One Man's Promise. Diana Whitney

way she can continue to participate with her friends, and isn’t made to feel different.”

      “But she is different,” Richard noted, stunned that the girl’s parents would allow such strenuous activity. “She’s a very sick child.”

      “Yes, she is.” C.J. grasped the towel hem with both hands, shifted her stance to angle a sideways glance at Richard. “Even sick children need to belong. They need friends, and fun, and the joy of accomplishment.”

      “They need care and treatment.” The response was more forceful than intended, although C.J. neither flinched nor disputed it.

      “I require a medical release from all my students,” she said. “If a child has special needs, I consult with his or her physician on a lesson plan that is within medical guidelines.” Snapping the draped towel, she suddenly spun to face him with a gaze so acute he squirmed at its intensity. “But I suspect you didn’t drive all the way across town to discuss dance lessons.”

      “Ah, no.”

      Her eyes widened. “Is Rags all right? Oh, God, the skateboard. There’s been an accident, hasn’t there? Is it bad?” She flung the towel away, dashed to a coatrack in the foyer. “Where is he, what vet hospital do you use—?”

      “There hasn’t been an accident.” Richard caught up with her at the front door, grasped her elbow as she was struggling into her jacket. “Rags is fine.”

      Her arms fell limp, her eyes filled with relieved moisture. “He’s not hurt?”

      “No.”

      She touched her face, closed her eyes. “Thank God.” A shuddering sigh, a moment to compose herself, then she squared her shoulders, cast him a curious glance. “Then why are you here?”

      “Well, it does have to do with Rags, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

      

      Behind the closed doors of the tiny, cluttered office that had once been a janitorial closet, CJ. rested a hip on the edge of her wobbly desk, and frowned. “Let me get this straight, you’re offering me joint custody of Rags?”

      “Not exactly.” Richard jerked as the folding chair shifted, then leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees as if preparing to leap should the unsteady seating device suddenly collapse. “More precisely, I’m suggesting a visitation arrangement, specific schedules whereby you and Rags could, er, spend time together.”

      “And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

      He appeared stung by the inference. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not utterly devoid of feelings. Clearly, you’re fond of the animal and he, likewise, is fond of you.” His gaze darted, and the subtle slide of presumably damp palms over his slacks did not escape notice. “A change in ownership is traumatic for any pet. I thought regular visits might lessen his anxiety.”

      C.J. nodded. “Rags has stopped eating, hasn’t he?”

      Richard deflated before her eyes. “Yes.”

      “How long?”

      “Four days.”

      She sucked a shocked breath, let the air out with a hiss. “Four days? Why didn’t you tell me?”

      “I’m telling you now.” His gaze narrowed. “Has he done this sort of thing before?”

      She nodded absently, chewed her lip. “It’s his way of pouting.”

      “You could have warned me.”

      Flinching at the reproach, C.J. offered a limp shrug. “It didn’t occur to me. I mean, he’d already been with you for weeks and there hadn’t been a problem.” She raked her hair, wished the office was large enough for her to pace. “When can I see him?”

      Richard stood, smoothed the suit coat that made him look considerably more dapper than the saggy jogging suit he’d worn over the weekend. She had to admit he’d cleaned up nicely. Very nicely.

      He offered a brusque nod. “You can see him whenever it’s convenient.”

      “My last class ends at six. I could be at your place by half-past.” When another curt nod indicated the timing was acceptable, C.J. broached a more sensitive subject. “What does Lissa think of this arrangement?”

      With a pained shrug, he shifted to avoid her gaze. “Lissa loves Rags. She will do what is best for him.”

      As he reached for the doorknob, C.J. touched his wrist. Her fingertips brushed bare skin, tingled at a tickle of soft hair. “Thank you,” she whispered.

      His eyes darkened, black pupils expanding inside a ring of soft heather sage. For a long moment he said nothing, simply stared with an intensity that left her breathless. Then he blinked, nodded, opened the door and was gone.

      C.J. stood there, vaguely aware that her knees were trembling. She touched her mouth, transferred the tingling from her fingertips to her lips. In a sense, it was their very first kiss. It would not, she decided, be their last.

      

      Woman-and-dog reunion part deux was every bit as exuberant and joyful as the first had been. Rags shot out the front door barking madly, leapt into C.J.’s arms and covered her face with familiar wet kisses. C.J. laughed and sputtered, hugged his wriggling body so tightly it was a wonder the poor animal’s eyes didn’t bulge.

      Richard Matthews watched from the open doorway with a peculiar look on his face, while his clearly heartbroken daughter stared through the front window with wide and haunting eyes. The image was pitifully sad and sobering.

      C.J. gave Rags another hug, then whispered, “Go get your Frisbee.” The dog leapt down, dashed between Richard’s legs and disappeared into the house. Although C.J. spoke to Richard, she couldn’t take her eyes off the tearful child in the window. “I thought I’d take him for a run in the park, if that’s all right.”

      “That’s fine,” Richard murmured, but C.J. wasn’t listening. She was mesmerized by Lissa’s pale face, the small, quivering mouth and eyes filled with yearning for a childhood denied her.

      Just as childhood had once been denied another young girl. Images of the past marched through her memory, a thoughtful reflection of that other lonely youngster who’d watched from a sickroom window as her father and siblings played ball in the front yard. She remembered the pain, the longing, the resentment that festered into fury. She remembered the rage, the uncontrollable anger lashing out at those she’d loved the most.

      Most of all, she remembered the loneliness.

      Because C.J.’s own childhood, like little Lissa’s, had been one of isolation, medication and excessive parental protection. It had been a loving prison, but a prison nonetheless, and she’d spent her adult years overcoming—some would say overcompensating for all those lonely years and lost adventures.

      Now C.J. saw herself in the reflection of the sad child behind the window. She understood how it felt to read terror in a parent’s eyes, to be shunned by other children. To be different.

      She knew, she understood and her heart broke for that lonely little girl. And for this one.

      

      “It is an outrage.” Clearly furious, Thompson McCade tapped the bowl of his pipe on a crystal ashtray. “You disappoint me, Richard.”

      “I did what was necessary.”

      “Necessary?” The imposing man strode across the room, seated himself in the extravagant recliner that he’d claimed as his own, and bit down on the stem of the unlit pipe so hard his teeth clicked. He fumed a moment before removing the pipe and cradling the unlit bowl in his palm. “Since when is it necessary to put the superficial desires of a stranger above the needs of your own child? Allissa is devastated by your callous disregard of her feelings, Richard, and quite frankly, so am I. Melinda would be horrified—”