Karen Templeton – Dear Santa (страница 2)

“Did Mommy call?” she asked with her customary directness, and his insides twisted. Without fail, Justine always called Haley during these weekend visits, even when she was away herself. Whatever had happened between him and his ex-wife, Justine had been completely devoted to their daughter.

In fact, his ex-wife had been completely besotted by Haley from the moment the doctor had laid the messy, squalling child in Justine’s arms…while Grant had only been bewildered. By the baby, by the unexpected—in this case—mother-daughter bond, by the cozy, exclusive world the two of them had with each other from day one. A world to which Grant had never been able to figure out the secret password that would have gained him entrance.

Flexing his hands at his hips, Grant crossed the hooked rug covered with dozens of multicolored pastel butterflies, eternally in flight in a pale blue sky, to sit heavily on a faux-painted toy chest. Too astute by far, Haley watched him, her gaze steady. Judgmental.

Grant stared at his folded hands for a long moment, realizing he had no idea what the hell he was doing. What he was supposed to do. This was the kid who used to scream bloody murder if she lost sight of her mother for more than a few seconds—how on earth would she react to this?

“Daddy?”

The word was flat, perfunctory. She might as well have been calling him a plate or a chair or a tree. She kept her distance, hugging that lion, eyeing him suspiciously. “Are you mad?”

“No,” Grant said, surprised she would read his hesitation as anger. “But I have something to tell you. Something sad. And I’m not sure how to go about it.”

She waited, frowning, not so much trusting as curious, he thought. He took a deep breath and plunged.

“Mommy was in an accident,” he said quietly, his heart punching his rib cage. “In her car. And she got hurt very badly. So badly, the doctors couldn’t fix her. And… and she died.”

Haley stilled, her gaze fixed on his. Then she lowered her eyes to the lion and started stroking his mane, curling her small fingers through the golden fluff. From underneath her lashes, she peered at him again. “Died? Like Grandpa?”

She’d still been a baby when Grant’s father had died, much too young for Patrick Braeburn’s death to have made an impact. And Justine’s parents had both been gone long before she and Grant married. With a pang, Grant realized death was just a word to the little girl, a word without any real relevance or meaning.

“Yeah. Like Grandpa.”

Another moment or two passed before she said, “Mommy says the doctor always makes you better.”

“They tried their hardest, they really did—”

“So Mommy’s coming back. She always comes back. Always.”

“Not this time,” Grant said over the nausea. “She can’t.”

Hugging the lion more tightly, Haley kept her eyes locked in his for several seconds before returning to the other side of the room, where she squatted in front of her dollhouse and began one-handedly rearranging things, as if she’d somehow sucked the news inside her. Almost light-headed with uncertainty, he wondered if he should hold her. Ask her if she was okay. Something.

“Haley? Do you…want to talk?”

She swept one hand through her curls in a gesture that was her mother to a T. “No, thank you. I’ll talk to Mommy when she comes.”

Oh, God.

“Haley, Mommy’s not coming back—”

But she was shaking her head, the curls a blur as her movements became more and more agitated. “No, she’s coming back, an’ we’re going to the toy store when we get home, she promised.” Her eyes veered to Grant’s, dry but determined. “She promised.”

“Haley, honey—”

Grant reached for her, but she lurched backward, stumbling over a stuffed beagle lying sideways on the lacquered, honey-blond floor to land on her bottom.

“No!” she bellowed, frantically scrambling away, crab-style, to plaster herself against the wall underneath one window, between a pair of white bookcases crammed with books and games and puzzles. “I don’t want you! I want Mommy!”

Despite the wet-clay feeling of helplessness swamping him, Grant crouched in front of his daughter, who shoved the heels of her sneakers into the floor, pressing further into the wall. “It’s okay,” he said as she started to whimper, “I’m going to take care of you now—”

“No!” she shrieked, launching the stuffed lion at his chest. “I wanna go home! I want to talk to Mommy now!”

Grant sprang to his feet and crossed to the other side of the room, ramming his hand through his hair and trying to catch his breath. Rain still slashed at the windows, pummeled the roof, the normally comforting sounds of a rainy fall Saturday barely audible over Haley’s hysterics. Juggling millions of dollars of other people’s money, taking risks that most human beings wouldn’t dare…no sweat. How to comfort his daughter—how to even get over the first hurdle, of getting her to understand what was going on? Not a clue.

He glanced over at his little girl, huddled in her niche. She’d grabbed the lion again, clutching it to her and rocking, her face smashed into the thing’s mane. After a moment, Grant lowered himself onto the edge of Haley’s bed, a white four-poster smothered in yellow and white gingham ruffles. From ten feet and a world away, she glanced over, then scootched sideways to give him her back, clumsily scrubbing the back of her hand across her dripping nose.

“Go ’way.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Mommy wouldn’t want me to leave you alone.”

Haley tossed a withering look over her shoulder, then pulled her knees closer to her chest, a tiny, stricken figure in her little corduroy skirt and sweater. And Grant, who was not by any means a religious man, found himself praying—pleading—to be shown what to do.

Etta appeared at the doorway, phone in hand, frown in place. She motioned Grant over, then whispered, “It’s that friend of Justine’s. Mia Vaccaro? She said she and Justine were supposed to get together this afternoon, but she won’t answer her cell. Wants to know if you know anything.”

With a last glance at his daughter’s fragile-looking back, Grant took the phone, thinking this was why he’d never been a big fan of that whole prayer business to begin with.

Because all too often, the answer is exactly what you don’t want.

“Where is she?” Mia tossed the question in Grant’s housekeeper’s direction as she catapulted herself through the mansion’s open door, simultaneously unwinding her scarf and shrugging out of her tweed jacket.

“Upstairs, in her room,” the older woman said, relieving her of the garments. “But—”

“Thanks.”

Mia strode across the black-and-white tiled floor in the mini-rotunda that served as a vestibule, deaf to the screams of Money, money, money! reverberating from the high-ceilinged space. That she’d made it up here in one piece was a miracle in itself, considering all she really wanted to do was curl up in a corner somewhere until the world made sense again—

“Mia. Wait.”

The deep voice hit its mark like a sharpshooter’s bullet. Already at the foot of the curved staircase, Mia spun around, her gaze colliding with a pair of steely lasers, nailing her to the spot. Not until then did she realize she was panting, as though she’d run all the way from Manhattan instead of driven. Vaguely, it dawned on her that she hadn’t even changed clothes after she’d talked to Grant, that she was still in the same rumpled jeans and who-gives-a-damn hoodie she’d been wearing to schlep fake fall foliage to the pier for the Chins’ anniversary party the next night, that her tortoiseshell clip was hanging by maybe two teeth to her long, thick hair.

That she looked every bit the scatterbrain he undoubtedly thought she was.

“Grant! I’m sorry, traffic was a bear on the Henry Hudson, I got here as soon as I could!”

One side of his mouth ticked. Grant Braeburn’s version of a smile. “Clearly. Thank you. Before you go up…?” He gestured toward a room off the entryway. His office, if she remembered correctly. She’d been in the house before, of course—for the wedding, once after that for dinner with Christopher, a night branded in her memory as somewhere between miserable and excruciating. But she wasn’t here to see Justine’s ex, she was here for the little girl who’d wrapped herself around Mia’s heart from the first time she’d laid eyes on the baby when she was less than a day old.

“Mia!” came the imperious tone when she started upstairs. “We need to talk!”

“Later!”

She’d already reached the landing when his fingers wrapped around her arm. A lesser woman might have been intimidated—or, in other circumstances, turned on—by the man’s grip. Or, at the very least, let out a soft, feminine squeal of surprise. Instead, Mia went for the severely pissed-off look. One that nicely complemented Grant’s own.

“Damn it, Mia—I don’t want you breaking down in front of Haley.”

“Not a problem,” she said, yanking out of his grasp and striding across a billion bucks’ worth of oriental runner toward Haley’s room. Whatever issues Grant had with her—or she, him—would have to wait. Preferably until they were both dead and buried—

The thought literally made her stumble, although she righted herself before Grant could notice. She hoped. But despite the heartburn from hell dissolving her digestive system, she wasn’t about to crumple.