dinner.”
“It needs a whole new bandage, but I’ll wait.” Then she turned and walked back to the kitchen with a determined step.
“Is there something I can do to help?” Brett asked, his voice chasing after her.
“Not a thing,” she hollered from the other room. “I’ll have dinner on the table in no time at all.”
“I already did all the helping,” Emily told him with little-girl pride. “Want to see what else I did?”
Brett nodded. “Sure.”
When Emily took his hand again, it did something sappy to him. Something that touched a part of him he’d kept hidden. A part of him that longed to connect to a child.
His child, of course.
But this particular kid, as cute and smart and precocious as she was, seemed to fit the ticket—for tonight, anyway.
He’d have to be careful, though, since the mother scared him.
All right. That wasn’t entirely true. Caitlin didn’t scare him at all. But his attraction to her left him a little unbalanced.
“See?” Emily said, pointing to the dining room table that had been set with plain, white everyday wear. Nothing fancy. No romantic touches to cause him to feel uneasy.
A water glass sat in the middle of the table, with three drooping daisies and a red blossom of some kind. And a child-sketched crayon drawing sat at each plate, indicating who sat where.
Brett smiled when he saw his place. Emily had spelled his name with a skinny B, no R, a leaning E and only one T. And she’d drawn his picture, adding a bandage on the stick man’s face and hand.
“The table looks great,” he told the little girl. “And so does the picture of me.”
“You can have it when you go home. And then you can put it on the ’frigerator so Fred can see it.”
“Sounds like a perfect place for such a special piece of art.” He offered her a smile, but his mind drifted to his own son, a boy who wore a red baseball cap and leaped over small hedges with a single bound.
Had Justin made pictures like that when he was Emily’s age? Did he like to color?
If so, did Kelly display the artwork on the refrigerator for all the world to see?
Brett figured she did.
Caitlin entered the dining room with oven mitts on both hands, carrying a bowl of spaghetti sauce. “Usually, I fill our plates in the kitchen. But I thought it might be best if we ate family style.”
The family thing might be kind of nice, he supposed.
When Caitlin reached to set the sauce on the table, the neckline of her sundress gapped a bit, giving him a glimpse of white lace and the soft swell of her breast—just enough for his thoughts to drift in a direction that wasn’t at all neighborly.
“I have a bottle of red wine,” she said. “Would you like me to open it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She smiled, then returned to the kitchen.
Five minutes later, they sat at the table—family style. It was a weird experience for Brett. Surreal, actually. But kind of interesting.
Caitlin fixed a plate for Emily, filling her glass with milk. Then she poured wine for herself and Brett.
He had half a notion to offer a toast. But to what? Friendship? Being temporary neighbors? An accident that, even before he paid to have her car fixed, would cost him nearly ten grand in parts, labor and bodywork, not to mention custom paint?
That didn’t make sense. So, instead, he lifted the glass and took a drink, hoping to wash away an unwelcome attraction to the kind of woman who would complicate his life—if he let her.
Caitlin didn’t know why she’d brought out that bottle of wine. Just trying to be a good hostess, she guessed. She’d been given a couple of bottles of Merlot in a gift basket during a hospital Christmas party a year or so ago. She’d offered to open one for Greg once, after he’d worked on the starter for her car. But he preferred beer, which she’d never acquired a taste for and didn’t keep in the house, so they’d settled for iced tea.
Dinner progressed with little fanfare, but Emily seemed to latch on to Brett. It didn’t seem to bother him, and he was good with the child. In fact, it appeared that he was enjoying the little-girl chatter as much as Greg did. Maybe more.
So Caitlin sat back and watched.
Emily sucked up a long strand of spaghetti, splattering a bit of marinara sauce on her chin, and studied their temporary neighbor. “How come you don’t like Fred?”
Brett glanced at Caitlin as though he didn’t know how to answer the child. Earlier, he’d referred to Fred as a psycho cat, so Caitlin assumed they’d had a run-in or two.
“Fred doesn’t like me,” he told her daughter. “And he hisses if I come near him.”
“Maybe I need to tell him you’re nice and he shouldn’t be afraid of you,” said Emily.
“Maybe so.” Brett cast her a smile, then returned to his meal, twirling spaghetti onto his fork. His dark brow furrowed in concentration.
He was handsome, and if Caitlin didn’t have enough complications in her life, she might strive to be more neighborly, more open to romance. As it was, she’d better steer clear of the man. She wasn’t sure how the courts would look upon her having a boyfriend or dating. Her case would be based upon her providing a stable home and having a solid bond with the child she loved, a child who was the top priority in her life.
“Can we come over and visit Fred tomorrow?” Emily asked Brett.
It saddened Caitlin that she had to deny Emily a pet, just because of her allergies to dander. So she always let Emily visit the neighborhood cats and dogs whenever possible.
“I can’t imagine Fred being fun to play with,” Brett said, “but you can come over, if your mom wants to bring you.”
When he looked at Caitlin, she nodded. Emily was especially partial to cats, the kind of animal that bothered Caitlin’s allergies the most. The little girl also gravitated toward kind and gentle men, especially Greg, and Gerald Blackstone, the older man who lived next door.
Caitlin tried to tell herself it was because Emily was a loving child who liked people, especially people with pets. It seemed reasonable since Greg had a cat, and Gerald and his wife had Scruffy, a terrier-mix they let Caitlin and Emily take for daily walks. But sometimes Caitlin wondered whether not having a daddy made Emily draw close to any kind man who had time for her.
Emily did, of course, have a father, as much as Caitlin wished that wasn’t the case.
He was alive and well in the Riverview Correctional Facility, awaiting release and wanting custody of the child he’d never seen. A child whose mother died from wounds received in a drive-by shooting.
The possibility of the court ordering Caitlin to relinquish Emily was almost unbearable to ponder. How could she possibly hand over her foster daughter to a man who’d been involved in an armed robbery that had left a man paralyzed? It was enough to make Caitlin ill, whenever she thought about it.
What would happen if the little girl who loved rainbows and kitties was uprooted from the only mother and home she’d ever known and turned over to a convicted felon?
Caitlin couldn’t imagine. But she, better than anyone, could guess.
She’d spent the first few years of her life in the inner city of San Diego, oftentimes in homeless shelters run by the Salvation Army. Her mom, an on-again, off-again prostitute and drug addict, couldn’t get her act together. And by the time Caitlin was seven, she’d entered the first of many foster homes.
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