Deanna Talcott - Marrying For A Mom

If you looked at Whitney when she didn’t know you were watching, she carried the most vulnerable quality in her eyes. Like she’d been hurt. Deeply hurt. Like she was aching to trust, but she was scared at the same time, too.

He was beginning to understand that feeling.

Three days ago, in her shop, it occurred to him he could lose himself in her eyes. Without glasses, her irises were ginger-dark, and speckled with flecks of delft and daffodil. Striking, gorgeous eyes. But now, he severely reminded himself, with the juggling act he was doing, he couldn’t afford to even think about them, let alone be distracted by them.

Whitney flipped through the last manufacturer’s catalog, pausing to compare one of their featured bears to the open book on her counter. Then she checked it against the picture Logan had taken from his wallet and left with her. It wasn’t the same. Not even close.

She ran a fingernail along the dog-eared corners of the photo, wondering how many times Logan’s fingers had traced these same edges. She couldn’t get him out of her head. His wholesome, tanned appearance nagged at her—like he made khakis and a sport shirt a dress uniform. Eyes so blue, so insightful and clear, that it made her wonder if a few drops of the Atlantic tinted his gaze. The quizzical lift of his mouth that made him look so kissable.

This was awful. It was terrible.

Thinking so much about Logan made her edgy. It made her wish she was someone she wasn’t. It made her reconsider the past, and think about the differences that had kept them apart, and made him unattainable. His money, and her lack of it. His country club membership, and her job bagging groceries and pushing carts at the supermarket. His Camaro and her school bus pass.

How many times had she thought about what he’d said about the prom? Ten? Twenty? She’d stretched the truth on that one. She hadn’t gone to the prom because her mom promised to send money for the ticket but decided, on a whim, to fly to Bangkok instead. There was great airfare to Bangkok, her mom had written later—a once in a lifetime opportunity. Just like the prom. And Logan had come looking for a dance—just one—and she wasn’t even there.

She was thirty-two years old, for heaven’s sake. Why was she dwelling on this stuff? Pushing the aggravating memories from her head, Whitney severely reminded herself that she had a life outside the incidents that happened years ago. She was happy and content with all she’d achieved. She knew full well that once she found the bear, her connection to Logan would be severed. He’d go on with his life; she’d go on with hers.

Her only purpose, she told herself firmly, was to find that bear—and that was proving to be difficult. She’d browsed the Internet until four, and still hadn’t come up with any leads. The crazy thing was, the bear wasn’t even anything out of the ordinary.

Yet, to Amanda, she knew it was priceless and unique. If the child needed something to carry her into the next phase of her life, Whitney could guarantee a teddy bear would do it.

After all, Whitney knew firsthand about losing things. When her mom took off for the last time, the landlord cleaned out their apartment and put everything in the trash. Nothing had been salvaged, and her childhood had been snuffed out in a Dumpster. Whitney had had nightmares for months afterward, knowing her beloved stuffed animals, her dolls, her drawings and books, had been thrown away. Gram had understood her pain, and gone without her arthritis medicine for a whole month so she could buy Whitney a special teddy bear to cuddle and love. That was one of the reasons she’d started this store, kind of like a living memorial to her gram.

Reaching for the phone, Whitney punched in the number, suddenly and inexplicably annoyed with this elusive teddy bear. She’d find this thing, one way or another.

“Monroe Realty,” the receptionist intoned.

“Logan Monroe, please.”

The receptionist hesitated before issuing her automatic response. “Mr. Monroe is in a meeting right now, may I take a message?”

“My name is Whitney Bloom, from Teddy Bear Heaven. I have some information he requested. I’ll be available until five, and the number is—”

“Oh, Miss Bloom. Just a minute. I think he’d like to take this call. In fact, I know he would. I’ll put you right through.”

Whitney couldn’t beat back her surprise; obviously the receptionist had had her instructions. The pause was momentary.

“Whitney. Hello.” Logan’s voice was just as mellow, just as resonant as she remembered. Fatigue melted away, and she warmed, remembering how he’d looked, framed by her showroom of teddy bears. He’d purchased three coloring books, markers, a barrette and a pricey dresser set before he’d left, claiming he wanted to make her time worthwhile. “Look, I was just stepping out, but I’m glad you caught me.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve probably got a house to show. I only wanted to tell you there’s no good news on this end. I’m beginning to call this the ‘unbearable teddy bear chase.”’ She heard him chuckle.

“You didn’t find it.”

“No. But I do have a couple of photos of promotional bears you might want to look at. They’re definitely not the same, but—” she fingered the flyers, lifting them for another cursory glance “—under the circumstances, they may be close enough.”

“Well…I’m sort of tied up till later this afternoon.”

Disappointment welled in Whitney. What did she expect, she chided herself? That he was going to run right over? A man couldn’t sell eight million dollars of real estate a year and not have a few commitments. “I’ll just put this information aside for you,” she said. “Whenever it’s convenient. Or,” she offered, “I could drop it in the mail.”

“No, listen, I was thinking about stopping by your place anyway. Amanda’s ballet lesson is in forty minutes, and the studio’s less than two blocks from your place. You could meet me there and save me some time.”

“You’re taking her?” Disbelief tainted Whitney’s reply.

“Why not?”

“But…but…”Whitney glanced at the clock, thinking of all the resort property in the area hungering for a Sold sign from Monroe Realty. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I know. I intentionally schedule appointments around ballet. It doesn’t hurt to close up shop for a couple of hours one afternoon a week. You should try it. Knocking off for a few hours in the middle of the day is good for the soul.”

Would knocking off in the middle of the day to be with Logan, for even a few fleeting minutes, ease this longing in her soul? “And you want me to try it? To meet you there, and shirk my duties?”

“Absolutely. It’s a Thursday. A nice warm day, in the middle of May—” he rhymed, giving her a moment to consider “—I say…it’s time for all good shopkeepers to come out and play.”

“Cute.” That old familiar tap dance started playing through her veins.

“C’mon, Whitney. Join us. We didn’t have enough time to talk the other night. Meet Amanda. Judge for yourself, and see why this is so important to me. My life is on hold until this is settled.” The invitation was tempting; it might be one of her few chances to spend time with Logan and get to know his daughter. “You’ll fall in love with her, Whitney,” he predicted.

She didn’t need that. No more falling in love with anyone in the Monroe household. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “The UPS guy sometimes comes on Thursday.”

She thought she heard him snicker, and immediately felt like a role model for one of the dumb “blonde” jokes that were circulating. Maybe it had been a mistake to color her hair.

“You ever been to a ballet class, Whitney?”

“No.” Her reply was tinged with a certain amount of regret.

She had wanted to take dance lessons—like Carla Simpson, who had pranced around on her toe shoes during the fourth-grade play—but there had never been enough money when she lived with her mom, and then, later, Gram said spending money on that was just plain foolish. It wasn’t like she was going to be a ballerina or anything. As it turned out, she had done something better with her life anyway, because every time she saw a toddler walk away hugging one of her teddies her heart melted.

“It’s an experience,” he said. “One you’d have to see to appreciate.”

“I’d imagine,” she said dryly.

“It’s only forty-five minutes for the lesson,” he wheedled. “But it’s about two hours worth of fun.”

Whitney gazed indecisively at the Closed sign; it wouldn’t take that much to turn it over. She wasn’t planning to do anything but stock shelves anyway, and they were a good month away from the tourist season. “I could…probably…meet you there. For a few minutes,” she qualified, trying not to sound too eager.

“Terrific. Miss Timlin begins promptly at three-fifteen. If you aren’t there in time for stretching and warm-ups, I’ll save you a seat.”

It was the craziest thing. In her mind’s eye she saw him grinning, and it made her feel warm all over.

Miss Timlin’s School of Dance was an institution in Melville. Parents sent their daughters to Miss Timlin’s for more than ballet or tap or jazz. They sent them because it was the proper thing to do. Young ladies who went through all twelve years of Miss Timlin’s carried themselves with a distinguishable grace. They possessed a presence that made their movements smooth, their voices confident and their smiles benign. It was no surprise to Whitney that Logan chose that for his daughter.

The foyer of Miss Timlin’s smelled of old wood and lemon oil. The interior of the great hall was cool, and the mahogany banister curving up to the second-story studio was polished to a satin finish. Whitney looked up, over her head. The antique chandelier, suspended from a tin ceiling, hung from a single tarnished chain. It swayed from the staccatoed thump of little feet on the floor above.

A receptionist greeted Whitney, indicating the session had already started, but that she was welcome to observe, provided she found a seat in the back. Quietly, the woman admonished.

Whitney turned to the steps, trying to imagine how Logan felt once a week, as he put his hand to the banister and climbed the magnificent old staircase. She gingerly put her palm across the top of the newel post, then tested the first stair tread. It groaned beneath her weight, like an old woman wearied from raising too many children.

Whitney took the stairs slowly, amazed that Logan had been within blocks of her for months—and yet their paths had never crossed.

At the top, Whitney paused on the landing and peered into the first open doorway. The studio, 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.