The Word of a Child (27 page)

Sure you are.
The
sardonic comment seemed to be in Hugh's voice.
You're in love with mother, daughter, apartment and the
simple, delicious dinner in front of you. Just think. A ready-made family and
home. Exactly what you've been craving. Hey, bro. Snap it up.

Ready-made, since he'd singlehandedly gotten rid of Mariah's
hubby and Zofie's daddy.

He swore silently. Way to give himself credit. He was the
cop who'd come to her house. That was all. He hadn't named Simon Stavig
himself, and he'd investigated fairly.

The fact that he'd been stirred by Mariah's glorious hazel
eyes from the first moment she opened the door and looked at him with friendly,
puzzled inquiry had never influenced him.

He wanted to believe that.

"Would you like more?" Mariah asked, jolting him
from his submersion in dark self-doubts. "There's plenty."

"Thanks. Sure."

Zofie, he noted, had neatly separated the stir-fry into
piles of carrot, onion, green bean, celery and chicken. The cashews on her
plate were gone. She was presently working on the chicken. The onion and celery
had been squished by her fork into unappealing blobs that he expected would not
be eaten. Mariah stole an occasional glance at her daughter's plate, but said
nothing.

When she saw him looking, they shared a smile with their
eyes more than their mouths, the kind of communication he'd seen and envied between
John and Natalie.

The kind he'd never had, except perhaps for a crude form
with his brothers, useful mainly when they were closing in on a perp or trying
to score a touchdown in a pickup flag football game.

Mariah had baked an apple pie, too, that was still warm from
the oven. She served it
a la
mode,
and Connor thought he'd died
and gone to heaven. Zofie ate only the ice cream.

Her mom excused her to take her ice cream out to watch TV.

"She won't eat pie?" he said incredulously.

Mariah sighed. "She thinks cooking makes the apples
mushy."

"More for the rest of us." He gave her a hopeful
look.

Her chuckle was as infectious as her daughter's. "Gosh,
is there any chance you'd care for seconds?"

"How kind of you to ask. Why … yes. I do think I might
be able to squeeze a second piece in."

They both laughed, quietly, as she served him and watched
him dig in.

"You really like antiques, huh?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know a genuine Chippendale if it
reached out and tripped me. I just like to look for pieces that please me. I
can't afford them new," she added simply.

"Want to go shopping with me on Saturday?" he
asked. "Help me pick out some bookcases?"

"You're serious." She studied him. "Why now,
when you've been okay the way you are for four years?"

"I turned thirty—heck, thirty-one is threatening. Maybe
it's that." He scraped the plate for the last half a forkful. "I
don't know. I'm just tired of living like a twenty-year-old who still has a
bedroom waiting at home."

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have a bedroom at home?"

He gave a grunt of laughter. "Hell, no! My mother lives
in a studio apartment. Which, she announced baldly, she chose so no one would
expect to sleep over."

Her voice and expression went soft, concerned. "You're
kidding."

"No, but you have to understand that Mom is also
willing to stay over at John's anytime to take care of his kids, or help any of
us in any way. She's just … brusque." That was one way to put it. He tried
again, "No nonsense. Values her private space. Which might be natural, if
you'd raised three boys by yourself."

"She lives here in Port Dare, then?"

"Mmm-hmm." He set down his fork and reached for
her hand. "I'd like you to meet her. And my brothers."

Was it his imagination that she stiffened slightly?

"That would be nice someday." She gently withdrew
her hand and stood. "More coffee?"

"Thanks." He watched her retreat.

Okay. Too much, too fast. What the hell was wrong with him?
Why this urgent need to push her? He'd never before felt this anxiety, this
dissatisfaction with a casual dating relationship. They'd had dinner together
twice, and he was ready for more.

Much more. The whole enchilada, he was beginning to think.
The diamond ring in his pocket, the wait at the altar for the beautiful bride,
his own child growing in his wife's womb.

He just knew they were right for each other, however
illogical that certainty was considering she'd hated his guts as of a few weeks
ago, and maybe for good reason.

Unfortunately she obviously
didn't
know.

He had to give her time, and motivation to fall in love.

If a man
could
make a woman fall in love, just because he desperately
wanted her to. Nice trick, if he could pull it off.

"Zofie have a game Sunday?" Connor asked casually,
after she had refilled their cups.

She set the pot down on a hot pad. "Yes, but Simon is
taking her. We did a switch, and now this is his weekend. Sometimes I go to the
game anyway, but this one is in Port Angeles, and…" She made a wry face.
"I try to be noble sometimes. I figure he should sometimes get to be the
real parent. You know? Once I'm there, she turns to me for comfort and answers.
I wish I could see the game, but heaven knows there are plenty of them to go
around."

"How about that shopping trip Saturday, then?" he
asked. "And dinner?"

Her smile seemed entirely natural, if more reserved than
some. "That sounds like fun."

Yes.

"You and Simon seem to get along pretty well where
Zofie is concerned," he commented, lifting his coffee cup.

"Actually we do." She almost sounded surprised,
and gave a small laugh at her own tone. "Well, in a weird way. Believe me,
I've worked at it, and I think he has, too. We still have … hard feelings, and
we do fight, but out of her hearing. We've managed, miracle of miracles, to
leave Zofie out of it. I worry, but…"

From the scarred perspective of a cop, he said, "If
only all divorced couples could do the same. You wouldn't believe how little
thought people give to their traumatized children when they're battling. I
remember one call where…" He stopped and made a rough sound in his throat.
"Never mind. You don't want to hear ugly war stories."

She looked at him with clear eyes. "That depends on
whether it helps you to tell them."

He half stood, kissed her cheek and sat back down.
"Thank you. Sometimes it does help, but not tonight. My mouth was just
running away with me."

"I'm really not that sensitive." She held his
gaze, determination in hers. "I don't want you feeling you have to watch
what you say with me."

He held up his hand in a salute. "Word of honor."

She nibbled on her lower lip. "I want to feel the same
way with you."

Jolted, he set down the coffee cup he'd reached for.
"And you don't right now?"

He sensed how carefully she was holding herself, her chin
high. "Saturday night, I had the impression you left just because Simon
called."

Connor would have liked to deny her accusation, but
dishonesty wasn't his way.

"His call was the catalyst," he said carefully.
"It reminded me of how much I fouled up your life, and made me think what
a bastard I am for taking advantage of that."

Her forehead crinkled. "Advantage?"

"You might still be married if I hadn't come to your
door that night."

"If you hadn't, another police officer would
have," she reminded him.

He made an impatient gesture. "Has it ever occurred to
you that another police officer might have gone about the investigation
differently and proved Simon innocent?"

She looked away briefly. "Of course it's occurred to
me," she said in a stifled voice. "How could it not? But after
watching you with Tracy, I don't believe it anymore."

He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"That's all it was? You weren't bothered because Simon
and I are friendly?"

"Of course not!" he said in astonishment.
"He's her father. Three years ago, I'd have told you not to trust him
alone with Zofie. Now…" Connor shrugged. "After all this time, it's
hard to imagine him starting something. Maybe he draws the line at his own kid.
Maybe he was innocent. I don't know. But he's her father, and you can't keep
him from seeing her. I know you'll be talking to him, and he'll be here. I wish
all divorced parents could handle it as well as you have."

"Now it's my turn to say thank you." She made a
face, trying to smile. "I want to trust him now. But sometimes I'm still
scared when…" She pressed her lips together, swallowed. In a low voice,
she said, "I want to be creeping around his house, peeking in his windows
when Zofie is there."

Connor nodded toward the living room. "You talk to
her?"

"Are you kidding? She's the best prepared kid in the
state of Washington. Every time she comes home, I have to restrain myself from
asking every word Daddy said, everything they did, where she slept, how Daddy
touched her. Especially how Daddy touched her." Mariah looked at him, her
eyes shimmering with the despair and fear of those lonely weekends. "But I
can't. Somehow I have to find a happy medium between leaving her unprotected
and making her fearful."

Again he took her hand. This time, she returned his clasp,
her fingers achingly tight.

"It looks to me like you've done just that," he said,
voice gruff.

"I don't know. Will I ever know?" she begged.

"About how she comes out? Sure you will. You can
already see the promise."

"And what about him? Do I have to wonder forever?"

"He might reoffend."

"Why hasn't he?" Frustration and anger filled her
voice. "If he did it, if he needs to do things like that with little
girls, how can he go years without?"

"I wish I could tell you." He shook his head.
"Maybe he has. Has he found friends for Zofie to play with when she's
there?" Seeing the appalled look on her face, Connor regretted mentioning
the possibility. "There might be neighborhood kids Zofie hasn't even met.
Is he doing some volunteer work?"

Her mouth opened and closed. "I don't know."

"Maybe Lily was … an experiment. Maybe he horrified himself,
and he's managed to suppress those kinds of impulses. There must be men out
there who feel some sexual response to children but who don't act on it, or
don't even acknowledge the feelings because they're so taboo. Simon could be
basically a decent man who, just once, gave in to curiosity."

"Is that possible?" she asked.

"Sure it is." He sighed. "I honestly don't
know, Mariah. Does anybody totally understand a pedophile? Tell me this—was he
ever sexually abused as a child, that you know of?"

"I don't… No. Wait." She frowned, thinking.
"There was a grandfather. He never said that he'd been a victim. Just that
his paternal grandfather was the kind of dirty old man the kids in the family
avoided whenever they could."

"Would he have admitted it if he had been abused?"

Slowly she shook her head. "I doubt it. He was—is—too
macho."

"The one common thread in the story of pedophiles is
that they were abused themselves as children."

"Yes, I know. I even told myself Simon couldn't be one
because he wasn't…" She gave a crooked, unhappy smile. "But I'd
forgotten. Maybe I didn't want to remember."

"Is there a family member of his you could ask?"

She thought. "Maybe. But does it matter now?"

"Probably not. It just might help settle the
issue." He moved his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe what we need to
do is quit flogging a dead horse, as long as Zofie is okay."