The House On Sugar Plum Lane. Judy Duarte

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      At this point, she realized it really didn’t matter who or what her rival was and broke eye contact long enough to clean up after the dog.

      Callie led her daddy toward the kitchen.

      As soon as Amy had thrown away the tissue and wipes and washed her hands, she joined them next to the refrigerator, where the child’s artwork was displayed.

      Callie was pointing to her latest masterpiece, a sheet of red construction paper on which she’d glued a hodgepodge of scraps: material, buttons, and yarn.

      “It’s pretty,” Brandon told her. “Did you cut all those pieces by yourself?”

      “Uh-huh. And I glued them, too.”

      “I also like this one.” Brandon turned to a sheet of paper on which Callie had drawn a picture of her family.

      “This is me and Mommy and Cookie,” she said, pointing to the three figures that took up the left side of the paper. “And this one over here is you.” She pointed to a rather small, nondescript stick man whose only claim to fame was a big red smiley face.

      Amy knew that teachers, therapists, and social workers sometimes analyzed the pictures children drew. She hadn’t needed any kind of degree in art psychology to see that the daddy figure in Callie’s picture was small, underdeveloped, and clearly separated from the others. But Callie had drawn similar sketches when they’d still lived together in the sprawling house in Mar Vista Estates, and Brandon had been noticeably detached, too.

      “Want to see my new shoes?” Callie asked her father.

      “Sure.” When the little girl dashed off, Brandon returned his focus to the family picture. “She’s got me smiling, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

      Before Amy could even consider a response, his cell phone rang. He looked at the display, then frowned. “I need to take this call.”

      Of course he did. He’d never received a phone call that he didn’t answer.

      Each time Amy felt herself weaken, each time she looked into Brandon’s apologetic eyes or listened to him make promises to do better, something like this would happen. And she’d be reminded of the day she’d finally told herself that enough was enough.

      She’d had a late hair appointment and her babysitter had canceled. There was a work-related dinner party that evening—a “command performance,” he’d called it. So she’d called him at the office. “I’m going to let Callie stay the full day at preschool, and the sitter can be at our house by seven. But will you please pick her up on your way home?”

      “Sure.”

      “I can ask Stephanie to do it if you’re going to be too busy….”

      “It’s okay. I need to get home early so that I have time for a shower.”

      “You’ll need to make sure you get to the school before six,” she’d added, “because the afternoon director is going on vacation and has a plane to catch. She’ll need to leave on time today.”

      “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

      Amy had gotten home at a quarter to seven and found Brandon already dressed and talking on his cell phone. He ended the call, then smiled. “Your hair looks great, honey.”

      She’d only been able to appreciate the compliment for a second because he glanced behind her and asked, “Where’s Callie?”

      “No!” she’d shrieked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t pick her up.” She’d rushed to the phone, only to see the red light on the answering machine flashing.

      There’d been two calls from Kathy Webber, the director, asking where Amy was, each one getting a little more panicky. Then a third, telling her she’d had to drop off Callie at the home of another teacher who lived near the school, a new hire Amy had never met.

      “I can’t believe this,” Amy had said, her voice a couple of octaves higher. “You forgot to pick her up! What kind of father forgets his own child?”

      “I’m sorry, honey. I was busy, and…it just slipped my mind.”

      Had Callie been left in the care of someone she’d known, someone she’d been comfortable with, Amy might have been annoyed with Brandon instead of furious. But by the time she’d arrived at the new teacher’s house, her daughter had been sobbing hysterically.

      “Mommy!” she’d cried before racing across the room and flinging her arms around Amy in desperation. “I thought you died and went to Heaven, just like Grammy. And I was scared that nobody would find me. And that I would be all alone forever and ever.”

      “She’s been inconsolable ever since Miss Kathy left,” the teacher had said. “I’m so glad you finally got here. I didn’t know what to do.”

      Maybe Amy’s grief after having just lost her own mother had fired her up. Maybe all the times Brandon had failed to call home or show up at a family event, all the times he’d let her down or disappointed her, came crashing in on her, too. But that no longer mattered.

      Amy had scooped her daughter into her arms, held her tight and swayed back and forth, softly shushing her. “I love you, sweetheart. And I promise that I’ll never let anything like this happen to you again.”

      And she wouldn’t.

      Brandon’s final act of abandonment, which might have traumatized his daughter for life, had been the last straw.

      Once Amy had returned to the house with Callie, she’d told Brandon that he would have to attend the dinner party alone. And by the time he’d gotten home, she’d packed her bags.

      “I hate this house and all it represents,” she’d told him. “So don’t worry about me wanting to keep it in the settlement. I’ll take the condo in Del Mar.”

      “You want a divorce because I made a mistake?” he’d asked.

      He’d made a lot of mistakes.

      How could a man forget his own daughter? she’d asked herself time and again.

      Clearly, Brandon Masterson had never been cut out to be a father. Some men weren’t.

      Maybe some women hadn’t been meant to be mothers, either.

      Her thoughts drifted to Barbara Rucker, who’d grown up in the house on Sugar Plum Lane. There could be a hundred reasons why she’d given up her baby girl in September of 1966. Maybe she’d been young and unmarried. Maybe she’d been unable to care for a child, not just unwilling.

      Time, Amy supposed, and a little snooping would tell.

      She just hoped she wouldn’t regret stirring up the past.

      Chapter 2

      That same night, next door to the old Rucker house on Sugar Plum Lane, Maria Rodriguez knelt beside the tub and watched her three-year-old son play with his Winnie-the-Pooh bath toys.

      “Boing, СКАЧАТЬ