Marrying For A Mom
Шрифт:
Whitney turned to the steps, trying to imagine how Logan felt once a week, as he put his hand to the banister and climbed the magnificent old staircase. She gingerly put her palm across the top of the newel post, then tested the first stair tread. It groaned beneath her weight, like an old woman wearied from raising too many children.
Whitney took the stairs slowly, amazed that Logan had been within blocks of her for months—and yet their paths had never crossed.
At the top, Whitney paused on the landing and peered into the first open doorway. The studio, awash in pink and white leotards, warm-ups and floppy hair bows, teemed with discipline. Miss Timlin, sixty if she was a day, with her gaunt face resembling a road map of wrinkles, and her arms and legs as sinewy as chicken bones, stood sternly at the front of the room. She thumped her staff on the hardwood floor.
“Stretch, Melissa! Hannah! You are not to preen in front of the mirror, you are to reflect upon your position before it.” In tights and leotards, Miss Timlin’s paunchy middle and sagging breasts were a mere testament to her resilience.
A gaggle of mothers waited, on hard-backed chairs that had been pushed against the wall. Two held magazines, one a book; none of them scanned the copy. Another woman’s knitting needles copiously clacked together, but her gaze was riveted to what was happening on the dance floor.
Logan was the only man in the room, and he appeared impervious to be outnumbered by the opposite sex; his attention, too, was directed solely to the activity on the floor.
“Excuse me,” Whitney whispered, apologizing to the master knitter as she carefully stepped over a bag of turquoise yarn. She slipped into the chair next to Logan.
His head turned, his eyes rounding into irresistible crescents as he smiled. “Hello,” he mouthed. “Glad you could make it.”
The chairs were so close that Whitney inadvertently leaned against him as she sat, her shoulder brushing his. The flesh beneath his dress shirt was hard, warm…and definitely bothersome to her senses. Whitney tried to look unaffected. “I hope Miss Timlin doesn’t yell at me for making a disturbance,” she whispered, as the aura of his aftershave enveloped them.
“I’ll protect you if she does,” he whispered, sliding an arm to the back of her chair in order to give her more room.
Whitney’s smile was taut, self-conscious. Everyone around them had peeled their eyes off the dance floor, to notice that Logan Monroe had welcomed this newcomer.
Whump, whump. “At the bar, ladies!” Miss Timlin directed, wielding her staff like a shepherdess. “Now, please.”
A dozen ballerinas scampered to claim their place at the mirrored wall. Logan nudged Whitney. “That’s Amanda,” he said. “Second from the left.”
The child, with round blue eyes and fat cheeks, exuded a Shirley Templesque sparkle. She didn’t walk; she pranced. A riot of strawberry-blond curls, bound with a diaphanous pink-and-white scrunchie, and pulled to a curious angle at the top of her head, swung against her nape. She paused long enough to look over her shoulder at her father, then offered up an outrageous wink and an infectious smile.
A chuckle of appreciation rumbled through Logan’s chest. Women on either side of them snickered. “She has my comedic sense of timing,” he whispered.
“She’s darling.”
“She’s a ham. A darling ham. I know it. And I love it.”
Whitney drew a deep, amused breath, and settled back against Logan’s arm, to bask in the enthusiasm of a gregarious six-year-old. Another mind-bending matter also weighed heavily on her mind: What brand of cologne did Logan wear?
The lesson ended much too quickly. When it was over, Amanda went flying into Logan’s arms.
“Daddy! Did you see it? My pli'e?”
“I did.”
“Much better, don’t you think?”
“Without a doubt.” He cocked his head, to study her floppy ponytail, then awkwardly tried to pat it back into place. “We still didn’t get this hair thing right,” he muttered.
Amanda didn’t seem to care about that, but her expressive mouth drooped. “I wish Mommy would have been here to see it.”
“What?”
“My pli'e.”
“Oh.” An uncomfortable moment of silence passed, then Logan pulled her into his arms. “I think, Amanda, that she knows,” he said gently. “Mommy loved you so much that she’s never really far from you.” His forefinger tapped her chest. “She’s right here, you know…in your heart.”
Amanda nodded bravely, but her eyes were solemn, sad. Whitney’s heart wrenched.
“Miss Timlin said I might be a swan in the recital,” Amanda announced.
“Really?” Logan pulled back, feigning intrigue.
“If I have another good lesson,” she said, dipping her chin as she scooched, uninvited, onto his lap. “That’s what she said. The swans get to wear feathers in their hair, you know.”
“Ah. Well, either way, feathers or no feathers, I’m proud of you.” He gave Amanda a quick, congratulatory hug. “Amanda, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Amanda leaned forward. Her gaze, neither friendly nor hostile, unabashedly met Whitney’s. “Must be you,” she concluded. “You’re the only new person here.”
“Hi,” Whitney said, extending her hand. “I’m Whitney Bloom.”
Amanda briefly regarded her, then politely dragged her fingers against Whitney’s palm. The greeting was a curious mixture of an infant’s patty-cake and an adolescent’s high-five. “Like the flower?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Whitney stopped, perplexed.
“You know. It’s a saying. Daddy always says we should bloom where we’re planted.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Whitney lifted her eyes, to exchange an amused look with Logan. To her delight, he winked.
“He says it means we have to do our best, no matter where we are or what happens to us.”
“I see. Good advice.”
“You’re lucky to have a name like that,” Amanda went on. “Sometime I’m going to get a name I can keep, that’s what the social worker says. Of course, I wish I had a name like Daddy’s.”
Both Logan and Whitney blanched at Amanda’s unwitting reference to the muddled adoption.