Ellen James - The Goodbye Groom

She drew back—but only a little. Something obliged her to remain where she was, hidden by the curtains, staring downward with a half-guilty fascination. The man, after all, was her fiancé’s brother.

Ex-fiancé, she told herself acidly. Nonetheless, it seemed wrong to study Eric Sinclair when he was so unaware of her scrutiny. His attention centered completely on the sheaf of papers he held. A smile played across his mouth, all sternness vanished.

A scuffling noise made Jamie turn her head. She saw a young girl peering at her from the hallway, a child with dark tumbled hair and curious brown eyes.

“Come in,” Jamie said encouragingly.

The child slid inside the room—but only just. She wore shorts and an oversize shirt emblazoned Seattle Mariners. As she folded her arms, her stance suggested fragility and defiance all at once.

“Are you my dad’s girlfriend?”

For one crazy, absurd moment Jamie wondered if there was something else she didn’t know about her ex-fiancé. Good Lord, did Shawn have a daughter he’d neglected to mention?

The dark-haired little girl seemed to lose her resolve and began inching back toward the hallway.

“Hmm… I don’t know who your dad is,” Jamie remarked, “but I imagine he’s someone very important. Someone like…the president of the United States.”

The child paused. She gave Jamie a speculative glance.

“Okay,” Jamie said. “Let me guess. He’s more like…the king of Spain.”

The child remained perfectly solemn, her large brown eyes intent as she studied Jamie.

“Maybe,” Jamie said, “he’s more like…the emperor of Japan.”

The little girl pressed a finger to her mouth as if to keep a smile from escaping. She slid toward the window and gazed downward. Jamie followed the direction of her gaze to Eric Sinclair, who was still oblivious to the summer’s beauty surrounding him. Still absorbed in the papers he held.

“So that’s your dad,” Jamie said very seriously. “I was right—he is someone important.”

The child watched her father for another moment, her expression grave. She seemed absorbed by her thoughts, and Jamie did not try to interrupt. Then, elusive as quicksilver, the little girl slipped away from the window and out of the room.

At the very last moment the child peered back at Jamie. The unspoken message was understood: Jamie could follow if she chose.

The little girl led the way down the hall to another room. Here was a lively clutter: toys scattered across the floor, stuffed animals sprawled on the bed, books piled haphazardly on shelves. The child knelt beside a wicker basket. She reached inside and gently scooped up a kitten—all black except for its white left front paw.

“This is Isabel. You can hold her if you want.”

“Thank you,” said Jamie. She sat down on the floor beside the little girl and cradled the scrap of fur, listening to it purr. “Isabel…quite a lofty name for someone so cute. Where’d you get her?”

“My dad.”

Jamie tried to picture Eric Sinclair choosing this adorable little kitty as a gift for his daughter.

“I’m Jamie, by the way.”

The little girl glanced away as if suddenly unsure again. “I’m Kaitlin,” she offered after a second. Then she jumped up and went to her desk, where a set of watercolors was prominently displayed. She brought a few pictures to place silently in front of Jamie.

“Here,” said Jamie. “I’ll trade.” She handed over the tiny Isabel so that she could take a closer look at the pictures. “Hmm…a good likeness.” The kitten was depicted rather larger than life, with so much black paint that the paper had crinkled. “And who’s this?”

“My dad.”

His daughter had placed him on the very edge of the page, in a business suit with lopsided tie.

“I’ll bet,” Jamie said, “your father’s the one who gave you these paints.”

Kaitlin didn’t answer, simply ducked her head over the kitten. Jamie studied another picture.

“Can you tell me about this one?”

“That’s our pool,” Kaitlin said, her voice so soft that Jamie had to strain to hear. Then the child lifted her head, and the expression in her big, dark eyes was surprisingly mournful. “That’s me,” she said almost in a whisper. “That’s me…hating the water.”

After this bleak statement, Jamie gave the picture a more thorough perusal. It depicted a small solitary figure huddled to the side as if to escape the threatening expanse of dark blue.

Kaitlin seemed to have run out of words. She sat down on the carpet but at some distance from Jamie. Her head bent over the kitten once more.

Jamie chose her next words with care. “Water can be scary,” she acknowledged. “You never know what it’s going to do. It might start…splashing.”

The little girl raised her head cautiously and regarded Jamie.

“The water,” Jamie said, “might start…crashing.”

Kaitlin lifted her eyebrows just a fraction.

“Or maybe,” Jamie went on, “the water might start…dashing.”

Kaitlin pressed a hand to her mouth as if to prevent the escape of another wayward smile, but then it appeared she could not resist. She lowered her hand. “The water,” she said, “might start…prancing. Or maybe it might start…dancing.” Her eyes seemed to dance, expressing genuine delight. But then all too quickly she grew solemn again, as if worried that somehow she’d let down her guard too much. There was something about this child’s gravity, the serious expression on her delicate little face that reminded Jamie of herself long ago, when she’d been a little older than Kaitlin, struggling with the fact that the world could simply not be trusted anymore. How could it, when her father had simply gone out the door one morning and not come back?

Jamie swallowed past a sudden tightness in her throat. She knew too well how vulnerable a child could be. And that was what she saw in Kaitlin’s large brown eyes.

Vulnerability.

THAT EVENING, ERIC SAT at the dining room table and watched as Mrs. Braddock performed the finishing touches on her dinner presentation. She straightened the silverware, folded one of the snowy napkins more precisely, rearranged the centerpiece of daisies and carnations. Then she stood back and observed the gleaming china plates with satisfaction.

“We’ll have to entertain more often,” Eric remarked. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

She gave him a sharp glance. “No harm in a little festivity.” She turned with a huff and arranged the draperies so the late sun would fall at just the right angle. Then she muttered something under her breath.

Eric rubbed his neck. He knew from long experience that Mrs. Braddock had something on her mind. When she started rumbling like this, she was like a volcano itching to erupt—if only she had a little encouragement.

“Didn’t quite catch that, Mrs. B.”

“Pigweed and prickly lettuce,” she declared. “Ring a bell?”

He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about and he’d started to regret that he’d asked. But, also from long experience, he knew there was no way out of it.

“Hey, just as long as it’s not something we’re having for dinner,” he said.

She gave him a severe look, clearly not appreciating his attempt at humor. “Your brother, fifth-grade science project, homemade mulch and weed control.”

Mrs. B. had an impressive memory. It seemed she could recall every one of their school projects—as well as every one of their childhood infractions.

“It’s coming back to me,” he said. “Shawn really got involved with that one. Piles of mulch everywhere.”

Mrs. B. nodded. “Your brother gave it everything he had—until the very night of the fair. He was scared. Scared he wouldn’t win first place. Anything less… So he dumped the whole thing into the drink and didn’t even go.”