eattle

June 1996

Escaping the chaos in the kitchen, Georgeanne walked the banquet room one last time. With a critical eye, she scrutinized the thirty-seven linen-draped tables carefully placed about the room. In the center of each table, pressed-glass bowls had been artfully piled with a variety of wax-dipped roses, baby’s breath, and fern fronds.

Mae had accused her of being obsessed, possessed, or both. Georgeanne’s fingers still ached from all that hot paraffin, but as she gazed at each centerpiece, she knew the aggravation, pain, and mess had been worth it. She’d created something unique and beautiful. She, Georgeanne Howard, the girl who’d been raised to depend on others to take care of her, had created a wonderful life. She’d done it by herself. She’d learned methods to help her deal with her dyslexia. She no longer hid her problems, yet she didn’t talk about them openly either. She’d concealed her dyslexia too many years to announce it to the world now.

She’d overcome many of her old obstacles, and at the age of twenty-nine, she was a partner in a successful catering business and owned a modest little house in Bellevue. She took tremendous satisfaction from everything the backward little girl from Texas accomplished. She’d walked through fire, been burned to her soul, but she’d survived. She was a stronger person now, perhaps less trusting, and extremely reluctant to ever give her heart to a man again, but she didn’t view those two qualities as impedances to her happiness. She’d learned her lessons the hard way, and although she’d much rather give a vital organ than relive her life before she’d walked into Heron Catering seven years ago, she was the woman she was today because of what had happened to her then. She didn’t like to think of the past. Her life was full now and filled with things she loved.

She’d been born and raised in Texas, but she’d quickly come to love Seattle. She loved the hilly city surrounded by mountains and water. It had taken her a few years to get used to the rain, but like most natives, it didn’t bother her much now. She loved the tactile feel of Pike Place Market and the vibrant colors of the Pacific Northwest.

Georgeanne raised her forearm, pushed back the wrist of her black tuxedo jacket, and peered at her watch. Elsewhere in the old hotel, her waiting staff served sliced cucumber topped with salmon, stuffed mushrooms, and glasses of champagne to three hundred guests. But in a half hour, they would make their way to the banquet room and dine on veal scallopini, new potatoes with lemon butter, and endive and watercress salad.

She reached for a wineglass and plucked the napkin stuffed inside. Her hands trembled as she refolded the white linen to resemble a rose. She was nervous. More so than usual. She and Mae had catered parties of three hundred before. Nothing new. No sweat. But they’d never catered for the Harrison Foundation. They’d never catered a fund-raiser that charged its guests five hundred dollars a plate. Oh, realistically she knew the guests weren’t paying that amount of money for the food. The money raised tonight would go to The Children’s Hospital and Medical Center. Still, just the thought all those people, paying all that money for a piece of veal, gave her palpitations.

A door at the side of the room opened and Mae slipped through. “I thought I’d find you in here,” she said as she walked toward Georgeanne. In her hand she held the green folder that contained work and purchase orders, a running inventory of all supplies, and a cluster of receipts.

Georgeanne smiled at her close friend and business partner and placed the folded napkin back in the glass. “How are things in the kitchen?”

“Oh, the new cook’s assistant drank all that special white wine you bought for the veal.”

Georgeanne felt her stomach drop. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m kidding.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s not funny,” Georgeanne sighed as Mae came to stand next to her.

“Probably not. But you need to lighten up.”

“I won’t be able to lighten up until I’m on my way home,” Georgeanne said as she turned to adjust the pink rose pinned to the lapel of Mae’s cutaway tuxedo jacket. Although the two of them were dressed in identical suits, they were complete physical opposites. Mae had the smooth porcelain skin of a natural blonde, and at five feet one inch, was as slim as a ballerina. Georgeanne had always envied Mae’s metabolism, which allowed her to eat almost anything and never gain a pound.

“Everything is progressing right on schedule. Don’t get excited and zone out like you did at Angela Everett’s wedding.”

Georgeanne frowned and walked toward the side door. “I’d still like to get my hands on Grandma Everett’s little blue poodle.”

Mae laughed as she strolled beside Georgeanne. “I’ll never forget that night. I was serving the buffet and I could hear you screeching from the kitchen.” She lowered her voice a fraction, then proceeded to mimic Georgeanne’s accent. “Cryin‘ all night. A dawg ate my balls!”

“I said meatballs.”

“No. You didn’t. Then you just sat down and stared at the empty tray for a good ten minutes.”

Georgeanne didn’t quite remember it that way. But even she had to admit that she still wasn’t all that good at handling sudden stress. Although she was better at it than she used to be. “You’re a horrid liar, Mae Heron,” she said, reaching up to give her friend’s ponytail a little tug, then turned to cast one more glance at the room. The china shined, the silver flatware gleamed, and the folded napkins looked as if hundreds of white roses hovered just above the tabletops.

Georgeanne was extremely pleased with herself.

A frown furrowed John Kowalsky’s brow as he leaned slightly forward in his chair and took a closer look at the napkin stuffed in his wineglass. It appeared to be a bird or a pineapple. He wasn’t sure which.

“Oh, this is nice,” his date for the evening, Jenny Lange, sighed. He glanced at her shiny blond hair and had to admit that he’d liked Jenny a lot better the day he’d asked her out. She was a photographer, and he’d met her two weeks ago when she’d come to take pictures of his houseboat for a local magazine. He didn’t know her very well. She seemed like a perfectly nice lady, but even before they’d arrived at the benefit, he’d discovered he wasn’t attracted to her. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t her fault. It was him.

He turned his attention back to the napkin, plucked it from the glass, and laid it across his knee. Lately he’d been thinking about getting married again. He’d been talking to Ernie about it, too. Maybe tonight’s benefit had triggered something dormant in him. Maybe it was because he’d just had his thirty-fifth birthday; but he’d been thinking about finding a wife and having a few kids. He’d been thinking about Toby, thinking about him more than usual.

John leaned back in his chair, brushed aside the front of his charcoal Hugo Boss suit jacket, and shoved his hand in the pocket of his gray trousers. He wanted to be a father again. He wanted the word “Daddy” added to his list of names. He wanted to teach his son to skate, just as he’d been taught by Ernie. Like every other father in the world, he wanted to stay up late on Christmas Eve and put together tricycles, bicycles, and race-car sets. He wanted to dress up his son as a vampire, or a pirate, and take him trick-or-treating. But when he looked at Jenny, he knew she wasn’t going to be the mother of his children. She reminded him of Jodie Foster, and he’d always thought Jodie Foster looked a little like a lizard. He didn’t want his children to look like lizards.

A waiter interrupted his thoughts and asked if he wanted wine. John told him no, then leaned forward and turned his glass upside down on the table.

“Don’t you drink?” Jenny asked him.

“Sure,” he answered, and taking his hand from his pocket, he reached for the glass he’d carried in with him from the cocktail hour. “I drink soda water and lime.”

“You don’t drink alcohol?”

“No. Not anymore.” He set down his glass as another waiter placed a plate of salad before him. He’d been dry for four years this time, and he knew he’d never drink again. Alcohol turned him into a dumb shit, and he’d finally grown tired of it.

The night he’d hit Philadelphia forward Danny Shanahan was the night he’d hit rock bottom. There were those who thought “Dirty Danny” had deserved what he’d been given. But not John. As he’d stared down at the man lying prone on the ice, he’d known he was out of control. He’d been cracked in the shins and elbowed in the ribs more times than not. It was part of the game. But that night something in him had snapped. Before he’d even realized what he was doing, he’d thrown his gloves and had bare-knuckle sucker-punched Shanahan. Danny had received a concussion and a trip to the infirmary. John had been ejected from play and suspended for six games. The next morning he’d awakened in a hotel with an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bed filled with two naked women. As he’d stared up at the textured ceiling, thoroughly disgusted with himself and trying to recall the night before, he’d known he had to stop.

He hadn’t had a drink since. He hadn’t even wanted one. And now when he went to bed with a woman, he woke up the next morning knowing her name. In fact, he had to know a lot about her first. He was careful now. He was lucky to be alive and he knew it.

“Isn’t the room beautifully decorated?” Jenny asked.

John glanced at the table, then at the podium in the front of the room. All the flowers and candles were a little too fruity for his tastes. “Sure. It’s great,” he said, and ate his salad. When he finished, the plate was taken and another set before him. He’d attended a lot of banquets and benefits in his life. He’d eaten a lot of bad food at them, too. But tonight the food was pretty good; skimpy, but good. Better than last year. Last year he’d been served a rubbery game hen with really shitty pine nuts stuffed inside. But then, he wasn’t here for the food. He was here to give money. A lot of money. Very few people knew of John’s philanthropy, and he wanted it to stay that way. He did it for his son and it was private.

“What do you think of the Avalanche winning the Stanley Cup?” Jenny asked as the dessert was set before them.

John figured she was asking just to make conversation. She didn’t want to know what he really thought, so he toned down his opinion and kept it nice and clean. “They’ve got one hell of a goaltender. You can always count on Roy to pull through in the playoffs and save your ass.” He shrugged. “They’ve got some good muckers, but Claude Lemieux is a gutless sissy boy.” He reached for his dessert spoon, then looked at her. “They’ll probably make it into the finals again next season.” And he’d be waiting for them, because John expected to be there, too, battling for the Cup.

He turned to let his gaze sweep the room in search of the president of the Harrison Foundation. Ruth Harrison usually took the podium first and got things rolling. He spotted her two tables away looking up at a woman who stood beside her. The woman’s back was to John, but she stuck out in the crowd of silk dresses around her. She wore a tuxedo with long tails and appeared overdressed, even for a fancy fund-raiser. Her hair was pulled back and secured at the nape of her neck with a big black bow. From the bow, soft curls fell to the middle of her shoulders. She was tall, and when she turned her profile toward him, John choked on his sorbet. “Jesus,” he wheezed.

“Are you okay?” Jenny asked, and placed a concerned hand on the shoulder of his jacket.

He couldn’t answer. He could only stare, feeling as if he’d been high-sticked in the forehead. When he’d delivered her to Sea-Tac Airport seven years ago, he’d never thought they’d meet again. He remembered the last time he’d seen her, a voluptuous baby doll in a little pink dress. He remembered a lot more about her, too, and what he remembered usually brought a smile to his lips. For reasons he couldn’t recall at the moment, he hadn’t been drunk the night he’d spent with her. But he didn’t think it would have mattered if he’d been drinking or not, because drunk or sober, Georgeanne Howard wasn’t the type of woman a man forgot.

“What’s the matter, John?”

“Ahh... nothing.” He glanced at Jenny, then turned his gaze back to the woman who’d caused such a stir when she’d run out on her wedding. After that fateful day, Virgil Duffy had left the country for eight months. The Chinooks’ summer training camp that year had been thick with speculation. A few players thought she’d been kidnapped while others theorized on the mode of her escape. Then there was Hugh Miner, who figured that rather than marry Virgil, she’d killed herself in his bathroom and Virgil had covered it up. Only John knew the truth, but he had been the only Chinook not talking.

“John?”

Now here she was, standing in the middle of a banquet room, looking as beautiful as he remembered. Maybe more so. Maybe it was the tuxedo, which seemed to emphasize the shape of her body rather than disguise it. Maybe it was the light shining on her dark hair, or the way her profile defined her full lips. He didn’t know if it was one or all of those things, but he found the more he looked at her, the deeper his curiosity grew. He wondered what she was doing in Seattle. What she’d done with her life, and if she’d found a rich man to marry.

“John?”

He turned his attention to his date.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No. Nothing.” He turned to look at Georgeanne again and watched her place a black purse on the table. She reached out and shook Ruth Harrison’s hand. Then she smiled, grabbed the purse, and walked away.

“Excuse me, Jenny,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

He followed Georgeanne as she wove her way through tables, keeping his eyes on the straight set of her shoulders. “Pardon me,” he said as he shoved his way past two older gentlemen. He caught up with her just as she was about to open a side door.

“Georgie,” he said as her hand reached for the brass knob.

She stopped, glanced over her shoulder at him, and stared for a good five seconds before her mouth slowly fell open.

“I thought I recognized you,” he said.

She closed her mouth. Her green eyes were huge as if she’d been caught in the act of a felony.

“Don’t you remember me?”

She didn’t answer. She just continued to stare at him.

“I’m John Kowalsky. We met when you ran away from your wedding,” he explained, although he wondered how she could possibly forget that particular debacle. “I picked you up and we—”

“Yes,” she interrupted him. “I remember you.” Then she said nothing more, and John wondered if there was something wrong with his memory because he remembered her as a real chatter hound.

“Oh, good,” he said to cover the awkward silence that stretched between them. “What are you doing in Seattle?”

“Working.” She took a deep breath, which raised her breasts, then said on a rush of expelled air, “Well, I have to go now.” She turned so fast that she ran into the closed door. The wood rattled noisily and her purse fell from her hand, spilling some of the contents on the floor. “Cryin‘ all night,” she gasped with her breathy southern drawl, and stooped to retrieve her things.

John lowered to one knee and picked up a tube of lipstick and a ballpoint pin. He held them out to her in his open hand. “Here you go.”

Georgeanne looked up and her eyes locked with his. She stared at him for several heartbeats, then reached for her lipstick and pen. Her fingers brushed his palm. “Thank you,” she whispered, and pulled away her hand as if she’d been burned. Then she stood and opened the door.

“Wait a minute,” he said, and reached for a floral-printed checkbook. In the short amount of time it took him to grab it and rise to his feet, she was gone. The door shut in his face with a loud bang, leaving John to feel like an idiot. She’d acted as if she were afraid. While it was true that he didn’t remember every detail of the night they’d spent together, he would have remembered if he’d hurt her. Before he could contemplate the possibility, he dismissed it as absurd. Even at his drunkest, he’d never hurt a woman.

Baffled, he turned and walked slowly back toward his table. He couldn’t figure out why she’d practically run from him. His memories of Georgeanne weren’t at all unpleasant. They’d shared a night of great raw sex, then he’d bought her a plane ticket home. Oh, he’d known he’d hurt her feelings, but at that time in his life, it was the best he could offer.

John looked down at the checkbook in his hand and flipped it open. He was surprised to see her checks had crayon pictures on them like a kid would draw. He glanced at the left-hand corner and was further surprised to see that her last name hadn’t changed. She was still Georgeanne Howard and she lived in Bellevue.

More questions were added to the list of others in his head, but they would all go unanswered. For whatever reason, she obviously didn’t want to see him. He slipped the checkbook into the pocket of his jacket. He’d mail it back to her Monday.

Georgeanne hurried up the sidewalk edged on each side by colorful primroses and purple pansies. Her hand shook as she fit her key into the brass knob on the door. A chaotic mix of lush hydrangea and cosmos planted in front of the house spilled out onto the lawn. Panic held her in its tight grasp, and she knew she wouldn’t feel relieved of her fear until she was safely inside her house.

“Lexie,” she called out as she opened the door. She glanced to the left and a bit of calm eased the racing of her heart. Her six-year-old daughter sat on the couch surrounded by four stuffed dalmatians. On the television, Cruella De Vil laughed wickedly, and her eyes glowed red as she drove her car off a snowy embankment. Sitting next to the dalmatians, Rhonda, the teenage girl from next door, looked up at Georgeanne. Her nose ring caught a glint of light and her burgundy hair shined like rich wine. Rhonda looked odd, but she was a nice girl and a wonderful babysitter.

“How did everything go tonight?” Rhonda asked as she stood.

“Great,” Georgeanne lied, opened her purse, and pulled out her wallet. “How was Lexie?”

“She was fine. We played Barbies for a while and then she ate the macaroni and cheese with the little hot dogs cut up in it that you left for her.”

Georgeanne handed Rhonda fifteen dollars. “Thank you for sitting for me tonight.”

“Any time. Lexie is a pretty cool kid.” She raised a hand. “See ya.”

“‘Bye, Rhonda.” Georgeanne smiled as she let the baby sitter out. She moved to sit down on the peach and green floral-print couch next to her daughter. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He doesn’t know, she told herself. And even if he did, he probably wouldn’t care anyway.

“Hey, precious darlin‘,” she said, and patted Lexie on the thigh. “I’m home.”

“I know. I like this part,” Lexie informed her without taking her eyes from the television. “It’s my favorite. I like Roily the best. He’s fat.”

Georgeanne brushed several locks of Lexie’s hair behind her shoulder. She wanted to grab her daughter and hold her tight; instead she said, “If you give me some sugar, I’ll leave you alone.”

Lexie automatically turned, lifted her face, and puckered her dark red lips.

Georgeanne kissed her, then held Lexie’s chin in her palm. “Have you been into my lipstick again?”

“No, Mommy, it’s mine.”

“You don’t have that shade of red.”

“Uh-huh. I do, too.”

“Where did you get it then?” Georgeanne lifted her gaze to the dark purple shadow Lexie had liberally applied from eyelids to brows. Bright pink streaks colored her cheeks, and she’d doused herself in Tinkerbell perfume.

“I found it.”

“Don’t lie to me. You know I don’t like it when you lie to me.”

Lexie’s heavily coated bottom lip trembled. “I forget sometimes,” she cried dramatically. “I think I need a doctor to help me remember!”

Georgeanne bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. As Mae was fond of saying, Lexie was a drama queen. And according to Mae, she knew queens very well. Her brother, Ray, had been one. “A doctor will give you a shot,” Georgeanne warned.

Lexie’s lip stopped trembling and her eyes rounded.

“So maybe you can remember to stay out of my things without going to the doctor.”

“Okay,” she agreed a little too easily.

“Because if you don’t, the deal is off,” Georgeanne warned, referring to the bargain they’d agreed to several months ago. On the weekends, Lexie could dress in whatever she wanted and wear as much makeup as her little heart desired. But during the week, she had to have a clean face and dress in the clothes her mother picked out for her to wear. For now, the deal seemed to be working.

Lexie was mad for cosmetics. She loved them and thought the more the better. The neighbors stared when she rode her bicycle down the sidewalk, especially if she wore the lime green boa Mae had given her. Taking her to a grocery store or to the mall was embarrassing, but it was only on the weekends. And it was easier to live with the deal they’d made than the daily battles that used to ensue every morning when it was time for Lexie to get dressed.

The threat of no more makeup got Lexie’s attention. “I promise, Mommy.”

“Okay, but only because I’m a sucker for your face,” Georgeanne said, then she kissed her on the forehead.

“I’m a sucker for your face, too,” Lexie repeated back.

Georgeanne rose from the couch. “I’ll be in my bedroom if you need me.” Lexie nodded and turned her attention to the barking dalmatians on the television screen.

Georgeanne walked down the hallway, past a small bathroom, then into her bedroom. She shrugged out of her tuxedo jacket and tossed it on a pink and white striped chaise.

John didn’t know about Lexie. He couldn’t. Georgeanne had overreacted, and he’d probably thought she was a lunatic, but seeing him again had been such a shock. She’d always been careful to avoid John. She didn’t move in the same social circle, and she never attended a Chinooks game, which was no hardship because she found hockey appallingly violent. For fear of running into him, Heron’s never catered athletic functions, which didn’t bother Mae since she hated jocks. Never in a million years had she thought she might run into him at a hospital charity.

Georgeanne sank down on the floral chintz comforter covering her bed. She didn’t like to think about John, but forgetting about him completely was impossible. Occasionally she would walk through a grocery store and see his handsome face staring at her from the cover of a sports magazine. Seattle was crazy about the Chinooks and John “The Wall” Kowalsky. During the hockey season he could be seen on the nightly news slamming other men against the boards. She saw him on local television commercials, and she’d seen his face on a billboard advertising milk, of all things. Sometimes the smell of a certain cologne, or the sound of crashing waves, would remind her of lying on a sandy beach and staring up into deep blue eyes. The memory no longer hurt as it had once. It wasn’t a sharp ache to the heart. Still, she always pushed away the images of that time and of that man. She didn’t like to dwell on them.

She’d always thought Seattle was big enough for the both of them. She’d thought that if she made every effort to avoid him, she’d never have to actually see him in person. But even though she didn’t think it would ever happen, there was a part of her that had always wondered what he would say if he saw her again. Of course, she’d known what she would say. She’d always pictured herself acting indifferent. Then she’d say, as cool as a December morning, “John? John who? I’m sorry, I don’t remember you. It’s nothing personal.”

That hadn’t happened. She’d heard someone call out the name she hadn’t used in seven years, the name she no longer associated with the woman she was now, and she’d turned to look at the man who’d used it. For several heartbeats her brain hadn’t registered what her eyes had seen. Then complete shock had taken over. The fight-or-flight instinct had kicked in and she’d run.

But not before she’d looked into his blue eyes and accidentally touched his hand. She’d felt the warm texture of his palm beneath her fingers, seen the curious smile on his lips, and recalled the touch of his mouth pressed to hers. He looked so much like she remembered, and yet he seemed bigger and age had etched fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He was still extremely nice to look at, and for a few brief seconds, she’d forgotten that she hated him.

Georgeanne rose and moved to stand in front of the cheval mirror across the room. Her hand lifted to the front of her tuxedo shirt and she unbuttoned it. Because of Lexie’s dark hair and coloring, people often commented that she resembled Georgeanne, but Lexie looked just like her father. She had the same blue eyes and long, thick lashes. Her nose was the same shape as his, and when she smiled, a dimple creased her cheek. Just like John.

Pulling her shirt from the waistband of her pants, she unbuttoned her cuffs. Lexie was the most important thing in Georgeanne’s life. She was her heart, and the thought of losing her was unbearable. Georgeanne was scared. More afraid than she’d been in a long time. Now that John knew she lived in Seattle, he could find Lexie. All he had to do was ask someone at the Harrison Foundation, and he could find Georgeanne.

But why would John want to seek me out? she asked herself. He’d dumped her at the airport seven years ago, making his feelings painfully obvious. And even if he did find out about his daughter, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with her. He was a big hockey player. What would he want with one little girl?

She was just being paranoid.

The next morning Lexie finished her cereal and put the bowl in the sink. From the back of the house she could hear her mom turn on the faucet, and she knew she had a long wait before they left for the mall. Her mom loved to take long showers.

The doorbell rang and she walked into the living room, dragging her boa behind her. She moved to the big front window and pushed the lace curtain aside. A man in jeans and a striped shirt stood on the porch. Lexie stared at him a moment, then let the curtain fall back in place. She wrapped her boa around her neck and walked across the room to the front entrance. She wasn’t supposed to open the door for strangers, but even though the man standing on the porch had on black sunglasses, he wasn’t a stranger. She knew who he was. She’d seen him on the TV, and last year Mr. Wall and his friends had come to her school to sign their names on some of the kids’ shirts and notebooks and stuff. Lexie had been way at the back of the gym and hadn’t gotten anybody’s name on anything.

He’d probably come to sign some of her stuff now, she thought as she opened the door. Then she looked up—way up.

John removed his sunglasses and stuffed them in the pocket of his polo shirt. The door opened and he looked down—way down. Almost as shocking as finding a child in Georgeanne’s house was the little girl staring up at him wearing pink snakeskin cowboy boots, a little pink skirt, a purple polka-dot T-shirt, and a wild green boa around her neck. But her electric clothing was nothing compared to her face. “Ahh... hi,” he said, taken back by the powder blue eye shadow, bright pink cheeks, and shiny red lips. “I’m looking for Georgeanne Howard.”

“My mom’s in the shower, but you can come in.” She turned and walked into the living room. A scraggly ponytail high on the back of her head swayed with each step of her boots.

“Are you sure?” John didn’t know very much about children, and absolutely nothing about little girls, but he did know that they weren’t supposed to invite strangers into the house. “Georgeanne might not like it when she finds out you let me in,” he said, but then, he figured she probably wouldn’t like finding him in her house whether she was in the shower or not.

The little girl glanced over her shoulder. “She won’t mind. I’ll go get my stuff,” she said, and disappeared around a corner, presumably to get her stuff. Whatever that meant.

John slipped Georgeanne’s checkbook into his back pocket and stepped inside the house. The checkbook was an excuse. His curiosity had brought him here. After Georgeanne had left the banquet last night, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. He closed the door behind him and walked into the living room, immediately feeling out of his element, like the time he’d bought underwear for an old girlfriend at Victoria’s Secret.

The house was filled with the pastel colors and fussy decorations feared by even the most confident heterosexual man. Her flowery couch had lace pillows that matched the curtains. There were vases of daisies and roses and baskets of dried flowers. Some of the photographs sitting around had angels on the silver frames. He kind of liked that and wondered if he should worry about himself.

“I’ve got some good stuff,” the little girl said as she pushed a miniature shopping cart made of orange plastic into the living room. She sat on the couch, then patted the cushion next to her.

Feeling even more out of place, he sat next to Georgeanne’s little girl. He looked into her face and tried to determine how old she was, but he wasn’t any good at guessing a kid’s age. Her makeup job didn’t help any.

“Here,” she said, plucking a T-shirt with a dalmatian on the front from her basket and handing it to him.

“What’s this for?”

“You have to sign it.”

“I do?” he asked, feeling huge next to the little girl.

She nodded and gave him a green marker.

John really didn’t want to sign the kid’s shirt. “Your mom might get mad.”

“Nuh-uh. That’s my Saturday shirt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.” He shrugged and took the cap from the marker. “What’s your name?”

Her brows lowered over her dark blue eyes, and she looked at him as if he were a few sandwiches short of a picnic. “Lexie.” Then she pronounced it again just in case he didn’t get it the first time. “Leexxiiiie. Lexie Mae Howard.”

Howard? Georgeanne hadn’t married the child’s father. He wondered what kind of man she’d been involved with. What kind of man abandoned his daughter? He flipped the shirt over as if he were planning to write on the back. “Why do you want me to ruin your perfectly good shirt, Lexie Mae Howard?”

“‘Cause the other kids got stuff that you wrote on and I don’t.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, but he thought he’d better ask Georgeanne before he marked up her daughter’s shirt.

“Brett Thomas has lots of stuff. He showed me in school last year.” She sighed heavily and her shoulders drooped. “He gots a cat too. Do you have a cat?”

“Ahh... no. No cat.”

“Mae gots a cat,” she confided as if he knew Mae. “His name is Bootsie ‘cause he gots white boots on his feet. He hides from me when I go to Mae’s. I used to think he didn’t like me, but Mae says he runs away ’cause he’s shy.” She grasped the end of her boa, held it up for him to see, then shook it. “This is how I get him, though. He chases it and I grab him real tight.”

If John hadn’t known before that this little girl was Georgeanne’s daughter, the more he listened to her talk, the more obvious it became. She talked quickly about wanting a cat. Then the subject moved to dogs and somehow progressed to mosquito bites. While she talked, John studied her. He thought she must resemble her father because he didn’t think she looked all that much like Georgeanne. Maybe their mouths were similar, but not much else.

“Lexie,” he interrupted her as it occurred to him that he might be talking to Virgil Duffy’s daughter. He never figured Virgil for the type of man to abandon his child. Then again, Virgil could be a real jerk. “How old are you?”

“Six. I had my birthday a few months ago. My friends came over and we had cake. I got the movie Babe from Amy and so we watched it. I cried when Babe was taken from his mommy. That was really really sad, and I got sick. But my mommy said he got to go visit on weekends, so I felt better. I want a pig, but my mommy says I can’t have one. I like that part when Babe bites the sheep,” she said, and then began to laugh.

Six, but he’d last seen Georgeanne seven years ago. Lexie couldn’t be Virgil’s child. Then he realized that he’d forgotten the nine months she would have been pregnant, plus if Lexie had just had her birthday a few months ago, she might very well be Virgil’s child. But she didn’t look anything like Virgil. He looked at her more closely. Her laughter turned to a big smile, and a dimple dented her right cheek. “I’m a sucker for that little pig’s face.” She shook her head and began to giggle again.

In another part of the house, the water shut off, and John’s heart stopped beating in his chest. He swallowed hard. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

Lexie’s laughter stopped on a scandalized breath. “That’s a bad word.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, and looked beneath the makeup. Her long lashes curled up at the very end. As a boy, John had been relentlessly teased about lashes like that. Then he stared into her dark blue eyes. Eyes like his. An unexplainable current ran though him and he felt as if he’d stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. Now he knew why Georgeanne had behaved so strangely last night. She’d had his child. A little girl.

His daughter.

“Holy shit.”