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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.”
A dozen ballerinas scampered to claim their place at the mirrored wall. Logan nudged Whitney. “That’s Amanda,” he said. “Second from the left.”
The child, with round blue eyes and fat cheeks, exuded a Shirley Templesque sparkle. She didn’t walk; she pranced. A riot of strawberry-blond curls, bound with a diaphanous pink-and-white scrunchie, and pulled to a curious angle at the top of her head, swung against her nape. She paused long enough to look over her shoulder at her father, then offered up an outrageous wink and an infectious smile.
A chuckle of appreciation rumbled through Logan’s chest. Women on either side of them snickered. “She has my comedic sense of timing,” he whispered.
“She’s darling.”
“She’s a ham. A darling ham. I know it. And I love it.”
Whitney drew a deep, amused breath, and settled back against Logan’s arm, to bask in the enthusiasm of a gregarious six-year-old. Another mind-bending matter also weighed heavily on her mind: What brand of cologne did Logan wear?
The lesson ended much too quickly. When it was over, Amanda went flying into Logan’s arms.
“Daddy! Did you see it? My pliе?”
“I did.”
“Much better, don’t you think?”
“Without a doubt.” He cocked his head, to study her floppy ponytail, then awkwardly tried to pat it back into place. “We still didn’t get this hair thing right,” he muttered.
Amanda didn’t seem to care about that, but her expressive mouth drooped. “I wish Mommy would have been here to see it.”
“What?”
“My pliе.”
“Oh.” An uncomfortable moment of silence passed, then Logan pulled her into his arms. “I think, Amanda, that she knows,” he said gently. “Mommy loved you so much that she’s never really far from you.” His forefinger tapped her chest. “She’s right here, you know…in your heart.”
Amanda nodded bravely, but her eyes were solemn, sad. Whitney’s heart wrenched.
“Miss Timlin said I might be a swan in the recital,” Amanda announced.
“Really?” Logan pulled back, feigning intrigue.
“If I have another good lesson,” she said, dipping her chin as she scooched, uninvited, onto his lap. “That’s what she said. The swans get to wear feathers in their hair, you know.”
“Ah. Well, either way, feathers or no feathers, I’m proud of you.” He gave Amanda a quick, congratulatory hug. “Amanda, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Amanda leaned forward. Her gaze, neither friendly nor hostile, unabashedly met Whitney’s. “Must be you,” she concluded. “You’re the only new person here.”
“Hi,” Whitney said, extending her hand. “I’m Whitney Bloom.”
Amanda briefly regarded her, then politely dragged her fingers against Whitney’s palm. The greeting was a curious mixture of an infant’s patty-cake and an adolescent’s high-five. “Like the flower?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Whitney stopped, perplexed.
“You know. It’s a saying. Daddy always says we should bloom where we’re planted.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Whitney lifted her eyes, to exchange an amused look with Logan. To her delight, he winked.
“He says it means we have to do our best, no matter where we are or what happens to us.”
“I see. Good advice.”
“You’re lucky to have a name like that,” Amanda went on. “Sometime I’m going to get a name I can keep, that’s what the social worker says. Of course, I wish I had a name like Daddy’s.”
