Her Unexpected Family (5 page)

Chapter Five

H
e'd messed up.

He'd insulted her with his cryptic words, and the look of pain on her face made him wish the words back. Too late.

“Grant, are you all right?” Jeannie asked that afternoon. “Did the cake put you into a sugar coma? Because you're never this quiet.”

He brushed off her concern. “I'm fine, just caught up in planning winter expenses. You know that's never fun.”

“But then every now and again we get a light winter and we all ease back a bit.” Jeannie reached out to answer an incoming call. “I think we could all use a soft winter this year.”

Wanting one and getting one were two different things. And every time he thought he had a handle on work, the phone mocked him. He'd wanted to talk to Emily about Dolly and see if she had any ideas about changing the little girl's behavior. It might not be her area of expertise, but if she'd worked with challenged youngsters for four years, that put her light-years ahead of him. He reached for the phone at the exact moment it rang beneath his fingers. Jeannie picked up the call, then said, “Grant, Emily Gallagher for you on line two.”

For a thin second he hoped she was thinking of him, just like he'd been doing of her, but then he remembered the hurt look in her eyes, the look
he
put there... He ground his back teeth, then answered the phone. “Grant McCarthy.”

“Grant, it's Emily.”

“Three hours ago I thought I'd never want to taste cake again, but right about now I'm craving some more of Gabby's spice cake. How about you?”

She laughed, and didn't sound hurt or angry, but that was probably because she understood how to take care of a paying customer. Even the jerks. “It's amazing, isn't it? I'm calling because I just got an email from Caroline's Bridal over on Hart Street. She's doing a one-day special of free gowns for military brides a week from Tuesday. If you and I could meet there, maybe we could pick out a dress that Christa would like, or at least narrow it down. If we could set up a Skype with her, that would be great, but even if we can't, we could possibly help her get a free gown.”

“They're giving them away? There's got to be a catch,” Grant said, because nothing was ever really free.

“It's a national program and Caroline signed up for it, and we happen to be planning Christa's wedding at the right time. Can you manufacture some time that day? I'll contact Christa about Skyping with us and see what time would work best for her, and maybe we could plan around that.”

“Yes, of course.” A sudden thought made him hesitate. “This isn't like a poverty program, is it, Emily? Because we're on a budget, but we're not broke.”

“It's nothing of the kind,” she promised. “People across the country are contributing to show their thanks. Caroline's Bridal wanted to be part of the national appreciation effort. Pretty cool, right?”

“I'll say. Okay, you email Christa and I'll open up whatever time we need that day. Do they have evening hours in case we get a storm and I'm tied up?”

“Open until eight, so sure, we could use that as backup, but that's the middle of the night for Christa. So—”

She was going to end the call. It was now or never. “Emily, wait. Don't hang up.”

“No?”

He breathed deep. “Not yet.”

“Okay. What's up?”

“Dolly.” He paused, then waded in. “I've been thinking about what you said when we first met, about challenging her more.”

“You mean when you got huffy with me and almost walked out? That conversation?”

“That would be the one.”

“So, what's to discuss?” She sounded matter-of-fact, like the skilled businesswoman she was. “People make decisions about children all the time, and I'm not an expert, Grant. And you're not exactly open to suggestion, so maybe we should leave it at that. There are plenty of well-written books out there about raising developmentally delayed kids. That way you don't get mad at me, a plan I favor highly since we'll be working together for the next two months.”

“If I promise not to get mad, act like a jerk or get defensive, do you think we could get together and talk about it?”

“Can you
do
that?” she asked, which made him laugh because she was kind of right.

“I can try,” he said. “But can we do it at my house? I feel terrible leaving them so often.”

“Lesson one,” she murmured. “Excise guilt factor.”

“You get points for recognizing that—I think it's intrinsic to single parents.”

“My sister-in-law Corinne would agree. So would Drew. It's hard to be the bad guy all of the time.”

“Exactly. But I don't want to raise a couple of angry, bratty kids, and if Dolly keeps demanding more and more attention, how will Timmy feel?” Something he said must have tipped her into saying yes.

“What about tomorrow? Rachel's coming over around noon, but maybe later? Or we could meet Sunday after church. That might be better. It's earlier in the day, before nap time.”

“What time do you go to church?”

“Nine. And I'm home by ten thirty, so I could be at your place by eleven or so. Unless that interrupts your morning?”

“Eleven's good. I'll grab some stuff for lunch, okay?”

“No cold cuts.”

Grant paused. “You don't eat cold cuts?”

“Not as a rule.”

“Are you a vegetarian? Or one of those vegans?”

“No, I eat lots of things, but I don't do cold cuts. Although I do like sliced ham. Sliced ham doesn't count.”

“I'm confused. Is it a certain type you don't like or just cold cuts in general? Because that might be considered weird for a meat eater.”

“I'm not weird. I'm...possibly traumatized.”

He didn't mean to laugh because what if she wasn't kidding? He'd already ticked her off once today. “Trauma by luncheon meat. That's a new one, Emily. Do ninja salamis chase you in your dreams?”

She huffed, and he wondered if she was sitting at her desk, tapping a pencil against her mouth the way she did at their first meeting. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “They jiggle.”

“They what?”

“You heard me. Cold cuts jiggle. Except hard salami, but if I make an exception for that, the others will think I've caved.”

“This is preposterous, you know.”

“I've been told that before. And yet, it's true, so if you want me to come and hang out with you and those adorable, somewhat naughty children, no cold-cut platter, okay?”

“What about pizza?” he asked. “Do you have any qualms about pepperoni or mozzarella cheese?”

“Homemade?”

“My mother's recipe.”

“I couldn't be more ‘in' if I tried.” She sounded downright excited about the idea of pizza and toddlers. He couldn't help himself.

He laughed. “Pizza it is. Sunday, after eleven.”

“Yes, and I'll let you know what Christa says about the dress shopping then, okay?”

“Perfect.” He hung up the phone, still grinning. For a minute, he thought she was going to be a salad kind of woman, and he didn't remember a day when Serenity wasn't on his case for his eating habits. He'd laughed then, because at six foot two and two hundred pounds, he liked food. And anyone who got that excited over pizza and kids was okay in his book.

* * *

Emily pulled into Grant's driveway at quarter past eleven on Sunday morning. She grabbed a cloth bag from the passenger seat, got out and surveyed her surroundings.

Nothing about this house said children lived there. A classic sprawling ranch with arched ceilings and south-facing skylights, impeccable landscaping and hand-laid paver walkways between gardens suggested the grass was not to be walked on. No toys lay scattered around the yard, and no tiny muddy shoes lined the elegant porch. The exterior of the house said appearances mattered, and that surprised her. She rang the bell and waited. And waited. And waited.

Was he here? Had he forgotten? Had something happened?

She was just about to ring the bell again, when the garage door started rolling up. “Emily?”

She moved down the steps and across the walk. “It's me.” She entered a garage that didn't look nearly as HGTV pristine and saw Grant at the back door.

“Sorry, Timmy built a really cool tower by the front door and I'd have to ruin it or move it to open the door, and either one would probably launch a third world war. I figured we'd wait at least five minutes before we engaged in two-year-old histrionics. I'm glad you came.”

He sounded delightfully normal and sincere, so she didn't tell him she'd weighed the invitation for the past twenty-four hours. She'd left the gray-stoned church still unsure, but she'd given her word and here she was. She stepped into a busy kitchen and instantly felt better. “This is more like it.”

His brow knit, puzzled. “More like what?”

“The front of the house looks like a no-kid zone. This doesn't.”

“Oh.” He made a face as he shut the door. “The house and yard were from our upscale phase when Serenity was sure children weren't going to be part of the equation. It's not exactly a kid-friendly house or location, there's no one around to play with, but life's been too busy to think about moving. Although it's on the list,” he finished.

Dolly was in the next room, systematically dumping bins of toys onto the floor, while Timmy was strategically placing large, locking plastic blocks on top of one another in a row of towers. “Here's your perfect example of the differences between these two, playing out right in front of you,” Emily said softly.

He followed her gaze. “Two kids playing. Nothing too earth-shattering there, right?”

“Timmy is on the floor, focused and intent, creating structures, then placing them where he wants them. If he doesn't like the effect, he moves the little building and re-creates the scene.”

“You're making block towers seem pretty sophisticated, Emily.” He grinned and reached for her jacket, then hung it up. “And while every father wants their kid to be a rocket scientist or cure cancer, I think we've got a ways to go.”

“Timmy's play is sophisticated for a young two-year-old. It shows memory, thought and process, then rearranging as needed, which means reasoning. Dolly's dumping is more along the lines of your typical one-year-old, seeing bright things, dumping bright things, then overwhelmed by the melee and unable to put the bright things away.”

“She hates picking up and she loves destroying anything Tim makes. Which is what she's about to do right now.” He crossed the room quickly, scooped Dolly up, told her no and set her back down.

She dropped to her knees instantly, turned and aimed for Tim's plastic block city.

Once again Grant intervened as Emily withdrew a set of finger cymbals from her bag. She stepped into the room, sat down on the floor and chinged the tiny instruments together.

Dolly turned, drawn to the sound. “Ba?”

“Music.” Emily tapped the tiny cymbals together rapidly, happy, dancing notes floating through the air. “Music.”

“Ba!” Dolly race-crawled her way as fast as she could go. “So ba!”

“You like music, Dolly-girl?” Emily raised her hand up, operating the metallic circles just out of Dolly's reach.

Dolly grabbed Emily's arm, intent on the noise. She pulled herself up to her knees, mesmerized by Emily's action. “Ba! Ba! Ba!”

“Music,” Emily repeated and eased herself up onto the couch. “Ding! Ding! Ding! Music.”

“Ting! Ting!” Dolly screeched the word, excited, then pulled herself up to a standing position, trying to get closer to the noise again. “Ting!”

Emily reached her free hand into her bag and brought out a little bell for Grant. “Ring this and move over there,” she told him as she kept the flashy little cymbals playing. “Just far enough away so she might think about walking.”

She didn't look at him to see if he was uncertain because even if he was, she wasn't. The thought of Dolly not achieving all God created her for was too sad to contemplate, so she wouldn't think about it. Grant wouldn't have requested her advice if he didn't recognize the problem, so that was a big first step.

She stopped making music when Grant was in position and pointed to him. He rang the bell, a lilting, joyful sound. Dolly turned, surprised to hear music from behind. “Ba! Ting!”

“Music,” Grant told her, following Emily's lead. “Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong!”

“Ting!” Dolly laughed and reached. “Ting!”

“Good talking,” said Emily. “Go get the bell, Dolly. Go get it from Daddy.”

“Ting.” Dolly looked at her, then Grant and her forehead furrowed. “Ting! Ting! Ba!”

“You can have the bell if you go get it,” Emily told her. Dolly was clinging to the couch with one hand, fully standing on her own. “Go get it, sweet thing.”

“Ba!” Dolly's face darkened as she realized what they wanted. Emily had to hand it to the kid, for a two-year-old with developmental problems, Dolly could work the crowd. “Bee, ba. Beeeees.”

“She's saying please,” Grant told Emily. “She knows she's supposed to, but rarely does it. Should I give her the bell?”

“Did she walk to you?”

He frowned and when he did, it was Dolly's frown, just bigger and even more concerned.

“Toughen up, Dad.”

“It's hard,” he muttered, but he stood his ground. “Come get it, Doll-face.”

“Oh, what a cute nickname. I love it.”

Dolly wasn't impressed with their banter. She noticed her brother playing quietly and quickly dropped down. She took off in his direction.

Grant jangled the bell softly, intermittently. She whirled around, still on all fours, assessing the situation. At that moment, Emily understood part of Grant's problem. Because Dolly's appearance was more normal than most kids with her challenges, the expectation for her to process normally was high. Grant had mentioned that.