “Penny's mother passed away six months ago, and I took custody. The boys are—” He shook his head. “It's complicated.”

“I see.”

“I wish I did,” he said more to himself than to her.

Finally giving up, he crossed the room to the couch and lifted Penny without waking her. Carly gathered Lance the Lion, Miss Rabbit, and the ballerina outfit, then followed him into the retail section of the store, where Kyle and Eric were amusing themselves at the barrels full of sharks, rubber fish, and glow-in-the-dark eels. The
sight of them filled Carly with a longing for her own siblings—an older brother who was on deployment with the Kentucky National Guard and an older sister with two kids and a baby on the way.

“You have a nice family,” she said to Dr. Tremaine.

He hesitated. “Yes. I suppose I do.”

How could he doubt it? Carly was twenty-eight, single, and dedicated to a cause, but she still longed for a family of her own.

As she watched the Tremaines leave the store, she hoped they knew how blessed they were. A family was something to cherish, and not all children had one. Allison had lived in nine foster homes by the time she moved into Sparrow House, including one where she'd been five days shy of a permanent adoption when the prospective parents discovered the wife was pregnant and changed their minds. That was typical of Allison and her life—candy dangled and taken away.

Letting out a sigh, Carly helped with the birthday party until the twelve little girls were happy with their animals and left the store. Famished, she told her coworker she was taking lunch, fetched her tub of yogurt, and sat on the couch still bearing a dent from Penny's body. After a few bites, loneliness struck like a fist to her solar plexus, and she decided to call her father. With the three-hour time difference, Reverend Paul Mason would be finished preparing for Sunday at the sixty-year-old church he'd pastored all of Carly's life.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, honey. How are you doin'?”

“I'm fine, Daddy. How 'bout you?”

“Just getting ready for tomorrow.” In that singsong drawl she loved, he told her about plans for the Sunday service. “Wish you were here.”

“Me too.”

“So how's Wild Thing?”

Wild Thing was the butterscotch kitten she'd found in the alley and taken in shortly after renting her apartment. “She's fine.”

“And you?”

“I'm all right.” Except her voice came out breathy and sad. Knowing her father would hear the struggle, she 'fessed up. “Actually, I'm kind of down right now. A little girl with FASD got lost in the mall. She wandered into the store and everything's fine, but she reminded me of Allison.”

He paused, no doubt breathing a prayer. “I don't suppose you've heard from her.”

“No.”

“She's in God's hands, not yours. All you can do is pray.”

“I know, Daddy.”

“And while you're at it, stop beating yourself up. It's about time you forgave yourself.”

“I wish I could.” In her darkest moments, she pictured Allison as a victim of sex trafficking, pregnant and drinking, even dead in a ditch. Where was God in this big messy world? Carly knew the theology, but her prayer life was nothing but static and garbled pleas for help, like an old movie where an island castaway calls desperately for rescue on a broken radio.

Her chest ached with a homesickness so powerful she smelled her father's pipe tobacco.
Home.
She ached for the comfort of the house where she grew up, the serenity of rolling green hills and a sky full of clouds instead of smog. As soon as she finished school, she'd go home for good.

Her father's voice pulled her back to the bargain yogurt and the break room. “Tell me about this little girl.”

“Blond. Blue eyes.” Like Allison, except Penny didn't have the physical indicators of FAS other than being small for her age. Allison's face had displayed them all: small widespread eyes, the lack of a philtrum—the indentation under the nose, a flattened face, and a smaller than normal head. The clinical aspects varied widely from person to person, but today Carly focused on what mattered most—the child herself. “Her name's Penny and she's adorable. Her father's raising her alone.”

“No mother?”

“She died six months ago.” Carly told her dad the entire story, including Dr. Tremaine's pressuring her to interview for the nanny job. “I won't call, of course.”