Christmas on Mimosa Lane (A Seasons of the Heart Novel) Page 3

  “I seem to be the only one of the two of us your daughter will talk to.” Blue eyes sparked with frustration that rivaled his own. “And whether I like the situation any more than you do, it’s something we’d both better deal with. Or the next time Polly slips away from your oblivious ass, she might just be gone for good.”

  Mallory sucked in air so fast she hiccupped. Her lapse of professionalism was appalling. Not to mention her breach of basic courtesy.

  Long ago she’d accepted that ruthless honesty was how she’d become who and what she wanted to be. You’re strong enough to make anything happen, her grams had always said, no matter how difficult Mallory made their last years together. Even learning to trust people again. You just keep on bein’ strong, and you’ll figure the rest out eventually.

  Mallory never meant to be cruel to others, even while helping them face their own harsh truths. But one of her many flaws was that she didn’t know how to back down when she was challenged. And on the rare occasions when someone who made her feel as off balance as Pete Lombard pushed too hard, she came out swinging.

  She was an unflappable ace at what she did best. Personal relationships, unfortunately, fell far short of that top spot.

  It had been forever since she’d allowed anyone but her grams close enough to see her lose control. There’d been a few going-nowhere dates in high school and college, one long-term relationship since that had fizzled painfully, and some less-than-successful attempts along the way at meaningful friendships with women. Preserving emotional distance at all costs was another survival instinct she’d mastered too early and too well. Which made allowing someone beneath the surface a losing proposition from the get-go.

  So how had this man already tunneled deep enough to bring out the worst in her?

  She knew nothing beyond the obvious about his problems, regardless of how much Polly reminded Mallory of another little girl who’d been trapped in a totally different set of circumstances, who’d longed for security and a new life and a world light-years from the one holding her hostage. In Polly’s silence and acting out, Mallory saw the runaway still lurking within herself. But that didn’t make Pete the irresponsible parent Mallory’s mother had been. She had no right to berate him or suggest that she could better parent anyone’s child.

  “I’m a good father,” he bit out evenly. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help my daughter survive what’s going to be the worst Christmas of her life. I don’t need any damn help. Certainly not from you.”

  The absolute certainty of the statement lost its impact when he closed his eyes. He jammed his fists into the front pockets of his sweatshirt. UGA, it read, above the image of the university’s mascot, a bulldog. Fitting. His reserve, even when he was angry, hinted at a steely will that would push tenaciously through any obstacle until he’d reached his goal.

  He tilted his head back. He whispered an expletive so softly it became a prayer.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’re only trying to help. But you have no idea what Polly’s dealing with.”

  “You’re right.” She should leave it at that. She should retire to a neutral corner and silently watch these people slip back out of her life. Yet, for Polly’s sake, how could she? “But I do know a lost soul when I find one standing beneath my Christmas tree.”

  She’d bet money that this capable, controlled man had never before the death of his wife had even a cursory experience with the kind of emotional turmoil ripping at his child.

  His stormy gaze took her measure and found her lacking. “You shouldn’t be insinuating yourself into our problems.”

  “Right again.” Mallory stared down both him and the cowardly impulse to excuse herself to her bedroom while he collected his daughter and left. “Someone like me shouldn’t be butting into a family matter. But I’m Polly’s health care provider at school, and she’s in my office several times a day. Every day since August. She seems almost desperate to get away from her class and friends and teacher. And short of locking her in her room when she’s at home, you can’t keep her away from me here either.”

  “You heard her. It’s that damn tree of yours. She’s obsessed with it. It’s all she talks about when she bothers to say anything to me at all.”

  “Then why haven’t you put up one of your own?”

  “Because she said she didn’t want one. That’s the one thing she’s adamant about. No Christmas this year. Not at our house.”

  Mallory absorbed the pain in his words, finding hope in his reluctant honesty. Her heart melted even more.

  “I’ve tried to discourage her from visiting me,” she said, “as gently and as firmly as I could. But she needs something, Mr. Lombard. And she seems to think she’ll find whatever that is—”

  “Here?” His bewilderment came as no surprise.

  She followed his gaze around her nearly empty house, picturing how it must appear to someone who knew only this part of her. Still, she was proud of what she’d created, a reality where she felt safe, if not included. She was once more a social misfit. But in Chandlerville she could revel in watching the beautiful world beyond her windows without resorting to the dead bolts and blackout curtains she’d once needed to feel safe. Add that to the sounds of laughing children and happy families filtering through her solitary evenings like sweet music on continuous replay—plus the Christmas she was going to celebrate like a lunatic this year—and she was in heaven.

  So what if her failed attempts to be neighborly had ended in odd looks and awkward moments? So what if she never figured out how to blend into this kind of normal? She could handle that if she had to. She’d handled far worse for most of her childhood.

  And as far as her decor was concerned, she was rarely there and had more important things to spend her money on than furniture and decorations she’d never use. There was no one to impress with how she did or didn’t indulge herself, so what did it matter what the inside of her house looked like? Except Pete and Polly had barreled headlong into her privacy, and they likely couldn’t fathom a world where white fences and clusters of picture-perfect homes didn’t dot the landscape to the cotton candy horizon.

  Pete was a fireman, a local EMT hero. ALS was the term someone at school had used to describe his job, because he was certified in “advanced life support.” He was one of the good guys. Like she’d snarked when she’d called him, he was Prince Charming. He kept the world safe for everyone, especially the magical princesses in his life.

  Her colleagues at school had filled in the blanks about the Lombard family when it became clear that Polly would be a daily part of Mallory’s clinic work. How Pete had lost his wife to a fast-growing brain tumor no one could do anything about. His happily ever after had crashed and burned, leaving him and Polly grasping for the enchanted life their tragedy had ripped away. He was fast becoming as much of a misfit as Mallory, and he had no idea how to deal with it.

  Which must make cataloging her faults a welcome distraction. Something she supposed she could deal with for one night, as long as it meant moving him and his daughter along and back out her door.

  “Were you at least awake when Polly came in?” he finally asked. “Did she maybe see you and then come inside to talk?”

  “I was asleep.” Mallory got why he needed to believe that tonight was somehow her doing. “On a school night I’m in bed before eleven.”

  He inhaled slowly. “She walked into a house she’d never been in before and woke you up while you were in bed?”

  “I heard her rustling around in here.”

  “I thought you weren’t awake.”

  “I’m a light sleeper. But if I weren’t, yes, she might have made her way into my bedroom, in the dark, before I knew she was there. I don’t think she would have, though. I found her hiding in the corner by the tree.”

  He rubbed his forehead. His hand was shaking. “Lord, what if she’d gotten farther away or stumbled into someone else’s home? Someone I don’t know?”

  “You’re mi
ssing the point. Polly coming to me wasn’t about my house being next to yours. Like I said, I think your daughter’s looking for something.”

  “And you’re that something?”

  Mallory’s professional training wavered beneath a rising flood of compassion. Desperation was rolling of this man at the thought of not being able to fix his child. The empathetic part of her longed to give him the blanket reassurances he wanted. After years of experience working with families in crisis, she knew better.

  “I’m not responsible for Polly getting better,” she said. “I don’t know her, but I care about her. So whatever her something is, it’s okay with me, even in the middle of the night.”

  “And I’m not okay with what my daughter needs? It’s all I think about.”

  “I understand. Really, I do. You’re her father, and your job is to make things better for her. At night that means making sure she sleeps. But you just told her that if she came to you, you’d put her back to bed and read some more. Because it’s not okay for a child her age to be up this late.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I agree.” It was sad and unhealthy how Polly’s issues were escalating. “But since I’m not her parent, I don’t have to fix that problem—at least not in Polly’s mind. No problem, no conflict. No conflict, and it starts to seem like an escape to hang at my place instead of yours when the shadows feel too close and she needs to get away from them. And maybe it’s easier to enjoy my Christmas when her holiday feels terrible this year.”

  “Or maybe you never bother to turn your garish tree off, and little girls like sparkly things. You indulge her at school, so why wouldn’t she assume you’re a ready-made excuse at home to keep pulling away from everyone who loves her? Me, her grandparents, her friends and neighbors, and her teachers at Chandler. You need to stop encouraging this attachment she’s built to you. She can’t keep avoiding me and everything else that used to make her happy, just because I’m the one who has to set limits. I don’t have the luxury of filling Polly with sugary cereal or ignoring the way food like that and staying up this late exacerbate how fragile she’s become since losing her mother.” He crossed his arms, muscles bulging beneath age-worn cotton, reminding her that EMTs had to remain physically certified to work just like the rest of the fire department’s rescue professionals. “Please consider how much harm you’re doing the next time you’re tempted to indulge her.”

  “As soon as I discovered she was here, I walked her to the kitchen and made her a snack she couldn’t refuse. I watched her relax into a happy kid for a few minutes while we waited for you. The conflict sleeping has become between you two went away for a while. No permanent harm done, even if I violated her pediatrician’s dietary guidelines. Polly might even sleep better with something pasty and soothing in her system. Is that what you consider indulging her? Limits are important, but so is listening to what she’s trying to tell you she needs.”

  His belligerence crumbled beneath exhaustion and resignation. It was an ugly personal moment, and they both hated that she was there to see it. Lost. In that moment, the guy looked positively lost.

  “I can’t get her to eat anything,” he said. “She cries whenever I try to make holiday plans. Thanksgiving was a nightmare. She spent most of it in her room here, when we were supposed to be away with family all weekend. She doesn’t want to be anywhere else but our place, but she hates being anywhere that reminds her of my wife, too.”

  Mallory nodded. “Her teacher says she’s agitated with things that used to make her happy. That it’s getting worse the closer we get to Christmas. Polly comes to see me halfway through lunch every day with a stomachache. Ms. Caldwell invariably tells me she hasn’t eaten a bite in the cafeteria, so she doesn’t understand what could be causing it. Then I call you, and she’s upset when you take her home.”

  “She’s hungry. That’s what’s causing it.” He raked a hand through sleep-rumpled hair. “She’s losing more weight. She’s starving, and she won’t eat.”

  “I’ve started bringing her a cheese sandwich each day,” Mallory confessed, another of her secrets revealed. “She eats it in my office just fine.”

  “You what?” The man was simmering again, edging toward full boil. “Lady, you have no right to do something like that without my permission.”

  “You signed a medical release her first day of school, to allow the staff to stay informed about how she’s doing physically. I cleared her school diet with her doctor, and I follow up regularly in case something’s changed. I’m not giving Polly anything that would make her sick.”

  “That’s not the point. She’s not eating when she gets home.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Because you’re feeding her crap at school.”

  “You don’t really believe that.” Her respect was growing for the frazzled but deeply caring parent she was beginning to believe he was. She suddenly wanted very much for that confidence not to be misplaced. “Whole-milk cheese and five-grain bread isn’t crap, Mr. Lombard. Not when I suspect it’s the only real meal she’s getting that day. And once she starts eating she practically swallows her food whole. As you say, she’s starving.”

  He had trouble swallowing himself, as if something awful were wadded in his mouth, clogging his throat. She could almost hear what she now suspected was a highly analytical mind processing everything she’d said and reevaluating his options.

  “Why…you?” he asked, the question husky and halting. “Why does she feel safe enough to eat with you, talk with you, enjoy your Christmas…?”

  Why her? Why would any child turn to a stranger to make things better when her family would give anything to be that healing place for her?

  “It’s not me, Mr. Lombard. I’m not a rival for your daughter’s affection.”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you called me Pete?”

  The animosity behind his repeated request to do just that was gone. Something between them was shifting. Slowly. Resentfully. Like the revolving seasons that took a ridiculously long time to come to this part of the country, but eventually found their way. He didn’t seem to appreciate the inevitability of this moment any more than she did, but they were clearly united over their concern for Polly.

  She nodded her head in agreement and said, “Call me Mallory.”

  “If it’s not about you, Mallory, then what? She won’t eat for anyone else. She’s firmly refused to have Christmas this year, except she’s been obsessed with your tree since you put it up. Don’t think I enjoy asking you for insight into my daughter’s psyche, but…nothing else seems to be working.”

  “I think I’m not a part of the life the two of you lost when your wife died,” she said. “I suspect my ridiculous tree might be a safe alternative for Polly this year because it’s not part of your family’s holiday memories. I’m Switzerland in your daughter’s world, and as a nurse I think I represent healing and someone who can make something inside her feel better. All in all it’s good that she’s reaching out, even if it’s to me. It’s taken six months, but she wants to get better, Pete. I truly believe that, no matter how hard she’s making this for you.”

  Mallory heard herself rambling and stopped. And waited. Could he trust someone to help him, the way Polly was starting to? She braced for his continued resistance. She accepted how badly she wanted him to walk away, because clearly she couldn’t.

  “What else do you recommend?” he asked, the question reasonable and controlled, impressing the hell out of her. Most parents would do just about anything to avoid admitting they didn’t have all the answers where their kids were concerned. “Beyond feeding her food I don’t approve of and letting her flit in and out of your life whenever she pleases while you put no demands on her whatsoever to snap out of this.”

  “This is depression.” Mallory wanted to reach for him. His arm. His hand. She wanted badly to comfort and soothe, and she couldn’t. She absolutely couldn’t. Not this man. Not this close, dark, unpredictable night. “Poll
y is grieving and losing herself in it and fighting depression she might very well have to deal with the rest of her life. Childhood trauma can do that, and there’s no amount of snapping out of it that will permanently repair the place in her heart where one moment she had a mother and the next she didn’t.”

  Tears were in Mallory’s eyes, her words hitting too close to home. All while her neighbor was leaning away the way she longed to, his open expression closing down, becoming brittle, emotionless.

  “You talk like a shrink.” The rigid set of his jaw spoke volumes about his opinion of formal therapy.

  “A credentialed social worker,” she clarified. At least she had been. “My degree and certification are in a box around here somewhere if you’d like to look at them. My concentration’s in early childhood development, with an emphasis on grief recovery and crisis care.”

  “All that so you could be a school nurse in Pleasantville?”

  His pop culture description of their community was so unexpected and dead-on she laughed. She slapped her hand over her mouth, grinning behind it and charmed by his crooked half smile in response.

  “No,” she admitted. “Nursing school was always in the cards, but it came after.”

  “After what?”

  She paused, then made herself give him the truth, as much of it as he needed to trust her with Polly.

  “After I realized that while I want to help every child who has nowhere else to turn, it’s not something I can do successfully day in and day out. Not without it damaging me too deeply to be useful to anyone.”

  A thoughtful, vertical wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. “So you’ve settled for becoming a fairy godmother for kids like Polly who just happen to find you? Where did you come from, lady?”

  His unexpected insight and quick mind, the easy banter they’d stumbled into, reined in Mallory’s meandering thoughts. Of all her neighbors, it was crazy that Pete Lombard was the person she felt most comfortable talking with.

  She’d like to see Polly happier and more stable. But she’d shared far more than she’d intended to with anyone in Chandlerville. And becoming too attached to the Lombards’ situation would be trampling on the same kind of personal boundary that had ended her formal career in social work. She had a habit of overidentifying with pet cases. That was another mistake she’d promised herself never to make again.