“Chicken pox.” Spence said the two words again. He stood in the doorway and watched his little girl sleep. “It’s a hell of a birthday present, sweetie.”
In two days his daughter would be six, and by then, according to the doctor, she’d be covered with the itchy rash that was now confined to her belly and chest.
It was going around, the pediatrician had said. It would run its course. Easy for him to say, Spence thought. It wasn’t his daughter whose eyes were teary. It wasn’t his baby with a hundred-and-one-degree temperature.
She’d never been sick before, Spence realized as he rubbed his tired eyes. Oh, the sniffles now and again, but nothing a little TLC and baby aspirin hadn’t put right. He dragged a hand through his hair; Freddie moaned in her sleep and tried to find a cool spot on her pillow.
The call from Nina hadn’t helped. He’d had to come down hard to prevent her from catching the shuttle and arriving on his doorstep. That hadn’t stopped her telling him that Freddie had undoubtedly caught chicken pox because she was attending public school. That was nonsense, of course, but when he looked at his little girl, tossing in her bed, her face flushed with fever, the guilt was almost unbearable.
Logic told him that chicken pox was a normal part of childhood. His heart told him that he should be able to find a way to make it go away.
For the first time he realized how much he wanted someone beside him. Not to take things over, not to smooth over the downside of parenting. Just to be there. To understand what it felt like when your child was sick or hurt or unhappy. Someone to talk to in the middle of the night, when worries or pleasures kept you awake.
When he thought of that someone, he thought only of Natasha.
A big leap, he reminded himself and walked back to the bedside. One he wasn’t sure he could make again and land on both feet.
He cooled Freddie’s forehead with the damp cloth Vera had brought in. Her eyes opened.
“Daddy.”
“Yes, funny face. I’m right here.”
Her lower lip trembled. “I’m thirsty.”
“I’ll go get you a cold drink.”
Sick or not, she knew how to maneuver. “Can I have Kool Aid?”
He pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Sure. What kind?”
“The blue kind.”
“The blue kind.” He kissed her again. “I’ll be right back.” He was halfway down the stairs when the phone rang simultaneously with a knock on the door. “Damn it. Vera, get the phone, will you?” Out of patience, he yanked open the front door.
The smile Natasha had practiced all evening faded. “I’m sorry. I’ve come at a bad time.”
“Yeah.” But he reached out to pull her inside. “Hang on a minute. Vera—oh good,” he added when he saw the housekeeper hovering. “Freddie wants some Kool Aid, the blue kind.”
“I will make it.” Vera folded her hands in front of her apron. “Mrs. Barklay is on the phone.”
“Tell her—” Spence broke off, swearing as Vera’s mouth pruned. She didn’t like to tell Nina anything. “All right, I’ll get it.”
“I should go,” Natasha put in, feeling foolish. “I only came by because you weren’t at class tonight, and I wondered if you were well.”
“It’s Freddie.” Spence glanced at the phone and wondered if he could strangle his sister over it. “She has the chicken pox.”
“Oh. Poor thing.” She had to smother the automatic urge to go up and look in on the child herself. Not your child, Natasha reminded herself. Not your place. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“I’m sorry. Things are a little confused.”
“Don’t be. I hope she’s well soon. Let me know if I can do anything.”
At that moment Freddie called for her father in a voice that was half sniffle and half croak.
It was Spence’s quick helpless glance up the stairs that had Natasha ignoring what she thought was her better judgment. “Would you like me to go up for a minute? I could sit with her until you have things under control again.”
“No. Yes.” Spence blew out a long breath. If he didn’t deal with Nina now, she’d only call back. “I’d appreciate it.” Reaching the end of his rope, he yanked up the phone receiver. “Nina.”
Natasha followed the glow of the night-light into Freddie’s room. She found her sitting up in bed, surrounded by dolls. Two big tears were sliding down her cheeks. “I want my daddy,” she said obviously miserable.
“He’ll be right here.” Her heart lost, Natasha sat down on the bed and drew Freddie into her arms.
“I don’t feel good.”
“I know. Here, blow your nose.”
Freddie complied, then settled her head on Natasha’s breast. She sighed, finding it pleasantly different from her father’s hard chest or Vera’s cushy one. “I went to the doctor and got medicine, so I can’t go to my Brownie meeting tomorrow.”
“There’ll be other meetings, as soon as the medicine makes you well.”
“I have chicken pox,” Freddie announced, torn between discomfort and pride. “And I’m hot and itchy.”
“It’s a silly thing, the chicken pox,” Natasha said soothingly. She tucked Freddie’s tousled hair behind one ear. “I don’t think chickens get it at all.”
Freddie’s lips turned up, just a little. “JoBeth had it last week, and so did Mikey. Now I can’t have a birthday party.”
“You’ll have a party later, when everyone’s well again.”
“That’s what Daddy said.” A fresh tear trailed down her cheek. “It’s not the same.”
“No, but sometimes not the same is even better.”
Curious, Freddie watched the light glint off the gold hoop in Natasha’s ear. “How?”
“It gives you more time to think about how much fun you’ll have. Would you like to rock?”
“I’m too big to rock.”
“I’m not.” Wrapping Freddie in a blanket, Natasha carried her to the white wicker rocker. She cleared it of stuffed animals, then tucked one particularly worn rabbit in Freddie’s arms. “When I was a little girl and I was sick, my mother would always rock me in this big, squeaky chair we had by the window. She would sing me songs. No matter how bad I felt, when she rocked me I felt better.”
“My mother didn’t rock me.” Freddie’s head was aching, and she wanted badly to pop a comforting thumb into her mouth. She knew she was too old for that. “She didn’t like me.”
“That’s not true.” Natasha instinctively tightened her arms around the child. “I’m sure she loved you very much.”
“She wanted my daddy to send me away.”
At a loss, Natasha lowered her cheek to the top of Freddie’s head. What could she say now? Freddie’s words had been too matter-of-fact to dismiss as a fantasy. “People sometimes say things they don’t mean, and that they regret very much. Did your daddy send you away?”
“No.”
“There, you see?”
“Do you like me?”
“Of course I do.” She rocked gently, to and fro. “I like you very much.”
The movement, the soft female scent and voice lulled Freddie. “Why don’t you have a little girl?”
The pain was there, deep and dull. Natasha closed her eyes against it. “Perhaps one day I will.”
Freddie tangled her fingers in Natasha’s hair, comforted. “Will you sing, like your mother did?”
“Yes. And you try to sleep.”
“Don’t go.”
“No, I’ll stay awhile.”
Spence watched them from the doorway. In the shadowed light they looked achingly beautiful, the tiny, flaxen-haired child in the arms of the dark, golden-skinned woman. The rocker whispered as it moved back and forth while Natasha sang some old Ukrainian folk song from her own childhood.
It moved him as completely, as uniquely as holding the woman in his own arms had moved him. And yet so differently, so quietly that he wanted to stand just as he was, watching through the night.
Natasha looked up and saw him. He looked so frazzled that she had to smile.
“She’s sleeping now.”
If his legs were weak, he hoped it was because he’d climbed up and down the stairs countless times in the last twenty-four hours. Giving in to them, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
He studied his daughter’s flushed face, nestled peacefully in the crook of Natasha’s arm. “It’s supposed to get worse before it gets better.”
“Yes, it does.” She stroked a hand down Freddie’s hair. “We all had it when we were children. Amazingly, we all survived.”
He blew out a long breath. “I guess I’m being an idiot.”
“No, you’re very sweet.” She watched him as she continued to rock, wondering how difficult it had been for him to raise a baby without a mother’s love. Difficult enough, she decided, that he deserved credit for seeing that his daughter was happy, secure and unafraid to love. She smiled again.
“Whenever one of us was sick as children, and still today, my father would badger the doctor, then he would go to church to light candles. After that he would say this old gypsy chant he’d learned from his grandmother. It’s covering all the bases.”
“So far I’ve badgered the doctor.” Spence managed a smile of his own. “You wouldn’t happen to remember that chant?”
“I’ll say it for you.” Carefully she rose, lifting Freddie in her arms. “Should I lay her down?”
“Thanks.” Together they tucked in the blankets. “I mean it.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked over the sleeping child, and though her smile was easy, she was beginning to feel awkward. “I should go. Parents of sick children need their rest.”
“At least I can offer you a drink.” He held up the glass. “How about some Kool Aid? It’s the blue kind.”
“I think I’ll pass.” She moved around the bed toward the door. “When the fever breaks, she’ll be bored. Then you’ll really have your work cut out for you.”
“How about some pointers?” He took Natasha’s hand as they started down the steps.
“Crayons. New ones. The best is usually the simplest.”
“How is it someone like you doesn’t have a horde of children of her own?” He didn’t have to feel her stiffen to know he’d said the wrong thing. He could see the sorrow come and go in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No need.” Recovered, she picked up her coat from where she’d laid it on the newel post. “I’d like to come and see Freddie again, if it’s all right.”
He took her coat and set it down again. “If you won’t take the blue stuff, how about some tea? I could use the company.”
“All right.”
“I’ll just—” He turned and nearly collided with Vera.
“I will fix the tea,” she said after a last look at Natasha.
“Your housekeeper thinks I have designs on you.”
“I hope you won’t disappoint her,” Spence said as he led Natasha into the music room.
“I’m afraid I must disappoint both of you.” Then she laughed and wandered to the piano. “But you should be very busy. All the young women in college talk about Dr. Kimball.” She tucked her tongue into her cheek. “You’re a hunk, Spence. Popular opinion is equally divided between you and the captain of the football team.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. But it’s fun to embarrass you.” She sat and ran her fingers over the keys. “Do you compose here?”
“I did once.”
“It’s wrong of you not to write.” She played a series of chords. “Art’s more than a privilege. It’s a responsibility.” She searched for the melody, then with a sound of impatience shook her head. “I can’t play. I was too old when I tried to learn.”
He liked the way she looked sitting there, her hair falling over her shoulders, half curtaining her face, her fingers resting lightly on the keys of the piano he had played since childhood.
“If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.”
“I’d rather you write a song.” It was more than impulse, she thought. Tonight he looked as though he needed a friend. She smiled and held out a hand. “Here, with me.”
He glanced up as Vera carried in a tray. “Just set it there, Vera. Thank you.”
“You will want something else?”
He looked back at Natasha. Yes, he would want something else. He wanted it very much. “No. Good night.” He listened to the housekeeper’s shuffling steps. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need to laugh. Come, write a song for me. It doesn’t have to be good.”
He did laugh. “You want me to write a bad song for you?”
“It can be a terrible song. When you play it for Freddie, she’ll hold her ears and giggle.”
“A bad song’s about all I can do these days.” But he was amused enough to sit down beside her. “If I do this, I have to have your solemn oath that it won’t be repeated for any of my students.”
“Cross my heart.”
He began to noodle with the keys, Natasha breaking in now and then to add her inspiration. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been, Spence considered as he ran through some chords. No one would call it brilliant, but it had a certain primitive charm.
“Let me try.” Tossing back her hair, Natasha struggled to repeat the notes.
“Here.” As he sometimes did with his daughter, he put his hands over Natasha’s to guide them. The feeling, he realized, was entirely different. “Relax.” His murmur whispered beside her ear.
She only wished she could. “I hate to do poorly at anything,” she managed. With his palms firmly over her hands, she struggled to concentrate on the music.
“You’re doing fine.” Her hair, soft and fragrant, brushed his cheek.
As they bent over the keys, it didn’t occur to him that he hadn’t played with the piano in years. Oh, he had played—Beethoven, Gershwin, Mozart and Bernstein, but hardly for fun…. It had been much too long since he had sat before the keys for entertainment.
“No, no, an A minor maybe.”
Natasha stubbornly hit a B major again. “I like this better.”
“It throws it off.”
“That’s the point.”
He grinned at her. “Want to collaborate?”
“You do better without me.”
“I don’t think so.” His grin faded; he cupped her face in one hand. “I really don’t think so.”
This wasn’t what she had intended. She had wanted to lighten his mood, to be his friend. She hadn’t wanted to stir these feelings in both of them, feelings they would be wiser to ignore. But they were there, pulsing. No matter how strong her will, she couldn’t deny them. Even the light touch of his fingers on her face made her ache, made her yearn, made her remember.
“The tea’s getting cold.” But she didn’t pull away, didn’t try to stand. When he leaned over to touch his mouth to hers, she only shut her eyes. “This can’t go anywhere,” she murmured.
“It already has.” His hand moved up her back, strong, possessive, in contrast with the light play of his lips. “I think about you all the time, about being with you, touching you. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.” Slowly he ran a hand down her throat, over her shoulder, along her arm until their fingers linked over the piano keys. “It’s like a thirst, Natasha, a constant thirst. And when I’m with you like this, I know it’s the same for you.”
She wanted to deny it, but his mouth was roaming hungrily over her face, taunting hers to tremble with need. And she did need, to be held like this, wanted like this. It had been easy in the past to pretend that being desired wasn’t necessary. No, she hadn’t had to pretend. Until now, until him, it had been true.
Now, suddenly, like a door opening, like a light being switched on, everything had changed. She yearned for him, and her blood swam faster, just knowing he wanted her. Even for a moment, she told herself as her hands clutched at his hair to pull his mouth to hers. Even for this moment.
It was there again, that whirlwind of sensation that erupted the instant they came together. Too fast, too hot, too real to be borne. Too stunning to be resisted.
It was as though he were the first, though he was not. It was as though he were the only one, though that could never be. As she poured herself into the kiss, she wished desperately that her life could begin again in that moment, with him.
There was more than passion here. The emotions that swirled inside her nearly swallowed him. There was desperation, fear and a bottomless generosity that left him dazed. Nothing would ever be simple again. Knowing it, a part of him tried to pull back, to think, to reason. But the taste of her, hot, potent, only drew him closer to the flame.
“Wait.” For the first time she admitted her own weakness and let her head rest against his shoulder. “This is too fast.”
“No.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “It’s taken years already.”
“Spence.” Struggling for balance, she straightened. “I don’t know what to do,” she said slowly, watching him. “It’s important for me to know what to do.”
“I think we can figure it out.” But when he reached for her again, she rose quickly and stepped away.
“This isn’t simple for me.” Unnerved, she pushed back her hair with both hands. “I know it might seem so, because of the way I respond to you. I know that it’s easier for men, less personal somehow.”
He rose very carefully, very deliberately. “Why don’t you explain that?”
“I only mean that I know that men find things like this less difficult to justify.”
“Justify,” he repeated, rocking back on his heels. How could he be angry so quickly, after being so bewitched? “You make this sound like some kind of crime.”
“I don’t always find the right words,” she snapped. “I’m not a college professor. I didn’t speak English until I was eight, couldn’t read it for longer than that.”
He checked his temper as he studied her. Her eyes were dark with something more than anger. She was standing stiffly, head up, but he couldn’t tell if her stand was one of pride or self-defense. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. And everything.” Frustrated, she whirled back into the hallway to snatch up her coat. “I hate feeling stupid—hate being stupid. I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t have come.”
“But you did.” He grabbed her by her shoulders, so that her coat flew out to fall onto the bottom step. “Why did you?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter why.”
He gave her an impatient squeeze. “Why do I feel as if I’m having two conversations at the same time? What’s going on in that head of yours, Natasha?”
“I want you,” she said passionately. “And I don’t want to.”
“You want me.” Before she could jerk away, he pulled her against himself. There was no patience in this kiss, no persuasion. It took and took, until she was certain she could have nothing left to give. “Why does that bother you?” he murmured against her lips.
Unable to resist, she ran her hands over his face, memorizing the shape. “There are reasons.”
“Tell me about them.”
She shook her head, and this time when she pulled back, he released her. “I don’t want my life to change. If something happened between us, yours would not, but mine might. I want to be sure it doesn’t.”
“Does this lead back to that business about men and women thinking differently?”
“Yes.”
That made him wonder who had broken her heart, and he didn’t smile. “You look more intelligent than that. What I feel for you has already changed my life.”
That frightened her, because it made her want to believe it. “Feelings come and go.”
“Yes, they do. Some of them. What if I told you I was falling in love with you?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.” Her voice shook, and she bent to pick up her coat. “And I would be angry with you for saying it.”
Maybe it was best to wait until he could make her believe. “And if I told you that until I met you, I didn’t know I was lonely?”
She lowered her eyes, much more moved by this than she would have been by any words of love. “I would have to think.”
He touched her again, just a hand to her hair. “Do you think everything through?”
Her eyes were eloquent when she looked at him. “Yes.”
“Then think about this. It wasn’t my intention to seduce you—not that I haven’t given that a great deal of thought on my own, but I didn’t see it happening with my daughter sick upstairs.”
“You didn’t seduce me.”
“Now she’s taking potshots at my ego.”
That made her smile. “There was no seduction. That implies planned persuasion. I don’t want to be seduced.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. All the same, I don’t think I want to dissect all this like a Music major with a Beethoven concerto. It ruins the romance in much the same way.”
She smiled again. “I don’t want romance.”
“That’s a pity.” And a lie, he thought, remembering the way she’d looked when he’d given her a rose. “Since chicken pox is going to be keeping me busy for the next week or two, you’ll have some time. Will you come back?”
“To see Freddie.” She shrugged into her coat, then relented. “And to see you.”
She did. What began as just a quick call to bring Freddie a get-well present turned into the better part of an evening, soothing a miserable, rash-ridden child and an exhausted, frantic father. Surprisingly she enjoyed it, and made a habit over the next ten days of dropping in over her lunch break to spell a still-suspicious Vera, or after work to give Spence a much-needed hour of peace and quiet.
As far as romance went, bathing an itchy girl in corn starch left a lot to be desired. Despite it, Natasha found herself only more attracted to Spence and more in love with his daughter.
She watched him do his best to cheer the miserably uncomfortable patient on her birthday, then helped him deal with the pair of kittens that were Freddie’s favored birthday gift. As the rash faded and boredom set in, Natasha pumped up Spence’s rapidly fading imagination with stories of her own.
“Just one more story.”
Natasha smoothed Freddie’s covers under her chin. “That’s what you said three stories ago.”
“You tell good ones.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. It’s past my bedtime.” Natasha lifted a brow at the big red alarm clock. “And yours.”
“The doctor said I could go back to school on Monday. I’m not ’fectious.”
“Infectious,” Natasha corrected. “You’ll be glad to see your friends again.”
“Mostly.” Stalling, Freddie played with the edge of her blanket. “Will you come and see me when I’m not sick?”
“I think I might.” She leaned over to make a grab and came up with a mewing kitten. “And to see Lucy and Desi.”
“And Daddy.”
Cautious, Natasha scratched the kitten’s ears. “Yes, I suppose.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Yes. He’s a very good teacher.”
“He likes you, too.” Freddie didn’t add that she had seen her father kiss Natasha at the foot of her bed just the night before, when they’d thought she was asleep. Watching them had given her a funny feeling in her stomach. But after a minute it had been a good funny feeling. “Will you marry him and come and live with us?”
“Well, is that a proposal?” Natasha managed to smile. “I think it’s nice that you’d want me to, but I’m only friends with your daddy. Like I’m friends with you.”
“If you came to live with us, we’d still be friends.”
The child, Natasha reflected, was as clever as her father. “Won’t we be friends if I live in my own house?”
“I guess.” The pouty lower lip poked out. “But I’d like it better if you lived here, like JoBeth’s mom does. She makes cookies.”
Natasha leaned toward her, nose to nose. “So, you want me for my cookies.”
“I love you.” Freddie threw her arms around Natasha’s neck and clung. “I’d be a good girl if you came.”
Stunned, Natasha hugged the girl tight and rocked. “Oh, baby, I love you, too.”
“So you’ll marry us.”
Put like that, Natasha wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t think getting married right now is the answer for any of us. But I’ll still be your friend, and come visit and tell you stories.”
Freddie gave a long sigh. She knew when an adult was evading, and realized that it would be smart to retreat a step. Particularly when she had already made up her mind. Natasha was exactly what she wanted for a mother. And there was the added bonus that Natasha made her daddy laugh. Freddie decided then and there that her most secret and solemn Christmas wish would be for Natasha to marry her father and bring home a baby sister.
“Promise?” Freddie demanded.
“Cross my heart.” Natasha gave her a kiss on each cheek. “Now you go to sleep. I’ll find your daddy so he can come up and kiss you good-night.”
Freddie closed her eyes, her lips curved with her own secret smile.
Carrying the kitten, Natasha made her way downstairs. She’d put off her monthly books and an inventory to visit tonight. More than a little midnight oil would be burned, she decided, rubbing the kitten against her cheek.
She would have to be careful with Freddie now, and with herself. It was one thing for her to have fallen in love with the youngster, but quite another for the girl to love her enough to want her for a mother. How could she expect a child of six to understand that adults often had problems and fears that made it impossible for them to take the simple route?
The house was quiet, but a light was shining from the music room. She set down the kitten, knowing he would unerringly race to the kitchen.
She found Spence in the music room, spread on the two-cushion sofa so that his legs hung over one end. In sloppy sweats and bare feet he looked very little like the brilliant composer and full professor of music. Nor had he shaved. Natasha was forced to admit that the shadow of stubble only made him more attractive, especially when combined with tousled hair a week or two late for the barber.
He was sleeping deeply, a throw pillow crunched under his head. Natasha knew, because Vera had unbent long enough to tell her that Spence had stayed up throughout two nights during the worst of his daughter’s fever and discomfort.
She was aware, too, that he had juggled his schedule at the college with trips home during the day. More than once during her visits she’d found him up to his ears in paperwork.
Once she had thought him pampered, a man who’d come by his talents and his position almost by birth. Perhaps he had been born with his talent, she thought now, but he worked hard, for himself and for his child. There was nothing she could admire more in a man.
I’m falling in love with him, she admitted. With his smile and his temper, his devotion and his drive. Perhaps, just perhaps they could give something to each other. Cautiously, carefully, with no promises between them.
She wanted to be his lover. She had never wanted such a thing before. With Anthony it had just happened, overwhelming her, sweeping her up and away, then leaving her shattered. It wouldn’t be that way with Spence. Nothing would ever hurt her that deeply again. And with him there was a chance, just a chance of happiness.
Shouldn’t she take it? Moving quietly, she unfolded the throw of soft blue wool that was draped along the back of the couch to spread it over him. It had been a long time since she’d taken a risk. Perhaps the time was here. She bent to brush her lips over his brow. And the man.