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However badly she needed the money, she simply couldn’t do what he wanted. Her life was a leaky rowboat and she was bailing as fast as she could. So far, she was staying afloat. Barring another disaster, she could meet her financial obligations and no one would be the wiser. She’d rather walk barefoot on broken glass than have her mother and aunt find out the only home they’d ever known was always one paycheck away from being snatched out from under them.
Her mother rested her hands on the table and leaned forward. “M.J., I just don’t understand why you’re making things harder—”
“Dinner’s ready,” Aunt Lil interrupted. M.J. shot the older woman a grateful look. “This smells wonderful, Aunt Lil. I love your soup.”
“Your aunt is a good cook,” Evelyn agreed. She sat across from M.J. “I never had time to nurture my inner chef.”
M.J. felt another twinge. Her mother was a single mom before the needs of single moms were commonly recognized. It wasn’t M.J.’s fault, but she felt guilty that her mother had worked so hard to provide for her. The only thing Evelyn hadn’t worried about was the roof over their heads because the house had been in the family for so long. M.J. intended to see that didn’t change.
“It takes more than time to be a cook, Ev,” her aunt said gently. She sipped from her spoon and nodded with satisfaction. “Yagottawanna.”
M.J. laughed. “Excuse me?”
“You have to want to do it. You’re a teacher, dear. You should understand. Some people go through the motions because they have to. Others just have the desire to be successful. Any fool who can read can follow a recipe. But a good cook has a calling, a need to experiment, a love of working with food.”
“I suppose I didn’t get that gene,” her mother admitted.
“Me, either,” M.J. said. She looked down at her empty bowl and realized she’d scarfed down the contents. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d write down everything you put in this soup so this fool could have a recipe to read.”
“I’ll do that as best I can. And thank you, dear. I’m glad you like it.”
After dinner, the sisters cleaned up and M.J. was shooed out of the kitchen to rest. Since she had papers to grade, that wasn’t going to happen. She grabbed the backpack with her work and started up the stairs to her room when she noticed the mail on the sofa table in the entryway.
Scooping it up, she headed upstairs. Her room was just above the kitchen and had the same bay window, with a chair and ottoman filling it. On one wall sat her queen-size bed, the pink chenille spread neatly covering it. Her desk sat just inside the door and she set the mail down there.
The top envelope caught her eye when she noticed the official-looking return address from a mortgage company. She’d learned to loathe official-looking letters. It was never good news. Her stomach knotted and her hands shook as she opened the envelope.
M.J. read through it several times, hoping she was getting it wrong, then realizing she wasn’t that lucky. The words second mortgage, balloon payment, six months and enough zeroes to make her eyes cross just put a gaping hole in her leaky little rowboat. This was the disaster she’d been afraid would sink her and it was a beaut.
After Evelyn’s mild heart attack three years ago, her mother and aunt had put the title in M.J.’s name because they weren’t getting any younger. M.J. hadn’t known about her husband’s compulsive gambling. Only after his death had she learned that he would do anything, use anyone, to get the money to fund his obsession. Some methods were more underhanded than others. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed the first mortgage let alone this one. The bill was due and payable in six months, she didn’t have the money, and she was liable. In addition to borrowing against the house, he’d maxed out numerous credit cards, some of them in her name, all of which she was responsible for. Thanks to him, her credit was ruined and she couldn’t borrow a dime.
M.J. dropped into her desk chair before her trembling legs gave out. What was she going to do?
She wasn’t sure how long she sat staring at the letter before dropping it on the desk blotter. Tucked into a pocket was the card Gavin had given her. She picked it up and stared at the no-nonsense black block letters. Gavin Spencer, CEO, Spencer Technology, Inc.
“I hate that you were right, Gavin. But everyone does have a price.”
M.J. picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card.
Chapter Three
M .J. breathed a sigh of relief when her little old car coughed and wheezed, then shuddered off in front of Gavin’s house. When giving directions, he’d said Cliff House overlooked the Pacific Ocean on a bluff, but with everything else on her mind, it hadn’t quite registered that getting there involved a serious incline.
“The little car that could. Barely.” She patted the dashboard approvingly, then got out.
She’d agreed to meet Gavin here at five o’clock and it was getting dark. Late-afternoon clouds had rolled in off the ocean and the large gray house blended in, except for the intricate and elaborate white trim that outlined the roof, windows and second-floor deck. The expanse of lawn was neatly trimmed as were the marguerites and privets bordering it. California cypress grew thick around the perimeter, giving the estate privacy.
She looked around again and knew she was putting off going inside. “Procrastination is a crime. It only leads to sorrow. I can stop it anytime, I think I will tomorrow.” It was a rhyme she recited to her students, teasing them into taking action. It was time to take her own advice. “I hate that rhyme,” she mumbled.
Taking a deep breath, she followed the walkway to the double-door entry. As the mist rolled in, she shivered, feeling like the plucky heroine of a Gothic romance novel. The difference was, she wasn’t plucky. Desperation was her only motivation. If she had a choice, she’d get back in her little car and go as fast as she could back down the hill.
She rang the bell and, through the oval etched glass in the door, she could see lights inside and someone coming. Bracing herself, she prepared to see Gavin again. When a tall, trim, gray-haired man opened the door, she was surprised.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m—”
“Ms. Taylor. I’m Henderson, the caretaker of Cliff House. Mr. Spencer said to expect you. He had planned to be here when you arrived, but was delayed at the office. He’ll be here shortly and sends his apologies. I’ll introduce you to Sean.”
“Thank you.” It was the polite response, but M.J. wanted to tell him not to do her any favors. She dreaded this with every fiber of her being.
“My wife, Lenore, is the housekeeper. She’s watching over the boy in the family room.”
M.J. nodded as she glanced around. The entryway ceiling must be twenty feet high. Twin staircases curved up to the second floor. As she followed Henderson through the house, she had a fleeting impression of elegant furniture in serene shades of celery and hunter green. In the artwork and glassware there were splashes of red, gold and orange. Beige tile gave way to plush carpet as they moved through the house.
Just off the kitchen with black granite-covered island and countertops, they stopped in the family room. A large sea-foam green sectional filled one corner with a huge flat-screen TV across from it.
An older woman sat on the sofa. Beside her, a recliner built into the sectional was pushed back with the footrest extended. Beneath it, a boy lined up little plastic dinosaurs, then set two pterodactyls on the footrest above, poising them to swoop down on the tyrannosaurus rex and the triceratops. She knew the names because Brian had loved them and constantly begged her to read him dinosaur books.
Emotion tightened in her chest and spread into her throat.
Henderson walked farther into the room. “Lenore, Sean, this is Ms. Taylor.”
A petite, brown-eyed brunette, Lenore smiled warmly. “Welcome to Cliff House.”
The polite thing to say would be that it was nice to be here. But it wasn’t nice. At this moment she’d give anything if she hadn’t been raised to be polite. M.J. wanted to turn and run from toys that were scattered on the floor, little cars small enough for little hands. A small boy in blue jeans and long-sleeved, striped T-shirt. His white sneakers were scuffed because active boys were hard on shoes. It was all so familiar, and looking at it produced a physical ache.
“Ms. Taylor?” There was concern in Henderson’s voice.
“Yes.” She let out a long breath as she slid her hands into the pockets of her sweater and looked at them. “Lenore. Sean. Hi.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Gavin rushed into the room and Sean smiled, then instantly jumped up and raced to his father.
Brian used to do that when she got home from work. Tears burned her eyes and she held her breath, waiting for the squeal of delight when Gavin swung his son into his arms. But it never came.
Gavin took the boy’s weight on his forearm and their faces were close together. There was no question of paternity. Sean was the image of his father. “Hi, buddy. Did you have a good day?”
Sean nodded.
“You met Ms. Taylor? M.J.”
This time the boy pointed at her and nodded.
“Good. She’s going to help you talk again.” Gavin bent to set him down and the boy clung for several moments.
When his father straightened, Sean looked up at him, dark eyes wide and questioning. He was a beautiful little boy and would grow into a handsome man, just like his father. She wondered if he’d also inherited Gavin’s intensity, determination and charm. All of that would help him be successful in the weeks of therapy ahead.
Gavin ran his hand over the boy’s dark hair. “Daddy needs to talk to M.J., son. You stay with Lenore.” When Sean pointed to his dinosaurs, Gavin said, “That’s right. Have fun with your toys.”
The boy shook his head, then pointed to Gavin and his dinosaurs.
“I can’t play right now, buddy. Later.” He looked at her. “We can talk in my office.”
She didn’t miss the flash of disappointment on the child’s face before Gavin put his hand at the small of her back and urged her from the room. She accompanied him down a hall and into an office that was as elegant as it was masculine. The walls were oak-paneled, with a matching desk dominating the center of the hunter-green carpet. One wall was entirely windows with French doors looking out on the ocean.
Two leather wing chairs were in front of the desk and he indicated she should sit.
Gavin took off his suit coat and draped it across the high back of the desk chair. He sat across from her, loosened his red tie and rolled up the long sleeves of his white dress shirt to just below the elbows. As if that wasn’t masculine enough, she noticed that his jaw was dark with five o’clock shadow. It gave him a dangerous look that set off a fluttering sensation in her stomach. Again her survival instincts were telling her to run, but this time for a different reason.
“So,” Gavin said, folding his hands on the desk. “Thanks for coming. Can I ask what changed your mind?”
She wanted to tell him he was free to ask, but she didn’t have to answer. Except, given her firm, outspoken objection to his offer, it was a fair question. That didn’t mean he was entitled to the whole truth. “Let’s just call it a moment of weakness.”
He studied her for several seconds, then shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. The point is you’re here. And I’m grateful.”
Don’t be, she wanted to say. “Sean’s injury was to the left side of his brain,” she said, getting straight to the point. They had no reason to do small talk.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“That’s where language function is controlled.”
Gavin nodded and his expression was grim. “He used to be a chatterbox.”
“With TBI, or traumatic brain injury,” she added, although probably he’d heard the term more than he wanted, “the jolt to the head disrupts brain function and it isn’t just language that’s affected.”
“The doctor told me.”
“Did he also make you aware that reading, social skills such as impulse control, gauging consequences for a behavior and acting out because of frustration can also be affected by the injury?”
He nodded. “Medically, Sean’s come as far as he can.”
“Do you have a prognosis?”
“The neurologist feels that with cognitive and physical therapy, Sean has a good chance to regain brain function lost due to the trauma.”
“Good. I’ll need to do a series of tests on Sean to see where he is, then work up a treatment plan.”
“Okay.”
She knew a therapist was the driving force in treatment. But, like a general, she needed to martial all the forces at her disposal. She needed to know who she could count on. “Gavin, clearly you’re dedicated to Sean’s care. What about Sean’s mother? Will she—”
“She won’t be involved,” he snapped. M.J. almost shivered at the ice-cold tone of his voice. “You should know that TBI kids typically progress faster when both parents become involved in the process.”
“Sean’s mother doesn’t have any contact with him.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it.” His gaze narrowed.
True. If she still had her son, nothing and no one could keep her from him.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “I don’t see. But I can make a guess that she’s the woman who worked you into that cynical attitude of yours and is responsible for you keeping your guard up.”
“You’d be correct.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “All you need to know is that Sean is better off without her.”
M.J. couldn’t help being curious. He’d never married Sean’s mother and he was raising the boy by himself. He believed money could buy everything and everyone. It didn’t require ugly details to see that the woman had really done a number on him. Sympathy started to stir inside M.J. and she shut it down. He was a client, her employer. As one parent to another, she sympathized with what he was going through, but she didn’t want to feel anything for him as a man.
“What about grandparents?” she asked.
Gavin shook his head. “My father passed away about two years ago.”
M.J. waited for more, but he didn’t say anything about extended family on his mother’s side. When curiosity stirred again, she ignored it. “Who takes care of him when you’re at work?”
“Henderson and Lenore. They’ve been with me since before Sean was born.”
“So they’re like family?”
“Yes. They’re devoted to my son.”
“Good.” She met his gaze. “But you’re the most important person in his world.”
“And I’ll do whatever it takes. You can count on me.”
She nodded. “Does Sean speak at all?”
“Not much,” he said ruefully. “A word here and there, but not complete sentences.” Worry etched lines in his handsome face. “He was perfect before the accident.”
“He’s a beautiful child,” she said softly. Something stirred inside her and again she shut it down.
Gavin met her gaze, his own stark with a father’s pain. “I want him back the way he was.”
M.J. nodded her understanding. Any parent in his position would feel the same. Now wasn’t the time to tell him Sean’s accident had changed him forever. No one could go through what he had and be the same as he was. The question was how much brain function could be regained.
To accomplish the best case scenario, M.J. needed to establish a bond with the child. How was she going to do that when every instinct urged her to shut down? To disengage from him? Once, she would have hugged Sean when introduced. Touched him. Shaken his little hand. Now she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
She hoped Gavin hadn’t made a mistake hiring her and that she hadn’t made a colossal error in judgment by accepting the job.
She stood and slipped her hands into the pockets of her sweater. “I’ll do my best to help Sean.”
That was also the truth. Although it wasn’t much, she’d give everything she had left. But that didn’t include her heart. Not for the child. Or his father.
It had been four weeks since M.J. had first come to Cliff House. Gavin had cut short a meeting at work so that he could be here before she left today. Standing in the shadows just outside the room, he could observe, but the two didn’t notice him.
He was frustrated as he watched her on the family room floor playing with Sean. They were doing a dinosaur puzzle and hadn’t noticed him yet. First she had the boy trace the space where the piece fit, then run his finger around the piece itself before fitting the irregular cardboard into the right place.
“Good job.” She smiled at the boy.
What the heck did this have to do with helping Sean to speak again?
“Now,” she said. “Brush your finger over the next space like I showed you. Do the same with the piece that goes there, then put it where it belongs.”
