The Promise of Christmas. Tara Quinn Taylor

“What did you say?” she whispered.

      “I told him you and your mother are good people and that the color of his or Kayla’s skin would not make any difference to you at all. And I told him I liked his hair because it reminded me of his dad, whom I miss very much.”

      She wiped at the tears sliding down her cheeks. “And you think you aren’t father material?” she asked him before she remembered she wasn’t going to say anything he might construe as pressure to take custody of her nephew. An unwanted guardianship wouldn’t be fair to him, or to Jonathan.

      “I have no idea where the words came from,” Kip said.

      Silence fell for a moment. The bell over the door tinkled again and a man in his early twenties, wearing jeans and a black parka, took a seat at the bar. If he was looking for some action, he’d come to the wrong place.

      “My home is…impersonal,” Kip said next. “Decorated by a professional, cleaned once a week by a professional.”

      Was he considering this, then? Her heart pounded heavily.

      “I hardly think a child’s happiness would be irreparably damaged by either of those factors.”

      “It’s in a gated community that doesn’t allow children.”

      Well, that could present a problem.

      “Kip?” She wasn’t ready for this. But then, she’d hardly been ready for most of the big events in her life. Starting with her father’s death.

      He glanced up at her, his brows raised. He wasn’t classically handsome, but there was something about Kip that had captured her heart at twelve or thirteen and pretty much never let go.

      Not that she was the only girl whose heart had been affected by him. Kip’s list of women could rival that of Hawkeye Pierce from all the MASH reruns she used to watch when her roommates were out partying. An especially exciting weekend for her was those thirty-six-hour MASH marathons a local cable station used to run.

      “I’ve been thinking….”

      He took a sip of what had to be warm beer. “What?”

      “I’d like us to talk to Jim Brackerfield. Find out if I can take both kids. I mean surely…” When it looked like he might interrupt, she rushed on. “If Cal gave me Kayla, the court would acknowledge that he found me a suitable parent.”

      “He gave you a little girl.”

      “I hadn’t pegged you for a sexist, Kip Webster.”

      “I’m not,” he said, scaring her with his seriousness. Things would go much easier for her if she had his cooperation on this.

      “Mothers raise boys all the time,” she reminded him.

      “Cal grew up without a father.” Kip’s voice had lost all compromise. She didn’t recognize this adamant, straight-faced man. “It was hard on him. A lot harder than you probably know,” he continued.

      She’d bet her life he was wrong on that one.

      “He doesn’t want that for his son.”

      “Surely he’d prefer it to foster care.”

      He motioned for another round of drinks, waiting while their glasses were removed and replaced. Then, after a long swallow, he continued.

      “I did some reading on the Internet this afternoon.”

      He’d been in her mother’s home office when she’d come down from speaking with Nancy.

      “Like you said before, one of the most dangerous, life-damaging challenges biracial children face is a sense of not belonging anywhere. They’re often unable to feel completely part of one culture or the other. They can suffer terrible insecurities and even self-loathing that sometimes leads to a life of bitterness. Their belief systems can be shakier. I mean, think of it…” He paused for a second and Leslie stared at him. She’d thought about all of this in the past twenty-four hours, of course, but hadn’t worked out how to handle these challenges.

      Cal’s children were just that. Children. Her dead brother’s children. Her niece and nephew who needed love. Not black. Not white. Not mixed race. Just children.

      “…who are they on Martin Luther King day?” he continued after another sip of beer. “One of the people still fighting for equal rights, avenging their forefathers? Or one of those—like you and me—white race who feel guilt for the actions of people who lived before us, people whose actions were completely separate from us and over which we had no control?”

      “I don’t know.” They were children. First and foremost. They needed a home. Security. Love. It was all she could take on at the moment. “You make it sound so hopeless.”

      “It’s not hopeless.” He reached across the table, took her hand. “In all the accounts that I read today—and I read about a hundred firsthand accounts on some blogs I found—the insecurities commonly felt by children of mixed heritage can be effectively counteracted within a strong family unit.”

      Did that mean he wouldn’t fight her if she tried to keep Jonathan out of foster care? Reading him as though he were an important investor, Leslie remained quiet. Waiting.

      Or maybe she was just too scared to speak.

      “I…” He stopped, glanced at her, and she almost started to cry again when she saw his obvious emotional struggle. “I find that I can’t turn my back on them, either.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE WORDS WERE the last thing Leslie had expected—at least once she’d prepared herself to take this on all by herself, even though she had no idea how she’d pull it off. She’d been afraid to hope for anything different, had had to convince herself that going it alone was best….

      “You aren’t saying anything.”

      “I don’t know what to say.”

      “You don’t want me to take Jonathan?” he asked.

      The honest doubt in his eyes tore at her. “Of course I do!” she said, only then realizing he was still holding her hand. She gave his fingers a squeeze. “I’m just speechless. Relieved. Thrilled. I’ve spent the past eight hours trying to figure out how I was going to handle all of this alone….”

      Kip sat back. Withdrew his hand to pick up his beer mug. “I’m not so sure I’ll be much help.”

      “Just knowing that Jonathan’s being cared for, loved—”

      She broke off when he shook his head.

      “Didn’t you hear anything I said?” he demanded.

      “Of course I did.”

      “Jonathan needs more than my love, Les, he needs a family unit. A strong family unit. And I don’t think anyone would call separating him from his only sibling a way to go about creating a ‘strong family unit.’”

      She wished she hadn’t had any wine. She was struggling to keep up with him. That wasn’t typical for her.

      “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting. You live in Ohio. Your job is here. Mine is in Phoenix.”

      “Actually…” He sat forward again, both hands around the half-full mug of beer as he gazed at her from lowered lids. “The home office for my business is in Phoenix. I’d already been contemplating a move….”

      Her heart began to race. Sporting International. How could she have forgotten, even for a minute? She’d instructed Nancy just that afternoon on the necessary actions to ready themselves for the probable takeover. Would Kip lose his job if that happened?

      It wasn’t a question she could ask him—the takeover wasn’t something she could mention—not to an employee in a management position. Being charged with insider trading was a serious risk,