The Only Child

Cover Page

Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

EPILOGUE

Copyright

“Why won’t My Molly marry us?”

Dulcy’s voice broke—and Logan thought his heart would, too. “Is it because of me?” she asked.

“No, Dulcy,” he said. “It’s not because of you. Molly loves you very much. It’s because of me.”

“Maybe you asked her wrong.”

Logan smiled grimly. “Maybe I did”

“So ask her right and then she’ll marry us.” Dulcy nodded her head as though encouraging him to agree with her. She was like a teacher coaching a really slow student.

“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee she’ll say yes. But I’ll work out something so you and I can be happy. Just give me a chance, Dulcy. I’m not so bad.

The child cocked her head, assessing him, then she sighed like a grown-up and walked slowly over to lean against his knees. She patted his arm gently. “Don’t be sad, Grandfather Logan, okay? I know you aren’t bad.” She nodded several times as though adding up a column of figures in her head.

“You found me, that’s good. You gave me my Dulcy doll, that’s also good. You found me again when I got lost in the airport. And you slept on the floor next to my bed so I wouldn’t be scared when I woke up. That’s all good” She nodded once more and smiled up at him. “Okay?”

Logan didn’t think he could take much more without breaking down completely. I can do it, he told himself firmly. If I have to, I can raise this child alone, but God in Heaven, I don’t want to. Oh, Molly, I need you! We need you. Where are you?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Only Child—a finalist in the RWA’s 1995 Golden Heart Awards—is Carolyn McSparren’s first published novel. However, this talented writer has written poems and magazine articles for many years. She’s always loved romantic mysteries, but not until a friend took her to a local RWA (Romance Writers of America) chapter did she begin to write romance fiction.

Carolyn has lived in Germany, France, Italy “and too many cities in the U.S. to count In my checkered career,” she says, “I’ve sailed boats and raised horses. I’ve been a horse-show momma for my daughter, who is now grown and married.”

Carolyn now lives in the country outside Memphis, Tennessee, in an old house with three dogs, three cats, two horses and one husband—”not necessarily in order of importance.”

The Only Child

Carolyn McSparren

For Martha Shields and Amelia Bomar, who stuck with me from the beginning, and for Zilla Soriano, a fine editor.

Thanks also to Alix Sullivan, a real doll lady, for sharing her technical expertise.

CHAPTER ONE

MOLLY HALLIDAY DROVE her hands through her hair, picked up her scalpel and spoke to the grinning head on the table. “All right, Quentin Charles Dillahunt the Third, if you don’t help me get your eyebrows right you’re going to wind up in the slag heap.”

The small bisque head leered back through empty eye sockets as Molly began to carve tiny chunks from the moist unfired clay. Feathery eyebrows emerged bit by bit.

“Where are you attaching the horns?” Sherry Carpenter asked, glancing up from the doll magazine in her lap.

Molly grinned and kept working. “The real Quentin’s only four years old. What’s he ever done to you?”

“Not me. He tried to bite my niece Sarah’s ear off last winter. He’s a Little demon. You’re making him look downright angelic.”

“Mrs. Dillahunt, Senior, commissioned this portrait doll,” she told Sherry. “Another Memphis grandparent who thinks her grandkid is an angel. Thank God, I do my commissions from photographs. I don’t have to put up with Quentin in real life.”

Sherry unfolded from the bentwood rocker and smoothed down her immaculate slacks. “You’d better put that thing away. Zoe and Logan MacMillan will be here any minute.”

Molly checked her watch. “They’re not due for twenty minutes.”

“They may be early.”

“Give me five minutes. I really need to finish these eyebrows. I’m a week behind on my commissions, and I don’t get paid the rest of my fee until I deliver the finished doll.” Her hand rested momentarily on the head and she frowned over at her friend. “Besides, how come Logan MacMillan has to approve my deal with MacMillan’s? I thought Zoe ran the store.”

Sherry shoved a large ginger cat off a nest of magazines on the work counter and began to organize them into a neat stack. “She does, but her father actually owns it. Usually, he simply rubber-stamps her decisions, only this time he didn’t.”

“Well, he should have. My dolls will sell very well in MacMillan’s.”

“I know that, you know that, Zoe knows that. We just have to convince Logan.”

“Have to is right.” Molly waved a hand at the room. “I went two thousand dollars over budget building this darned workshop. I need some more outlets for my dolls fast if I’m going to pay the bills and have enough left over for frivolous stuff like food.”

“You had to build it, Molly. The dolls were taking over every flat surface in your house. Visiting you was like walking into a deli for very small cannibals.” Sherry wrinkled her nose. “Not to mention the dust.”

Molly bent to get a better view of Quentin’s forehead. “I know, I know. I needed the workshop, I needed the showroom, I even needed the reception room. It all seemed so essential. Now I wish I’d made do with a little less space.” She squinted at Quentin and ran her thumb along his cheekbone, lifting it a millimeter and rounding it off slightly. “I love making these critters, but, Lord, do I hate having to deal with professional store-buyers. Scares me to death. Thanks for giving me moral support. Now tell me a little about Mr. MacMillan.”

“He used to be one of those international construction engineers—you know, build a bridge in Tanzania, a dam in Brazil, then home for a month and off to build a plant in Costa Rica.”

“Somehow I can’t visualize Zoe growing up in a mud hut.”

Sherry laughed. “She didn’t. When I met her mother, Sydney, in college I knew we were kindred spirits—anything less than a four-star hotel was roughing it. Sydney turned that old mansion into MacMillan’s and converted the third floor into a chic apartment. That’s where Zoe grew up. Sydney died a couple of years ago, but Logan still lives there. He’s semi-retired. I guess he didn’t see any reason to move.”

“Is Zoe an only child?”

Sherry hesitated. “She had a younger brother named Jeremy. He was killed in an automobile accident. You were divorcing Harry about that time or you would have seen it in the papers. Big scandal. Jeremy’s wife, Tiffany, was driving. They were both very, very drunk. She didn’t get a scratch.”

“Lord, Sherry, how awful.”

“It gets worse. Tiffany was convicted of vehicular homicide, but before she could be sentenced, she ran away and took her baby with her. Sydney died about a year after that. Officially, it was emphysema. I think it was a broken heart.”

“Poor Zoe. I guess you never know what kind of trouble people carry around with them.” Molly opened the drawer beside her, cleaned her scalpel and put it away. Then she picked up a smaller one and held it up to the light. “I’m glad she and Rick got married. He’s a nice man.”

Sherry glanced at the round kitchen clock that hung on the wall beside the door to the showroom, and laid five red-tipped fingers on Molly’s arm. “Molly, you better put that head away this minute and take a look at yourself.” She pulled a small mirror across the counter and positioned it in front of Molly’s face.

“Oh, good grief. I look like I’m wearing a powdered wig. Why didn’t you tell me my hands look like something from the mummy’s curse?”

“I’ve been trying to spiff you up since that first day in the tenth grade when you walked into my homeroom. You’re my oldest and dearest friend. I’m happy if you stay one step ahead of the fashion police.”

At that moment the alarm bell from the end of the driveway sounded twice followed closely by the crunch of gravel signifying a vehicle in the parking area at the top of the hill. “Damn, they are early. I hate it when you’re right.”

She grabbed a wet towel, swathed the bisque head, stuffed it in the small refrigerator under the counter, then slid the unused scalpel back into the drawer under her worktable. She rubbed the end of her nose fiercely and unhooked her bare feet from the rungs of her stool. “For Pete’s sake, Sherry, help me find my shoes!”

LOGAN MACMILLAN pulled his black BMW into the parking area beside his daughter’s red Saturn, turned off the engine and listened to a silence so profound, he might have been plunged back into the Brazilian rain forest The vegetation was different, of course, but this place felt equally isolated. They might be a thousand miles from civilization, instead of twenty-five or thirty miles from the city.

Why would this Halliday woman choose to live and work in such isolation? Despite his daughter’s protest, he was glad he’d decided to come today. Zoe always accused him of not trusting her decisions, but all he wanted was to give her the benefit of his business expertise. She was developing a fine reputation as an interior designer. A wrong choice now could set her back professionally. Besides, assuming he agreed that Mrs. Halliday’s dolls belonged in MacMillan’s, he felt certain he could get Zoe a better deal than she could hope to negotiate on her own.

Zoe didn’t wait for him. She strode down a gravel path to the left of a log house. Logan glimpsed a rectangular metal building among the pines down the hill. That must be the workshop.

“We’re early,” he called to his daughter’s retreating back. The cool look she threw him over her shoulder told him her mood hadn’t improved. Zoe had refused even to discuss their impending visit. He was going in blind and he didn’t like the sensation. Still, he’d do his best to make certain she came out ahead. He owed her that. She might not believe him, but her happiness was all he cared about.

MOLLY SQUARED her shoulders, pasted what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face and opened the door to the front room of her workshop.

“Zoe,” she said. “Welcome.”

Zoe leaned forward and shook Molly’s hand, then stood aside. “Mrs. Halliday, this is my father. Logan MacMillan.”

Molly took a deep breath to quell the butterflies in her stomach and extended her hand. He had a strong handshake, but he didn’t try to break her fingers the way some men did. She could feel his long fingers winding around hers.

Then she remembered the dust on her hands. He glanced at his palm. She groaned inwardly as he frowned and rubbed his palms together. Familiar insecurity washed over her.

“Please come in, Mr. MacMillan,” Molly said. She looked down to see Elvis, the ginger cat, undulate around MacMillan’s ankles. She hoped the man wasn’t allergic to cat hair because he was going to take plenty of it home on his slacks.

He stood a good six inches taller than Molly, but probably didn’t weigh five pounds more than she did. There was not an ounce of fat on him. His face was deeply tanned and lined like a granite outcropping at the edge of the Arizona desert. His steel-gray hair was cut short. His equally steely eyes seemed to be set for longrange viewing—great vistas, massive creations of concrete. He’d have difficulty adjusting his sight to look at dolls.

He walked in warily.

“Sit down a minute, Logan,” Sherry said, nodding toward the Victorian love seat to the left of the door to Molly’s showroom. “You all need to get to know one another before you talk business.”

He glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to impose on Mrs. Halliday’s time.”

Zoe snorted, then she sat as far away from her father as she could. Sherry perched on a French side chair and smiled.

Molly pulled up her old rocking chair and sat with her feet curled under her. MacMillan waited politely until she was settled, then perched cautiously on the edge of the sofa as though he were afraid it might collapse under his weight.

“I must admit I’m a little confused, Mr. MacMillan,” Molly said. Elvis jumped onto her lap, walked around in a circle and collapsed in a heap. She scratched his ears; he purred softly. “I’ve been trying for several years to find a good outlet for my dolls in town, and when Zoe said she’d like to carry them in MacMillan’s I thought we had a done deal.”

“Before this afternoon is over, it may well be,” MacMillan told her.

Zoe moved restively on the sofa. Molly glanced at her. The young woman sat with her arms crossed tight across her chest.

Logan also looked at his daughter as he addressed Molly. “Zoe tells me that your dolls are extraordinary and would sell well at MacMillan’s. I’m sure you’ll convince me she’s right. She generally is.” He smiled a kind, sad smile that softened the hard planes of his face.

Zoe raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Actually, you should thank Rick,” Molly said. “He saw the dolls when he came out to do the plumbing on the workshop and dragged Zoe back to look at them.”

Again he flashed her that smile. Molly felt a jolt. This guy could be really dangerous. Too attractive for his own good. Or hers.

“Tell him about the shops that carry your dolls,” Sherry prompted.

“Sure.” Molly ticked off her fingers. “Let’s see, Andreotti in Atlanta handles my dolls, so does Minou et Cie in Brussels, and I’ve just started shipping to Belisarius in Los Angeles. They’re all doing very well with them. MacMillan’s would fit right in.”

“Surely a toy store would be a more appropriate outlet. Why an interior design house?”

“These dolls aren’t toys,” Zoe said. “I told you that.”

“Let me show you,” Molly said. “Wait right here.” She opened the door to the showroom, slipped through and returned a moment later carrying a life-size doll—a little girl in a pale blue party dress and Belgian lace.

Zoe turned to her father. “You see?”

Molly held the doll out to MacMillan, who raised his hands and shook his head as though she were handing him a ticking time bomb. “No thank you. I’d rather not touch it. I break things. But she’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. She’s a portrait doll.”

“What are portrait dolls?”

“People commission me to sculpt dolls that look like their children or grandchildren. They tell me it’s better than a regular portrait or even a statue. Some of them, like this one, are life-size.”

“And expensive?”

“Up to six or seven thousand dollars.”

“You can actually sell dolls for that kind of money?” MacMillan asked, and ran a hand along his jaw. “I don’t know enough to make an educated decision.”

Zoe stood up abruptly. “But I do. That’s the point, isn’t it? In addition to the portrait dolls, Mrs. Halliday also designs and sculpts her own. And she makes beautiful copies of antique dolls. I know we could sell them in MacMillan’s.” She turned to Molly. “Thank you, Mrs. Halliday. I have another meeting at the shop. My father can conclude the negotiations. Supposedly that’s what he came for. Nice to see you, Mrs. Carpenter.” She walked to the front door and opened it.

“Zoe,” Logan called after her.

She kept going. She didn’t quite slam the door after herself, but she certainly closed it with a snap.

“Should I go after her?” Molly said.

Logan sat back on the couch and shook his head. “Sorry about that. Zoe resents what she perceives as my interference, but with an investment of this magnitude…”

“Investment?” Molly said. “You’re getting the dolls on consignment, didn’t Zoe explain that?”

“Consignment? Zoe neglected to mention that. I assumed she was buying them wholesale.” He realized with a sinking sensation that Zoe had deliberately set him up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Halliday. I misunderstood.” He stood and began to move toward the door.

“Whoa! Not so fast.” Molly laughed. She had to do something to lighten the atmosphere. “You came to see dolls, and by gosh, you’re stuck with them. Come on, Mr. MacMillan, you are going to see enough dolls to last you a lifetime.”

Sherry tucked her hand under MacMillan’s arm. “Don’t worry, Logan, unlike real children, they don’t bite.”

Molly opened the French doors at the back of the room and turned on the lights. She and Sherry hung back. MacMillan stood transfixed in the doorway.

Dolls in satin and lace rode in wicker carriages and antique sleighs; Native American dolls in beaded buckskin sat astride miniature ponies; Irish colleens in tartan shawls swung milk pails; baby dolls slept in bassinets; on a center table smaller dolls played jacks or snuggled under receiving blankets. Around the perimeter of the room, waist-high Victorian ladies nodded to nearly life-size portrait dolls of toddlers and young children dressed in everything from Belgian lace to jeans and cowboy boots.

MacMillan began to work his way methodically around the room as though he were in a museum. He kept his hands carefully clasped behind him. Molly understood. For a man who broke things, the showroom was a disaster waiting to happen.

“How’s the experiment with the vinyl going?” Sherry whispered.

Molly held up crossed fingers. “Great. I’ve cast a couple of my favorites and one of the big toy companies is definitely interested in mass-producing them. I never planned to go commercial, but the money’s too good to pass up.”

“Which ones did you pick?”

“The Jeannette doll—you’ve already got one of her. Then a new one I don’t think you’ve seen. The Dulcy doll is the one right in front of Mr. MacMillan.”

Sherry gasped and stared at MacMillan’s broad back.

Molly saw him stiffen like a bird dog on point.

Suddenly, he reached forward and grabbed the very doll she’d been talking about by its arm. He whirled to face them. As the doll swung, its right leg hit the edge of the table and shattered. Shards of bisque rained onto the table and floor. Without a word, MacMillan grasped the doll around its body and held it up so that both women could look into its face. Sherry moaned softly, “It can’t be.”

Molly felt her scalp tighten. MacMillan’s face was stony, his eyes hard and flat.

He threw the doll onto the table so hard that the crown of its head shattered. Two gray eyeballs flew out and rolled across the tile floor. Without a word he pushed past the two women, through the reception room and out the front door. They heard his footsteps as he ran up the path, heard his car door open then slam, the engine roar into life, and a moment later the gate alarm pealed as he drove into the road and away.

As the sound died, Molly reached out and picked up the broken doll from the table. She cradled it in her arms and turned to Sherry. “What on earth just happened here?”

Sherry sagged against the doorjamb as though her legs wouldn’t support her. “Molly, have you made any other dolls using that mold?”

“I told you, that’s one of the two I cast in vinyl.”

“Where is the other one?”

“In the workroom. I haven’t finished painting her face yet.”

“Go get her. Bring her here.”

Molly opened her mouth as if to argue. Then shrugged and went out.

A moment later, Molly returned from the workshop carrying a large doll loosely wrapped in brown paper. She unwrapped it and laid it naked on the table.

Sherry gasped. “Oh, Lord, it’s uncanny!”

“For Pete’s sake, Sherry, what?”

“Remember I told you that Logan’s daughter-in-law took her baby and disappeared? The little girl was named Dulcy.”

“Poor MacMillan! But I don’t think he heard me say her name. You and I were both whispering. And surely just a name wouldn’t be enough to set him off like that.”

Sherry looked into Molly’s eyes. “Molly, that doll you call the Dulcy doll—that’s the spitting image of Logan’s Dulcy, the way she’d look now.”

Molly felt the hackles rise on the back of her neck. “Noway.”

But Sherry wasn’t listening to her. She was off in some reverie of her own. “Rick and Zoe loved that child so much. Why didn’t they recognize the doll, too? I did.”

“They didn’t see her is why,” Molly said practically. “I was using my bathroom sink to cast the vinyl head while Rick finished plumbing the workshop. The Dulcy doll was there so I could refer to her if I needed to. I just got her dressed and back down to the workshop today.” She shook her head. “Specially for MacMillan and Zoe. My timing is as flawless as ever.”

“My God, just think how awful it would be if they saw a thousand of her sitting around in some toy store next Christmas!”

“Wouldn’t happen. These two are perfect likenesses, but if the company mass-produces them, I’ll give them a more generic prototype. The new doll won’t look like the little girl who disappeared.”

“Molly—she did more than disappear. Dulcy MacMillan has been dead for two years.”

Molly stared at Sherry.

“That’s impossible! She was alive and well a year ago when I modeled the doll.”

LOGAN MACMILLAN CAME to his senses five miles down the country road, barely in time to avoid a head-on collision with a pickup truck. He braked, swerved and wound up on the verge of a six-foot ditch. The other driver honked in irritation.

After his breathing returned to normal, Logan turned off the engine, climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He picked up a softball-size stone from the shoulder and threw it underhand as hard and as far as he could. It splashed in a cow pond fifty feet away.

Funny that he could still pitch. The last time he pitched to Jeremy, his son was ten. Logan had been home between jobs for a full four months that time.

He wiped his muddy hands down the sides of his jacket and grimaced. He’d always been so certain that sooner or later he and Jeremy would be able to spend time together, to catch up on all those years they’d been apart. How wrong he’d been.

He needed to hit something, so he punched the BMW with both fists hard enough to leave a dent. Pain radiated to his shoulders. His car insurance would probably skyrocket. The hell with it. He was beginning to feel a little better.

He tore open his tie, and yanked at his collar until the button popped.

Suddenly, his adrenaline bottomed out. He walked around to the driver’s side, slid in and turned on the ignition, then the heater. He had been in shock before and knew he was close again. As warm air flooded from the vents, he closed his eyes and fought for control. Much as he longed to put Molly Halliday and her dolls out of his mind he couldn’t. He’d have to drive back, apologize, pay for the doll and find out how she came to create such a bizarre likeness.