A Father for Zach

“Cool!” Zach went back to eating with renewed enthusiasm. “You want to take a nap with us, too, Nathan? It might be a little crowded, but I bet we could all fit.”

Heat surged on Catherine’s neck, and she made a pretense of adjusting the laces on her elevated hiking boot.

“I have work to do, champ.”

Nathan’s husky reply did nothing to quell the unexpected flurry of butterflies Zach’s comment had set off in her stomach. Fortunately he exited to retrieve his lunch, giving her a chance to compose herself. And when he returned, he kept the conversation focused on the remodeling project.

Once lunch was finished and he and Zach had polished off all the remaining brownies, Nathan went back to work with a nod in her direction and a quiet thank-you for the dessert and soda.

Fifteen minutes later, with Zach cuddled up beside her and already drifting off, her own eyelids began to grow heavy. Until a sudden realization drew her back from the brink of sleep.

For the first time in two years, she hadn’t double-checked the locks on every door before lying down.

Snuggling closer to Zach, she told herself she ought to get up and secure the house.

But she didn’t.

Because oddly enough, despite the presence of a stranger on her property, she felt safe.

Chapter Four

On Friday, as Nathan tapped the lid closed on the can containing the soft-ochre–colored paint Catherine had chosen for the psychedelic room, Zach planted his chubby hands on his hips and inspected the transformed space.

“This looks real good, Nathan.”

Standing, he did his own survey. And came to the same conclusion. Although the flooring still needed to be laid, the rest of the room was ready for decorating.

“Thanks, champ. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

A glow suffused the little boy’s face. “I like helping. Mom says I’m a good helper.”

“She’s right. I’m going to run over to the house and tell her I’m leaving, okay?”

“Okay. You want me to put your tools back in your toolbox while you’re gone?”

Nathan scanned the room. One of his ground rules was that Zach wasn’t to touch any tool without asking permission. And the little boy had followed it to the letter. But nothing lethal was lying around. Just a hammer, a paint-can opener and a couple of screwdrivers. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As he exited the room, Nathan was pleased by the progress he’d made during his first week on the job—both with the room and with his employer. She’d begun to relax around him. To hover less. To trust him with Zach. That meant a lot. As did the routine they’d all fallen into of sharing their lunch at a glass-topped wicker table in the breezeway. Their conversation was always impersonal, focused mostly on the renovation, but the normalcy of it, and the sense of acceptance he felt, were a balm to his soul.

Crossing the breezeway, he could see Catherine through the screen door. She was angled away from him, arms akimbo, shoulders taut. As he approached, he heard her expel a frustrated breath before setting a jar on the counter.

He tapped on the door. “Looks like round one went to the jar.”

She twisted toward him and gave a rueful shrug. “Try round three. I think I’m down for the count.”

“Would you like me to give it a try?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“May I?” He gestured to the door. She hadn’t asked him in since the day she’d gotten sick, and though her wary manner was softening, he didn’t want to do anything to make her nervous.

“Sure.”

She picked up the jar and met him halfway across the room, limping a little less than she had on Monday.

“How are the toes today?” He took the jar of spaghetti sauce as he asked the question.

“The swelling has gone down, and they don’t hurt as much. Keeping them elevated helps a lot. But I don’t like sitting around.”

That didn’t surprise him. Catherine struck him as a take-charge, get-it-done kind of woman.

He took a firm grip on the lid, preparing to give it a strong twist. “Well, maybe by next week you…”

His stopped midsentence as the lid came off far more easily than he expected and spaghetti sauce spewed all over the front of his gray T-shirt, dripping onto the floor at his feet.

Catherine gave a little shriek and took a quick step back.

Recovering from his surprise, Nathan set the jar on the counter and sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. I think I’m wearing your dinner. If you have a dish towel, I’ll…”

Behind him, the screen door opened. “Hey, Mom, I heard you yell. What…”

As Nathan swiveled toward Zach, the little boy froze. In the space of a few heartbeats, every ounce of color drained from his face and he began to shake.

Alarmed, Nathan took a step toward him. “Hey, champ, it’s okay.”

The boy jerked back, his breath coming in shallow puffs.

“Oh, God!”

Nathan heard Catherine’s murmured, anguished comment a second before she brushed past him, headed for her son. Wincing as she dropped to one knee in front of him, she pulled him close.

“I’m here, Zach. Hold on to me. It’s okay. Nathan spilled some spaghetti sauce on his T-shirt. That’s all. It’s just spaghetti sauce. I guess we’ll have to eat something else for dinner, huh? How does pizza sound? Would you like that?”

No response. The little boy continued to shake, his eyes glazed.

Nathan had no idea what was going on. Why was Zach so upset?

But that question could wait. At the moment, he was more interested in comforting a traumatized little boy and his frantic mother.

Stripping off the stained T-shirt that had apparently caused Zach’s distress, he used it to wipe up the spaghetti sauce on the floor, then tossed it into the sink before joining the duo huddled near the screen door.

“What can I do to help, Mrs. Walker?”

She shook her head, still clinging to her son. “Nothing. I just need to calm him down before he hyperventilates.” She backed off a bit to examine the boy’s face. “Zach, honey, it’s okay. Everybody’s fine.” She stroked his hair, his cheeks, his hands as she spoke. “Nathan’s not hurt. He’s right here.”

Nathan dropped to their level, balancing on the balls of his feet. Following his instincts, he cocooned one of Zach’s hands in his, his stomach contracting at the child’s obvious terror. He could feel Catherine quivering beside him as well, fighting her own panic. “Hey, champ, did you finish putting away all the tools?” He kept his voice gentle, soothing—the way he wished an understanding adult would have talked him through his own childhood traumas.

No response.