snack.
“How was school?” Claire asked.
“Good,” Amy signed, then switched to voice. “We practice speaking,” she said slowly. “Practice every day.”
“Can you hear anything?” Claire asked.
“Tone. Not words.”
“What if I yell really loud?”
Amy giggled, then signed, “I’m deaf.”
Claire couldn’t imagine not hearing. Memories of music she’d played filled her head, making her ache to be at the keyboard again. Her fingers curled into her palms. How could she both love and hate playing at the same time? No matter how she filled her day, the nagging sense of needing to practice haunted her. Yet the thought of sitting down at a piano made her chest tighten with the first whispers of a panic attack.
“Were you always deaf?” Claire asked.
Amy nodded, then moved her hands, signing what Claire assumed was
“I’m lucky,” the girl continued, both signing and speaking. “I can hear a little. Some don’t.”
“Do you feel sound?” Claire asked, hitting her chest with the palm of her hand. “In your body?”
“Music. I feel music.”
She wondered if Amy would be able to feel her play. If putting her hands on the piano would produce enough vibration. Would she be able to tell the difference between notes? Would she recognize the difference in pieces? Would a concerto feel differently than a Broadway show tune?
She was about to suggest they experiment when she remembered that she didn’t play anymore. She’d just been panicking a minute before. Why was it so easy to forget she wasn’t that person anymore?
They finished their ice cream and went to the bookstore. Amy helped her pick out a couple of basic cookbooks.
“Now I can cook dinner,” Claire said.
Amy nodded and flipped through the book. She pointed to a meat loaf recipe.
Claire read the list of ingredients. It didn’t look hard.
“For tonight?” she asked.
Amy nodded.
The recipe suggested mashed potatoes and carrots. Under vegetables she actually found a recipe for mashed potatoes and a chart that told her how long to steam carrots. It was a miracle.
“Grocery store?” she asked Amy.
The girl smiled at her. “I know where.”
They made their way to a grocery store, with Amy giving great directions. Claire chuckled as she wondered who was babysitting whom.
They gathered potatoes, carrots, an onion, found the hamburger, although Claire was momentarily stumped by the different kinds. She bought the one that cost the most and hoped it was right.
“Your daughter is so pretty,” an older woman said as she walked past them. “She has your eyes.”
The comment surprised Claire, but she smiled. “Thank you. She looks a lot like her dad.”
“I’m sure he’s a handsome man.”
Claire thought about the last time she’d seen Wyatt. He’d been on the landing, in Nicole’s house. As usual, he’d been frustrated by her. She wasn’t sure why she pushed all his buttons; she certainly wasn’t trying.
“He’s pretty cute,” she admitted.
The woman smiled and moved on.
Amy touched Claire’s arm. “What did she say?”
“She thought you were my daughter. She said we had the same eyes.”
Amy studied her for a second, then raised her hand, fingers together, thumb across her palm. “Blue,” she said, wiggling her hand back and forth.
Claire repeated the sign. They did both have blue eyes, and they were blond, she thought. Amy was lucky-her beautiful color was natural while Claire’s required a touch-up and highlights every four weeks.
“My mom is gone,” Amy said. “She moved away.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire signed.
Amy shrugged, then looked at the list, as if it didn’t matter.
They continued their shopping. Claire found herself wondering about Amy’s mom. Who could have left this child behind? Who could have left family?
That’s what Claire wanted while she was here-to reconnect with Nicole and Jesse. To belong somewhere. She also wanted-hoped-she could find someone of her own to love. A man who would care about her, love her, want to marry her. What she couldn’t decide was whether or not she had a manageable goal or a stupid dream that was never going to come true.
THEY MADE IT BACK to the house by four-thirty. Amy helped Claire unload the car, then she dashed up the stairs to visit with Nicole. Claire set all the food they’d bought on the counter, turned on the oven and opened the recipe book. As the meat loaf took nearly an hour to cook, she would start with that.
She combined and measured and stirred until she had everything mixed together, then dumped it into a loaf pan and smoothed the top. She slid the meat loaf into the preheated oven and set the timer.
The potatoes were next, she thought as she pulled out the bottle of red wine she’d bought. Then the carrots. She’d even bought a little bag of brown gravy mix.
She was making dinner by herself. Something she’d never done in her life. This, after working at the bakery nearly eight hours, babysitting Amy, hitting the mall and going grocery shopping. It had been a regular day. Totally normal.
She found a corkscrew and opened the bottle. After pouring herself a glass, she held it up, as if toasting herself.
“To fitting in,” she whispered. “And being just like everyone else.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WYATT LET HIMSELF into the house. He was later than he’d expected to be, having spent the last two hours explaining why adding a window at this point in the construction wasn’t going to be as easy as they made it look on the home improvement channel. He was tired, he was pissed off and the last thing he wanted was to see Claire.
It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her help with Amy. He did. Nicole’s unexpected surgery had illustrated that he depended on his friend too much for babysitting. He needed a couple of backup plans. Claire had filled in during an emergency, which was great, but now he had to see her. And seeing her meant wanting her.
He didn’t know what combination of her chemistry and his made him so attracted to her, but there it was. An annoying need to claim her whenever they were together and way too much time spent fantasizing about her naked, wet and begging when they weren’t. It was worse than being a teenager again. Back then, his desire had been vague, due to his lack of experience. But now he was very specific with what he wanted and he could imagine it in high-definition detail.
He walked into the living room and saw Claire and Amy sitting next to each other on the sofa. Claire signed something and Amy laughed, then shook her head. Claire finger spelled
She jumped to her feet and ran toward him. He caught her and pulled her up into his arms.
“Hey, baby girl,” he said. “How’s the best part of my day?”
They hugged, then he put her down and she began signing frantically. He watched carefully to follow the conversation.
“You got an A on your math test? Good for you. Uh-huh. Tacos for lunch sound good. The mall?” He glanced at Claire, then back at his daughter. “Yes, we can talk about new jeans.”
