then?”
“We’ll see,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if it was the thick clouds blotting out the sun or the utter fear of what was happening that had turned Wes’s face pale. “Five-thirty?”
“Five-thirty,” she agreed breathlessly.
At that moment, Laney almost believed in miracles again.
Chapter Five
W es leaned against the counter in his tiny kitchen and watched Laney showing Amy how much oregano to sprinkle into the sauce. Except for his sister, Sherry, Laney was the first woman he’d had in this kitchen—in this house—since Patrice died.
He looked at his daughter standing on a step stool beside Laney, her black hair pulled up into a slightly crooked ponytail. She watched the sauce intently while she stirred. He knew that she missed her mother and that she missed the feminine guidance and instruction a little girl needed. And no matter how conscientious he was as a father, he would never be able to give her that.
“See, Daddy? It isn’t runny,” Amy told her father, holding up a spoonful. “Want a taste?”
“I’ll wait,” he said with a weak smile.
Laney glanced at him over Amy’s head, a glance fraught with tension, and he realized he was inhibiting her. She had hardly been able to look at him all evening. It was as though their intense emotions mingled and multiplied when their eyes met. Where would this evening take the three of them? both pairs of eyes seemed to ask. And were the two of them, Wes and Laney, actually becoming friends?
Wes stiffened at the possibility and walked out of the kitchen asking himself why that would be so bad. Wouldn’t it be easier for them to like each other and not constantly be at odds over what was best for Amy—if, indeed, she continued to insist on being part of their life?
The cramped den seemed more alive than it had in a year, simply because of the happy voices in the kitchen and the delectable smell drifting in the air. He sat down and stared at the scratched coffee table, marred with seven years of child’s play. Even when they had been able to afford to replace it, Patrice had refused to part with it. The scratches were a collage of memories, she had said. Teething marks and dropped toys and hard little baby shoes learning to climb. They had had so much happiness in this house, he thought, leaning back and resting his head against the couch. And so much misery.
Maybe Laney was right. Maybe Amy did need to know her birth mother. And maybe if he didn’t make waves, Laney would be content with just visiting Amy when she wanted. Worse things could happen, couldn’t they?
Amy darted out of the kitchen, holding her hands, smeared with butter, in the air the way a surgeon does after scrubbing. “Daddy, Laney let me make the garlic bread all by myself!”
“That’s great, pumpkin,” Wes said, trying to smile.
Amy leaned over him conspiratorially. “She’s nice, isn’t she?” she whispered.
“Yes. Very nice.”
“And pretty too,” Amy added.
Wes’s smile dimmed a degree. “Pretty, too.” Patting her behind, he turned her toward the kitchen. “Now go back in there and help her.”
Amy scampered back into the kitchen, giggling like a child at the fair. “My daddy thinks you’re pretty,” she announced in a trumpeting voice.
Wes closed his eyes and vowed never to respond to one of Amy’s baited questions again.
L aney couldn’t escape the feeling of being granted a miracle at the way Amy responded to her. They were already friends, she marveled, and she felt amazingly comfortable with Wes. She looked up at him over her plate and noted that his tension had lifted a bit since they had sat down to eat. But still he wore that distant expression that told her a myriad of thoughts were clashing in his mind. He didn’t want to like her, she realized. He probably resented the way she had fit so easily into Amy’s heart. And he was probably still afraid.
He looked up at Amy and smiled at the careful way she coiled her spaghetti
“We’ll see,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if it was the thick clouds blotting out the sun or the utter fear of what was happening that had turned Wes’s face pale. “Five-thirty?”
“Five-thirty,” she agreed breathlessly.
At that moment, Laney almost believed in miracles again.
Chapter Five
W es leaned against the counter in his tiny kitchen and watched Laney showing Amy how much oregano to sprinkle into the sauce. Except for his sister, Sherry, Laney was the first woman he’d had in this kitchen—in this house—since Patrice died.
He looked at his daughter standing on a step stool beside Laney, her black hair pulled up into a slightly crooked ponytail. She watched the sauce intently while she stirred. He knew that she missed her mother and that she missed the feminine guidance and instruction a little girl needed. And no matter how conscientious he was as a father, he would never be able to give her that.
“See, Daddy? It isn’t runny,” Amy told her father, holding up a spoonful. “Want a taste?”
“I’ll wait,” he said with a weak smile.
Laney glanced at him over Amy’s head, a glance fraught with tension, and he realized he was inhibiting her. She had hardly been able to look at him all evening. It was as though their intense emotions mingled and multiplied when their eyes met. Where would this evening take the three of them? both pairs of eyes seemed to ask. And were the two of them, Wes and Laney, actually becoming friends?
Wes stiffened at the possibility and walked out of the kitchen asking himself why that would be so bad. Wouldn’t it be easier for them to like each other and not constantly be at odds over what was best for Amy—if, indeed, she continued to insist on being part of their life?
The cramped den seemed more alive than it had in a year, simply because of the happy voices in the kitchen and the delectable smell drifting in the air. He sat down and stared at the scratched coffee table, marred with seven years of child’s play. Even when they had been able to afford to replace it, Patrice had refused to part with it. The scratches were a collage of memories, she had said. Teething marks and dropped toys and hard little baby shoes learning to climb. They had had so much happiness in this house, he thought, leaning back and resting his head against the couch. And so much misery.
Maybe Laney was right. Maybe Amy did need to know her birth mother. And maybe if he didn’t make waves, Laney would be content with just visiting Amy when she wanted. Worse things could happen, couldn’t they?
Amy darted out of the kitchen, holding her hands, smeared with butter, in the air the way a surgeon does after scrubbing. “Daddy, Laney let me make the garlic bread all by myself!”
“That’s great, pumpkin,” Wes said, trying to smile.
Amy leaned over him conspiratorially. “She’s nice, isn’t she?” she whispered.
“Yes. Very nice.”
“And pretty too,” Amy added.
Wes’s smile dimmed a degree. “Pretty, too.” Patting her behind, he turned her toward the kitchen. “Now go back in there and help her.”
Amy scampered back into the kitchen, giggling like a child at the fair. “My daddy thinks you’re pretty,” she announced in a trumpeting voice.
Wes closed his eyes and vowed never to respond to one of Amy’s baited questions again.
L aney couldn’t escape the feeling of being granted a miracle at the way Amy responded to her. They were already friends, she marveled, and she felt amazingly comfortable with Wes. She looked up at him over her plate and noted that his tension had lifted a bit since they had sat down to eat. But still he wore that distant expression that told her a myriad of thoughts were clashing in his mind. He didn’t want to like her, she realized. He probably resented the way she had fit so easily into Amy’s heart. And he was probably still afraid.
He looked up at Amy and smiled at the careful way she coiled her spaghetti
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