Judy Duarte: Bluegrass Baby

It was natural for Sharon Johnson to assume her daughter had been working.

Milla had always been honest, even if that honesty ruffled a few maternal feathers, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak or to respond one way or the other.

She looked at her mother’s blanketed form and watched as her mom tugged at the covers, rolled over, faced the wall and blocked out the nocturnal intrusion, intending to go back to sleep. The woman was completely and blissfully unaware that her daughter had spent most of the night locked in Kyle Bingham’s arms.

Milla hadn’t lied—exactly. Of course, God probably kept a count of those pesky omissions, but she was too tired to think about that now. Too tired to feel guilty.

Well, too tired to feel guilty about anything other than making love to a man her mother wouldn’t approve of. An experienced lover who’d taken her to the heights of sexual pleasure, again and again, coaxing multiple orgasms with ease.

Milla blew out a weary sigh and drew back the comforter that covered her twin bed. Then she climbed between the freshly laundered sheets, hoping to get an hour or two of sleep before dawn. But it was a hope that didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.

An overactive mind kept her awake, taunting her with heated memories of a passion-filled night in the competent hands of an Adonis, a man she never should have kissed, let alone…

Had she clawed his back? Cried out in orgasmic release?

Yes, she had.

Kyle had brought out something wild and wicked in a usually levelheaded Milla. It both pleased and disturbed her.

At sunrise Milla gave up the struggle for rest. She showered, then started her workday sleep deprived—something she never did.

Even when she’d stayed up all night with a woman in labor, there was a sweet rush that came with delivering a baby into loving arms. A pleasant release of adrenaline that kept Milla going, awake and alert, ready to start the day.

But this was different. There was no adrenaline rush, no sense of self-satisfaction.

And Milla wasn’t at all ready to face Kyle again.

Going through the motions at work, Milla wondered whether her shift at the clinic would ever end. All she wanted to do was go home, climb back into bed and crash.

Just before noon, while Milla checked her list of afternoon appointments, Crystal Hendrix, a nurse at the clinic, handed her a note. “Dr. Bingham called while you were with Mrs. Thompson. He’s in the E.R. at the hospital and would like you to give him a call.”

“Thanks.” Milla hoped Crystal hadn’t noticed her hands shake when she took the note. She glanced at it briefly, then shoved the paper into the pocket of her white coat.

Milla wasn’t ready to speak to Kyle. What was she supposed to say? “Thanks for the great sex?”

Most women would be dying for another date, a repeat performance. But not Milla. And her reasons were legion, as were the vast array of emotions she’d grown tired of contemplating.

Maybe she’d just state the simple truth.

Dr. Kyle Bingham and Milla Johnson shouldn’t have become involved. For professional reasons.

Yes, that’s what she would tell him. When she returned his call, of course.

But that wouldn’t happen today. Not when her mind was rheumy and her body tired.

Milla glanced at her wristwatch, then back at her list of patients. Maybe she could cut out early today, after seeing Sue Ellen Henderson at three o’clock. Then she could zip over to the school, pick up Dylan and head home.

She would call Kyle tomorrow.

Or maybe the day after that.

Milla pulled her car into the parking lot at Daniel Boone Elementary, where the school district sponsored a summer program for kids. The gray brick building with dirty white trim sat before her like a ghost town. It was summer and the kids were all out on the playground or in one of the four white trailers that served as temporary classrooms. She wondered if the school district planned to paint and repair the building before fall.

She hoped so. A bright and clean learning environment would benefit all the kids, not just Dylan, who struggled academically. Her eight-year-old cousin was bright and sweet, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to stay focused and on track. Neither could he stay out of trouble.

Milla had asked his pediatrician about an organic cause to Dylan’s behavior and had been assured there wasn’t one.

Dylan was as cute and sweet as a kid could be, with blond hair, an unruly cowlick, big blue eyes and a splatter of freckles across his nose. And he was affectionate, too. But he just seemed to gravitate toward mischief.

Since the car accident that left her mother with chronic back and neck pain three years ago, most of Dylan’s care had landed on Milla’s shoulders, but she didn’t mind. She’d fallen in love with that little boy when he was just a scrawny, seven-pound, red-faced infant who’d been placed in her arms. And from that day on, the two of them had developed a closeness, a special bond. But even Milla couldn’t seem to help Dylan stay out of trouble.

As she reached the playground, she spotted Mr. Rick at the sign-out table, talking to a little boy Milla didn’t recognize. She’d always thought Rick was the man’s first name and the mister was a way of affording him more respect. But just the other day, she’d learned that Rick was a shortened form of Rickentaffer or Rickelstoffer or something like that.

As she approached the table, the tall, gangly man stood, and the serious look on his face spoke volumes. He didn’t have to tell her that there’d been trouble again today.

“Dylan is in the rest room,” Mr. Rick said. “He’s got a bloody nose, and Mr. Gordon is cleaning him.”

“What happened?”

“He and another boy were fighting behind the handball courts. They’ve been given a time out. If that doesn’t work, we’re going to ask them both to stay home for a few days.” Mr. Rick took a deep breath and sighed. “Dylan’s not a bad kid.”

Milla knew that. But trouble seemed to follow him like a swirling, funnel-shaped cloud of dust. And when it caught up with him, Dylan couldn’t seem to stay out of the way.

“He fought with Kirk Brower,” the young man added, as though that explained it all.

Several times this summer, Kirk, a heavyset, redheaded kid with a reputation for being a bully, had taunted Dylan about being one of Billy’s brats.

Like Dylan, the other third-grader hadn’t known Billy Bingham and couldn’t possibly have been aware of the man’s reputation. The only logical explanation was that he’d overheard an adult comment. And Milla found that idea irritating. If she knew who to confront or how to quiet the gossip, she would have taken action. As it was, she could only hope that the whole thing would die a quick and easy death and that Dylan could ignore the comments until it did.

“Here he comes now,” Mr. Rick said, nodding toward the rest room.

The two boys, Dylan and Kirk, came out of the bathroom with Mr. Gordon. When Dylan spotted her, he dropped his eyes and kicked the toe of his worn tennis shoe at the dirt, then continued to trudge toward her, head hung as though making his way down the long green mile.

Dylan’s cheeks were red from exertion—or maybe remorse. His face, still damp from being bathed with a paper towel, bore dirt streaks near the hairline and over his brow. Blood splatters stained a torn white T-shirt. When he looked up at her, his blue eyes grew watery, but he blinked rapidly, as though trying to keep his feelings a secret.

Milla glanced at Kirk, who wore a smirk on his pudgy face. Like a big sister, she wanted to throttle the bully herself, but she took on the role of parent instead. “We’ll talk about this in the car, Dylan.”