A Child's Wish. Tara Quinn Taylor
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“How so?”
“I was engaged.” It wasn’t something she talked about. And out of respect for her, Susan wouldn’t have told Mark, either. “Frank was kind and smart, witty, good-looking. Motivated. He got along well with his family. And with my mother. I trusted him.”
She stopped, her chest tightening as she fought the memories.
“He had an affair,” Mark said softly, his eyes darkening. “What an idiot.” He leaned back against the door.
“No, he didn’t,” Meredith said. “I wish he had. It would’ve been a lot easier to deal with, because that would have been his problem, his weakness and not mine.”
“So what happened?” Mark folded his arms across chest.
Solid chest. Strong. Reliable. Firm.
“He didn’t show up at the wedding.” A woman’s worst nightmare. Or at least hers. And it had come true.
Sometimes she still couldn’t believe it had really happened. Surely that whole part of her life had merely been one of those nightmares that seemed so real you had a hard time distinguishing fact from fiction.
“The church was full. My mother had spent far too many thousands of dollars on flowers and food and photography and a band and invitations. I was there in my dress, my friends all around me in theirs…”
“Damn!”
Mmm-hmm.
“I waited not one hour but two,” she said with a twisted grin. As soon as she could actually laugh when she told this story, it would no longer have the power to hurt her. Maybe three lifetimes from now.
Which was why she never told anyone. Susan knew, but then she’d been the woman in the soft purple maid-of-honor gown, holding Meredith up as she walked sobbing from the church.
People who’d known her then knew. They’d all been there. Witnesses.
“Did you ever find out why?” Mark didn’t touch her, but she thought he wanted to. Or maybe it was just that she wanted him to. Wanted a man to find her worth the effort.
She nodded, and stood with her chin held high. “There was a letter for me taped to the front door of our apartment. He’d moved all his stuff out while I was at the church waiting—”
“Cold bastard!”
Meredith smiled a little at the interruption, nodding. She never should have started this, and now she was having to force herself to breathe.
“What did it say?”
“That as much as he loved me, he couldn’t handle a lifetime of living with me. I’m too much.”
“What does that mean?”
“You need to ask?” she said, staring up at him. “You’re right there with him, Mark. I’m too intense. I feel too much. And when I experience certain sensations, I act. Even if the situation is one I should probably walk away from. But you know what?” She was feeling a little better. “I’m never going to walk away, not from any of it. I can’t. I am what I am. I’m intense, just as my fiancé said. I feel everything around me, and I’m glad about that. I can’t imagine life without the depth, without the magic that accompanies the pain.” She was on a roll. Perhaps she should do this more often. She could stand on street corners and tell everyone her story.
“I like me.” She finally said it. And stood there shocked. She’d never said that before; never consciously thought about it. She’d never known it.
But it was true.
Life was good.
CHAPTER THREE
“HEY, DADDY.”
Mark glanced up from the bathroom sink on Monday morning to meet his daughter’s sweet brown eyes in the mirror. She was wearing hip-hugger jeans that were getting a little too short, along with hiking shoes and a beige long-sleeved sweater. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail that was decidedly crooked. His heart caught—how he loved this kid. “Hey, Kelse.”
She boosted herself onto the second sink, watching as her father scraped another row of shaving cream from his cheek.
“I fed Gilda.”
“Good girl. Thanks,” he said, while he rinsed the razor. “What do you want for breakfast? Cream of wheat or pancakes?”
She scrunched her chin for a moment. “There’s more dishes from pancakes, so cream of wheat.”
Mark stopped, razor halfway to his face, and grinned at her. “What do the dishes matter?” he asked. “You don’t do them alone.”
“I know.” Her voice was light. Her gaze followed his hand from sink to face and back again—just as it had done most of the mornings of her life. This ritual was one of the best parts of his day.
Before Kelsey, Mark used to shave in the nude. Since his daughter’s birth, however, he’d always had slacks waiting by the shower so he’d be ready to run if she called.
“I forgot to tell you, Lucy’s mom called and invited you over to play with Lucy after school Friday. I can pick you up on my way home, or you can spend the night and I can get you Saturday morning.”
“No, thank you.” The heel of Kelsey’s shoe kicked lightly against the cupboard as she swung her leg. Mark considered telling her to stop. But the wood was dark enough that scuffs wouldn’t show. And anyway, what showed could be cleaned.
“What?” he asked when he realized what she’d said, all thoughts of wood and scuff marks leaving his mind. “You love going to Lucy’s! And you haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks.”
Lucy and Kelsey had gone through preschool and kindergarten together before the other girl’s family had moved across town.
“I know. I just don’t want to this Friday, Daddy.” Those soft, dark eyes glanced up at him. “Do I have to?”
“No, Kelse, of course you don’t. But can you tell me why you don’t want to?” He dried his razor and put it back inside the cabinet. “Did something happen the last time you were there?”
“No.”
“Did you and Lucy have a fight?”
“No.”
“Was her mom or dad mean to you?”
“No.”
Something wasn’t right. “Then what?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. I just don’t want to.”
Short of calling his daughter a liar, which wouldn’t get the desired results anyway, Mark was going to have to leave it at that.
He didn’t like it.
“Turn around, sweetie. Let’s fix that ponytail,” he said, tugging gently on the beige-and-blue holder she’d chosen and sliding it down the silky length of her hair. Her mother’s hair.
“I’ll call Lucy’s mom first thing this morning,” he said, compelled at least to try one more time. “If you’re sure that’s what you really want.”
She nodded, helping him create another crooked ponytail.
“HELLO?”
“Hi, Mom. It’s me.” Meredith held the cell phone against her ear with one shoulder while she unwrapped a granola bar, which—with a glass of Diet Coke—would be her breakfast.
“Meri, hi!”
Meredith’s mood sank. Too much exuberance. She’d been right to follow her impulse to call. Something was wrong.
She had to leave in five minutes if she was going to get to class before her kids started to arrive.