Taming Natasha (10 page)

It wasn't wise to get so involved with the little girl, she warned herself. Not when the little girl was attached so securely to a man who made Natasha long for things she had put behind her. Spence smiled at her. No, it wasn't wise, she thought again. But it was irresistible.

“C
hicken pox.” Spence said the two words again. He stood in the doorway and watched his little girl sleep. “It's a hell of a birthday present, sweetie.”

In two days his daughter would be six, and by then, according to the doctor, she'd be covered with the itchy rash that was now confined to her belly and chest.

It was going around, the pediatrician had said. It would run its course. Easy for him to say, Spence thought. It wasn't his daughter whose eyes were teary. It wasn't his baby with a hundred-and-one-degree temperature.

She'd never been sick before, Spence realized as he rubbed his tired eyes. Oh, the sniffles now and again, but nothing a little TLC and baby aspirin hadn't put right. He dragged a hand through his hair; Freddie moaned in her sleep and tried to find a cool spot on her pillow.

The call from Nina hadn't helped. He'd had to come down hard to prevent her from catching the shuttle and arriving on his doorstep. That hadn't stopped her telling him that Freddie had undoubtedly caught chicken pox because she was attending public school. That was
nonsense, of course, but when he looked at his little girl, tossing in her bed, her face flushed with fever, the guilt was almost unbearable.

Logic told him that chicken pox was a normal part of childhood. His heart told him that he should be able to find a way to make it go away.

For the first time he realized how much he wanted someone beside him. Not to take things over, not to smooth over the downside of parenting. Just to be there. To understand what it felt like when your child was sick or hurt or unhappy. Someone to talk to in the middle of the night, when worries or pleasures kept you awake.

When he thought of that someone, he thought only of Natasha.

A big leap, he reminded himself and walked back to the bedside. One he wasn't sure he could make again and land on both feet.

He cooled Freddie's forehead with the damp cloth Vera had brought in. Her eyes opened.

“Daddy.”

“Yes, funny face. I'm right here.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I'm thirsty.”

“I'll go get you a cold drink.”

Sick or not, she knew how to maneuver. “Can I have Kool Aid?”

He pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Sure. What kind?”

“The blue kind.”

“The blue kind.” He kissed her again. “I'll be right back.” He was halfway down the stairs when the phone rang simultaneously with a knock on the door. “Damn it. Vera, get the phone, will you?” Out of patience, he yanked open the front door.

The smile Natasha had practiced all evening faded. “I'm sorry. I've come at a bad time.”

“Yeah.” But he reached out to pull her inside. “Hang on a minute.
Vera—oh good,” he added when he saw the housekeeper hovering. “Freddie wants some Kool Aid, the blue kind.”

“I will make it.” Vera folded her hands in front of her apron. “Mrs. Barklay is on the phone.”

“Tell her—” Spence broke off, swearing as Vera's mouth pruned. She didn't like to tell Nina anything. “All right, I'll get it.”

“I should go,” Natasha put in, feeling foolish. “I only came by because you weren't at class tonight, and I wondered if you were well.”

“It's Freddie.” Spence glanced at the phone and wondered if he could strangle his sister over it. “She has the chicken pox.”

“Oh. Poor thing.” She had to smother the automatic urge to go up and look in on the child herself. Not your child, Natasha reminded herself. Not your place. “I'll get out of your way.”

“I'm sorry. Things are a little confused.”

“Don't be. I hope she's well soon. Let me know if I can do anything.”

At that moment Freddie called for her father in a voice that was half sniffle and half croak.

It was Spence's quick helpless glance up the stairs that had Natasha ignoring what she thought was her better judgment. “Would you like me to go up for a minute? I could sit with her until you have things under control again.”

“No. Yes.” Spence blew out a long breath. If he didn't deal with Nina now, she'd only call back. “I'd appreciate it.” Reaching the end of his rope, he yanked up the phone receiver. “Nina.”

Natasha followed the glow of the night-light into Freddie's room. She found her sitting up in bed, surrounded by dolls. Two big tears were sliding down her cheeks. “I want my daddy,” she said obviously miserable.

“He'll be right here.” Her heart lost, Natasha sat down on the bed and drew Freddie into her arms.

“I don't feel good.”

“I know. Here, blow your nose.”

Freddie complied, then settled her head on Natasha's breast. She sighed, finding it pleasantly different from her father's hard chest or Vera's cushy one. “I went to the doctor and got medicine, so I can't go to my Brownie meeting tomorrow.”

“There'll be other meetings, as soon as the medicine makes you well.”

“I have chicken pox,” Freddie announced, torn between discomfort and pride. “And I'm hot and itchy.”

“It's a silly thing, the chicken pox,” Natasha said soothingly. She tucked Freddie's tousled hair behind one ear. “I don't think chickens get it at all.”

Freddie's lips turned up, just a little. “JoBeth had it last week, and so did Mikey. Now I can't have a birthday party.”

“You'll have a party later, when everyone's well again.”

“That's what Daddy said.” A fresh tear trailed down her cheek. “It's not the same.”

“No, but sometimes not the same is even better.”

Curious, Freddie watched the light glint off the gold hoop in Natasha's ear. “How?”

“It gives you more time to think about how much fun you'll have. Would you like to rock?”

“I'm too big to rock.”

“I'm not.” Wrapping Freddie in a blanket, Natasha carried her to the white wicker rocker. She cleared it of stuffed animals, then tucked one particularly worn rabbit in Freddie's arms. “When I was a little girl and I was sick, my mother would always rock me in this big, squeaky chair we had by the window. She would sing me songs. No matter how bad I felt, when she rocked me I felt better.”

“My mother didn't rock me.” Freddie's head was aching, and she wanted badly to pop a comforting thumb into her mouth. She knew she was too old for that. “She didn't like me.”

“That's not true.” Natasha instinctively tightened her arms around the child. “I'm sure she loved you very much.”

“She wanted my daddy to send me away.”

At a loss, Natasha lowered her cheek to the top of Freddie's head. What could she say now? Freddie's words had been too matter-of-fact to dismiss as a fantasy. “People sometimes say things they don't mean, and that they regret very much. Did your daddy send you away?”

“No.”

“There, you see?”

“Do you like me?”

“Of course I do.” She rocked gently, to and fro. “I like you very much.”

The movement, the soft female scent and voice lulled Freddie. “Why don't you have a little girl?”

The pain was there, deep and dull. Natasha closed her eyes against it. “Perhaps one day I will.”

Freddie tangled her fingers in Natasha's hair, comforted. “Will you sing, like your mother did?”

“Yes. And you try to sleep.”

“Don't go.”

“No, I'll stay awhile.”

Spence watched them from the doorway. In the shadowed light they looked achingly beautiful, the tiny, flaxen-haired child in the arms of the dark, golden-skinned woman. The rocker whispered as it moved back and forth while Natasha sang some old Ukrainian folk song from her own childhood.

It moved him as completely, as uniquely as holding the woman in his own arms had moved him. And yet so differently, so quietly that he wanted to stand just as he was, watching through the night.

Natasha looked up and saw him. He looked so frazzled that she had to smile.

“She's sleeping now.”

If his legs were weak, he hoped it was because he'd climbed up and down the stairs countless times in the last twenty-four hours. Giving in to them, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He studied his daughter's flushed face, nestled peacefully in the crook of Natasha's arm. “It's supposed to get worse before it gets better.”

“Yes, it does.” She stroked a hand down Freddie's hair. “We all had it when we were children. Amazingly, we all survived.”

He blew out a long breath. “I guess I'm being an idiot.”

“No, you're very sweet.” She watched him as she continued to rock, wondering how difficult it had been for him to raise a baby without a mother's love. Difficult enough, she decided, that he deserved credit for seeing that his daughter was happy, secure and unafraid to love. She smiled again.

“Whenever one of us was sick as children, and still today, my father would badger the doctor, then he would go to church to light candles. After that he would say this old gypsy chant he'd learned from his grandmother. It's covering all the bases.”

“So far I've badgered the doctor.” Spence managed a smile of his own. “You wouldn't happen to remember that chant?”

“I'll say it for you.” Carefully she rose, lifting Freddie in her arms. “Should I lay her down?”

“Thanks.” Together they tucked in the blankets. “I mean it.”

“You're welcome.” She looked over the sleeping child, and though her smile was easy, she was beginning to feel awkward. “I should go. Parents of sick children need their rest.”

“At least I can offer you a drink.” He held up the glass. “How about some Kool Aid? It's the blue kind.”

“I think I'll pass.” She moved around the bed toward the door. “When the fever breaks, she'll be bored. Then you'll really have your work cut out for you.”

“How about some pointers?” He took Natasha's hand as they started down the steps.

“Crayons. New ones. The best is usually the simplest.”

“How is it someone like you doesn't have a horde of children of her own?” He didn't have to feel her stiffen to know he'd said the wrong thing. He could see the sorrow come and go in her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“No need.” Recovered, she picked up her coat from where she'd laid it on the newel post. “I'd like to come and see Freddie again, if it's all right.”

He took her coat and set it down again. “If you won't take the blue stuff, how about some tea? I could use the company.”

“All right.”

“I'll just—” He turned and nearly collided with Vera.

“I will fix the tea,” she said after a last look at Natasha.

“Your housekeeper thinks I have designs on you.”

“I hope you won't disappoint her,” Spence said as he led Natasha into the music room.

“I'm afraid I must disappoint both of you.” Then she laughed and wandered to the piano. “But you should be very busy. All the young women in college talk about Dr. Kimball.” She tucked her tongue into
her cheek. “You're a hunk, Spence. Popular opinion is equally divided between you and the captain of the football team.”

“Very funny.”

“I'm not joking. But it's fun to embarrass you.” She sat and ran her fingers over the keys. “Do you compose here?”

“I did once.”

“It's wrong of you not to write.” She played a series of chords. “Art's more than a privilege. It's a responsibility.” She searched for the melody, then with a sound of impatience shook her head. “I can't play. I was too old when I tried to learn.”

He liked the way she looked sitting there, her hair falling over her shoulders, half curtaining her face, her fingers resting lightly on the keys of the piano he had played since childhood.

“If you want to learn, I'll teach you.”

“I'd rather you write a song.” It was more than impulse, she thought. Tonight he looked as though he needed a friend. She smiled and held out a hand. “Here, with me.”

He glanced up as Vera carried in a tray. “Just set it there, Vera. Thank you.”

“You will want something else?”

He looked back at Natasha. Yes, he would want something else. He wanted it very much. “No. Good night.” He listened to the housekeeper's shuffling steps. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you need to laugh. Come, write a song for me. It doesn't have to be good.”

He did laugh. “You want me to write a bad song for you?”

“It can be a terrible song. When you play it for Freddie, she'll hold her ears and giggle.”

“A bad song's about all I can do these days.” But he was amused
enough to sit down beside her. “If I do this, I have to have your solemn oath that it won't be repeated for any of my students.”

“Cross my heart.”

He began to noodle with the keys, Natasha breaking in now and then to add her inspiration. It wasn't as bad as it might have been, Spence considered as he ran through some chords. No one would call it brilliant, but it had a certain primitive charm.

“Let me try.” Tossing back her hair, Natasha struggled to repeat the notes.

“Here.” As he sometimes did with his daughter, he put his hands over Natasha's to guide them. The feeling, he realized, was entirely different. “Relax.” His murmur whispered beside her ear.

She only wished she could. “I hate to do poorly at anything,” she managed. With his palms firmly over her hands, she struggled to concentrate on the music.

“You're doing fine.” Her hair, soft and fragrant, brushed his cheek.

As they bent over the keys, it didn't occur to him that he hadn't played with the piano in years. Oh, he had played—Beethoven, Gershwin, Mozart and Bernstein, but hardly for fun…. It had been much too long since he had sat before the keys for entertainment.

“No, no, an A minor maybe.”

Natasha stubbornly hit a B major again. “I like this better.”