LITMIR.BIZ

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her through it, to solidify them as a family. He’d failed.

      He refused to do so again. We’ll make it work, kiddo. I swear I’ll do everything I can to be a good father. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, breathing in the grape smell of her no-tears children’s shampoo. God, life should be like that. He should be able to protect this trusting little person curled into his side, be able to guarantee that everything would always come up smelling sweet, with limited tangles or tears.

      For this morning, at least, she was coping better than him. While he spent twenty minutes worrying about all the ways he might potentially screw up as a parent, his daughter laughed—that unabashed, full-bodied sound that had taken him by surprise when she was a baby—at the antics of an animated rabbit and duck on the TV screen. Afterward, he made them a modest but healthy breakfast of cereal and strawberries.

      “You get to see Zoë today,” he reminded her as he buckled her into her booster seat at the table.

      The Spencers across the street had a four-year-old daughter. Emily had always loved having the older girl over or even playing in the Spencers’ yard when Jason stayed in view. It was only in the past couple of weeks that she’d consented to being in Mrs. Spencer’s care without Jason there; even then, he kept his cell phone within reach in case Em suddenly and vehemently changed her mind, the way children her age could. While people often referenced the “terrible twos,” he’d only seen real tantrums from Emily in the past month, and Wanda Spencer agreed that the worst trouble she ever had with Zoë was the transition from two to about four months after she turned three. Emily’s third birthday would fall just after Easter this year.

      Today, Wanda was taking the two girls to see a new G-rated movie at King Cinema that was garnering rave reviews from parents. The outing would give Jason a chance to run by the hardware store and pick up his latest batch of supplies. Though he knew more about elements of myth than he did wiring ceiling fans, modernizing this house meant something special to him. His dad had been in the military, and the family had relocated from base to base throughout Jason’s childhood with Gran’s place serving as a touchstone, a nostalgic constant. During the winter they’d lived in Alaska, Jason’s mom had vowed that while she’d dutifully follow her husband all over the world during his career, once he retired, they were moving somewhere very, very warm. They now resided in Phoenix. With her only child out west and her husband passing away several years ago, Sophie McDeere hadn’t had much help keeping up with repairs on this place.

      Until he’d returned to his lifelong refuge during the divorce proceedings, Jason hadn’t realized how much the house had suffered from neglect. He’d made it his unspoken mission to respectfully refurbish Gran’s place and, in the process, build a wonderful home for Emily. Of course, while he was learning as much as he could through various instruction manuals and painstaking trial, he didn’t have a knack for design. If he let Emily have input, she’d probably insist on pink for everything from the sofa cushions to the carpet. There were some projects that needed…more of a woman’s touch.

      Sighing, he loaded their breakfast dishes into the washer, thinking about the magazine-perfect house he’d left behind. Isobel, always flawlessly put together, had had a natural talent for design. While pregnant, she’d decorated a baby nursery that looked like something out of a fairy tale. But no amount of unicorn switch plates or fanciful wall murals could make up for what Emily had lost.

      Pushing aside thoughts of the past and his occasional demons of self-doubt, he helped his daughter get dressed and read her a few of her favorite picture books. Though he was unquestionably biased, he thought she had a great vocabulary for her age, which he attributed to the stories they shared. Afterward, they played in the yard until it was time to walk her over to the Spencers’.

      He took Emily’s hand as they climbed the four steps to the spacious front porch, where one of Zoë’s dolls sat in the glider-swing. “Are you excited about the movie, sweet pea?”

      She nodded and said something about princesses, which he understood was a major selling point to the female preschool demographic. Emily was rarely without the tiara that had been part of the Halloween costume Gran put together for her. But despite his daughter’s eagerness for the princess film, he noticed her glance nervously his way when Wanda Spencer opened the screen door. Would Em fuss when he left? During the week when he went to work, she stayed home with a mother of two who had her days free while her own sons were in school. Emily still cried about half the time when he left, and it continued to break his heart. He’d hoped she’d be better adjusted to her daytime caregiver, Miss Nina, by now.

      Wanda Spencer had plenty of experience with little girls, however. She bent down to Emily’s level, overlooking the girl’s wide green eyes and trembling bottom lip. “Hey there. Zoë and I were just talking about how we couldn’t wait for you to come over. She wants to show you a special bubble-blowing toy she got. We have plenty of time to play out back before our movie. Want to see?”

      After a brief hesitation, Emily nodded, managing a smile when Zoë appeared in the doorway behind her mom.

      As he watched the two little girls greet each other, Jason couldn’t help making visual comparisons. Emily’s dark hair was sliding out of the ponytail he’d attempted, and there was a sticky spot of strawberry residue he’d missed on her chin. Her clothes were clean, but her favorite green T-shirt, scuffed sneakers and purple skirt, worn over pull-up training pants, didn’t quite have the panache of Zoë’s pink-and-white shirt underneath pink overalls. She’d accessorized with pink-sparkle tennis shoes and ribbons at the end of two fancy braids. French braids? Braided pigtails? They reminded him of Dorothy’s hair at the beginning of The Wizard of Oz. Did mothers take some sort of special class to learn how to do stuff like that? Plaiting 101. Every time he picked up the small lavender brush to fix Em’s hair, he was all thumbs.

      “She’ll be fine,” Wanda Spencer said, misreading his expression. “You go ahead, and we’ll see you this afternoon.”

      “Thanks.” He hugged Emily in farewell and turned to Zoë’s mother. “Really, thank you.”

      The people in Joyous were nosy and interfering, no doubt about it, but they were also generous of spirit and especially quick to help those they considered part of the fold. He knew that in a town this size, you could go a long while and still be thought of as an outsider, but Sophie had been well loved and locals had automatically extended that affection to him. He should try harder to remember this feeling of warm gratitude the next time someone was telling him about a woman he just had to meet.

      “You’re welcome.” Wanda touched his arm, briefly, companionably. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be to go it alone. Zoë’s a good kid, but if I didn’t have Brad to help me…Well, I hope you and Emily know we’re here for whatever you need.”

      As he walked back across the street, he found himself hoping that Wanda didn’t regret the open-ended offer of assistance. It was already becoming clear he’d have a lot of questions to deal with. Now that he was working with Emily on the concept of potty training and she was old enough to start voicing questions, he was increasingly aware of situations that he, as someone of the opposite gender, didn’t feel equipped to handle.

      Recalling Principal Schonrock’s entreaties to bring a date to the Spring Fling, Jason made a face. He needed a woman, all right—not for some school dance, but someone who could braid hair and tackle delicate scenarios with a light touch. Emily was growing so fast that, before he knew it, she’d be a young woman getting her first—

      Sheer panic filled him, so he squelched the thought immediately. Toddlerhood was terrifying enough; he didn’t even want to contemplate puberty. One day at a time. It wasn’t the most original or inspiring motto, but it had brought him this far. Whatever life threw at him next, he’d handle.

      His daughter was counting on him.

      SINCE SHE WASN’T SCHEDULED to work this particular Saturday, Ronnie had planned to use today to pack. Yet it had taken depressingly little time to box up her belongings.

      Her father had shocked her that morning when he’d suggested she take the dining room table and

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