Jacqueline Diamond - A Family at Last

Even with his back to her, there was no mistaking Chris’s shaggy brown hair. Then his achingly familiar tenor launched into “The Wheels on the Bus.” With his right hand, he conducted the children in an impromptu chorus, while his left arm cradled an infant.

The children joined in with gusto. Instinctively, Karen hummed along until she realized what she was doing. Did the man’s good humor have to be so infectious?

Finishing the song, he turned and flashed a smile at some of the applauding mothers. The groove in his cheek stirred memories as sharp as glass.

Karen could almost smell the scents of her childhood: sultry wildflowers from summer fields where she used to tag along with her brother, Barry, and Chris, his best friend, as they explored; pungent rainy days in the attic, when they’d donned old clothes and Chris had led the playacting; the roses he’d helped her prune during their teen years, when she’d watched the boy grow into a man. She’d feared he would never notice her—but then he had. One magical night that she’d expected to cherish forever.

Instead, for many years, she’d regretted it with all her heart.

“Would y’all like some cider?” The question, close to Karen’s ear, startled her from her reverie. A young woman indicated a steaming Crock-Pot, the source of the cinnamon scent.

“Thanks.” Gratefully, Karen accepted a cup of the hot liquid. Glancing around, she realized all the mothers were quite young. “What’s going on?”

“We’re the Teen Mom Cooperative,” was the cheerful response. “Dr. Chris sponsors us.”

His application had listed the group as one of his volunteer activities, Karen recalled. “I’m surprised he wants to leave Nashville,” she blurted before considering that the other woman might not know of his plans.

However, her hostess appeared merely resigned. “He wants to spend more time with his crippled grandmother. We’ll miss him like crazy, but I think it’s sweet. That poor old lady deserves a little love.”

Karen suppressed a smile. Poor old lady indeed! Mae Anne McRay might live at the nursing home and have to get around in a wheelchair, but the eighty-one-year-old former school principal served on the town council and tutored students for their SAT tests. She also had a tongue tart enough to sour milk.

In the play area, Chris disentangled the children gently and arose. “I suppose you guys will be wanting a grand finale. Anybody know what a finale is?”

“They go flip-flop in the pool!” cried a little girl.

“That would be swim fins. Very close.” Receiving no further guesses, he explained, “A grand finale is a fancy way to end a show. Sometimes it involves fireworks, but that wouldn’t go over too well indoors.”

“Why not?” demanded a toddler.

“It’d start a fire,” returned a little girl.

“Poof!” Another youngster waved his hands to illustrate.

“So I thought we might—” Chris broke off as a trail of soap bubbles escaped from his sleeve. “What was that?”

Karen heard a few giggles. As more of the shimmering orbs appeared, the children began to shout with glee.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” The doctor pretended to grumble. “How did those get there?”

“You’re making them!” protested a boy.

More bubbles shot into the air, followed by a steady stream of them. Little hands batted them higher and higher. Only a few shy kids hung back, until Chris aimed some directly at them and then they, too, joined the fun.

Dancing around the room, the kids looked adorable. The nursing-home residents would love to watch this, Karen thought, wishing she had a video camera. Focused solely on the children, of course.

“I know what caused it!” the doctor declared solemnly. “I took a bath today. I guess I didn’t rinse off well enough, huh?” Laughter greeted this absurd statement.

Tears filled Karen’s eyes. How could this charismatic man be the cruel boy who’d fooled her, fooled Barry and, above all, fooled a jury?

Bringing the event to a crescendo, he whirled, releasing a torrent of glistening globes. All semblance of order vanished as the kids gave chase around the room.

As Chris spun, Karen fixed on his face—the dark eyes keenly alive, the full mouth quirking with merriment. The strength of his personality hit her.

She averted her eyes. Never, ever would she fall under his spell again.

As the hilarity faded, he clapped his hands for attention. “Your moms have a jar of bubble mix for each of you. But—” he waited until the gleeful response died down “—first, you have to fetch your coats and leave quietly. That’s the rule. Okay, everybody?”

“Okay, Dr. Chris!” little voices chorused. After hugs all around, the race was on to pull on outer garments and make a quick exit so they could claim their prizes.

Masterly, Karen reflected. The man had always had a gift for calculating his effect and arousing the desired response.

She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

The young moms and their children filtered out amid calls of “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and promises to see him before he left Nashville. Along the way, they collected plates of cookies and the Crock-Pot, and tossed disposable plates and cups into the trash receptacle. A tidy bunch, she thought with approval.

Karen felt Chris’s assessing gaze flick over her. He was clearly aware of her presence, although he made no sign of acknowledgment.

Finally, the outer door closed behind the last mother and child. Chris stood amid a jumble of balloons, his expression wary. A few leftover bubbles escaped one sleeve.

To break the silence, Karen asked, “How did you do that?”

He glanced down. “There’s a tube,” he said distractedly. “I ordered it on the Internet.” After an awkward pause: “Care to have a seat, or do you plan to challenge me to a duel? I’m afraid my sword arm’s rusty.”

“No duel.” Although her instincts urged her to stand and fight, Karen knew she would be wise to enlist the man’s cooperation, instead. Tucking her tweed skirt beneath her, she perched on a sofa. “Chris, the reason I’m here—”

He raised one hand to stop her. “First, are you speaking on behalf of someone else or on your own account?”

“Nobody put me up to it,” she assured him.

She had no idea how her brother would react if he learned she’d come here. He might find the gesture touching, or he might snarl that she should let him fight his own battles. Such anger was understandable, considering what he’d been through.

After a soul-searing stretch in prison for manslaughter, he’d struggled to complete a college degree and find work as a journalist, with only sporadic success. Then, nearly six years ago, their mother, Renée—publisher, editor and chief reporter for the Downhome Gazette since their father’s death—had suffered crippling injuries when a tractor hit her car.

Barry had returned to fill in for her at work and, when the permanence of her injuries became evident, he’d assumed the position full-time. While the town had more or less accepted him, he’d developed an obsession with clearing his name. And he’d never relinquished his dream of becoming a world-class international reporter.

“Well?” Chris interlaced his fingers.

“I’m sure you’re aware that I opposed hiring you,” she began.

“My grandmother keeps me current.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re a good doctor,” she added. “And I know you want to be close to Mae Anne…”

“But you still think I should have lied on the witness stand,” he finished, leaning forward intently.

She blinked, trying to figure out what he meant. “About what?”

“Don’t act coy. It doesn’t suit you.” Tension gave his voice a rough edge. “You wanted me to deny what I saw that night, and when I wouldn’t, you cut me off.”