Handprints

Didn’t this kid own any toys?

The kitchen was more of the same cool perfection, though it clearly had been designed with a woman’s convenience in mind. It was impossible to imagine making enough of a mess in this room to cook anything that didn’t come in a microwavable package. Abby blinked, then shivered.

“Come on, Ms. Walsh.” Releasing Abby’s hand, Kitty ran across the kitchen, dragged a step stool over to the refrigerator and opened the door. “I’ll get the milk.”

Abby quickly deposited the cookies on the table and hurried to Kitty’s side to lend her a hand if she needed one. When Mr. Granger entered the room, she ignored him. He walked to one of the cupboards, took out three small plates and three glasses, and carried them to the table, his movements brisk and efficient.

She didn’t catch a whiff of his subtle aftershave, notice he looked tired or feel one bit distracted because he still hadn’t fastened those three buttons on his shirt. She didn’t even see that tanned slice of bare chest playing peek-a-boo as he moved around the room. No, siree. What a liar she was.

Annoyed by her adolescent, inappropriate reactions to him, Abby said, “I’m afraid those glasses won’t do, Mr. Granger.”

He shot her an incredulous look, as if he couldn’t believe she had the nerve to question his judgment. Well, too bad. It was his own fault for distracting her.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked.

“They’re too tall.”

“Too tall for what?”

“For dunking cookies, of course,” Abby replied. “Shorter cups work much better.”

“We don’t dunk cookies at our house,” he said flatly.

“Mommy used to let me sometimes,” Kitty said, her voice so soft that it was barely audible. Setting the milk carton on the table, she climbed onto one of the straight-backed wooden chairs, twisted her fingers together in her lap and looked at them. “She said I should only do it at home, but cookies taste better that way.”

Mr. Granger stared at her. After a moment, he swallowed, then abruptly returned to the cupboards, put the glasses away and brought three mugs back to the table.

Having glimpsed real pain in his eyes, Abby set out to give him a moment to collect himself. She stripped the plastic wrap off the paper plate and offered it to the little girl. “Well, now, Miss Kitty, would you care to try one of these super-duper chocolate chip numbers?”

“Yes, please.” She carefully selected a cookie and placed it neatly in the center of her plate.

Abby winced inside. Erin had been right about how much a person could learn about a family from an in-home visit. No six-year-old child should be this perfect. Making a tsking sound, she sadly shook her head.

“Oh, that poor little cookie looks so lonely sitting there all by itself. I think you’d better take another one to keep it company.”

Kitty gave her a shy grin, then looked to her father for permission. Nodding, he gently touched her hair. “Go ahead, Kitten. No telling what a lonely cookie might do.”

Swallowing at a lump that had suddenly invaded her own throat, Abby held the plate until Kitty selected another cookie. Jeez, it wasn’t fair for the Grump to call his daughter Kitten and stroke her hair as if she were the most fragile, precious thing in his world. If he kept that up, Abby might actually have to start liking him, which would only confuse the heck out of her.

Abby served herself a cookie and sat down beside Kitty. Mr. Granger filled the cups and sat on the opposite side of the table. He selected a cookie for himself, then looked directly at Abby, his expression clearly saying, All right. What next?

Abby smiled, more than happy to accept his silent challenge. Maintaining eye contact, she dunked a cookie halfway into her cup, let it soak up the cold milk and quickly stuffed it into her mouth, closing her eyes and making noises of ecstasy as the flavors hit her taste buds.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm.”

Giggling, Kitty followed her example.

Mr. Granger watched them both with a wry smile. When he finally began to eat his own cookie, he didn’t join in with the dunking fun, but he didn’t say anything to discourage Kitty’s fun, either. Abby would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking, but she focused her attention where it belonged—on Kitty.

Kitty took forever to finish her snack, but at last she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, which, in Abby’s opinion, was more appropriate for a little girl than the paper napkin her father had given her.

With shining eyes, Kitty turned to Abby. “Would you like to see my bedroom, Ms. Walsh?”

“We’ve already taken up enough of Ms. Walsh’s time,” Mr. Granger said.

The little girl shot her father a rebellious scowl and crossed her arms over her chest. “But I want Ms. Walsh to see my room.”

“It’s almost your bedtime, Kitten. Go upstairs and get ready, and I’ll be up to read to you in a few minutes.”

Kitty looked to Abby, obviously hoping that she would overrule her father, but Abby suddenly saw a bone-deep weariness in his eyes and slowly shook her head. “Your daddy’s right. I do need to get home. I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

Abby held her breath, hoping that Kitty would argue for what she wanted, and for a moment, the little girl looked as if she just might do it. But then her eyes stopped shining, her shoulders slumped, and she murmured, “Okay, Ms. Walsh. Thank you for the cookies.”

“You’re welcome, honey. I’m glad you liked them.”

Picking up her plate and mug, Kitty carried them to the sink and left the room. The poor little scrap looked so much like a deflated balloon, Abby had to blink back tears. The tension in the kitchen grew to painful proportions while they studied each other across the table, waiting for Kitty to get out of earshot. Finally, the sound of running water filtered down from upstairs.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For staying. It meant a lot to Kitty.”

“I wanted her to know she’s important to me,” Abby said. “And I didn’t want her to worry that I was upset with her because I turned down her Mother’s Day gift.”

“I appreciate that. She obviously likes you.”

He didn’t say that he didn’t like her, but the implication was there in the air between them. Yet he seemed more open to a discussion about Kitty now than he had earlier. Abby took a deep breath, then plunged right in.

“Look, Mr. Granger, we’re supposed to be on the same side, here. Don’t you think we can find a way to work together to help Kitty?”

“You’d think so.” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then reached for another cookie. “We don’t seem to agree on much, though.”

“We don’t have to.” Abby tilted her head to one side, shaking it when he offered her the cookie plate. “I thought the way Kitty acted tonight was promising.”

“In what way?”

“It was refreshing to see her act so much like a regular kid tonight.”

“Well, she is a regular kid.”

Abby gaped at him. “How can you say that after seeing what just happened to her?”

“Nothing happened to her. What are you talking about?”

“She was giggly and lively for a while. She used to be that way all the time, didn’t she?”

Impatience—or perhaps it was defensiveness—sharpened his voice. “What’s your point?”

“Tonight I saw the little girl I’ll bet Kitty used to be. She needs to become that little girl again if she’s going to have a happy life. She should be animated and obnoxious and argue for what she wants like any other kid, instead of being that overly polite, sad little ghost who just left the room.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. You sat right there and saw it yourself. When you refused to let me see her room, all of that life and fun drained right out of her.”

“Are you saying that I should never say no to her?”

“Of course not. But would it really have hurt—”

“Ms. Walsh,” he interrupted. “We’re not going to get anywhere with this tonight, so you’ll have to excuse me. Thank you for your concern, but I need to go and take care of my daughter.”

“Fine.” Abby carried her plate and mug to the sink and set them beside Kitty’s.

Mr. Granger escorted her to the front door and held it open for her. Unable to resist, she pointed at the stack of papers he’d left sitting on the entry table. “Do study those learning targets, and you’ll see how much farther Kitty needs to go. If you change your mind about getting her into counseling, let me know. I have several excellent people I can recommend.”

“Good night, Ms. Walsh.”

“Good night, Mr. Granger.”

She hurried down the steps, climbed into her Bronco and turned the key in the ignition, pausing a moment to take one last look at the Grangers’ house. Mr. Granger had already gone inside and shut the front door. There were lights on in one of the upstairs rooms, and, looking at the window, Abby could make out the shape of Kitty’s head. A little hand came up and waved at her.

Abby waved back. She still had three full weeks of school left. In that amount of time, she’d find a way to help Kitty, whether Mr. Granger liked it or not. And while she was at it, she was going to help him, too.

He’d always seemed so strong and sure of himself, she’d never actually thought of him as someone in pain. Though he obviously was in deep denial where Kitty was concerned, Abby believed there was hope for him yet. She didn’t doubt for a second that once he saw for himself what Kitty needed, he would move heaven and earth to get it for her. Now all Abby had to do was find a way to get him to see his daughter in a more realistic light.

She was going to have to behave herself, though. She couldn’t afford to fool herself about the attraction she felt for both the Grangers, but especially for Jack. A true professional wouldn’t have even noticed how sexy he could be when he wasn’t acting like a grumpface.

Chapter Three

Three hours later, Jack sat at his desk, plowing through the files he’d brought home. He needed concentration to commit the important facts of each case to memory, but tonight it wasn’t there. He tossed down his pen in frustration, then heard a low cry coming from upstairs.

He took the stairs three at a time, entered Kitty’s room and stood watching her. She’d kicked off her covers, her hair was plastered to her forehead with perspiration and parallel tear trails glistened on her flushed cheeks. Her head thrashing back and forth, she repeatedly whimpered the one word guaranteed to rip his heart right down the middle.

“Mommyyyy.”

Kitty had cried in her sleep every night for five months after Gina’s death. The memories of that time still had the power to bring him to his knees. Lord, he couldn’t stand it if she started doing this again. He picked up Kitty and cuddled her against his chest, stroking her hair.

“Shh, Kitten,” he crooned. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

“Mommy.”

“I know, baby. I know. I miss her, too.”

Shivering, she heaved a huge, wobbly sigh, rested her cheek against his shoulder, then snuggled closer. He kissed the top of her head, rubbing her back and rocking her. When she relaxed into that boneless state only children achieve, he lay her in the middle of her bed and pulled the covers over her.

He stood there, anxiously watching. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had brought this on. He’d like to strangle that pint-size buttinsky teacher and her blasted Mother’s Day project for stirring up memories and emotions that were better left alone. Kitty shouldn’t have to suffer one more second of pain over her mother’s death.

Ms. Walsh could just butt right back out of their lives, because Kitty was all right, dammit. And he would prove it to that little woman. The best way to do that was to get Kitty caught up with the rest of her classmates.

Hurrying downstairs, he found the stack of papers Ms. Walsh had delivered, took them into the den and settled in behind his desk. Good grief, there were learning targets for reading and math, for writing, social studies, physical education, music and art, even behavior. It seemed like an awful lot of things for such little kids to have to learn in one school year.

He flipped back to the math section. “Recognizes and writes numerals from 1 to 100,” he read. “Counts sets of objects less than 100 using a variety of grouping strategies such as twos, fives and tens. Verbalizes and records addition and subtraction problems.”

The list went on. Trying to guess how many of those things Kitty could do gave him a hollow feeling in the middle of his chest. Could she do any of them? Not enough. Well, damn. They’d have to work on this stuff, of course, but what if she really couldn’t retain the things she learned? What if she truly was depressed?

No, that was ridiculous. Kitty wasn’t depressed. He would know if she was in serious trouble. Of course, he would.

Slowly and much more carefully, he reread the papers, going all the way to the bottom of the stack. The last page was the infamous Mother’s Day gift. At least, he thought that was what it must be. He held it up with both hands.

The single, wrinkled page had a recent photo of Kitty, a set of her handprints done in bright red paint and a poem.

HANDPRINTS

You like a shiny, tidy house,

And sometimes I do too.

But I have lots of things to learn,

Like tying my own shoes.

I hurry to try this and that,

And often make a mess.

But gee, I always have such fun,

’Cause, Mommy, you’re the best.

You always love my pictures,

My mud pies are great art.

So please don’t clean these handprints up,

I made them for your heart.

Jack cleared his tight throat and rubbed one hand down over his face, wiping a trace of dampness from his eyes. Damn. The photo, the handprints and the poem were all so sweet and sentimental, Gina would have cried buckets over them. He set the paper on the desk and pushed it to one side.

Kitty had wanted to give it to Ms. Walsh. If Ms. Walsh had accepted it, he never would have seen it. Suddenly he felt as if he didn’t even know his own daughter anymore. He could understand that she might need to have a female role model, but of all the women in the world for Kitty to latch on to, Ms. Walsh would be dead last on his list. She was too emotional. Too bossy. Too…well, just too convinced she was right about everything.

Oh, yeah? And who would be first on your list?

He wanted to tell that mocking inner voice to shut up, but he knew from experience that it wouldn’t leave him alone until he answered the damn question. So, who would be first on his list? There was always his mother. Unfortunately, she lived in Texas, and Kitty only saw her for about a week once a year. It was the same story with Gina’s mother, who lived in New York City.

Since his two brothers were still bachelors and Gina had been an only child, there were no doting aunts for Kitty. He didn’t mix his private life with his professional one, which let out his co-workers. There were no girlfriends; he wasn’t even interested in dating yet.

Who did that leave? Millie Patten? Well, Millie had her good points, but she was a little old for Kitty to identify with and she could be awfully pushy sometimes.

All right, so now Kitty’s attachment to the teacher made more sense. When he’d seen her at work with her students, he had to admit that Ms. Walsh’s enthusiasm made learning fun. She was generous with attention, encouragement and praise. Her love for kids was so genuine, they all responded to her.

He also had to admit he respected Ms. Walsh for coming all the way out here to apologize to him. He even thought her bringing the cookies and the learning targets had been a nice touch. If she had left it at that, things would have been fine.

But she hadn’t done that. No, she’d come inside, made herself at home, criticized him for sending his daughter to bed, and then had the nerve to call Kitty an overly polite, sad little ghost.

Determined to put Ms. Walsh out of his mind, he piled up the learning targets and the Mother’s Day gift, thumped them down on a bookcase and went back to his desk. He picked up the file he’d been working on, read the first page, then realized he hadn’t digested a single word, slammed it shut and strode back to the family room, muttering choice expletives to himself.

It only took a minute to find the old box of family videotapes. He shoved the first tape into the VCR, braced himself as best he could and pushed the play button.

“Over here, sweetheart. Look at Mommy.”

Gina’s voice sounded so real on the videotape, Jack almost expected to turn his head and see her sitting beside him. When he hadn’t been certain he could go on without her for one more second, much less one more day, he’d watched these videos and pretended she was sitting beside him. He’d talked to her about anything and everything, until he finally realized that he’d rather live in his pretend world with Gina than in the real world with their daughter. Their daughter who needed him.

“Okay, Kitty, sing your song for Daddy,” Gina said.

A three-year-old Kitty posed for the camera. When Gina again coaxed her to sing her song, the little imp rolled her eyes like an exasperated teenager, then sang—well, she shouted more than she sang, but what could anyone reasonably expect from a three-year-old?

“I’m a wittwe teapot, shote and stout.”

Jack smiled and shook his head at the trouble Kitty had once had pronouncing her L’s and her R’s.

She jammed one hand on her hip. “Hewe is my handwe.” She flopped her other hand out to the side. “And hewe is my spout. When I get all steamed up, then I shout.” Kitty bent at the waist, leaning toward her “spout.” “Tip me ovew and pouw me out.”

“Wonderful,” Gina said, zooming in for a close-up of Kitty’s face. “Say hi to Daddy.”

“Hi, Daddy! I wove you!” Kitty shouted, mugging for the camera again.

Jack watched the rest of that tape and the next one and the next, but long before the last one ended, he knew he had to face some hard truths he hadn’t wanted to see because they meant he was failing Kitty.

Dammit, Ms. Walsh was right. He hadn’t wanted her to be right about anything, because he couldn’t bear the thought of watching Kitty suffer in therapy the way she had before. That was why he’d found Ms. Walsh so irritating, why he didn’t want Kitty to like her so much, why he’d fought accepting her suggestions the way he should have done.

He’d been doing his best with Kitty, but his best wasn’t good enough. Not even close.

She didn’t look or act like the same child anymore, and the change had nothing to do with the age difference. The adorable, funny, happy child in the videotapes was the real Kitty, not the pale, skinny, tired little girl he’d come home to tonight. His Kitty was the one who shouted, “I wove you, Daddy,” and held out her little arms for a huge hug.

Jack leaned forward and put his face in his hands. Dear God, he wanted her back. He wanted her to be noisy and laugh and run around like a demented creature. He wanted her to wear him out with her demands of “Do it again, Daddy,” the way she had that day at the lake when he’d kept tossing her into the water until she was breathless and his arms had ached.

How on earth had he let things come to this?

“Aw, dammit, Gina,” he swore, swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’m doing it all wrong, and I don’t know how to make it right.”

He turned off the TV and VCR, then sat there in the quiet of the family room with his burning eyes shut and his head pounding with questions he couldn’t answer. What was he supposed to do now?

Gina had always done what was right for Kitty. So what would she do for their daughter in this situation? “Come on, Gina, tell me what to do,” he whispered, burying his face in his hands and trying to form a mental picture of his wife.

Unfortunately, the image that appeared in his mind was all wrong. Instead of Gina’s short black hair and loving dark eyes, Ms. Walsh’s blond ponytail and accusing green eyes appeared before him. Her steady gaze held pity for him, but if the image could speak, he suspected it would call him an idiot or worse.

He knew what he had to do, but his gut knotted and an automatic protest sprang to his lips. Ask Ms. Walsh for help? No way. Even the idea made him shudder, but he had no other choice.

His number-one priority was taking care of Kitty. No matter how much he hated doing it, it wouldn’t kill him to swallow his pride. He’d call Ms. Walsh first thing on Monday morning.

If you wait, certainly you’ll find a way to justify not calling her.

Muttering “All right, all right,” Jack looked up Ms. Walsh’s phone number and dialed it. The phone rang three times, and only then did he think to look at the clock. Damn. It was after midnight. Just as he was about to hang up, she answered.

“Hello?”

He felt like a jerk, but since he had her on the line, he might as well get this done. “Ms. Walsh, this is Jack Granger.”

“What time is it?” Her voice was soft and slurry with sleep, and it had an unnerving, surprisingly sexy rasp to it.

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” he said quickly. “I’ll call back in the morning.”

“Don’t do that,” she said with a prodigious yawn. “I’m awake now. Just give me a second.”

He heard a rustling sound and found himself wondering what she wore to bed. Cotton? Silk? Nothing? Oh, jeez. Before he could ask himself why he was even thinking about Ms. Walsh in that context, she came back on the line.

“All right. What do you want, Mr. Granger?”

Thank God she didn’t know how loaded that question sounded at the moment. “You were right.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he grumbled, scowling at the squeak of surprise in her voice. “You were right about Kitty. Meet me at the school tomorrow. One o’clock.”

Abby blinked. Unable to believe what he’d just said and the dictatorial tone in which he’d said it, she held the receiver away from her ear and silently counted to ten before speaking again—slowly and distinctly. “Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“So?” he snapped. “Don’t you teachers ever work on weekends?”

“No. We don’t.” She shifted into the same bright tone she used with first graders. “But you know, if I didn’t have plans for tomorrow and you had phrased that as a request instead of an order, I might have been willing to think about making an exception for you.”

There was no way he could misunderstand that message. She grinned at the stunned silence on the other end of the line. Oh, she’d give a month’s salary to see his face right now. She heard him take a deep breath.

“Ms. Walsh, please—” he said.

He sounded as if his teeth might be gritted.

“—I would sincerely appreciate it if you could find it in your heart to change your plans and meet me in your classroom tomorrow.”

“That’s much better,” she said.

“Then you’ll meet with me?”

Hoo-boy, he really sounded steamed. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m signed up for a fun run at Manito Park, and then—”

“Fun run?”

He had a bad habit of interrupting her. “Yes. And I don’t intend to miss it.”

“What about after the fun run?”

“I’m baby-sitting for the rest of the weekend—not that it’s any of your business.” It was the price she’d had to pay for Erin’s expert opinion about Kitty. “I’m free after school on Monday.”

After another long silence, he replied in such a grudging tone that she had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from laughing out loud.

“All right. I’ll meet you at the school on Monday afternoon. Say, four o’clock?”

“Fine. Try to be on time. Good night, Mr. Granger.”

Without waiting for his reply, she hung up and flopped back on her bed, giggling. Oh, dear, this had to be a difficult time for him but he most definitely did not “play well with others.” He really needed to learn that he couldn’t run roughshod over other people, including his daughter and his daughter’s teacher.