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“Sounds like Meggie’s having a bad day,” he said. “She didn’t want to come to Oklahoma. And she didn’t get to bed until very late last night.”
“I know. Your mom told me.”
“I hope you know what you’re getting into, Christy—may I call you Christy?”
“Sure. Listen, Sam—may I call you Sam?—don’t worry about me. I’ve been a nanny to some world-class brats. And I’ve also been a waitress, a Merry Maid, a vet’s assistant and, until yesterday—” she made a wry little grimace “—I was a checker at the local Wal-Mart. I think I’m up to this job.”
“But do you have any experience with mentally challenged children?”
The wailing broke into one long, eardrum-piercing shriek. Miss Meggie was apparently giving her granny hell.
“No. But there are worse things. And I like to think I’m patient and that I am very intuitive about how to handle people.” The shrieking upstairs stopped abruptly. “And, Mr. Solomon? Sam?” She smiled at him. “I love kids, even the kind that scream at you.”
Gayle Solomon burst into the room then, looking careworn and surprised to see her son. “Sam! What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
Mrs. Solomon gave him an irked look. “You know what I mean. I thought you went out to Moonlight Grove.”
“I just popped in for lunch. I wanted to see how the new nanny was working out.”
Mrs. Solomon raked her silver hair back with the exact same gesture her son had used. Christy wondered if either one was aware of the similarity. With her fingers still in her hair, the woman shot an apologetic glance at Christy. “Yes. Well, I’m afraid we haven’t even gotten acquainted yet. Christy just got here.”
“We introduced ourselves,” Sam said.
“And I’ve already played a little Chopin for him,” Christy added brightly. She smiled at her little joke. But neither of the Solomons did. Oh, boy. This family was going to be so much fun.
“Meggie won’t come downstairs.” Gayle Solomon remained tense as she explained the situation to Sam. “Sometimes, with Meggie,” she explained, turning toward Christy, trying belatedly to compose her face in a smile, “patience is required. Sometimes it’s better to just let her decide things for herself.”
Christy seriously doubted that. Easier, maybe, but not better. Behind his mother, she saw Sam Solomon roll his eyes.
“Why don’t both of you have a seat.” He indicated the couch across the room. Then he disappeared into the foyer. He returned carrying a briefcase.
They settled onto the leather furniture—Mrs. Solomon sinking into an overstuffed armchair, leaving Sam and Christy to position themselves uneasily, side by side, on the low couch.
Sam reached into the briefcase and pulled out some papers, then he reached in front of Christy to lay them on the glass-topped coffee table. When his shoulder came near hers she felt a wave of attraction. In high school, they had never gotten this close except for that one time when they’d bumped shoulder to chest between class periods. The hallways of Central High were so overcrowded that no one ever excused themselves in the jostling. Except Sam. He’d looked straight into Christy’s eyes and said, “’Scuse me.” She had felt the impact of that incident for days. Now the memory came over her like a spell. He even smelled the same. Overwhelmingly clean and fresh and strongly masculine.
She forced herself to concentrate on the papers. Before her was an actual contract. He was thorough, she’d give him that. After they agreed on the terms and signed the thing, Mrs. Solomon scurried into the kitchen to make lunch.
“You realize I have hired you to take over for my mother,” Sam explained after his mother was gone. “Which won’t be easy. Mom’s a dynamo who’d rather do things herself than turn matters over to somebody else. She’s already made arrangements to continue Meggie’s speech therapy here in Tulsa.” He raised an eyebrow, skewering Christy with an assessing blue-eyed gaze. “She’s also a hoverer.”
“I suppose that’s natural when you have a granddaughter with disabilities.”
“Yeah. Well. My mom was a control freak long before Meggie arrived. The truth is, my daughter can be a holy terror. So much so that hardly anyone can stand to be around her.”
Christy wondered if that included the child’s own father. “How sad.” She did not make a habit of glossing over the truth. And if what Sam Solomon had just said was true, it was, indeed, sad. There was no other word for it.
“I take it you haven’t met my daughter yet.”
Christy smiled and she shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard her.”
Again, he didn’t smile.
Goodness. Maybe she was losing her touch.
“I’m going up to try to reason with Meggie now. Want to come?”
“Sure.”
AS SOON AS THEY OPENED THE door of a sunny upstairs bedroom, Christy sensed that here was big trouble. The child, who was jumping in the middle of her rumpled bed, leapt off of it and into her father’s arms, almost knocking the big man over.
“Dad-dee,” she whined as he hitched her up over his hip, “I don’t want no nandy!” She glared at Christy, who stood a discreet distance away, just inside the doorway.
“Now, Meggie,” Sam chided. “Christy seems nice.”
Christy smiled, opened her mouth to introduce herself, but the child shrieked, “I don’t want that nandy!” From behind a wavy fringe of bangs, she skewered Christy with intense navy-blue eyes. A dominant Solomon trait, Christy decided.
Sam chastised his daughter again. “Meggie!”
“It’s okay, Sam,” Christy said mildly. “Is this your new room, Meggie?” She stepped inside.
Though the underlying decor was minimalist like the rest of the house—mullioned windows with white plantation shutters covering them, black lacquered floor, mission furniture—the childish debris made it look as if a tornado had just passed through. And the child in Sam Solomon’s arms looked as if she had been at the center of that storm.
She was lanky, painfully thin, actually, still wearing rumpled pajamas at noon, and her wild, frizzy blond hair was tangled and matted. She buried her head under her father’s chin and continued to regard Christy with an openly hostile stare.
Christy stepped farther into the room and bent to pick up a stuffed brown bear that had all the threadbare markings of being loved to pieces.
“Who’s this?” She raised her eyebrows at Meggie.
“Mr. Bear,” Meggie answered uncertainly.
“Mr. Bear—” Christy regarded the impassive stitched face “—did you make a mess of this room?”
Meggie giggled.
Sam Solomon looked mildly astonished.
Watching Christy’s eyes as she took in the child’s face, then her hair, Sam said, “Meggie, let Daddy brush your hair so we can all go down and have a nice lunch now.”
“No!” Meggie screamed, and struck her father’s shoulder with her skinny fist. “I don’t wanna comb my hair.”
“Meggie, stop that.” Sam clutched her thin little fingers. “You may not hit Daddy.”
“No!” Meggie repeated, and pummeled his shoulder with three more thumps. “I don’t wanna eat no yucky old lunch. I want IckDonald’s.”
Christy only smiled. “Ooh,” she cooed in a soft, low voice as she sidled farther into the room. “I love McDonald’s. Big Macs and chicken nuggets and ooey, gooey sundaes.”
“Me, too!” Meggie reared back from her father, suddenly distracted. With obvious relief, he dropped his daughter to her feet. “And fench fies.” The child’s eyes lit up as she walked toward Christy and stuck her thumb into her mouth with an expectant look.
Christy reached out and smoothed back the child’s untidy hair, then gently withdrew the little thumb. At her touch the poor little baby actually blinked in surprise, then, predictably, became as docile as a kitten. Christy, who loved to calm people with her touch, tucked a strand of hair behind Meggie’s ear.
“Well, then,” Christy crooned as she stroked Meggie’s hair back, “maybe we can have McDonald’s for supper…to celebrate my first day with you in your house.”
At first Meggie only nodded docilely, but then her eyes snapped and she jerked away. “This ain’t not my house.”
Christy could fully understand the child’s resistance to calling this sterile black box “home.” Why hadn’t the father done more to make this vulnerable child comfortable? But it was too late—or perhaps too soon—to change that now, and Christy had her ways of smoothing over unpleasant things that couldn’t be helped.
“So. McDonald’s for dinner. Would that be okay?” Christy addressed the question to Sam, who didn’t answer immediately because he was staring at Meggie, who was now actually leaning toward Christy. “I guess so,” he said absently. “Sure.”
“All right. Now.” Using a light touch, Christy fanned out Meggie’s tangled hair. “Let’s brush your hair until it’s all pretty and then get dressed in something nice so we can see what kind of delicious surprise Nonnie has fixed for our lunch. I’m starving!”
“Me, too!” Meggie echoed.
“Okay. Then let’s find your brush.”
Again, Sam stared at his daughter as she lurched around the room, searching high and low in the mess. Then he stared at this strange new person that had invaded his home like a pixie sprinkling fairy dust. She was bent at the waist, peeking under the bedskirt. Her shapeless clothes did little to disguise her curvy figure.
When he had paused in the doorway downstairs, listening to the music, studying the tiny woman perched at his piano playing with such expert energy, he had experienced a moment of disorientation. Watching her now, he realized he should never have trusted his mother’s judgment. He should have called Bob Barrett and tracked down the dependable, matronly Mrs. Waddle on his own. This little imp of a woman before him was so beautiful that she could have passed for a model, except—his gaze traveled down over her garish outfit—she was dressed like a…well, there was no other word for it…like a clown.
Her masses of curly light-blond hair were smashed under a wide, hot-pink polka-dot scarf, which was tied behind one ear in a big floppy bow. She wore a long, flowered skirt with a baggy denim shirt atop it, buttoned—strangely—right up to her neck. The shirt was cinched at the waist with another scarf, this one actually decorated with fringe and sequins. Striped socks peeked out over ankle-high red boots. The overall effect was definitely of a clown, perhaps a slightly demented one, recently escaped from the circus.
But when Sam had taken Christy Lane’s hand and looked into her impossibly blue eyes, he had experienced the most amazing sensation. An electric thrill, as they say. No, it was much more than that. He felt an unmistakable lightness somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. At the same time, he had been seized by a sudden urge to hold tight to that tiny warm hand.
Weird. He’d never felt anything quite like it.
“I can’t fine it!” Meggie whined, ready to give up.
“Let’s keep looking,” the nanny said. “Nonnie’s waiting.”
How had this woman already discovered that Meggie called his mother Nonnie? It was the kind of small detail that mattered, that would win over Meggie’s childish heart—that apparently already had. As he squinted at Christy Lane’s backside, he tried to figure out why she seemed so familiar. Realizing what he was doing, he cleared his throat and looked away. It didn’t matter. What mattered was, in less than five minutes, this impish woman had gotten through to Meggie. Sam felt a pang of something like jealousy as Meggie called out, “I fine it, Christy!” with a note of cheery cooperation that he had never heard from his own daughter.
He watched in utter disbelief as Meggie fairly skipped across the room, retrieved her brush from the rumpled bed and proudly presented it to Christy Lane.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHRISTY’S FIRST FEW WEEKS in Sam Solomon’s household flew by in a kaleidoscopic swirl of change. She had determined on the very first day that there was much to be accomplished in this odd situation. She had gone home and made an extensive list on a large yellow legal pad. Each day she hauled the pad around with her and took delight in scratching items off.
-Give Meggie a thorough bath and grooming. (Trim her bangs?)
-Teach her to pick up her room before dinner and at bedtime.
-Straighten her closet. (Get suitcases unpacked!)
-Launder and press all her clothes.
-Get some cash from Sam in order to stock the pantry with nutritious food to entice a child.
-Establish a routine naptime for Meggie.
-Write a song especially for Meggie.
And last but not least on Christy’s list:
-Have some fun.
Fun was a big priority for Christy Lane. And the Solomon household seemed to be sorely lacking in that particular commodity. In fact, it was obvious to Christy that the Solomons were so overwhelmed with the unexpected arrival of Sam’s mentally challenged daughter that fun was the farthest thing from their minds.
She had learned from Gayle that Sam usually arranged not to work at all during Meggie’s brief visitations. It sounded like he went into some kind of survival mode until he could ship the child back to California. Just as Christy had suspected, this was not a household that accommodated the needs of a small child easily.
But Christy loved a challenge.
By Friday of the third week, her to-do list had shrunk nicely. She was sitting at the bowed window by the dining room table, feeding Mr. Charlie, the betta fish she’d bought Meggie that day, when Sam Solomon’s black Suburban pulled into the circular driveway. Meggie was upstairs, konked out. A pot of mildly seasoned spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove. Quiet classical music drifted from the CD player. Brutus lay like a warm pillow across Christy’s feet. Mr. Charlie swam to the surface of his fishbowl and snagged a pellet. “What a good fishy-wishy you are,” Christy cooed.
She glanced up, watching Sam climb out of his Suburban. She had seen little of the man all week. He usually left the minute she arrived at 7:00 a.m., long before Meggie was awake, and many nights he didn’t get home until Meggie was in bed for the night. Christy was determined to fix that situation, hoping that Meggie’s new routine of an afternoon nap would allow her to stay up later so she could get to know her daddy.
For the last few days Christy had also been debating about whether or not to tell Sam that they went to high school together. He didn’t seem to remember her at all. She got to thinking that since she had allowed three whole weeks to pass without bringing the subject up, it would seem silly, even self-conscious, to suddenly mention it now. As if it were a big deal or something. As if she expected him to remember her. And he clearly didn’t.
Better to be cool about it. Maybe the whole thing would come out naturally at some point. Or maybe he’d remember it on his own. It was not important. What was important was Meggie.
She heard his key in the lock and said, “Gotta go, Mr. Charlie.”
Brutus jumped up, barking like a maniac, and ran to the front door.
Christy dropped one last pellet into the fishbowl, then stood to gather her things: a giant red bag she’d made herself from one of her grandmother’s old quilts, the yellow legal pad, some books and tapes she’d borrowed from the library for Meggie. Dealing with Meggie had proved a challenge, but the child was already coming around nicely. Now, if Christy could only find a way to get Meggie’s daddy to spend a little more time with his daughter.
WHEN SAM ENTERED HIS FOYER, he almost tripped over that barking Brutus, then over a large paper box decorated with cut-up construction paper. “Brutus,” Sam snapped, “will you kindly shut the heck up?”
The dog flipped to his back, showing Sam his belly.
The box looked like a little red choo-choo train. While he rubbed Brutus’s tummy, he peered inside. Toys. One lonesome dirty sock. A torn, scribbled-on storybook. Meggie’s flotsom and jetsom. Did it have to sit right here, smack in the middle of the foyer?
He spotted Christy through the double doors of the dining room. She was cramming stuff into that hideous red bag she hauled around with her. He stepped over the box, put on his glasses and started flipping through the mail as he strolled into the dining room with Brutus sniffing at his heels. “Hello,” he said without looking up.
“Hi.”
“What’s the deal with the box in the foyer?”
“I hope you don’t mind a few changes around here. I’m training Meggie to pick up her clutter before we go out. She pushes the choo-choo train around and puts her toys and so forth inside. Then we end up at the station—the foyer—and we’re ready to go. It’s working.”
“Really?” Sam couldn’t help giving the nanny an approving glance. Hers was a simple, but clever, idea. He continued to flip through the mail. “And she does this willingly?”
“She does if she knows we’re going someplace fun, like swimming, and if I tell her we can’t leave until the train is in the station.”
He shot Christy a look over the rim of his reading glasses. “Swimming?”
“Yes. I’m teaching Meggie to swim. In your mother’s pool. You should drop by some afternoon and watch her.”
“Meggie isn’t coordinated enough to swim.”
