The Child Comes First by Elizabeth Ashtree Page B

new life with us.”
    â€œOh, yeah, and she’s an amateur photographer, too,” Simon muttered.
    â€œWho’s an amateur? I’m preprofessional. Come in, come in. Don’t stand by the door.”
    Jayda went forward despite the lingering spots caused by the flash, once again following the broad expanse of Simon’s back. He introduced the two women as they headed into the house. Not once in all of her years as a social worker had she experienced such an exuberant first meeting with a potential foster parent. Under other circumstances Juvenile Services might have made a snap judgment that this woman was a little too eccentric for the foster program, but she was Tiffany’s only hope. And if Simon was any indication, Mrs. Johanson must be a wonderful parent.
    They went through a modest, sparkling clean kitchen into a family room. “I know you need to see the whole house and yard,” said Mrs. Johanson. “Would you like the tour right away?”
    â€œYes, that would be fine.” This woman knew the drill and she showed Jayda each room, focusing on the one that would belong to Tiffany—a nicely appointed bedroom ready for a girl to make her own. As they moved from room to room, Jayda noted that Simon’s mom, though already seventy, still got around easily and was full of life.
    â€œThis is Simon’s room,” said Mrs. Johanson, and she opened another door on the second floor with a flourish. “I’ve kept all his things here.”
    Sure enough, the room was decorated for a boy in blue-and-red plaid, with blue and red trucks on the wall border near the ceiling. Jayda thought she heard a sigh from the man who had once called this room his own, and it was all she could do not to smile. Undoubtedly, viewing his childhood bedroom gave her a lot more information than most people would ever have regarding the mighty Simon Montgomery.
    â€œWhat are the trophies for?” she asked, seeing them along a shelf above the desk.
    â€œOh, our Simon was very into karate and jujitsu. He got all the way to his black belt,” his mom volunteered.
    â€œI was a kid. It was a child’s black belt. Nothing special,” he said from behind the two of them.
    â€œOh, but we were so proud,” declared Mrs. Johanson. “Carl and I went to all his matches, right up until Carl’s heart attack.”
    Jayda looked at Simon to see his expression. When she saw the pain barely hidden in the depths of his eyes, she understood he wouldn’t like talking about the loss of his adoptive father. A hint of vulnerability might peek out, and a man in Simon’s tough profession couldn’t allow that.
    He looked directly at Jayda and said, “I was thirteen. It was hard on both of us.” And he slung an arm across his mother’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “But we got through it. I got that black belt for him, more than anything. He loved the idea of me earning it. So I did, even though he had died.”
    â€œCarl knew. He watched from beyond and he knew,” said Mrs. Johanson.
    Jayda felt a bit like an intruder as the moment of remembering stretched on. But she stayed where she was, waiting for mother and son to collect themselves. They did so, and led the way back out into the hallway.
    â€œYou can see the whole backyard from here,” said the older woman, pointing to a window at the end of the hall. “It’s a good place for kids to play. It’d be a good place for grandchildren, someday.”
    Jayda peered out, noticing the fenced area, and nodded. “Perfect,” she agreed. But when she looked back at Simon, he was scowling. “You’re still on the list for foster care, so there’s just a bit of paperwork to do. Let’s get that over with, okay?”
    â€œYes, why don’t you do that,” said Simon. “I’ll check out the damage from the leaking roof and be back down in a