The Wrong Man. Laura Abbot

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      “I used to.”

      “When was that?”

      “Before Mommy went to the cementery.”

      Trent turned his head away and Libby picked up the girl’s hands. “Honey, did you read to your mommy?”

      “Yes.”

      “And was she proud of you?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Do you think she’d want you to give up?”

      Kylie swiped an arm across her nose. “No,” she said in a little voice.

      “I have an idea. Can you come to school early tomorrow?”

      Trent nodded quickly.

      “I guess,” Kylie said.

      Praying her idea would work, Libby grasped Kylie’s hands even tighter. “We’ll practice reading together before the other children come—just the way you used to read to your mommy. Could you do that?”

      In the silence that followed, Mona jumped from Kylie’s lap onto the table and began sniffing at the leftover crust. Libby never took her eyes from Kylie’s. Trent scooped up the cat.

      Finally the girl spoke. “I think so. I don’t have a mommy now, but if I ever get a new one, I want her to be just like you, Miss Cameron.”

      Libby caught Kylie to her in a hug she wished would last forever. She didn’t dare examine her feelings—or look at Trent.

      Setting Mona on the floor, Trent stood, clearing his throat. “I’ll have her there at seven-thirty.”

      “Daddy, do we have to leave?”

      “Sure do, sweetie. I need to get you to bed if you’re going to be bright-eyed at the crack of dawn. What do you say to Miss Cameron?”

      “Thank you for letting us come, and ’specially for Mona. She’s a super cat.”

      “Why don’t you tell her goodbye while I get your coats?”

      Kylie dashed off to the living room, where Mona had scampered. Libby moved quickly to the closet, extracting their parkas. When she turned around, Trent laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re great with her, Lib. I appreciate that.”

      “She’s easy to like.”

      “I, uh…” He paused, his eyes clouded. “I know this probably isn’t the time or place, but here goes. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you back…well, you know when. I wasn’t there for you the way I should’ve been. I said some terrible things.”

      Libby’s knees shook and she felt hollow inside. “What’s done is done. We’ve both moved on.” She was pretty sure he wanted her to tell him she’d forgiven him, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, “I’ll take good care of Kylie.”

      “I know you will.” He was staring at her with an intensity that aroused feelings she was reluctant to identify, then finally turned away. “Kylie, time to leave.”

      After they’d left, Libby couldn’t move. Rooted to the spot, resting her forehead against the closed door, she thought she might be sick. Sorry? He’d said he was sorry? Was he seeking forgiveness now? Damn him!

      Entwining her arms around her abdomen, she finally made it to the rocking chair, knowing that nothing—nothing at all—could salve the wound he’d opened up.

      She couldn’t have said how long she sat there. It might have been mere minutes—or hours. The repetitive to-and-fro of the rocker failed to soothe her. She was way beyond soothing.

      She should have been rocking a baby. His baby.

      Impelled by a force beyond herself, she rose and moved toward her bedroom, knowing on the one hand the act was masochistic, but on the other, inevitable. She knelt on the braided wool rug, her heartbeat a mournful thud, then, with trembling hands, raised the lid of the cedar chest. The aromatic fragrance nearly gagged her.

      She could stop now. She didn’t have to do this. But instinct was deaf to reason. Burrowing beneath sheets, tablecloths and out-of-season clothing, she found the hardcover volume, long buried.

      Blind, futile rage enveloped her as she wrested the book from the depths of the cedar chest, oblivious to the disorder left behind.

      By the soft light of the bedside lamp, she forced herself to read the title that her fingers involuntarily traced. “My Baby Book.”

      Clasping this journal of dashed hopes to her chest, she carried it to the bed, where she perched on the edge like a sleepwalker recently aroused. She flipped to one of the first pages, filled with her own handwriting. “How Mommy Told Daddy About Me.” Then, “Mommy’s First Visit to the Doctor.” And finally to the stark white, blank pages—screaming loss—after “Mommy’s Third Month.”

      Her throat worked in spasms but she refused to cry. She had shed enough tears to last a lifetime, and they had changed nothing.

      How dare Trent reenter her life? How dare he bring that precious, beautiful daughter of his to break her heart? And how could her body have betrayed her? Good Lord, for a brief moment this evening, she’d been aware of him in an intimate, sensual way.

      She stared at the book in her lap, knowing that from this moment on, it would serve as a potent reminder. Trent was no part of her life. He had long ago given up any claim on her.

      He had never understood how she felt. He’d even been cavalier. To him it was “just a miscarriage.” To her, a loss beyond bearing.

      Now he had his child. She had no one.

      For him, it had been a simple matter. She would never forget his words that awful day when she couldn’t stop sobbing, when nothing could stanch her pain and grief. “It’s not the end of the world, Lib. We can always have another baby.”

      No, he hadn’t been there for her. That same day, love died.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      TRAPPED IN AN UNDERTOW of guilt, Trent concentrated on his driving, focusing on every intersection, each curve in the road.

      “Daddy, did you see how Mona curled up in my lap? She has the softest fur and I love petting her. ’Course, I love Scout. Dogs are my favorites, but cats are…”

      Kylie had jabbered nonstop ever since they left Libby’s. His role, limited to nodding occasionally or muttering a well-timed “Uh-huh,” left him too much time to think. To remember.

      Libby’s euphoria when the home pregnancy test had turned up positive. The way she had welcomed morning sickness as a harbinger of the new life within her. Her ecstatic plans for turning their tiny second bedroom into a colorful nursery. How nearly every conversation had revolved around possible baby names.

      That wasn’t all he remembered.

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