Susan Floyd - Mr. Elliott Finds A Family

Bernie was furiously digging in a pile of toys. “Stay with this nice man, Bernie,” Beth Ann instructed the back of the toddler’s head. “Fluff is under the chair. Remember, where you threw him? Why don’t you read a book to him?”

She looked up and politely addressed Christian as she opened the creaky baby gate that blocked the kitchen’s open entry to the hall, using her head to indicate the room directly across that hall. “We’ll be right there, never out of hearing. Call if you need anything. I’ll be back in a minute.” She carefully secured the gate behind her and followed Iris into the bedroom.

Christian shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, looking around and seeing much wear on the old bungalow, more evident by the clutter that had the stamp of decades of habitation on it. A far cry from Bella Grande, his family’s estate, which he had left just the day before. Even when he was young, the only decoration in the mansion besides the art on the walls was the great vase of flowers his mother arranged every morning in the cathedral entryway.

No clutter anywhere. Not even snapshots of the family unless one counted the looming oil portraits of his grandfather and father, so creepy that Christian had avoided walking down those particular halls until he’d learned not to look at them. He shook his head. Why was it that his mother had never allowed the natural paper trail of life in the house? The memorabilia young children might collect, like the first edition Superman comic book that had cost him three weeks of kitchen duty in military school. Christian’s throat closed at the arbitrary memory, indignation rising like bile. It should have been safe next to his father’s evening paper. She never discarded his father’s paper.

Now as he looked around the dilapidated kitchen covered with happy scrawls, predrawings if one could call them that, on the refrigerator, bundles of herbs dangling upside down over the kitchen sink, an edge of bitterness caught in the back of his throat. The warm aura of the disarray was powerful. He clearly remembered Caroline telling his mother, right after she met him that she had no living family, then backtracking hastily when her sister had showed up at his office unannounced.

The timing of Beth Ann’s unexpected visit those many years ago couldn’t have been worse. He’d been in the middle of closing a two hundred and fifty million dollar acquisition that wasn’t being acquired as neatly as he had expected, his staff of lawyers and accountants scrambling to tie up the loose ends of a poorly constructed contractual agreement, which he was loathe to blame on his longtime school friend and executive vice president, Maximilian Riley. When the deal had been finalized a day later, he specifically asked Caroline about taking Beth Ann to see the sights, because he remembered her mentioning that she would be in town until the end of the week, but Caroline had coolly replied that he was mistaken, her half sister, emphasis on the half, was only in town for the day.

Now, Christian Elliott studied an old photograph propped up on a shelf that held an assortment of well-used cookbooks stuffed full of pieces of aged paper and felt a small ember of anger in the pit of his stomach add to the bitterness in his throat. He focused on the photograph, squelching, as he’d been taught so effectively, the residual resentment toward his mother and his wife, willing himself to see Caroline in the past. He barely recognized her, her long dark hair in crooked braids, her dress too small, her bony wrists sticking out from the cuffs, her front teeth much too big for her mouth. Caroline must have undergone intensive orthodontia.

In this picture, Beth Ann was substantially taller, her clothes too loose, her arm draped protectively around Caroline’s thin shoulders, her curls bushy with frizz. Caroline hadn’t grown up under even modest circumstances, he noted dryly, wondering how Caroline had managed to transform herself, allowing others to believe she had come from an affluent family, carrying with her the taste and confidence of the very rich. Yet another lie. Christian nodded, the bitter taste still in his mouth. Apparently, his money had supplied her with all the props she’d needed to carry off that confidence.

“Go ’way!” A loud voice startled Christian out of the past. He looked down at the little girl, no taller than the top of his kneecap, who stood poised in the middle of the room, her finger in her mouth, staring up at him with great dislike. She glanced around and when she saw that Beth Ann was not in the kitchen anymore, shrieked, “No!” and ran to the baby gate. “Mommy!”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Beth Ann crooned from across the hall. “Mommy’s helping Nana. I’ll be right back.”

“Noooooo! Want come.” The wail was mournful, heartbreaking. Bernie started to climb the baby gate, which moaned and creaked under her weight. Christian moved to pull her off the old gate, convinced it would collapse with Bernie on it.

“Stay right there,” Beth Ann told her sharply, then said, “Why don’t you ask, uh, Uncle Christian to read you and Fluff a book.”

Christian smiled uneasily. He had never been around very many children, especially of this stature. What could Fluff be? He looked around the room and deduced the well-used bear—though more matte than fluff—forlornly stuck on its side under a weathered kitchen chair must be Fluff. With a quick swipe Christian retrieved the bear and said in the most reassuring voice he could muster, “That’s okay, uh, Bernadette. Your mom’ll be back soon. She’s just helping your grandmother. I’ll read you and, er, Fluff a book. Which book would you like me to read?”

He held Fluff out as a peace offering.

Bernie wasn’t impressed and clung to the gate, mutiny in her eyes. She ignored Fluff and resumed her climb.

“No,” Christian said in a firm gentle voice that came out of nowhere. He tried to be reasonable. “Your mom is busy now. Let me read you a book.”

Bernie turned a suspicious blue eyeball toward him. A two-second pause had Christian thinking he’d successfully negotiated a signature worthy agreement, until Bernie’s face screwed up, her button nose almost disappearing as her plump cheeks turned redder and redder with her indignation. Her cherry lips opened and the loudest screech that Christian had ever heard in his life came out of her tiny lungs. “Go away! No want book! Want— Arrgghh!”

As Christian shook his head to clear his ears, Bernie stopped scaling the baby gate and plopped on the floor, the stress of not getting what she wanted far too great for her two-year-old tolerance. “Arrgghh!”

“Bernie! Stop that!” Beth Ann barked from across the hall. The sound of her mother’s voice was enough to bring Bernie out of her tantrum and she looked at him with a resentful gaze. Then her bottom lip quivered and her baby blues pooled with tears the size of Arizona raindrops in the summer.

“I’m right here,” Beth Ann called, her voice so soothing Christian felt his own tension slip away from his spine. “I’ll be right with you, Bernie-Bern-Bern. Nana’s almost done.”

“Mommmmy!” The wail was heartbreaking, full of genuine emotion and distress. The tears spilled over and Bernie peered at Christian. At that moment she looked so much like Caroline that Christian’s heart stopped. He bent down, staring intently into her eyes, then picked her up to hold her at arm’s length so he could study her features more closely. Bernie was so startled by his movements she stared back at him, almost in awe. It took only a second for her to decide she was having none of this either. She started to thrash, madder now she was off the ground. He studied her face, the resemblance now gone, and wondered if he’d only imagined it.