else?”
The waitress gazed at Sherry and smiled, her eyebrows lifting in silent query.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
Wondering if that was Beachtime Coffee’s polite way of saying “Hit the road, we need the table,” Sherry made a show of picking up her purse and getting ready to leave. Then she realized there were more tables empty now, and with a weariness born of anxiety, she sank back down.
Mandy, Mandy, Mandy …
Here it was. The one issue she’d never resolved. Mandy. Her daughter. Hers and J.J.’s. The child she’d given up for adoption and who now wanted to know both her parents.
Feeling older than she should, Sherry reached into her purse and pulled out the photograph she’d received eight days earlier. The girl in the picture wore a green army jacket that hung to her knees, her hair was plaited in two dark brown braids, her blue eyes stared straight ahead, unforgiving and painfully familiar. She’d shifted her weight to one hip and at thirteen she was the epitome of disillusioned youth.
She reminded Sherry so much of J.J. Beckett her throat hurt. Especially now, when his attitude toward her was so angry and distant. Amanda Craig. Mandy. Their daughter. The cool little rebel who’d dropped into Sherry’s life unexpectedly, having used a private investigator to search her out, and then had baldly demanded that she get to meet her father.
Apocalypse. The end of the world. Sherry’s shock, joy and heart-stopping thrill at meeting her own child were smashed by Mandy’s first cold words.
“So, you’re her,” she said in a peculiarly flat voice, as if she’d scrubbed all emotion from it — which she probably had. “You’re prettier than I expected. Younger, too.” When Sherry saw her standing beneath a flooding rain on her front porch, a black knit hat covering the top of her head, her braids dripping water, her mouth flat and unhappy, Sherry’s first though was, Whose miserable child is this? Her next: Holy God, she’s J.J.’s!
“What… what …” Sherry stammered.
“Bet you hoped you’d never see me, huh?” A sardonic flick of a pair of unusually sensual lips. Blankly, Sherry recognized a trait of her own. Her child, too!
“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. I just wanted to meet you face-to-face.”
Distracted and shocked, Sherry had stared in disbelief, too poleaxed to do more than gape in wonder at the daughter she’d borne. Mandy was a far cry from the sweet little bundle of love Sherry had envisioned all these years, but she was still so incredibly beautiful. When Sherry’s phone began to ring persistently, she didn’t even hear it.
But Mandy did. “That’s probably my mom and dad,” she announced blithely. “Tom and Gina Craig. I’m Mandy, by the way. And you’re Sherry, aren’t you?” As Sherry’s knees trembled wildly, Mandy added pragmatically, “Better get the phone. They don’t know where I am.”
And that was Sherry’s introduction to her and J.J.’s child.
Now, setting down the photograph and smoothing it with slightly unsteady fingers, Sherry reminded herself that she was here on a mission. Mandy had crashed into her life, and her well-meaning adoptive parents, the Craigs, seemed to be almost as undone about it as Sherry. Clearly they’d fought their daughter’s demands to meet her birth mother; just as clearly, they’d lost the battle. Later, when they came to Sherry’s apartment, they eyed her with distrust and fear and a bit of empathy because Mandy was a handful, to say the least.
But before their arrival Mandy had already made an indelible impression on her mother. She’d stepped into Sherry’s life as if it were her right, which in a way, it was. But there was no cautiousness in Mandy, no need to tentatively pick her way through the minefield of emotion her sudden appearance had wrought on both the Craigs and Sherry. She simply didn’t give a damn.
A bit of Patrice Beckett there, too, Sherry thought with faint humor.
“You had
The waitress gazed at Sherry and smiled, her eyebrows lifting in silent query.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
Wondering if that was Beachtime Coffee’s polite way of saying “Hit the road, we need the table,” Sherry made a show of picking up her purse and getting ready to leave. Then she realized there were more tables empty now, and with a weariness born of anxiety, she sank back down.
Mandy, Mandy, Mandy …
Here it was. The one issue she’d never resolved. Mandy. Her daughter. Hers and J.J.’s. The child she’d given up for adoption and who now wanted to know both her parents.
Feeling older than she should, Sherry reached into her purse and pulled out the photograph she’d received eight days earlier. The girl in the picture wore a green army jacket that hung to her knees, her hair was plaited in two dark brown braids, her blue eyes stared straight ahead, unforgiving and painfully familiar. She’d shifted her weight to one hip and at thirteen she was the epitome of disillusioned youth.
She reminded Sherry so much of J.J. Beckett her throat hurt. Especially now, when his attitude toward her was so angry and distant. Amanda Craig. Mandy. Their daughter. The cool little rebel who’d dropped into Sherry’s life unexpectedly, having used a private investigator to search her out, and then had baldly demanded that she get to meet her father.
Apocalypse. The end of the world. Sherry’s shock, joy and heart-stopping thrill at meeting her own child were smashed by Mandy’s first cold words.
“So, you’re her,” she said in a peculiarly flat voice, as if she’d scrubbed all emotion from it — which she probably had. “You’re prettier than I expected. Younger, too.” When Sherry saw her standing beneath a flooding rain on her front porch, a black knit hat covering the top of her head, her braids dripping water, her mouth flat and unhappy, Sherry’s first though was, Whose miserable child is this? Her next: Holy God, she’s J.J.’s!
“What… what …” Sherry stammered.
“Bet you hoped you’d never see me, huh?” A sardonic flick of a pair of unusually sensual lips. Blankly, Sherry recognized a trait of her own. Her child, too!
“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. I just wanted to meet you face-to-face.”
Distracted and shocked, Sherry had stared in disbelief, too poleaxed to do more than gape in wonder at the daughter she’d borne. Mandy was a far cry from the sweet little bundle of love Sherry had envisioned all these years, but she was still so incredibly beautiful. When Sherry’s phone began to ring persistently, she didn’t even hear it.
But Mandy did. “That’s probably my mom and dad,” she announced blithely. “Tom and Gina Craig. I’m Mandy, by the way. And you’re Sherry, aren’t you?” As Sherry’s knees trembled wildly, Mandy added pragmatically, “Better get the phone. They don’t know where I am.”
And that was Sherry’s introduction to her and J.J.’s child.
Now, setting down the photograph and smoothing it with slightly unsteady fingers, Sherry reminded herself that she was here on a mission. Mandy had crashed into her life, and her well-meaning adoptive parents, the Craigs, seemed to be almost as undone about it as Sherry. Clearly they’d fought their daughter’s demands to meet her birth mother; just as clearly, they’d lost the battle. Later, when they came to Sherry’s apartment, they eyed her with distrust and fear and a bit of empathy because Mandy was a handful, to say the least.
But before their arrival Mandy had already made an indelible impression on her mother. She’d stepped into Sherry’s life as if it were her right, which in a way, it was. But there was no cautiousness in Mandy, no need to tentatively pick her way through the minefield of emotion her sudden appearance had wrought on both the Craigs and Sherry. She simply didn’t give a damn.
A bit of Patrice Beckett there, too, Sherry thought with faint humor.
“You had
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