Mothers of the Year Page 4
God, she was weird. Some days she could hardly stand to listen to the thoughts inside her own head.
Dani loved old musicals. She couldn’t get enough of watching the ladies in the beautiful clothes swaying to the music. Sometimes, at Christmas, there’d be ballets on the PBS stations, like Swan Lake and The Nutcracker.
Dani had tried some of the steps in front of the mirror in her room, humming the tunes as she danced. They’d never stayed in one place long enough for her to take lessons, even if she’d had the guts to ask. One thing Dani remembered about her mother was that she’d loved to dance.
She reached the house long before Ms. Rosholt. The door was locked, so she took the key she wore around her neck and unlocked it, dumping her backpack on the coffee table and heading into the kitchen for milk.
She saw the chicken, the salad and made a face. She didn’t like salad, wasn’t crazy about chicken, either. But she didn’t think Ms. Rosholt would let her eat pizza and Oreos. Not unless it was her birthday, or maybe if she was dyin’.
The front door closed. Dani drained her glass, rinsed it, then set it on the counter. As Ms. Rosholt came into the kitchen, she headed for the living room.
“Homework?” Ms. Rosholt asked.
Dani nodded. She didn’t like the way Ms. Rosholt looked at her, as if she could see everything Dani felt and thought. She wasn’t used to people staring at her like that. Until now, it had been just her and Dad, and he was so clueless it wasn’t even funny. She had a feeling Ms. Rosholt was as far away from clueless as anyone could get.
Dani finished her homework, ate her dinner, managing to choke down the salad after she’d doused it in French dressing, then headed upstairs for a shower.
“You need any help?” Ms. Rosholt asked.
“Not since I was four.”
Ms. Rosholt laughed, which startled Dani. Most of her sitters told her to watch her mouth when she said stuff like that. Why she kept saying it, she wasn’t quite sure. Probably because she just couldn’t help herself.
Dani went to her closet. She needed to figure out what to wear tomorrow, and it had to be something better than what she’d worn so far.
Today, Ashley had stared Dani up then down and said, “Well, I guess that’s understandable since your mom just got here. All your good stuff must still be packed.”
Ouch.
Dani yanked out the only skirt she owned—her funeral skirt, which was straight and black—then tossed it on the bed. She couldn’t wear that to school unless she wanted to go Goth.
Next she searched through her pants. She had jeans and khakis. That was it.
She had enough Tshirts to open a store called Baseball’s My Life. Her dad had brought her one from every team he’d played against when he’d played and every team he’d managed against while managing. Would he notice if she burned them?
Then there were the pink shirts her mom sent. Pink made Dani look like a pale little boy too poor to wear anything but his older sister’s hand-me-downs.
Dani kicked the wall, then noticed her shoes. They were falling apart. She needed new sneakers, then maybe she could talk Dad into some sandals with a little bit of heel. If it ever got warm enough to wear sandals around here.
She began to pull things out of drawers, holding them up in front of the mirror, then tossing them over her shoulder. Within minutes, her room appeared as if a tornado had hit.
She found some ribbons her mom had sent her once upon a time. “Fat lot of good these’ll do me with no hair.”
Dani tossed them over her shoulder. When she turned at a noise, it was to see Ms. Rosholt in the doorway, multicolored ribbons trailing from her hand.
KELLY TOOK IN the trashed bedroom. There were clothes everywhere, but this didn’t appear to be a temper tantrum. Kelly’d seen those before. Everything got thrown around, not just clothes.
Dani was scowling into the mirror as if she didn’t like what she saw.
“Who cut your hair?” Kelly asked.
“I did.”
Kelly wasn’t surprised.
“Why?”
“So no one could yank on it.”
“Kids yank on your hair a lot?”
“Not if it’s short.”
This wasn’t getting them anywhere. Kelly moved farther into the room. “I heard a thud up here, so I came to make sure you hadn’t hit your head in the tub.”
“I didn’t get there yet.”
“Were you looking for something?”
“Can’t find what you don’t have,” Dani muttered.
“Which is?”
“Girl clothes.”
“What are girl clothes?” Kelly asked, but she already knew. Clothes like the ones the Barbies wore.
“You know.” Dani waved her hand at the piles on her bed and floor. “Not these.”
“Mmm. Seems like you’ve got some nice things.”
“Gack.” Dani mimed throwing up.
Kelly stifled a smile. “Do you want some help?”
At first Dani didn’t answer. Then she lifted her head and her dark, serious gaze met Kelly’s. “Can you teach me to be a girl?”
Kelly’s smile faded. Poor baby. “You are a girl, honey.”
“I don’t know how to dress. I don’t know how to walk or talk or—” She threw up her arms. “Anything. I know baseball. Big deal.”
“In a few years, a girl who knows baseball is going to be a good thing to be.”
“Why?”
“Boys like baseball.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Boys are dumb.”
“Sounds to me like you know quite a bit about being a girl already.” At Dani’s confused glance, Kelly continued. “‘Boys are dumb’ is the password for the little girls’ club. At least until you’re twelve.” Then it became “boys are dreamy,” or the twenty-first-century equivalent.
Dani gave a wan smile. She understood that Kelly was kidding. For seven, she was very intuitive.
“Ashley thinks all my clothes are still in boxes. She’s gonna expect me to wear something better now that my mom’s here.”
“Except I’m not your mom.”
Dani sighed. “And I don’t have anything better.”
Though Kelly didn’t want Dani dressing like the other girls, she understood her need to fit in, and with that she could help.
“We can put something together that’ll work.”
“We can?”
“You bet.” Kelly shook her fistful of ribbons. “These aren’t just for hair anymore.”
“What?”
“Put on your favorite jeans.”
Dani dug through the pile and found a faded, slightly thread-bare pair. Though Kelly wanted to tell her to choose again, she didn’t. People paid good money to buy jeans that scuffed up.
Kelly turned around while Dani slipped them on, then she held up the lengths of ribbon next to Dani’s face. “With your coloring, you should wear bright shades—red, purple, orange. Forget pink.”
“No problem,” Dani muttered.
Kelly withdrew two long red ribbons from the cache, then chose a purple one. She threaded them through the belt loops of the jeans, tied them in a big, bold knot and let the ends hang down. “What do you think?”
Dani’s answer was a grin.
“Do you have a white blouse?”
The girl pulled one out of the closet and put it on. Kelly rolled up the cuffs to just below her elbows, then tied the tails into a knot at the waist. To cap off the ensemble, she braided more colorful ribbons and wrapped them around Dani’s right wrist.
“One more thing.” Kelly ran downstairs and withdrew a travel-size tube of hair gel from her purse. Then she put Dani in front of the mirror and showed her how to fluff her hacked-off locks into a professionally jumbled do.
“Wow,” Dani said. “My hair actually looks like it was meant to be this way.”
“I think it was,” Kelly said. She was darn pleased with herself.
“Thanks, Ms. Rosholt,” Dani breathed.
“Call me Kelly.”
The phone rang; Dani answered. The joy on her face faded, and Kelly took a step forward, worried there’d been an accident.
Dani waved her off, then took a deep breath. “There’s been a mistake, Mrs. Wainright. My mom’s not coming.” She listened a second. “No, she won’t be here next week. She won’t be here at all. Ever.” Pause. “I’m sorry, too. But I have a…” Her eyes met Kelly’s. “A friend who’s going to plan the picnic. I’ll put Ms. Rosholt on.”
Dani held out the phone. Kelly couldn’t help herself; she leaned over and kissed Dani on the forehead.
While the girl took a shower, Kelly spoke with Ruth Wainright, agreeing to meet her later in the week and learn the particulars of the picnic.
They were just saying their goodbyes when Kelly had a thought. “Does Ashley take ballet lessons?” she asked.
“There aren’t very many girls in Kiwanee who don’t,” Ruth said. “At the annual Fourth of July celebration, they ride in the parade, then perform. It’s adorable.”
“Do you happen to have the phone number?”
Ruth did, so as soon as Kelly hung up, she dialed Michelle’s School of Ballet and registered Dani for her first class.
CHAPTER FIVE
SCOTT HAD a good day. He’d calmed the nerves of his new pitcher merely by showing him a map. Madison, aka Mad Town, was only half an hour from Kiwanee. If the guy wanted, he could live there and commute. Several players did, though Scott couldn’t understand why. After spending one day in Madison, he’d wanted to hop the next plane to the nearest deserted, tropical island.
It wasn’t so much the weather that bothered him. Even though he’d grown up in California and spent years in Florida, snow and cold weren’t the issue. What drove him nuts were the people, the cars, the buses, the bikes. One look at the streets of Kiwanee, and Scott had known he belonged there.
As he drove into town late that night, Scott cataloged every amenity. School only a few blocks from home. Home only a few blocks from work. Local merchants selling just about everything a person could want. All of his life he’d dreamed of raising a family in a place like this. Now he was here, and it was just him and Dani. He doubted there’d ever be a big family for him. After Kara, he didn’t trust people.
Especially curvy, blond people who put themselves ahead of everything else.
He pulled into the driveway, warmed by the lights in the windows, the knowledge that his daughter was here, sleeping in her own bed, instead of someone else’s, where he would have to either leave her overnight and go home to a dark, empty house alone, or drag her sleeping body from a couch and juggle her and her things into the car, then drive home and do the same thing until he got her inside. He hated that.
He scowled at Kelly Rosholt’s SUV, which was parked at the curb. What the hell was she doing here? She reminded him too much of Kara, right down to his annoyingly predictable reaction to her.
Scott climbed out of his car and let himself in the back door. A plate of chicken and pasta sat on the counter, covered with a plastic microwave cover that he hadn’t even known he owned. In the refrigerator sat a salad, covered with Saran Wrap. Not very Kara-like at all.
He stepped into the living room but no Ms. Rosholt. After checking all of the downstairs areas, he found her on the second-floor landing, turning away from Dani’s room as if she’d just looked in on the child. As he loomed at the top of the steps, she gasped and took a step backward, putting herself between him and Dani.
“It’s just me,” he said quickly.
“I didn’t hear you come in.” Her voice trembled a little.
“Everything okay?”
She nodded, then indicated with a flick of her wrist that they should go downstairs to talk. He moved aside, and as she went past he got a whiff of her hair—summer wind with a hint of wild-flowers.
He followed her down, admiring how her legs brushed against the khaki fabric of her pants. Her sweater rode up, revealing a slice of skin a shade lighter than the peach material.
She’d kicked off her shoes somewhere and her feet, clad in sheer stockings, whispered against the carpet. With her matching peach toe-and fingernails, her silver jewelry and her upswept hair, she was overdressed for this job, this town, this house. He needed to remember that while clothes might make a man, they defined a woman.
Kelly Rosholt’s definition read: Don’t touch! That means you, Scott.
“I made you a plate.” She retrieved her shoes from where she’d left them under the coffee table.
He gave them a quick once-over and wasn’t surprised to see gray-brown pumps with heels too high to chase children. Not that Dani would need chasing. Hopefully.
“Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
She gave him a quick rundown on the day. What Dani had eaten, what homework she’d done, the progress on the blasted picnic—as if he cared. Then she hesitated, biting her lip and studying his face.
“What else?” he asked. “Did she break something, take something? Did she get mud on you, herself, the furniture and the walls? Did she dissect a golf ball again? Or was it a football this time? Did she try to boil your purse?”
“What? No.” Her expression sharpened. “Has she done those things before?”
“Most of them twice.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“She wants attention.”
Scott shrugged. “All kids do.”
“Exactly. Which is why I signed her up for ballet lessons.”
Scott blinked. He put his finger in his ear and wiggled. Then he shook his head and gave up. “Why?”
“The other girls go to ballet lessons.”
“Dani isn’t like other girls.”
“Maybe she wants to be.”
“Since when?”
“I’m not sure. But she seems to think she’s a bad girl.”
“She can be.”
“Not a ‘bad’—” Kelly made quotes with her fingers in the air “—girl, but a bad girl. As in, she doesn’t know how to be one.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” He glanced upward, toward where his daughter slept. “She can’t not be what she is.”
“She’s a little girl in a new town, trying to make friends with other little girls. It doesn’t work out very well when you’re different.”
“Being different is special.”
“Of course it is, but she needs to find that out for herself. It won’t help if her being different means she’s alone. You want her to like it here, don’t you?”
More than anything.
Scott felt terrible that he’d dragged her from city to city while he worked his way up in the ranks of minor-league management. Dani had acted up; he couldn’t blame her. He hoped Kiwanee could be the place where she’d fit in. But he didn’t want her to do so at the expense of who she was.
“So I’m supposed to stand by while she behaves like all the other bozos?” he asked. “Does drugs, gets drunk, has sex?”
“They usually frown on that in ballet class.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “It’s ballet not thug school. Vee thought it was a good idea.”
Slowly, Scott glanced back. “You discussed this with Vee?”
“Seemed the thing to do when she showed up a few hours ago and didn’t want to leave.” Ms. Rosholt smirked. “Checking up on me?”
“Not really.” Her eyebrows lifted. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” he muttered. “Why are you?”
“Careful, I might start to think you don’t like me.” His gaze flicked to hers, but all he saw was amusement. “Relax,” she said. “I’d have done the same thing. Dani’s your most precious possession. Making sure she’s safe, by whatever means you’ve got, has to be your number-one priority.”
Scott frowned. She didn’t seem the type to agree with that. He cast a qu
ick glance at her perfect clothes, her tightly wrapped hair. She seemed more the type to put her career, her condo, her car in front of her child. Then again, if she were going to make a success of her business, she’d have to know and spout the appropriate propaganda.
Man, he sounded cynical. Probably because he was.
“Why are you here?” he repeated.
The earnest expression fled, replaced by a professional mask. “We’re short staffed.”
“You could have backed out.”
Her chin lifted. “Rent a Mommy keeps its promises.”
Though Scott wanted to send her on her way, he needed the help. He could put up with how she made him feel—by turns angry, frustrated, annoyed and aroused—for a week, maybe two. Besides, she was here to take care of Dani, the house and the picnic. When he came home, she should go. Like now.
“Well, I won’t keep you…” he said.
She made no move to leave. “So you’re okay with the ballet lessons?”
“Not really.”
Ms. Rosholt let out a frustrated huff. “You should have seen her face when she was staring into the window of the school. She wants this.”
“We can’t always get what we want.”
“Well, Mick, I think she needs it, too.”
He sighed and looked upward again.
“What’s so bad about ballet lessons for a little girl?” she asked softly.
Scott closed his eyes, remembering how Kara had danced. Graceful and sure, she’d spun and spun in front of the mirrors he’d had installed to make a studio just for her. The first time he’d seen her, Kara had been dancing, bending, kicking, twisting her lithe, perfect body in that skintight leotard. He’d been toast.
“Mr. Delgado?”
He opened his eyes. She’d moved closer. Too close. He could see the brilliant green of her irises, the amazingly long and dark lashes, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose that she’d tried to hide with makeup but been unable to. Why did she have to have freckles?
Her lips, painted the same peach as everything else, were pursed; she seemed worried. How long had he been standing here remembering? Long enough to make her think he was halfway to losing his mind.
“Call me Scott,” he said, then wished he hadn’t when his voice came out hoarse and low.