Chapter One
Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door...
Mallory Phillips woke slowly, floating, with
long–ago Christmases racing through her mind. Images
jumbled together in a flurry of sound and motion that
warned of something ominous, something unwanted, lurking
too close.
She jackknifed until she was sitting in her bed. Her
eyes opened to silence and serene shadows and the lingering
echo of who she'd once been. There was no threat. There was
nothing to fear except for the dreams that consumed too
many of her nights.
She hugged her crimson comforter against the chilly
darkness, then pushed it away in frustration. Fully awake,
she scrubbed at her eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on
how far she'd come and her determination to stay right
where she was until she could feel every bit of the
picturesque world surrounding her. This was her fresh
start. This Christmas on Mimosa Lane was her reboot. She
was finally, completely, moving on.
Yet it still swirled within her, that shadowy connection
to another time, another Mallory, while moonlight dazzled
her, dancing through bay windows that overlooked the
backyard of her cozy ranch–style house. Snuggling
into her pillows she stared at the property that she'd made
hers free and clear three months ago. She hadn't hung
curtains in the house. She'd wanted nothing to obscure her
view from this peaceful place. The back of the home was
almost entirely glass, allowing streams of sparkling light
to wash over her as she tried to relax enough to sleep.
It was the abundance of windows that had first excited
her, then the privacy of the twelve–foot fence
secluding her backyard from the others on her
cul–de–sac. After searching forever for just
the right place, she now owned a piece of the everyday
charm that was Chandlerville, Georgia—a historic town
northeast of Atlanta that she'd moved to before the start
of the school year.
Mimosa Lane was a twisty–turny,
horseshoe–shaped road. Over the years a sprawling
community of more than fifty homes had sprouted along its
wooded splendor. At its center dangled a
cul–de–sac where one side of the lane curled in
sharply, around, and then returned to its twin. The
cul–de–sac's secluded curves and the houses at
its heart seemed to exist on a totally separate road. And
within that bubble of isolated perfection, Mallory had
found her dream house.
Surrounding her property were sedately aging homes and
large lots bursting with trees and manicured landscaping.
Only cul–de–sac residents or their visitors
came this far down the lane. It was easier to reach the
other houses from Scenic Highway, the main street running
through Chandlerville that both ends of the lane eventually
rambled into.
A paradise for young families, Mimosa Lane was the
idealistic solid ground Mallory had craved as a little girl
when her idea of heaven had been a yard she could call her
own, a happy family and friends to play with, and doors and
windows she'd never have to lock. She'd just spent
Thanksgiving weekend feeling soul–deep gratitude for
this chance—especially to her grandmother, who even
after her death had been adamant that one day Mallory would
have her fantasy come true.
So why couldn't she banish the past for good and embrace
this world she'd wanted so desperately?
A rustle reached her from the direction of the living
room.
Her eyes flew open.
That wasn't a restless memory, set free by her mind's
nocturnal wandering. The next odd sound sent her scrambling
from bed, her ears ringing.
She couldn't feel her legs except for their shaking.
After two tries she crammed her feet into fluffy slippers
and wrapped herself in terry cloth. She pressed her back to
the wall beside her open bedroom door, willed her panic
into submission, and ticked off her options. If someone had
broken in, her choices were to confront them in her ancient
Tinker Bell robe or to hide and wait for whomever it was to
either leave or find her.
Instinct, unwise and unstoppable, propelled her into the
hallway. The hell with hiding. She'd be damned if she'd let
anything make her afraid in her own home.
The rattle came again, almost too faint to hear, drawing
her the short distance to her living room where more
windows waited, and more shadows. Plus the
floor–to–ceiling artificial Christmas tree
she'd assembled weeks ago, lit, and loaded with sparkling
ornaments and lights, to the amusement no doubt of every
conservative neighbor up and down the lane. The tree's
flickering illumination revealed nothing to her except the
room's sparse furnishings.
Her heart eased down her throat as she told herself to
remain calm. But there was someone there. A childhood of
self–preservation had armed her with a second sense
she'd never shaken, and her intuition was screaming that
she was no longer alone.
She heard a sniffle and stepped closer to the tree. A
shadow in the corner moved, and only then did Mallory see
her. A tiny, forlorn ghost lurked amidst the sheer panels
that would have been curtains in another house, only
Mallory kept them tied back. She sighed at the child who
kept wandering over to stare through Mallory's windows. The
seven–year–old had ventured inside this time
and was hiding behind Mallory's tree.
"Polly?" She checked the mantel clock. "It's after
midnight, sweetie. What are you doing here?"
What did it say about Mallory that this child was the
first person who'd stepped inside her home since she'd
moved here? No matter how badly she wanted to take part in
the community thriving around her, three months of trying
had proven an experiment gone sometimes comically awry. And
while she attempted to figure things out, she'd managed to
keep the locals at a comfortable distance. All of them
except this wandering child.
Most afternoons since Mallory put up her tree, Polly had
appeared out back. She would just stand there gazing
through the glass Mallory kept sparkling clean—the
sun setting on fire the red highlights in her dark hair. It
was like catching a glimpse of a terrified woodland
creature that was too paralyzed to flee yet too fascinated
to look away. For weeks Polly hadn't ventured closer or
said a word.
Then one evening just before Thanksgiving Mallory could
have sworn she'd seen the little girl outside after dark.
But when Mallory had stepped onto her patio door to check,
she'd found nothing but closely cut grass and the breeze
that never completely abandoned north Georgia. One moment
Polly had been there. The next she'd vanished.
There was a door in the gate that separated Mallory's
property from the Lombard house. Maybe, just for a while,
locking it would be the gentlest way to break the little
girl of her escalating obsession with seeking Mallory out,
first in school and then at home. Except where would the
kid go the next time her single father didn't realize she'd
wandered away?
Polly looked poised even now to escape through the
sliding glass door she'd left open behind her. She was an
ethereal, barely there illusion of light and shadow. A
mystery hovering amidst holiday fancy, crying and alone.
"I couldn't sleep," Polly said, still sniffling.
The defiant tilt of her chin dared Mallory to offer a
hug or say something empty, something adult that would make
what Polly was going through worse. Instead Mallory inched
closer without speaking, her heart aching.
Before spending a decade pursuing the rocky path that
had brought her to Chandlerville as the local elementary
school's clinic nurse, a day hadn't gone by that Mallory
hadn't wanted to run just like Polly. Even though this
child lived in a perfect house, complete with an enormous
backyard play set that would be a happy kid's heaven on
earth, she clearly longed to be somewhere else. It was as
if she didn't fit on the lane any more than Mallory did.
"I can't sleep sometimes myself," Mallory said. "But I
keep trying. Especially when I have a busy day ahead of me
like tomorrow. It's Monday. We both have school."
"I don't want to go to school."
"Where do you want to go?" The bulk of Mallory's love
seat stood between them, but she was close enough now to
stop Polly from dashing away. "What's outside, what's in
here, that you need to see more than the pretty bedroom I'm
sure you left behind at your place?"
The little girl stared down at her princess
slippers—embroidered on each pink–swaddled foot
was a cartoon blonde wearing a bejeweled tiara. A screen
print of the same character sparkled on her gauzy
nightshirt. She was covered head to toe in pretend.
Mallory glanced from the child's probably
just–bought ensemble to her own faded cartoon
mainstay. When she looked back Polly was wadding the hem of
her thin gown in both fists. It was supposed to drop below
forty outside tonight, unseasonably cold for the southeast.
The kid must be freezing.
"I don't want to go home," Polly said.
"Okay." Mallory sat on the edge of the love seat, never
more certain that something was terribly wrong.
She didn't want this tie. This knowing. This connection.
This wasn't the peace she'd come to Mimosa Lane to claim.
But as a pediatric nurse and a former mixed–up kid
herself, Mallory couldn't stop herself from trying to help.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Her scared little rabbit scowled, sensing a trap.
"You keep coming over here and to my office at school,"
Mallory said. "But you never tell me what I can do for you,
sweetie."
From day one Polly had looked so defeated. From their
first encounter Mallory had wanted to take away just a
little of the weight pressing on those tiny shoulders. In
each quiet moment like this one, when a little girl who'd
lost her mother half a year ago couldn't put into words the
cry for help she kept acting out, Mallory had needed to see
this sad princess smile.
"Franken Berry?" Mallory blurted out, not above
bribery. "When I was your age, it felt like Christmas
morning every time I ate it. Strawberry flavoring and
refined sugar and bleached corn flour...Crunch and
sweetness that will make your back teeth smile." And it
could only be special–ordered from the manufacturer's
website a few months out of the year, since most stores no
longer carried it. But for Polly, Mallory would break into
her secret stash. "Ever had any?"
Polly shook her head. "My dad says healthy food only. I
need to eat healthy to stay healthy."
She stepped closer, and Mallory considered grabbing her.
Except grabbing at kids who were hell–bent on running
only made them more certain that they'd never be safe.
"Well there's not a redeeming, healthy thing about
Franken Berry," she said, "no matter what the packaging
says. In my book that makes it heaven in a bowl."
The child was underweight. Eating anything sounded
healthy enough to Mallory. As Polly's nurse she knew there
were no food allergies or preexisting medical conditions to
be concerned about. And in the moon's reflection Polly's
eyes were glittering at Mallory's description of the
decadent treat.
"Let's live dangerously." Mallory shrugged off her robe
and draped it over the little girl's shoulders. Then,
catching a chill in only her matching flannel PJs, she led
the way to the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. She
checked once to make certain she was being followed.
Polly's slippered feet skidded to a halt inside the
door. She blinked at Mallory's retro–looking, circa
1950s, pink and blue and green appliances. They were one of
the few splurges, besides her Christmas tree, that Mallory
had indulged in when she'd furnished the place. An early
Christmas present, she'd rationalized. Actually, Christmas
and Valentine's Day and her birthday and maybe Christmas
again. But the hit to her budget had been worth it. This
room made her heart sing.
Her dreams came to her in black and white and gray,
stark visions that refused to bloom into the colors she'd
always craved. But in this house, the first world that was
totally, completely her creation, she was surrounded by a
rainbow of life–affirming hues each morning and at
the end of every day while she cooked and ate and cleaned
up after herself.
She stopped first at the thermostat beside the door,
easing the heat toward supernova so she'd stop shivering.
Then she plucked the box of cereal from the pantry where
her guilty pleasure nested amidst other breakfast options.
Her cinnamon–flavored hot cereal would be healthier
and would take only a minute to microwave. It might warm
Polly's tummy if Mallory could get the kid to eat some of
it. But for a little girl Polly's age magical trumped
healthy every time.
"Have a seat." Mallory rummaged through the
glass–front cabinet above her sink. "You're in for a
surprise."
Her fingers closed around the plastic bowl and plate
she'd snapped up at a local tag sale. She placed them on
the table in front of Polly, the bowl on top. A cartoon
princess, scratched and well used, smiled serenely from
dishes someone had bought for another little girl, then
discarded.
"Sit," Mallory repeated.
Polly hung back until Mallory poured the cereal, then
added the milk she'd taken from the fridge. Her guest slid
into the chair, trancelike, watching creamy white liquid
transform to fantasy pink.
"Eat," Mallory urged, "while I call your father."
Polly's first spoonful of sugary goodness paused halfway
to her mouth. Some of it slopped back to the bowl.
"It's okay." Mallory already had the kitchen phone in
her hand. She could have gone into the other room to make
the call. But she didn't lie to kids. Ever. They deserved
to be treated like they understood and could handle what
was happening in their lives. She knew better than anyone
just how resilient a child Polly's age could be. "Eat. You
don't want your daddy taking you home before you've drunk
the strawberry milk from the bottom."
She winked and dialed the number she'd jotted on the pad
on the counter. Pete Lombard had coughed it up yesterday
morning, grudgingly, when he'd called. His child had spent
yet another hour in Mallory's yard, watching without saying
anything, scared when she realized she'd been spotted, but
not leaving until her father showed up to take her home.
Fifteen minutes later his call had been the man's first
acknowledgment that he and Mallory had a problem.
Their conversation had lasted all of thirty seconds,
which sadly had been longer than she'd managed with anyone
else on the lane. She'd agreed to let him know if Polly
came back. He'd promised to keep a closer watch on his
daughter. Like that had solved anything.
Polly filled her mouth with cereal. Her eyes widened.
Her spoon swooped in for a bigger bite. Mallory smiled,
then frowned at the husky "hello" that rumbled through the
phone connection.
"Are you missing something again, Prince Charming?" she
asked, her words catching then stumbling out in a rush. She
regularly became tongue–tied talking with her
neighbors and the parents she encountered at school. But
dealing with this man was worse. His child's situation
ignited a flash fire of unwanted confusion inside Mallory.
It was a daily battle to keep her frustration and anger
from spewing all over Polly's father.
This had to stop. Her neighbor's inability to keep track
of his daughter, let alone help the child properly grieve
for her mother so Polly could heal and move on...It had to
stop.
Mallory wasn't going to be sucked any deeper into these
strangers' lives. She was nothing like them. They knew
nothing about her. And besides, what possible good could
she do? She was having a hard enough time in Chandlerville
trying to patch together her own version of happiness.
"Excuse me?" Pete mumbled. "It's nearly one in the
morning. Who is this?"
There was rustling on his end of the call, and Mallory
imagined him sitting up, all sleepy and sprawling and
mussed. Brown, unruly hair the same shade of mink as his
daughter's. Brown, emotional eyes. Dark stubble that he let
grow along his chin and jaw each weekend. Did he sleep in
the nude?
"This is your conscience speaking," she said, irritated
with her wayward thoughts. The man had made no secret of
his dislike for Polly's involving Mallory in their family
problems. And he was right. Mallory's interjecting herself
into their situation could only make things worse. Except
his child seemed to have her own agenda. "I've once again
stumbled across something very precious to you."
"What are you...?" His voice thinned from groggy to
suspicious. "Polly?" Mallory actually heard him stumble out
of bed and across the floor, presumably toward his
daughter's room. "Who is this?"
"It's your next–door neighbor," she said. "Your
daughter let herself inside my place this time. She's in my
kitchen eating what you'll no doubt consider offensive cold
cereal. The patio door's open. We'll see you when you get
here."
Chapter Two
Forever is composed of Nows...
What kind of man couldn't keep his child tucked safely
in bed at night?
Pete Lombard shoved his feet into the beaten–up
sneakers that had stood sentinel outside his patio door
since late September, the last time he'd mowed the lawn.
Without tying them, taking only a moment to pull on a
sweatshirt over his pajamas, he sprinted through the chilly
November night. A fenced backyard ran catty–corner to
his own, the curve where Mimosa Lane twisted into their
cul–de–sac, transforming the house next to his
into his backyard neighbor as well. He let himself through
the partially open wooden door he'd helped old Mr. Lancer
cut out because Polly had loved to play with his basset
hound, Charlie Brown.
What a difference two years could make.
The Lancers and Charlie had retired to sunny Florida. He
couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Polly play. And
now he was making a midnight visit to his new neighbor who
at best thought he was an idiot, more likely an unfit
father.
Light blared from inside Mallory Phillips's place. Her
Christmas tree had been up and decorated like a gaudy
holiday farce since two weeks before Thanksgiving,
twinkling through the thermal–paned windows the
Lancers had installed to make the
twenty–year–old ranch more salable. Was the
tree what kept drawing Polly over? Pete had caught her
staring at the monstrosity from her second–story
bedroom window.
What the hell was she doing out of bed in the middle of
the night? And how, how, couldn't he have known she was
gone? He saved lives for a living, but he hadn't been able
to save his wife. Now he was failing his child.
Thank God they lived on quiet, insulated Mimosa Lane.
Still, as an EMT for the fire department he saw enough each
week to reinforce the tragic things that could happen to a
kid who slipped away from the safety of home. Especially an
emotionally fragile little girl his Polly's age. Too bad
the house she'd shared with her mother was now the last
place on earth Polly felt safe.
Emma, what am I going to do? How many times had he asked
that of the soul mate he'd lost forever? He kept trying to
figure things out, to reason them through, to get something
of his falling–apart world back under control. But
nothing made sense anymore, for him or Polly. I'm screwing
this up. Help me, darlin'. Somehow, you've got to help me.
The sliding glass door leading into his neighbor's house
was open. He knocked anyway. There was no answer.
"Hello..."
He stepped into a room overwhelmed by an artificial,
ornament–filled tree. It was like Christmas had
swooped in and attacked the poor plastic thing, inflicting
forced cheer on anyone who caught a glimpse of it. Standing
there he felt himself drowning in the festive holiday
season he'd been trying to fake for Polly's sake.
Fake...That's what the monstrosity was
screaming—every mass–produced inch of it.
Looking around the room he realized there wasn't another
decoration in sight. Just Mallory Phillips's christmas,
Christmas, CHRISTMAS tree.
The small home's family room stretched the entire width
of the house, and sparse would be too generous a word to
describe its decor. There was a soft–looking oversize
cream couch, a brass lamp with a beige shade, and a
sad–looking recliner covered in a tweedy kind of
plaid that for some reason made him think it was
secondhand. Probably because there'd been something like it
tossed into the corner of his fraternity's front room.
They'd needed furniture because visitors had to sit
somewhere, but his college buddies hadn't really cared what
any of it looked like. Clearly, neither did the elusive
Mallory Phillips. Even her floor was covered in a
nondescript oatmeal berber.
I–give–up carpet, Emma had called it when
he'd hastily picked something similar for their place in
the hope of skirting her out of the store and home to work
on making the baby they'd been so desperate to have.
"Hello?" he called, louder this time.
"Hey—" Across the empty dining area to his right a
butler's door pushed outward, flashing a glimpse beyond of
a kitchen filled with crazy colors. A tousled–haired
blonde burst into the room in plaid Disney pajamas that
made her look ridiculously young, tempting him to smile for
the first time since spring.
For a moment he didn't recognize her. At school, Mallory
kept her hair pulled back. She dressed in boxy scrubs
covered in outlandish cartoon animals. So far no one in the
community had gotten much of a look at her in anything
else.
She didn't tend to her own yard like the rest of their
neighbors—she had a guy come over once a week to do
the bare minimum. The entire time she'd lived in
Chandlerville she'd only attended a single Mimosa Lane
get–together, a Sunday–night barbecue at the
beginning of the school year that she'd arrived at late and
had left after less than ten minutes, hardly speaking to
anyone. She'd made herself scarce each evening and weekend
and most recently during the Thanksgiving holiday, though
no one had seen her pack her car for a trip.
It was as if Mallory Phillips were living amongst them,
only she wasn't.
Her silky hair was down now, bouncing about her
shoulders. The softness of her purple–plaid
nightclothes accentuated generous curves that weren't the
least bit childlike. Basic politeness said Pete shouldn't
be staring at the swooping neckline of her pajama top, but
he couldn't help himself. She clearly didn't realize or
didn't care how she looked just rolled out of bed, or how a
man could find himself reaching for something that warm and
inviting and never want to find his way out of it.
"Good," she said, all business. "You're here. I was
about to resort to another blast of sugary bribery." Still
moving toward him, she held out her hand.
"Ms. Phillips." He shook briefly and let go.
His gaze made a discreet pass over the cartoon fairy
embroidered on her top. The perky thing danced above the
kind of firm, athletic breasts he'd preferred since falling
in love with the high school track star who'd become his
bride.
"I'm sorry about all this." He decided to look at his
neighbor's summer–blue eyes for the rest of their
conversation. And only her eyes. "I'm not sure why my
daughter keeps seeking you out."
"I think it's pretty clear Polly's looking for
something, Mr. Lombard." Her directness each time they
spoke was unsettling, given her skittishness whenever she'd
interacted with others on the lane. "I can only assume her
behavior has something to do with missing her mother."
"Call me Pete," he said, the offer not coming out
entirely friendly.
He'd asked her to use his first name when he'd phoned
yesterday. She'd ignored him then. Just as he'd sidestepped
her daily attempts when he picked up his little girl from
the clinic at school to talk about Emma and how losing her
was affecting Polly.
Everyone else in his life, his family and friends and
his colleagues at work, got that he couldn't talk about it
yet, losing the love of his life. This stranger to his
turned–upside–down world couldn't be expected
to understand. But the least she could do was stop asking
questions that chipped away at what was left of his heart.
"Mr. Lombard?"
She'd repeated his name a couple of times, he realized.
How long had he been standing there staring?
"Does Polly leave your place a lot after dark?" she
asked.
"Of course she doesn't wander around the neighborhood at
night." He was doing the best he could, damn it. He loved
his daughter, and he'd do anything to keep her safe. "I
have an alarm that sounds off in my bedroom if any of the
doors or windows open."
His neighbor raised an eyebrow.
"I checked the system before I came over." The pulse at
his temple thudded like muted cymbals crashing against his
skull. "Polly must have disengaged it."
"She's a smart little girl." A smile transformed her
features the way sunshine set morning mist to sparkling.
Then all that glitter disappeared behind a frown. "And a
desperate one."
He rocked back on his heels. "Desperate for what?"
She shrugged. "Freedom?"
The breath rushed out of him.
He could see his wife, propped up on pillows in their
bed, home from the hospital for the last time, looking
beautiful and serene and frail. I can feel it, Emma had
said, the words breaking him while he clung to every
syllable. The freedom. It's going to be okay. I'm finally
going to be free of it.
Free of the cancer that wouldn't turn her loose, and the
world that couldn't keep her without causing more pain.
Emma had needed to hear him say it was okay to let go.
She'd held on until he found a way to give her that last
gift. But he refused to do the same for his child. He
couldn't lose Polly, too. Thanksgiving had been a disaster,
and she seemed to be preparing to hate Christmas just as
much, but somehow he'd make things right for her again.
Failure had never been an option for him, and he'd already
lost too much of his family. He refused to watch Polly slip
away, too.
"I'd like to see my daughter." The bite in each word was
impolite, but he didn't care. It was late. He was at his
wits' end. This woman needed to get out of his way.
"Of course." Mallory turned.
A view of Tinker Bell's backside twitched between her
shoulder blades. She marched off, a leggy,
flannel–draped queen leading him through the swinging
door into the next room.
Her tree wasn't the only garish thing she'd blown her
money on. Her refrigerator was blue. The oven, a sage
green. The dishwasher's front was powdery red. The counters
and tabletop were a blinding–white Formica, with the
kind of chrome edges that belonged in a fifties–era
sitcom.
Polly sat amidst it all wrapped in a
vintage–looking bathrobe covered in more frolicking
fairies, shoveling food into her mouth like a normal
seven–year–old. A box of cereal was open at her
elbow. She stared first at Mallory, panic creeping into her
sprite green eyes. Her face lost its animation when her
attention shifted to Pete. Every trace of the happy child
she'd been until six months ago faded away. She dropped her
spoon into the bowl and wiped at her milky mustache with
the bathrobe's sleeve. Her gaze fell to her lap.
She never looked Pete in the eye anymore. He'd felt her
pulling away for months. Then she'd run from the
Thanksgiving table at Emma's parents' house, screaming to
go home. She hadn't stopped crying until he'd tucked her
into her own bed. She'd barely slept or spoken to him
since. She couldn't stand to be around anyone anymore.
And the hell of it was, he understood completely. He was
going through the motions of staying positive for his
daughter's sake, but he didn't want to be around anyone,
either. Not friends, not family, sometimes not even his own
child. He'd never admit it, but sometimes he wished they'd
all go away. It hurt too much, feeling close to the things
and people he'd shared with Emma.
Fear had been Pete's constant companion since his wife's
death. In his job he was a pro at pushing through the
uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next. A rescue
worker had to act regardless of the desperation of the
moment. But with his little girl, after months of trying
and failing to comfort her and be the father she deserved,
fear had become a paralyzing mainstay. Fear and the
crushing loss of the happy life they'd taken for granted.
Out of answers, he felt his neighbor's gaze boring into
him as he knelt beside Polly's chair.
"You scared me, darlin'." He stroked the dark curls that
were even softer than her mother's had been. "You can't
keep wandering away from me. And you absolutely can't leave
the house at night."
"Ms. Phillips doesn't mind if I visit her at school,"
Polly said to her lap.
"You're in her house now." The home of a woman who
clearly wasn't the Won't you be my neighbor? type. "We
talked about this last night. You haven't been invited.
It's a no–no to just walk into someone's yard and
their home when they don't know you're coming."
"I wanted to see her tree. It's the best tree ever, but
I can't see all of it from my window."
Why the hell did Mallory insist on never closing her
curtains? What was her back door doing unlocked in the
middle of the night, so Polly could let herself inside?
The community rumor mill kept buzzing with each new
quirk they discovered about this woman. Beginning all the
way back when she'd arrived after closing on the Lancer
place with a single U–Haul trailer hitched to an
ancient Beetle. After which she'd greeted the steady stream
of good–natured neighbors who'd brought over baked
goodies and housewarming gifts with stuttering attempts to
welcome them that had morphed into a strained
thank–you and less–than–subtle excuses
for saying good–bye before anyone was invited inside.
No one had gotten the impression that she was being
intentionally rude. It seemed more likely that she didn't
have the first clue what to do with any of them. She was a
puzzle no one in Chandlerville could solve. Which evidently
made her the only person his child could bear spending time
with.
"I couldn't sleep," Polly said. She looked to
Mallory. "I just wanted to see what your Christmas looked
like up close."
Mallory patted her on the back and closed up the cereal
box. She handed Polly her spoon. And damn if the kid didn't
dive back in for her without complaint.
"We'll go buy our tree this week," Pete promised,
forcing himself to sound positive while their broken
holiday shattered into even more pieces. Polly had refused
every attempt he'd made to get her excited about decorating
the house—something she and Emma had always done
together. "We'll make our own Christmas great, just as soon
as you're ready. And if you can't sleep, you need to come
get me up—not bother Ms. Phillips. I'll read you a
story. I know it's hard at night, but I'm always going to
be here, Polly. You can come get me no matter how late it
is. We'll put you back to bed and make whatever's bothering
you better."
His child shook her head, her bangs falling into her
eyes. Pete reached to smooth them back, and she jerked
away—the same as she had when he'd tried to comfort
her at Emma's parents'. A tear rolled down her cheek.
He wanted to take her into his arms and hug away her
loneliness and his, but that would mean another tantrum
like the ones she had each night at bedtime. Her doctors
said not to push closeness on Polly, but not to let her
pull too far inward, either. Give her time. Give her space.
But give her love, whether she accepted it or not.
How was he supposed to do that when each time he reached
for his child he found a stranger in his grasp instead of
the daughter who'd once worshiped his every move? How were
they supposed to survive Christmas, Emma's favorite
holiday, when not having her there was unbearable for them
both?
"Did your wife read her bedtime stories?" Mallory asked.
"What?" He'd forgotten where he was. His neighbor's
question froze time, then accelerated it. He stood, his
scattered thoughts free–falling yet again.
The memory was so clear. Him coming off a day shift at
the station, driving home to find dinner left warming on
the stove and the house smelling like Polly's bubble bath.
Emma was cuddled up with their sleepy little girl reading
one last story before bed. Pete settled in to watch like he
always did, loving them both so much and content with being
exactly where he planned to be every night he wasn't
working, until Polly was too old to think of their nightly
ritual as heaven on earth.
It had been warm there where the three of them were
happy, where he could no longer return. Warm and real and
already forgotten by a child who cried now whenever he
tried to read to her the way her mommy had.
"If Polly's having difficulty with you at night,"
Mallory said, looking perversely curious as she stared him
down, "I was wondering if it used to be a time when she was
especially close to her mom."
"Of course it was a special time," he snapped.
"Then maybe she—"
"Can I speak with you privately?" He was already halfway
through the swinging door. She was likely a damn fine
nurse, and she clearly cared about his daughter's
well–being. But his neighbor's meddling in private
matters she couldn't possibly understand was officially
over.
He stepped into her excuse for a dining room and waited
for Tinker Bell to join him. Once Mallory had, he swung the
door closed and turned on her, losing his stranglehold on
his temper.
"Exactly who the hell do you think you are, lady,
questioning how I parent my own child?"
"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.
"Where 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 missing 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 off 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. "Polly 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 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.
"I come from somewhere that gives me a leg up working
with people like your daughter," she reminded herself out
loud. That's all that was happening here. This was another
impersonal connection she'd spin into something good,
because helping and letting go once her job was done was
supposed to be her specialty.
"And you think you can work with us?" He didn't sound
convinced.
"That's a question you're going to have to answer for
yourself. I've considered sending Polly back to her class
when she comes to my office, but I worry about how she'll
take that kind of rejection. And I could lock my doors
here..." She ignored the cringe deep inside, a flashback of
being hemmed in as a child, unable to leave. Not until
morning when daylight made it safer, though never
completely safe, to be out and about. It was a
claustrophobic, panicked place she hated each time her mind
returned to it. "But if Polly came back another night,
she'd be—"
"Locked outside in the dark, and there'd be no pretty
Christmas tree for her to hide behind. No one to alert me
that she was gone." Pete seemed to age before Mallory's
eyes.
"I don't have definite solutions to give you." Thinking
that she did was a slippery slope. "I suspect I'll end up
asking you more questions than anything else."
"Questions I'll like about as much as you giving Polly
puffed air for a late–night snack?"
"Get back to me on that one. My guess is she'll sleep
better with it in her stomach than she does the
harder–to–digest, wholesome fare you're giving
her for dinner."
"Because you served her the nutritional equivalent of
crack?"
"No, because she ate it from a chipped princess bowl."
Mallory waited for him to get that she was kidding. He
didn't blink. So much for distracting him with playful
sarcasm.
"The cereal's a base for her stomach." She felt
ridiculous lecturing him about dietary dos and don'ts while
looking like a waif that barely came up to his chin,
wearing oversize thrift store pajamas she suspected might
not be entirely covering her breasts. Only she wasn't
drawing attention to the situation by clutching at the
lapels of her nightshirt. "Even with the appalling amount
of sweetener coating it, something like puffed corn is a
good option for bedtime. Like rice, it's easier to digest
than more complex grains. Have you heard of the BRAT diet?
I recommend it for many of the kids I work with. There's a
lot of anxiety to deal with for little ones who're
constantly moving around with displaced parents."
Pete blinked. "There are kids like that at Chandler?"
Mallory inhaled.
"No..." she backpedaled. "I was speaking of other places
I've worked. What I'm trying to say is digestive problems
are common in kids who experience upheaval too early in
life."
"The BRAT diet?"
"Bananas, rice, apple sauce, and toast. Four of the most
easily digestible foods you can find, and there's
substantial dietary value to each. When you're rebooting a
little one's system, I'd start with BRAT every time."
"I'll try to remember that."
It was the nicest thing he could have said to her, even
if his acquiescence came out rusty, like the scrape of a
door that didn't want to be opened.
"Friends, then?" The suggestion tumbled from her mouth
as if she hadn't bungled each attempt to make a similar
offer to other families in their community.
She extended her hand, officially committing to their
cease–fire for Polly's sake. And why not? To this man
a friendship with her would mean nothing more than being
casual acquaintances. And casual was a crystal–clear
boundary Mallory could work with.
"If Polly continues not wanting a tree of her own," she
said, "maybe the two of you could come back one afternoon
to visit it together. I'll stay out of the way. You can
have a little holiday, at least, without her feeling
pressured to want what you've always done with her mother."
"You're hard to figure out." He shook and held on longer
than any casual friend she'd ever had.
"You're better off not trying." Mallory slipped free and
yanked her pajama top tightly closed. "Tougher characters
than you have given up in frustration. I'm a nut that
defies cracking."
When he laughed she felt a rush of pleasure race through
her.
"Daddy?" a tiny voice said. Then a tiny body emerged
through the butler's door. "I'm tired."
Pete knelt and cuddled Polly close. As he held her and
stood, his daughter's head fit beneath his chin as if she'd
laid it there a million times. The bond between them no
matter how much they'd both lost was clearly stronger than
ever. They were still trying. Maybe they were failing a
little, but they were trying.
Watching them Mallory felt alone beneath her glaring
Christmas tree for the first time since putting the thing
up.
"How's your tummy feeling?" Pete ran a hand down his
daughter's hair.
"Better," Polly whispered around a yawn. Her eyes
drooped, then shut completely.
Pete scowled at Mallory's unapologetic smirk.
"Night." Savoring her victory, she led the way to the
patio.
"We should give you back your robe."
"Next time," she heard herself say.
Pete stepped outside. He turned back. The look he gave
her clouded with unvoiced questions. "Next time," he
accepted, sealing their deal. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Too welcome. She stepped away and caught herself
wondering which afternoon that week the pair might be back.
She had way too much personal experience with what it
was like for a little girl to dream of a Christmas that
wouldn't break her heart to be inviting Polly and Pete
Lombard deeper into her rebooted life. She slid the glass
shut between them, her tree's lights reflecting her image
like a mirror. With a flip of the switch beside the patio
door she disappeared, her tree going dark for the first
time since she'd decorated it.
The world beyond her window re–formed, shadowy and
frigid. Her neighbors were already gone. The door in the
corner of her fence was shut. Peace had reclaimed her view.
But the crystal perfection of it no longer tempted her to
smile.
As quickly as she could she cleaned the kitchen, reset
the thermostat, turned her tree back on as she passed
through the living room, and crawled into bed. Much, much
later, she fell asleep, worry for the Lombard family
joining her until dawn painted ribbons of lavender across a
gray sky and Mallory's own childhood grabbed for her with
greedy fingers.