Marrying For A Mom. Deanna Talcott
awash in pink and white leotards, warm-ups and floppy hair bows, teemed with discipline. Miss Timlin, sixty if she was a day, with her gaunt face resembling a road map of wrinkles, and her arms and legs as sinewy as chicken bones, stood sternly at the front of the room. She thumped her staff on the hardwood floor.
“Stretch, Melissa! Hannah! You are not to preen in front of the mirror, you are to reflect upon your position before it.” In tights and leotards, Miss Timlin’s paunchy middle and sagging breasts were a mere testament to her resilience.
A gaggle of mothers waited, on hard-backed chairs that had been pushed against the wall. Two held magazines, one a book; none of them scanned the copy. Another woman’s knitting needles copiously clacked together, but her gaze was riveted to what was happening on the dance floor.
Logan was the only man in the room, and he appeared impervious to be outnumbered by the opposite sex; his attention, too, was directed solely to the activity on the floor.
“Excuse me,” Whitney whispered, apologizing to the master knitter as she carefully stepped over a bag of turquoise yarn. She slipped into the chair next to Logan.
His head turned, his eyes rounding into irresistible crescents as he smiled. “Hello,” he mouthed. “Glad you could make it.”
The chairs were so close that Whitney inadvertently leaned against him as she sat, her shoulder brushing his. The flesh beneath his dress shirt was hard, warm…and definitely bothersome to her senses. Whitney tried to look unaffected. “I hope Miss Timlin doesn’t yell at me for making a disturbance,” she whispered, as the aura of his aftershave enveloped them.
“I’ll protect you if she does,” he whispered, sliding an arm to the back of her chair in order to give her more room.
Whitney’s smile was taut, self-conscious. Everyone around them had peeled their eyes off the dance floor, to notice that Logan Monroe had welcomed this newcomer.
Whump, whump. “At the bar, ladies!” Miss Timlin directed, wielding her staff like a shepherdess. “Now, please.”
A dozen ballerinas scampered to claim their place at the mirrored wall. Logan nudged Whitney. “That’s Amanda,” he said. “Second from the left.”
The child, with round blue eyes and fat cheeks, exuded a Shirley Templesque sparkle. She didn’t walk; she pranced. A riot of strawberry-blond curls, bound with a diaphanous pink-and-white scrunchie, and pulled to a curious angle at the top of her head, swung against her nape. She paused long enough to look over her shoulder at her father, then offered up an outrageous wink and an infectious smile.
A chuckle of appreciation rumbled through Logan’s chest. Women on either side of them snickered. “She has my comedic sense of timing,” he whispered.
“She’s darling.”
“She’s a ham. A darling ham. I know it. And I love it.”
Whitney drew a deep, amused breath, and settled back against Logan’s arm, to bask in the enthusiasm of a gregarious six-year-old. Another mind-bending matter also weighed heavily on her mind: What brand of cologne did Logan wear?
The lesson ended much too quickly. When it was over, Amanda went flying into Logan’s arms.
“Daddy! Did you see it? My plié?”
“I did.”
“Much better, don’t you think?”
“Without a doubt.” He cocked his head, to study her floppy ponytail, then awkwardly tried to pat it back into place. “We still didn’t get this hair thing right,” he muttered.
Amanda didn’t seem to care about that, but her expressive mouth drooped. “I wish Mommy would have been here to see it.”
“What?”
“My plié.”
“Oh.” An uncomfortable moment of silence passed, then Logan pulled her into his arms. “I think, Amanda, that she knows,” he said gently. “Mommy loved you so much that she’s never really far from you.” His forefinger tapped her chest. “She’s right here, you know…in your heart.”
Amanda nodded bravely, but her eyes were solemn, sad. Whitney’s heart wrenched.
“Miss Timlin said I might be a swan in the recital,” Amanda announced.
“Really?” Logan pulled back, feigning intrigue.
“If I have another good lesson,” she said, dipping her chin as she scooched, uninvited, onto his lap. “That’s what she said. The swans get to wear feathers in their hair, you know.”
“Ah. Well, either way, feathers or no feathers, I’m proud of you.” He gave Amanda a quick, congratulatory hug. “Amanda, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Amanda leaned forward. Her gaze, neither friendly nor hostile, unabashedly met Whitney’s. “Must be you,” she concluded. “You’re the only new person here.”
“Hi,” Whitney said, extending her hand. “I’m Whitney Bloom.”
Amanda briefly regarded her, then politely dragged her fingers against Whitney’s palm. The greeting was a curious mixture of an infant’s patty-cake and an adolescent’s high-five. “Like the flower?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Whitney stopped, perplexed.
“You know. It’s a saying. Daddy always says we should bloom where we’re planted.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Whitney lifted her eyes, to exchange an amused look with Logan. To her delight, he winked.
“He says it means we have to do our best, no matter where we are or what happens to us.”
“I see. Good advice.”
“You’re lucky to have a name like that,” Amanda went on. “Sometime I’m going to get a name I can keep, that’s what the social worker says. Of course, I wish I had a name like Daddy’s.”
Both Logan and Whitney blanched at Amanda’s unwitting reference to the muddled adoption.
“Do you have a little girl?” Amanda asked unexpectedly.
The question startled Whitney, and she pulled back, half-afraid of disappointing the child. “No,” she said slowly.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to have one?”
“Amanda,” Logan reproved. “That’s kind of a personal question, even for a chatterbox like you. We don’t ask—”
“No, that’s okay,” Whitney said quickly. “I don’t mind. Really.” She paused, wondering how much she could safely reveal. “Someday I’d love to have a little girl. More than anything. But I’m not married and, actually, I’d like to have a daddy for my little girl. I’d want to make sure she was safe, and happy, and loved by her mom and dad.”
“You don’t have a husband?”
An ominous feeling swept over Whitney, making her feel as if she was stepping into something as dangerous as quicksand. “No, not anymore.”
Amanda sat back, and thoughtfully regarded Whitney. “My daddy doesn’t have my mommy anymore, either.”
“I know, and I’m sorry to hear it.”
“She went to heaven,” Amanda matter-of-factly explained. “Where did your husband go?”
Whitney did a stutter-step over her answer. She certainly couldn’t explain to a six-year-old what had led to the breakup of her marriage. For, after Logan caught Kevin skimming money from the petty cash, and threatened to press charges, it had been the last straw for Whitney and her marriage had immediately crumbled. There had never been a blacker, more degrading moment in her life. She suddenly realized how she supported him while he wandered from one job to another, how she’d suffered through his rude behavior and insolence.