Frisco's Kid

Startled, Mia looked up from her garden. She’d seen this woman walk in—a battered, worn-out-looking blonde on crutches, awkwardly carrying a suitcase, followed by a very little, very frightened red-haired girl.

Mia followed the weeping woman’s gaze and saw Lieutenant Francisco painfully making his way down the stairs. Wow, he looked awful. His skin had a grayish cast, and he was squinting as if the brilliant blue California sky and bright sunshine were the devil’s evil doing. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his face made him look as if he’d just been rolled from a park bench. His T-shirt looked clean, but his shorts were the same ones he’d had on last night. Clearly he’d slept in them.

He’d obviously had “another” drink last night, and quite probably more than that afterward.

Fabulous. Mia forced her attention back to the flowers she was weeding. She had been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Lt. Alan Francisco was not the kind of man she even wanted to have for a friend. He was rude and unhappy and quite possibly dangerous. And now she knew that he drank way too much, too.

No, she was going to ignore condo 2C from now on. She would pretend that the owner was still out of town.

The blond woman dropped her crutches and wrapped her arms around Francisco’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying, “I’m sorry.”

The SEAL led the blonde to the bench directly across from Mia’s garden plot. His voice carried clearly across the courtyard—she couldn’t help but overhear, even though she tried desperately to mind her own business.

“Start at the beginning,” he said, holding the woman’s hands. “Sharon, tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

“I totaled my car,” the blonde—Sharon—said, and began to cry again.

“When?” Francisco asked patiently.

“Day before yesterday.”

“That was when you broke your foot?”

She nodded. Yes.

“Was anyone else hurt?”

Her voice shook. “The other driver is still in the hospital. If he dies, I’ll be up on charges of vehicular manslaughter.”

Francisco swore. “Shar, if he dies, he’ll be dead. That’s a little bit worse than where you’ll be, don’t you think?”

Blond head bowed, Sharon nodded.

“You were DUI.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded again. DUI—driving under the influence. Driving drunk.

A shadow fell across her flowers, and Mia looked up to see the little red-haired girl standing beside her.

“Hi,” Mia said.

The girl was around five. Kindergarten age. She had amazing strawberry blond hair that curled in a wild mass around her round face. Her face was covered with freckles, and her eyes were the same pure shade of dark blue as Alan Francisco’s.

This had to be his daughter. Mia’s gaze traveled back to the blonde. That meant Sharon was his…wife? Ex-wife? Girlfriend?

It didn’t matter. What did she care if Alan Francisco had a dozen wives?

The red-haired girl spoke. “I have a garden at home. Back in the old country.”

“Which old country is that?” Mia asked with a smile. Kindergarten-age children were so wonderful.

“Russia,” the little girl said, all seriousness. “My real father is a Russian prince.”

Her real father, hmm? Mia couldn’t blame the little girl for making up a fictional family. With a mother up on DUI charges, and a father who was only a step or two behind…Mia could see the benefits of having a pretend world to escape to, filled with palaces and princes and beautiful gardens.

“Do you want to help me weed?” Mia asked.

The little girl glanced over at her mother.

“The bottom line is that I have no more options,” Sharon was tearfully telling Alan Francisco. “If I voluntarily enter the detox program, I’ll win points with the judge who tries my case. But I need to find someplace for Natasha to stay.”

“No way,” the Navy lieutenant said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. There’s no way in hell I can take her.”

“Alan, please, you’ve got to help me out here!”

His voice got louder. “What do I know about taking care of a kid?”

“She’s quiet,” Sharon pleaded. “She won’t get in the way.”

“I don’t want her.” Francisco had lowered his voice, but it still carried clearly over to Mia. And to the little girl—to Natasha.

Mia’s heart broke for the child. What an awful thing to overhear: Her own father didn’t want her.

“I’m a teacher,” Mia said to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t hear the rest of her parents’ tense conversation. “I teach older children—high school kids.”

Natasha nodded, her face a picture of concentration as she imitated Mia and gently pulled weeds from the soft earth of the garden.

“I’m supposed to go into detox in an hour,” Sharon said. “If you don’t take her, she’ll be a ward of the state—she’ll be put into foster care, Alan.”

“There’s a man who works for my father the prince,” Natasha told Mia, as if she, too, were trying desperately not to listen to the other conversation, “who only plants flowers. That’s all he does all day. Red flowers like these. And yellow flowers.”

On the other side of the courtyard, Mia could hear Alan Francisco cursing. His voice was low, and she couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was clear he was calling upon his full sailor’s salty vocabulary. He wasn’t angry at Sharon—his words weren’t directed at her, but rather at the cloudless California sky above them.

“My very favorites are the blue flowers,” Mia told Natasha. “They’re called morning glories. You have to wake up very early in the morning to see them. They close up tightly during the day.”

Natasha nodded, still so seriously. “Because the bright sun gives them a headache.”

“Natasha!”

The little girl looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Mia looked up, too—directly into Alan Francisco’s dark blue eyes. She quickly lowered her gaze, afraid he’d correctly read the accusations she knew were there. How could he ignore his own child? What kind of man could admit that he didn’t want his daughter around?

“You’re going to be staying here, with Alan, for a while,” Sharon said, smiling tremulously at her daughter.

He’d given in. The former special operations lieutenant had given in. Mia didn’t know whether to be glad for the little girl, or concerned. This child needed more than this man could give her. Mia risked another look up, and found his disturbingly blue eyes still watching her.

“Won’t that be fun?” Sharon hopefully asked Natasha.

The little girl considered the question thoughtfully. “No,” she finally said.

Alan Francisco laughed. Mia hadn’t thought him capable, but he actually smiled and snorted with laughter, covering it quickly with a cough. When he looked up again, he wasn’t smiling, but she could swear she saw amusement in his eyes.