Father Christmas (14 page)

Relaxing obviously wasn’t something that
came naturally to John Russo. He arranged his lanky body on the
floor in the kitchen play area, propping his back against the toy
refrigerator and extending his long legs under the table. Molly
brought the tray of cheese, the bowl of green apple wedges and the
box of wheat crackers down onto the floor and sat facing him,
cross-legged, with the food between them. “There,” she said with a
smile. “Now it’s a real picnic.”

He almost smiled back. “What do you do
during the week when a kid crashes like Mike just did?”

“
We have nap time worked
into the schedule,” she said. “In his group, everyone sleeps. In
the Pre-K group, some of the kids have outgrown the need for a nap,
but they still have a rest time. Kids need their rest.”

She bit into a wedge of apple and inched
closer to John. She told herself she wanted to reduce the distance
between him and herself so they could keep their voices down and
avoid waking Michael. But the way Michael was sleeping, they
probably could have screamed louder than cheerleaders after a
touchdown without disturbing the child.

The truth was, she wanted to be closer to
John. She wanted to have less air between them, less of a buffer,
even though that buffer might be the only thing saving her from her
wayward desire.

It wasn’t fair that John should be so
handsome. Feature for feature, he wasn’t exactly a hunk. His face
was narrow, his chin too angular, his nose too long. And his
eyes—too guarded, too inscrutable. He wasn’t bulked up like a
body-builder. His hair was too short to make a statement but too
long to represent a style. And in his flannel shirt, black denim
jeans and boring leather chukka boots, he wasn’t going to be
mistaken for a fashion trendsetter.

Yet when had Molly ever given a damn about
style? She had no time for fashion trends. She couldn’t care less
if buff bodies were considered hot. John was lanky and
loose-limbed, and he was plenty hot enough, as far as she was
concerned. If a magazine hired him to pose for a centerfold, she
would be the first in line to buy a copy.

She mustn’t allow herself to think of him in
centerfold-terms. Even without Gail’s frantic warnings about cops
in general and John’s cold, precise testimony in particular, Molly
knew better than to nurture a crush on the father of a student at
her school. She had no business wanting to sit closer to him,
tucked into the cozy kitchen play area with him, munching on cheese
and apple wedges and contemplating the power of his gaze, the
soul-deep force of his rare smile. She had no business trying to
picture him sprawled out naked in the pages of a beefcake magazine.
Even if the vision her mind conjured was phenomenal.

That they were surrounded by miniature
chairs, a make-believe sink, a pink toy vacuum cleaner, plastic
cups, pots and pans, and empty egg cartons and oatmeal cylinders
helped her to regain her perspective. What with the bright lighting
and the high ceiling, the ambiance was about as unromantic as Molly
could imagine.

Just as well. She shouldn’t be thinking
about ambiance—or about romance. Right now she had an opportunity
to learn more about the Russo family. The more she knew, the more
she could help Michael. She ought to put this time to good use.

If only John wasn’t looking at her that way,
with his head back and his lids lowered. If only his legs weren’t
so long, his shoulders so broad. If only he didn’t have the sexiest
damned mouth she’d ever seen.

“
Did you find the Daddy
School class helpful?” she asked.

“
Yeah.”

Well, there was a real conversational
gambit. He nibbled on a handful of crackers and continued to gaze
at her, saying nothing.

“
Michael hasn’t had any
more outbursts this week,” she reported. “Amy says he’s really
working hard to keep himself together.”

John pressed his lips into a grim line. “I
wish he didn’t have to work hard at it.”

“
All young children do,”
she reassured him. “Even children who haven’t been through
everything Michael’s been through.”
Some adults have to
work at it, too,
she almost added. Just
because John had figured out a way to lock everything tight inside
him didn’t mean such self-containment was normal or particularly
healthy. If he and Michael could figure out a way to average each
other out, they’d both be a lot better off.

John regarded her curiously. “Is he the most
screwed up kid here?”

“
Oh, no. Not by a long
shot.” She grinned. “Which isn’t to say he’s the most well-adjusted
kid, either. But at least he knows where his home is, and he knows
his dad is going to be there for him every day. We’ve got all sorts
of unusual family situations represented in the school. We’ve got a
sister and brother who are being raised by their grandparents
because their parents are in jail. One of Michael’s friends is
being raised by his gay father and his partner. We’ve got a little
girl whose parents are in a vicious custody battle. The mother has
custody, and the father keeps threatening to snatch the girl and
run. Compared to that, Michael’s family life is pretty
stable.”

“
But that girl...both her
parents want her,” John pointed out.

The amazing thing about him was that the
harder he tried to rid his voice of emotion, the more emotion she
felt churning just below his cool surface. His tone was level, his
words laconic—but his eyes radiated a pain so fierce she could
almost feel it inside her.

Did he still love his ex-wife? she wondered.
Or did he despise the woman who had thrown his son’s life into
turmoil? Was there anyone else in the picture? Another woman poised
to take his wife’s place? Someone who might love Michael as much as
John did?

She dried her fingers on a napkin and
propped her chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her knees.
“You know,” she said gently, “the more you tell me about what’s
going on with him, the more we’ll be able to do for him here at
school.”

John’s eyes flashed with suspicion, which
was slowly replaced by acceptance. He nudged the plate of cheese
away, bent one leg and rested his arm across his knee. “What do you
need to know?”

She scrambled for a reply. She hadn’t
expected him to capitulate so easily. “Whatever you feel
comfortable telling me.”

A curt laugh escaped him. “I don’t feel
comfortable telling you anything,” he conceded.

“
Well—”

“
But for Mike’s sake...”
He raked his hand through his hair, his vision focused on some
distant point as he collected his thoughts. “I married his mother
because she was pregnant. It was the right thing to do, and I
thought we could make it work. But she wasn’t happy.”

Molly waited for more. Apparently, John
believed he’d told her everything she needed to know. When his
silence extended beyond a full minute, she said, “So your wife just
walked out?”

“
She found someone
else.”

Now it was Molly’s turn to collect her
thoughts. She could sort of imagine walking out on a man like John
Russo, a man so taciturn, so self-protective, a man who carried a
gun. But she couldn’t imagine leaving him for someone more
intriguing or attractive. She couldn’t imagine that a more
intriguing, attractive man existed.

Maybe John’s ex-wife had found someone
easier. That was an explanation Molly could believe. John was not
an easy man.

“
Nowadays,” she remarked,
observing the shadows shifting in his eyes and the hint of tension
in his jaw, “when a woman gets pregnant by accident, the guy is as
likely to run away as to marry her.”

“
Or the woman gets an
abortion,” he said. She was surprised; she’d thought it but chose
not to raise such a controversial subject. “That wasn’t right for
us, so we got married.” He shrugged.

“
You strike me as a very
responsible man,” she murmured, hoping she didn’t sound pompous or
patronizing.

He chuckled, a low, husky sound in his
throat. “Responsible. That’s me.”

She smiled uncertainly. “Share the
joke?”

He studied her, his eyes dark enough to
contain a world full of night. “I’ve got six brothers and sisters,”
he told her. “Some pull more weight than others. One of my brothers
is disabled. One had a drug problem for a while. A couple of them
were on their way to big things and couldn’t take care of the small
stuff.” He shrugged again. “I was one of the responsible ones.”

“
Michael is lucky you’re
his father.”

“
I’m responsible for him,
too.” He half-smiled, signaling that he meant the statement in more
than one way.

She was dying to ask him more about his
family, about how a clan with so many children moving in so many
directions could produce a man as solid and focused as John. But
her curiosity troubled her. She deliberately shut it down,
retreating to safer ground. “My sister said you testified against a
client of hers on Tuesday.”

“
Was that your sister?” He
nodded. “I wondered.”

“
That’s my sister. She’s
an attorney in the Public Defender’s office.”

He nodded again.

“
She said you were Mr.
Cool on the stand.”

He grinned. “Her guy is guilty.”

“
She thinks
otherwise.”

“
She’s wrong.”

He was as opinionated as Gail. Molly wasn’t
about to recite her sister’s arguments about how the police were
always overstepping their bounds, trampling all over the
Constitution to make an arrest.

She was tempted to ask more about his job,
but that would only remind her of Gail’s view of cops. Molly would
think about his gun, and she’d think about the good he did—in
catching pick-pockets—and the violence, however legitimate, he’d
employed to catch that pick-pocket.

Nor did she want to discuss Michael with
him, even though Michael was allegedly the reason she was asking
all these nosy questions. Her true interest was John. The kind of
father he was, the kind of man.

“
So, you’re responsible on
the stand, and you’re responsible with your son, and you’re
responsible with your brothers and sisters,” she summed up. “What
do you do when you’re not being responsible?”

The question seemed to stump him. “If you’re
asking whether I grab my revolver and shoot out street lights, no,
I don’t,” he said.

She wished he hadn’t mentioned his gun. But
now that he had, it reminded her of how tightly strung he was. No
one should have to be that responsible all the time. “I meant,” she
said, smiling in spite of his stern expression, “what do you do to
unwind? What do you do when you want to let go?”

He contemplated the question for a long
moment. “I don’t.”

“
You don’t let
go?”

“
I’ve got a kid. I’ve got
a job.”

“
You’ve got
responsibilities, I know. But you need to let go sometimes, John,
or you’ll burn out.”

His frown told her he wasn’t thrilled with
her advice. He glanced away, studying the music area across the
room from the play-kitchen. His brow creased and his mouth twisted
in a scowl. He wrestled with his thoughts until his temper
subsided; when he looked back at her, he appeared to be in complete
control, which was really rather unfortunate. He needed to lose
control, not cling to it so vehemently.

“
What do you suggest?” he
asked, his voice taut and hard, as if the words hurt him coming
out.

“
How about the foam pit?”
she asked, angling her head toward the end of the room where the
pit stood.

His frown returned, this time not angry as
much as bewildered. “What?”

“
The foam pit. Dive in and
jump around. It’ll do wonders for you.”

“
I don’t want wonders,” he
muttered.

But she was already on her feet, beckoning
for him to join her. If she could convince him to remove his shoes
and flail around in the pit, he would realize its therapeutic
value. Maybe he’d feel so much better afterward, he would have to
admit the value of cutting loose, and he’d find some more
appropriate way to blow off his tension.

He stood slowly, watching her with obvious
skepticism. Feeling his gaze on her, she strolled to the foam pit,
yanked off her sneakers, shoved down the rope-mesh fence and
climbed in. Her feet sank into the loose flooring of foam. Arms
akimbo, she grinned, daring him to join her.

He stared at her. Obviously, the mere idea
of entering the foam pit unnerved him.

Molly took a shaky step, her feet sinking
deeper into the foam rubber. It was like walking on a trampoline,
her legs wobbly. She dropped to her knees and sighed with pleasure.
The cushioning softness of the foam seemed to cradle her.

Peering up, she saw John take a hesitant
step toward the pit, another step—and then he halted. His mouth
shaped a taut, dubious frown.

“
Are you scared?” she
challenged him. Short of dragging him into the pit—a physical
impossibility, given how much bigger than her he was—she figured
the only way she could get him in was to goad him.

Without a word, he bent
over and tugged the leather laces of his boots. Once they were
untied, he wrenched them off his feet and straightened up. His eyes
remained hauntingly dark, so dark Molly could practically believe
he
was
scared. Not scared of
being swallowed by the pit but scared of letting loose and having
fun.

Grimly, as if braced for the most unpleasant
experience of his life, he swung one leg over the top of the mesh,
and then the other. He stood towering over her, glowering down at
her. “Now what?”