When Sam hired Christy, he’d thought she would solve all his problems

Instead, she’d added one more distraction to his life.

He thought about telling Christy that talking to the workmen was not a good example for Meggie. Weren’t they trying to teach the child to be cautious around strangers? He thought about telling her that he preferred she not accept dates while she was on duty. He thought about telling her a lot of childish things, but he didn’t. This wasn't Christy’s fault. It was the men who were coming on to Christy—that was plain to see. A couple of them had evidently worked up the nerve to ask her out.

The truth was, he wanted Christy Lane, with her soothing hands and musical voice and sunny smiles and homey cooking, to be waiting in the kitchen when he got home. Waiting for him. Not standing at the curb talking to some tanned gorilla of a construction worker, giggling up at him and twirling a blond curl around her index finger.

The truth was, he wanted to ask her out on a date himself. Which was precisely what he intended to do.

Dear Reader,

One of my favorite expressions is: “Plan like mad, but take it as it comes.”

Most of us have had an experience similar to that of my hero, Sam Solomon. Like Sam, we plan our lives (like mad), but then fate throws us an unexpected curve and we are forced to “take it as it comes.”

I like to think that when unexpected circumstances force us to adapt, our true character is revealed. I like to think that if we are made of the right stuff, we grow with each challenge, reaching new levels of clarity, wisdom and joy. I like to think that love, in all its forms, is the reward for such growth.

Architect Sam Solomon is a good man who is about to grow and learn some powerful lessons. When his mentally challenged daughter, Meggie, comes to live with him, Sam discovers the meaning of sacrifice. And as a result, he is rewarded with the unwavering love of Meggie’s invincible nanny, Christy Lane.

I want to thank my brother Rick, an architect, for his technical advice on this story. My mother, who delighted in all of my books, would have especially enjoyed this one because of Rick’s input. But she will never read this story, because less than twenty-four hours after I completed writing No Ordinary Child Mother died unexpectedly. We must take it as it comes. So I am counting on you to read this one for her.

My best,

Darlene Graham

I love to hear from my readers. Visit me at

www.superauthors.com/Graham or write to me at

P.O. Box 720224, Norman, OK 73070.

No Ordinary Child
Darlene Graham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Antonia Mae.

The sound of your voice reading Tennyson to me

will echo in my heart for as long as I live.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE

BENEATH THE DARK, GLASSY surface of the still water, Sam Solomon imagined he could see his future, waiting.

He had studied the old photographs and maps long and hard and knew well the intricacies of the rock formations and antiquated stone structures of the old ghost town that had been put to rest under the lake. He could picture every twist and turn, every trailing meander of the rough stone pathways. The way they veered up and down, their many steps. He was familiar with the dimensions of the old concrete retaining walls. He knew the shape of the arched stone bridge, the semicircular pattern of the seats in the tiny amphitheater. All of it vanished under tons of water when the Greer Dam was erected in 1939, a temple to the god of electricity. But the resulting lake had ultimately grown too large, gobbling up stray fingers of property. And in the process, the tiny town of Moonlight Grove, an abandoned hamlet in a narrow valley, had been covered by the flooding water.

Back then, nobody cared.

But now Sam Solomon cared. He could hardly wait to see what actually remained of the stone ruins. Most of the structures in Moonlight Grove had been built of native sandstone and would withstand the test of time. The water, however, was a more treacherous foe. Sam could not be sure of what he would find.

Soon enough, this shallow branch of Broken Arrow Lake would be drained. Soon enough, the restoration Sam had long envisioned would begin.

Restore. Reclaim. Resurrect. Excitement coursed through his veins at the very words. Sam Solomon loved fixing things—big things—in a permanent way. Maybe that was because in his life, there had been so many things that he could not fix, so many things he could not reclaim, could not resurrect. Maybe that was the whole reason he’d become an architect in the first place. To create something that could not be torn away in one cruel instant, by one cruel twist of fate, one tiny aberration of nature.

He squinted out over the lake, determined not to relive the tragedies of his past now, when his dream was coming true at last. His overachieving family of doctors and lawyers had always made Sam feel he had to prove himself every step of the way. But this project wasn’t about them. Moonlight Grove was about him. Sam, the one who restored, resurrected.

“An architect?” his old man had chided in disbelief when Sam announced his plans to return to college after marrying and becoming a father, too young, too recklessly.

“What you need to do is get your law degree and go to work for the firm, like your brother David. You need security, liquidity. You have responsibilities, Sam. You have Meggie to think about now. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that Meggie is no ordinary child. Her needs are only going to become greater as she grows.”

Why had his father felt compelled to talk like that? No one needed to remind Sam that his Meggie wasn’t like other children. He had thought about that fact every single day of his life since the day she was born.

Sam closed his eyes, momentarily shutting out the lake and the sunset, remembering how his father had always made him doubt himself. An architect. The way his father had acted one would have thought Sam had chosen to become a park-bench bum. And when Sam had focused his energies on historic restoration instead of high-rise office construction his dad had mocked him all the more.

But now he had finally amassed the financial backing and the restoration experience to make his dream a reality. He opened his eyes again. Too bad his father had passed on before he could see Sam’s vision become a reality.

He braced his legs wide on the rock ledge where he stood, his stance bespeaking the boldness of his plans. He ran his fingers through his hair and raised his eyes to the blazing Oklahoma sun that seemed to touch the edge of the water. For Sam it wasn’t hard to see Moonlight Grove as the beautiful resort that would rise from this setting a year from now. Always, during any project, Sam kept his eye on his final vision.

The surface of the water, a black satin sheet moments before, was now lit with the torched hues of the fiery evening sky.

Sam drew and released a satisfied breath. Verandas on the main hotel would face southwest, affording guests this stunning view at eventide.

Sam’s schedule as controlling partner in Solomon Architectural Masterpieces did not allow many moments like this, and, predictably, his cell phone bleated, interrupting his daydreaming.

He scowled at the little black intruder clipped to his belt, expecting to see his partner Josh’s cell number—or the number from the office. But no, it was a California area code, which instantly raised a ripple of unease in him. He didn’t recognize the number, but this had to be Andrea—he didn’t know anyone in California except his ex-wife and her parents. Normally, Andrea left her cold, businesslike messages on his home answering machine. Why would Andrea be calling on his cell phone? Unless…something had happened to Meggie. He unclipped the phone and snapped it open.

“Andrea?”

“Yes. Hi, Sam.”

“Uh, hi.” His tentative greeting echoed the tone of his ex-wife’s. She sounded strange.

“I hope I’m not interrupting something important.” Her politeness only increased the feeling of dread building in Sam’s chest.

“It’s okay. What’s up?”

“Sorry to disturb you at work. Your secretary gave me your cell number. I hope that’s okay.”

“I said it’s okay.” Sam didn’t mean to sound abrupt, but he wanted Andrea to just get to the point. Prior to their divorce three years ago, they had been married for eight intense years, and—dammit—he could tell when something was wrong. “What is it?”

“Meggie’s fine, Sam. You need to know that first.”

Sam released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Meggie’s fine. Okay. Maybe something had happened to Lorna or Bud. Andrea’s parents were nice folks, and he wished them well. “That’s good. So what’s the matter, Andrea?”

“I…I have a kind of an emergency.”

“Okay. You need my help?” His anxiety level dropped a notch. Maybe she only needed money. This wasn’t the first time he had given Andrea a little help beyond her alimony and Meggie’s child support. He didn’t mind. He found that sending them extra money actually lowered his guilt quotient.

“Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact I do need your help. I need to have Meggie live in Tulsa with you for a…for a little while. At least, I hope it’s only for a little while.”

Sam drew in a cautious breath. Held it. This was a bit of a shock. Then he frowned, as consternation and suspicion set in. After all the times he’d begged Andrea to let him have Meggie half the year, to let him make some kind of life for his child with him here in Tulsa, difficult as that would be. And now, suddenly, Andrea was calling, asking him in this strange voice to take their child. Not now. He couldn’t quash the unbidden selfish thought. Not now, when I’m finally getting ready to start on my dream project. Maybe he could negotiate with Andrea and make the move easier on everyone, maybe even negotiate a permanent joint custody of Meggie—only later. Later. Like a year from now.

“Andrea, listen. You know I’m always willing to have Meggie with me—to share the burden. But this is a really bad time right now. I’m starting a restoration project that involves nothing short of resurrecting an entire town from the bottom of a lake. I’m not sure I can meet Meggie’s special needs while I’m trying to finish a project of this magni—”

“Sam, I’m sick,” Andrea interrupted.

“Sick?” What did she mean, sick? Sam’s chest tightened.

“Yes, I’m…I’m afraid I’m actually very sick.” Andrea’s voice, normally controlled and cool, sounded incredibly soft now, even vulnerable. And kind. Too kind. As if she wanted to soften the blow for him, as if this were an apology. “You see, I have cancer.”

“Cancer?” At the word Sam’s heart sped up, but still he hoped against hope that Andrea was dramatizing or something. She sometimes did that, except, of course, when it came to Meggie. And this was about Meggie, wasn’t it? Or was it? Suddenly he hoped there was some big mistake, some miscommunication. His mind flashed around in denial. His ex-wife, the model-sleek beauty who had snagged him straight out of high school, the overprotective mother of their needy child Meggie, simply had to be okay. Meggie was the one who was not okay. Ergo, everybody else had to be okay.

“Cancer?” he repeated. Weren’t there all kinds of cancer? One of the junior architects had beaten malignant melanoma only a couple of years ago. “What kind of cancer?”

“The doctors call it soft-tissue sarcoma.”

Sam was so stunned that he lowered a hand to the rock ledge. “Is that…is that really serious?” he said, already sensing that it was. There was a brave finality about Andrea’s voice.

“I’m afraid so, Sam.”

He sat down, knees raised, head lowered, holding the cell phone to his ear, staring at the mossy lichen growing on the rock between his legs, thinking, No.

“But there’s good news.” Andrea altered her tone, lightened it—clearly a front, which scared Sam all the more. “The doctors tell me it is treatable.”

Every time she used the plural of the word doctor, his anxiety level kicked up. What kind of cancer was this soft-tissue sarcoma that Andrea needed doctors, plural, to treat it? “What do you mean, it’s treatable?”

“I mean, it’s treatable,” she said lightly. But she didn’t sound convinced. She sounded scared. “I’m going to the City of Hope in Los Angeles tomorrow.” Suddenly, her tone changed again and she sounded weird. Calm. Mature. Not like the Andrea he knew. Irrationally, he longed for the whiny, temperamental woman he had once called his wife. But she allowed herself only a cleansing sigh before she continued. “But my treatment won’t be easy. First extensive surgery. Then some pretty heavy chemotherapy. That’s why I need you to take Meggie for a while. The treatment that will save my life is going to take a lot out of me at first, I’m afraid. And Daddy hasn’t been well, so Mother and Daddy and I discussed it, and—”

Save her life? Save her life! Good Lord, what was Andrea facing? But he suppressed his own panic and concentrated on listening to her.

“—and I don’t think I can keep up with our daughter. You know, with her needs.”

Sam did know. The familiar guilt clenched his gut. When it was his turn to have Meggie with him in Tulsa, life slowed down to her pace, the pace of a severely damaged child forever stuck in the chaotic world of a three-year-old. In short, when his daughter Meggie was visiting, he got next to nothing done.

“Andrea.” He fought to keep the emotion in his voice under control. Was he going to cry? He sure as hell felt like it. “I…I’ll help you in any way I can. You know that. You know I…I still care about you.”

“I know that, Sam. You’re a good man. You always have been. I know you care. And I know how much you love Meggie. So, here’s how you can help me. Take her.”

His answer was resolute. “Sure. Anything.”

“I’m putting her on a plane tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow?” As soon as he uttered the word, Sam regretted it. He wasn’t going to complain about or question anything in this deal, dammit. He was going to help.

“Yes. It seems the timing is critical, and I am checking into the hospital very early in the morning. Actually, Daddy will take Meggie to LAX airport in L.A. I really hate putting her on a plane by herself in these uncertain times—” At last Andrea’s voice grew emotional, but she quickly recovered. “You’ll need the flight number and arrival time. Got a pen?”

Sam patted the pockets of his windbreaker. “I do, but it’s in my car. I’m out at a building site.” Sam didn’t wanted to tell her that he had been standing on a rock overlooking a beautiful lake, dreaming his dream, when she called with her terrible news. “Where are you? Can I call you back?”

“I’m staying at Mother and Daddy’s house in Huntington Beach. We’re going to have dinner now, but just call me back anytime this evening. Meggie will arrive about 7:00 p.m. your time at Will Rogers.”

“Will Rogers? Down in Oklahoma City?”

“Yes. It was the only way to put her on a direct flight. There was nothing from here to Tulsa.”

“That’s fine.” It wasn’t. Tomorrow afternoon he had an important meeting with the developers of Moonlight Grove that would undoubtedly run late. But what could he say? “It’s just fine.”

“Sam, I know this puts you in a bind, as far as child care and all. Maybe your mother could help you out.”

Andrea and his mother had always been friendly. His mother had once proclaimed Andrea the perfect daughter-in-law. These days they shared a mutual love and fierce protectiveness of Meggie. But his mother had her own life now—she was scheduled to leave for Central America on a photographic expedition in one week.

“We’ll be fine. If Mom can’t take care of Meggie, I know of a very nice older lady who can. Mrs. Waddle has baby-sat for me a couple of times. Very nice. Very grandmotherly.” This was a somewhat rosy description of Cloretta Waddle.

“Okay. Call me back later tonight.”

“Andrea?”

“Yeah?”

“When did you find out about this?”

“About a week ago.”

Oh, God, he thought. A life could change so dramatically in only a week. Hadn’t Andrea Haynes Solomon suffered enough in her life? First, bearing a severely brain-damaged child when she was only twenty years old, then having her marriage fall apart. And now this. Cancer. “Andrea, I’m so sorry. We will get you through this, all of us. Don’t worry about Meggie. I promise I will take very good care of her.”

“You always do.”

“Yes, well. I love her. She’s my baby.” He was glad he hadn’t said, She’ll always be my baby. Andrea didn’t need reminders of Meggie’s shortcomings any more than he did, certainly not now.

“I know, Sam. Call me back when you’re somewhere where you can write the plane information down. I’m really sorry to spring this on you so suddenly. I just didn’t want Meggie to have to see me in the hospital, you know? I don’t think she would understand any of this.”

“Does Meggie know you’re sick?”

“We told her I have to have an operation. She had a friend who had her tonsils out, so she understands that much. I told her she would probably get to stay with her daddy until I’m…until I’m well.” Andrea rushed on, her voice artificially bright again. “She was very excited about seeing you and her nonnie.”

Sam closed his eyes, but somehow the hot orange light of the sun seeped through his lids, anyway, egging on the tears. “I’ll call you back,” he croaked, trying not to choke up, “in a bit.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

Sam punched End and stared out over the shimmering apricot surface of the water again, feeling as if the world had suddenly shifted on its axis.

How could life change so completely in only a few minutes? Then again, hadn’t he learned already that life could change just that fast? Suddenly, completely, horribly. In those few tense moments when Meggie had been born, those tortured moments, he had wanted to rip the cord from his child’s neck with his own hands. Those moments had taught him that everything, positively everything, could spin out of control in an instant. When the nurses forced the mask over his tiny baby’s blue face and she did not breathe, hadn’t he seen, with his very own eyes, how in the span of less than five minutes, a life and all the lives around it could shift forever?

Soft-tissue sarcoma. Andrea was dying. No. He would not even think such a thought, would not even allow such a possibility. He would get on the Internet tonight and look it up, and he would find out everything he could about this…disease. He would help the mother of his child fight for her life. By God, he was a man who fixed things—restored things—and he would find a way to fix this, too.

But first, he had to find someone to drive to Oklahoma City and pick up Meggie at Will Rogers World Airport at seven in the evening. There was really no question as to who that someone would be.

GAYLE SOLOMON STOOD STARING out at the runways, thanking God that Will Rogers World Airport was quieter than most. Set on a grassy plain south of Oklahoma City, Will Rogers was a typical, vast, unadorned airport. At least here the parking lots were uncrowded and the traffic flowed smoothly. Even at seven o’clock on a Friday evening at the start of the Memorial Day weekend there weren’t that many people. Maybe Meggie wouldn’t be too scared, arriving in a relatively calm place like this. But the drive to Tulsa would seem unbearably long to the child, so Gayle had come armed with sing-along tapes. Meggie loved to sing.

The jet that carried her grandchild taxied in from a distant runway. She hated to think of little Meggie in a plane that big all by herself. She wondered if any of the other passengers had shown an interest in Meggie, if they’d talked to her. If they’d been kind.

Of course they’d been kind. People were always kind to children, weren’t they? But even if they were kind, they would still be expecting Meggie to behave like what she appeared to be—a normal ten-year-old. When in reality, the specialists estimated that Meggie was, at most, mentally a three-year-old. Meggie could fool people. She wasn’t slack-jawed or slow-moving. She was beautiful, thin and graceful. She moved like a tiny gazelle. And she could parrot the most astounding words, making her seem brighter than she actually was.

For an instant Gayle thought she saw Meggie’s bewildered little face framed in one of the oval windows of the plane, but in the next instant, the glare of the setting sun obliterated it. Envisioning her granddaughter’s face reminded Gayle of how simple, how sweet Meggie could be. Well, Meggie could be sweet if she wanted to be. At least when her routine wasn’t disrupted. Gayle sighed. Being separated from her mother and having to fly across the country was certainly a major disruption.

Not for the first time, Gayle wished Andrea hadn’t taken the child off to California. What was Sam supposed to have done? Abandon his struggling architectural partnership when it was just taking off? Building a reputation as a specialist in restoring historic buildings took time and persistence.

Gayle walked around the passengers waiting at the gate, positioning herself directly in front of the door of the boarding ramp, thankful that the airline security had allowed her to come this far down to meet Meggie.

Airports, Gayle thought, had become such somber, anxious places these days. The long, brightly lit corridor around her, with its boarding gates fanning out in a semicircle, felt subdued, vacant, compared to her last visit to Will Rogers.

Gayle walked over to a rounded bank of windows and folded her arms across her middle. The heat from the prairie sun setting low over the vast tarmac radiated through the glass. The holiday weekend promised to be a scorcher. Gayle watched as the blue-and-white jet aligned its door with the boarding ramp. Meggie was in there. She hoped her baby wasn’t scared. Meggie would remember her nonnie, wouldn’t she?

A stream of passengers emerged from the doorway. A little family. Some college students. A few tired-looking businessmen. Soon the area was filled with passengers. People assembled their parties, then rushed toward baggage claim. Gayle’s view became blocked by a large man. She ducked around him, but she still couldn’t see any sign of Meggie. In no time the stream dwindled to a trickle. Still no Meggie.

Anxious, Gayle took the paper on which she’d written Sam’s instructions from her purse. Flight 1292. She looked at the digital display behind the boarding desk. She was at the correct gate. She stepped toward the ramp and peered down the tunnel toward the door of the plane. Not a soul was in sight. What should she do? Surely they hadn’t let something happen to the child. Gayle’s mind flashed to the time her elderly mother-in-law had been left sitting in a wheelchair while her connecting flight took off in Salt Lake City. Her palms grew damp.

Sam should have flown to Los Angeles to pick up his daughter. Gayle had told him that in no uncertain terms.

In defiance of the rules, she was about to march down the ramp and look into the plane herself when she heard a shriek and then a child’s howling protests.

Behind Gayle, a small cluster of people had formed under a large sign that read Oklahoma City, the new Agenda for Business, next to a stunning blowup of a fire-red Oklahoma sunset. But there was nothing sunny about their faces as they turned anxious expressions toward the sound of the shrieking child.

The suspended alertness of the group fractured as they all heard the young child plainly yelling, “Help! Help me!”

As one, everyone rushed forward, expressions horrified. Gayle was overcome by a sinking feeling. Meggie was acting out again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw security officers jogging down the concourse.

A man in a straw cowboy hat standing next to her muttered, “What the hell?”

“I think it’s my grandchild.”

Sure enough, around the corner came a flight attendant, tugging a screaming Meggie by the hand. Meggie, clutching her beloved stuffed companion, Mr. Bear, and wielding a pink Pokémon backpack at the flight attendant’s arm, dug in her heels and stopped their progress.

Meggie was incredibly strong for such a thin child. Gayle had to smile, though she was mortified that Meggie was making such a scene. The child did have a will of her own. Her little face was so red with exertion that it made her blond hair look almost white. Like the unfortunate flight attendant, Gayle herself had often been jerked to a halt when Meggie didn’t want to cooperate. There was no reasoning with a three-year-old in a ten-year-old’s body. The flight attendant bent forward at the waist, obviously trying to reason with the struggling child.

“Meggie!” Gayle called, “Meggie! It’s Nonnie!” Gayle put on a brave smile and waved frantically, trying to get the child to calm down and see that everything was okay. Nonnie was here.

The flight attendant turned. “Are you Mrs. Solomon?”

“Yes!”

Gayle was relieved when she was waved down the ramp. “Meggie, it’s okay, honey.” She tried to speak calmly above Meggie’s screaming as she took hold of the combative child. “Nonnie’s here.”

“I going back to Cal-forna!” Meggie screamed while trying to tug her hand out of the attendant’s grip and twisting her thin body away from Gayle, back toward the plane.

“She refused to get off the plane.” The woman had to holler to be heard above Meggie’s crying.

“I…want…my…mom-meeee!” Meggie wailed.

“Meggie, listen!” Gayle dropped to one knee and bracketed her hands on the child’s flushed, tear-streaked cheeks. “Remember Nonnie?” Gayle brushed back Meggie’s thick blond curls and tried to look into her eyes, but they were squeezed shut. “And Daddy? Daddy wants to see you. Remember? And Brutus. Brutus wants to see you. Remember Brutus?”

Gayle hated to use her poor little schnauzer as bait, but what choice did she have? It always worked. Instantly, Meggie’s body relaxed and her eyes opened wide.

“Bootus?” she said in quiet awe.

“Yes. Remember Brutus?” Gayle encouraged.

“Bootus?” Meggie repeated softly. She hiccuped innocently, then graced the hapless attendant with an angelic smile. The poor woman cautiously released Meggie’s hand, then wilted as if she wanted to slide down the wall of the tunnel to her backside. “You go with your grandma now,” she sighed, “okay, Meggie?”

“My nonnie,” Meggie corrected with an evil glare.

“Yes. Your nonnie. We’ll have fun the next time you fly with us.” The look on the flight attendant’s face said, Which I hope is never.

In a singsong voice, Meggie started chanting, “Boo-tus. Boo-tus. I gonna see Bootus.”

Gayle stood up and took Meggie’s free hand. “They did tell you that my granddaughter is mentally challenged, didn’t they?”

The attendant nodded, looking sheepish but exhausted. “Yes. Her mom gave us plenty of instructions. But they didn’t mention the t-e-m-p-e-r. I let her eat several doughnuts. She refused to touch any healthy snacks and it was a long flight. It was the only way to get some orange juice down her.”

Gayle smiled wanly and patted the woman’s arm. Sugar certainly didn’t help Meggie’s moods. “It’s okay. I’ll feed her some protein on the way home. She loves McDonald’s.”

With that, Meggie changed her chant to “IckDonald’s! IckDonald’s! I gonna go to IckDonald’s!” as she tugged on Gayle’s hand, dragging her petite grandmother down the exit ramp.

“Thank you!” Gayle called over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry she got upset,” the flight attendant called after them. “I did get her to take a two-hour nap during the flight.”

Great, Gayle thought, that means now she won’t fall asleep until after midnight. Not an auspicious beginning on her first night in her daddy’s house.

CHAPTER TWO

GAYLE SOLOMON WAS USED to answering distress calls from her youngest son. And since his pleas for help invariably involved her darling Meggie, she felt she had to heed them. She wanted to heed them.

She was used to coming into Sam’s house and making herself right at home—if one could make oneself at home in such a stark, cold atmosphere. And why her son favored so much black was an inconsistent mystery. Couldn’t the man at least get some green plants?

In his work Sam favored color, lots of it. Persian blue and misty mauve and hot tangerine. He restored Victorian houses in lavish colors, calling them “painted ladies.” The interiors he designed always felt rich, cozy and golden. But in his own home it was unrelenting black. Black, black and more black. Black leather couches. Black granite kitchen counters. Even a black shower curtain upstairs. Sam’s home looked as stripped and clinical as a dentist’s office.

Gayle sighed. What her son needed was a wife. Sometimes she wondered if Sam would ever really get his act together. He worked too much, for one thing. Tonight he looked exceptionally frazzled, exceptionally tired.

She watched him as he trudged down the open stairs into the kitchen, one loose-hipped step at a time, removing his tie.

Sam was an undeniably handsome man. Beautiful, in fact. Although that was a word she would never use aloud to describe any of her very masculine sons. The Solomon Sons. All gorgeous, but Sam had indeed been the most beautiful of all her children except, of course, for— She forced herself to smile up at Sam, focusing her love and attention on him.

Of all her sons, Sam was the most like her late husband, Edward, which had made the constant father and son friction all the more troubling and confusing. She watched as he ran his long fingers through his hair, a habit from childhood that, for Sam, could signal anything from frustration to shyness to happy excitement. The full head of curly white-blond hair from his childhood had deepened to a burnished gold with rich taupe undertones. He wore his hair in a casual lionlike mane, curling behind his ears, touching his collar, stubbornly raked straight back from his brow and temples, an occasional lock falling forward.

At thirty-one, he already had telltale sprigs of gray lacing his sideburns, though his body was still athletically honed and his face had only grown more handsome as he reached full manhood. His forehead was broad, his nose straight, his jaw square, and his deep-set dark blue eyes were as compelling as a midnight sky.

“She’s finally asleep.” He slumped when he got to the last step.

“Have you eaten?” Gayle asked.

“Only the finger food we served to the investors.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Gayle said, turning toward his kitchen.

“I can make it myself,” he said as he followed her. “Mom? Do you remember that woman—the one the Barretts used for child care before their kids were old enough for school? You know, that older lady? The one you got to take care of Meggie a couple of times for me on Saturday nights? Mrs. Waddle?”

“Cloretta?”

“Yeah. I wonder if she’s available now?”

Gayle turned to him with a look of horror. “You aren’t considering Cloretta Waddle as a possible full-time caretaker for Meggie?”

“Why not? Bob Barrett always talked about how efficient she was. He said she was clean. Sensible. I think he even told me the woman used to be a nurse.”

“That woman used to be a Panzer tank,” Gayle practically shouted, “and just because she’s strapped an apron around her middle that doesn’t mean she can take care of my grandchild on a daily basis!”

“Shh. You’ll wake Meggie.”

“Sorry. But you listen—” Gayle hissed, grabbing Sam’s arm and hauling him around the corner into the kitchen as if he were still five years old. She flipped on every last one of the recessed lights. Sam knew his mother hated his dark, sleek kitchen. But he liked the shimmering stainless steel, the professional chef-style gas stove, the massive nickel fixtures.

Gayle whirled to face him. “Cloretta Waddle ran the Barrett household like an absolute drill sergeant. You cannot possibly be serious about bringing her into your home.”

Gayle watched as Sam rammed his fingers through his thick blond hair again. His frustration level was definitely peaking. Putting Meggie to bed could try anyone’s patience, but it was this whole situation that was killing him. In the twenty-four hours since he’d found out Andrea was ill, he’d probably repeated that gesture so often that it was a miracle he wasn’t bald.

He flipped off several of the lights, then jerked open his massive side-by-side—black, naturally—built-in refrigerator and started pulling out shaved ham, cheese, mustard. “As I recall, Bob Barrett told me that Mrs. Waddle is a licensed practical nurse who is trained to care for children.”

“Trained to care for children is one thing. Doing it kindly is quite another.”

He turned to his mother, his rugged features, highlighted by the cold light from the refrigerator, looking older than his years. “Mom, look. I can’t exactly be picky here. Meggie is upstairs right now—” he pointed at the kitchen stairs “—and just getting her tucked in wore me out. I have got to have somebody here—tomorrow. The investors are in town. Men like Mr. Yoshida do not understand the concept of a family crisis, and they do not like to be ignored.”

Gayle’s heart clutched at the worry and sadness etched in her son’s face. He had withstood so much. Lord, when will it end? “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I will keep Meggie tomorrow.”

“And what about the next day? And the next? Andrea is going to be sick for a long time and you can’t stay away from your work forever. Now, let’s think. How can we find out if this Cloretta Waddle is still around Tulsa?”

Gayle took the sandwich things from him and placed them on the center island. “We simply must find a better solution.” She tried to keep her tone from sounding overbearing, but she knew how her son tended to act in a crisis. Just like his father. Efficient to the point of ruthlessness. And sometimes that efficiency vanquished things of greater importance—like Meggie’s contentment and happiness, for example. Putting Meggie in the hands of Cloretta Waddle would be like putting a wild bunny rabbit in the hands of an ape. “Sam, that woman is not an appropriate match for a sensitive child like Meggie.”

“Then exactly what do you suggest?”

“I told you, I will keep Meggie myself.” She found a knife in a militarily neat utensil drawer.

Sam sighed. They had tried this arrangement before on one of Meggie’s summer visits. His mother had raised four rowdy sons almost single-handedly while his father had been off building his legal dynasty. Sam, being the youngest of the Solomon sons, felt the most strongly that his mother deserved some peace and quiet—or at least the luxury of pursuing her own interests for once in her life. It bugged him that he was the one who seemed to call on her for help the most often. His brothers and their wives were all too involved in their high-powered careers to help with Meggie. His mom seemed like the only one in the family who had time for Meggie and her problems. Yet, every time Gayle took over with Meggie, Sam ended fighting a roaring case of the guilts.

“Mom, are you telling me that you are going to drive across town to my house at the crack of dawn every weekday, then haul Meggie around to school and her therapy and her various activities in your minivan?”

“Absolutely.” Gayle calmly spread mustard on two slices of bread.

Sam threw up his hands, then planted them on his belt. “And then I suppose you’ll go home and somehow find the energy to pursue your photography, which, I’d like to remind you, is going rather well these days.”

“Oh, poo.” Gayle flapped her palm at him. “Let’s be honest. My photography is merely a hobby.”

“You’ve been winning awards, selling some stuff at art fairs. And what about your trip to Belize?”

“My photography is not going so well that I’d turn my helpless granddaughter over to a battle-ax like Cloretta Waddle.”

“I hardly think the woman is a battle-ax.” Sam rubbed his brow. But that was a lie. Three hundred pounds if she was an ounce, Cloretta sported kinky gray curls that looked rubberized, wore hideous flowered polyester pantsuits and size-twelve white nursing oxfords. She topped it all with a perpetual scowl. Okay. So what if Cloretta was a bit of a stereotypical battle-ax nanny? “It wouldn’t hurt Meggie to come under a firm disciplinary hand for once.”

“Oh, really? What good would that do? Discipline or not, Meggie is always going to be age three, mentally.”

“But she doesn’t have to be a bratty, unmanagable age three,” Sam argued. He had long worried about the fact that Andrea spoiled their child to pieces, but he felt powerless to change that when he only had Meggie for short visits three times a year. But now, for the foreseeable future, their little terror Meggie was going to be his sole responsibility. He didn’t exactly have a ton of options here. “I’m calling Bob Barrett.”

Gayle stopped making the sandwich and clapped her hands once. “Wait! I know who we need!” She darted in front of Sam on his way to the built-in kitchen desk. “Christy Lane! Do you have a phone book?”

“Who?” Sam followed his mother as she turned and charged to the desk. The name Christy Lane had a familiar ring.

“The Pearsons’ nanny. That child is delightful! Very creative. Does origami and stuff like that with the Pearson children. Why, she actually gives those kids piano lessons.”

“Mom, Meggie doesn’t need piano lessons and origami. She needs constant management and close supervision.”

“Meggie has the right to have fun just like any other child. And from what I hear, Christy Lane is an absolute bundle of fun. Lou said she is adorable.” Gayle was rapidly opening and closing cabinet doors above the desk.

“Lou who?” Sam said.

“Trustworthy. Kind. Talented. Lou can’t say enough good things about her. The girl is a regular Mary Poppins.”

Finding Sam’s cupboards predictably bare, Gayle started opening the desk drawers. “Where on earth do you keep the phone books in this house?”

Sam wondered how his mother knew so much about this Christy Lane woman. “If this nanny is so special, won’t the Pearsons be determined to keep her?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. The Pearsons don’t actually need a nanny. All Amy Pearson does is shop. Ah-ha!” She pulled a Tulsa telephone directory out of a drawer.

“I swear, every time I pass through Dillard’s at Utica Square, there’s good old Amy,” Gayle muttered as she flipped the pages of the phone book. “Pawing through a sale table or examining some ridiculous little purse as if it were an archeological find. It wouldn’t hurt that woman to stay home with her children once in a while. And I saw Christy running a register at Wal-Mart the other day, so I’m thinking the Pearsons probably don’t employ her full-time. I’m sure she’d much rather work for you.”

Again, Sam wondered how his mother could possibly know what Christy Lane would rather do. “Mom—” he slapped his palm onto the open phone book “—I refuse to hire somebody else’s nanny right out from under them.”

“This—” Gayle yanked the phone book out, jerking Sam off balance “—is a family emergency. Besides, I’m not calling Christy Lane. I’m calling Lou Allen—” She flipped the phone book open.

“Lou who?” Sam asked again.

“Lou Allen. Amy’s mother? I’ll talk to Lou and then she’ll talk to Amy and then Amy will talk to Christy. It’s how these things get done—with a little finesse. Before I’m through with them, the Pearsons will feel like they’ve done a great kindness for us.” She glanced at his skeptical frown, then started punching numbers into the phone. “Sam. Your situation is dire, even if it is—” She paused with her finger above the phone and gave Sam’s face a searching look. “This is only temporary. Isn’t it?”

Sam didn’t know what to say. The thought that it might not be temporary had snaked across his mind, but he’d banished it. Andrea would get well. Andrea had to get well. She would get well and they would all return to their former lives—patched together and painful as those lives sometimes were.

How he longed at this moment for his former imperfect, sometimes hectic life. Drumming up enough projects and contracts to keep a business with twenty employees thriving. Keeping track of a handicapped daughter who lived all the way across the country. Staying at the office until the wee hours to finish the drafting on a project. Sometimes he got lonely, but now that his imperfect life was about to be torn to pieces, he decided it hadn’t been so bad, after all. He could visit the remote building sites whenever the mood struck. He could indulge in late-night dinners and drinks at the Polo Grill with his buddies. He never had any trouble arranging the occasional date with an attractive young woman. But now…now his solitary life was about to become totally disrupted. His mother’s meddling couldn’t possibly make it any worse.

“Okay,” he said, caving in, “call your friend Lou and ask her to see if Amy Pearson might be able to loan me this Christy Lane woman for a while. Let’s say just for the summer.”

“Yes. We can make it through the holiday weekend on our own.” Gayle Solomon was already punching in the final numbers. “And then Christy can start next week.”

CHRISTY LANE SMILED AT THE next customer. Smile. Smile. Smile. It’s a good thing she had perfected that little habit. The average patron at Wal-Mart seemed to be in sore need of a smiling face. Especially on a Memorial Day weekend when the crowds were crazy.

This next guy was a fat old sourpuss who whomped a very corroded battery onto the conveyor belt beside the shiny new one he obviously intended to buy. “I’ll want the battery deposit refund,” he announced to the whole store. “You got any idea how to do that?”

“Sorry. You’ll need to stand in our special battery-deposit-refund line on the other side of the store for that.”

His face shot red and his fat lips dropped open, ready to spew out a diatribe, no doubt, about how he’d already been standing in line for half an hour, or whatever. But quick as a flash, Christy tapped his rough hand with her pen. “Just kidding.” She winked. “Five bucks, coming right up.”

If her smile didn’t work, a little touch usually did. The old sourpuss grinned, visibly relaxed.

A little girl in the line started whining about needing to go to the bathroom, so Christy punched the necessary keys lightning fast. “Here you go.” She dismissed Mr. Sourpuss with his receipt, the refund and another quick smile.

Christy treated every customer special. Every customer got her full attention. Her friendly, laid-back style was deceptive. Christy’s line actually moved faster than the other checkers’.

The next lady, a slender, petite woman with stylishly bobbed graying hair, smiled and said hi. Christy could sum people up pretty fast, and this one was not your typical Wal-Mart maven. She wore an expensive-looking gray silk outfit with a tiny black alligator shoulder bag strapped across her chest. She was buying a bunch of kiddie stuff, and while Christy ran the items over the scanner, the woman leaned forward confidentially. In a strange, low voice she said, “Christy?”

Christy glanced up from her work with her habitual smile. Her name tag read Christina, so how did this woman know she preferred to be called Christy? “Do I know you, ma’am?”

“No, you don’t,” the lady said. “I’m a friend of Amy Pearson’s.”

“Oh!” Christy relaxed. “Yeah. Mrs. Pearson.” The beep of the scanner continued rhythmically. Some little kiddo was sure getting a load of stuff. Beginner coloring books, Barney videos, musical cassettes, preschool toys. Maybe she was shopping for two kids, because there were also socks and underwear big enough for a school-age child.

The woman leaned in a little more. “I called Amy a couple of days ago, asked her to give you my number. Did she?”

“Me? No. Not that I know of. But I haven’t been home enough to check my machine.” Between this Wal-Mart job at night, her part-time nanny job in the daytime and writing her songs, there was little time to take care of details at her own humble apartment. Lately, Christy had been praying for a breather.

Beep. Beep.

“I’m Gayle Solomon.”

Christy’s hand halted and so did the beeping. Solomon. As in Sam Solomon? This woman, though incredibly well preserved, certainly did look old enough to be his mother. Christy took a closer look. As a matter of fact, the deep-set dark blue eyes were amazingly similar.

“Do I know you?” Christy said again, although she already knew that the answer was no. If she had ever met Sam Solomon’s mother, she would have surely remembered it.

“No, you don’t know me, but I believe you went to high school with my son.”

Gayle Solomon decided to leave it at that. She didn’t add that she’d had a soft spot in her heart for Christy Lane ever since she delivered a new coat to Christy’s house on behalf of the Junior League. The beautiful, tiny blond child who had answered the door had caused Gayle’s breath to catch in her throat.

“Are you the coat lady?” the child had said with the sweetest little smile.

Gayle hadn’t been able to stop herself from staring. The delicate little girl before her could have been Lila’s twin.

Through the years, Gayle managed to find ways to encounter Christy over and over, always from a distance, always with a strange mixture of longing and curiosity and sorrow. At the Junior League vision screening in third grade, when it was determined that Christy desperately needed eyeglasses, Gayle quietly arranged to pay for the eyewear herself. She had seen the conditions at Christy’s home firsthand—there would be no money for glasses in that impoverished family of four children. Later, Gayle had come to the same conclusion about braces.

And years later, when the arts council was choosing its scholarship recipients, Gayle had squared Christy’s application in front of her on her mahogany desk and reminded herself to remain strictly impartial. Then she opened the folder and stared at Christy’s senior photo, at her pretty, round blue eyes, her sweet smile. She remembered thinking, Is this what Lila might have looked like?

Through the years, Gayle had managed to keep track of Christy’s progress, and her struggles. And through the years, Gayle had kept Christy close in her heart, wishing the best for her, as if she were her godchild or something. As if she were her lost daughter.

And now here they were, face-to-face in Wal-Mart. If only Amy Pearson had cooperated and allowed Gayle to do this behind the scenes, the way she’d done everything else for Christy Lane.

The beeping started again.

“Your son? Is his name Sam?” Christy smiled her famous smile again. But she imagined it looked just a touch uneasy now. She could never think about Sam Solomon without getting a little confused. She’d actually written a song about him once, to get him out of her system: “I Should Be Over You.” It never sold.

“Yes. My son’s name is Sam Solomon.” The beeping finished and Gayle swiped her card to pay. “Do you remember him?”

“Kinda.”

“I was wondering if I could talk to you when you get off work,” Gayle said while Christy finished the transaction.

“That won’t be until midnight.” Christy handed Gayle the charge slip to sign.

“That’s okay,” Gayle said while she scribbled her name. “Would you mind giving me a call then?”

Christy frowned. “What is this about?”

“My son needs a nanny.” The woman looked up, and Christy thought her eyes had grown sad. “For his little girl.” She fumbled in her slim shoulder bag.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for another nanny job.” As much as Christy loved kids, being a nanny hadn’t been as undemanding as she’d imagined. Originally, she had wanted to free up her mind and her time to concentrate on her songwriting, but she’d ended up funneling all of her creativity into her little charges. For her, this mindless Wal-Mart job was a better fit.

“My granddaughter is special,” the woman said as she withdrew a card from her purse. “Sam will pay you very well.”

To Christy’s astonishment, the woman snapped the business card onto the counter along with the signed charge slip. Christy separated the receipts, then picked up the card, examining it. It had unusual angular lettering slashed across thick gray paper.

The center read:

Solomon Architectural Masterpieces

Samuel Solomon, AIA, Restoration Architect

“I’m staying at my son’s house,” Gayle Solomon explained. “Call the number in the right-hand corner. It forwards automatically.”

The customer in line behind Mrs. Solomon shoved her goods toward the register with an impatient scowl. Christy smiled apologetically at the woman, remembering that the little child with her needed to go to the rest room. She started scanning the stuff as fast as she could.

“Okay,” she said as she worked, “I’ll call you.” Mrs. Solomon picked up her plastic bag, bulging with kids’ stuff, and they smiled at each other one last time.

Later Christy slipped the card into the pocket of her blue Wal-Mart vest. Life was so weird, she thought. Who would ever imagine that she’d be standing here, minding her own business, scanning stuff at Wal-Mart, and suddenly Sam Solomon’s mother would appear and say “Call me.”

Sam Solomon, the blond Adonis that Christy had fantasized about all through high school. Christy hadn’t thought about him in a long time. Well, at least she’d tried not to think about him. Christy had heard, somewhere, that Sam had gotten some sorority girl pregnant and they ended up married. End of fantasy.

But Sam Solomon remained stubbornly imbedded in Christy’s heart, in her dreams. And if she was honest, she’d have to admit that over the years he had become the haunting benchmark for all other men. And now she was going to work for him?

CHAPTER THREE

CHRISTY SURVEYED THE STARK interior of Sam Solomon’s home with a mixture of dread and awe. She was actually going to be Sam Solomon’s nanny, in Sam Solomon’s house.

She wasn’t exactly sure how that had happened, except that Mrs. Solomon—Gayle, the woman kept insisting—had been very persuasive. She had shown Christy pictures of Sam’s beautiful daughter, and Christy had recognized Sam in the child’s wide blue eyes. And then when the grandmother had told Christy about the child’s disabilities, about the fact that this darling child’s mother was gravely ill, Christy’s heart had melted.

So, here she was.

The outside of the arts-and-craft-style house in this historic Tulsa neighborhood had actually looked inviting. But the inside…

Mrs. Solomon had gone upstairs to get the child, Meggie, and so Christy took a moment to explore the surroundings before they got down to business.

Her mama always said you could tell if a person was happy or not by looking at their home. And from the looks of this place, Sam Solomon was not a happy man. His home looked as cold as the lobby of a bank.

The more she looked, the more she wondered if she’d made a huge mistake. What kind of man lived in such a home? Uptight? Austere? Controlling? Cold?

So much black. So much black that even the banks of bare mullioned windows failed to brighten the place. Even the floor where she stood was painted black. Everything seemed dark, shiny…slick. The man actually had an entire wall of his foyer covered in smoky mirrors.

But Christy was adaptable, she had proved that. Flexible. Creative. Sunny and positive under any circumstances. The fact that her new charge had been brain-damaged at birth did not deter Christy in the least. But this house…that was another story.

A little girl was living here? Already Christy was formulating plans to get the child out of this place as much as possible.

She peeked around the corner into the living room. It was spacious, airy. Really high ceilings. At least the walls in here were painted off-white. But still, starkness prevailed. Black marble fireplace. Black leather couch. A big old painting with slashes of hot red, yellow and lavender in birdlike shapes. As her eyes traveled over it, she realized the thing spoke to her on some level. She supposed she could live peaceably with the painting, at least. She really liked art.

Oh.

Oh, my.

In an alcove of windows draped in gray velvet gleamed the most gorgeous black-lacquer grand piano Christy had ever seen.

She went to the keyboard as if drawn forth in a Sleeping Beauty-like trance.

She slid onto the bench and plucked a few keys with her delicate fingers. The notes resonated, perfectly tuned, like sounds from heaven. Magnificent! This piano would surely be her salvation in this bleak house. Impulsively, she drifted into a few bars from Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major. Then she cut loose, momentarily filling the barren room with trilling sounds of magical notes.

“Hello,” a man’s voice called above the music.

She swiveled her head with her fingertips guiltily poised on the keys. “Hi,” she said, a little breathless. He’d startled her.

“You must be Christy Lane,” he said as she straightened and stood. “Mother said that you play.”

Christy examined the man—a tall, blond man with Nordic good looks—leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. He wore tasseled loafers and a smooth black mock turtleneck tucked into sharply creased chinos. Were it not for his wild mane of caramel-and-cream hair, his appearance would be as stark and forbidding as his house.

“Or did I see that on your résumé?” He slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and perused the piece of paper in his hand.

He was still in great shape, but it was a surprise to see Sam the Athlete in reading glasses. She supposed since he was an architect he spent a lot of time at the computer.

“I love music,” she said. “This is a wonderful piano. Do you play?”

“No. I got a good deal on it and thought it looked great in the alcove.”

“I hope it’s okay that I tried it out.” She trailed her fingers over the keyboard. She felt a little self-conscious about playing Sam Solomon’s piano before she’d even been introduced to him. But his mother had said he was out of town, up at some place called Moonlight Grove. She thought about explaining herself. But the explanation would be long and complicated. She certainly couldn’t tell her new employer how she had chosen to subsist in a series of undemanding jobs so that she could pour her creativity into her music. “You must be Sam Solomon.”

She marched toward him with her hand stuck out. As she came closer, she suspected that he didn’t remember her. It was important to make a good first impression, if, in fact, this was Sam Solomon’s first impression of her. She hoped to goodness it was. She didn’t enjoy being associated with her sad past.

For one protracted second he held her hand too tightly, then dropped it. “Yes. I’m Sam Solomon.”

“Yes. You’re Meggie’s daddy.”

From up the stairs a child’s protesting wail curled through the house.

Christy watched Sam Solomon wince and run his fingers through that thick chamois-colored hair and thought, This man looks stressed.

Hmm.

“Sounds like Meggie’s having a bad day,” he said. “She didn’t want to come to Oklahoma. And she didn’t get to bed until very late last night.”

“I know. Your mom told me.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting into, Christy—may I call you Christy?”

“Sure. Listen, Sam—may I call you Sam?—don’t worry about me. I’ve been a nanny to some world-class brats. And I’ve also been a waitress, a Merry Maid, a vet’s assistant and, until yesterday—” she made a wry little grimace “—I was a checker at the local Wal-Mart. I think I’m up to this job.”

“But do you have any experience with mentally challenged children?”

The wailing broke into one long, eardrum-piercing shriek. Miss Meggie was apparently giving her granny hell.

“No. But there are worse things. And I like to think I’m patient and that I am very intuitive about how to handle people.” The shrieking upstairs stopped abruptly. “And, Mr. Solomon? Sam?” She smiled at him. “I love kids, even the kind that scream at you.”

Gayle Solomon burst into the room then, looking careworn and surprised to see her son. “Sam! What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

Mrs. Solomon gave him an irked look. “You know what I mean. I thought you went out to Moonlight Grove.”

“I just popped in for lunch. I wanted to see how the new nanny was working out.”

Mrs. Solomon raked her silver hair back with the exact same gesture her son had used. Christy wondered if either one was aware of the similarity. With her fingers still in her hair, the woman shot an apologetic glance at Christy. “Yes. Well, I’m afraid we haven’t even gotten acquainted yet. Christy just got here.”

“We introduced ourselves,” Sam said.

“And I’ve already played a little Chopin for him,” Christy added brightly. She smiled at her little joke. But neither of the Solomons did. Oh, boy. This family was going to be so much fun.

“Meggie won’t come downstairs.” Gayle Solomon remained tense as she explained the situation to Sam. “Sometimes, with Meggie,” she explained, turning toward Christy, trying belatedly to compose her face in a smile, “patience is required. Sometimes it’s better to just let her decide things for herself.”

Christy seriously doubted that. Easier, maybe, but not better. Behind his mother, she saw Sam Solomon roll his eyes.

“Why don’t both of you have a seat.” He indicated the couch across the room. Then he disappeared into the foyer. He returned carrying a briefcase.

They settled onto the leather furniture—Mrs. Solomon sinking into an overstuffed armchair, leaving Sam and Christy to position themselves uneasily, side by side, on the low couch.

Sam reached into the briefcase and pulled out some papers, then he reached in front of Christy to lay them on the glass-topped coffee table. When his shoulder came near hers she felt a wave of attraction. In high school, they had never gotten this close except for that one time when they’d bumped shoulder to chest between class periods. The hallways of Central High were so overcrowded that no one ever excused themselves in the jostling. Except Sam. He’d looked straight into Christy’s eyes and said, “’Scuse me.” She had felt the impact of that incident for days. Now the memory came over her like a spell. He even smelled the same. Overwhelmingly clean and fresh and strongly masculine.

She forced herself to concentrate on the papers. Before her was an actual contract. He was thorough, she’d give him that. After they agreed on the terms and signed the thing, Mrs. Solomon scurried into the kitchen to make lunch.

“You realize I have hired you to take over for my mother,” Sam explained after his mother was gone. “Which won’t be easy. Mom’s a dynamo who’d rather do things herself than turn matters over to somebody else. She’s already made arrangements to continue Meggie’s speech therapy here in Tulsa.” He raised an eyebrow, skewering Christy with an assessing blue-eyed gaze. “She’s also a hoverer.”

“I suppose that’s natural when you have a granddaughter with disabilities.”

“Yeah. Well. My mom was a control freak long before Meggie arrived. The truth is, my daughter can be a holy terror. So much so that hardly anyone can stand to be around her.”

Christy wondered if that included the child’s own father. “How sad.” She did not make a habit of glossing over the truth. And if what Sam Solomon had just said was true, it was, indeed, sad. There was no other word for it.

“I take it you haven’t met my daughter yet.”

Christy smiled and she shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard her.”

Again, he didn’t smile.

Goodness. Maybe she was losing her touch.

“I’m going up to try to reason with Meggie now. Want to come?”

“Sure.”

AS SOON AS THEY OPENED THE door of a sunny upstairs bedroom, Christy sensed that here was big trouble. The child, who was jumping in the middle of her rumpled bed, leapt off of it and into her father’s arms, almost knocking the big man over.

“Dad-dee,” she whined as he hitched her up over his hip, “I don’t want no nandy!” She glared at Christy, who stood a discreet distance away, just inside the doorway.

“Now, Meggie,” Sam chided. “Christy seems nice.”

Christy smiled, opened her mouth to introduce herself, but the child shrieked, “I don’t want that nandy!” From behind a wavy fringe of bangs, she skewered Christy with intense navy-blue eyes. A dominant Solomon trait, Christy decided.

Sam chastised his daughter again. “Meggie!”

“It’s okay, Sam,” Christy said mildly. “Is this your new room, Meggie?” She stepped inside.

Though the underlying decor was minimalist like the rest of the house—mullioned windows with white plantation shutters covering them, black lacquered floor, mission furniture—the childish debris made it look as if a tornado had just passed through. And the child in Sam Solomon’s arms looked as if she had been at the center of that storm.

She was lanky, painfully thin, actually, still wearing rumpled pajamas at noon, and her wild, frizzy blond hair was tangled and matted. She buried her head under her father’s chin and continued to regard Christy with an openly hostile stare.

Christy stepped farther into the room and bent to pick up a stuffed brown bear that had all the threadbare markings of being loved to pieces.

“Who’s this?” She raised her eyebrows at Meggie.

“Mr. Bear,” Meggie answered uncertainly.

“Mr. Bear—” Christy regarded the impassive stitched face “—did you make a mess of this room?”

Meggie giggled.

Sam Solomon looked mildly astonished.

Watching Christy’s eyes as she took in the child’s face, then her hair, Sam said, “Meggie, let Daddy brush your hair so we can all go down and have a nice lunch now.”

“No!” Meggie screamed, and struck her father’s shoulder with her skinny fist. “I don’t wanna comb my hair.”

“Meggie, stop that.” Sam clutched her thin little fingers. “You may not hit Daddy.”

“No!” Meggie repeated, and pummeled his shoulder with three more thumps. “I don’t wanna eat no yucky old lunch. I want IckDonald’s.”

Christy only smiled. “Ooh,” she cooed in a soft, low voice as she sidled farther into the room. “I love McDonald’s. Big Macs and chicken nuggets and ooey, gooey sundaes.”

“Me, too!” Meggie reared back from her father, suddenly distracted. With obvious relief, he dropped his daughter to her feet. “And fench fies.” The child’s eyes lit up as she walked toward Christy and stuck her thumb into her mouth with an expectant look.

Christy reached out and smoothed back the child’s untidy hair, then gently withdrew the little thumb. At her touch the poor little baby actually blinked in surprise, then, predictably, became as docile as a kitten. Christy, who loved to calm people with her touch, tucked a strand of hair behind Meggie’s ear.

“Well, then,” Christy crooned as she stroked Meggie’s hair back, “maybe we can have McDonald’s for supper…to celebrate my first day with you in your house.”

At first Meggie only nodded docilely, but then her eyes snapped and she jerked away. “This ain’t not my house.”

Christy could fully understand the child’s resistance to calling this sterile black box “home.” Why hadn’t the father done more to make this vulnerable child comfortable? But it was too late—or perhaps too soon—to change that now, and Christy had her ways of smoothing over unpleasant things that couldn’t be helped.

“So. McDonald’s for dinner. Would that be okay?” Christy addressed the question to Sam, who didn’t answer immediately because he was staring at Meggie, who was now actually leaning toward Christy. “I guess so,” he said absently. “Sure.”

“All right. Now.” Using a light touch, Christy fanned out Meggie’s tangled hair. “Let’s brush your hair until it’s all pretty and then get dressed in something nice so we can see what kind of delicious surprise Nonnie has fixed for our lunch. I’m starving!”

“Me, too!” Meggie echoed.

“Okay. Then let’s find your brush.”

Again, Sam stared at his daughter as she lurched around the room, searching high and low in the mess. Then he stared at this strange new person that had invaded his home like a pixie sprinkling fairy dust. She was bent at the waist, peeking under the bedskirt. Her shapeless clothes did little to disguise her curvy figure.

When he had paused in the doorway downstairs, listening to the music, studying the tiny woman perched at his piano playing with such expert energy, he had experienced a moment of disorientation. Watching her now, he realized he should never have trusted his mother’s judgment. He should have called Bob Barrett and tracked down the dependable, matronly Mrs. Waddle on his own. This little imp of a woman before him was so beautiful that she could have passed for a model, except—his gaze traveled down over her garish outfit—she was dressed like a…well, there was no other word for it…like a clown.

Her masses of curly light-blond hair were smashed under a wide, hot-pink polka-dot scarf, which was tied behind one ear in a big floppy bow. She wore a long, flowered skirt with a baggy denim shirt atop it, buttoned—strangely—right up to her neck. The shirt was cinched at the waist with another scarf, this one actually decorated with fringe and sequins. Striped socks peeked out over ankle-high red boots. The overall effect was definitely of a clown, perhaps a slightly demented one, recently escaped from the circus.

But when Sam had taken Christy Lane’s hand and looked into her impossibly blue eyes, he had experienced the most amazing sensation. An electric thrill, as they say. No, it was much more than that. He felt an unmistakable lightness somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. At the same time, he had been seized by a sudden urge to hold tight to that tiny warm hand.

Weird. He’d never felt anything quite like it.

“I can’t fine it!” Meggie whined, ready to give up.

“Let’s keep looking,” the nanny said. “Nonnie’s waiting.”

How had this woman already discovered that Meggie called his mother Nonnie? It was the kind of small detail that mattered, that would win over Meggie’s childish heart—that apparently already had. As he squinted at Christy Lane’s backside, he tried to figure out why she seemed so familiar. Realizing what he was doing, he cleared his throat and looked away. It didn’t matter. What mattered was, in less than five minutes, this impish woman had gotten through to Meggie. Sam felt a pang of something like jealousy as Meggie called out, “I fine it, Christy!” with a note of cheery cooperation that he had never heard from his own daughter.

He watched in utter disbelief as Meggie fairly skipped across the room, retrieved her brush from the rumpled bed and proudly presented it to Christy Lane.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHRISTY’S FIRST FEW WEEKS in Sam Solomon’s household flew by in a kaleidoscopic swirl of change. She had determined on the very first day that there was much to be accomplished in this odd situation. She had gone home and made an extensive list on a large yellow legal pad. Each day she hauled the pad around with her and took delight in scratching items off.

-Give Meggie a thorough bath and grooming. (Trim her bangs?)

-Teach her to pick up her room before dinner and at bedtime.

-Straighten her closet. (Get suitcases unpacked!)

-Launder and press all her clothes.

-Get some cash from Sam in order to stock the pantry with nutritious food to entice a child.

-Establish a routine naptime for Meggie.

-Write a song especially for Meggie.

And last but not least on Christy’s list:

-Have some fun.

Fun was a big priority for Christy Lane. And the Solomon household seemed to be sorely lacking in that particular commodity. In fact, it was obvious to Christy that the Solomons were so overwhelmed with the unexpected arrival of Sam’s mentally challenged daughter that fun was the farthest thing from their minds.

She had learned from Gayle that Sam usually arranged not to work at all during Meggie’s brief visitations. It sounded like he went into some kind of survival mode until he could ship the child back to California. Just as Christy had suspected, this was not a household that accommodated the needs of a small child easily.

But Christy loved a challenge.

By Friday of the third week, her to-do list had shrunk nicely. She was sitting at the bowed window by the dining room table, feeding Mr. Charlie, the betta fish she’d bought Meggie that day, when Sam Solomon’s black Suburban pulled into the circular driveway. Meggie was upstairs, konked out. A pot of mildly seasoned spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove. Quiet classical music drifted from the CD player. Brutus lay like a warm pillow across Christy’s feet. Mr. Charlie swam to the surface of his fishbowl and snagged a pellet. “What a good fishy-wishy you are,” Christy cooed.

She glanced up, watching Sam climb out of his Suburban. She had seen little of the man all week. He usually left the minute she arrived at 7:00 a.m., long before Meggie was awake, and many nights he didn’t get home until Meggie was in bed for the night. Christy was determined to fix that situation, hoping that Meggie’s new routine of an afternoon nap would allow her to stay up later so she could get to know her daddy.

For the last few days Christy had also been debating about whether or not to tell Sam that they went to high school together. He didn’t seem to remember her at all. She got to thinking that since she had allowed three whole weeks to pass without bringing the subject up, it would seem silly, even self-conscious, to suddenly mention it now. As if it were a big deal or something. As if she expected him to remember her. And he clearly didn’t.

Better to be cool about it. Maybe the whole thing would come out naturally at some point. Or maybe he’d remember it on his own. It was not important. What was important was Meggie.

She heard his key in the lock and said, “Gotta go, Mr. Charlie.”

Brutus jumped up, barking like a maniac, and ran to the front door.

Christy dropped one last pellet into the fishbowl, then stood to gather her things: a giant red bag she’d made herself from one of her grandmother’s old quilts, the yellow legal pad, some books and tapes she’d borrowed from the library for Meggie. Dealing with Meggie had proved a challenge, but the child was already coming around nicely. Now, if Christy could only find a way to get Meggie’s daddy to spend a little more time with his daughter.

WHEN SAM ENTERED HIS FOYER, he almost tripped over that barking Brutus, then over a large paper box decorated with cut-up construction paper. “Brutus,” Sam snapped, “will you kindly shut the heck up?”

The dog flipped to his back, showing Sam his belly.

The box looked like a little red choo-choo train. While he rubbed Brutus’s tummy, he peered inside. Toys. One lonesome dirty sock. A torn, scribbled-on storybook. Meggie’s flotsom and jetsom. Did it have to sit right here, smack in the middle of the foyer?

He spotted Christy through the double doors of the dining room. She was cramming stuff into that hideous red bag she hauled around with her. He stepped over the box, put on his glasses and started flipping through the mail as he strolled into the dining room with Brutus sniffing at his heels. “Hello,” he said without looking up.

“Hi.”

“What’s the deal with the box in the foyer?”

“I hope you don’t mind a few changes around here. I’m training Meggie to pick up her clutter before we go out. She pushes the choo-choo train around and puts her toys and so forth inside. Then we end up at the station—the foyer—and we’re ready to go. It’s working.”

“Really?” Sam couldn’t help giving the nanny an approving glance. Hers was a simple, but clever, idea. He continued to flip through the mail. “And she does this willingly?”

“She does if she knows we’re going someplace fun, like swimming, and if I tell her we can’t leave until the train is in the station.”

He shot Christy a look over the rim of his reading glasses. “Swimming?”

“Yes. I’m teaching Meggie to swim. In your mother’s pool. You should drop by some afternoon and watch her.”

“Meggie isn’t coordinated enough to swim.”

“Of course she is. It’s just a matter of persistence.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He went back to checking the mail, but inside, he was battling a rising anxiety. He didn’t want Meggie attempting anything dangerous or difficult. But why? Because Andrea was already in danger? That wouldn’t be fair to Meggie.

Christy finished gathering her stuff. “Well, I’m off.”

“Where is my daughter, by the way?”

“Asleep.”

He stopped sorting the mail and frowned. “Asleep? So early?”

“It’s only a short nap. I think part of the reason Meggie is cranky is because she doesn’t get enough sleep. I’m trying to get her to take a short nap at the same time every day. She watches her favorite TV show when we get home from speech therapy and then she drifts off. It’s working. I was thinking the two of you could have dinner together when she wakes up.”

“I see.” He quirked an eyebrow and, without thinking about what he was doing, looked her up and down.

She tugged at her patchwork broomstick skirt and fiddled with the drawstring of a hideous red georgette peasant blouse, then raised her chin.

“Before you go, would you mind telling me—” he tilted his head at the fish bowl “—what is that?”

Christy bent down to look at an orange fish swimming around in a small, cheap glass bowl. “I think it’s a man-eating shark, but I’m not sure.” She grinned.

Sam frowned.

“This is Mr. Charlie.” She peered into the side of the bowl, addressing the fish. “Say heh-woe to Sam, Mr. Char-wee.”

“I hope you don’t talk like that around Meggie.”

Christy straightened and faced him, looking puzzled. Her startled, defensive expression seemed to ask if she’d said something wrong.

“Meggie’s speech certainly isn’t going to improve if you use baby talk around her.”

Christy bent to address the fish again. “But Mr. Char-wee is a baby. Baby talk is the only wang-widge Mr. Char-wee understands.” She glanced up, this time with a slightly defiant gleam in her eye.

Sam Solomon didn’t favor her with even the hint of a smile. Meggie was his daughter, and though it was a small thing, this baby talk concerned him.

“Okay,” the woman sighed. “No more baby talk. Mr. Charlie—” she bent to speak to the side of the fishbowl again “—as of this moment, we shall speak nothing but proper Queen’s English in this household. Understood?”

Sam managed a wan smile. She was kind of cute. “Christy,” he said as he finished sorting the mail. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s nice that you bought Meggie a fish. And I also want you to know—” he tossed the last letter onto the table “—that I appreciate everything else you’ve done for my daughter these past three weeks. And you can do whatever you want with the house as long as it benefits Meggie.”

“I appreciate it that you appreciate it.” Christy smiled, but then her expression grew serious. “I enjoy my work.” She dug around in her bag for her keys.

“I can see that,” he conceded. She had done many small things to make Meggie’s life better. She certainly fed the child well. She deserved to hear a compliment. He rotated his head toward the kitchen. “Something smells good.”

“It’s my secret spaghetti sauce. The pasta is cooked and drained, dressed with a little olive oil. There’s a magic salad chilling in the fridge.”

“Magic salad?” Maybe he should have chosen something other than her culinary skills to compliment.

“I call it magic so that kids will eat it. Orange Jell-O with carrots and cottage cheese stirred in.” She smiled brightly again.

Carrots and cottage cheese? Sam eyed her and decided Christy Lane’s smile was almost reflexive. Why did she smile so much?

“And then,” she went on as if it mattered, “I fold in a little Dream Whip to disguise everything. That’s the—” she made quotation marks with her fingers “—magic part.”

Sam suppressed the urge to say, “I’ll pass.” He sensed that he’d probably come on a little too strong about the baby talk and he didn’t want to hurt this sweet young woman’s feelings again. He tilted his head at her. “Magic, huh? My mom used to call it orange-Jell-O-with-carrots-and-cottage-cheese salad. Guess that explains why I never ate the stuff. Maybe if she had called it magic, I would have scarfed it up.”

She smiled again, almost a laugh. A bit self-consciously, he thought. Unsure. Maybe she thought he was being sarcastic. He was actually trying to be nice. Had he become such a drudge that he’d forgotten how to just be nice? What was the matter with him, anyway? A mess a minute out at the Moonlight Grove site this week, that’s what was wrong with him.

Still, he couldn’t stand the idea of hurting this sunny young woman’s feelings, even unintentionally. She had been working so hard, making amazing progress with Meggie. And managing his household in unconventional ways he hadn’t counted on. He was astounded at the amount of food she’d managed to purchase with the money he’d given her. Pasta, beans, croutons, cereal, whole-wheat crackers. Three kinds of rice. Salmon, chicken, peanut butter. Flavored vinegars. Olive oil, canola oil, real butter. Tortillas and bagels. Fresh garlic, basil and cilantro. Yogurt and cheeses and fruit spreads and even a jar of carrot juice. The truly amazing thing was, Meggie apparently relished Christy’s simple cooking. Her color had improved and she looked less thin lately.

Magic, indeed.

“It was nice of you to cook for her again tonight. Thank you.”

CHRISTY WONDERED WHY Sam Solomon acted so amazed every time she prepared a little simple food for the evening meal. She only wanted Meggie to start eating something besides McDonald’s. It wasn’t as if she was trying to impress him. She doubted Sam Solomon had even noticed that his pantry was now well stocked.

In any case, for Christy, cooking was no trouble. Preparing a meal simply added more zest, more creativity, to her day. For her, it was as natural as breathing.

In her hand she had already singled out the key to her little Ford Contour. She clutched it between thumb and forefinger, staring down at it.

She glanced up and saw that he was frowning at her outfit again. Christy got the distinct impression that Sam Solomon did not approve of the way she dressed. She never discounted these intuitive vibes of hers. But who was Sam Solomon to judge? A man who lived in a cold black house? Sam Solomon had been an easygoing, fun guy in high school. What had happened to make him so dour?

He was still handsome. If anything, he had grown more handsome, more interesting, with the years. And every time Christy looked into Sam Solomon’s deep-blue eyes, she felt like biting her lip. But she didn’t. She stood there, smiling calmly like a good nanny.

He loosened his tie. “Can you stay a minute? I’ve been so busy the past few weeks that I haven’t had time to get to know you at all. I know it’s Friday night, and you’ve probably got plans.”

“Not really. In the summer, I usually try to go for a run before the sun goes down.”

“Then why don’t you stay for dinner? In fact, would you join me for a little glass of wine? We can discuss Meggie’s schedule.”

“Uh, sure.” Christy shrugged, surprised by his invitation.

As chance would have it, she didn’t have a date with Kyle tonight—her boyfriend was on duty—but she couldn’t imagine that a man as good-looking as Sam Solomon was content to sit here without a date on a Friday night. She supposed with Meggie around maybe he’d been forced to alter his lifestyle a bit.

He led the way into the kitchen and removed a bottle of red wine from a small wrought-iron—black, of course—wine rack. “This okay?” He held the label out for her inspection. It read pinot noir, which meant nothing to Christy.

She shrugged again. “I don’t drink much wine. Anything’s fine.”

“Have a seat.” He indicated a high black leather bar stool pushed up under the counter. He reached into a tall cabinet with glass doors and took out some crystal stemware.

She climbed onto the stool and slid her lumpy red calico bag off her shoulder and onto her lap, gripping the thing to her front. She told herself not to act nervous. He was only being nice to the baby-sitter who had worked so hard to make his busy, high-powered architect’s life a little easier these past weeks. It wasn’t like he was really interested in her as a person, or anything.

“So. How was your day today?” he asked as he drove the corkscrew into the cork with brisk, muscular twists.

Sheesh, Christy thought. He hadn’t bothered to ask that all week. And now, today of all days, he decides to ask how their day was. Of course, she could conceal the truth from him, gloss it over. But that wasn’t Christy’s style. She held firm to her policy that the parents of her charges deserved the truth about every detail of their children’s daily lives. The absolute truth, the good stuff and the bad stuff, the cute and the worrisome stuff. “Uh. Well, actually we had a little…an incident.”

“An incident?”

“Yeah. I took Meggie to an art showing—they had some cute black-and-white photographs of animals at the Philbrook—and…and she…well, she got upset and knocked over a small statue.”

Abruptly, he stopped twisting the corkscrew. His shoulders slumped. “Oh, no. What kind of statue? Was it damaged?”

“No.” Christy held up a palm in a gesture of peace. “No damage. It was a sturdy bronze.”

“Even so, that must have been difficult for you.”

“And for Meggie,” she reminded him.

“Yes. For Meggie. Of course. I’m sorry.” He sighed as his shoulders slumped even farther. “I seem to be saying I’m sorry a lot these days.”

She frowned. “Why’s that?”

“Long story. Things are behind schedule out at Moonlight Grove—my job site. And I haven’t been able to help Andrea at all. I dunno. I just feel like I’m—tell me about Meggie. What did the museum staff say?”

“Oh. They couldn’t see any damage. They even called a curator to look at it while we waited in a little office. Still, I felt we had to leave the premises right away. I didn’t want that security guard following Meggie around all day.”

He pulled the cork and poured some wine in each glass. “Did you explain to them that Meggie is special?”

“Of course,” she answered quietly. Christy studied his movements, seeing it all so clearly. How it was, how it had always been, for Meggie’s parents. Every day, she imagined, they hoped for progress, or a least a little bit of normalcy, in the life of their little girl. But every day this is what they got. It was worse than two steps forward, one step back, because it was always one step back. As Meggie grew physically older but remained in her limited mental state, they were continually losing ground.

“Here.” He handed her a wineglass. Then he dragged the other bar stool around the bend of the counter and settled himself up on it with his muscular thighs spread wide, facing her. An undeniably masculine pose that stretched the fabric of his expensive wool trousers across his pelvis.

Christy turned squarely toward the bar and leaned forward so she wouldn’t be so aware of him. She clutched her bag tighter to her middle and took a tense sip of her wine.

Sam watched her for a moment, then said, “How long do you think she’ll sleep?” He jerked his head toward the stairs before sipping his wine.

“I don’t know. She needs a good nap, today of all days. All in all, it was—” Christy tasted her wine “—kind of a stressful day.”

“Yes, I imagine that kind of thing would wear her out.” He twirled the base of his wineglass on the counter. “Poor little Meggie.”

He looked so defeated that Christy felt driven by compassion, by a fierce protectiveness almost, to give him some tidbit of joy about his daughter to hold on to. “Some nice things happened today, too.”

“Oh?”

“After we left the museum, we went by your mom’s to pick up some more food for Brutus. Meggie perked right up when she saw him.”

Sam couldn’t believe his mother had given Christy Lane a key to her luxurious home only four days after he employed the woman. Then his mom had zipped off to Belize, leaving her beloved pet in Christy’s care, to boot.

“Meggie certainly loves that dog.” Christy smiled.

“She certainly does. Good old Brutus.” He eyed the spoiled dog, who answered Sam with a belligerent chuff.

Christy giggled, and Sam did smile then, warmly and genuinely, and Christy relaxed.

Outside, the sky was turning charcoal gray and the wind was kicking up, buffeting the tree branches outside the kitchen windows.

“It looks like it’s going to storm.” Sam clicked the power button on a small TV next to them on the kitchen counter and found the local weather.

Areas of the map around Tulsa were highlighted in bright orange, signaling a tornado watch.

“Is it coming this way?”

“Looks like it.” Sam tapped a finger over the greenish satellite images of clouds skittering over the screen. “Maybe you shouldn’t drive home just yet,” he reasoned. “Man!” He snapped his fingers. “I forgot to show you the safe room.”

“I found it when I was teaching Meggie how to play explore.”

“Explore?”

“A game that keeps kids occupied, and teaches them how to be curious about their surroundings.” Christy and Meggie had peeked inside the tiny area with a steel door and a reinforced ceiling next to the washer and dryer in a corner of the basement. There she found two plain wooden benches and some shelves that were well stocked: flashlights, bottled water, rain ponchos, a weather radio, warm clothes for Meggie. Sam Solomon was as prepared as any Boy Scout.

“Was that room already here when you bought this house?”

“No. I built it after the F-5 blew through O-K-C a few years back.” He jerked a thumb toward the southwest, where the killer tornado had cleared a path through central Oklahoma. “My firm went down to the city and did some of the restoration work.”

She frowned, remembering the pictures on TV and in the papers. “That must have been hard.”

“Seeing devastation like that makes a believer out of you. I installed a safe room before I moved into this house. Besides, I figure it’s my civic duty. No self-respecting architect would resell a house without a safe room. Bad example.” He grinned.

“Are you selling this house?” Maybe, she thought, that accounted for the barren feel of the place.

“I thought I was. My plan was to remodel one old home after another—living in each one while I did the work. Then sell, make a handsome profit, and repeat the process all over again.”

“But…” She supplied the word because he’d said it as though his plan was history.

“But now I’ve got to consider the possibility that…” He sipped his wine.

“That Meggie may be living with you permanently.”

“Yeah.” He winced.

Christie couldn’t decide if his discomfort was because he didn’t want to be a full-time dad or if he was thinking that Andrea might not survive. She hoped it was the latter.

“I suppose there’s always Meggie to consider.”

His eyes shadowed and he downed more wine. “Yes. Meggie.”

“You expect to have Meggie past the summer?”

“Who knows?” His expression grew darker, like the clouds outside. “The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll have Meggie. Her mother’s pretty sick. It could…it could go badly for Andrea.”

“I understand. Mrs. Solomon—Gayle—told me a little bit about it. Poor Meggie. And poor…what did you say your ex-wife’s name is?”

“Andrea.”

“Poor Andrea.”

“Yes. Andrea’s illness still seems very surreal to me, you know?”

“Has she always been healthy?”

“Well, healthy…no, that’s not the word I’d use. She’s always been way too thin…like Meggie. But still, you don’t expect something like this.”

Christy nodded. “Were the two of you married for a long time?”

“Eight years. It felt like a very long time.”

“Oh?” Something in his tone sounded so sad that Christy didn’t think he meant to be bitter or unkind toward his ex-wife, only honest.

“Andrea and I were like the proverbial oil and water. There’s nothing worse than being married to the wrong person.”

Christy absorbed this frank statement about his former marriage for a moment with accepting silence. Personally, she had made up her mind to never, ever divorce. Not after the childhood she had endured, watching her mother having to beg for every penny from her distant father. Though it was sometimes hard, especially when one of her friends got married, she had remained firm in her resolve not to settle until she found a man she could love forever. “I have always imagined,” she said softly, kindly, “that being married to the wrong person would be a torment. But at least you got Meggie out of the deal.”

“Yes,” Sam admitted, seeming glad that someone understood that he treasured his daughter despite her limitations. “I got Meggie.”

They sipped their wine, and there passed one of those silences that sometimes follow the speaking of a profound truth.

“I’ve always thought where a person lives affects them in subtle ways.” Christy decided to lighten the conversation by returning to the original topic of selling his house. “To me, a home isn’t just an investment.”

He ran a hand through his hair, and the gesture had the look of relief this time. “I suspect you’re right. Where do you live?”

“In an apartment.”

“Your résumé said you’re single. I take it you’ve never been married?”

“No.”

“Just haven’t found Mr. Right?”

“Oh, I’ve met my share of Mr. Rights. Just haven’t found Mr. Perfect. I do have a boyfriend right now, in fact,” she added, realizing she sounded almost defensive. Was it because she wanted Sam Solomon to know that she had prospects, despite her lingering crush on him? But that was silly, because Sam didn’t even know about the crush.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Kyle. He’s really very sweet.”

“And what does Kyle do?” Sam shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

“He’s a cop.”

Sam grinned. “A sweet cop?”

“Yeah. Aren’t they all?” Christy grinned back.

His eyes studied her with curiosity. “How old are you, if I may ask?”

Christy wondered if her cheeks were turning as pink as they felt. Here was the perfect moment, if ever there was one, to tell him that they’d gone to high school together. He had given no indication, over this entire three weeks of her employment, that he remembered her at all. In fact, this was the first time they’d actually sat down and talked, face-to-face.

“Oh,” she evaded, “I’m old enough to have a boyfriend.”

Sam chuckled despite his confused emotions. Why was he feeling this twinge of disappointment to discover that Christy Lane was attached?

He smiled to cover his discomfort, then squinted at her, studying the woman sitting across the counter from him. She was actually quite pretty, quite feminine, despite the funky clothes. She had the kind of looks that made it impossible to judge her age. Flawlessly smooth skin. Long, lush, naturally curly blond locks. A petite, curvy figure. Full. Very feminine. The more he looked at her the more he thought there was something fascinating—and something oddly familiar—about Christy Lane. He’d been with lots of pretty women since his divorce, and the truth was, they all seemed the same. But this Christy Lane…she was…absolutely unique. Her face looked flushed, and he wondered if he’d embarrassed her, prying about her boyfriend that way.

The phone on the counter trilled, defusing the charged moment.

Automatically, Christy snatched up the portable unit near her elbow. “Solomon residence,” she answered with a smile in her voice, the way her mama had taught her to.

The woman’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded young, but weak and weary…and maybe just a touch wary, too. “Hel-lo. Uh. Who is this?”

“This is Meggie’s nanny.”

“Oh.” There followed the kind of stillness that indicates some small mental shift. “Of course. Then you’re…Mrs. Waddle?”