An Unexpected Christmas Baby. Tara Taylor Quinn
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thing she’d done right. How he was going to make his mark on the world for both of them.
The way she’d throw herself a thousand percent into his school projects, encouraging him, making suggestions, applauding him. How talented she was at crafty things. How she loved to watch sappy movies and made the best popcorn. How she’d want to watch scary movies with him and he’d catch her looking away during the best parts. How she’d never made a big deal out of his mistakes. From spills to a broken window, she’d let him know it was okay. How she’d played cards with him, taught him to cook. How she’d laugh until tears ran down her face. How pretty she used to be when she smiled.
The images flying swiftly through his mind halted abruptly as Ms. Bailey began to close in on him, her arms outstretched.
Hoping to God she didn’t notice his sudden trembling, he moved instinctively, settled the weight at the tip of the blanket in the crook of his elbow and took the rest of it on his arm, just as he’d practiced with the flour-and-butter wrap the night before. She was warm. And she squirmed. Shock rippled through him. Ms. Bailey adjusted the blanket, fully exposing the tiniest face he’d ever seen up close. Doll-like nose and chin. Eyelids tightly closed. Puckered little lips. A hint of a frown on a forehead that was smaller than the palm of his hand.
“From what I’ve seen in pictures, she has your mother’s eyes,” Ms. Bailey said, a catch in her voice. Because she could hear the tears threatening in his? A grown man who hadn’t cried since the first time they’d carted his mother off to prison. He’d been six then.
She has your mother’s eyes.
He had his mother’s eyes. Deep, dark brown. It was fitting that this baby did, too. “We’ll be getting on with it, then,” he said, holding his inheritance securely against him as he moved toward his SUV, all but dismissing Ms. Bailey from their lives.
Having a caseworker was a part of his legacy that he wasn’t going to pass on to his sister.
Reaching the new blue Lincoln Navigator he’d purchased five months before and hadn’t visited the prison in even once, he felt a sharp pang of guilt as he realized once again that he’d let almost half a year pass since seeing his mother.
Before he’d met Stella Wainwright—a lawyer in her father’s high-powered firm, whose advice he’d come to rely on as he’d made preparations to open his own investment firm—he’d seen Alana at least twice a month. But once he and Stella had hooked up on a personal level, he’d been distracted. Incredibly busy. And...
He’d been loath to lie to Stella about where he’d been—in the event he’d visited the prison—but had been equally unsure about telling her about his convict mother.
As it turned out, his reticence hadn’t been off the mark. As soon as he’d told Stella about his mother’s death, and the child who’d been bequeathed to him, she’d balked. She’d assumed he’d give the baby up for adoption. And had made it clear that if he didn’t, she was moving on. She’d said from the beginning that she didn’t want children, at least not for a while, but he’d also seen the extreme distaste in her expression when he’d mentioned where his mother had been when she died, and why he’d never introduced them.
Her reaction hadn’t surprised him.
Eight years had passed since he’d been under investigation and nearly lost his career, but the effects were long-lasting. He’d done nothing more than provide his destitute mother with a place to live, but when his name came up as owner of a drug factory, the truth hadn’t mattered.
Stella had done a little research and he’d been cooked.
Opening the back passenger door of the vehicle, he gently laid his sleeping bundle in the car seat, unprepared when the bundle slumped forward. Repositioning her, he pulled her slightly forward, allowing her body weight to lean back—and slouch over to the side of the seat.
Who the hell had thought the design of that seat appropriate?
“This might help.”
Straightening, he saw the caseworker holding out a brightly covered, U-shaped piece of foam. He took it from her and arranged it at the top of the car seat as instructed. He was pleased with the result. Until he realized he’d placed the sleeping bundle on top of the straps that were supposed to hold the baby in place.
Expecting Ms. Bailey to interrupt, to push him aside to show him how it was done—half hoping she would so she wasn’t standing there watching his big fumbling fingers—he set to righting his mistake. The caseworker must be thinking he was incapable of handling the responsibility. However, she didn’t butt in and he managed, after a long minute, to get the baby harnessed. He’d practiced that, too. The hooking and unhooking of those straps. Plastic pieces that slid over metal for the shoulder part, metal into metal over the bottom half.
He stood. Waited for a critique of his first task as a...guardian.
Handing him her card, reminding him of legalities he’d have to complete, Ms. Bailey took one last look at the baby and told him to call her if he had any questions or problems.
He took the card, assuring her he’d call if the need arose. Pretty certain he wouldn’t. He’d be like any normal...guardian; he’d call the pediatrician. As soon as he had one. Another item he had to add to the list of immediate things to do.
“And for what it’s worth...” Ms. Bailey stood there, looking between him and the little sister he was suddenly starting to feel quite proprietary about. “I think she’s a very lucky little girl.”
Wow. He hadn’t seen that coming. Wasn’t sure the words were true. But they rang loudly in his ears as the woman walked away.
Standing in the open space of the back passenger door, he glanced down at the sleeping baby, only her face visible to him, and didn’t want to shut the door. Didn’t want to leave her in the big back seat all alone.
Which was ridiculous.
He had to get to work. And hope to God he could mend whatever damage had been done by his previous plans to leave. He had some ideas there—a way to redeem himself, to rebuild trust. But he had to be at the office to present them.
Closing the door as softly as he could, he hurried to the driver’s seat, adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see enough of the baby to know she was there and started the engine. Not ready to go anywhere. To begin this new life.
He glanced in the mirror again. Sitting forward so he could see the child more clearly. Other than the little chest rising and falling with each breath, she hadn’t moved.
But was moving him to the point of panic. And tears, too. He wasn’t alone anymore.
“Welcome home, Diamond Rose,” he whispered.
And put the car in Drive.
“Dad, seriously, tell me what’s going on.” Tamara Owens faced her father, not the least bit intimidated by the massive cherry desk separating him from her. Or the elegantly imposing décor throughout her father’s office.
She’d seen him at home, unshaved, walking around their equally elegant five-thousand-square-foot home in boxers and a T-shirt. In a bathrobe, sick with the flu. And, also in a bathrobe, holding her hair while she’d thrown up, sick with the same flu. Her mom, the doctor in the family, had been at the hospital that night.
“You didn’t put pressure on me to move home just because you and Mom are getting older and I’m your only child.” It was the story they’d given her when they’d bombarded her with their “do what you need to do, but at least think about it” requests. Then her father, in a conversation alone with her, had given Tamara a second choice, an “at least take a month off and stay for a real visit” that had made the final decision for her. She’d gotten the feeling that he needed her home. She’d already been contemplating