Diana Whitney - One Man's Promise

Richard Matthews watched from the open doorway with a peculiar look on his face, while his clearly heartbroken daughter stared through the front window with wide and haunting eyes. The image was pitifully sad and sobering.

C.J. gave Rags another hug, then whispered, “Go get your Frisbee.” The dog leapt down, dashed between Richard’s legs and disappeared into the house. Although C.J. spoke to Richard, she couldn’t take her eyes off the tearful child in the window. “I thought I’d take him for a run in the park, if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine,” Richard murmured, but C.J. wasn’t listening. She was mesmerized by Lissa’s pale face, the small, quivering mouth and eyes filled with yearning for a childhood denied her.

Just as childhood had once been denied another young girl. Images of the past marched through her memory, a thoughtful reflection of that other lonely youngster who’d watched from a sickroom window as her father and siblings played ball in the front yard. She remembered the pain, the longing, the resentment that festered into fury. She remembered the rage, the uncontrollable anger lashing out at those she’d loved the most.

Most of all, she remembered the loneliness.

Because C.J.’s own childhood, like little Lissa’s, had been one of isolation, medication and excessive parental protection. It had been a loving prison, but a prison nonetheless, and she’d spent her adult years overcoming—some would say overcompensating for all those lonely years and lost adventures.

Now C.J. saw herself in the reflection of the sad child behind the window. She understood how it felt to read terror in a parent’s eyes, to be shunned by other children. To be different.

She knew, she understood and her heart broke for that lonely little girl. And for this one.

“It is an outrage.” Clearly furious, Thompson McCade tapped the bowl of his pipe on a crystal ashtray. “You disappoint me, Richard.”

“I did what was necessary.”

“Necessary?” The imposing man strode across the room, seated himself in the extravagant recliner that he’d claimed as his own, and bit down on the stem of the unlit pipe so hard his teeth clicked. He fumed a moment before removing the pipe and cradling the unlit bowl in his palm. “Since when is it necessary to put the superficial desires of a stranger above the needs of your own child? Allissa is devastated by your callous disregard of her feelings, Richard, and quite frankly, so am I. Melinda would be horrified—”

“That’s enough,” Richard said quietly, although his jaw twitched in warning.

A vein pulsed on McCade’s forehead. “How dare you speak to me like that? Melinda was my daughter, my only child—”

“She was my wife.” With some effort, Richard unfurled his fisted fingers, reminded himself that his daughter was in the kitchen with her grandmother, close enough to overhear. He lowered his voice. “I’ve asked you before, and I’m asking you again to refrain from using Lissa’s mother as a club with which to beat me into submission each and every time we have a disagreement. I’m perfectly willing to listen to your opinions, Thompson, but Lissa is my daughter, and I will make the final decision as to what is or is not in her best interest.”

A flush of red fury crawled from McCade’s beefy neck to a face flexing with indignation. He was an impressive man, barrel-chested and large in stature, with a thick shock of gunmetal gray hair and a bulbous nose that would have been clownish if not for the piercing, pitiless intensity of eyes that demanded respect, but rarely bestowed it. Thompson McCade was not accustomed to argument. He was a man to be reckoned with, ruthless, relentless and powerful.

He was also a royal pain in the butt.

“I’ve made my decision,” Richard repeated calmly. “Either Lissa learns to share her pet, or she’ll have to give him up entirely. The choice is hers.”

“That is grossly unfair.” McCade’s face darkened to a worrisome purple. “I won’t allow it.”

Richard heaved a weary shrug, chose not to point out that when it came to this home and this family, McCade was not in a position to allow or disallow anything. The older man clearly understood that, although ego prevented him from acknowledging any limitation of the power upon which his entire self-image had been built.

So Richard let his father-in-law sputter and rant without contradiction. He didn’t agree with the man’s point of view, but he didn’t exactly disagree with it, either.

In truth, Richard didn’t care for the current situation any more than McCade. He loved his daughter dearly, understood how wounded she was by her pet’s affection for the athletic blonde with a pocket full of dog biscuits and a boisterous laugh that McCade would most certainly label as bohemian. Richard hated to see his child so unhappy, but he certainly couldn’t disregard the needs of a helpless animal. It wasn’t Rags’s fault that Lissa was overindulged and selfish. In a sense, it wasn’t Lissa’s fault, either. Richard blamed himself.

“Daddy?”

Richard blinked, turned just as Lissa scampered from the kitchen to clamber into her grandfather’s lap.

She beamed hopefully. “Do I get Rags back, Daddy, do I, huh, do I?”

From the corner of his eye he saw Sarah McCade hovering shyly in the kitchen doorway, wringing her wrinkled hands. “Of course you get Rags back, punkin, just as soon as Ms. Moray returns from the park.”

“Then I won’t ever have to share him again, right, Daddy?”

Richard sighed as McCade’s eyes narrowed in warning. “We’ve already been through this, Lissa. Ms. Moray will be visiting with Rags two evenings a week, and have him all day Saturday.”

Horrified, the child spun on her grandfather’s lap. “But you promised, Gramps, you promised that you’d make Daddy give me my dog back.”

To Richard’s surprise, Sarah McCade, who rarely said anything beyond “good morning,” and even then felt guilty about verbalizing the observation, suddenly stepped forward. “Sweetheart, we talked about this in the kitchen. You don’t want your doggy to be sad or sick, do you?”

The child’s chin jutted stubbornly. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Gramps promised.” A small wheeze, then a louder one followed by an interminable, rasping gasp.

Richard nearly moaned aloud.

“Look what you’ve done,” McCade boomed. “Now she’s having an attack. Sarah, get the child’s medication.”

The woman hovered frantically before dashing off to do her husband’s bidding. She’d barely left the room when her gasping granddaughter glimpsed a familiar form dashing across the front yard. “Rags!” the child shouted, then leapt from her grandfather’s lap and shot across the room, her asthma attack instantly and miraculously abated. She yanked open the front door, clapping gleefully. “Rags, Rags!”

The animal literally flew through the door,. greeted Lissa with a series of joyous kisses, then dashed into the kitchen. Lissa ran after him, nearly knocking into her bewildered grandmother, who’d just emerged clutching the child’s inhaler.

Richard stood, offered his mother-in-law a thin smile. “Thank you, Sarah, but apparently Lissa is feeling much better now.”

On cue, Lissa leaned out of the doorway with an exploding grin. “Rags is eating, Daddy, he’s gobbling up everything in his dish!”

“That’s nice, punkin,” Richard murmured, distracted by the breathless woman hovering in the doorway with a grass-stained Frisbee clutched in one hand. He took a step toward her, jerked to a stop as Sarah McCade hurried past, gushing.

“You must be Ms. Moray,” she murmured, pumping the startled woman’s free hand. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’m Lissa’s grandmother—”