No Ordinary Child

Abruptly, he stopped twisting the corkscrew. His shoulders slumped. “Oh, no. What kind of statue? Was it damaged?”

“No.” Christy held up a palm in a gesture of peace. “No damage. It was a sturdy bronze.”

“Even so, that must have been difficult for you.”

“And for Meggie,” she reminded him.

“Yes. For Meggie. Of course. I’m sorry.” He sighed as his shoulders slumped even farther. “I seem to be saying I’m sorry a lot these days.”

She frowned. “Why’s that?”

“Long story. Things are behind schedule out at Moonlight Grove—my job site. And I haven’t been able to help Andrea at all. I dunno. I just feel like I’m—tell me about Meggie. What did the museum staff say?”

“Oh. They couldn’t see any damage. They even called a curator to look at it while we waited in a little office. Still, I felt we had to leave the premises right away. I didn’t want that security guard following Meggie around all day.”

He pulled the cork and poured some wine in each glass. “Did you explain to them that Meggie is special?”

“Of course,” she answered quietly. Christy studied his movements, seeing it all so clearly. How it was, how it had always been, for Meggie’s parents. Every day, she imagined, they hoped for progress, or a least a little bit of normalcy, in the life of their little girl. But every day this is what they got. It was worse than two steps forward, one step back, because it was always one step back. As Meggie grew physically older but remained in her limited mental state, they were continually losing ground.

“Here.” He handed her a wineglass. Then he dragged the other bar stool around the bend of the counter and settled himself up on it with his muscular thighs spread wide, facing her. An undeniably masculine pose that stretched the fabric of his expensive wool trousers across his pelvis.

Christy turned squarely toward the bar and leaned forward so she wouldn’t be so aware of him. She clutched her bag tighter to her middle and took a tense sip of her wine.

Sam watched her for a moment, then said, “How long do you think she’ll sleep?” He jerked his head toward the stairs before sipping his wine.

“I don’t know. She needs a good nap, today of all days. All in all, it was—” Christy tasted her wine “—kind of a stressful day.”

“Yes, I imagine that kind of thing would wear her out.” He twirled the base of his wineglass on the counter. “Poor little Meggie.”

He looked so defeated that Christy felt driven by compassion, by a fierce protectiveness almost, to give him some tidbit of joy about his daughter to hold on to. “Some nice things happened today, too.”

“Oh?”

“After we left the museum, we went by your mom’s to pick up some more food for Brutus. Meggie perked right up when she saw him.”

Sam couldn’t believe his mother had given Christy Lane a key to her luxurious home only four days after he employed the woman. Then his mom had zipped off to Belize, leaving her beloved pet in Christy’s care, to boot.

“Meggie certainly loves that dog.” Christy smiled.

“She certainly does. Good old Brutus.” He eyed the spoiled dog, who answered Sam with a belligerent chuff.

Christy giggled, and Sam did smile then, warmly and genuinely, and Christy relaxed.

Outside, the sky was turning charcoal gray and the wind was kicking up, buffeting the tree branches outside the kitchen windows.

“It looks like it’s going to storm.” Sam clicked the power button on a small TV next to them on the kitchen counter and found the local weather.

Areas of the map around Tulsa were highlighted in bright orange, signaling a tornado watch.

“Is it coming this way?”

“Looks like it.” Sam tapped a finger over the greenish satellite images of clouds skittering over the screen. “Maybe you shouldn’t drive home just yet,” he reasoned. “Man!” He snapped his fingers. “I forgot to show you the safe room.”

“I found it when I was teaching Meggie how to play explore.”

“Explore?”

“A game that keeps kids occupied, and teaches them how to be curious about their surroundings.” Christy and Meggie had peeked inside the tiny area with a steel door and a reinforced ceiling next to the washer and dryer in a corner of the basement. There she found two plain wooden benches and some shelves that were well stocked: flashlights, bottled water, rain ponchos, a weather radio, warm clothes for Meggie. Sam Solomon was as prepared as any Boy Scout.

“Was that room already here when you bought this house?”

“No. I built it after the F-5 blew through O-K-C a few years back.” He jerked a thumb toward the southwest, where the killer tornado had cleared a path through central Oklahoma. “My firm went down to the city and did some of the restoration work.”

She frowned, remembering the pictures on TV and in the papers. “That must have been hard.”

“Seeing devastation like that makes a believer out of you. I installed a safe room before I moved into this house. Besides, I figure it’s my civic duty. No self-respecting architect would resell a house without a safe room. Bad example.” He grinned.

“Are you selling this house?” Maybe, she thought, that accounted for the barren feel of the place.

“I thought I was. My plan was to remodel one old home after another—living in each one while I did the work. Then sell, make a handsome profit, and repeat the process all over again.”

“But…” She supplied the word because he’d said it as though his plan was history.

“But now I’ve got to consider the possibility that…” He sipped his wine.

“That Meggie may be living with you permanently.”

“Yeah.” He winced.

Christie couldn’t decide if his discomfort was because he didn’t want to be a full-time dad or if he was thinking that Andrea might not survive. She hoped it was the latter.

“I suppose there’s always Meggie to consider.”

His eyes shadowed and he downed more wine. “Yes. Meggie.”

“You expect to have Meggie past the summer?”

“Who knows?” His expression grew darker, like the clouds outside. “The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll have Meggie. Her mother’s pretty sick. It could…it could go badly for Andrea.”

“I understand. Mrs. Solomon—Gayle—told me a little bit about it. Poor Meggie. And poor…what did you say your ex-wife’s name is?”

“Andrea.”

“Poor Andrea.”

“Yes. Andrea’s illness still seems very surreal to me, you know?”

“Has she always been healthy?”