For Love Or Money. Tara Taylor Quinn
when, that morning, Janie let him.
* * *
DAWSON’S POTTY-TRAINING UNDERWEAR had leaked during the night. Not only were his sheets soaked but his blanket was, too. Stripping the bed down to the plastic cover that protected the mattress, Janie thought about the shower she’d intended to take while Dawson’s movie kept him occupied.
She’d hoped to wash her hair. Maybe put on a little makeup. Not as much as she’d had on the day before. She wasn’t going on television.
But neither did she want to treat her afternoon guests to the shock of her bare, dull, worried-looking face.
She’d hoped to find something halfway cute to wear.
Instead she’d climbed into the first handy thing—a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt she’d had on the night before to ward off the chill—and used the limited hot water to wash her son’s bedding. Made some of her campaign calls. And felt guilty for bothering people on Sunday morning.
* * *
AT NOON, HAVING watched his movie twice, Dawson left his seat on the carpeted floor, came over to the linoleum, opened the pantry door and pulled peanut butter off the shelf. Bending down, he flipped the latch on the shelf below and took bread out of the box. On tiptoe, he slid both up onto the kitchen counter. Right next to where Janie was sitting at the Formica-topped table.
“Eee,” he said, looking at the ingredients of his sandwich, not at her.
She grinned. Wanting to call Cor and Joe. She’d been certain he was making choices when, the week before, he’d opened the pantry door and brought her a can of tuna. Every day since, whenever they were home, she’d waited as mealtime approached to see if he’d know he was hungry and tell her what he wanted to eat. Dinner the previous night had been SpaghettiOs. Breakfast that morning, frozen waffles he’d pulled from the side-by-side refrigerator that had come with their small rental home.
Just as she was about to get up from the lists of numbers and pre-scripted phone messages she’d been hired to deliver, the four-year-old turned and headed back for the pantry door on his short legs. Inside, he pulled out a can of peaches. Tiptoed up to shove them on the counter. And then crossed his arms and looked at her.
Janie laughed.
He laughed, too. A full-bodied, husky sound that filled her heart to its brim.
“Eee!” he screamed, jumping from foot to foot as quickly as he could and then dropping down to his butt to stare up at her.
“Let’s get you to the potty first,” she told him. And had to hurry to keep up as he ran to the bathroom, yanked a new pair of potty-training underwear from the cupboard and proceeded to take off his sweatpants. He knew what it was all about. Knew the point. Was even, according to his doctor, feeling the sensations.
His muscles just weren’t developed enough yet to give him the control necessary to be able to “hold it” for any length of time.
They’d get there eventually. And until then, potty-training underwear were an easy fix. Easy...and expensive. Insurance didn’t cover them. And neither did Dillon.
* * *
KELSEY WANTED HIM to make her mother’s bourbon pork twice on Sunday. It had turned out great the first time. She’d just wanted him to work a little faster. And to make certain he could prepare it perfectly twice in a row. The first official competition was being taped the following Saturday and his schedule was completely full this coming week.
His first entry was the pork dish. The ingredients would be in his kitchen on set. He couldn’t take in any notes, let alone a written recipe.
Kelsey had her counter filled with notes. Gave him a critique after each session. And never mentioned the little boy they were going to see that afternoon.
The unease that had settled upon him sometime during the night came back to haunt him. He knew his daughter. Knew her heart and soul. Even if he didn’t always understand her thoughts. Even if her emotions weren’t always clear to him these days. He knew her.
Yet...
“Kels?” They were on their way to Janie Young’s house. Her neighborhood was across town from theirs. The houses were smaller. No gated communities with private pools and other amenities.
“Yeah?”
She’d changed from the flannel pants and tank top she’d had on at the house into jeans and a T-shirt with her favorite pony character on it. Her hair was in a ponytail. And her sweetness nearly choked him up.
“Why did you push so hard to spend time with Dawson Young?”
He didn’t want to doubt her. Hated that he was doing so. Felt like total crap. And yet...there was so much he wasn’t getting about her these days. Like, what he could and could not call her. Was this a “squirt” day or a no-“squirt” day?
“I didn’t.”
When he glanced over, hoping her expression would tell him something, all he had was a glimpse of her ponytail. Her face was turned toward her window.
“Yes, you did.” He pulled out the firm tone. If there was any chance she was... Well, he would not be a party to it. Or enable her to be a party to it, either.
He’d drop out of the competition immediately.
There were worse things than watching your child suffer from clinical depression. Like watching her sell her soul, for instance.
She shrugged. “I just wanted to meet him. That’s all.”
“Kelsey...”
“What?”
“Are you...?” He couldn’t even get the words out. His heart told him he was wrong. Emphatically.
But it made sense.
“Am I what?”
She was staring at him now. All wide-eyed. Stopped at a light, he studied her.
“Are you hoping that by becoming friendly with Dawson you can somehow find out the secrets to his mother’s—”
“What!” Her shriek filled the car. And then some. “I can’t believe you’d even think such a thing! Oh, my gosh!”
She sounded like he’d just accused her of murder. He felt as though he had.
They rode in silence for a few blocks. The rift between them deepening, becoming a chasm, a sinkhole he could lose her in...
Reparation was up to him and he panicked as he scrambled for answers.
“For the record, I never felt like you’d do such a thing.”
“Then why ask?” Her accusatory tone reminded him of her mother. Not that he’d tell her that. Ever.
Lil had had her issues, sure, but she’d been a great mother. And a good wife, too. He’d loved her. Truly loved her. He’d never missed her more than he did in that minute.
“Because I don’t understand why, after months of not caring about anything, you suddenly care so much about this kid.” That didn’t come out right. “I get that he’s cute,” he added. Even he’d felt something when the mother and son duo had lit up the television screen on a rather dreary Thanksgiving day. “But he’s not the only cute child we’ve run across in the past year.”
“She’s a single mom trying really hard.”
“She’s not the only single mother we’ve come across, either.”
“He’s special, Daddy. You can tell that just by looking at him...”
He understood that. Somewhat. And liked it a whole lot better than his sabotage theory.
“And the way she looks at him. The way he seems to matter more than even winning a spot on the show...”
He