ex-wife’s name. If they were at home in New Orleans, he’d wonder if this woman could possibly be her. But Gregory’s Caline couldn’t be in Maine. What would she be doing up here?
Thankfully, that case was behind Bryce now, and though the man remained a client, their contact had become brief and infrequent.
Suzie bent low to Bryce’s ear. “It’s her, Daddy.”
“Who, honey?” His knee still throbbing, he rubbed at it and looked from the woman to Suzie.
She blinked hard, then slid him a wondrous smile. “Our new mom—maybe.”
Surprise shafted straight up his back. “Our what?”
“Mr. Richards.” Mrs. Wiggins’s voice held that stern I’m going-to-resign-again tone.
When even Caline and Miss Hattie paused conversing to look at Wiggins, Bryce barely withheld a groan. Two resignations inside an hour, on half a cup of coffee, was more than he could stomach.
“I insist the boy be harshly reprimanded for this.” She slapped at the mud spatter on the lap of her dress.
Bryce never doubted she would insist. He looked at Jeremy, now back inside, thankfully, without the frog. From his glassy eyes, he was still a step from tears. Nearly caving in from the pitiful sight, and knowing caving in wasn’t the best thing for Jeremy, Bryce glanced down at the oatmeal clinging to his once-crisp white shirt, then at Lyssie’s hair, smudged roots to end with food, and now—God help him—with orange juice. The kid definitely had a thing for shampoo.
“Jeremy,” Caline interrupted. “Miss Hattie is busy right now and I can’t carry all my things up to my room. Would you wipe your feet on the rug out in the mud room and then help me?”
Bryce frowned. Caline clearly meant to intercede. And how was he supposed to feel about that? Jeremy looked majorly relieved, and her caring for a stranger’s child enough to play rescuer pleased Bryce. Yet what was he? Chopped liver. He was the boy’s father, and that she felt the need to protect Jeremy when his father stood—well, sat—right in the room irked Bryce. And it pricked at his pride.
Worse, it reminded him—as if he needed yet another reminder—just how desperately his children needed the gentle hand of a blow-softening mother.
Caline stretched out her hand.
Jeremy clasped it and, half hiding in the soft folds of her long skirt, he mumbled an “I’m sorry” in Mrs. Wiggins’s general direction.
“I’ll help, too.” Suzie brushed past Vic, then slowed down to tiptoe through the oatmeal and to dodge the mud tracks.
Suzie? Approaching a stranger? Bryce gaped. After three months in school, the child barely spoke to her teacher. He hauled himself to his feet. His knee gave out and, grimacing, he grabbed hold of a chair.
“Are you okay, Daddy?” Suzie frowned, an unreasonable fear in her eyes.
Knowing she was afraid he’d die and leave her like her mother had, Bryce forced the corners of his mouth to curve in what he hoped would pass for some semblance of a smile. His damn knee was on fire. “I’m fine, honey. Just fine.”
“Oh my, your poor knee’s gone out.” Miss Hattie glanced at Suzie. “Don’t you worry. We’ll fix him right up.” She turned to Vic. “Be a dear and get Collin’s cane from the Carriage House, hmm?”
Vic nodded, then headed toward the mud room door. Miss Hattie wiped her hands on a fresh dishcloth. “Collin carved the ivory handle on his cane, so you’ll have to be particularly careful with it, Bryce. He and his wife, Cecelia, built Seascape, you know. That’s their portraits on the stairwell wall. Collin was a fine carver. My, but he did lovely work. Just lovely.”
Bryce could’ve kissed the woman. By talking about normal things and not his injury, she’d reassured Suzie he was okay in ways him saying he was okay never could have reassured her. He gave the angel a grateful smile.
Sliding him a conspirator’s wink, she set the cloth back onto the counter, near a bowl of apples, bananas, and oranges.
Thankfully, that case was behind Bryce now, and though the man remained a client, their contact had become brief and infrequent.
Suzie bent low to Bryce’s ear. “It’s her, Daddy.”
“Who, honey?” His knee still throbbing, he rubbed at it and looked from the woman to Suzie.
She blinked hard, then slid him a wondrous smile. “Our new mom—maybe.”
Surprise shafted straight up his back. “Our what?”
“Mr. Richards.” Mrs. Wiggins’s voice held that stern I’m going-to-resign-again tone.
When even Caline and Miss Hattie paused conversing to look at Wiggins, Bryce barely withheld a groan. Two resignations inside an hour, on half a cup of coffee, was more than he could stomach.
“I insist the boy be harshly reprimanded for this.” She slapped at the mud spatter on the lap of her dress.
Bryce never doubted she would insist. He looked at Jeremy, now back inside, thankfully, without the frog. From his glassy eyes, he was still a step from tears. Nearly caving in from the pitiful sight, and knowing caving in wasn’t the best thing for Jeremy, Bryce glanced down at the oatmeal clinging to his once-crisp white shirt, then at Lyssie’s hair, smudged roots to end with food, and now—God help him—with orange juice. The kid definitely had a thing for shampoo.
“Jeremy,” Caline interrupted. “Miss Hattie is busy right now and I can’t carry all my things up to my room. Would you wipe your feet on the rug out in the mud room and then help me?”
Bryce frowned. Caline clearly meant to intercede. And how was he supposed to feel about that? Jeremy looked majorly relieved, and her caring for a stranger’s child enough to play rescuer pleased Bryce. Yet what was he? Chopped liver. He was the boy’s father, and that she felt the need to protect Jeremy when his father stood—well, sat—right in the room irked Bryce. And it pricked at his pride.
Worse, it reminded him—as if he needed yet another reminder—just how desperately his children needed the gentle hand of a blow-softening mother.
Caline stretched out her hand.
Jeremy clasped it and, half hiding in the soft folds of her long skirt, he mumbled an “I’m sorry” in Mrs. Wiggins’s general direction.
“I’ll help, too.” Suzie brushed past Vic, then slowed down to tiptoe through the oatmeal and to dodge the mud tracks.
Suzie? Approaching a stranger? Bryce gaped. After three months in school, the child barely spoke to her teacher. He hauled himself to his feet. His knee gave out and, grimacing, he grabbed hold of a chair.
“Are you okay, Daddy?” Suzie frowned, an unreasonable fear in her eyes.
Knowing she was afraid he’d die and leave her like her mother had, Bryce forced the corners of his mouth to curve in what he hoped would pass for some semblance of a smile. His damn knee was on fire. “I’m fine, honey. Just fine.”
“Oh my, your poor knee’s gone out.” Miss Hattie glanced at Suzie. “Don’t you worry. We’ll fix him right up.” She turned to Vic. “Be a dear and get Collin’s cane from the Carriage House, hmm?”
Vic nodded, then headed toward the mud room door. Miss Hattie wiped her hands on a fresh dishcloth. “Collin carved the ivory handle on his cane, so you’ll have to be particularly careful with it, Bryce. He and his wife, Cecelia, built Seascape, you know. That’s their portraits on the stairwell wall. Collin was a fine carver. My, but he did lovely work. Just lovely.”
Bryce could’ve kissed the woman. By talking about normal things and not his injury, she’d reassured Suzie he was okay in ways him saying he was okay never could have reassured her. He gave the angel a grateful smile.
Sliding him a conspirator’s wink, she set the cloth back onto the counter, near a bowl of apples, bananas, and oranges.
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