Their Secret Child Page 5

  'Absolutely." he agreed. "She's welcome anytime."

  Mick. Hadn't she told the girl a week ago Michaela hated the nickname? Dempsey used to call her Sticky Micky when she stuttered. Except today, her daughter seemed at ease and happy with the butchered version.

  "Please, Mommy. I wanna s-s-stay with them. I wanna do m-m-more c-c-cartwheels. B-B-Becky's t-t-teaching me."

  "Michaela." Addie knelt on the grass in front of her child. "You can come back another time, okay?"

  Her daughter's bottom lip poked out. She shook her head, swinging her long dark pigtails. Tears plumped in her brown eyes and clung to her lashes.

  "P-p-please, Mommy," she whispered. Her little arms wrapped Addie's neck. "Becky's my f-f-friend."

  Oh, God. How could she refuse? This preteen, this child of Skip's, had offered something Michaela sorely lacked: camaraderie.

  He walked over to where Addie knelt with Michaela in her lap.

  "She'll be safe with us, Addie." His deep voice seeped into her pores. "Count on it."

  Count on it. The way she'd been able to count on him when he'd said. This was not my choice.

  "I'm not counting on anything."

  Rising to her feet, she hoped her eyes conveyed exactly what she meant. She hadn't depended on a man in a long, long while. She wasn't about to start now. And definitely not with Skip Dalton.

  "I understand," he said, and she saw he'd connected the dots.

  Becky interjected, "So can Mick stay, Ms. Malloy?"

  "Please, Mommy." Michaela leaned against Addie, tear-streaked face upturned.

  Becky's my friend. "Honeykins, I..." Would rather you find someone else. But who? Last year, some of the first-grade kids had teased her about stuttering. Becky was different. Kind and sweet and genuine. "All right."

  "Goody!" Michaela rushed to her newfound pal and grabbed her hand. "I get to stay, B-B-Becky."

  "Yep. Want to go in and get a Popsicle?"

  "Mom," Michaela yelled. "I get to have a P-P-Popsicle!"

  "I heard, love. Only one, okay?"

  "Uh-huh, or my tummy g-g-gets sick." She skipped at Becky's side as the pair went up the deck steps and into the house.

  Addie glanced at Skip. "Do you have a pen? You'll need my cell number in case something happens."

  "Nothing's going to happen. The girls will be right here with me."

  She hoped her look was direct. "It'll make me feel better if you had my number." She frowned at the sound of "my number," and added, "For safety reasons."

  "Fine." He removed a small notebook and carpenter's pencil from his hip pocket. Among ciphers and construction sketches, he wrote in his left-handed script, Addie-Cell and the number she recited.

  "Thank you." She turned toward the lane. "I won't be long."

  "Addie." Massaging his left shoulder, he walked with her around the side of his house. "It's good the kids get along, don't you think?"

  She continued down his driveway. "It doesn't mean we'll be friends, Skip, so don't read anything into it."

  "I'm not. I just wish..."

  Halting midstride, she gazed up at him—at those honey eyes, that two-day beard, the too-long hair edging out from under his ballcap. "What? That we'll be friends? That the past didn't exist and I didn't hate you for what you said and did?"

  She saw him swallow before he looked away and wished she could recall her words. She hadn't meant for him to know her grief, her hurt. And if she were honest with herself, neither had she meant to hurt him.

  She resumed her mission, bent on her house, truck and bees. An hour and she'd return for Michaela, to have a chat with her daughter about crossing roads and going to the neighbor's house without permission.

  Michaela had to understand the gravity of her actions, of stranger-danger. One day her life could depend on it.

  "Addie." She heard his voice through a haze of worry and frustration.

  With a sigh, she turned. He stood twenty feet up the driveway.

  "Bee sting," he said softly.

  Bee sting. His code when they were teenagers, whenever she fought with her father and cried over his strict regimen, his harsh and opinionated philosophy. The words had helped her put things into perspective. Bee stings were ultimately worse than arguing with a parent.

  As she gazed at Skip, she understood. Having him as her neighbor or having their children like each other was not as bad as an allergic reaction that squeezed air from windpipes— his windpipe.

  Clamping her bottom lip at that memory, she turned for home, grateful he'd been a survivor that day. Because no matter what she believed about the past, nothing compared to seeing a twelve-year-old boy writhing on the ground, fighting for his next breath.

  Chapter Four

  What do you wish? That I dldn 't hate you for what you said and did?

  Addie's words were a battering ram on his heart as he watched her walk away. He knew what she was talking about: knew the time and place—that day in the rain—and he heard the words that were said, all over again....

  He had gone to pick her up to take her to dinner, to the movie Seven. But from the moment she climbed into his old Chevy, she'd been quiet, not ecstatic, and hadn't recognized the energy radiating off his body. She'd always been in tune to him. But not that night. That night she had slipped into the seat, buckled up and kept her face averted.

  "Hey, honey. I missed you today."

  He'd tried to kiss her before starting the car and felt the change in her then, but he shrugged it off, too high with his own euphoria. The call from the NFL scout had come an hour before.

  Her subtle withdrawal probably meant she'd had another fight with Cyril, which Skip didn't want to discuss. Not when he was damn near jumping out ofhis skin with excitement. He wanted to take her to a place for a nice meal to tell her. then to celebrate he wanted to park in their favorite spot along the lake and make love with her.

  "Where would you like to eat?" he asked, driving away from her house. Rain smudged the windshield and he turned on the wipers. He glanced across the seat; she stared out the side window into the darkness. "Addie?"

  Her walnut-colored hair swung along her shoulders as she shook her head. "I don't want to eat. I'm not hungry."

  "Something wrong?" A small alarm bell rang when she remained silent. "You mad at me?"

  "No," she said, and he thought she murmured, I'm mad at myself, but he wasn't sure because the radio was playing the oldies station she loved.

  "Then where?" He was starving, but he'd grab a burger if she didn't want to do the dinner scene.

  "I don't care."

  A streak of annoyance touched Skip. This was his big night. Couldn't she sense his excitement?

  He turned the wipers on high—like his inner alert signal. When he pulled into a burger joint, it was packed with people they'd known forever. Teenagers and college kids home for spring break. Skip killed the ignition and they listened to the rain drum on the hood.

  And then she said the words, the ones that changed both their lives. "I'm late, Skip."

  Late. Oh, yeah. He knew exactly which late she meant.

  Staring through the windshield he could see his life falling...falling into an abyss. His heart pounded, his palms grew clammy. "You sure?"

  Still, she hadn't looked at him. but stared instead through the rain-blurred glass. "I took the drugstore test this morning. Twice."

  No mistake. They'd made a baby, that's what they'd done. Using condoms worked, but sometimes, sometimes things happened. Sometimes they broke, and sometimes they were forfeited for the real thing. Which they'd done once. Once—

  He set his forehead on the steering wheel, tried to swallow while his mind spun with futuristic scenarios.

  A cramped, dingy apartment. Construction work. Bills. Creditors.

  "I'm keeping it," she whispered, and he lifted his head. "You don't need to stick around." For the first time she looked at him. "I won't ruin your plans."

  In the darkness of night and rain, relief w
hirled through him. before shame settled and he took up her cold wringing hands. "Addie, we'll work this out."

  "How?" The word was so full of hope he wanted to cry.

  "I don't know, but we will. I promise." He pulled her into his arms, kissed her forehead. "It'll be all right, honey. We'll be okay." He meant eveiy word. The baby was his and he would be its daddy in a different way than his own father had been to him.

  Three weeks later in the same spot, the same car, he'd told her, "This wasn't my choice" and she'd leapt out and slammed the door before he could explain the power a father had over his son.

  Before he could admit his own weakness.

  The next day he'd left Firewood Island forever.

  Becky was curious about Ms. Malloy's bees. Michaela had told her a little about how the bees were kept in hives and how when Ms. Malloy brought home the frames—whatever they were—she spun them around to get the honey out. The whole process fascinated Becky. She knew Ms. Malloy checked the hives twice a week and today—Wednesday—was one of those days.

  She knocked on the front door. The sun hid behind a collection of gray clouds and she could smell rain in the air.

  "Hi," Becky said with a smile when Ms. Malloy opened the door. "I was wondering if you wanted some help with your bees today."

  The woman's eyebrows rose and she peered past Becky. "Where's your father?"

  "In town getting groceries. We're barbecuing chicken tonight." Then on a rush she said, "You and Michaela can come over and eat with us."

  "I don't think—"

  "Oh, Mommy, say yes!" Michaela's feet thundered from somewhere inside the house before she flung herself around her mom's waist. "Hi, Becky!"

  "Hey, Mick. What you got there?"

  "My new B-B-Barbie. Wanna see?"

  Respectfully. Becky said. "May I come in, Ms. Malloy?"

  The woman hesitated. "Does your dad know you're here?"

  "I left him a note." She didn't say the note mentioned she hoped to see the beehives. She wouldn't deceive her dad, but she also hoped she'd be out in the fields or back home before he returned so he couldn't do anything about her adventure. He hadn't told her not to be around beehives, just that he was severely allergic to the insect's stinger. Which translated to "this is serious and don't take the chance."

  But Becky had taken a lot of chances in her life. Working around beehives would be easy.

  Michaela danced on her toes. "Mom, can Becky come in and see my room first?"

  Ms. Malloy stepped aside. "Just for a minute. We have to check the hives before it rains."

  Becky grabbed her chance. "Could I come along? I really wanna see how you get the honey and stuff." She gave the woman a huge grin.

  "Well..." Ms. Malloy rolled her lips inward. "Your father is—"

  "I'll sit in the truck," Becky offered. "I won't interfere. And don't worry. I'm not allergic."

  "Mom, I want Becky to come." Michaela tugged on her hand. "She's my friend. Please. Can't we show her the bees?"

  "All right." Ms. Malloy glanced out the door once more— probably imagining Becky's dad charging down the road. "Two minutes, then we leave."

  The Malloy house was old, but kind of neat. Becky peeked in the front room, kitchen and bathroom. She didn't go near Ms. Malloy's room.

  Michaela's room faced a wooded backyard, like Becky's room in the new house. Becky liked it immediately, the way it was all pink and white. Her old bedroom—the one she'd slept in when her mom was still alive and her dad wasn't in jail—had walls covered in dark, fake-wood panels and the floor had been linoleum. Her dresser had been bought at a garage sale and her mom had painted it white so it looked like a bright splash in a dull room.

  Michaela's Barbies were lined up along a shelf above a pink-and- white dresser. The little girl chattered like one of those excited squirrels in the trees at her dad's house. Not once did she stutter and Becky wondered if her mother working in the kitchen heard the difference. A few minutes later, Ms. Malloy called. "Time to go."

  Michaela tucked a doll against her chest. "Mom lets me take a Barbie. This'll be Princess's second trip." She caught Becky's fingers. "Come on."

  Outside, they loaded the truck with frames for the bees' honeycombs. They drove to a red clover field first. There Ms. Malloy and Michaela dressed in white coveralls, gloves, boots and wide-brimmed hats with nets wrapping around their faces and necks.

  "Why white?" Becky wanted to know, watching the pair climb into the suits.

  "Because it's invisible," Mick piped up. "Right, Mom?"

  "Really?" Becky hadn't known that.

  "When you disturb the hive," Ms. Malloy said, "the bees look for something to sting. Dark clothing attracts them— white hides us."

  "Wow." When she was little she would've given anything to hide when her parents argued and her dad got mean. A white suit wouldn't have worked, but as a kid Michaela's age, Becky might have believed it.

  Ms. Malloy lit the smoker, then gave it to Mick to carry while she took a stack of frames to the first hive.

  Over the next half hour, Becky watched Mick's mother calm the bees with the smoker, and work around the hives. Some honey-filled frames they loaded in the truck, some they left as winter food for the hive.

  "So you won't be collecting any more honey?" Becky asked.

  Ms. M. tossed the bee suits in the truck bed. "The honey season is almost over. In September the bees prepare for winter."

  "Oh." Becky hid her disappointment. Now she'd have to wait 'til next summer before putting on a suit and really helping. But maybe that was good, too. By next summer she hoped Ms. M. would like her enough to let her be a sort of assistant.

  They all climbed into the truck to drive to the cucumber patch and the second set of hives.

  Suddenly a car approached, Becky recognized the silver Prius. "Uh-oh. That's my dad."

  He didn't turn into the field's access lane, but stopped on the main road. From where she sat she could see by his expression she'd done wrong. Something really wrong.

  "Your note explained about the bees, right?" Ms. Malloy asked.

  "I thought we'd be back before he got home."

  "Oh, Becky." Ms. M. sighed.

  Shame churned Becky's stomach. This dad was a good man. Not only had he saved her from foster care, but he'd given her a life she'd never experienced or expected. Most of all, he loved her the way a father should love his daughter—with kindness. She shouldn't have tricked him.

  Ms. Malloy got out of the truck.

  Eyes big, Michaela hugged her Barbie close. "Is your d-d-dad m-m-mad?"

  "No, Mick. But I should talk to him. You going to be okay for a minute?"

  The little girl nodded. "D-d-don't let h-h-him hurt you, B-B-Becky."

  Upon impulse. Becky hugged the child. "My daddy's a nice guy, Mick. He loves me."

  "M-m-y d-d-daddy d-d-didn't l-l-love m-m-me."

  Becky's heart gave a lurch. Just like Jesse, she thought. "We'll talk later, 'kay?"

  '"Kay."

  Becky followed Ms. Malloy to the Prius.

  Her dad rolled down the window a few inches. "You okay?" he asked, worry plain in his tone.

  "I'm fine, Dad. I'm sorry. I should've called your cell instead of leaving a note."

  The EpiPen he wore on his belt at all times lay on the passenger seat. Her dad stared at the cluster of hives. From here, they looked like little white Lego blocks against the dark clover field. Again shame swept through Becky. How could she have forgotten? She knew why he'd screened the porch. Why he'd built three extra birdhouses to attract swallows. Hadn't she read that flying bugs were the birds' main diet?

  "Skip." Ms. Malloy stood beside Becky. "Your daughter came to keep Michaela company. She stayed in the truck with the windows rolled up while we worked the hives." And then Ms. Malloy reached toward the gap in the window and her dad's gaze went to her hand, then her face, and Becky sensed an odd current arcing between them before Ms. Malloy stepped back. "You need to go home with you
r father, Becky."

  "Can I say goodbye to Michaela?" she asked.

  When her dad nodded, she sprinted down the field lane to the truck. "Mick, get your mom to say yes about coming to supper tonight, okay?"

  "Were you b-b-bad?"

  "Nope," she said—like it was no big deal. She didn't want Mick worrying. "See ya later."

  As she passed Ms. Malloy walking back to the truck, the woman said, "Try to remember what this means for your daddy, Becky."

  "Yes, ma'am. Bees are bad for him. I need to be more careful."

  Ms. M. hesitated, a puzzled look in her eyes. "Yes," she said finally. "You do."

  The drive home was silent—proof that Becky had disappointed her dad. A first in the ten months they'd been a family. She was so ashamed.

  Skip worried that he'd come down too hard on his daughter. But, God, he had been half out of his mind, thinking of her among those beehives.

  Addie wouldn't have let anything happen. You overreacted.

  And he had, and now Becky was holed up in her room, a first in many months. The moment they'd entered the house, she'd run up the stairs and hadn't come down again, though he tried twice to talk to her through the door.. .and received no response.

  Downstairs he observed the rain approach, a dull dark bank of blue sweeping in from the Pacific Ocean, leaching light from the day. Restless, he began preparing black-forest ham sandwiches and carried them up to Becky's room.

  "Bean?" he called at the closed door. "I made lunch."

  "Not hungry," came her muffled reply.

  "All right. But can we talk?"

  Silence.

  "Okay, forget talking. I'd really like some company while I eat my sandwich," he cajoled.

  When he thought she'd ignore him again, the door cracked open. She wouldn't look at him. though her gaze went to the plate of food.

  "Hey," he said softly.

  Leaving the door, she turned and walked back to her bed, climbed up and sat against the wall, arms around her knees. Easing himself into the chair at her desk. Skip set the plate down. His heart pounded in his throat, but he took the first bite anyway. When he finally swallowed, he said, "Not bad, if I say so myself."