When a Man Loves a Woman Read online

  Her mother coughed nervously and fidgeted with her bracelet. “Where is this house, dear?”

  “About five blocks from my school.” Amanda regained some control. She ignored the two men who stared at her as if she were a newly discovered life-form. “And it has a lovely garden. I’ve always wanted to grow things.”

  Joan Carson’s astonished look told Amanda she could not conceive of someone wanting to do her own digging when the world had gardeners. Craig Coleman scowled, as did her father. Amanda smiled serenely, and before anyone could comment, the maid knocked discreetly on the door.

  Visibly trying to control his irritation, Robert asked, “What is it, Mary?”

  “There’s a call for Miss Amanda.” She held up Amanda’s cell phone. “You must have left it by accident on the table in the hall and I heard it ringing. I answered it so they wouldn’t hang up.”

  “Who is it?” Amanda asked, thinking even the housekeeper took liberties with her.

  “A Mr. DiMarco. He got the number from your service. He said it’s an emergency or I wouldn’t have interrupted.”

  Amanda shot out of the chair, took the phone, walked from the room and put it to her ear. “Yes, Mr. DiMarco. How can I help you?”

  o0o

  Ringing the doorbell of apartment number four, Amanda shifted from one foot to the other. She was just about to push the button a second time, when the door opened. In front of her sat a ten-year-old towheaded boy, his blue eyes brimming with anxiety. In a wheelchair.

  Her heart clenched at the familiar sight. The chair was an older, cheaper model than Lisa’s had been, but it summoned images, just the same. She saw herself pushing it as fast as she could, while Lisa screeched with glee. She remembered struggling with it through the grass so they could both feed the ducks in the pond they were forbidden to go near. She thought of the time she’d forged space in the bleacher aisles so Lisa could watch her cheer at a football game. And she recalled the pain of folding it up for the last time.

  “Ms. Carson?” the young boy asked.

  “Yes, you must be Jason.”

  “Yeah.” He maneuvered the chair so she could enter. The agility with which he did it resurrected even more memories of Lisa, but Amanda forcibly shook them off. Nick DiMarco had been in a panic when he’d called her thirty minutes ago.

  She scooted past the little boy and stepped farther into the small room to see an older woman sitting on a striped couch adjacent to the door. This was Nick’s mother, judging from the black hair liberally peppered with gray and the shape of her charcoal eyes. She clutched rosary beads and mumbled in Italian.

  “Oh, praise the Lord,” Grace DiMarco said when she saw Amanda. “You from the school? Go down the hall. It’s the first door. My boy and granddaughter are there.”

  The words tumbled out in a rush, and Amanda wished she had time to soothe the overwrought woman. But she hurried to the room indicated.

  Inside, she found Nick slumped on a single bed against the wall. He held his thirteen-year-old on his lap and crooned nonsense words to her as he gently stroked her hair. He was still dressed in his waiter’s tux and Heather wore a baby pink sweat suit. The contrast was incongruous.

  Heather was weeping. When Nick looked up and saw Amanda, the relief on his face was so intense it made her heart turn over. She wished she could help him too, but his child came first.

  Crouching in front of them, she touched Heather’s arm to let her know she was there. The girl startled and then eased her face out of her father’s neck. Her china blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and her skin blotchy. As Nick had told her on the phone, Heather had obviously been crying for a very long time.

  Between sobs, the girl managed to gulp, “What are you doing here, Ms. Carson?”

  “Your father called me, Heather. He thought I might be able to help you.”

  “No one can help...” A fresh bout of tears stopped Heather from going on.

  “I can try. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  Hugging his daughter tight to his chest, as if to protect her from the question, Nick said, “She dropped the sauce...”

  Before he could continue, Amanda shook her head and held up her hand to stop him. “Heather, you tell me.”

  The girl quieted somewhat and turned in her father’s lap to face Amanda. She still clasped his neck in a death grip with the inside hand.

  “I was helping Grandma and the bowl was so heavy. It slipped out...oh, God, all over the floor...the glass broke...I ruined supper…” She began crying again and was unable to finish, but Amanda had the gist.

  “Did your grandmother yell at you?” Amanda kept her voice purposely low and soothing.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nick frown, but she ignored it.

  “No, but she should have. It was my...” Heather released her father’s neck and turned to face Amanda fully.

  “Your what, Heather?”

  The girl scrubbed her eyes with her fists. “My fault, of course.”

  Hearing the silent like everything else, Amanda wondered if Nick had picked up on her message. One glance at his face told her that pain hadn’t blurred his perceptions.

  “It was so messy. Daddy doesn’t like mess,” Heather said tonelessly.

  Amanda tensed. Was something going on she hadn’t anticipated? “Does Daddy get angry when something happens he doesn’t like?” Leaning back on her heels, she risked a glimpse at Nick. His eyes were cold. She met his stare unblinkingly.

  “No,” Heather said, without guile. “He’ll just be disappointed.”

  “Ask him how he feels,” Amanda told the girl.

  Heather pulled completely away from her father and looked at him questioningly.

  Nick smoothed his daughter’s silky hair with his hand, the muscles in his forearm bunching in an apparent effort to control his anxiety. “Oh, sweetheart, I don’t care about the dinner. Grandma has quarts of that stuff stacked in the freezer.”

  “But...but you had to leave work to come home.”

  “Not because of what you did. I came home because you couldn’t stop crying.” Nick’s voice was laced with regret, but he held his daughter’s gaze.

  Amanda waited a moment. When nothing more was said, she asked, “Why can’t you stop crying, Heather?”

  The tears were now a silent stream down her cheeks, but she’d ceased sobbing and her body no longer convulsed. As if she’d just become aware of her position, she eased off her father’s lap onto the bed, but still held his hand. Amanda glanced at Nick and wondered briefly who needed the connection more. Nick had no color in his face and his eyes were haunted. “I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.”

  Amanda had heard that statement before. It was a common indicator of real depression. She rose from her crouched position and stood before them. “I’d like to see Heather alone for a few minutes.”

  Nick stared at her intently. Disapproval was etched in the taut lines of his forehead, and his mouth thinned with it.

  Turning from him, Amanda removed her leather coat and threw it on the chair, as if the matter was settled. He’d called her and she wasn’t about to miss this opportunity.

  Slowly, Nick stood and faced his daughter. He leaned over and stroked her flushed cheek. “This okay with you?”

  Heather nodded. Nick backed away, then walked silently to the door. Even after he’d gone, Amanda felt his distrust like another presence in the room.

  She pulled a chair up to the bed. Tears pooled in Heather’s eyes now but didn’t fall freely, and the child relaxed into the mattress. The strain of the evening was outlined in every muscle of her body.

  “Sit back and prop yourself up against the pillows,” Amanda told her. When the girl relaxed slightly, Amanda said, “Tell me what hurts so much.”

  Clutching the covers, Heather peered at her with vacant eyes. Amanda waited. Finally, the girl answered. “My heart.”

  Amanda felt her own contract at the simple yet poignant response. She reached
out and touched the teenager’s hand. Heather grabbed hers like a lifeline.

  “Why does it hurt so much, Heather?”

  The girl said nothing.

  Leaning forward in her chair, Amanda searched for the right words to say. “How about telling me just one little thing? Sometimes, when so much is wrong, it helps to start with something small.”

  The teenager looked at her with disbelieving eyes. Then, still grasping Amanda’s hand, she shrugged her slender shoulders. “Jason.”

  Amanda didn’t have to ask why. A sudden image of Lisa’s face watching her dress for a dance recital engulfed her. The longing etched there had been enough to drive Amanda away from the ballet barre for a full sixteen years. Only last year, eight months after Lisa’s death, had she begun classes again.

  Unaware of Amanda’s associations, Heather plucked at the spread. “It’s just so unfair, you know. He’s so nice. He’s never mean, he never resents that I can do things that he can’t. It hurts so much to see him be happy for me. I’m miserable for him, Ms. Carson, and I can’t stand it anymore.”

  Briefly, Amanda wondered if she was thick-skinned enough to handle the career she’d chosen. Heather’s confession broke her heart in and of itself. But the fact that Amanda had felt exactly the same about her own sibling made her wonder if she was capable of remaining objective.

  Damn it, she would.

  Taking Heather’s frigid hands in hers, she stared directly at the girl. “Heather, Jason’s condition is not your fault. And you’ll probably always feel some guilt for being whole when he isn’t. I’m not sure there’s anything you can do about that.”

  When the girl’s eyes turned bleaker than a February afternoon, Amanda tightened her grip. “But what you can do is talk about your feelings. Get them out. Yell and scream about how unfair Jason’s situation is. You will feel better, although the reality will not go away.”

  Heather’s face crumpled and moisture welled up in her eyes once more. Her whole body slumped back into the bed. “I can’t do that. Daddy has enough to worry about. And Grandma and Grandpa are too old. Aunt Beth is the only one I could ever be that way with, but she...” Her voice trailed off.

  “She what?”

  Heather shrugged. “It’s stupid.”

  “So? Be stupid. It’s just you and me.”

  Heather hesitated before she added, “It’s just that Aunt Beth is so much fun. Things are better when she’s here, for Jason and for me. I don’t want to spend the time we have with her whining.”

  Again, Amanda’s heart constricted and she averted her eyes to a poster of a unicorn on the wall. Finally, she said, “Well, then we’ll just have to find someone else you can yell about this with, won’t we?”

  “You?” Heather’s voice was timid yet hopeful, then dropped, defeated. “But Daddy said no.”

  “I know that, Heather. But we’ll take it as a good sign that your dad called me tonight. And he doesn’t seem to be against counseling. He just seems uncomfortable with me. I’m not exactly sure why.”

  Heather closed her eyes and they were cloudy when she opened them. “Because you remind him of my mother.”

  And you’ve known a lot of women like me?

  One too many.

  It was beginning to make sense now.

  When Heather didn’t elaborate, Amanda asked, “How do you know he feels this way?”

  The girl’s face turned scarlet. But she held Amanda’s gaze, showing some grit. “Because I listen when he and Aunt Beth talk at night. It’s the only way I find out what he’s thinking. He doesn’t say much about his feelings to me, so I...eavesdrop. It’s how I found out about—”

  Heather stopped abruptly. After a few moments of silence, it seemed confession time was over. Scowling, Heather finally said, “Please, I don’t want to talk anymore.”

  Amanda knew the aftermath of hours of tears, from both personal and professional experience. Eyelids that felt like sandpaper. A queasy stomach. Every muscle screaming from tension the body could only hold for so long.

  “Sure, honey. I think you should go to bed.” Amanda stood and when Heather got under the covers, she drew them up.

  Wearily, Heather lay down and allowed Amanda to adjust the quilt. She closed her eyes and reached out her hand. Amanda took it and gave the girl a moment to settle down before saying any more. Her eyes scanned the room.

  The books on the shelves were arranged by size. The tops of the desk and dresser were spotless. Every surface reflected a sense of neatness, the kind Amanda hated. When she was a child, she and her sister had given the maid prematurely gray hair. There was always a doll hiding behind a couch or one of Lisa’s trucks peeking out from underneath. Her father’s displeasure had not been enough to make the girls more tidy and Amanda often reflected that it was probably just another way they’d had of thwarting him. And the reason you’re so messy today.

  There was no rebellion in this room, though.

  Smoothing Heather’s fine, pale hair onto the pillow, she asked, “Feel better?”

  “A little.” Heather glanced at the door. “But you should send them all in to see I’m okay.” Even amidst her pain, the child’s concern for others surfaced.

  “How about if I fill them in on how you are, instead? Would you trust me to do that?”

  Grateful blue eyes, exactly like her brother’s, peered up at Amanda. The children must look like their mother, given Nick’s dark coloring. “Okay.”

  Her father was clearly resistant to the idea of leaving Heather alone when Amanda entered the living room a few minutes later. He’d shed his tie and jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “I want to see her,” he said implacably when Amanda told him his daughter was in bed.

  “She’s just about asleep. I think it’s best to let her rest.”

  Nick’s eyes flared but he said nothing. Though his obvious anger caused her pulse to speed up, Amanda stood her ground. Turning from her, he glanced at the clock and then at Jason. “Come on, kid, you should go to sleep, too.” When his eyes rested on his mother, he sighed and closed them.

  Amanda read fatigue and frustration in the slump of his shoulders. How could he take Grace DiMarco home and get his son to bed and not leave his daughter after she’d been so upset?

  She sighed inwardly. One minute, she was wary of this man and the next, she softened toward him. She took a few steps in his direction and spoke gently. “Why don’t you take your mother home? She probably needs some comfort from you. I’ll stay and get Jason to bed.”

  Nick eyed her with gratitude and something she couldn’t define. Then, as if remembering to shield himself, he backed away. “Thank you. But I’ll take care of Jason when I get back. It’s tough getting him settled in.”

  “I know how to do it. I’ve had plenty of experience.” Amanda smiled sadly and clasped her hands behind her.

  “Really? Where?”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  o0o

  “How do you know how to do all this?” Jason echoed Nick’s question when she locked the wheelchair at the bottom so he could brace himself on it and ease over the sink. She dodged the query, but he asked again later, when she tilted the chair slightly to let him roll into his mattress with some degree of autonomy.

  Finding herself on the edge of a DiMarco bed for a second time that night, she pulled the covers up to his small chest. “Someone very close to me was in one of these. I know all the tricks.”

  “Yeah?” The devilish grin was there despite the gravity of the evening.

  Amanda brushed back an unruly lock of his white-blond hair. “Yeah. And you know what? She loved jokes just like Heather told me you do.”

  “Tell me one.”

  Amanda pretended to think. “Okay, why was the little strawberry worried?”

  Jason’s grin broadened and his blue eyes twinkled. “I give, why?”

  “His parents were in a jam.”

  Without missing a beat, the child responded in kind
. “How do you know the ocean is friendly?”

  Amanda glanced at the ceiling, giving the matter consideration. Finally, she shook her head. “Don’t know.”

  “It waves.”

  Both giggled.

  Ten minutes later, Amanda was still smiling as she walked around the living room waiting for Nick. There were framed photos of him, the children, his parents and a woman who had to be his sister. But there was no picture of the children’s mother. It was as if she didn’t exist.

  And the order here reflected Heather’s room. Though cramped with a tattered flowered sofa and two big chairs, a small television and a desk next to wobbly bookshelves, everything was neatly in its place. Even the books were tidy and each picture was straight. There was no lint on the throw pillows or aged rug. No magazines, newspapers or toys graced the coffee table.

  So, Heather wasn’t the only fastidious one in this house.

  “God, can I do this, can I help them?” she asked aloud in the silent living room.

  “Sure you can, Mandy,” she heard her sister say. “I know it!”

  o0o

  Half an hour later, Nick came through the front door. Now that the crisis had passed, and he’d had time to marshal his defenses, he didn’t know exactly what to do with Ms. Amanda Carson, who looked so lovely standing before him. He hadn’t noticed before how the peach dress accented the blush of her cheeks and how her honey-colored hair shimmered around her shoulders.

  “Hi. Is your mother all right?”

  “Yeah.” He tried not to think of how well this woman had handled the situation, how much he’d admired her expertise. He was grateful to her for her intervention, but that was difficult for him to show. To let her see his vulnerability. “Thanks for everything you tonight,” he finally said.

  “You’re welcome. I’d like to do more.”

  Again fear coiled in Nick. Letting this woman near Heather when she was so upset had been hard enough. Could he do it long-term? Could he risk entrusting Heather’s welfare to someone so different from them?

  Amanda’s gaze held his during his silence.