Dad In Blue

The question was, how had Samantha known that his beard was a recent addition?

“I saw your picture in the newspaper,” she added, as if reading his mind.

“Oh.”

What had she thought when she’d seen it? Had she wished it were her husband, alive and well, receiving the award instead of him? If he were in her shoes, he knew that was what he would have wished.

“I decided I needed a change of pace,” he said.

“It suits you.”

“Thank you.” He felt oddly pleased.

“Jeffrey’s in the den,” she said. “I’ve prepared him for your visit. I want to warn you, though, that he probably won’t respond very…well, positively to your presence. At least at first. Don’t let it discourage you. Would you like to follow me?”

The house was neat and comfortably furnished. Samantha led him past a living room, through a brightly decorated kitchen and into a room that was obviously the den. A fire crackled in the brick fireplace, the sound and smell of burning wood both welcoming and comforting.

Deliberately forcing his awareness of his hostess to the back of his mind, Carlo turned his attention to the child sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Jeffrey Underwood wore blue jeans and a Steel City Wrestling Alliance sweatshirt. His head was bent, his gaze focused on the coffee table. There was a stillness about him that Carlo had never seen before in an eight-year-old. He seemed small for his age, and like his mother, way too thin. He was also unnaturally quiet.

“Jeffrey,” Samantha said gently. “Remember how we talked about finding you a buddy to do things with?”

The boy nodded without raising his head.

“Well, he’s here. I think you’re going to like him very much.”

Samantha gestured to Carlo, and he crossed to the sofa, where he took a seat next to the child. Though the boy didn’t move, Carlo could sense him mentally shrinking from the contact.

“Hi, Jeffrey,” he said. “I’m Carlo.”

The boy refused to look at him.

“Jeffrey,” Samantha prompted.

“Hello,” the child said in a flat voice.

“Carlo worked with your father,” Samantha offered. “He’s Bridgeton’s police chief.”

Jeffrey raised his head, and Carlo saw a flash of emotion in the child’s eyes. That was a good sign, at least. It meant he wasn’t totally withdrawn.

“My dad’s dead,” Jeffrey announced baldly. “He’s never coming home. And I don’t want a buddy.”

“Jeffrey!” To Carlo, Samantha added, “I’m sorry. He’s not usually so rude.”

In Samantha Underwood’s eyes, Carlo saw the pain she fought so hard to hide. And a worry that tugged at his heart.

“No need to apologize,” he said lightly, although his conviction that he wasn’t the person who could help this child had grown. Samantha might believe him capable of working miracles, but Carlo knew better. From the looks of him, Jeffrey was going to fight him all the way.

“Jeffrey’s just being honest about his feelings,” he continued. “I, for one, always appreciate honesty. I’m hoping, though, that once he gets to know me, he’ll change his mind about wanting a buddy.”

Jeffrey’s response was to pick up a toy car from the top of the coffee table. Making revving noises, he began running it across the smooth wood surface. Though he didn’t say the words, they vibrated on the air nevertheless. Fat chance.

Despite the fact that Carlo was fairly certain the battle had already been lost, he wasn’t ready to raise the white flag just yet. He owed Samantha, and her son, that much. Hoping to capture the boy’s attention, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pocketknife and a small piece of white pine.

“Do you know how to whittle? My grandfather taught me when I was about your age. It looks hard, but it’s really very easy, once you get the hang of it.”

Though Jeffrey seemed focused on the car that was now making circles on the floor, Carlo could swear the boy was watching him out of the corner of one eye. Encouraged, he glanced over at Samantha.

“Do you have something I could use to catch the wood chips?”

She handed him a magazine, which he opened on his lap. In a matter of minutes, the knife moving deftly in his hands, Carlo had fashioned a man’s head. He offered it to Jeffrey, who held it for a few seconds before giving it back.

“Would you like to learn to whittle?” Carlo asked.

Jeffrey gave an indifferent shrug.

A sudden thought occurred to him. “If you’d like, I could buy you a pocketknife of your very own—that is, if it’s okay with your mother.”

The boy shrugged again. “Maybe.”

Jeffrey uttered the word in the tone kids used to indulge their elders when they found the subject under discussion too boring for words, but didn’t want to hurt any feelings. Carlo wasn’t fooled; he’d seen the interest that had flashed in Jeffrey’s eyes. It had been brief, lasting only the fraction of a second, but it had definitely been there. After all, what eight-year-old boy could resist the lure of a pocketknife? When Carlo had been eight, weapons of any shape or size, even sticks and stones, had been endlessly fascinating.

Elated at his tiny victory, and thinking that maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all, Carlo looked up at Samantha for permission. “Is it okay if I buy Jeffrey a pocketknife?”

The gratitude in her eyes took his breath away. That the emotion was for him was enough to render Carlo speechless. It also made the blood race through his veins and obliterated all rational thought as he stared at her and tried to remember what question he had asked.

She was the first to look away, her fingers plucking at a nonexistent piece of lint on her sweater. “I think Jeffrey’s old enough to handle the responsibility. So yes, you can buy him a pocketknife.”

A deep breath did little to restore Carlo’s equilibrium, or lower his heart rate. “It’s settled, then.” He turned to Jeffrey. “I’ll bring it with me on my next visit.”

Jeffrey didn’t say anything. Still, Carlo couldn’t help feeling a faint glimmer of hope.

Samantha pulled a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. Lowering her face, she basked in the warmth of their heat and breathed in their comforting aroma. Some people ate when they were nervous. Others wore out the carpet with their pacing. Samantha baked.

How was it going in there? she wondered as she closed the oven door. From her position at the kitchen’s center cooking island, she could see into the den if she leaned forward far enough and craned her neck like a contortionist. She did so and saw Carlo reading a book to her son. Though Jeffrey seemed to be paying more attention to the car he continued to push around on the floor, every once in a while he grew still as he listened. She could swear that, when Carlo read the part about the evil witch getting turned into a toadstool, Jeffrey actually smiled.

Her heart ballooned with hope. This was the first time her son had responded to someone outside their immediate family. She had done the right thing by going to Carlo Garibaldi. She could feel it in her bones. If things continued to go well, she just might get her miracle. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she wasn’t afraid to trust that everything would turn out okay.

Ignoring the growing crick in her neck, her gaze returned to the man who had occupied so much of her thoughts over the past couple of days. Everything about him was larger than life: his broad shoulders, his muscled arms, his stubborn chin. The faded jeans that fit his thighs like a second skin, and the white cotton shirt that he wore with the sleeves rolled back to his forearms only accentuated his maleness. He was definitely the most forceful man she had ever met.

He turned the page of the book, and she followed the movement with fascination. His fingers were long and capable looking. Without consciously summoning the memory, she vividly pictured the way they had moved so expertly over the piece of wood he’d held earlier. From there, it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine how they would skillfully caress a woman’s body. Samantha’s stomach fluttered at the unbidden thought.

It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. She could easily think of two or three movie stars who made her feel the same way when she watched them on screen. She didn’t lose any sleep over them, and she wasn’t going to lose any over the new man in her son’s life.

Carlo chose that moment to look up, caught her watching him and flashed her a grin. Samantha went all hot inside. Resisting the urge to fan herself like a menopausal woman in the middle of a hot flash, she pulled back out of view and busied herself removing the cookies from the tray.

She shouldn’t be looking at him that way, she told herself. She had no business looking at any man that way, had never been tempted to, until she’d met Carlo.

She’d never felt this way when James looked at her. She’d never burned inside like a forest fire raging out of control. She’d never yearned…for exactly what she couldn’t say.

Her love for James had been gentle and sweet. It had been quiet and steady, a rock upon which to depend in this crazy, topsy-turvy world. It had been real and lasting. There had been nothing frivolous about it.

And every thought she had about Carlo Garibaldi that didn’t relate to her son definitely fell into the frivolous category.

Even though the attraction was purely physical and meant nothing, it still felt like a betrayal. She loved her husband. She missed him with every fiber of her being. How, then, could she fantasize about the touch of another man?

The love she and James had shared was a love to last a lifetime. But it hadn’t lasted a lifetime. Because of a cruel twist of fate, they’d had only ten short years together. She wasn’t about to sully James’s memory by giving in to a foolish infatuation.

It was time for more baking, she told herself, and began mixing up a batch of snickerdoodles. Wryly she acknowledged that if she didn’t calm down soon, the welcoming committee at church was going to have more than its share of refreshments for their reception tomorrow.

She didn’t hear Carlo enter the kitchen. When she turned and nearly collided with his warm, hard body, she let out a gasp and her hand went to her heart.

“I did call your name,” he said with a smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t hear.” Then, after a steadying breath, which helped slow her heartbeat appreciably, she asked, “Done already?”

“I think that’ll do it for today,” he confirmed. “I don’t want to push my luck.”

“What’s Jeffrey doing?”

“Watching a Disney movie.”

Because she didn’t know how to act around him, and because he made her feel so unsettled, Samantha picked up a plate mounded high with cookies and clumsily thrust it at him. “Would you like one? They’re fresh from the oven.”

“Thanks. They smell delicious.” He took a bite, chewed and his smile widened. “Incredible. Is that real butter I taste?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She watched in fascination while he quickly devoured three cookies, then demurred when she offered him a fourth, saying he didn’t want to spoil his appetite for lunch. The appreciation in his eyes warmed her heart.

Then he spoiled it all by reaching out a hand and brushing it across her forehead. Samantha nearly dropped the plate of cookies in her haste to get away from the contact.

“Don’t!” she cried.

“Sorry,” he said stiffly, pulling his hand back, and she knew she had offended him. “You had some flour on your forehead. I was just brushing it off.”

She forced an uneasy laugh. “I’m the one who should apologize. I don’t know what made me overreact like that.”

But she did know. It was Carlo and the way she had no control over her body’s response to him. And the guilt that swamped her because she couldn’t.

“Forget about it,” he dismissed, adding what had to be the understatement of the year. “We’re both a little on edge today.”

“You did a good job in there,” she told him, feeling more in control now that she wasn’t standing so close to him. “I think you made some progress.”

Carlo gave a short laugh. “That depends how you measure progress. To my way of thinking, I made a millimeter’s worth of headway, and we still have miles to go.”

“Baby steps,” she said.

“Baby steps?”

“You take one step forward, teeter for a bit, fall down on your butt and climb back to your feet. Over and over again, until you get where you’re going. Baby steps.”

“Baby steps,” he repeated with a nod. “I think I get it.”

“And I think, based on what I saw this morning, given time Jeffrey will come to trust you. If we’re lucky, he’ll even open up to you.” Samantha felt her throat close with emotion and drew a ragged breath. “And then I’ll have my son back.”

“You really think I can do all that?”

“Yes,” she answered softly. “I really do.”

His eyes darkened with emotion in the seconds before he tore his gaze from hers. “I hope your faith in me is justified,” he said gruffly.

The oven timer went off. Thankful to have something to occupy her attention, Samantha bent to remove a tray of cookies.

“Who’s the photographer?” she heard him ask as she scraped snickerdoodles onto the wax paper she’d spread across one counter.

“What photographer?”

“The one who took all the photos in the front hallway. I couldn’t help noticing them earlier.”

“The older ones are family hand-me-downs,” she replied, her back still to him. “The more recent ones are mine, along with a few from a professional studio.”

“The pictures of you and Jeffrey, you mean.”

“Yes. Those were professionally taken.”

“So, you’re into photography?”

Dusting her hands, she turned to face him. “I dabble a bit. What I really like is covering the walls of my home with pictures of the people who mean the most to me. It gives me pleasure to look at them. Plus I find gazing through a lens relaxing.”

He eyed the cookies covering her counter. “Does baking relax you, too?”

She had to smile. “No. Baking helps me use up nervous energy.”

“Do I make you nervous?”

Her smile faltered at the unexpected question, and her heart started pounding. Thank goodness he didn’t realize exactly how nervous he did make her. At least she thought he didn’t.

“This whole thing with Jeffrey has my nerves frayed,” she said quickly. “I’ve been baking up a storm for months.”

He seemed to hesitate briefly before saying, “About the photos in the front hallway. I couldn’t help noticing there weren’t any pictures of James.”

As little as a few months ago, the mention of her late husband would have filled her with a rush of pain. Now she felt only a dull ache. And an emptiness that seemed to go on forever.

“There used to be dozens. Everywhere I looked. I took them down after…you know.”

“After he died,” Carlo supplied.

“Yes.” Sometimes she still found it hard to say the “d” word. “It hurt too much to look at them.”

And now, at night, when she closed her eyes, she had trouble picturing him. She was terrified that she was starting to forget James. The way she responded to Carlo Garibaldi wasn’t helping matters.

“How are you coping?” he asked.

She busied herself scrubbing down the counters. “I have my good days and my bad days. For months there was only pain. And denial. I simply couldn’t believe James was gone. I wondered if the day would ever come when thoughts of him wouldn’t consume my every waking minute. Then I got angry and screamed at God for letting James die, and I screamed at James for dying. When the anger faded, I moped around for another couple of months. Finally I accepted that James was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. Somehow, I had to make a life for Jeffrey and me without him. Now that you’re here, I think more good days just might be in our future.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder and was surprised at the look of consternation on his face. Poor man. She’d made it sound like she was depending on him to solve her every problem. No wonder he looked terrified.

“I’m sorry, Carlo. I don’t know why I told you all that. What I meant to say is that I’ve been one of the lucky ones. My mother lives close by, as does my best friend. They’ve both been a wonderful support to me. So has Douglas Boyer. And now you. Jeffrey and I are doing just fine.”

“Except for the fact that he won’t talk to anyone,” he muttered.

She looked down at her hands. “Except for that.”

“I want you to know something.”

A quality in his voice she couldn’t quite define made her look up. “What?”

“If it were in my power, I’d wave a magic wand and make things the way they were before. I’d make it so that day never happened. I’d give you back your husband and your little boy.”

His sincerity was unmistakable. Why he should seem to care so much, she didn’t know. But he obviously did. And she was grateful for the sentiment.

“James was right,” she said.

He looked startled. “About what?”

“You really do take your responsibilities to heart.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“You’re a cop, and you can ask me that with a straight face?”

His smile was wry. “You have a point.”

“Actually, what I think James meant was that you take things too much to heart. When you agree to do something, you don’t take any half measures. You give it everything you have, and then some.”

“I believe in honoring my commitments.” His voice sounded stiff.

“And I’ve made you defensive. That’s not what I was trying to do.”

“What were you trying to do?”

“To say thank you. Thank you for helping me with Jeffrey, Carlo.”

He seemed to grow even more uncomfortable. “I don’t want your thanks, Samantha.”

What did he want? she wondered. Now wasn’t the time to ask. What it was time for was the truth. She had to be honest with him, or she’d never get rid of the guilt.

“I have a confession to make.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “I shamelessly manipulated you to get you to help me with Jeffrey.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I used what James had told me about you to get you to do what I wanted you to do.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to turn you down when you came to me.”

“I didn’t know for sure. But I hoped. And I definitely prayed. Thank goodness my prayers were answered.” She paused. “Are you angry?”

“I should be, I suppose,” he said on a sigh. “But no, I’m not angry. I understand why you did what you did. If Jeffrey were my son, I probably would have done the same.”

She was almost afraid to ask. “Does this mean you’ll be back next Saturday?”

Long, agonizing seconds passed before he finally answered. “Yes, Samantha. I’ll be back.”

Chapter 3

The Samantha Underwood who answered her door the following Saturday bore little resemblance to the woman who had bowled Carlo over the week before. The thick, lustrous blond hair that had gleamed like a badge in the sunlight was uncombed and hung lankly to her shoulders. Her eyes were sunken and red-rimmed, her lips chapped. In contrast, her cheeks were flushed with color. Though it was after noon, she wore a pair of flannel pajamas beneath a loosely belted, red terry cloth robe. It was a good thing the day was uncharacteristically mild, because she looked as if even the hint of a breeze would knock her off her feet.

Any other woman would have made an excuse for the way she looked. Samantha simply stood there, waiting.

And any other man—if he had a shred of decency, anyway—wouldn’t have found the sight alluring. But Carlo did. Heaven help him.

Guilt left a sour taste in his mouth. She was James Underwood’s widow. He had no business lusting after her like an awkward youth fumbling through his first crush.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She brought a tissue to her mouth and sneezed. “Just fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She stood aside so he could enter. “I picked up a bug at work. The hazard of being a nurse, I suppose. It’ll run its course in a day or so.”

His gaze roved over her again. So she was a nurse. It seemed appropriate, given what he knew about her.

“Must be some bug, to make you look like that.”

Her smile caught him off guard. “Do you have to work at it, or are you naturally this charming? Much more of this flattery, and my ego will be totally deflated.”

Carlo amazed himself by doing something he hadn’t done in years: he blushed. He wasn’t normally so clumsy around women. But then, Samantha was unlike any woman he’d ever known.

Her words echoed in his ears. Much more of this flattery, and my ego will be totally deflated. Could she have wanted him to flatter her? His heart gave a wild leap in the seconds before reality jolted him roughly back to earth.

“Sorry,” he said stiffly, “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“I was just teasing,” she chided. “Can’t you take a joke?”

Apparently not. The old Carlo would have taken it in stride. Not only that, he would have given back as good as he got, and thoroughly enjoyed himself in the process. But the old Carlo had died, and a new Carlo had been born in his place. A Carlo who had made the decision to drift aimlessly for a while, to go with the flow and see what happened. The old Carlo would have been appalled at this lack of direction and purpose. But then, the old Carlo hadn’t turned out to be such an admirable fellow, so who was he to complain?

And the new Carlo had had enough self-examination for one day, he decided, when the unpleasant memories threatened to push past the barriers of his subconscious.

“Is Jeffrey ready?”

“I’ll check.” Samantha turned to call up the stairs. “Jeffrey, Carlo’s here.”

Considering that she could have been the poster girl for Webster’s definition of death warmed over, her voice was surprisingly strong.

Carlo decided that he liked the way his name sounded on her lips. He liked it a lot. As a matter of fact, he liked it so much he wanted to hear her say it again. How would it feel, he mused, to hear her cry his name during the throes of passion, and then again, softly, once that passion had been sated?

Two thumps echoed from the ceiling. When Samantha turned back to him, he gave a guilty start at the realization of the direction his thoughts had wandered. He felt his cheeks grow even ruddier as he tried to school his expression into neutrality, so that those very thoughts weren’t visible on his face. What on earth was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he control himself when he was around her?

“That’s Jeffrey’s signal that he’ll be down in a minute,” she said. “We were a little late getting started this morning, and he just got out of the shower.” She swayed and reached out for the newel post at the foot of the stairs.

Mentally cursing his wayward libido, Carlo moved quickly to her side and took her by the arm. The heat coming off her skin seared him as he led her into the den. The pillow and blanket already lying on the sofa bore witness to the fact that his arrival had disturbed her rest.

Samantha’s strength seemed to ebb out of her as he helped her settle onto the sofa, and he wondered exactly how hard she’d had to work not to let on how rotten she was feeling. If her sudden weakness was any indication, she’d used up valuable stores of energy; energy that should have gone to fighting her fever.

“You’re burning up,” he said, tucking the blanket securely around her.

“It’s just a slight temperature.”

“Right,” he muttered. “And the Nile is just a stream. At a guess, I’d put that slight temperature of yours at 102.4 degrees.”

Her eyebrows climbed. Despite her weakness, she managed to look amused.

“Do you always estimate to the tenth degree?”

“For temperatures, I do. And, I might add, I’m usually right.”

He made sure the pillow was centered beneath her head before straightening and looking down at her. She seemed so small and defenseless that he was overcome by an urge to stay by her side until she was well again. For a man who didn’t want any responsibilities, he seemed to be racking them up right and left: first Jeffrey, and now the boy’s mother.