Handprints. Myrna Temte

and that,

      And often make a mess.

      But gee, I always have such fun,

      ’Cause, Mommy, you’re the best.

      You always love my pictures,

      My mud pies are great art.

      So please don’t clean these handprints up,

      I made them for your heart.

      Jack cleared his tight throat and rubbed one hand down over his face, wiping a trace of dampness from his eyes. Damn. The photo, the handprints and the poem were all so sweet and sentimental, Gina would have cried buckets over them. He set the paper on the desk and pushed it to one side.

      Kitty had wanted to give it to Ms. Walsh. If Ms. Walsh had accepted it, he never would have seen it. Suddenly he felt as if he didn’t even know his own daughter anymore. He could understand that she might need to have a female role model, but of all the women in the world for Kitty to latch on to, Ms. Walsh would be dead last on his list. She was too emotional. Too bossy. Too…well, just too convinced she was right about everything.

      Oh, yeah? And who would be first on your list?

      He wanted to tell that mocking inner voice to shut up, but he knew from experience that it wouldn’t leave him alone until he answered the damn question. So, who would be first on his list? There was always his mother. Unfortunately, she lived in Texas, and Kitty only saw her for about a week once a year. It was the same story with Gina’s mother, who lived in New York City.

      Since his two brothers were still bachelors and Gina had been an only child, there were no doting aunts for Kitty. He didn’t mix his private life with his professional one, which let out his co-workers. There were no girlfriends; he wasn’t even interested in dating yet.

      Who did that leave? Millie Patten? Well, Millie had her good points, but she was a little old for Kitty to identify with and she could be awfully pushy sometimes.

      All right, so now Kitty’s attachment to the teacher made more sense. When he’d seen her at work with her students, he had to admit that Ms. Walsh’s enthusiasm made learning fun. She was generous with attention, encouragement and praise. Her love for kids was so genuine, they all responded to her.

      He also had to admit he respected Ms. Walsh for coming all the way out here to apologize to him. He even thought her bringing the cookies and the learning targets had been a nice touch. If she had left it at that, things would have been fine.

      But she hadn’t done that. No, she’d come inside, made herself at home, criticized him for sending his daughter to bed, and then had the nerve to call Kitty an overly polite, sad little ghost.

      Determined to put Ms. Walsh out of his mind, he piled up the learning targets and the Mother’s Day gift, thumped them down on a bookcase and went back to his desk. He picked up the file he’d been working on, read the first page, then realized he hadn’t digested a single word, slammed it shut and strode back to the family room, muttering choice expletives to himself.

      It only took a minute to find the old box of family videotapes. He shoved the first tape into the VCR, braced himself as best he could and pushed the play button.

      “Over here, sweetheart. Look at Mommy.”

      Gina’s voice sounded so real on the videotape, Jack almost expected to turn his head and see her sitting beside him. When he hadn’t been certain he could go on without her for one more second, much less one more day, he’d watched these videos and pretended she was sitting beside him. He’d talked to her about anything and everything, until he finally realized that he’d rather live in his pretend world with Gina than in the real world with their daughter. Their daughter who needed him.

      “Okay, Kitty, sing your song for Daddy,” Gina said.

      A three-year-old Kitty posed for the camera. When Gina again coaxed her to sing her song, the little imp rolled her eyes like an exasperated teenager, then sang—well, she shouted more than she sang, but what could anyone reasonably expect from a three-year-old?

      “I’m a wittwe teapot, shote and stout.”

      Jack smiled and shook his head at the trouble Kitty had once had pronouncing her L’s and her R’s.

      She jammed one hand on her hip. “Hewe is my handwe.” She flopped her other hand out to the side. “And hewe is my spout. When I get all steamed up, then I shout.” Kitty bent at the waist, leaning toward her “spout.” “Tip me ovew and pouw me out.”

      “Wonderful,” Gina said, zooming in for a close-up of Kitty’s face. “Say hi to Daddy.”

      “Hi, Daddy! I wove you!” Kitty shouted, mugging for the camera again.

      Jack watched the rest of that tape and the next one and the next, but long before the last one ended, he knew he had to face some hard truths he hadn’t wanted to see because they meant he was failing Kitty.

      Dammit, Ms. Walsh was right. He hadn’t wanted her to be right about anything, because he couldn’t bear the thought of watching Kitty suffer in therapy the way she had before. That was why he’d found Ms. Walsh so irritating, why he didn’t want Kitty to like her so much, why he’d fought accepting her suggestions the way he should have done.

      He’d been doing his best with Kitty, but his best wasn’t good enough. Not even close.

      She didn’t look or act like the same child anymore, and the change had nothing to do with the age difference. The adorable, funny, happy child in the videotapes was the real Kitty, not the pale, skinny, tired little girl he’d come home to tonight. His Kitty was the one who shouted, “I wove you, Daddy,” and held out her little arms for a huge hug.

      Jack leaned forward and put his face in his hands. Dear God, he wanted her back. He wanted her to be noisy and laugh and run around like a demented creature. He wanted her to wear him out with her demands of “Do it again, Daddy,” the way she had that day at the lake when he’d kept tossing her into the water until she was breathless and his arms had ached.

      How on earth had he let things come to this?

      “Aw, dammit, Gina,” he swore, swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’m doing it all wrong, and I don’t know how to make it right.”

      He turned off the TV and VCR, then sat there in the quiet of the family room with his burning eyes shut and his head pounding with questions he couldn’t answer. What was he supposed to do now?

      Gina had always done what was right for Kitty. So what would she do for their daughter in this situation? “Come on, Gina, tell me what to do,” he whispered, burying his face in his hands and trying to form a mental picture of his wife.

      Unfortunately, the image that appeared in his mind was all wrong. Instead of Gina’s short black hair and loving dark eyes, Ms. Walsh’s blond ponytail and accusing green eyes appeared before him. Her steady gaze held pity for him, but if the image could speak, he suspected it would call him an idiot or worse.

      He knew what he had to do, but his gut knotted and an automatic protest sprang to his lips. Ask Ms. Walsh for help? No way. Even the idea made him shudder, but he had no other choice.

      His number-one priority was taking care of Kitty. No matter how much he hated doing it, it wouldn’t kill him to swallow his pride. He’d call Ms. Walsh first thing on Monday morning.

      If you wait, certainly you’ll find a way to justify not calling her.

      Muttering “All right, all right,” Jack looked up Ms. Walsh’s phone number and dialed it. The phone rang three times, and only then did he think to look at the clock. Damn. It was after midnight. Just as he was about to hang up, she answered.

      “Hello?”

      He felt like a jerk, but since he had her on the line, he might as well get this done. “Ms. Walsh, this is Jack Granger.”

      “What time is it?” Her voice was soft and slurry with sleep,