LITMIR.BIZ

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stuck around, hasn’t she? You must be doing something right.”

      “Maybe,” she said, though she was pleased by his observation. If he could see it, maybe she had been slowly winning Tracy’s trust, after all. Though the girl often stormed out with a chip on her shoulder, she always returned and she always abided by the rules. Of all of them, in fact, Tracy was the one who seemed most in need of the reassurance that someone cared what she did—or didn’t do. How odd that it had taken this virtual stranger with the penetrating gaze and quicksilver mood changes to make her realize that.

      Suddenly the bathroom seemed too confining. Or perhaps it was simply that Hank’s body seemed too masculine, too overwhelming, in the intimate space. It reminded Ann in an unrelenting way that she was a woman, something she all too often allowed herself to forget during jam-packed days of counseling and surrogate mothering.

      “Why don’t you go on and get settled?” she suggested, feeling a sudden need to reclaim some of her own space. “I’ll finish cleaning up in here.”

      “I want to check out these pipes first.”

      “Don’t bother. I’ll call the plumber in the morning.”

      “Why should you do that? I’m here now.”

      “Then I’ll pay you.”

      “You will not.”

      Ann’s temper flared irrationally at his stubborn insistence. “Dammit, I will not have you coming in here challenging my independence!”

      To her chagrin, Hank laughed. The sound echoed off the tile walls. “Is that what I’m doing? It must be on shaky ground.”

      Fury teased at her insides before she, too, finally chuckled. The tension in her shoulders eased. “Okay. That’s a slight overstatement. But you do need to understand that I’m used to being on my own. It’s important to me.”

      “I’ll try not to trample on your pride, but you need to understand that for as long as I’m here I want to do my share. The kids have chores. Why shouldn’t I?”

      She lifted her chin to a defiant tilt. “The kids are staying,” she pointed out. “You’re not.”

      The words were spoken flatly, with absolutely no hint of feeling, but Hank took one look at Ann’s expression and realized that a whole world of emotion was behind them. In the depths of her eyes he saw stark evidence of feelings he couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend. Abandonment. Hurt. Betrayal. Had they been her own? Or had she just seen too much in her life, too many innocent children wronged, too many hearts trampled on? Being a psychologist might equip her with a depth of understanding of human foibles, but the nonstop listening and advising had to take its toll. As he watched, she visibly withdrew, gathering her strength, shrouding her vulnerabilities.

      The ease with which she did it saddened him. For a fraction of a second Hank wanted to take the tall, stoic woman in his arms. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to challenge her easy acceptance of the fact that he was here today, but very likely gone tomorrow. He wanted to promise her a life filled with warmth and love and commitment. He wanted to tell her that the world really wasn’t such a lousy place. Ironically, he wasn’t sure he believed that himself. Maybe, in the end, he and Ann Davies were two of a kind, both too cynical to believe in happily ever after.

      So he didn’t argue. He didn’t hold her. He didn’t do a damn thing, except what he did best: he ran. He turned away from her emotional needs and tackled the practical ones. He went to work on the drain again.

      After several minutes of thick, increasingly awkward silence, she left the room. Hank didn’t look up. He said nothing.

      When she’d gone, the faintest scent of strawberries lingered. It taunted his senses in a way that expensive French perfumes never had. He wondered if the taste of strawberries was on her lips. The possibility was provocative. Maddening. He had the oddest feeling, now that she was out of reach, that he’d made a terrible mistake in not acting on impulse and kissing the woman senseless. Maybe once he’d done it, her odd grip on him would loosen.

      His hand slipped and his knuckles scraped along the jagged inside edge of the drain. He cursed as blood welled slowly. He ransacked the medicine cabinet for antiseptic and dumped it on, grateful for the pain. For an instant, anyway, it blocked out his unexpected, inexplicable sense of loss.

      It was going to be a very long couple of months.

      It was a very long evening. There was absolutely no gracious way Hank could think of to get out of joining the whole unorthodox, noisy family for dinner on his very first night. He figured it was a test contrived by an irritated Maker. He barely passed. His nerves were so tightly wound by the time they finished saying grace and passed the heaping platters of food that his shoulders felt as if he’d been lifting weights for an hour.

      He discovered that there was no such thing as conversation, much less seductive intimacy, at a table with six children. There were pokes. There were grumbled complaints about vegetables. There were muttered gripes about the choice of baked rather than fried chicken. There were threats of banishment if one single spoonful of mashed potatoes was actually flung across the table. There were promises of dessert for those who finished their glazed carrots. And there was intense bargaining over dishwashing duties. Ann presided over it all with Madonna-like serenity.

      Hank watched her and marveled. While his muscles knotted at the confusion, she seemed to thrive on it. Her cheeks glowed. Her blue eyes sparkled with laughter. She was as adept as an experienced referee in the midst of a goal-line pileup. She knew exactly what everyone needed at any given second and provided it. Platters and bowls came and went with the precision of a banquet caterer. No argument was allowed to erupt into anger. She teased. She soothed. She tolerated spilled milk and gravy stains with equanimity, but drew the line at food fights.

      “Enough,” she said, unable to hide a grin as David—or was it Jason? Nope, Jason was the one who never talked—promised to stuff cold potatoes down Tracy’s throat if she dared to reveal some secret he’d entrusted her with. Ann moved the potatoes safely out of reach.

      “You are such a jerk,” Tracy countered with a look of supreme disgust for the red-haired boy beside her. “Why would I want to tell anyone that you—”

      “Tracy!” he threatened, stretching to try to get a grip on the bowl that Ann had just moved. An embarrassed flush spread beneath his freckles.

      Tracy grinned back. “Gotcha.”

      “Mom, make her promise,” David implored.

      “Not me,” Ann said, getting up and beginning to clear the table. “You two work it out or leave the table.”

      David moved his chair with a thump. Tracy propped her elbow on the table and settled her chin in her hand. Her expression of exaggerated innocence amused Hank. He waited for David’s next move.

      “What’ll it cost me?” he said resignedly, sinking back in his chair.

      Tracy reacted indignantly. “I am not blackmailing you, you little twerp. Jeez, what’s wrong with you? I was only teasing.”

      Ann paused behind Tracy’s chair and put a warning hand on her shoulder. Hank watched as the girl struggled with her anger. “I’m sorry,” she muttered finally.

      David blinked at the apology, then stared at the table. “Yeah, me, too,” he mumbled.

      “Now how about dessert?” Ann said cheerfully, ending the brief moment of tension. “Who wants strawberries with ice cream?”

      “Me.”

      “Me.”

      The chorus came from around the table. Hank found himself chiming in, though the thought of strawberries brought all sorts of dangerous memories to mind. “I’ll help,” he said, feeling a sudden need to move, a surprising desire to be an active participant, rather than an observer.

      “Not tonight,” Ann said, her gaze pinning him where he was.

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