- -
- 100%
- +
No.
Her own mother had done what she thought best for Marcie, and it hadn’t been the best at all. Marcie should have had the right to make her own decisions.
Now she would give her daughter that right. If Kyla should decide she wanted nothing to do with her real mother, then Marcie would have to somehow force herself to walk out of her life, to again learn to live with emptiness.
Whatever the outcome, the decision belonged to Kyla.
Marcie suddenly realized Sam and Kyla were staring at her curiously.
She rose on shaky legs, setting her tea on the small wrought-iron table.
“I, uh...” No, she couldn’t just blurt it out like that. “I’d better be going. Thank you for the tea.”
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Sam asked.
She tried a confident smile, but knew it came out weak and uncertain. “I’m sure.”
She moved numbly down the cracked sidewalk, with Sam on one side and Kyla on the other. At the end of the walk, her silver compact car reflected the sunlight in a painful glare as it lured and repelled at the same time—offering escape from this unknown, frightening situation, while taking her away from her daughter.
Sam opened her car door for her, as if speeding her exit, getting her out of his life, away from the child she’d given birth to but he claimed as his daughter.
“If you have a pencil, I’ll write down my name and address so you can call me about that dent,” he said.
“I don’t need your address. I—” She stopped herself before she could blurt out why she didn’t need his name and address, that she already knew it. She knew his age and where he worked and how long he’d been there and his social security number and when his wife had died...and the name of the hospital where Kyla had been born.
But this wasn’t the right time to tell him that She had to carry through with the charade. She retrieved her purse from the floorboard and, hands shaking noticeably, withdrew a pen and a small notepad, then offered it to him.
He scribbled something and returned it to her. Without looking, she shoved it into her purse.
“Thank you,” she said.
He closed the door, stepped back from the car, wrapped one arm around Kyla and smiled his wonderful, carefree smile again. She found her own lips turning up in answer, as if something deep inside couldn’t resist being sucked into such complete happiness.
Kyla lifted a hand to wave. “Bye, Marcie! Sorry ’bout your car.”
“Goodbye...Kyla.” Time seemed to freeze as Marcie gazed at Kyla, unable to break the last contact with her, but unable to do anything about it. She wasn’t sure whether she’d been staring for a second or an hour.
“So long, Ms. Turner,” Sam said, breaking the spell.
With a quick wave, Marcie started the engine and drove down the block. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest, her mouth was dry, and her thoughts darted past in unrecognizable, kaleidoscopic images.
She headed for the highway, for the fastest way home. Once inside her condo, she could lock the doors and draw the blinds and feel safe.
Except she feared she’d never be safe there again. Always she’d be trying to find a way to reach her daughter—and terrified of what would happen when she succeeded.
As Marcie Turner drove away, Sam tugged on Kyla’s ponytail again. “What happened to your manners? Wash them down the drain when you showered this morning?”
“You told me you never learn anything if you don’t ask questions.”
“There are questions and there are questions, and asking a strange woman if she’s married and has children pretty much pushes the limits.”
Kyla shrugged and gazed toward the corner where Marcie’s car had just disappeared from view. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “she did get a funny look when I asked her that.”
That she had, Sam thought. In fact, Marcie Turner had been a whole review of funny looks.
“Well, I was just checking her out for your benefit. She’s a real babe.”
Sam groaned. “Go get your softball.” He pointed down the street.
With Kyla’s own burgeoning awareness of the opposite sex, she’d begun to tease him unmercifully about women. And this time she’d nailed him.
In spite of Marcie’s nervousness, he’d found himself attracted to her. Even in khaki shorts and a plain white blouse, she had an air about her. Her shiny golden hair fell straight to her shoulders, catching and reflecting the sunlight. In the sweltering heat of the July afternoon, she’d seemed cool and aloof, yet strangely vulnerable.
She looked familiar, in an eerie sort of way. Something about her had tickled around the edges of his memory, nagging him with a resemblance he couldn’t quite place. He was positive that he didn’t know her, but just as positive that he should.
“And how about when you called her by her first name?” he shouted after Kyla.
Kyla stopped, turned back to look at him and tilted her head to one side. Her face, soft with the remnants of childhood yet edged with the approach of maturity, mirrored his confusion about the woman. “I didn’t think about it. It was like I’d known her a real long time or something.” She shrugged, grinned and trotted the rest of the way to retrieve her ball.
So Kyla had noticed the odd familiarity about the woman, too.
Well, they’d probably seen her somewhere, at the grocery store or one of Kyla’s softball games or the school’s football games.
Except she lived in Tulsa.
Heck, she probably resembled some television star. She was a babe, that was for sure.
Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his cutoffs and turned to walk back to the house.
Directly in front of him, where it must have fallen from Marcie Turner’s car, was a large manila envelope.
He picked it up, hoping it contained an address, so that he could return it. She hadn’t seemed too likely to contact him again.
Not that he was looking for an excuse to contact her, no matter how much of a babe she was. Okay, maybe he had taken her hand and put his arm around her waist to help her out of the car when it probably wasn’t necessary. And he’d certainly enjoyed the contact.
He smiled at himself and his daughter and life in general as he opened the envelope...
...and found a letter-size envelope inside, along with several typewritten pages and pictures of his house, himself and Kyla.
A cold hand wrapped around and squeezed his heart.
What the hell was going on? Why did this woman have pictures of his home and his daughter? Was she stalking them? Was that why she’d seemed familiar? Had he seen her in crowds, watching them?
Her assertion that she didn’t need his address replayed itself in his head.
No wonder she hadn’t needed it.
She already had it.
“What’s that, Pops?”
Sam fumbled the pictures and letter back into the envelope. “Nothing.” He wasn’t going to have Kyla frightened.
“Looks like something to me.” Tossing the ball into the air and catching it, she walked beside him as he strode back to the house.
“Papers. Marcie Turner’s papers.”
“Kyla!” The familiar shout came from across the street. “Wanna ride bikes for a while?”
“Sure, Rachel! Be right there.” She handed Sam the ball. “You don’t mind, do you, Dad? Rachel’s having a tough time since her mom and dad split up.”
He looked into his daughter’s beautiful, concerned face. Maybe because she had no mother, she’d taken on the role of caring for any of her friends who had problems. Or maybe she did it just because she was a wonderful, caring kid, his own personal angel.
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll be glad to get a little rest from playing ball with you!” He grinned, trying to maintain their usual banter, hoping his grin wasn’t as shaky as it felt.
She ran toward the garage to get her bike, long legs flying in the gracefully awkward manner of fawns and twelve-year-olds, and he loved her so much it hurt.
They’d almost lost her the night she was born. He still remembered the agony when Dr. Franklin had told him she had a fatal heart defect and wouldn’t live through the night.
And he still remembered the incredible joy when she had survived the night, in defiance of the doctor’s death sentence.
Knowing they could have no more children, he and Lisa had spoiled Kyla shamelessly from that day forward. In fact, Lisa had devoted herself totally to Kyla, even to the extent of ignoring him. But he’d accepted that. He’d understood how much she hurt when the doctor told her about the hysterectomy, how frightened she was each day that the doctor’s prophecy about Kyla’s death would come true.
Kyla had been Lisa’s priority, and five years later, as she lay dying from the same heart disease the doctor had diagnosed in Kyla, she’d made Sam promise to take care of their child.
Not that such a promise was necessary. He’d gladly lay down his life for his daughter.
Whatever Marcie Turner was up to, he’d stop her. Whatever it took, he’d protect his daughter.
He carried the envelope inside, sat down at the kitchen table and dumped out the contents. The smaller envelope was a letter addressed to Marcie in Tulsa. So at least he had the woman’s address, he thought grimly. And he would take this to the police.
But then he noticed the return address—Elton Franklin, the doctor who’d delivered Kyla. Suffocating heat flushed his body, prickling his skin, making breathing difficult.
He’d worried about Kyla for the past twelve—almost thirteen—years, terrified every time she caught cold or had a childhood disease. And he’d berated himself for that worrying, telling himself it didn’t accomplish a blasted thing, but unable to stop doing it.
Now...today...into his life came Marcie Turner with her pictures of the two of them and a letter addressed to her from Lisa’s doctor. Were all his concerns being validated? Did this letter contain a death sentence for Kyla?
But if it did, why was it addressed to Marcie Turner?
He had to open that letter and read it.
Sam stared at the envelope for several minutes. He regularly bench-pressed two-hundred-pound weights, but he couldn’t seem to find the strength to lift that little bit of paper weighing less than an ounce.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his cutoffs, then drew a shaky hand across his mouth and chin. His face was damp with perspiration.
Moving rapidly, so that he wouldn’t have a chance to chicken out, he yanked the letter from inside the envelope and unfolded the two pages.
Chapter Two
Marcie clutched the steering wheel with damp, sticky hands and made herself focus on the task of driving, on actions that normally came automatically. But not today. Today, leaving Sam’s house, she had to concentrate, to remind herself which pedal to use, to stop at red lights, go on green, turn the wheel at corners.
Her brain, her heart, her entire body, screamed in protest at the overload of emotions. She’d found her daughter alive, talked to her, met the man who’d inadvertently stolen her daughter. And then she’d had to walk quietly away.
Reaching the highway that led to the turnpike, she pulled into a convenience store and parked at the side. Out of the main traffic area, she finally let loose, laid her head in her hands and allowed earthquake tremors to shake her body, while tears spilled between her fingers.
In a minute she’d pull herself together, go into the store and get a cola, then get home as fast as she could. Once in her safe haven, she’d think about everything, about Kyla and what she ought to do next. Right now, she couldn’t face it, couldn’t deal with the huge explosions of happiness and anger and disbelief and sheer terror.
Finally, the tremors subsided, as some of the unbearable tension dissipated. She snatched a handful of tissues from the box in the back seat and dried her eyes.
This wasn’t like her, she thought, to completely lose control. But these were not usual circumstances.
She pushed her hair back from her face. She had to get home and figure out what to do next.
Needing to reassure herself that everything that had just happened was real, she looked around for the envelope containing her pictures of Kyla, along with the detective’s report and the letter from Dr. Franklin.
It wasn’t in her lap.
Or on the passenger seat beside her.
She slid out of the car and searched under the seats, in the back...everywhere. Her movements became more frantic with each empty space she encountered. Her hands trembled as she searched for the second time.
She stepped back from the car and looked at it in disbelieving horror.
The envelope was gone.
It could only have fallen from her lap when she got out at Sam’s house.
Either her pictures were lying in the street, being run over by cars, or Sam and Kyla had noticed them and picked them up.
In that quiet neighborhood, the latter seemed more likely.
By now, Sam and Kyla probably knew the truth.
This wasn’t the way she’d wanted her daughter to find out.
Her mind whirling with black despair and chaos, she sank into the car and closed the door behind her.
With one stupid act, she’d made a terrible situation worse. She needed to get home as fast as possible.
But her fingers refused to turn the key.
She had to face the consequences of her actions. She couldn’t blame her mother or Dr. Franklin for this latest disaster.
In fact, maybe she had to take some of the blame for everything. Would things be different if she’d paid more attention when her baby was born, if she’d asked more questions about the death?
She’d been in shock, stunned by the loss, overwhelmed by guilt, convinced that the death was somehow her fault, because she’d been so stubborn, because she’d refused to consider her mother’s plan of adoption. So she’d allowed Dr. Franklin and her mother to take charge.
She’d asked to hold her child once before they took her away forever, to bury her in the cold, impersonal earth, but Dr. Franklin and her mother had persuaded her not to. She’d had only one look at her baby...Sam and Lisa’s baby...and that look had been blurred by tears.
If she’d done what she knew in her heart she should, if she’d insisted on holding the child, she’d have known immediately it wasn’t hers, wasn’t the baby she’d given birth to.
Now she had to somehow rectify the wrong. She had to take some control over her life, over Kyla’s life. She had to take charge of circumstances, instead of waiting and hoping for the best...trying to hide from the worst. She had to fight for the best. She had to go back to Sam’s house.
The safety of her condo, ninety minutes away, might as well have been on the moon.
She started her car and pulled away from the store in the direction from which she’d just come. Every movement was an effort, as in nightmares when, pursued by a horrible monster, she could move only in slow motion.
A hurricane roared in her ears as she approached the house.
Pushing the brake, stopping her car at the sidewalk, took every ounce of strength she possessed. Then she had to somehow find more to enable her to get out and walk up to the front door.
He met her there, stepping out onto the porch and standing in front of the door, denying her access to his home. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Who are you and what do you want?” He advanced on her, his brow furrowed, his face dark, and she backed away, stumbling against the side of one of the chairs she’d sat in earlier. He loomed over her. “If this is some kind of a joke, it’s not very damn funny. I’m warning you, Marcie Turner, or whoever the hell you are, if you continue to follow me or my daughter, or if you breathe one word of this nonsense to her, you’ll wish you’d never heard of either of us.”
Every angry word slammed painfully against her heart. She’d expected him to be upset, but she hadn’t been prepared for this furious disbelief. She hadn’t been prepared for so much venom from the smiling football coach.
A few feet away, off the porch, the sun still shone brightly. A woodpecker drummed in a nearby tree. A car drove by, releasing a burst of music from its radio. Only in the small area of Sam’s front porch had the world turned grim and ugly.
Her hands fluttered up to push him back, to allow her to regain her balance and defend herself. He jerked away before she could touch him.
A steel band wrapped around her chest, squeezing the breath from her. For Kyla. she reminded herself. For your daughter.
She forced herself to stand straight, to face him, to pull words from her throat. “I haven’t been following you. I came by your house for the first time today, because I had to see Kyla. I had to know for sure if the letter was true, if Kyla was my daughter.”
Sam glared at her, his eyebrows forming a straight, continuous line. “You need help. Psychiatric help. Believe me, you’re not my daughter’s mother.”
He was only lashing out at her because he was frightened of losing someone he loved. She shouldn’t blame him for that. He was fighting for Kyla, just as she was.
But his accusations hurt. She wasn’t accustomed to fighting. She wasn’t accustomed to having a nice person, someone she’d like under other circumstances, hating her, saying horrible things about her.
She reached behind her, clutching the cold, solid wrought iron of the chair back. “I know my own child. You and I need to tatk, to decide what to do, what’s the best thing for Kyla.”
Sam paced to the front of the porch, then back again to stand before her, his fists clenched at his sides. “The best thing for Kyla would be for you to drop off the face of the earth.”
“Maybe,” she admitted, the single word coming out a croak. She cleared her throat, lifted her chin and tried again. “Maybe. But that’s Kyla’s decision. She’s entitled to know the truth, then she can choose how to act on it. If she wants me to leave her alone, I will.”
“No. It’s not her decision. I’m her father. That makes it my decision, and I intend to see to it that she never hears a word of this garbage. I’m going to give you one chance to stop whatever you think you’re doing and disappear quietly before I have to call the police.”
She flinched at his classification of her as a criminal, someone who needed to be dealt with by the police. But he hadn’t called them yet. He must know, deep inside, that she was telling the truth. He must.
She retaliated with her own legal threat. “I talked to a lawyer, and he said I could file a petition with the court requesting genetic testing.” Her own hands clenched into fists, the fingernails digging into her palms painfully, as she watched the anger swell on Sam’s face. “I don’t want to do that,” she added. “I thought we could work something out.”
“Do you really expect me to give serious consideration to a letter you probably typed yourself, and to your ridiculous threat of going to court?” He flung one arm outward. “Go on. Give it your best shot. File all the petitions you want. See if you can find a judge who’ll listen to this trash. But in the meantime—” he leaned closer, jabbing a finger toward her “—you stay away from Kyla.”
“I can,” she whispered, then raised her voice, determined that no one was going to take her child from her a second time. “I can find a judge who’ll listen. I’ve spoken to my mother and Dr. Franklin’s nurse, and they’re both willing to testify. I don’t want to do it that way, but I will. I don’t want to disrupt Kyla’s life. I don’t want to force myself on her.”
“Then don’t. Stay out of her life. Kyla’s not your daughter. She’s my daughter, and believe me, lady, you and I have never made a child together. My wife gave birth to Kyla. I carried her home from the hospital.” He stepped back, shook his head and raked a hand distractedly through his hair. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
“I’m doing this because Kyla is my child. I want to be part of her life.”
“You want to take her from a father she loves, from her home?” His words were quieter than before, and she saw the glimmerings of doubt and fear in his eyes.
“No, of course not. I want her to be happy. I know she loves you. I have no intention of taking her from you.” In spite of her efforts to be strong, she knew that her voice had lost its certainty, that Sam would sense her weakness and take advantage of it. “I just want to be a part of her life. I want her to know I’m her mother.”
He sighed and looked away from her. “If you really did have a baby, and that baby died, I’m sorry. But if you think you’re going to take Kyla, you better think again.” He turned back to her, his hazel eyes blazing. “I want this insanity ended right now. I don’t want Kyla to ever find out about you. But if you think for one minute that’s going to stop me from calling the police and having you thrown in jail, you’re dead wrong. And I’m keeping those pictures and that letter as evidence.” He moved closer, so close she could see the tiny lines around his eyes, where a smile used to live. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my daughter from you.”
He whirled away, strode into the house and slammed the door behind him.
Marcie walked stiffly back to her car, away from her daughter’s home, where she wasn’t welcome, from Sam’s cold threat, his assertion that her baby needed to be protected from her.
She’d made a mistake, coming to McAlester and looking them up. She should have made firm, sensible plans. The lawyer she consulted had suggested she let him call first. That was what she should have done. She should never have given in to her impulse and driven by the house.
Her only excuse was that she’d wanted to be certain Kyla really was her daughter before she did anything. But having an excuse didn’t change the situation. Her mother had a roomful of excuses for what she’d done, and they didn’t change a thing.
She’d taken a step in the wrong direction, and life gave no opportunities for U-turns. The road chosen, whether by deliberation, impulse or accident, had to be traveled. She’d learned that years ago.
The drive home was going to be a long one. And she doubted that even when she got there she was going to feel safe. Her carefully constructed world was crumbling.
When Marcie finally walked into her condo, exhausted to the point of collapse, the light of the answering machine sitting on the kitchen bar seemed to blink a brighter red than she remembered, an ominous, threatening shade of red.
She hesitated for a moment, wanting only to go to bed. If she pressed that button, would she hear more cruel accusations from Sam? Or had he talked to the police and they were calling to warn her away from Kyla?
She made herself cross the room to the answering machine and press the button. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for it to rewind and begin to play.
“It’s me, sweetheart.” Though it was better than she’d expected, nevertheless, Marcie cringed as her mother’s overly bright voice grated along her nerves, prickling like a thousand tiny daggers. “Just checking in to say hi and see if you’ve found out when I’m going to get to meet my granddaughter.”
All the tension from the day returned, and anger Marcie hadn’t known she possessed burst from its hiding place. It was all well and good for her mother to be so interested in her granddaughter since Marcie had confronted her with the letter. But if she’d been a little more interested thirteen years ago, this nightmare wouldn’t be happening. If she hadn’t schemed and conspired and lied to get rid of that granddaughter, she’d have her today. Marcie wouldn’t have had to go through the grief of thinking her child had died. Kyla wouldn’t have spent the past thirteen years living a lie with a stranger who thought he was her father. Marcie wouldn’t now be faced with battling that stranger, hurting him and her daughter and herself.
She jabbed at the button to forward to the next message, to rid herself of her mother’s voice, her interference.
“End of messages,” the machine’s computerized voice announced.