Deanna Talcott - Marrying For A Mom

“My name is Whitney Bloom, from Teddy Bear Heaven. I have some information he requested. I’ll be available until five, and the number is—”

“Oh, Miss Bloom. Just a minute. I think he’d like to take this call. In fact, I know he would. I’ll put you right through.”

Whitney couldn’t beat back her surprise; obviously the receptionist had had her instructions. The pause was momentary.

“Whitney. Hello.” Logan’s voice was just as mellow, just as resonant as she remembered. Fatigue melted away, and she warmed, remembering how he’d looked, framed by her showroom of teddy bears. He’d purchased three coloring books, markers, a barrette and a pricey dresser set before he’d left, claiming he wanted to make her time worthwhile. “Look, I was just stepping out, but I’m glad you caught me.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve probably got a house to show. I only wanted to tell you there’s no good news on this end. I’m beginning to call this the ‘unbearable teddy bear chase.”’ She heard him chuckle.

“You didn’t find it.”

“No. But I do have a couple of photos of promotional bears you might want to look at. They’re definitely not the same, but—” she fingered the flyers, lifting them for another cursory glance “—under the circumstances, they may be close enough.”

“Well…I’m sort of tied up till later this afternoon.”

Disappointment welled in Whitney. What did she expect, she chided herself? That he was going to run right over? A man couldn’t sell eight million dollars of real estate a year and not have a few commitments. “I’ll just put this information aside for you,” she said. “Whenever it’s convenient. Or,” she offered, “I could drop it in the mail.”

“No, listen, I was thinking about stopping by your place anyway. Amanda’s ballet lesson is in forty minutes, and the studio’s less than two blocks from your place. You could meet me there and save me some time.”

“You’re taking her?” Disbelief tainted Whitney’s reply.

“Why not?”

“But…but…”Whitney glanced at the clock, thinking of all the resort property in the area hungering for a Sold sign from Monroe Realty. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I know. I intentionally schedule appointments around ballet. It doesn’t hurt to close up shop for a couple of hours one afternoon a week. You should try it. Knocking off for a few hours in the middle of the day is good for the soul.”

Would knocking off in the middle of the day to be with Logan, for even a few fleeting minutes, ease this longing in her soul? “And you want me to try it? To meet you there, and shirk my duties?”

“Absolutely. It’s a Thursday. A nice warm day, in the middle of May—” he rhymed, giving her a moment to consider “—I say…it’s time for all good shopkeepers to come out and play.”

“Cute.” That old familiar tap dance started playing through her veins.

“C’mon, Whitney. Join us. We didn’t have enough time to talk the other night. Meet Amanda. Judge for yourself, and see why this is so important to me. My life is on hold until this is settled.” The invitation was tempting; it might be one of her few chances to spend time with Logan and get to know his daughter. “You’ll fall in love with her, Whitney,” he predicted.

She didn’t need that. No more falling in love with anyone in the Monroe household. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “The UPS guy sometimes comes on Thursday.”

She thought she heard him snicker, and immediately felt like a role model for one of the dumb “blonde” jokes that were circulating. Maybe it had been a mistake to color her hair.

“You ever been to a ballet class, Whitney?”

“No.” Her reply was tinged with a certain amount of regret.

She had wanted to take dance lessons—like Carla Simpson, who had pranced around on her toe shoes during the fourth-grade play—but there had never been enough money when she lived with her mom, and then, later, Gram said spending money on that was just plain foolish. It wasn’t like she was going to be a ballerina or anything. As it turned out, she had done something better with her life anyway, because every time she saw a toddler walk away hugging one of her teddies her heart melted.

“It’s an experience,” he said. “One you’d have to see to appreciate.”

“I’d imagine,” she said dryly.

“It’s only forty-five minutes for the lesson,” he wheedled. “But it’s about two hours worth of fun.”

Whitney gazed indecisively at the Closed sign; it wouldn’t take that much to turn it over. She wasn’t planning to do anything but stock shelves anyway, and they were a good month away from the tourist season. “I could…probably…meet you there. For a few minutes,” she qualified, trying not to sound too eager.

“Terrific. Miss Timlin begins promptly at three-fifteen. If you aren’t there in time for stretching and warm-ups, I’ll save you a seat.”

It was the craziest thing. In her mind’s eye she saw him grinning, and it made her feel warm all over.

Miss Timlin’s School of Dance was an institution in Melville. Parents sent their daughters to Miss Timlin’s for more than ballet or tap or jazz. They sent them because it was the proper thing to do. Young ladies who went through all twelve years of Miss Timlin’s carried themselves with a distinguishable grace. They possessed a presence that made their movements smooth, their voices confident and their smiles benign. It was no surprise to Whitney that Logan chose that for his daughter.

The foyer of Miss Timlin’s smelled of old wood and lemon oil. The interior of the great hall was cool, and the mahogany banister curving up to the second-story studio was polished to a satin finish. Whitney looked up, over her head. The antique chandelier, suspended from a tin ceiling, hung from a single tarnished chain. It swayed from the staccatoed thump of little feet on the floor above.

A receptionist greeted Whitney, indicating the session had already started, but that she was welcome to observe, provided she found a seat in the back. Quietly, the woman admonished.

Whitney turned to the steps, trying to imagine how Logan felt once a week, as he put his hand to the banister and climbed the magnificent old staircase. She gingerly put her palm across the top of the newel post, then tested the first stair tread. It groaned beneath her weight, like an old woman wearied from raising too many children.

Whitney took the stairs slowly, amazed that Logan had been within blocks of her for months—and yet their paths had never crossed.

At the top, Whitney paused on the landing and peered into the first open doorway. The studio, awash in pink and white leotards, warm-ups and floppy hair bows, teemed with discipline. Miss Timlin, sixty if she was a day, with her gaunt face resembling a road map of wrinkles, and her arms and legs as sinewy as chicken bones, stood sternly at the front of the room. She thumped her staff on the hardwood floor.

“Stretch, Melissa! Hannah! You are not to preen in front of the mirror, you are to reflect upon your position before it.” In tights and leotards, Miss Timlin’s paunchy middle and sagging breasts were a mere testament to her resilience.

A gaggle of mothers waited, on hard-backed chairs that had been pushed against the wall. Two held magazines, one a book; none of them scanned the copy. Another woman’s knitting needles copiously clacked together, but her gaze was riveted to what was happening on the dance floor.

Logan was the only man in the room, and he appeared impervious to be outnumbered by the opposite sex; his attention, too, was directed solely to the activity on the floor.

“Excuse me,” Whitney whispered, apologizing to the master knitter as she carefully stepped over a bag of turquoise yarn. She slipped into the chair next to Logan.