No Ordinary Child

“Sounds like Meggie’s having a bad day,” he said. “She didn’t want to come to Oklahoma. And she didn’t get to bed until very late last night.”

“I know. Your mom told me.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting into, Christy—may I call you Christy?”

“Sure. Listen, Sam—may I call you Sam?—don’t worry about me. I’ve been a nanny to some world-class brats. And I’ve also been a waitress, a Merry Maid, a vet’s assistant and, until yesterday—” she made a wry little grimace “—I was a checker at the local Wal-Mart. I think I’m up to this job.”

“But do you have any experience with mentally challenged children?”

The wailing broke into one long, eardrum-piercing shriek. Miss Meggie was apparently giving her granny hell.

“No. But there are worse things. And I like to think I’m patient and that I am very intuitive about how to handle people.” The shrieking upstairs stopped abruptly. “And, Mr. Solomon? Sam?” She smiled at him. “I love kids, even the kind that scream at you.”

Gayle Solomon burst into the room then, looking careworn and surprised to see her son. “Sam! What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

Mrs. Solomon gave him an irked look. “You know what I mean. I thought you went out to Moonlight Grove.”

“I just popped in for lunch. I wanted to see how the new nanny was working out.”

Mrs. Solomon raked her silver hair back with the exact same gesture her son had used. Christy wondered if either one was aware of the similarity. With her fingers still in her hair, the woman shot an apologetic glance at Christy. “Yes. Well, I’m afraid we haven’t even gotten acquainted yet. Christy just got here.”

“We introduced ourselves,” Sam said.

“And I’ve already played a little Chopin for him,” Christy added brightly. She smiled at her little joke. But neither of the Solomons did. Oh, boy. This family was going to be so much fun.

“Meggie won’t come downstairs.” Gayle Solomon remained tense as she explained the situation to Sam. “Sometimes, with Meggie,” she explained, turning toward Christy, trying belatedly to compose her face in a smile, “patience is required. Sometimes it’s better to just let her decide things for herself.”

Christy seriously doubted that. Easier, maybe, but not better. Behind his mother, she saw Sam Solomon roll his eyes.

“Why don’t both of you have a seat.” He indicated the couch across the room. Then he disappeared into the foyer. He returned carrying a briefcase.

They settled onto the leather furniture—Mrs. Solomon sinking into an overstuffed armchair, leaving Sam and Christy to position themselves uneasily, side by side, on the low couch.

Sam reached into the briefcase and pulled out some papers, then he reached in front of Christy to lay them on the glass-topped coffee table. When his shoulder came near hers she felt a wave of attraction. In high school, they had never gotten this close except for that one time when they’d bumped shoulder to chest between class periods. The hallways of Central High were so overcrowded that no one ever excused themselves in the jostling. Except Sam. He’d looked straight into Christy’s eyes and said, “’Scuse me.” She had felt the impact of that incident for days. Now the memory came over her like a spell. He even smelled the same. Overwhelmingly clean and fresh and strongly masculine.

She forced herself to concentrate on the papers. Before her was an actual contract. He was thorough, she’d give him that. After they agreed on the terms and signed the thing, Mrs. Solomon scurried into the kitchen to make lunch.

“You realize I have hired you to take over for my mother,” Sam explained after his mother was gone. “Which won’t be easy. Mom’s a dynamo who’d rather do things herself than turn matters over to somebody else. She’s already made arrangements to continue Meggie’s speech therapy here in Tulsa.” He raised an eyebrow, skewering Christy with an assessing blue-eyed gaze. “She’s also a hoverer.”

“I suppose that’s natural when you have a granddaughter with disabilities.”

“Yeah. Well. My mom was a control freak long before Meggie arrived. The truth is, my daughter can be a holy terror. So much so that hardly anyone can stand to be around her.”

Christy wondered if that included the child’s own father. “How sad.” She did not make a habit of glossing over the truth. And if what Sam Solomon had just said was true, it was, indeed, sad. There was no other word for it.

“I take it you haven’t met my daughter yet.”

Christy smiled and she shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard her.”

Again, he didn’t smile.

Goodness. Maybe she was losing her touch.

“I’m going up to try to reason with Meggie now. Want to come?”

“Sure.”

AS SOON AS THEY OPENED THE door of a sunny upstairs bedroom, Christy sensed that here was big trouble. The child, who was jumping in the middle of her rumpled bed, leapt off of it and into her father’s arms, almost knocking the big man over.

“Dad-dee,” she whined as he hitched her up over his hip, “I don’t want no nandy!” She glared at Christy, who stood a discreet distance away, just inside the doorway.

“Now, Meggie,” Sam chided. “Christy seems nice.”

Christy smiled, opened her mouth to introduce herself, but the child shrieked, “I don’t want that nandy!” From behind a wavy fringe of bangs, she skewered Christy with intense navy-blue eyes. A dominant Solomon trait, Christy decided.

Sam chastised his daughter again. “Meggie!”

“It’s okay, Sam,” Christy said mildly. “Is this your new room, Meggie?” She stepped inside.

Though the underlying decor was minimalist like the rest of the house—mullioned windows with white plantation shutters covering them, black lacquered floor, mission furniture—the childish debris made it look as if a tornado had just passed through. And the child in Sam Solomon’s arms looked as if she had been at the center of that storm.

She was lanky, painfully thin, actually, still wearing rumpled pajamas at noon, and her wild, frizzy blond hair was tangled and matted. She buried her head under her father’s chin and continued to regard Christy with an openly hostile stare.

Christy stepped farther into the room and bent to pick up a stuffed brown bear that had all the threadbare markings of being loved to pieces.

“Who’s this?” She raised her eyebrows at Meggie.

“Mr. Bear,” Meggie answered uncertainly.

“Mr. Bear—” Christy regarded the impassive stitched face “—did you make a mess of this room?”

Meggie giggled.

Sam Solomon looked mildly astonished.

Watching Christy’s eyes as she took in the child’s face, then her hair, Sam said, “Meggie, let Daddy brush your hair so we can all go down and have a nice lunch now.”

“No!” Meggie screamed, and struck her father’s shoulder with her skinny fist. “I don’t wanna comb my hair.”

“Meggie, stop that.” Sam clutched her thin little fingers. “You may not hit Daddy.”

“No!” Meggie repeated, and pummeled his shoulder with three more thumps. “I don’t wanna eat no yucky old lunch. I want IckDonald’s.”

Christy only smiled. “Ooh,” she cooed in a soft, low voice as she sidled farther into the room. “I love McDonald’s. Big Macs and chicken nuggets and ooey, gooey sundaes.”

“Me, too!” Meggie reared back from her father, suddenly distracted. With obvious relief, he dropped his daughter to her feet. “And fench fies.” The child’s eyes lit up as she walked toward Christy and stuck her thumb into her mouth with an expectant look.