eorgeanne unwound the towel from around her head and tossed it on the end of her bed. She reached for her hairbrush sitting on the dresser, but her hand stilled before she grasped the round handle. From the living room, Lexie’s childish giggles mixed with the unmistakable low pitch of a man’s voice. Concern overrode modesty. She grabbed her green summer robe and shoved her arms through the sleeves. Lexie knew better than to let a stranger in the house. They’d had a nice long talk about it the last time Georgeanne had walked into the living room and found three Jehovah’s Witnesses sitting on her couch.

She tied the belt around her waist and hurried down the narrow hall. The scolding she planned to unleash died on her tongue, and she stopped in her tracks. The man sitting on the couch next to her daughter hadn’t come to offer heavenly salvation.

He raised his gaze to hers, and she looked into the dreamy blue eyes of her worst nightmare from hell.

She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t talk past the shock clogging her throat. Within a split second, her world stopped, shifted beneath her feet, then went spinning out of control.

“Mr. Wall came to sign my stuff,” Lexie said.

Time stood still as Georgeanne stared into blue eyes staring back at her. She felt disoriented and unable to fully comprehend that John Kowalsky was actually sitting in her living room looking as big and handsome as he had seven years ago, as he had in all the magazine pictures she’d ever seen of him, as he had last night. He sat in her house, on her couch, next to her daughter. She placed a hand on her bare throat and took a deep breath. Beneath her fingers she felt the rapid beating of her pulse. He looked out of place in her home, like he didn’t belong. Which, of course, he didn’t. “Alexandra Mae,” she finally managed on a rush of air, and shifted her gaze to her daughter. “You know better than to let a stranger in the house.”

Lexie’s eyes widened. Georgeanne’s use of her proper name let her know she was in very deep trouble. “But—but,” she stuttered as she hopped to her feet. “But, Mommy, I know Mr. Wall. He came to my school, but I didn’t get nothin‘.”

Georgeanne didn’t have a clue what her daughter meant. She looked back at John and asked, “What are you doing here?”

He slowly rose, then reached into the back pocket of his faded Levi’s. “You dropped this last night,” he answered as he tossed her checkbook to her.

Before she could catch it, it bounced off her chest and hit the floor. Rather than bend down and pick it up, she left it lying there. “You didn’t have to bring it by.” A small measure of relief soothed her nerves. He’d come to bring her checkbook, not because he’d found out about Lexie.

“You’re right,” was all he said. His masculine presence filled the feminine room, and she suddenly became very aware of her nakedness beneath the cotton robe. She glanced down and was relieved to discover that she was fully covered.

“Well, thank you,” she said as she walked toward the entryway. “Lexie and I were just getting ready to leave, and I’m sure you have important places to go yourself.” She reached for the brass knob and opened the door. “Good-bye, John.”

“Not yet.” His eyes narrowed, accentuating the small scar running through his left brow. “Not until we talk.”

“About what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He shifted his weight to one foot and tilted his head to one side. “Maybe we can have that conversation we should have had seven years ago.”

She eyed him warily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He looked at Lexie, who stood in the middle of the room switching her interest from one adult to the other. “You know exactly who I’m talking about,” he countered.

For several long seconds they stared at each other. Two combatants bracing for confrontation. Georgeanne didn’t relish the thought of being alone with John, but whatever was said between them, she was sure it was best if Lexie didn’t hear. When she spoke, she turned her attention to her daughter. “Run across the street and see if Amy can play.”

“But, Mommy. I can’t play with Amy for a week ‘cause we cut the hair off my Birthday Surprise Barbie, remember?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

The bottoms of Lexie’s pink cowboy boots dragged across the peach carpet as she moved toward the door. “I think Amy gots a cold,” she said.

Georgeanne, who normally kept her daughter as far away from germs as possible, recognized Lexie’s ploy for what it was: a blatant attempt to stay and eavesdrop on adult conversation. “It’s okay this one time.”

When Lexie reached the entryway she looked over her shoulder at John. “‘Bye, Mr. Wall.”

John stared at her for several drawn-out moments before a slight smile curved his mouth. “See ya, kid.”

Lexie turned her attention to her mother and, out of habit, puckered her lips.

Georgeanne kissed her and came away with the taste of Cherry Lip Smackers. “Come home in about an hour, okay?”

Lexie nodded, then walked through the door and down the two front steps. One end of her green boa dragged behind her as she strolled down the sidewalk. At the curb, she stopped, looked both ways, then dashed across the street. Georgeanne stood in the doorway and watched until Lexie entered the neighbor’s house. For a few precious seconds she avoided the confrontation ahead of her, then she took a deep breath, stepped back, and closed the door.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about her?”

He couldn’t know. Not for certain. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t jerk me around, Georgeanne,” he warned, his scowl as stormy as a funnel cloud. “Why didn’t you tell me about Lexie a long time ago?”

She could deny it, of course. She could lie and tell him that Lexie wasn’t his child. He might believe her and leave them alone. But the stubborn set of his jaw, and the fire in his eyes, told her he wouldn’t believe her. Leaning back against the wall behind her, she folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Why would I?” she asked, unwilling to just come right out and admit everything up front.

He pointed a finger at the house across the street. “That little girl is mine,” he said. “Don’t deny it. Don’t force me to prove paternity because I will.”

A paternity test would only confirm his claim.

Georgeanne didn’t see any point in denying anything. The best she could hope for was to answer his questions and get him out of her house and, hopefully, her life. “What do you want?”

“Tell me the truth. I want to hear you say it.”

“Fine.” She shrugged, trying to appear composed, as if her admission cost her nothing. “Lexie is your biological child.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Jesus,” he whispered. “How?”

“The usual way,” she answered dryly. “I would have thought that a man of your experience would know how babies are made.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “You told me you were on birth control.”

“I was.” Only apparently not long enough. “Nothing is one hundred percent.”

“Why, Georgeanne?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me seven years ago?”

She shrugged again. “It was none of your business.”

“What?” he asked, incredulous, staring at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what she’d just said to him. “None of my business?”

“No.”

His hands fisted at his sides and he took several steps toward her. “You have my child, and yet you don’t think it’s my business?” He stopped less than a foot in front of her and frowned down into her face.

Even though he was a lot bigger than she was, she looked up at him unafraid. “Seven years ago I made a decision I thought was best. I still think so. And anyway, there is nothing that can be done about it now.”

One dark brow lifted up his forehead. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s too late. Lexie doesn’t know you. It’s best if you just leave and never see her again.”

He planted both of his palms on the wall beside her head. “If you believe that’s going to happen, then you’re not a very bright girl.”

She might not be afraid of John, but being so close to him was very intimidating. His wide chest and thick arms made her feel as if she were completely surrounded by testosterone and hard muscles. The smell of soap on his skin and the hint of aftershave clogged her senses. “I’m not a girl,” she said, lowering her arms to her sides. “Seven years ago I may have been very immature, but that isn’t the case any longer. I’ve changed.”

His eyes lowered deliberately, and his grin wasn’t very nice when he said, “From what I can see, you haven’t changed all that much. You still look like a real good time.”

Georgeanne fought the urge to deck him. She glanced down at herself and felt heat rush up her throat to her cheeks. The edges of her big green robe lay open to the belted waist, exposing an embarrassing amount of cleavage and the entire top of her right breast. Horrified, she quickly grabbed the edges and closed the robe.

“Leave it,” John advised. “Seeing you like that just might put me in a more forgiving mood.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness,” she said as she ducked beneath his arm. “I’m getting dressed. I think you should leave.”

“I’ll be right here,” John promised as he turned and watched her hurry down the hall. His gaze narrowed as he noticed the sway of her hips and the bottom of her robe flutter around her bare ankles. He wanted to kill her.

Moving across the living room, he pushed aside a prissy lace curtain and stared out the front window. He had a child. A daughter he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. Until the moment Georgeanne had confirmed his suspicions, he hadn’t been completely certain Lexie was his. Now he knew, and the thought of it burned a hole in his chest.

His daughter. He fought a strong urge to march across the street and bring Lexie back. He wanted to just sit and look at her. He wanted to watch her and listen to her little voice. He wanted to touch her, but he knew he wouldn’t. Earlier, he’d felt big and awkward sitting next to her, a big man who sent vulcanized rubber pucks hurling across the ice at ninety-six miles an hour and who used his body as a human steamroller.

His daughter. He had a child. His child. He felt his anger swell, and he pushed it back behind the rigid control he kept on his temper.

John turned and walked to the brick fireplace. Spread across the mantel was a series of photographs in a variety of frames. In the first, a baby girl sat on a stool with the bottom edge of her T-shirt tucked beneath her chin while she found her belly button with her chubby index finger. He studied the picture, then turned his attention to the other photos illustrating various stages of Lexie’s life.

Fascinated by the likeness of his little girl, he reached for a small picture of a toddler with big blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks. Her dark hair stood straight up on the top of her head like a feather duster, and her little lips were pursed as if she were about to give the photographer a kiss.

A door down the hall opened and closed. He slipped the thin-framed photograph into his pocket, then turned and waited for Georgeanne to appear. When she entered the room, he noticed that she’d pulled her hair back into a slick ponytail and had dressed in a white summer sweater. A gauzy skirt hung down to her ankles and clung to her long legs. She wore little white sandals with straps that crisscrossed up her calves. Her toenails were painted a dark purple.

“Would you care for some iced tea?” she asked as she came to stand in the middle of the room.

Under the circumstances, her hospitality surprised him. “No. No iced tea,” he said, lifting his gaze to her face. He had a lot of questions he needed answered.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” she offered, and swept her hand toward a white wicker chair covered in fluffy, frilly cushions.

“I’d rather stand.”

“Well, I’d rather not have to look up at you. Either we sit down and discuss this, or we don’t discuss it at all.”

She was ballsy. John didn’t remember that about her. The Georgeanne he remembered was a chatty tease. “Fine,” he said, and sat on the couch rather than the chair he didn’t trust to hold him. “What have you told Lexie about me?”

She took the wicker chair. “Why, nothing,” she drawled with her Texas accent not quite as heavy as he remembered.

“She has never asked about her father?”

“Oh, that.” Georgeanne sat back on the floral cushions and crossed one leg over the other. “She thinks you died when she was a baby.”

John was irritated by her answer, but he wasn’t surprised. “Really? How did I die?”

“Your F-16 was shot down over Iraq.”

“During the Gulf War?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “You were a very brave soldier. When Uncle Sam called for the finest fighter pilots, he phoned you first.”

“I’m Canadian.”

She shrugged. “Anthony was a Texan.”

“Anthony? Who the hell is Anthony?”

“You are. I made you up. I’ve always liked the name Tony for a man.”

Not only had she lied about his auspicious demise and his occupation, but she’d changed his name as well. John felt this temper flare, and he leaned forward and placed his forearms on his knees. “What about pictures of this nonexistent man? Has Lexie asked to see pictures?”

“Of course. But all the pictures of you were burned up in a house fire.”

“How unfortunate.” He frowned.

Her smile brightened. “Isn’t it, though?”

Seeing her smile tugged at his anger. “What happens when she finds out that your maiden name is Howard? She’ll know you lied.”

“By then she’ll probably be in her teens. I’ll confess that Tony and I were never actually married, although we were very much in love.”

“You have it all worked out then.”

“Yes.”

“Why all the lies? Did you think I wouldn’t help you?”

Georgeanne looked in his eyes for a few moments before she said, “Frankly, John, I didn’t think you would want to know or that you would care. I didn’t know you and you didn’t know me. But you did make your feelings for me abundantly clear the morning you dumped me at the airport without a backward glance.”

John didn’t quite remember things that way. “I bought you a ticket home.”

“You didn’t bother to ask me if I wanted to go home.”

“I did you a favor.”

“You did yourself a favor.” Georgeanne looked down at her lap and gathered the gauzy material between her fingers. So much time had passed that remembering that day shouldn’t have had the power to hurt, but it did. “You couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. We had sex that one night and then—”

“We had a lot of sex that one night,” he interrupted. “A lot of down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred, hot, sweaty sex.”

Georgeanne’s fingers stilled and she glanced up him. For the first time she noticed the fire in his eyes. He was angry and trying his best to antagonize her. Georgeanne couldn’t allow herself to be baited, not when she needed to remain calm and keep her head clear. “If you say so.”

“I know so, and so do you.” He leaned forward a little and said slowly, “Then because I didn’t declare undying love the next morning, you kept my child from me. You got back at me real good, didn’t you?”

“My decision had nothing to do with retaliation.” Georgeanne thought back on the day she’d realized that she was pregnant. After she’d recovered from the shock and fear, she’d felt blessed. She’d felt as if she’d been given a gift. Lexie was the only family that Georgeanne had, and she wasn’t willing to share her daughter. Not even with John. Especially not John. “Lexie is mine.”

“You weren’t alone in my bed that night, Georgeanne,” John said as he stood. “If you think I’m going to walk away now that I’ve found out about her, then you’re crazy.”

Georgeanne rose also. “I expect you to leave and forget about us.”

“You’re dreaming. Either we come to an agreement we both can live with, or I’ll have my lawyer contact you.”

He was bluffing. He had to be. John Kowalsky was a sports figure. A hockey star. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think you really want people to know about Lexie. That kind of publicity could potentially harm your image.”

“You’re wrong. I don’t give a good goddamn about publicity,” he said as he came to stand very close to her. “I’m not exactly a poster boy for the Moral Majority, so I doubt one little girl could do any damage to my less-than-clean image.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “I’m leaving town tomorrow afternoon, but I’ll be back by Wednesday.” He pulled out a business card. “Call the bottom number on the card. I never answer the phone, even if I’m at home. My answering machine will pick up, so leave a message, and I’ll get right back to you. I’m also giving you my address,” he said as he wrote on the back, then he took her hand in his and placed the pen and business card in her palm. “If you don’t want to call me, write. Either way, if I don’t hear from you by Thursday, one of my lawyers will contact you Friday.”

Georgeanne stared down at the card in her hand. His name had been printed in bold black letters. Beneath his name three different telephone numbers were listed. On the back of the card, he’d written his address. “Forget about Lexie. I won’t share her with you.”

“Call by Thursday,” he warned, and then he was gone.

John shifted his forest green Range Rover into high gear and merged onto the 405. Wind from the open window ruffled the sides of his hair but did little to cool his chaotic mind. He flexed the cramps from his fingers, then eased his grip on the steering wheel.

Lexie. His daughter. A little six-year-old who wore more makeup than Tammy Faye Bakker and who wanted a cat, a dog, and pig. He lifted his right hip and reached into his back pocket. Retrieving the picture of Lexie he’d stolen, he propped it on the dashboard. Her big blue eyes stared back at him above her puckered pink lips. He thought of the kiss she’d given her mother, then he returned his gaze to the road.

Whenever he’d thought of having a child, he’d thought of a boy. He didn’t know why. Maybe because of Toby, the son he’d lost, but he’d always pictured himself the father of a rowdy boy. He’d imagined junior league hockey games, cap pistols, and Tonka trucks. He’d always envisioned dirty fingernails, holey jeans, and scabby knees.

What did he know of little girls? What did little girls do?

He stole another glance at the photograph as he drove the Range Rover across the 520. Little girls wore green boas and pink cowboy boots and cut the hair off their Barbies. A little girl chattered and giggled and kissed her mother good-bye with sweetly pursed lips.

Her mother. At the thought of Georgeanne, John’s hands tightened on the steering wheel once more. She’d kept his child a secret from him. All of those years of wanting, of watching other men with their children, and the whole time he had a daughter.

He’d missed so much. He’d missed her birth, her first steps, and her first words. She was a part of him. The same genes and chromosomes that made him were a part of her. She was a part of his family, and he’d had a right to know about her. Yet Georgeanne had decided that he hadn’t needed to know, and he could not separate the bitterness of that deed from the person responsible. Georgeanne had made the decision to keep his child’s existence from him, and he knew that he could never forgive her. For the first time in several years, he craved a bottle of Crown Royal, one shot glass, no ice to pollute the smooth whiskey. He blamed Georgeanne for the craving, because almost as much as he hated what she’d done, he hated what she made him feel.

How could he want to place his hands around her throat and squeeze, yet at the same time want to slip his hands lower and fill his palms with her breasts? Harsh laughter rumbled within his chest. When he’d had her against the wall, he was surprised that she hadn’t noticed his physical reaction. A reaction he’d been unable to control.

Where Georgeanne was concerned, he obviously had no control over his body. Seven years ago he hadn’t wanted to want her. She’d spelled trouble for him the minute she’d jumped into his car, but what he’d wanted hadn’t seemed to matter all that much, because right or wrong, good or bad, he’d been overwhelmingly attracted to her. From the tilt of her seductive green eyes and cover-girl lips, to the lure of her centerfold body, he had responded to her regardless of the situation.

Apparently that old saying about some things never changing was true, because he wanted her again, and it didn’t seem to make a whole hell of a lot of difference that she’d kept his daughter from him. He didn’t even like Georgeanne, but he wanted her. He wanted to touch her all over. Which he figured made him one sick bastard.

As he drove around the south end of Lake Union toward the western shore, he endeavored to push the memory of Georgeanne in her light green robe from his mind. He stole glances at the picture of Lexie propped up on the dashboard, and once he’d pulled the Range Rover into his parking spot, he grabbed the photograph and headed to the end of the dock where his nineteen-hundred-square-foot, two-story houseboat was moored.

Two years ago he’d bought the fifty-year-old houseboat and had hired a Seattle architect and an interior designer to redesign it from the floats up. When the job was finished, he owned a three-bedroom floating home with a gabled roof, several balconies, and wraparound windows. Until two hours ago, the houseboat had fit him perfectly. Now, as he shoved his key in the heavy wood door and pushed it open, he wasn’t so sure that it was the right place for a child.

Lexie is mine. I expect you to leave and forget about us. Georgeanne’s words echoed in his head, prodding his resentment and stirring the anger he held deep in his gut.

The soles of John’s loafers squeaked on the newly polished hardwood floor of the entry, then fell silent as he walked across plush rugs. He set the photograph of Lexie on an oak coffee table, which, like the floors, had been polished the day before by the cleaning service he employed. One of the three telephones sitting on a desk in the dining room rang and, after three rings, was picked up by one of three answering machines. John stilled, but when he heard his agent’s voice reminding him of his flight schedule for the following day, he turned his attention once again to the events of the past two hours. He moved toward a set of French doors and gazed out at the deck beyond.

Forget about Lexie. Now that he knew about his daughter, there wasn’t a chance that he’d forget. I won’t share her with you. John’s eyes narrowed on a pair of kayakers paddling across the lake’s smooth surface, then suddenly he turned and moved into the dining room. He reached for one of the telephones sitting on the mahogany desk and dialed the home telephone number of his lawyer, Richard Goldman. Once he had Richard on the phone, he explained the situation.

“Are you sure the child is yours?” his attorney asked.

“Yeah.” He glanced into the living room at the photograph of Lexie sitting on the coffee table. He’d told Georgeanne that he’d wait until Friday to contact an attorney, but he didn’t see any point in waiting. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“This is a pretty big shock.”

He had to know where he stood legally. “Tell me about it.”

“And you don’t think she’s willing to let you see the girl again?”

“Nope. She was real clear about that.” John picked up a rock paperweight, tossed it in the air, then caught it in his palm. “I don’t want to take my daughter away from her mother. I don’t want to hurt Lexie, but I want to see her. I want to get to know her, and I want her to know me.”

There was a long pause before Richard said, “I specialize in business law, John. The only thing I can do is give you the name of a good family attorney.”

“That’s why I called you. I want someone good.”

“Then you want Kirk Schwartz. He specializes in child custody, and he’s good. Real good.”

“Mommy, Amy gots a Pizza Hut Skipper just like mine, and we played like both our Skippers work at the Pizza Hut, and we fight over Todd.”

“Hmm.” Georgeanne turned the handle of her Francis I fork, wrapping spaghetti around the tines. She twirled the pasta around and around as she stared at the narrow basket of French bread in the center of the table. Like a survivor of a bloody battle, she was exhausted, yet restless at the same time.

“And we made clothes for our Skippers out of Kleenex, and mine was a princess, so I drove in the empty box like it was a car. But I wouldn’t let Todd drive ‘cause he gots a ticket and likes Amy’s Skipper more than mine.”

“Hmm.” Again and again Georgeanne replayed what had happened that morning. She tried to remember what John had said and the way he’d said it. She tried to recall her response, but she couldn’t remember everything. She was tired, and confused, and afraid.

“Barbie was our mom and Ken was our dad and we went to Fun Forest and had a picnic by where the big fountain is. And I had magic shoes and could fly up higher than that one big building. I flew to the roof—”

Seven years ago she’d made the right decision. She was sure she had.

“—but Ken got drunk and Barbie had to drive him home.”

Georgeanne looked up at her daughter as Lexie sucked a saucy noodle between her lips. Her face was clean of cosmetics and her dark blue eyes shined with the excitement of her story. “What? What are you talking about?” Georgeanne asked.

Lexie licked the corners of her mouth, then swallowed. “Amy says her daddy drinks beer at the Seahawks and that her mommy gots to drive him home. He needs a ticket,” Lexie announced before she twirled more spaghetti with her fork. “Amy says that he walks around in his underwear and scratches his bum.”

Georgeanne frowned. “So do you,” she reminded her daughter.

“Yeah, but he’s big and I’m just a little kid.” Lexie shrugged and took a bite of pasta. One noodle slipped down her chin, and she pulled in her cheeks and sucked it between her lips.

“Have you been asking Amy about her daddy lately?” Georgeanne inquired cautiously. From time to time Lexie asked questions about daddies and daughters, and Georgeanne would try to answer. But since Georgeanne had been raised almost solely by her grandmother, she didn’t really have the answers.

“No,” Lexie replied around a mouthful of food. “She just tells me stuff.”

“Please don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Lexie’s eyes narrowed; she reached for her milk and raised it to her lips. After she’d set her glass back on the table she said, “Well, don’t ask me questions when I’m chewin‘.”

“Oh, sorry.” Georgeanne laid her fork on the plate and placed her hands on the beige linen tablecloth. Her thoughts returned to John. She hadn’t lied to him about the reason she’d kept Lexie’s birth from him. She really hadn’t thought he’d want to know or that he would have cared. But whether he would have cared or not hadn’t been her main motivation. Her primary reason had been much more selfish. Seven years ago she’d been alone and lonely. Then she’d had Lexie and suddenly she wasn’t alone any longer. Lexie filled the hollow places in Georgeanne’s heart. She had a daughter who loved her unconditionally. Georgeanne wanted to keep that love all for herself. She was selfish and greedy, but she didn’t care. She was both mommy and daddy. She was enough. “We haven’t had a pink tea for a while. I’m working at home tomorrow. Do you want to have a tea?”

Lexie’s smile lifted the milk mustache at the corners of her mouth, and she nodded vigorously, flipping her ponytail up and down.

Georgeanne returned her daughter’s smile as she brushed at crumbs with her little finger. Seven years ago she’d pointed her flimsy mule shoes toward the future, and she rarely looked back. She’d done pretty well for herself and Lexie. She co-owned a successful business, paid mortgage on her own home, and just last month she’d bought a new car. Lexie was healthy and happy. She didn’t need a daddy. She didn’t need John.

“When you’re finished, go see if your pink chiffon dress still fits you,” Georgeanne said as she picked up her plate and carried it to the sink. She’d never known her daddy and she’d survived. She’d never known what it was like to curl up on her father’s lap and hear his heart beating beneath her ear. She’d never known the security of her daddy’s arms or the reassuring timbre of his voice. She’d never known and she’d done just fine.

Georgeanne looked out the window above the sink and stared into the backyard. She’d never known, but many times she’d tried to imagine.

She remembered peeking through fences to watch the neighbors barbecue chicken on burn barrels cut lengthwise. She remembered riding her blue Schwinn with the silver banana seat down to Jack Leonard’s gas station to watch him change tires, fascinated by the big, filthy hands he always wiped on a greasy towel hanging from the back pocket of his dirty gray coveralls. She remembered the nights she’d sit on the hard, age-pocked porch at her grandmother’s house, a confused and curious little girl with a dark ponytail and red cowboy boots, watching the men in her neighborhood return from work and wishing she had a daddy, too. She had watched and waited and the whole time wondered. She had wondered what daddies did when they came home. She had wondered because she hadn’t known.

The sound of Lexie’s bootheels on the kitchen linoleum pulled Georgeanne from her memories. “All finished?” she asked as she turned to take the dirty plate and empty glass from Lexie’s hands.

“Yep. Tomorrow can I serve the petit fours?”

“Yes, you may,” Georgeanne answered as she placed the plate and glass in the sink. “And I think you’re old enough to pour the tea now.”

“All right!” Lexie clapped her hands with excitement, then wrapped her thin arms around Georgeanne’s thighs. “I love you,” she gushed.

“I love you, too.” Georgeanne looked down at the top of her daughter’s head and placed her palm on Lexie’s back. Her grandmother had loved her, but her love hadn’t been enough to fill the empty places inside. No one had been able to fill the holes in her soul until Lexie.

Georgeanne rubbed her hand up and down Lexie’s spine. She was very proud of all she’d accomplished. She’d learned to live with the disability of dyslexia rather than hide from it. She’d worked hard to improve herself, and everything she had, everything she’d become, she’d done on her own. She was happy.

Still, she wanted more for her daughter. She wanted better.