CHAPTER TWO
Rhys steeled himself as the headlights cut a slice of brightness through the gap in the wine-colored velvet drapes. It seemed like hours that he’d paced back and forth across the den, compulsively checking the sweeping driveway, where a row of young maples stretched spindly branches to the darkening February sky. Finally, she was here—the elusive Andie Tilly, who’d refused to take the job without first vetting her prospective employer.
Andie. For a name that had turned his whole world upside down in an instant, it was surprisingly lightweight. Who was she, this person who held the key to his son’s inner world? He imagined a frumpy preschool-teacher type. Cheerful, uncomplicated, spouting an endless stream of indulgent baby talk.
The nonsense words that had once come so easily to Rhys, pulled from him by the magnetic charm of his smiling infant son, had dried up as the months ticked by and one developmental milestone after another fell by the wayside. It wasn’t that he loved his beautiful boy any less. In fact, it was in the darkest moments that his love for Will burned the most acutely. But somewhere along the way, Rhys himself, exhausted, had subsided into a wordlessness that paralleled that of his child.
When Will first uttered the name, the significance had been lost on Rhys. “An-dee.” It was just a random pairing of syllables. But Will repeated the word with apparent intent. “An-dee.” As he produced the sounds, he brandished a small blue squeeze ball. Rhys’s first thought was to wonder whether there was a child named Andy in Will’s preschool. Perhaps they’d played with the ball together.
The formidable Mrs. Hodge cracked the mystery when Will, enunciating the word with increasing vehemence, grasped her wrist and pulled her to the door, clutching the ball in his other hand. Andie was the young woman who worked with Will and had given him the ball, the nanny confirmed. The occupational therapist. She uttered the job title with suspicion, as if occupational therapy were some occult art.
Rhys remembered the barrage of voice mails and e-mails from the earnest therapist. Andie. He’d blocked both her name and her dogged determination from his mind. Those had been difficult days, when an official diagnosis loomed like a line in the sand. Now he stood on the far side of that line. And this time, instead of threatening darkness, Andie’s name—on Will’s lips—brought the promise of light.
One thing was certain: he would bring her into his household for as long as it took to help his son. His entire body hummed with urgency. He thanked heaven he’d heard about the layoffs at Metrowest before she’d disappeared for good.
Rhys paced into the foyer. Where were they? He stalked across the gleaming expanse of marble and flung the front door open. And there, almost nose to nose with him, stood a figure on the threshold, poised to knock.
He took in the flash of emphatic hazel eyes, and the perfect symmetry of dramatic winged brows set against pale, fine-grained skin. Her face was delicate, heart shaped, and framed by a lush cascade of dark hair. The reality of this woman was so different from the image he’d conjured that it felt like an ambush. She was striking. Beautiful, by anyone’s definition.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She took a step back and offered her hand. “You must be Mr. Griffiths. I’m Andie Tilly.”
“Yes, I suppose you are.” Rhys realized the words were inappropriate as soon as they passed his lips, but there was no biting them back. It was a dilemma he often faced when meeting new people. Overcome by the barrage of sensory input in those first few moments, he could become unmoored and lose his way in conversation.
With Andie Tilly, the problem was magnified tenfold. His gaze skated over her soft pink mouth—full but unsmiling—and the elegant stem of her neck. Eyes. Lips. Skin. Throat. Each feature vied for his focus, like the scattered pieces of a puzzle he had yet to solve.
Too late, he noticed that he’d grasped her hand and neglected to let it go. He gave himself a swift mental kick and released his grip. Sometimes it seemed his entire history with the opposite sex was nothing more than a series of pratfalls brought on by a kind of interpersonal dyslexia. Time and time again, he’d failed to read the cues.
Now, for Will’s sake, he’d given up trying. He could no longer risk the damage. It was a good thing this woman was only here for a job.
She was stalled on the doorstep, waiting for an invitation, so he waved her inside. Well padded in a bulky winter jacket, she slipped by him and into the foyer with an elegant economy of movement. A frigid blast of New England air followed her in, but the chill dissolved in a warm ripple of sensation where her sleeve brushed his chest.
Shrugging her jacket into his waiting hands, she stood there in hip-skimming jeans and a simple T-shirt, exuding a fresh, lemony scent and an unassuming grace.
“Where’s Tom?” he asked, groping for a conversational anchor.
She shot him a searching look. Her eyes were mesmerizing, their shape as cleanly etched as an Egyptian hieroglyph. Against the flawless backdrop of her skin, they sent potent signals. Anxiety. And something more profound.
“He’s in the car, taking a call. He said I should come in. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all,” he said, working to collect himself. “I was expecting you, of course.”
He guided her through the glittering, formal foyer, careful to maintain a pleasantly neutral expression. But as he ushered her into the den, his focus unintentionally riveted to the subtle swing of her denim-clad hips, he was forced to acknowledge that he was indeed disturbed. More disturbed than he cared to admit. Not least by his toddler son’s staggeringly good taste in women.
“I confess I was curious to meet you,” Andie said as he showed her to the cluster of leather club chairs grouped by the fireplace. “Your son really made an impression on me.”
“The feeling seems to be mutual.” He gestured for her to take a seat. “Which makes me even more curious to get to know you.”
She gave an uncomfortable smile, polite but locked down, her gaze skittering away as she settled herself into the leather upholstery.
Rhys was too restless to claim a seat for himself. “Tell me how you did it,” he prompted. “How you got through to him.”
“There’s no secret to it,” she demurred. “I interacted with Will the same way I would with any client. It’s just—”
“Yes?” Rhys pressed.
She dipped her gaze and drew a deep breath.
“This might sound strange,” she confided, “but I understand kids like Will. I know what it’s like not to feel at home in your own skin. To experience the world as an unforgiving place. Not in the exact same way they do, of course. But I get it, and I want to help. Maybe he could sense that.”
Rhys stilled, his pulse pounding at his temples.
“That doesn’t sound strange at all,” he said, his voice raw. He cleared his throat. “But I have to admit I’m pretty ignorant about what you occupational therapists actually do. Will strikes me as a little young to have an occupation.”
“Don’t worry.” Andie’s posture loosened a fraction as the flicker of a smile played across her lips. “Occupational therapy isn’t about putting Will to work.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I was a little worried about finding a business suit for him that would work with the diaper.”
He enjoyed her look of shy surprise and the creamy flash of her throat as she laughed. Her eyes were a liquid swirl of gold, green, and brown.
“That’s a common misconception,” she said. “What OTs mean by ‘occupation’ is really any kind of fulfilling, purposeful activity. For young children, it means exploring through play, managing their sensory responses without melting down, and learning to perform the simplest tasks of daily living.”
“Such small steps.” Rhys’s smile crumpled as he thought about the long road ahead. The familiar sadness loomed, settling like a boulder on his chest.
“That may be, but they’re important steps. It’s about building a foundation so Will can go on to face bigger challenges.”
Rhys nodded mutely. He would never give up on the essential things he wanted for Will’s future. Family, love, and intimacy, most of all—the enduring sources of happiness and human connection this disorder was trying to steal from his son. Rhys had forgone those things for himself long before his ex-wife, Karina, left, but he would never stop fighting to secure them for Will. Because, at the heart of it, wasn’t it the essence of parenthood to want more for your child than you claimed for yourself?
The desolation in Rhys’s eyes pierced her, and Andie averted her gaze, surveying the opulent room. The den was more like a traditional gentlemen’s club than a domestic living space, with its rich colors, heavy beams, intricate mahogany moldings, and antique carpets. For someone used to apartment-scale living and assemble-it-yourself furniture, the overall impression was as disorienting as being dunked in a cut crystal decanter of expensive scotch. Rhys’s accent—upper-crust British but with a subtle, rhythmic lilt—only added to the effect.
She watched him pace before the fireplace like a big cat in a small cage. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a presence so vivid that the air was charged with it, but his sculpted features were softened by a look that was more hobo chic than captain of industry. His black hair, so sleek and cropped in the Forbes photos, was longer and had been raked into a haphazard tousle. The ragged hems of a pair of old jeans trailed down over bronzed insteps and toes. Andie forced herself to wrench her gaze away from the curious intimacy of those broad, bare feet padding across the Persian rug.
“You’ll help us?” His tone told her he was simply looking for confirmation. It wasn’t truly a question but more of an incantation. How could she refuse, when she was their lifeline—their link to a world beyond the walls of Will’s diagnosis?
Andie felt her resistance slipping. Did he have to use those eyes on her? She’d never seen anything like them—the way they caught the light and turned to blue haze. Even Will’s eyes weren’t tinted with quite the same wood-smoke hue. A curious sensation expanded in her chest, a mingling of empathy, fascination, and a nameless impulse that made her want to reach across the room and fold him in her arms.
But it was impossible, the idea of living under the same roof as this man and his son. Accepting their trust when she knew, in the deepest corners of her soul, that she wasn’t worthy of it. If Rhys Griffiths really knew her—knew her flaws and her failings—he wouldn’t even be making this offer.
She drew a long breath, quivering with regret on the exhale. “I’m honored that you sought me out, and I couldn’t be happier Will has started to speak,” she said, choosing her words delicately. “But I’m afraid I can’t take the job.”
She tried to keep her head aloft as the betrayal and incomprehension began to register on Rhys’s face, but the pressure was too great, and she found herself staring at her clasped hands.
“You won’t help us.” The incriminating words hung in the air. Rhys came to an abrupt halt mere feet away. She could almost hear something inside him disintegrating as he reached to steady himself against the fireplace mantel, his breathing ragged.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You won’t help us,” he repeated, half-dazed.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Andie whispered. “It was a mistake.” Shame suffused her. Tears pricking at her eyes, she launched herself out of her chair, striding blindly for the door.
Her progress was arrested by the hot band of his fingers around her wrist, and the reversal of momentum sent her stumbling off balance toward the stern pillar of his body. She collided with him, her hand coming up to reclaim an inch of space between her torso and the powerful wall of his chest. For untold seconds they stood locked in place, his hand still imprisoning hers.
His shock too raw to be pacified, he forced her to see him as he was, laying his emotions bare. She took in the full impact of his distraught eyes, shallow breath, pounding heartbeat, and barely contained power. A strange detonation resonated deep within her. How on earth am I going to get out of here intact?
She wasn’t, she realized. A part of her had already sheared off, like the immense wall of a calving glacier, and had floated off in solidarity with Rhys Griffiths, oblivious to the safeguards she’d spent her entire life erecting.
The den door burst open, and Tom, fresh off his phone call, barged into the room.
“Oh,” he mouthed. “I’m sorry . . . er, I think I hear my godson in the kitchen. I’m going to go and say hello.” He hightailed it with such comical speed, slamming the door in his haste, that the tension broke, and Rhys and Andie collapsed side by side into adjoining club chairs.
“I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry.” Rhys looked in confusion at the hand that had grasped hers.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“Do you?” he asked intently. “Because I want you to understand.” He shifted, allowing his head to drop back against the burnished leather. “Can you imagine what it has been like for me to wait almost three years for my son’s first word? Three years of holding him, coaxing him, teaching him, loving him.”
“No,” she replied. “I can’t imagine.”
“Usually a child’s first word is ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ The person they love and depend on most in the world. But Will’s first word was ‘Andie.’ And yet you refuse to help us.”
“I can’t . . .” There was no way to make him understand.
“Why not? If I increased your salary, perhaps?”
“It isn’t about the money,” Andie protested. “If I could help Will, I would do it.”
Then what is it about? The unspoken question hovered between them.
“Three months,” Rhys proposed, his voice imbued with deliberate calm, like a trainer approaching a terrified prey animal. “All I ask is three months of your time.”
Just three months. Could she manage that? She sat immobilized by the weight of his stare as opposing impulses warred for the upper hand. Could she face her demons? Could she trust herself to function here as a professional, the way she had at Metrowest? She wanted to, she realized with a jolt that took her breath away. She wanted to very badly.
“At least let me show you where you would be staying,” Rhys volunteered. “You’d be right next door to Mrs. Hodge, the nanny, in your own wing on the second floor.”
She shook herself back to reality. “No, I really must go.” She rose, heading back into the foyer, where the facets of an enormous crystal chandelier cast prisms of light in every direction.
She noticed a small pair of Thomas the Tank Engine rain boots sitting neatly beside the front door. Her heart squeezed painfully. Gus’s rain boots were barely bigger than those on the last day he wore them. She felt the blood drain from her face. Then came the warm pressure of Rhys’s hand at her elbow.
“Are you okay?” he asked gently.
She nodded but froze as the sound of squawks and giggles filtered in from a nearby room, along with Tom’s good-humored murmur. It sounded like the voices were heading their way.
“Maybe I’ll see the room, after all,” she conceded, panic constricting her chest. She couldn’t let Will see her—not when she’d resolved to turn down the job. It would be wrong to appear before him, an apparition from another world, and then vanish. Besides, the sight of his shiny baby cheeks, each carved with a dimple, just might be her undoing.
Rhys raised questioning brows but led the way up the sweeping staircase. They crested the rise to the second floor as Will, Tom, and the nanny emerged into the foyer and headed for the stairs. The crescendo of voices echoed up from below.
“It’s bathtime for you, young man,” the nanny said, over Will’s strenuous objections.
“Don’t worry, Will,” Tom soothed. “If you’re good for Mrs. Hodge, I’ll read you a bedtime story before I go.”
Andie regarded Rhys, his eyes shadowed with the solemn responsibility of doing right by his son. The desire to help them was like an inexorable tide in the pit of her stomach.
She gazed at the dark corridor that beckoned to her right. If she hurried, she could beat a rapid retreat and avoid being seen by the small group. Was she going to take the coward’s way out? From her vantage point, she could see the dark crown of Will’s head bobbing as he took the stairs one at a time. His hands were like small pink starfish, clasped by Mrs. Hodge on one side and Tom on the other.
A familiar sense of vertigo kicked in. She was standing at the brink of a precipice, not just a staircase. In Will’s sturdy form she saw echoes of Gus. And there were those dimples. Seeing them, she knew. I can’t run away. I can’t leave him.
She steadied herself with one hand on the balustrade, composing her features into a smile and willing her legs to hold up their end of the bargain. The group reached the landing, and all three turned their faces to the apex of the staircase. Suddenly, a squeal burst from the pint-size toddler, followed by a cascade of babble: a jubilant parade of vowels and consonants, each sound pregnant with delight. One pair of syllables stood out from the rest, forming a word infused with wonder. “An-dee!”
Instantly, Andie was in motion, striding down the stairs. She swooped down to Will and bundled him into a fervent hug.
“Hello, Will,” she laughed, breathless at her own audacity. “It looks like I’ll be staying awhile.”