The Heart of Christmas by Kathryn Shay & Patricia McLinn & Judith Arnold

Author:Kathryn Shay & Patricia McLinn & Judith Arnold [Shay, Kathryn & McLinn, Patricia & Arnold, Judith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Romance, Anthologies, Contemporary, Collections & Anthologies, Holidays
Amazon: B00FPB6V9S
Published: 2013-10-06T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Four

CONOR COULD CALCULATE pretty much to the day the last time he’d been inside a preschool: a late-August morning four years ago, when Amy had been five. He’d taken the morning off from work and gone with Sheila to Amy’s “graduation” ceremony, at which Amy had been handed a helium balloon and a diploma featuring a border of gold stars and red hearts, declaring her the recipient of an ABC Degree. The school had been a bedlam of screeching children, spilled punch and proud parents snapping photos. At one point during the chaos, he’d turned to Sheila and said, “Let’s have another child.”

“We’ll see,” she’d hedged, clearly not wild about the idea. She’d wanted more time for herself. More time for her painting and her long-distance cycling. She’d started training in earnest once Amy was in kindergarten, and a year later she’d participated in her first 100-mile bike ride to raise money for diabetes research. He’d appreciated her civic-mindedness—to say nothing of the way all that cycling had toned her body—but he would have rather had a second child.

After another year, he’d persuaded her. And they’d been trying. They’d had a lot of great sex that year, which made her inability to conceive less than a tragedy, although it had been disappointment. Perhaps they should have started sooner. Perhaps all that biking had lowered her percentage of body fat too much. Perhaps one more try and they would have succeeded…if she hadn’t died.

The Children’s Garden reminded him of the preschool Amy had attended: an interior of bright colors, shelves stacked with books, toys and art supplies, and teeny-tiny furniture. No screeching children, though. He heard the rumble of men’s voices drifting toward the entry as he stood inside the front door, orienting himself and trying to shake his mental image of Eliza from his mind.

She’d insisted that he call her Eliza when she’d arrived at his house that morning. She’d been wearing jeans and her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Small gold hoops had adorned her ears, and the tip of her nose had been pink from the winter air. “Amy can call me Dr. Powell,” she’d said as Conor had greeted her at the front door. “But today I’m your babysitter. I think you should call me Eliza.”

Using her first name had seemed so personal. Brushing her shoulders with his hands as he’d helped her off with her coat had seemed even more personal. The scent of her shampoo, the vivid darkness of her eyes, the ease of her smile…

Daddy School, he firmly reminded himself as he gazed at the row of cubbies lining the entry, each one labeled with a name and equipped with a coat hook and a shelf.

A dark-haired sprite of a woman emerged from an office near the entry and scrutinized him, her smile measured. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Conor Malone. My friend Dennis Murphy told me about the Daddy School.”

Her smile relaxed. “Yes—welcome! Dennis mentioned you might be coming.” She gestured down the hall.

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