Marrying For A Mom

“If I could have avoided firing him, I would have, Whitney.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

She shrugged. “This is hard for me, Logan. You do me a favor by offering him a job, and then he repays you by letting a few twenties attach themselves to his fingers.”

“It was a long time ago, Whit,” he said brusquely. “We’d both be better off to put it in the past. In the whole scheme of things it really isn’t important.”

Right. One deplorable incident. Gone, but not entirely forgotten.

Whitney took a deep, cleansing breath, reminding herself that whatever followed between her and Logan was business, and business only. “So,” she said, “tell me about this bear.”

He pulled the photo back into their line of vision. “I thought maybe you might have something…in the store…”

Whitney shook her head. She should have studied the bear, but instead her gaze was drawn to the child. “I don’t think so. But we can look. I’ll flip over the Closed sign and, even if it takes all night, you can go through my inventory.”

That wheedled a small, sad smile from him. He slowly closed the wallet, as if considering her offer.

“She’s a darling little girl, Logan,” Whitney said carefully. “I had no idea you were a daddy.”

“Yeah. We got her when she was about three years old. So I honestly think of her as my daughter. I love her as if—as if—” Logan’s voice dried up, and he suddenly choked over the sentence he couldn’t bring himself to say.

As if she were your daughter, Whitney silently finished for him. She studied him, fascinated. For a devil-may-care personality, he had the kindest heart. Always had. “Logan?” she queried, summoning the courage to touch him, to lay her hand on his forearm. “What is it?”

Logan’s eyes closed, shutting her out of his pain. He twisted slightly at the waist, and her hand dropped away, as he put the wallet back into his pocket. “We were in the process of adopting her, but there was a lot of red tape. It took us a long time to find the biological parents and when we located them, the father agreed to relinquish his rights—but the mother kept changing her mind. Then, last year, the mother finally signed away her rights and the adoption was in the final stages. But then Jill died, leaving me as a single father, and now the agency is stalling. The caseworker says my company takes too much of my time, and that they feel it’s in Amanda’s best interest to be raised in a two-parent household. She told me last week they have a couple who inquired about adopting an older child, preferably a girl. She left me with the feeling that they could remove Amanda from the house. Maybe within the next few weeks.”

Whitney went limp all over. She knew what is was like to be jerked out of one home and dropped into another. Her mother had experimented with boyfriends, and communes, and middle-of-the-night flights from unpaid landlords and unfortunate affairs. “Oh, Logan, I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do….”

“You can. Help me get this bear for Amanda before they take her away. I don’t want her to think I’m abandoning her. Hell, I’d do anything to keep her.”

“Does she have any idea?”

Logan shook his head. “The social worker’s intimated things to her, suggested that maybe she would like another house, with a new mommy…”

Whitney groaned, the small of her back sinking against the counter. “No. Tell me she didn’t say that?”

“Yeah,” he said grimly. “She did. I suppose she meant well. But Amanda will be traumatized if they take her away. She’s too young to remember her life prior to living with us. We’re all she’s ever known.”

Whitney’s vision blurred. She vividly remembered a grocery sack full of clothes, a nonchalant goodbye and a pat on the head from her mother.

“Sure, as a single dad, I’ve had a few mishaps along the way,” he confided. “But I’ve learned from them. I’ve even learned how to make fifteen nutritious variations of canned spaghetti.”

“Nutritious canned spaghetti?” She couldn’t help it—she laughed.

He lifted an apologetic shoulder. “On the food chain, it’s one notch above tuna, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Whitney had to bite her bottom lip. Her cheeks ached from trying not to smile. Her mother had never even cared enough to even open a can of tuna, let alone slap peanut butter on a slice of bread.

“Whitney, listen to me,” he said earnestly. “If I replace that bear, and Amanda’s taken away, it’ll give her a connection to something she loved. She needs to know that no matter what happens, I’m there for her. I love that kid so much—so damn much—that the thought of losing her, just….”

A hot, hard lump swelled in Whitney’s throat; she willed her response to be firm, not shaky. God knows, she’d do anything for Logan. All he had to do was ask. “I can tell you right now I don’t have anything like it in the store. But I’ll find it,” Whitney said. “I promise.”

“Can you believe this? Can you believe I’m looking for a teddy bear?” he asked humorlessly. “Sometimes I think it would just be easier to find myself a wife. Maybe that would make the caseworker happy.”

Whitney stared into the depths of his ice-blue eyes and the most unimaginable thought crossed her mind. She just couldn’t bring herself to say it. Suddenly she was paralyzed by the awesomeness of it all.

She vaguely considered offering herself up as the sacrificial lamb.

“Whitney?”

A second slipped away.

“Yes, Logan?”

“Thank you,” he said simply. “For you to do this, especially after everything that’s happened…well, it makes me realize I overlooked something very special in high school.”

The expression of gratitude took her breath away. His praise was so unexpected. As teenagers, they had shared a few laughs, the same row of seats in study hall, and, on Senior Skip Day, one near kiss…something that, in later years, she’d silently regretted as her “one near miss.” Later, when Logan offered her ex a job, and he’d so badly messed that up, she had apologized repeatedly, hoping to redeem herself in Logan’s eyes. But Logan had been young and angry, and he’d stalked away.

After years of beating herself up over that horrific parting it seemed inconceivable that all she had to do to make things better was find a teddy bear. It was a small price to pay to be able to put the matter to rest, and get the man and the memories out of her mind.

Still, Whitney would never know what prompted her to say what she did next, maybe it was because she was a new woman and she had come of age, and into her own. She had the security, and the confidence to dare to remind him. “Not something,” she corrected quietly. “Someone. You overlooked someone. Someone like me.”

Chapter Two

Logan leaned back, as far as his leather desk chair would allow, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long, wearisome day. He was bone-tired and the house looked like a tornado had struck. Four hours ago, his third housekeeper quit to take care of her grandchildren in California, and he was at his wit’s end.

All he’d asked of the woman was to supervise Amanda after school and put a hot meal on the table. She’d accepted his generous paycheck, and done exactly that and no more. The laundry was piled up to the rafters, the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and the carpets reminded him of one giant lint trap. Amanda had taken to writing her name on the TV screen, and playing tic-tac-toe in the dust on the coffee table. Games and toys, and shoes and socks were scattered in every room in the house, and the counters were a hodgepodge of newspapers, magazines, advertisements and old mail.

How had Jill done it? She’d managed to get Amanda to school on time, and he never remembered her scrambling to find a matching pair of shoes or digging through the couch cushions for lunch money.

This was the worst it had been. The worst.

He couldn’t ask his mom to fill in again. This was their busiest time of year at the marina, and his dad was already making noises about clearing cars off the lot to make room for the new ones that would be coming out.

Talk about being between the devil and the deep blue. His folks had already made it clear that he should give it up, that Amanda was too much responsibility for him right now. On top of everything else, he couldn’t bear to hear their “I told you so’s.” He supposed they were thinking of his best interests, but then, when it came to family, they’d always thought with their heads and not their hearts.

Jill’s family had never been pleased they had taken in a foster child. They thought she should have her own children—and pointedly emphasized Amanda was “not really theirs.” After Jill passed away, he’d heard from them only once.

What the hell was he going to do?

Deep inside, there were moments he could actually feel his heart ache. The empty feeling he had been carrying around for so long had become fatiguing, making his arms hurt and his head muzzy. He knew one thing: he yearned to laugh again. But if he lost his bid to keep Amanda….

“Dammit. Forget that. I’m not thinking like that. I’m not giving it up.” Dragging a hand over his face, Logan flopped forward, letting the chair slip into the upright position. Wedging both elbows on the desk, he absently fingered the cards in his Rolodex.

He’d already called everyone he knew, asking about babysitters. His secretary had given him the name of that place in Nashville that provided nannies, but warned this was the poorest possible time to pursue it; it could take weeks.

There was always Aunt June, the old maid schoolteacher on his dad’s side of the family. But Amanda said she smelled like camphor and breath mints, and Logan knew her mind was wandering a little. The last time they visited she’d put the roses in the freezer and displayed a frozen leg of lamb on the table, right between the gold filigree candelabras, as the centerpiece.

He tapped the cards in the Rolodex, as if he, like Houdini, could invoke an answer. Suddenly things became crystal clear to him.

Tomorrow morning he’d make arrangements for the cleaning service to come twice a week. He’d start taking everything to the cleaners. Then he’d call the school and get Amanda back in the after-school program. Until then, he’d just have to cut back his hours, that’s all. No big deal, he’d done it before.

But he had to get things in order, because he was running out of time. The caseworker from the adoption agency would probably drop in sometime next week. She liked to pop in unannounced, and catch him when everything was in shambles.

Well, this would be a victory for her side.

What a deal. What a raw deal.

If he could just come up with that teddy bear. He’d come to regard the silly thing as a kind of insurance, like an omen, or a talisman that beat back the nasties. But Whitney wasn’t optimistic, not about finding it as quickly as he’d hoped.

Whitney. Whitney Thompson Bloom. The name rolled through his mind, inexplicably soothing all the distress and disorder.

He’d been thinking a lot about her lately, and it bothered him because he didn’t know why. Probably because he was just so damn obsessed with getting that bear.

She’d changed…yet, it was like the person she’d always been on the inside was coming out. He’d known her as well as anyone in high school, but she’d never let people get too close.

If you looked at Whitney when she didn’t know you were watching, she carried the most vulnerable quality in her eyes. Like she’d been hurt. Deeply hurt. Like she was aching to trust, but she was scared at the same time, too.

He was beginning to understand that feeling.

Three days ago, in her shop, it occurred to him he could lose himself in her eyes. Without glasses, her irises were ginger-dark, and speckled with flecks of delft and daffodil. Striking, gorgeous eyes. But now, he severely reminded himself, with the juggling act he was doing, he couldn’t afford to even think about them, let alone be distracted by them.

Whitney flipped through the last manufacturer’s catalog, pausing to compare one of their featured bears to the open book on her counter. Then she checked it against the picture Logan had taken from his wallet and left with her. It wasn’t the same. Not even close.

She ran a fingernail along the dog-eared corners of the photo, wondering how many times Logan’s fingers had traced these same edges. She couldn’t get him out of her head. His wholesome, tanned appearance nagged at her—like he made khakis and a sport shirt a dress uniform. Eyes so blue, so insightful and clear, that it made her wonder if a few drops of the Atlantic tinted his gaze. The quizzical lift of his mouth that made him look so kissable.

This was awful. It was terrible.

Thinking so much about Logan made her edgy. It made her wish she was someone she wasn’t. It made her reconsider the past, and think about the differences that had kept them apart, and made him unattainable. His money, and her lack of it. His country club membership, and her job bagging groceries and pushing carts at the supermarket. His Camaro and her school bus pass.

How many times had she thought about what he’d said about the prom? Ten? Twenty? She’d stretched the truth on that one. She hadn’t gone to the prom because her mom promised to send money for the ticket but decided, on a whim, to fly to Bangkok instead. There was great airfare to Bangkok, her mom had written later—a once in a lifetime opportunity. Just like the prom. And Logan had come looking for a dance—just one—and she wasn’t even there.

She was thirty-two years old, for heaven’s sake. Why was she dwelling on this stuff? Pushing the aggravating memories from her head, Whitney severely reminded herself that she had a life outside the incidents that happened years ago. She was happy and content with all she’d achieved. She knew full well that once she found the bear, her connection to Logan would be severed. He’d go on with his life; she’d go on with hers.

Her only purpose, she told herself firmly, was to find that bear—and that was proving to be difficult. She’d browsed the Internet until four, and still hadn’t come up with any leads. The crazy thing was, the bear wasn’t even anything out of the ordinary.

Yet, to Amanda, she knew it was priceless and unique. If the child needed something to carry her into the next phase of her life, Whitney could guarantee a teddy bear would do it.

After all, Whitney knew firsthand about losing things. When her mom took off for the last time, the landlord cleaned out their apartment and put everything in the trash. Nothing had been salvaged, and her childhood had been snuffed out in a Dumpster. Whitney had had nightmares for months afterward, knowing her beloved stuffed animals, her dolls, her drawings and books, had been thrown away. Gram had understood her pain, and gone without her arthritis medicine for a whole month so she could buy Whitney a special teddy bear to cuddle and love. That was one of the reasons she’d started this store, kind of like a living memorial to her gram.

Reaching for the phone, Whitney punched in the number, suddenly and inexplicably annoyed with this elusive teddy bear. She’d find this thing, one way or another.

“Monroe Realty,” the receptionist intoned.

“Logan Monroe, please.”

The receptionist hesitated before issuing her automatic response. “Mr. Monroe is in a meeting right now, may I take a message?”

“My name is Whitney Bloom, from Teddy Bear Heaven. I have some information he requested. I’ll be available until five, and the number is—”

“Oh, Miss Bloom. Just a minute. I think he’d like to take this call. In fact, I know he would. I’ll put you right through.”

Whitney couldn’t beat back her surprise; obviously the receptionist had had her instructions. The pause was momentary.

“Whitney. Hello.” Logan’s voice was just as mellow, just as resonant as she remembered. Fatigue melted away, and she warmed, remembering how he’d looked, framed by her showroom of teddy bears. He’d purchased three coloring books, markers, a barrette and a pricey dresser set before he’d left, claiming he wanted to make her time worthwhile. “Look, I was just stepping out, but I’m glad you caught me.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve probably got a house to show. I only wanted to tell you there’s no good news on this end. I’m beginning to call this the ‘unbearable teddy bear chase.”’ She heard him chuckle.

“You didn’t find it.”

“No. But I do have a couple of photos of promotional bears you might want to look at. They’re definitely not the same, but—” she fingered the flyers, lifting them for another cursory glance “—under the circumstances, they may be close enough.”

“Well…I’m sort of tied up till later this afternoon.”

Disappointment welled in Whitney. What did she expect, she chided herself? That he was going to run right over? A man couldn’t sell eight million dollars of real estate a year and not have a few commitments. “I’ll just put this information aside for you,” she said. “Whenever it’s convenient. Or,” she offered, “I could drop it in the mail.”

“No, listen, I was thinking about stopping by your place anyway. Amanda’s ballet lesson is in forty minutes, and the studio’s less than two blocks from your place. You could meet me there and save me some time.”

“You’re taking her?” Disbelief tainted Whitney’s reply.

“Why not?”

“But…but…”Whitney glanced at the clock, thinking of all the resort property in the area hungering for a Sold sign from Monroe Realty. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I know. I intentionally schedule appointments around ballet. It doesn’t hurt to close up shop for a couple of hours one afternoon a week. You should try it. Knocking off for a few hours in the middle of the day is good for the soul.”

Would knocking off in the middle of the day to be with Logan, for even a few fleeting minutes, ease this longing in her soul? “And you want me to try it? To meet you there, and shirk my duties?”

“Absolutely. It’s a Thursday. A nice warm day, in the middle of May—” he rhymed, giving her a moment to consider “—I say…it’s time for all good shopkeepers to come out and play.”

“Cute.” That old familiar tap dance started playing through her veins.

“C’mon, Whitney. Join us. We didn’t have enough time to talk the other night. Meet Amanda. Judge for yourself, and see why this is so important to me. My life is on hold until this is settled.” The invitation was tempting; it might be one of her few chances to spend time with Logan and get to know his daughter. “You’ll fall in love with her, Whitney,” he predicted.

She didn’t need that. No more falling in love with anyone in the Monroe household. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “The UPS guy sometimes comes on Thursday.”

She thought she heard him snicker, and immediately felt like a role model for one of the dumb “blonde” jokes that were circulating. Maybe it had been a mistake to color her hair.

“You ever been to a ballet class, Whitney?”

“No.” Her reply was tinged with a certain amount of regret.

She had wanted to take dance lessons—like Carla Simpson, who had pranced around on her toe shoes during the fourth-grade play—but there had never been enough money when she lived with her mom, and then, later, Gram said spending money on that was just plain foolish. It wasn’t like she was going to be a ballerina or anything. As it turned out, she had done something better with her life anyway, because every time she saw a toddler walk away hugging one of her teddies her heart melted.

“It’s an experience,” he said. “One you’d have to see to appreciate.”

“I’d imagine,” she said dryly.

“It’s only forty-five minutes for the lesson,” he wheedled. “But it’s about two hours worth of fun.”

Whitney gazed indecisively at the Closed sign; it wouldn’t take that much to turn it over. She wasn’t planning to do anything but stock shelves anyway, and they were a good month away from the tourist season. “I could…probably…meet you there. For a few minutes,” she qualified, trying not to sound too eager.

“Terrific. Miss Timlin begins promptly at three-fifteen. If you aren’t there in time for stretching and warm-ups, I’ll save you a seat.”

It was the craziest thing. In her mind’s eye she saw him grinning, and it made her feel warm all over.

Chapter Three

Miss Timlin’s School of Dance was an institution in Melville. Parents sent their daughters to Miss Timlin’s for more than ballet or tap or jazz. They sent them because it was the proper thing to do. Young ladies who went through all twelve years of Miss Timlin’s carried themselves with a distinguishable grace. They possessed a presence that made their movements smooth, their voices confident and their smiles benign. It was no surprise to Whitney that Logan chose that for his daughter.

The foyer of Miss Timlin’s smelled of old wood and lemon oil. The interior of the great hall was cool, and the mahogany banister curving up to the second-story studio was polished to a satin finish. Whitney looked up, over her head. The antique chandelier, suspended from a tin ceiling, hung from a single tarnished chain. It swayed from the staccatoed thump of little feet on the floor above.

A receptionist greeted Whitney, indicating the session had already started, but that she was welcome to observe, provided she found a seat in the back. Quietly, the woman admonished.

Whitney turned to the steps, trying to imagine how Logan felt once a week, as he put his hand to the banister and climbed the magnificent old staircase. She gingerly put her palm across the top of the newel post, then tested the first stair tread. It groaned beneath her weight, like an old woman wearied from raising too many children.

Whitney took the stairs slowly, amazed that Logan had been within blocks of her for months—and yet their paths had never crossed.

At the top, Whitney paused on the landing and peered into the first open doorway. The studio, awash in pink and white leotards, warm-ups and floppy hair bows, teemed with discipline. Miss Timlin, sixty if she was a day, with her gaunt face resembling a road map of wrinkles, and her arms and legs as sinewy as chicken bones, stood sternly at the front of the room. She thumped her staff on the hardwood floor.

“Stretch, Melissa! Hannah! You are not to preen in front of the mirror, you are to reflect upon your position before it.” In tights and leotards, Miss Timlin’s paunchy middle and sagging breasts were a mere testament to her resilience.

A gaggle of mothers waited, on hard-backed chairs that had been pushed against the wall. Two held magazines, one a book; none of them scanned the copy. Another woman’s knitting needles copiously clacked together, but her gaze was riveted to what was happening on the dance floor.

Logan was the only man in the room, and he appeared impervious to be outnumbered by the opposite sex; his attention, too, was directed solely to the activity on the floor.

“Excuse me,” Whitney whispered, apologizing to the master knitter as she carefully stepped over a bag of turquoise yarn. She slipped into the chair next to Logan.

His head turned, his eyes rounding into irresistible crescents as he smiled. “Hello,” he mouthed. “Glad you could make it.”

The chairs were so close that Whitney inadvertently leaned against him as she sat, her shoulder brushing his. The flesh beneath his dress shirt was hard, warm…and definitely bothersome to her senses. Whitney tried to look unaffected. “I hope Miss Timlin doesn’t yell at me for making a disturbance,” she whispered, as the aura of his aftershave enveloped them.

“I’ll protect you if she does,” he whispered, sliding an arm to the back of her chair in order to give her more room.

Whitney’s smile was taut, self-conscious. Everyone around them had peeled their eyes off the dance floor, to notice that Logan Monroe had welcomed this newcomer.

Whump, whump. “At the bar, ladies!” Miss Timlin directed, wielding her staff like a shepherdess. “Now, please.”