Kids by Christmas. Janice Johnson Kay
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in Kuwait.”
“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He shrugged those broad shoulders. “No reason you should. So. What did you hear from the agency?”
Agency? For a moment, she was blank. Then her whole reason for coming here returned as if floodgates had opened, and she felt foolish.
“They called to ask whether I’d consider two children. A sister and brother. I met them today for the first time.”
“Really? Two?”
Since he didn’t sound disapproving, she said, “The boy—Jack—is seven and his sister is ten. Their mother had MS and died recently. The father has been skipping on child-care payments and was apparently happy to relinquish his parental rights.”
“A real great guy.”
“Isn’t that awful? He didn’t care at all.” She marveled at the notion. How could he not love his own children?
“So, what did you think?” Tom leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, looking as if he was really interested.
“I fell in love with them,” she admitted. “The caseworker tried to warn me to take it slow, but… This just feels right. They feel right. They need me.”
He was quiet for a moment. She could feel his gaze on her face, although as always she didn’t meet his eyes. In fact, she didn’t know quite what color they were. Not particularly blue, like Sophia’s, or a rich chocolate-brown, like George Clooney’s—either she’d have noticed. So something in between. A color she’d have to study to identify.
“Is that why you’re adopting?” he asked. “Because you want to feel needed?”
“I suppose that’s part of it.” Did he really want to know? “But also…I like kids. I want a family.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Too polite, she diagnosed, to ask what other people had: Why didn’t she just find a husband, like most women did, and have children in the normal way?
Or perhaps that wasn’t what he was going to ask, because he likely knew quite well why she wasn’t all that excited about finding a husband. He’d known Josh, had heard the hateful things he’d yelled at her. And the pitiful things she’d screamed back at him.
The memory had her surging to her feet. “They’re coming tomorrow to see the house and so we can get better acquainted. I need to do some tidying, but I wanted to tell you in case you saw them tomorrow, and because…” She hesitated. “Because you ask. And I was excited, and wanted to tell someone.”
He rose, too. “So I was handy?”
Did he sound a little hurt, or was she imagining things?
“No, because you always seemed interested. I’ve appreciated that.”
“Oh.” Apparently mollified, he nodded. “I like kids.”
“You do?” The surprise she felt could be heard in her voice, and she blushed.
“What makes you think I wouldn’t?”
“Oh, I didn’t think that,” she babbled, edging toward the door. “Just that I don’t know anything about you, and you don’t have kids of your own—” She slammed to a stop, both physically and verbally. Oh, God. What if he did?
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “No, I don’t, but I’ve always figured I’d have my own someday.”
She almost blurted, Really? but stopped herself in time. Thank goodness. She’d already tromped on her own toes until they should be black-and-blue. She didn’t have to compound her tactlessness.
Grasping the doorknob, Suzanne said, “I really had better run. But if you happen to be home tomorrow when they arrive, please come and say hi.”
He bent his head. “I’ll do that.”
He’d followed her to the door and now reached over her head to open it, which meant he stood so close to her she could feel the heat of his body. She knew, if she lifted her gaze just a little, she’d see the individual bristles on his chin, his mouth—which she’d never looked closely at before—and even the color of his eyes. Instead, she backed away without once letting her gaze rise higher than the strong column of his throat, stumbled over the doorjamb because she wasn’t watching where her feet were going, said, “Good night,” and fled, her cheeks blazing.
Grateful for the darkness once she’d left his front porch, she pressed her hands to her cheeks. What on earth was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if she was totally lacking in social skills!
But the funny thing was, Suzanne was glad she’d gone. She thought he really might have been hurt if she hadn’t. He’d seemed genuinely interested in hearing about Jack and Sophia.
And…she now knew something about him. Only a little, but it was a start.
Of what, she didn’t let herself wonder.
CHAPTER THREE
TOM WAS SHAKING HIS HEAD in amazement when he shut the door behind Suzanne. He’d never thought he’d live to see the day when she actually sought him out. She was so scared of him, she jumped two feet every time he approached her. He’d always pretended he didn’t notice, figuring someday she’d get over it, but that hadn’t happened.
What he didn’t know was whether she was afraid of all men. She had reason to be gun-shy after being married to that son of a bitch. The fights weren’t even the worst of it; what had really galled Tom were the constant putdowns. Summer evenings, with the windows open, he’d heard plenty.
“You’re not going out, looking like that,” the guy would say, with a sneer in his voice. Or, “Can’t you even have goddamn dinner on the table when I get home? You can’t keep the house clean and you’re a lousy cook. What did you do all day? Sit around and knit?”
Tom had been out dividing perennials the day she had greeted her husband at the door to tell him that she’d sold her first original knitting pattern to a company that published them. He still remembered how her face had shone with delight.
“Big whoop-de-do,” the bastard had declared. “What’s for dinner?”
That beautiful glow had gone out, as if her husband had thrown a rock and broken the bulb.
Tom had wanted to punch the SOB, and despite his special unit training, he wasn’t a violent man.
When things had got too loud, he’d called 911. He’d been scared for her. He’d fought his every instinct to intervene, because he’d known that he would make things worse. Josh Easton wouldn’t have liked another man telling him how he could treat his wife. And he was just the kind to take his anger out on her.
What Tom had never known was whether her husband had hit her, too. Tom had heard enough crashes during their fights to be afraid he had. Once he’d seen bruises on her face when she’d left the house. He’d told himself there could be an innocent reason for them but hadn’t believed it.
Tom had never been happier than the day he’d come home to see half the household possessions piled in the driveway. A man’s clothes and shoes in a jumbled pile. The TV, VCR, stereo system, recliner… Tom didn’t know how she’d managed to haul the heavier stuff out, but she’d been more generous with the creep than he’d deserved.
Tom also didn’t know how she had held onto the house, but was glad she had. Josh Easton was nobody Tom wanted as a next-door neighbor.
Six months after the SOB was gone, she’d marched out one Saturday morning and painted over the Easton on the mailbox. A couple of hours later, the black paint dry, she’d used a stencil and white paint to put Chauvin in its place. When she’d finished and seen Tom in his yard, she’d said, “I’m divorced,” and marched back in her house, head held higher than he’d seen it since