Dad In Blue. Shelley Cooper
She stood aside. “Would you like to come in…Carlo? And please, call me Samantha.”
He stepped into a small foyer, the walls of which were lined with framed photographs. While Samantha collected his coat and hung it in a closet, Carlo rubbed his hands together to restore their warmth and allowed his gaze to rove over the gallery. Some of the pictures were very old, a few appearing to have been taken more than a century earlier; others had been shot more recently.
One in particular caught his eye. In it, Samantha smiled her radiant smile at the camera. Her arms were wrapped around a small boy who wasn’t more than three or four, and her chin rested lovingly atop his head. The openness of that smile, and the look of supreme contentment and quiet joy in her clear, brown eyes, held him riveted.
Suddenly, he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave. Not only did he want to stick around, but he wanted to see her smile that way again. Worse, he wanted that smile to be for him only. He wanted to take away the cares and worries weighing so heavily upon the pair of shoulders that appeared too delicate to bear them.
And he really was losing it, if a mere picture could affect him so deeply.
The click of the latch on the closet door signaled that Samantha had finished hanging up his coat. Tearing his gaze away from the photograph, he turned to face her.
The picture’s impact didn’t even come close to how she affected him in the flesh.
“Why’d you grow a beard?” she surprised him by asking.
His hand automatically went to the growth covering his cheeks. Since the day he’d handed in his request for a leave of absence, he hadn’t shaved or gone to the barber. In that short period of time, he’d managed to cultivate a fairly respectable beard, and for the first time in years his hair now brushed the collar of his shirt.
The question was, how had Samantha known that his beard was a recent addition?
“I saw your picture in the newspaper,” she added, as if reading his mind.
“Oh.”
What had she thought when she’d seen it? Had she wished it were her husband, alive and well, receiving the award instead of him? If he were in her shoes, he knew that was what he would have wished.
“I decided I needed a change of pace,” he said.
“It suits you.”
“Thank you.” He felt oddly pleased.
“Jeffrey’s in the den,” she said. “I’ve prepared him for your visit. I want to warn you, though, that he probably won’t respond very…well, positively to your presence. At least at first. Don’t let it discourage you. Would you like to follow me?”
The house was neat and comfortably furnished. Samantha led him past a living room, through a brightly decorated kitchen and into a room that was obviously the den. A fire crackled in the brick fireplace, the sound and smell of burning wood both welcoming and comforting.
Deliberately forcing his awareness of his hostess to the back of his mind, Carlo turned his attention to the child sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Jeffrey Underwood wore blue jeans and a Steel City Wrestling Alliance sweatshirt. His head was bent, his gaze focused on the coffee table. There was a stillness about him that Carlo had never seen before in an eight-year-old. He seemed small for his age, and like his mother, way too thin. He was also unnaturally quiet.
“Jeffrey,” Samantha said gently. “Remember how we talked about finding you a buddy to do things with?”
The boy nodded without raising his head.
“Well, he’s here. I think you’re going to like him very much.”
Samantha gestured to Carlo, and he crossed to the sofa, where he took a seat next to the child. Though the boy didn’t move, Carlo could sense him mentally shrinking from the contact.
“Hi, Jeffrey,” he said. “I’m Carlo.”
The boy refused to look at him.
“Jeffrey,” Samantha prompted.
“Hello,” the child said in a flat voice.
“Carlo worked with your father,” Samantha offered. “He’s Bridgeton’s police chief.”
Jeffrey raised his head, and Carlo saw a flash of emotion in the child’s eyes. That was a good sign, at least. It meant he wasn’t totally withdrawn.
“My dad’s dead,” Jeffrey announced baldly. “He’s never coming home. And I don’t want a buddy.”
“Jeffrey!” To Carlo, Samantha added, “I’m sorry. He’s not usually so rude.”
In Samantha Underwood’s eyes, Carlo saw the pain she fought so hard to hide. And a worry that tugged at his heart.
“No need to apologize,” he said lightly, although his conviction that he wasn’t the person who could help this child had grown. Samantha might believe him capable of working miracles, but Carlo knew better. From the looks of him, Jeffrey was going to fight him all the way.
“Jeffrey’s just being honest about his feelings,” he continued. “I, for one, always appreciate honesty. I’m hoping, though, that once he gets to know me, he’ll change his mind about wanting a buddy.”
Jeffrey’s response was to pick up a toy car from the top of the coffee table. Making revving noises, he began running it across the smooth wood surface. Though he didn’t say the words, they vibrated on the air nevertheless. Fat chance.
Despite the fact that Carlo was fairly certain the battle had already been lost, he wasn’t ready to raise the white flag just yet. He owed Samantha, and her son, that much. Hoping to capture the boy’s attention, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pocketknife and a small piece of white pine.
“Do you know how to whittle? My grandfather taught me when I was about your age. It looks hard, but it’s really very easy, once you get the hang of it.”
Though Jeffrey seemed focused on the car that was now making circles on the floor, Carlo could swear the boy was watching him out of the corner of one eye. Encouraged, he glanced over at Samantha.
“Do you have something I could use to catch the wood chips?”
She handed him a magazine, which he opened on his lap. In a matter of minutes, the knife moving deftly in his hands, Carlo had fashioned a man’s head. He offered it to Jeffrey, who held it for a few seconds before giving it back.
“Would you like to learn to whittle?” Carlo asked.
Jeffrey gave an indifferent shrug.
A sudden thought occurred to him. “If you’d like, I could buy you a pocketknife of your very own—that is, if it’s okay with your mother.”
The boy shrugged again. “Maybe.”
Jeffrey uttered the word in the tone kids used to indulge their elders when they found the subject under discussion too boring for words, but didn’t want to hurt any feelings. Carlo wasn’t fooled; he’d seen the interest that had flashed in Jeffrey’s eyes. It had been brief, lasting only the fraction of a second, but it had definitely been there. After all, what eight-year-old boy could resist the lure of a pocketknife? When Carlo had been eight, weapons of any shape or size, even sticks and stones, had been endlessly fascinating.
Elated at his tiny victory, and thinking that maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all, Carlo looked up at Samantha for permission. “Is it okay if I buy Jeffrey a pocketknife?”
The gratitude in her eyes took his breath away. That the emotion was for him was enough to render Carlo speechless. It also made the blood race through his veins and obliterated all rational thought as he stared at her and tried to remember what question he had asked.
She was the first to look away, her fingers plucking at a nonexistent piece