Dance Away with Me(68)

Ian poured coffee.

“Wren smiled at me last night,” Jeff announced.

“She didn’t smile for me.” Diane’s curtness once again raised Tess’s spirits only to—once again—torpedo them. “But I haven’t forgotten how to burp a baby, and I do love the way she curled her hand around my finger.”

Wren had fallen asleep. In order to finish making breakfast, Tess would have to set her down. Or hand her back to her grandparents. Neither was acceptable. Nor was carrying her in the sling around a hot stove.

She slipped the baby into Ian’s arms. Mercifully, he didn’t protest, although he didn’t exactly look happy.

Her hollandaise was excellent, but the poached eggs were overcooked, and she’d charred the edges of the English muffins. Jeff was the only one who ate everything.

Tess barely touched her food. She was holding Wren again, treasuring her. Diane pushed her plate back from the edge of the table. “You probably think we’re hopelessly old-fashioned by insisting Wren be raised in a stable family, but I can’t bear thinking about her carrying around the same kind of scars I have.”

Tess chose her words carefully. “I’m not sure it’s fair to equate your experience with the experiences of other children of single mothers.”

“You’re right. Except . . . My mother had the best intentions, and I guarantee those intentions didn’t include falling under the influence of abusive men.”

“One thing I do know for certain,” Jeff said, “is that we all want what’s best for Wren. The legalities could take a while, but I think we can agree that it’s not in her best interest for us to wait until every t is crossed. She’s only a month old. We need to act quickly. Settle everything before she gets too attached.”

Tess started to tell them Wren was already attached, but Jeff wasn’t done. “Diane and I understand the adjustments we’ll have to make to raise a child at our age, but we’re more than willing to do it. It’s fortunate we can afford to hire help.”

“Help?” Tess straightened in her chair so abruptly that Wren offered up a mew of protest. “Are you talking about a nanny?”

“Not necessarily, but—”

Tess came out of her chair. “You think it’s best to rip Wren away from the only mother she’s known and give her to a nanny?”

Diane’s jaw set. “That’s not our intention, Tess. And maybe you should turn that question on yourself. Do you think it’s best for Wren to be raised by a struggling woman who, right now, seems to be jobless and whose plans for marriage are more than a little vague?”

“Your business, of course,” Jeff added hastily. “Diane and I aren’t judging your choices, except as they affect Wren.”

Tess spoke as firmly as she could manage. “The only reason our plans are vague is because we had no reason to hurry. Until now, that is.” She couldn’t look at Ian. Was this the moment he’d give her away?

Jeff turned to him. “I’ve done some more digging since your initial phone call. Your bio indicates you kicked up your heels quite a bit in your twenties.”

“It was more than kicking up,” Ian said flatly. “My family had disowned me. I was drinking too much, doing drugs, and living on the streets. I couldn’t hold a job, and I didn’t care about anything except leaving my mark on whatever flat surface drew my attention.”

“Your family wasn’t a family!” Tess declared. “You were lucky to get away from them.”

Jeff hadn’t blinked at Ian’s self-assessment. “I admire a man who faces up to his mistakes. And you’ve certainly made up for it, not only with your career, but with your charity work.”

What charity work? Tess wondered.

Ian was having none of it. “There’s no work about it. Writing checks is easy, hardly a mark of strong character.”

“You’re too modest,” Jeff said. “What about the time—not to mention money—you spend at those community art centers?”

One more thing she hadn’t known.

Ian frowned. “Whenever there are budget cuts, the arts are always the first target. More than a little shortsighted when they can be the only savior for kids in crisis.”

“That’s all commendable, but the Internet can’t tell us what’s most important.” Diane gazed toward her granddaughter, asleep in Tess’s arms. “We know how Tess feels about Wren, but what about you?”

“Ian loves Wren,” Tess asserted. “He’d do anything for her. He’s just more private about expressing his feelings.” She turned to him, silently pleading. “You couldn’t find a better father.”

His eyes met her own. This was it. He couldn’t sidestep any longer. Sure enough, he rose from the table and went upstairs. Abandoning her. Abandoning Wren.

It was over. He’d had enough. She blinked her eyes. Swallowed. She put Wren to her shoulder, not looking at Diane or at Jeff.

She heard the clank of metal as Diane set her silverware on her plate. Jeff cleared his throat. Wren squeaked in her sleep. And then footsteps on the stair treads as Ian returned.

He’d brought one of his sketchbooks. He set it on the table in front of them and opened it to a pencil drawing of Wren asleep in Tess’s arms. He flipped to the next page. Wren howling. Another page. Wren yawning. There was a study of her cockleshell ears and her orchid-petal mouth with its puffy top lip. One drawing after another—each daintier, more ethereal than the last, and none of which could have been executed with a spray can or paint roller.