Any Man of Mine (10 page)

“That would be lovely,” I said. “But I need to put money in the parking meter.”

Ten minutes later I was balanced on a tiny chair, a cappuccino perched on a table not much larger than a dinner plate. I guessed the savings on the tables paid for the leather couches, which were occupied.

Les sat across from me looking very much at ease as he sipped his grande latte. Jazz music played in the background while around me I heard snatches of conversation covering topics from IPO's to the advantages of full grain leather car seats. Not a word about grain futures or internal combustion engines. I could get used to this, I thought with a sigh.

“Tell me about your family, Danielle,” Les said, giving me another brilliant smile. “I'd like to know more about you.”

I took a careful sip of coffee as I tried to imagine my brothers with this man. The picture just wouldn't gel. But I forged ahead. “I have three brothers. Two older, one younger. My father is a retired farmer.”

I mentally kicked myself. Agribusinessman, or even rancher, would have had a nicer ring, but Dad never cottoned to that kind of talk. He was proud to be a farmer. No need to pussyfoot around that with fancy definitions, he always said.

“So you got to grow up in the great outdoors with three brothers.” His smile made me feel a little less hick-like. “I'm sure they doted on you.”

“My brothers?” I thought of the time I'd played catch with Neil. He'd graciously let me borrow his glove. But when I missed a catch and the hard ball landed squarely on my nose, Neil hurried to my side more concerned for his glove than my bleeding face. “They're not so much with the doting. What about you and your family?”

“My father is a corporate lawyer. My mother
works for the Museum of Fine Arts in Toronto. I have one brother. A surgeon at The Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto.”

Right. I took a sip of coffee, feeling genetically surpassed. Mechanic, welder and farmer just didn't stack up to those qualifications.

“But I didn't come here to talk about my family,” Les said, putting his coffee aside and leaning his elbows on the table. And with a table this small that gesture put him close enough that I could see that his eyes were not just blue. They had shades of grey, as well. “I want to find out more about you.”

“I am a social worker. I come from a small town. Not very interesting.” I waved this all away as of no consequence.

To my surprise he caught my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. His hand was large, and covered mine. His fingernails were neatly manicured. Not a speck of grease or dirt anywhere. “Don't talk like that,” he said, lowering his voice intimately. “You are a fascinating person. I'd like to get to know you better.”

My heart caught in my throat as he held my hand a fraction of a second longer. No one had ever called me fascinating. I found that, well, fascinating.

“You want volume one or two?”

“I have time,” he said easily. “What does your job entail?”

Entail. Good vocabulary.

So I told him. Les was the perfect audience. Laughed when he was supposed to, looked sad at the
right times, shook his head at some of the more colorful characters I had to deal with.

He told me more about the job I would be doing for him and Dan. About the kind of people I would be dealing with. Mostly professionals who tried the standard adoption route, but were now willing to pay for the services that Dan's company could provide.

Our conversation ranged from work to family (his was far more erudite than mine), to holidays (Paris, Malta, Brisbane) to shopping (he actually enjoyed it). He was pleasant, easy to look at and, best of all, interested in what I had to say.

Time slipped past and suddenly, I realized we had been sitting and chatting for over an hour. I reluctantly told him I had to go.

He pulled out a business card, scribbled something on the back and handed it to me. “Here's my card. In case you have any questions.”

I glanced at it then turned it over. There were two numbers written on the back.

“One of those is my cell phone number.” He gave me a careful smile. “Just in case you might not get hold of me at work. And if you're ever in the city and want to connect…” He let the sentence hang and I presumed he meant that I could call him.

“Thank you.” I slipped the card in my purse. I did want to connect. I did want to get to know him better.

“It was nice meeting you, Danielle,” Les said.
“And please, don't hesitate to call.” He escorted me out of the shop, and on the street we parted ways. I watched him go then I started walking. I stopped then I tried to get my bearings. People hurried past me, each intent on what they had to do. Cars whizzed, busses zoomed. So very metropolitan, I thought, trying to imagine myself strolling so confidently through the downtown streets, knowing exactly which bistro to drink coffee at, the best places to eat.

Where to live.

For now my mission was to remember where I parked my car. I strode importantly down the street, turned left at the first avenue, crossed it, paused and then strode importantly back to where I started from as I finally remembered.

I got back in time to see a parking meter person attach a piece of paper to my windshield. Puzzled, I glanced at my watch. I was a whopping two minutes past the expired time.

Not a speck of grace was granted, I thought as I plucked the piece of paper from my windshield wiper feeling like a criminal. I got in the car, stuffed the ticket into my briefcase and paused a moment.

This is what you want, I thought as I stared straight ahead at the canyon of buildings ahead of me, traffic pouring through it, three wide going each way.

I started my car then pulled out into traffic, barely avoided turning down a one-way street, missed my
street, almost hit a pedestrian, ran a yellow light and then ran into construction.

After an hour of stopping, waiting, inching forward, then waiting again, I burst through the log-jam of traffic, made my way out of the city and I was back on the highway with open fields on both sides of me. Only then did I finally released the white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

A tiny niggle of doubt wormed its way through my mind with each mile I drove away from the city, with each minute between now and the interview I'd just had, as well as the pleasant hour I'd spent with Les.

Are you sure this is what you want? Working in such an organized office, dealing with people who can afford to shop for their babies?

I suppose it would take time. I could get used to living in the city. To working normal hours.

Couldn't I?

I shelved my doubts, then did what any self-respecting North American woman would do in the situation. I picked up my phone and called my best friend.

“So?” Tracy demanded as soon as she picked up the phone. “How did it go?”

“I didn't talk anyone's ear off and I made sure to nod in the right places. I even had a coffee with a potential fellow male employee.” I smiled then, thinking of Les.

“Don't tell me. A real man.”

“A real man. The kind that holds your chair when you sit down at a restaurant and makes eye contact when you're talking to him. And I don't think any bets with my brother were involved this time.”

“Speaking of food, sorry I couldn't stay to help with the dishes the other night. Did it take long?”

“Not really. James helped me.”

“Really?” Tracy's pause was rife with unspoken meaning.

“Really.”

“He seems like a decent guy,” Tracy continued, ignoring my slightly sarcastic snort. “I didn't know he was such a looker. From the way you were talking he was two steps away from wearing a paper bag on his head.”

“One step, actually.” But even as I spoke, a sliver of doubt pierced my smug arguments. I remembered too well how I felt around him.

“Oh, get past the bet thing already,” Tracy said. “He's going to be living right under your nose, girlfriend.”

“I don't think I need to get past anything,” I said with a disappointed pout. Tracy was supposed to be on my side. Why was she defending him? “Besides, his little sister stopped by that same night with a baby on her hip, so I think he'll be too busy to cause any more trouble.”

“A baby? I'm sure your brothers didn't count on that when they rented the house out to him.”

“Not hardly.” I switched lanes to get past a trac
tor-trailer unit chugging up a long hill. “And I'm sure it will put a damper on whatever it is James hopes to do here in Preston.”

“And what is that?”

“Who knows? He told me he was opening a knitting shop. But enough about James. I prefer to discuss Les.”

We talked for a few more miles and when I had sufficiently covered all the nuances of the interview and of the semidate, and Tracy had assured me enough times that I had done well, we said goodbye.

I turned on the radio to my favorite station and relaxed against the seat, enjoying the open highway, the sun shining in my car and the fact that I'd had an interesting interview and had met an interesting man. It had been a good morning and was promising to be a good day.

It was also lunchtime and my stomach grumbled as I passed the Preston Inn. Should I go in? I had already used up an entire morning's worth of Casey's goodwill.

Why not? I cranked the steering wheel at the last moment. I was probably already in Casey's bad books. Might as well face him on a full stomach.

And there was James, standing at the cashier paying for his lunch.

I didn't like the way my heart jumped. I was half hoping I could slip past him, but that would be rude. As Tracy reminded me I had to get past our somewhat shaky start. And, I reminded myself, he had helped me with my birthday dishes.

“Hello, James,” I said.

James's head came up with a snap, then when he saw me, his mouth slipped easily into a smile.

And what annoyed me was the way my heart gave that funny little jump again when he did that.

Think of Les, I told myself. Think about the man, not the guy.

“Hey, yourself.” He slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his blue jeans. He wore a suede jacket over a T-shirt today, no product in his soft and shining hair, and again I wondered what he kept busy with all day. He didn't seem to be working too hard on finding other employment or much of anything other than lunching in Preston.

Maybe he was some kind of spy. Or maybe he really was starting up a knitting shop.

“Your boss let you off your leash long enough to let you have lunch?” he asked.

“I am on my way back from the city. I had an interview for a job there.” And why did I feel like I had to tell him that?

“Really?” He pulled his mouth down at the sides, like he didn't quite approve. “I don't see you as a city type.”

I was crushed. I thought I had a certain savoir faire that easily translated into city girl. I wondered if he could see me with Les Steglund, but wasn't about to put that question to him. “And how is Robin doing?” I asked instead.

James caught his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head. “She just got out of a bad relation
ship. Robin has her own problems and I know I can't fix them. I wish she wouldn't come running to me all the time.”

“I know what you mean.”

James gave me an odd look. “Maybe you do, at that,” he said. He hesitated a moment, as if he wanted to say something else. Then tossed me a wave and left.

I watched him go, feeling as if the day had shifted again.

 

Six hours later I parked my car behind Jace's truck on the yard and leaned my head back with a sigh. What a lousy day.

All afternoon Casey had been doing his best mini-dictator imitation—making me redo a custody agreement, rewrite an assessment—his small revenge for my absence this morning and, I supposed, my interview. I had phoned my brothers and while I was typing, ignoring Casey's hovering presence and trying to make sense of his notes, I walked Jace through the onerous and complicated process of heating up leftovers for supper.

Thankfully, Dad could at least feed himself, otherwise who knows how that scenario would have played out.

Then, after all those unreasonable demands on my sanity that threatened my very salvation, Casey sent me to do a home-study on a family that wanted to be foster parents, but were hostile about the steps they had to go through. I used up every drop of good nature and
charm to convince them that the training they were going to take was for their own good. And that, yes, they had a lot of experience because they raised five children, but foster children required a different tack and other skills.

I got the feeling they didn't believe me, but I knew that when they had to deal with their first six-year-old runaway, or eight-year-old arsonist, they'd thank me.

That was my life these days. Always in the wrong place at the right time.

So now it was eight o'clock. I was starving and hoped that Neil wouldn't find the last piece of cake I had hidden in the last place my brothers would look—the vegetable drawer.

I stepped out of the car, my head feeling as if it were going to float off my body, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a baby crying.

Loud. And coming from James's home.

It's not your problem, I assured myself as I closed the door and hefted my briefcase over my arm. Robin seems like a capable person. She hitchhiked here, didn't she? With a baby.

But the crying didn't stop. I heard a deep voice singing some off-key version of a nursery rhyme. James?

Curious, I walked down the driveway toward his house and saw him walking past the window, holding the baby.

He stopped, looked out the window and saw me. He looked terrified.

I
hurried to the house and yanked open the door, my heart pounding. What could have happened? Did I need to call an ambulance? How was my infant CPR? Rusty. Would I be of any help?

James met me at the door, holding out a screaming, flailing infant.

“Please. Help me,” James begged, his voice haggard as he shoved his niece at me. “I can't make her stop.”

I glanced at him, then at the child who was now twisting and squirming in my arms, her cries cutting like a serrated knife.

Other than the beet-red face and the tears pouring from her scrunched up eyes, she seemed healthy enough.

“Did you feed her?” I yelled, letting my briefcase slip off my arm as I tried to hold her with the other.

“I tried. She wouldn't drink her bottle. Wouldn't
eat her porridge or whatever you call that slop,” James shouted, as he ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of defeat. “Nothing helped.”

“Where's Robin?”

“Don't know. I came home and this kid was crying and she's heading out the door.”

I gave up trying to converse with James over the wails of this obviously distressed child. Instead I tried to cuddle her as I walked slowly around James's living room. It was like trying to hold a hysterical eel. She kicked, she thrashed, she lunged from side to side.

“Diapers? Do you have any clean diapers?” I called out to James.

He frowned, not comprehending what I was talking about.

“Did Robin have a big bag with stuff for the baby in it?” I yelled.

He nodded and ran into another room and returned with a diaper bag. He dropped it on the floor, ripped it open and started pulling clothes out, tossing them behind him in a mad effort to find some diapers.

I laid Sherry on the floor, anchoring her twisting body with one hand on her stomach as I liberated the diaper bag from James. I quickly found what I needed, then glanced at the floor. Carpet.

The couch beside me was leather. What to do?

My hand hovered over the tabs of the diaper. Who knew what mysteries awaited me once I opened things up.

Oh, well. Nothing for it. This carpet had seen its share of substances and I didn't want to take any chances with James's couch. So I ripped off her diaper, then almost gagged as a horrible, sour smell assaulted me. Just as I suspected. The little girl's bottom was red and raw.

I handed James a face cloth that he had yanked out of the bag and tossed in my vicinity. “Wet this with warm water.”

Poor little Sherry arched her back and lifted her bottom clear off the smelly diaper. She held that position until James returned with the face cloth and I could nicely get at all parts that showed and remove the offending diaper. I folded it up one-handed.

“Can you get rid of that?” I asked.

James pulled a face, then picked it up between thumb and forefinger, allowing as little of his flesh to come into contact with it as possible.

“Is this considered hazardous waste?” he asked.

“Do with it what you think best,” was all I could advise.

In a matter of minutes Sherry was cleaned up, lotion was smeared and her cries were subsiding from wails into half-hearted little hiccups. I took off the rest of her clothes, now damp with her sweat, and put on a clean, dry terry cloth footie sleeper, tucking her arms and legs in. As I snapped it up, she drew in a quavering breath. Then, in spite of the tears that still sparkled on her long eyelashes, she granted me an open-mouthed grin, two little pearls of teeth glinting back at me.

James fell back against the couch that had been spared the indignity of having a dirty diaper on it and sighed heavily. “I wouldn't have thought of that. I mean, I didn't smell a thing.”

“They put so much scent in these disposable diapers, it's hard to know what's really in them.” I picked Sherry up and cuddled her close, feeling sorry for the poor little mite. “Hey, little thing. You couldn't tell us what was wrong could you?” I was using my baby voice to talk to her. As if pursing my lips and raising my tone an octave would magically penetrate her tiny brain and make a connection. She drew in a quavering breath and smiled again. She was adorable. How could Robin leave her like this?

James rubbed his temples with his fingers as he leaned back against the couch. “You, my dear, are a lifesaver. I didn't know what to do. I come home and there's Robin holding Sherry, and she shoves the baby in my arms and tells me she's leaving, and then she's gone and Sherry starts crying, and no matter what I do I can't get her to stop and I'm all ticked at my sister who's left me in the lurch. Again.”

I cuddled little Sherry close, looking at James, amazed at his verbal spill. “And here I thought you were the strong, silent type.”

He laughed, rolling his neck and drawing in a long, slow breath. “Strong maybe, but not too silent.” He lifted his head, his smile slowly fading away. “Seriously, thanks a ton. I didn't know what to do with that little thing.”

“That little thing” now lay quietly in my arms, her sniffs slowly subsiding. She grew warm and heavy in my arms and I guessed she was falling asleep. My legs were cramping up, but I didn't dare get up. The only chair I could lean against sat at right angles to James. I didn't have a choice, so I moved closer to give my tired back some ease.

“Why hadn't you seen Sherry before?” I asked, as I settled into this new place, too close to James, but better for my back than sitting in the middle of the floor.

James laughed, but it wasn't a funny laugh. More like a snort of disgust. “After I found out she was pregnant, Robin took off and I didn't get to hear from her, much less see her until now. She won't tell me who the father is and won't make any plans.” James pulled his hands over his face, his callused hands rasping against his whiskers. Obviously not the hands of a knitter. “I didn't even know if she had a boy or girl until Robin showed up at your house. Which I apologize for. I don't know how she found me.”

“You're new. People talk, ask questions. In no time at all they've got you pegged and know where you live.” I rubbed my chin absently over Sherry's feather-soft curls. “Though I think most people will be surprised when you open your wool shop.”

James laughed, then rested his wrists on his up-raised knees, letting his hands dangle. “I can knit two, purl three with the best of them.” James yawned
a jaw-cracking yawn and rubbed the top of his head, making his hair look like a mouse's nest. A kind of attractive mouse's nest, I had to admit. He rolled his head in my direction. “So, since I saw you at lunchtime, how was the rest of your day?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah. I already know how Sherry's went.” His half smile balanced out the faintly bitter tone.

“The usual. Casey pushing me to do more than most humans are capable of and me trying to do it.” I shrugged.

“Ah, a nurturer.” His half smile morphed into a sly grin.

I held up a warning hand. “Don't stick me in a box.”

“I see how you take care of your brothers. I've never seen such a devoted sister. It's admirable in one way.”

“It's not about being a devoted sister, it's pure survival. The house would be a disaster if I didn't maintain control.”

“What would happen if you didn't clean and cook and keep your brothers organized?” He picked up a tiny face cloth that he had tossed out of the diaper bag and folded it up slowly.

I snorted to myself. “Their lives would fall apart.”

He gave me a knowing look. “I wasn't talking about
their
lives.”

Walked right into that one. I looked down at Sherry. Her lashes fanned her cheeks, her button
mouth was partly open—a line of glistening drool pooling on the lapel of my suit jacket.

“Do you want me to take her?” James asked, moving closer.

I hesitated, surprised at my reluctance to let her go.

The little body in my arms brought out fuzzy, warm maternal feelings in me I didn't even know I had. Most of my baby handling would fall under the extreme-babysitting category. Taking children away from neglectful parents in highly stressful situations. Handling dirty, crying children who hated me for what I was doing to them.

Hardly moments for adorable cuddling time, like now.

But Sherry needed to go to bed and I needed to go home. The day had been a mixture of hope and depression. Hope for a new job and depression that my old life wouldn't be as easy to shuck off as I thought.

I shifted Sherry to hand her over. She stiffened, drew in a quick breath and let out a halfhearted whimper as her head came up.

I willed her to relax and then she slowly slumped back into sleeping mode. “Maybe better wait a while,” I whispered to James.

He nodded, but stayed where he was. About five inches closer to me than he had been before.

I bent closer to Sherry's warm head, inhaling her soft baby smell. Robin may be a fly-by-night mother,
but Sherry's sleeper held that fresh-washed scent of laundry soap.

“So tell me why an attractive woman like you still doesn't have a steady boyfriend.” James slouched against his couch. “According to your brothers you've dated enough guys.”

“Men,” I corrected primly. “I prefer to stay away from guys.”

“I noticed.” He yawned again, and blinked slowly, his eyes taking on a languorous look. “Can't find the perfect man in Preston?”

I didn't like the challenge in his voice, or the look in his eye. “No,” I said, my voice taking on a chill that came naturally around this guy. “The men that drift into this town seem to have an aversion to sticking around or working a job that doesn't require being gone half of the time.” I didn't like the direction of the conversation or the way my leg was cramping up.

Hard pain stabbed me in the hip. I moved my leg.

Sherry shifted, stiffened, lifted her head and started crying. I stroked her head, and settled back against the chair sitting at right angles to James.

“Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee?” James asked.

“No, thanks.” I glanced down at Sherry. “I hope this little mite settles pretty soon. I have to get home.”

“I think your dad is sleeping, so he won't need you.”

“I have church tomorrow.”

“Your brothers go, too, don't they?'

My usual sorrow over my brothers' lack of commitment followed on the heels of his comment. “Jace goes once in a while. Chip and Neil are still struggling with the whole ‘church is for sissies' concept.” I held his gaze, wondering if he would side with either Jace or my other brothers.

Then I wondered why I cared. What James thought or did not think of church shouldn't matter to me.

James simply shrugged. “I think it takes real conviction to attend church, especially these days when men—” he gave me a wry grin “—or guys, don't see a need for a relationship with God or recognize that they need a personal savior. I think the modern Church has made God so tame, guys can't relate.”

“What do you mean ‘tame'?”

James pulled his lower lip between his teeth, his look faraway. “When I was little, my dad would read me the Narnia books. There was one passage he emphasized again and again—the part about Aslan being a lion and not being safe. I knew it was an allegory of Christ. I thought about it lots when I was a teenager and the Church was always making Jesus out to be meek and mild. I always thought of Him as a bold, fearsome man, God in the flesh and God, well if you look at the world He created, the power and the force, God is hardly tame.”

I have to confess, I was surprised. “So you do go to church?”

James looked away from me and picked up a terry face cloth that had been discarded in his mad dash for a dry diaper. “Used to. My father died when I was fifteen, so to support us, my mother started working as a waitress. I got on at the same restaurant and we ended up working a lot of Sundays.” He pressed a fold in the terry cloth with one large finger. “She never talked about God anymore or about church. When I got a job on the oil rigs, I never went at all.”

“And now?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. I've been gone so long, it would seem disrespectful to suddenly show up.”

I didn't know if I agreed with his vision of God. I'd always thought of God as a God of love. “I think a God that can count the hairs on someone's head can remember one of his own,” I said softly, surprised at this side of him. “We have church tomorrow, if you're interested in going.”

He shrugged. “I'll see.”

I don't know why his answer disappointed me so much. For just a moment, a tiny moment, I had caught a glimmer of a faint, hopeful possibility.

Of what? Transformation from guy to man?

“When will you hear about this city job?” James asked quietly, moving the topic of conversation to something more ordinary. Safer, I guess, than talking about God and Jesus and faith. Chip and Neil did the same whenever I brought up church or church attendance. But I was willing to discuss my future. It gave
me a better kind of hope. My ticket away from Casey, my unbearable boss, and my brothers.

“I was told in about two weeks.”

“You would take it?”

“Oh, yes. I need to get away from Preston, my current boss and, if I'm going to be honest, my brothers. The city seemed a logical choice.”

“But you love your brothers.” His voice took a faint upturn at the end of the statement adding the hint of a question.

“Of course I do. But lately ‘inconsiderate' is too small a word to describe them.”

“Well, it's your own fault, really.”

“What?” I stared at him with a mixture of anger and disbelief at his blunt statement. “You're going to get a hernia leaping to that conclusion.”

“You don't ask for their help. You let them get away with being lazy.”

I let out an unladylike snort. “And isn't that a typical guy response. If women would get our act together, we could get men to do the right thing.”