A Dad for Billie by Susan Mallery Page A

the softball into the air.
    If Jane hadn’t been present at Billie’s birth, she might have questioned whether or not this child was really hers. “Don’t throw that in the house,” she warned. “Why not just do what they say you can’t and show them up that way?”
    “Maybe.” She walked to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. “I’m hungry.”
    “I was just about to make lunch.”
    Billie peered inside the fridge. “Something good, okay?”
    “Are you insulting my cooking?”
    “Mo-om. I just thought we could forget about vegetables until dinner. It’s Friday.”
    “So?”
    “So, I just thought. You know. For a treat. How come we don’t have that center thing in our kitchen like Adam does?”
    Jane blinked at the quick change in subject. “Do you mean the island?”
    “Yeah.” Billie shut the fridge and stared around the room. “It has stools to sit at, like a restaurant counter. I eat there at breakfast.”
    “What?” Her heart lurched. “I thought you were visiting Charlene in the mornings before camp.”
    “Nope.” Billie smiled, unconcerned. “I went over there Monday, but she said she wasn’t a morning person and that I should have breakfast with Adam.”
    Jane felt faint. “You’ve been there every day this week?”
    “Yup.”
    She didn’t sound too panicky. Billie and Adam eating breakfast together? Every day? It was inconceivable. On Monday Billie had bounced out of bed, her normal cheerful self, and had asked if she could visit Charlene before camp. Jane had known the other woman would have shooed the girl away if she was being a pest—but never would she have imagined Charlene sending her to Adam. Here she’d been worried about him having a chance to get to know Billie and it was already happening right under her nose.
    “So, Mom, can we have a center island in our kitchen?”
    “We don’t have room here, honey.”
    Jane forced her thoughts away from father and daughter sharing a meal and studied the small room. Counters lined two walls, with a built-in stove in the middle of one and the sink in the middle of the other. Opposite the stove stood the refrigerator; opposite the sink, the old-fashioned Formica table with four matching vinyl chairs. She remembered that set from her childhood. The yellow, green-and-orange abstract shapes had reminded her of Crispy Critters breakfast cereal. Her mother had hated the set, but her father had picked it out, so she’d lived with it. Jane recalled that as she ate her solitary breakfast each morning,she used to make up stories about the imaginary animals running across the Formica tabletop.
    “But I like the island.” Billie tossed her ball in the air and caught it. “Maybe we could make the kitchen bigger.”
    Jane pulled off the cap and ruffled her daughter’s bangs. “One, don’t throw your ball inside. And two, we don’t have the money. Besides, it’s just the two of us. We don’t need more room. We already have three bedrooms.”
    “I like Adam’s house better.”
    So do I, Jane thought, thinking of the large graceful mansion built before the turn of the century. The inside had been modernized, but each room maintained an elegance that couldn’t be manufactured today. By comparison, her house was small and dark. Still, it was home to her. The price was right and when she got a couple of paychecks in the bank, she’d be able to make some changes. Her mother had often talked about remodeling. She’d even made some sketches of the new room layouts and had pinned swatches of carpet and wallpaper to the sheets. Jane’s father had vetoed the idea, telling his wife that her foolish plans were just a waste of time and money. Her mother had turned away without a word and the sketches had disappeared, never to be mentioned again.
    “It’s a nice house,” Jane said, pushing away her memories. “And ours will be, too. In time. Now you go play while I make lunch.”
    “What are we going to do this afternoon?”
    “What