Anna Adams - Her Daughter's Father

“Not yet, Dad.” Colleen’s exasperation sounded blessedly adolescent.

Jack seemed to agree. His grin widened. He walked toward India, only to narrow his gaze as he stared at her hand, still wrapped in the clean white cloth her father had produced from the depths of his truck. Her heart beat a strangely disturbing rhythm at his concern. She made an instinctive move for the door, but Jack blocked her way.

“Are you all right?” Spoken so close, the words skittered over her skin. Before she could answer, he wrapped his large hand around her forearm. Even through her dismay, she enjoyed the heat of his skin, the weight of his large, capable fingers.

No. This, most of all, wasn’t supposed to happen. She tried to pull away. “I’m fine.”

“Jack,” a bluff voice said, “good to see you out of the boatyard.” A burly man came out of the office behind the counter. He spelled S-A-F-E-T-Y to India.

“I just need these Band-Aids.” She brandished the dinosaur tin like a trophy.

The man looked at her, startled. “Yes, you do. Your hand is bleeding.”

Colleen and Nettie hurried around the shelves at the other end of the aisle. India ping-ponged back to Jack. “It’s already stopped. I only cut it.”

She wrenched away from his dark gaze, rationalizing her strange response to him. He knew things about Colleen that were forever lost to her. Little things, like her favorite ice cream. Big things, like the whys and wherefores of her belligerence toward him.

She tugged out of his grasp, but her arm felt cool where he’d touched her. Cupping her injured hand between her waist and the Band-Aids, she hurried to the counter. “How much are these?” She risked a last glance at Colleen, who stared back with curiosity.

Despite all her best intentions, India’s mouth curved. Gladness overwhelmed her as she memorized the girl’s sharp chin and soft cheeks, the graceful sweep of her poor distressed hair. Colleen smiled back, a real smile this time.

India’s insides crumpled.

Her daughter. The tiny infant she’d loved and longed for and entrusted to Mother Angelica. No longer a mystery, but flesh-and-blood real, and for once in a safe place. Colleen looked like a miracle.

“Wait, that cut’s dirty.” Impossibly oblivious to the longing India wore like a coat, Jack Stephens strode to her side. “Do you need stitches?”

She shook her head and dodged his reaching hand. “No.”

Nettie leaned in and gently plucked the edges of the cloth away. “It doesn’t look good, young lady.”

Jack covered the cut again and eased his shoulder in front of the older woman. “Careful, Nettie. You know how bleeding makes you queasy.” To India, he was all business again. “The clinic’s close. I’ll drive you.”

Though tempted, India came to her senses. She’d do a lot to snatch a few more minutes with Colleen, but in the end, it was too risky.

“I don’t need to go.” She dug change out of her pocket and waited for the man behind the counter to ring up her purchase. “I have to get back to Mr. Tanner’s house and help my dad.”

Jack explained to Nettie. “India and her father are painting the house.”

“Are you?” Nettie’s polite, old-fashioned manners deepened the burden of India’s lie.

“We’re almost finished, actually,” India blurted, unnerved enough to say the first thing she thought. “I guess we’ll head back to Virginia soon.”

“You want a bag for this?” The man behind the counter pushed the tin toward her.

“No, thanks.” She opened the lid and took out a large Band-Aid she managed to open with one hand and a little leverage from the other.

“Here, let me help you.” Jack took the Band-Aid from her and put it on the counter. “What do you have to clean her cut with, Al?”

The man passed Jack a small, square package that contained a medicated wipe. India pulled it from Jack’s fingers.

“I’ll do it.” She swabbed her cut, wincing as the treated wipe stung. Before she could reach for the Band-Aid again, Jack picked it up and peeled off its backing. His bemused smile set off loud alarms that clamored up and down her body. He’d never understand why she was so reluctant to accept his aid. Not if she could help it.

He smoothed the bandage over her palm with exquisite gentleness and a wry look at the dinosaur springing across the colorful background. “Nice ornithomimus. How do you suppose they print the whole name on there?” His roughened, callused fingers irritated her skin with pleasure and scattered her wits.

She pulled away. “Small dinosaur. Big Band-Aid.” This man was not just her daughter’s father. He was married to her daughter’s mother. She scooped up her tin. “Thank you again.”

So willing to lend aid to a stranger, Jack disconcerted her. She tugged at the strap of her overalls. Had she and her father stepped into another world when they’d crossed the long, low bridge to Arran Island? Or did people just naturally help each other in a small community? She flexed her sore hand.

“Can you drive?” Jack asked.

“I drove here.” She peered around him, though he seemed to take up half the room. “Goodbye, Colleen.” She had to mean it. She fought a lump in her throat. “Nice to meet you, Nettie.” Was Nettie Jack’s mother, or Mary’s? She’d never even know.

“WHERE’S INDIA FROM?” Nettie asked.

Colleen slid across the truck’s seat and bumped the rearview mirror out of place with her forehead.

“Are you okay?” Jack patted her head and readjusted the mirror. “I don’t know where she lives, Nettie. Maybe Virginia, since she said they were heading back there. I guess she and her father go where they find work. Al told me he remembers an ad they placed in the paper a month or so ago.”

“Oh no. Their business must be off.” Softhearted to a fault, Nettie leaned around Colleen. “And the only work they found here was the Tanners?”

Jack nodded, his attention split uncomfortably between Nettie and India’s image in his mind, her feminine, soft body lost in her overalls. Water blisters on her palms puzzled him. “I assume so.”

“Then you’ll have to find them something else,” Nettie said.

He almost hit the brakes. “You mean find another job for them?” His daughter’s amused expression caught his eye. “How am I supposed to find another house for them to paint?”

“You know everyone on this island. Whose house needs paint?”

Jack cast a glance at the bay on his side of the truck. Fishing didn’t provide the living it had for his father and his friends’ fathers. “Who can afford new paint?”

Nettie settled back in her seat. “Just go through each of your friends, Jack. You’ll come up with someone. A young girl like that, giving up her life to work for her father. Where is her mother anyway?”

“Maybe she likes to paint,” Colleen suggested.

“Do you like to work with your father?” Nettie made it sound like duty on a garbage scow.

Tense, Jack waited for Colleen’s response. She took her time.

“Well, no, not really.” She caught hold of his wrist, but quickly released it. Fifteen-year-olds must never show affection. “You don’t treat me like one of your employees, Dad. You always have to instruct me, like I’m a kid.”

Her explanation hurt his feelings as much as her first answer. “You’ve never worked the nets for me, Colleen. You’ve only sanded paint since we’ve had the boat out of the water. Did you know how to sand before I showed you?”

A mocking laugh gusted out of her mouth. “How hard is sanding? I can figure out how to push a piece of sandpaper back and forth.”

Jack tightened his hands on the wheel. “Let’s let this go for now. I’ve enjoyed the past hour with you, and I’d like to stretch it as far as we can.”