His First Choice. Tara Quinn Taylor
services, could take his son away from him if they felt the choice was warranted.
Surely Ms. Hamilton wasn’t there with that thought in mind. Levi was his son. His life. No one was going to take better care of the boy than he did.
Or love him like he did.
She had to have some kind of real proof...
Didn’t she?
Ready to grab the woman back, to haul her ass through his house and put her firmly but kindly outside his front door and then lock it behind her, Jem could only stand and watch as she rounded the corner, went through the archway to the kitchen and approached the table.
“Hi, Levi, I heard about you, and your dad said it was okay if I came to meet you.”
He’d heard of a devil in sheep’s clothing. Had quite possibly grown up with one, in the form of his older sister.
And hoped to hell he hadn’t just let one into his son’s world.
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” Levi asked.
Lacey understood, the first second she heard that little voice, what Mara had been telling her about Levi’s precociousness. In a perfectly serious tone, he sounded as self-assured as his father had done. All mixed in with soft r’s and a spaghetti-sauce-smeared face.
It took her two seconds to put that sauce together with the stains on the front of Mr. Bridges’s shirt. Had there been some kind of physical tussle with the boy? Was that how Bridges could be so certain his son wouldn’t move out of his chair?
“I’m Lacey,” she said, taking a seat at the big butcher-block table with the little boy. His father’s place, empty dirty plate with silverware sitting neatly in the middle of it, was within easy reach of Levi. “Lacey Hamilton.”
The boy stared at her. “You have blond hair.”
She said, “Yep,” and smiled. She was good with kids. Always had been. Which was part of the reason she’d chosen to go into social work.
“I have a broken arm,” he said, holding up his cast as he pursed his lips.
He’d been crying. She could see the streaks left by his tears. And had to wonder...
As if just noticing the telltale streak marks himself, Jeremiah appeared from over by the sink. “Let’s get your face wiped up, buddy.” He had a wet paper towel in hand.
“I can do it.” Levi took it from his father, lifted his chin and scrubbed at his face. He then handed the cloth back to his father and held his hand up to him.
Jeremiah wiped each finger. “You through eating?” he asked. The plate in front of the boy was scattered with stray strands of spaghetti, but mostly empty.
“Is that enough bascetti for ice cream?”
“Yep.” The man didn’t miss a beat as he took the cloth, the plate, and moved back to the sink, which was on the boy’s side of the table.
Lacey had to give him points for letting her sit alone at the table with the boy, as though giving his consent to his son to be friendly with her and letting Levi know that she was friend, not threat.
But he’d been crying. Violently enough to leave stains down his face. Mara, who’d known him since he was three months old, who’d been caring for him all day most days ever since, said there’d been a drastic behavioral change in him.
An alarming change...
“How’d you break your arm?” Lacey asked. He’d brought it up, so it made the question natural enough.
The boy looked down. “I fell.” The words were barely discernible in the mumble that came out.
She leaned forward, wishing she could take that little body into her arms, lay his head on her shoulder and promise him that no one would ever hurt him again.
It was a reaction she hadn’t had since her first years on the job. At least not often. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about each and every child who crossed her path. She did. Enough to keep the distance mandatory for her to do her job and make the hard decisions that would keep them safe.
“Fell how?” she asked when Levi’s chin finally lifted off from his chest.
“Did the hospital call you?” Jeremiah Bridges, wiping his hands on a dish towel, came toward the table.
With a glance at the boy, back at him and then back to Levi, she ignored the question.
“How did you fall, Levi?”
“I dunno. I just fell,” Levi said, then looked to his dad. “Can I go play now?”
With a glance in Lacey’s direction, Jeremiah left the decision up to her. She nodded.
The boy was well kept—was obviously used to washing up after meals, too—and well fed, at least that night. And every day, as well, judging by the lean strength in his four-year-old body as Jeremiah turned the chair and assisted as Levi hopped down from his booster seat.
“No video games,” he said as the boy walked slowly toward the archway. “And don’t forget, no Batman or Superman for another day or two.”
“I know...” The boy’s head hung again. But as Levi passed his dad, Jeremiah held his hand up for a high five and Levi gave him one.
Not the actions of a frightened child.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jeremiah asked the boy. And then, with a nod of his head in her direction, he gave the boy a questioning look.
“Oh, yeah,” Levi said and turned to her. “It was nice to meet you, Lacey,” he said. He looked at his dad again. “Did I do it right?”
“Yes, sport, you did it just fine,” Jeremiah said, grinning at Levi. “Now go play for a few minutes.”
The little body was almost at the archway when Levi turned back. “Just until time for ice cream, right?”
“Right.”
Jeremiah’s grin was all for his son, but Lacey caught the tail end of it as he turned back to her. She started to respond before she caught herself.
He was looking at her full on by then. And he’d sobered completely. So had she.
“Tell me about that broken arm.” She kept her tone quiet. She itched for the tablet in her purse. She needed to type about the arm. And when they were done with that, about the cause of those tears.
Kids cried, sometimes daily. Most particularly the little ones. It was a part of life. The testing of boundaries, and the impromptu bursts of emotions that learning right from wrong elicited. Tears were no reason to suspect wrongdoing here.
Still, a vision of those particular streaks on those particular cheeks had burned itself in her mind.
“What’s to tell?” Bridges asked, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him again. “He fell. And if that’s what this is about, if someone is trying to make something out of the fact that a kid fell and broke his arm, I’d suggest they take a look at...well...” He shrugged. “Even I broke my arm when I was a kid. Boys do that. It’s not a crime.”
The way his eyebrows were drawn—as if he was confused, lost—sent a mixed message, combined with the defensiveness of the rest of his posture.
His dark hair wasn’t overly long. Or short, either. He reminded her of a citified cowboy, one who wore work boots instead of cowboy ones. He was a contractor, she knew, and owned his own business, which had rave reviews online: a Better Business Bureau endorsement, and a stellar record with the Registrar of Contractors.
She’d had a busy afternoon.