Kids by Christmas

Suzanne laughed, something she knew she was doing too much. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. She felt giddy. “Of course I do, sometimes. I just don’t always have it. Milk is better for you anyway.”

Their expressions of relief were comical, but also sobering. What were they accustomed to eating? Had they stayed in hotels with kitchenettes? Sophia remembered cooking with her mother, but that might have been years ago. Had they become accustomed to nothing but prepackaged and fast food?

She sat down and cut the coffee cake. As she dished it up, she said, “I do try to eat a healthy diet. Lots of fruits and vegetables and not much junk food. If you’re used to lots of potato chips and pop, you’ll find it’s a little different here.”

They exchanged a glance. If it was in code, she couldn’t break it, even though clearly they were communicating.

“What happens to us now?” Sophia asked, picking up her fork. “How long do we stay with Mrs. Burton?”

“I don’t know,” Suzanne admitted. “I think usually Ms. Stuart would want us to take weeks and even maybe months to get to know each other.”

Despite her full mouth, Sophia said, “But Mrs. Burton says she can’t keep us that long. She said only through Christmas break.”

“That’s what I understand, too,” Suzanne agreed. “I’m hoping you can come here instead of to another foster home.”

Both their faces brightened. “Really?” Sophia said. “That soon?”

“If you want to.” Suzanne set down her fork. “But I don’t want you two to feel rushed. Once you come, you’re going to be stuck with me and my rules.”

“Do you have strict rules?”

“I think they’ll be pretty normal. I’ll expect you to have chores here at home, and to make sure I always know where you are. We’ll set a bedtime, and you’ll need to do homework before you watch TV or play. Stuff like that.”

“Is that all?” the ten-year-old asked suspiciously.

“No, I’m sure it’s not. I don’t like to be lied to, for example. I’m going to ask you to be honest. That’s really important to me.”

“Mr. Sanchez says I’m too honest,” Sophia told her. “He says sometimes I shouldn’t say what I think.”

“Not telling somebody you think their new outfit is ugly isn’t quite the same thing as lying about where you went after school, or what a teacher told you, or whether you’ve done your homework.”

“But if I say the new outfit looks cool, that’s lying.”

“It’s what’s called a white lie,” Suzanne told her. “That means you’re not being honest, because being honest would hurt the other person’s feelings. But instead of telling even the white lie, you can say something like, ‘Wow! Did your mom take you shopping?’ and the person thinks the ‘wow’ was a compliment.”

“That’s sneaky,” Sophia said with apparent admiration.

“For now, I’ll have you both come to my shop after school, not home. You can do your homework there, and we can come home together after I close at five.”

She had to tell them about Knit One, Drop In, including an explanation of the name of the store. Sophia thought it would be way cool—her favorite words of enthusiasm—to learn to knit.

“Is there anything you want to ask me?” Suzanne concluded.

Jack scraped his plate in search of any last crumbs. “What would we call you?”

“Hm. What did you call your mother?”

“Mom,” said Sophia.

“Mommy,” said her little brother.

“Well, definitely not either. Because she’ll always be your mother, in your hearts.”

“Do you still think about your mother?” Sophia asked, sounding a little shy.

Suzanne nodded. “I wish she could meet you, for example. Be your grandmother.”

“Oh.” She looked down.

“I think maybe you should just call me by my name for now. What do you think? Then, later, if you want maybe we could think of some variation on Mom.”

“You mean, we should call you Ms. Chauvin, like Mrs. Burton said?”

She smiled at Jack. “No, you can call me Suzanne.”

Sophia’s forehead crinkled. “How do you spell it?”

She spelled it for them. Sophia frowned, taking it in, while Jack kicked his heels on the chair and gazed out the sliding door.

“Will we have your last name?” Sophia asked.

“Yes, once the adoption is complete. Are you okay with that?”

“Sophia Chauvin,” she tried out loud.

“That’s an elegant name,” Suzanne said. “I like Jack Chauvin, too.”

“It’s lucky Jack isn’t Van. Then he’d be Van Chauvin.” She cackled.

Her brother doubled over and pretended to laugh hysterically. His elbow caught the glass of milk and knocked it over, sending the milk in a river across the table.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he cried, scrambling up, something very close to fear on his face.

“He didn’t mean to do it!” Sophia said, leaping to her feet. “I’ll clean it up, so you don’t have to do anything.”

Taken aback by their reaction, Suzanne rose, too. “I know it was an accident. Everybody knocks things over sometimes. Don’t worry. Here.” She grabbed a roll of paper towels from the holder. “Let’s sop it up with this.”

Arms close to his body, Jack stood frozen by the table, his eyes saucer-wide.

Suzanne went to him. “Jack, don’t look so scared! It’s okay. Really.” She took a chance that she wouldn’t scare him more and bent to give him a quick hug.

He stood stiff in her embrace, but when she let him go she saw some of the tension leave his body. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. Then, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course you can.” The minute he’d left the room, she turned to his older sister. “Why was he so frightened? Mrs. Burton doesn’t, uh…”

Sophia shook her head. “She gets grumpy, but that’s all. It was the other foster mom, the first one we had. She yelled a lot and spanked Jack when he made mistakes.”

“What an awful woman!” Suzanne said with indignation. “Did you tell the social worker who supervised you?”

“After we went to Mrs. Burton’s.”

Suzanne smiled at her. “Good for you.”

Hands full of wads of soggy paper towels, Sophia said, “The quilt thing on the table is wet, too.”

“I can throw it in the washer.” Suzanne bundled it up. “Oh, shoot! I hear a car. I bet it’s Mrs. Burton.”

She put the table runner in the sink and went to the front window just as the kids’ foster mom beeped her horn.

Jack came from the bathroom, head hanging again, somehow appearing smaller than he had when he’d been excited and happy. Suzanne ignored the burning at the back of her eyes and smiled at him and then his sister.

“Shall we go shopping next weekend? Start looking for things for your bedrooms?”

“Yeah!” Sophia said.

“If it’s okay with Mrs. Burton and Ms. Stuart, we’ll plan on Saturday.” She could take a whole two days off. Rose would be glad for the hours.

“Wow! Okay. Bye.”

They raced out and tumbled into the back of Mrs. Burton’s car. Suzanne followed and spoke briefly with their foster mother, who thought Saturday would be great.

Suzanne stood in the driveway and waved as the car backed out. She didn’t want them to go, but she also realized she felt a little shaky. She’d been so nervous about what they’d think, whether they’d like her, she’d been operating on adrenaline.

The car disappeared down the street, and she sighed, giving herself a little shake.

“How’d it go?” a voice asked from so close, she jumped.

Tom, of course. He’d approached as soundlessly as always.

“Oh! You startled me.” She pressed a hand to her chest.

His forehead creased. “I’m sorry. I came out my front door. I assumed you saw me.”

“No, I was too busy trying to decide if the visit went well. I think it did.”

“You think?”

“Well, they seemed to like the house. But Jack freaked when he accidentally knocked over his milk. Sophia told me their foster mom spanked him when he made any messes.”

The lines in his face deepened. “That poor kid.”

“It worried me a little.” She didn’t know why she was confiding in him, but the words just kept coming. “I realized how many issues they probably have. Did I tell you their mom had MS? As her health deteriorated, they moved from shelters to cheap hotels where she could rent a room by the week. Sophia did the grocery shopping. I guess the mom must have gotten a disability check or something. But it sounds really grim.”

“And they watched her die slowly.”

She nodded. “After their mom got really sick, Jack started wetting his bed, and Sophia… She acts as if she doesn’t care, but she must. She says she hates the school she’s going to and doesn’t have any friends, and apparently Jack gets bullied. And I’m coward enough to think What do I know about traumatized children? What if I foul up?”

“You won’t,” he said with a certainty that surprised her. “If I’ve ever seen anyone meant to be a mother, it’s you. Anyway, if they need counseling, you can get them that, too.”

She drew a deep, ragged breath. “I can, can’t I? I don’t know if I’m meant to be a mother, but I want to be one. Wow. I really panicked. Look at me! I’m shaking.” She held out her hands, which indeed had a tremor.

He smiled at her, that amazingly kind smile transforming his blunt-featured face to one that was almost handsome. “You panicked because suddenly your fantasy kids are real, with real problems.”

Another deep breath, this one filling her lungs. “You’re right. That is why, isn’t it?” She gave a little laugh. “You aren’t a parent, either. How did you get so wise?”

“Guess I was born that way.” This grin was more mischievous. “So, when will you see them again?”

“Saturday. We’re going shopping. We’ll start with bedding and then look at paint, and I’m hoping to have time to hit a couple of thrift stores, too. They’ll both need dressers and desks.”

He nodded. “Let me know what I can do. Anything at all. Just ask.”

She gazed at him in amazement. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”

He smiled again, and crossed their strip of lawn, disappearing a moment later into his house.

Still not having moved, Suzanne stared after him. Now she felt teary because he’d been so understanding and so nice. She’d known him for over five years, and had never known a thing about him except that he was obsessively tidy.

But today, she’d learned all kinds of things. And one, she thought in astonishment, was the color of his eyes. They were gray, with tiny flecks of green.

She’d looked into his eyes, without even realizing she’d broken years of habit.

Was it possible they could actually become friends?

Suzanne shook her head again in bemusement. Who’d have thought?

CHAPTER FOUR

SUZANNE WAS AT WORK on Wednesday when Melissa Stuart called again.

“Suzanne,” she said without preamble, “I’m afraid we have a problem.”

The tone, a little cool, was one Suzanne hadn’t heard from her before. Her heart seemed to skip a beat, then gave an uncomfortable bump in her chest. “A problem?”

“I got to looking through your file and discovered that the background check was never completed. Unfortunately, when I ran one it turned up something you didn’t warn us about. There were apparently two domestic-disturbance calls made to your address during the time when you were listed as owner.”

Feeling a little sick, Suzanne turned her back on the one customer browsing the bins of yarn. “No charges were filed,” she said, hating the way her voice shook. “My ex-husband and I were on the verge of divorce.”

“Can I assume there was violence in your home?”

“No!” she protested. “No. Not the way you mean. We…” She took a breath. “He threw things. Once he punched a hole in the wall. His anger was one of the reasons for the divorce.”

“I did locate your ex-husband.” There was a momentary pause. “Josh Easton. He said, I quote, that maybe you both had a little trouble controlling your tempers.”

The air escaped her with a whoosh. “Josh said that? Did he know why you were asking?”

Another brief pause. “Yes, I did explain.”

Oh, God. This was her worst nightmare. “He was very controlling,” she tried to explain. “And angry when I asked him to leave. He’s trying to hurt me now by lying to you.”

“Suzanne, I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. You have really outstanding character references. But I can’t ignore this kind of red flag. I’m sure you understand.”

Her stomach actually hurt now. She hunched slightly, one hand splayed on it. Tears burned in her eyes. “So…that’s it? You won’t approve an adoption? What about Sophia and Jack?”

“Can you suggest any witnesses to these fights?”

Grasping at any hope, she asked, “Aren’t there police reports?”

“The reports are brief. Neither officer seemed able nor willing to assign blame. They apparently issued warnings and left.”

“You could talk to them…”

“One has long since left the department. The other officer has no recollection of that particular call.”

Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t picture either face. Only the uniform, the flashing lights atop the squad cars that had recalled for her the night her parents had died, when police had brought word.

“The neighbors,” she said, in a voice just above a whisper. “You could interview them.”

Behind her, a voice said, “Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me decide whether a yarn this thick would work for my project.”

She swung around, covering the phone with her hand. Somewhere, she found a smile that she prayed didn’t look ghastly. “Can you give me just a minute?”

“Of course,” the woman said, and retreated.

Suzanne lifted the receiver again. “The neighbors on both sides were living there then. I always suspected one of them called the police.” Tom. In her heart, she’d known. It had to have been him at least once. Long after the police had left the first time, she’d heard the neighbors on the other side come home and seen their lights go on. “They may have heard enough to support me.”

The caseworker’s voice softened a little. “I’ll be glad to interview them, with your permission.”

“Please do. Please.” Despising the tremor in her voice that made her sound weak, Suzanne pushed on. “I’m the opposite of violent. I’ve always been humiliated by what happened. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“I understand. Thank you for your suggestions. I’ll be talking to you shortly.”

Despite the fact that she wanted to go hide in the back and cry, Suzanne made herself help the customer choose a yarn that was more suitable for the pattern she’d selected. After ringing up the purchase, she sat on the stool behind the register and prayed no one else would come in until she’d pulled herself together.

She’d never even thought of those awful scenes with Josh as something that might keep her from being able to adopt a child. Her humiliation at the knowledge that neighbors had heard and even called the police had strengthened her resolution to end her marriage. Private shame, she’d been able to bear, but not public. And now, to think that Josh could kill her dream this way….

As bewildered as she was angry, Suzanne was as bereft of understanding as she’d always been where he was concerned. Didn’t he remember the time when he loved her? Why was he still lashing out at her?

She stared at the phone and wished she could talk to someone. But who? Tom Stefanec? What would she say? Gee, I don’t know how much of my fights with my ex you heard, but I hope it was enough. He had said he thought she’d be a great mother, so maybe…

Panic and hope beat their wings in her chest, tangling and tearing. He probably hadn’t heard anything but raised voices and crashes. And however kind he’d been to her recently, she had a suspicion he was too honest to lie.

She could call a friend. But she’d never told any of them about the way Josh had sometimes talked to her, had made excuses when they’d commented about a put-down or his lack of interest in something that mattered to her. Even after she’d found the resolve to stand up for herself and tell him to leave, she had still never wanted to admit how badly she’d let herself be treated.

Carrie? But all Carrie knew was that her sister’s marriage hadn’t been good. To this day, Suzanne had managed to evade any conversation about what had really gone wrong. She didn’t think she could bring herself to tell the whole bitter history, not right now.

Despair washing over her, Suzanne pictured Jack and Sophia on Sunday, imagining having their own bedrooms. How would they handle being told, Gosh, sorry, forget those bedrooms you were dreaming about, we’ll have to try to find you another adoptive family?

Right that minute, Suzanne felt cruel at having given them hope, and worthless. Exactly, she realized, what Josh wanted her to feel.

TOM WAS SURPRISED TO GET a call that evening from a woman who introduced herself as an adoption counselor at the agency where Suzanne had been approved.

“We’re following up on some information we recently received,” she said, “and I’m wondering if you’d be willing to meet with me.”

Keeping an eye on the steak he’d just put on the broiler, Tom shrugged, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Sure. Anything I can do to help.”

They established that he wasn’t available during the day. He told her he could be home by five, and she said, “Tomorrow? I hate to hold up her application any longer….”

He didn’t like the way the sentence trailed off. Hadn’t Suzanne told him her application already was approved? What was the deal?

“Tomorrow’s good,” he said into the silence.

He’d heard Suzanne coming home a while back, so he knew she was there. He was tempted to go over and ask why all of a sudden this social worker wanted to talk to him, but what if she didn’t know? He didn’t want to alarm her. Anyway, he’d never actually knocked on her door before, and after the way he’d kept popping up over the weekend, he didn’t want to seem too pushy.

No, wait and hear what this is about, he counseled himself. It was probably just a formality, them finding out what the neighbors thought of her and the plan to add a couple of kids to her household.

But the next evening, he realized within minutes of the social worker’s arrival that the visit was no formality. A middle-aged woman with short, graying hair, this Ms. Stuart sat on one end of his sofa and opened her notebook with the brisk panache of a detective ready to interview a suspect.

“Mr. Stefanec, I’m not sure if you’re aware that the police were called to Ms. Chauvin’s home twice several years back.”

Three and a half years back. He didn’t correct her. “I called them,” he said.

Her back straightened. “Ah. Well. Ms. Chauvin gave me permission to talk to her near neighbors. I’m sure you can understand our concern about placing children in her home given a possible history of domestic violence.”

“Her husband was a son of a bitch. Pardon me for my bluntness. I called 911 when I heard him make threats. I was afraid for Suzanne’s safety.”

She scrutinized him. “Are you friends with Ms. Chauvin?”

He shook his head. “We’re neighborly. I don’t know her well. I’ve never been in her home.”

“Her ex-husband insinuated that she, too, had trouble controlling her temper.”

Tom made a sound of disgust. “Yeah, that sounds like him. You’ve got to understand. I don’t know if he ever hit her, but he belittled her constantly. I heard him yelling if she had friends over, if she wasn’t home when he thought she should be, if she smiled at another man. He fought like hell to keep her under his thumb. When she stood up for herself, he lost it. I called the cops to make sure she didn’t get hurt.”

“And in what way did she ‘stand up for herself’?”

“Not by violence. She refused to give up some friends he didn’t like. He called them names.”

“You heard that much?”

“It was summer. I was out back on my deck, their windows were open.” He was losing patience. “Ms. Stuart, I feel like I’m violating Suzanne’s privacy. She’s a nice lady. In the case of her husband, she was too nice. She’ll be a great mother.”

Without having written a word in her notebook, his visitor closed it. “That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear, Mr. Stefanec. I’m required always to err on the side of protecting the children, but in this case I had difficulty imagining Ms. Chauvin even raising her voice.”

“When she did, she sounded scared,” he told her. “My impression is, she’s a gentle woman who was trying real hard to hold her marriage together.”

The caseworker smiled and rose to her feet. “Thank you very much for your time. You’ve been a big help.”

He stood, too. “You’re welcome. I happened to be out in the yard and met Jack and Sophia the other day. They seemed like great kids.”

“Yes, they are.” She buttoned her coat and slipped on gloves, then after a few more words of thanks departed.

Going to the living-room window, he pulled aside the drapes and watched her walk down the driveway, hesitate at her car, then continue the few steps on the sidewalk to Suzanne’s driveway and up it. He hoped like hell that meant he’d tipped the balance. He didn’t like thinking how devastated Suzanne would be if she wasn’t allowed to adopt.

Letting the drapes fall, he went to the kitchen to figure out something for dinner. At least a couple of nights a week, he made himself cook. Living alone shouldn’t mean existing entirely on prefab meals that could be nuked in the microwave. Tonight, though, he chose a frozen chicken pot pie.

He’d just finished eating it and throwing away the container when his doorbell rang. He wasn’t altogether surprised. Without realizing it, he’d been listening for footsteps on the porch.

Earlier, he’d left the porch light on, and now he opened the front door to find Suzanne shivering in jeans and shirtsleeves on his doorstep.

“You don’t have a coat on.” He stood back. “Come on in before you freeze.”

“I didn’t expect to get cold going twenty feet.” She scooted past him and hugged herself while he shut the door.

“Cup of coffee?” As pinched as her face was, he was getting a bad feeling he should put a dash of whiskey in it. Maybe he hadn’t tipped the balance.

“Oh, I shouldn’t stay.” She was back to avoiding his gaze. “I just came over to thank you.”

His worry subsided. “Nothing to thank me for.”

“Yes, there is. Whatever you told the caseworker was enough to change her mind. I think—” her teeth worried her lower lip “—she wasn’t going to let me have Jack and Sophia.”

“You’re still shivering. Sit,” he ordered. “Some coffee will warm you up. I have it ready.”

“I don’t want to be a bother….”

“You’re not.” He went to the kitchen, leaving her standing in the middle of his living room.

When he returned a minute later with the two mugs, a sugar bowl and a carton of creamer balanced on a large platter serving as makeshift tray, Suzanne was sitting on his couch, just about exactly where she had the last time she’d been here, and just as uneasily.

In fact, she shot up at the sight of him. “Oh, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted a cup myself.”

“Oh.” She sat back down, barely perched on the edge. “Well, thank you.”

Damn, she was beautiful. She had the kind of face that would still be beautiful when she was eighty, so perfectly were her bones sculpted. With her smooth dark hair, big brown eyes and slim, delicate body, she could have been on the big screen. Instead, she lived next door to him, fueling a few idiotic fantasies.

He added a dash of cream to his own cup and stirred. “I thought you said you’d already been approved.”

“I was. But then Melissa noticed no background check had been run for some reason. So she went ahead, and the two domestic-disturbance calls popped up.”

“I take it she called your ex.”

Stirring her own coffee, she kept her head bent, hair screening her face. “Yes. He could have defused the whole thing and didn’t. We…we had problems, but I thought—”