A Family For Christmas. Tara Taylor Quinn
at the Stand.
Julie had penned—and drawn—the stories, but until Joy’s announcement, only the child and a few others had known that the twenty-nine-year-old philanthropist was also a successful author.
Until Julie worked with Joy, the little girl hadn’t spoken a word after she’d been brought to The Lemonade Stand. Julie, through Amy, the character in her books, had connected with the child enough for her to tell them that she’d witnessed her father beating her aunt and mother. That her mother had told her aunt to take Joy and run, and that the aunt had hidden with the child behind an old dog pen. From there, Joy had seen her father haul her mother away by her hair.
The aunt, Mary Amos, had then run with Joy to the neighbors for help, after which the woman had been rushed to the hospital where she’d later died.
Joy spoke to those caring for her at The Lemonade Stand now. She spoke to Julie and to Hunter, Edward’s nephew, fairly regularly, too. Spoke when spoken to. Or to make requests. But other than when she was at Edward’s and crying out for others, she never spoke to Edward.
“I ordered a burger and fries, and she ate every bite,” he said in the reserved way he had, taking his time.
Lila could see how strangers might see Edward as somewhat cold. And had no idea why she was so certain that a solid core of warmth ran deeply through him.
“That’s good, Edward.” Lila’s job was to help this family help the child, she reminded herself as she leaned forward, too, needing the widower to know he wasn’t alone. “If she wasn’t somewhat comfortable with you, she wouldn’t have a healthy appetite.”
“I took her to the toy store. I told her she could have anything she wanted.”
“Did she pick something?”
He shook his head again. “We walked every aisle.”
“That must have taken a long time.”
His grin made her heart leap. Because she needed so badly for this family to find healing. “Two hours,” he told her. “She touched a lot of things, studied some, but each time I asked her if she wanted it, she shook her head.”
“We don’t know what kind of conditioning she’s had,” Lila quickly pointed out, not wanting to let go of that smile. “Oftentimes, after an abuser has hurt his victim, he overcompensates by buying things.”
Edward nodded. “I know. I’ve read everything you’ve given me since Cara first went missing weeks ago. I just... I’ve never so much as frowned at Joy, so I didn’t think...surely children of abusers have others in their lives who buy them things just because they care about them.”
“Most do, of course. But until you win Joy’s trust, you aren’t, in her mind, in the category of those who care about her.”
He knew what they were dealing with. He, like everyone else caring for Joy, was in counseling with Sara Edwin, one of the Stand’s full-time counselors.
“When we got back here, I read to her. She sat next to me and watched as I turned the pages.”
“Amy books?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Lila nodded.
“I couldn’t bring myself to leave her.”
“Did she seem distressed, having you there?”
“No.”
“Then this is progress.”
His gaze was direct this time. “I know. But I fear that I’m being selfish, as well. If I’m staying because I can’t bear leaving, is it her I’m putting first, or myself?”
“The fact that you’re asking the question is your answer. You can’t help loving her, needing to be with her. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be good for her. Joy needs to know that there is someone who adores her, who will be there for her, no matter what. Someone who belongs to her. If you were forcing your presence on her when she showed signs of distress, that might be different.”
His smile was larger this time. Filled with the warmth that he didn’t often show—at least, not in the time she’d known him. She smiled back. It just came naturally.
And was something she did with others, too. So why did her heart suddenly feel such an acute stab of guilt? She was crossing a line that could not be crossed. Ever. With anyone. Anywhere.
“Have dinner with me.” His question intensified her guilt.
“I can’t.” She blurted the words. Completely unlike herself. Stared at him, afraid of what he might see within her.
“But I’ve got some wine and cheese in my suite here,” she said, effecting as much of her usual calm as she could muster. “I’m...staying here tonight...” she said—the truth, but she wasn’t staying because she had to. Only because she’d been planning to use the evening to catch up on the paperwork she’d just shoved aside on her desk.
“The wine—it can be tea, if you’d prefer—and I’ve got what’s left of a platter of meats and cheeses from a function earlier today. I’d been planning to indulge myself with it in lieu of dinner.”
She’d just invited a man to visit with her in her suite. What in the hell was happening to her?
Her suite at the Stand. Where she was always on call when she was in residence. And was often called. As opposed to alone with him, like a date, out...in the world. Where it was possible they could end up either at his hotel or her condo. Wasn’t going to happen, but the possibility made her more uncomfortable than wine and cheese at the Stand.
Okay...she had things more under control than she’d first thought.
“I’d like that very much.” Edward’s warm glance—not quite a smile, but bordering on personal—sent her into a tizzy all over again. As much as Lila ever got in a tizzy.
“Please, don’t misunderstand. I am not issuing an invi...”
His hand on hers cut her off. “I understand, Lila.” He looked her directly in the eye as he said the words. “I’d like to tell you about court this morning, if I may, and we both need sustenance. I would greatly enjoy a glass of wine to take the edge off a dreadful day, and will in no way compromise the friendship you’ve shown me by making more of it than it is.”
Her heart dropped. Jumped up and...just that, up and down, over and over, pounding in her chest. His words took her air, and brought it back in a whoosh. Ridiculous.
Unprovoked.
He considered her a friend.
And she wasn’t in danger of breaking her promise to herself.
The promise to never, ever, let anyone get close enough that he or she could be hurt.
Lila would rather be dead than be a danger to another living soul again.
Prospector, Nevada
HIS PATIENT ASKED if he minded if she went to bed to read as soon as the dinner dishes were done on Friday. Boxed macaroni and cheese with hotdogs and peas were his offering that night. He’d prepared it all. She’d eaten everything on her plate. And cleared and wiped the table while he’d washed up.
If he were planning to keep the cabin—to ever visit it again once his eye was better—he’d put in a dishwasher. Telling her he thought it was a good idea that she lie down, though it was still early in the evening, he watched her walk away. The woman bothered him.
He knew she was hurting. The way she held her book...turned pages...when she’d wiped off the table...her left wrist was bothering her. And her neck or shoulder was, too.
She was tired, but