Chapter 4

Who'd have thought that something as simple as a newborn horse could make such a change in a person. I'd always said that animals worked magic on a person's attitude, but the little filly had passed by mere magic and moved on to miracle-worker status. We'd spent the remaining time until bed discussing how quickly "her" Blaze would grow, the training she'd receive, when she'd get her first shoes, when she'd be ready to ride, riding in general because Cheryl had never been on a horse, grooming, and a dozen other topics related to the little animal and her future.

Shortly before bed the conversation drifted to how I used horses when I was doing nature photography, and from there it was a short jump to photography. As we made our way up the broad staircase to the landing that overlooked the family room and led to the bedrooms I promised to teach her to ride the next day and to take her on a photo expedition.

She squeezed next to me and looked at me with the same soulful brown eyes that I'd seen in Buena Vista. "Thanks, Uncle Randy."

"For?"

"For everything. For the new cap. For the hair bleach. For the wine. For Blaze's name. For the walk. For the nature lesson. For tomorrow. For ... everything." Translation: for not getting upset over my being bitchy.

I circled an arm around her supple waist. "Would you believe me if I said I did it all because it was to get back at Mandy?"

She looked at me for a moment, then smiled with those wide, full lips and eyes sparkling with mischief. "You said you'd never lie to me, so if you say it, I'll believe you."

I sighed. "Then I guess I'd better not say it. Do you need anything before we turn in?"

We stopped in front of her door. She hesitated. "Well, uh, would you mind, me being a girl and all, if we had a goodnight kiss?"

"Never have, never will."

That brought back the smile. I'd kissed her goodnight hundreds of times when I babysat her, and the comment had reminded her. "I was just a baby and a toddler then, and I'm older now, I wasn't sure that you'd be okay with it since you're ... I mean ... It's just ... well, it's silly, I know, but ... well, I never go to bed without a goodnight kiss from Dad, and..."

"And I'm the best substitute you have."

She looked horrorstruck. "Uncle Randy, I didn't mean it that way!"

"You didn't mean it as a compliment?"

"No! I meant..." The high, smooth forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What?"

We stopped in front of her bedroom door and faced each other. "Your number one choice was your father. I was number two, the next person after your father. I thought you meant that out of everyone else, you chose me. I was wrong?"

"Oh. I thought you thought I meant it was because I didn't have anyone else to choose."

I circled my arms around her and pulled her against me. "There you go again, deciding what I'm thinking for me without asking first."

Her head tilted onto her right shoulder and the right corner of her mouth twisted up toward her nose. "Are you going to be a pain like this for the rest of my visit? What am I going to do with you?"

I smiled, something that required no effort. "You could start with that kiss."

I believed, though I knew she'd never admit it if it were true, that she missed her mother as well as her father. She missed home, felt the distance of being more than a few blocks away at a pajama party. She wanted a small ritual of home life to fill the void she felt. It was brief, but I poured into it all the love for her that I had. I wanted her to know that I appreciated her presence and that I wasn't performing some ritual to appease her.

She clung to me afterward. "I guess I miss home more than I thought. I hope you don't think that means I don't like being here."

I heard the soft sniff that followed. I squeezed her against me and used one palm to smooth the still-brown hair back from the top of her head, down her neck, and down her shoulders. "After you get used to a place, you miss it. It can be a place you love, a place you hate, or anywhere between those extremes. Don't forget that I'm away from home frequently. I know what it's like."

"Thanks." She didn't look up at me as she turned, entered her room, and closed the door. She didn't want me to see her tears, so I ignored the ones that had soaked into my shirt.

It wasn't long before I heard the water running in her shower. She might love having the little horse named after her, but she didn't want to go to bed smelling like it.

I showered, too, and slept well, awakening two minutes before the alarm. I switched it off, dressed, and went in search of caffeine, the paper, and television's morning news programs.

Cheryl slept late, despite the hour time difference. She never had been a morning person. I was considering waking her when she came staggering down the staircase, using the handrail to keep from falling.

She was wearing a clingy turquoise lace something that left no doubt that nothing was beneath it. The effect was breathtaking. In addition to the tween legs and the perky handfuls on her chest, she had the slightest onset of womanly hips that made you think, "I'd bet a hundred bucks that those weren't there yesterday." They bracketed her third hated dark spot and a thin sheen of curly brown that as yet couldn't decide whether to be a vertical bar or an upside-down triangle. Above that was a pad of remnant baby fat that gave definition to the flat stomach below the slightly prominent ribs.

The upper part of her nightwear split into two broad bands that covered those perky handfuls and joined in a loop behind her neck. I knew that it left much of the long, lovely back exposed because Kelly Torrent had a white one just like it.

If Kelly could make reasonably good money as a model, Cheryl was so beautiful and graceful that she could make a fortune. That didn't seem so apparent as my niece suddenly stumbled sideways while her face disappeared behind an open-mouthed yawn. And in bare feet, not high heels, no less. But I'm a professional photographer. I have an eye for details and for potential and can ignore temporary distractions.

"Good morning!" I said in a voice as cheerful as the birds twittering outside.

"Ufrumagagah," she said while yawning again. Translation: Beats me. I'm not sure if it was "Good morning!" or "What's so good about it?" or "Up yours."

She staggered to a halt in front of me, used her fingertips to find my face, and managed to get her mouth closed long enough to pucker for a quick peck before it turned into another fly trap. Technically her eyes were open, but I couldn't tell if they were still brown, red, or some new color that she'd invented overnight, and then they disappeared behind the mouth again.

"What would you like for breakfast?"

"Hoohragahkha."

"Barbecued, al dente, or over easy? Anything is possible on this bright and sunny day!"

The mouth closed. Brown! For just an instant I was able to determine that they were still brown, but then the lids drew together into microscopic slits and she blinked. Twice. "God, I hate you." She stroked her fingertips up and down on my cheeks and dropped her hands, adding a mumbled, "You need to shave."

She stepped to her right—I said "stepped" because it seemed to be a mostly-controlled movement—and pitched forward over the arm of the couch. Her right leg stayed on the arm of the couch, and her right arm landed on the couch seat. Their opposites landed on the floor, as might have her head had it not been attached to the willowy neck.

I stood at the inside of her right ankle and looked for a long moment at the strap that was barely wide enough for the two snaps that secured it. No, a longer moment than that. No, I mean a really longer moment. Finally I asked, "Is your swimsuit a thong?"

"Mandy Kuczynski." It was slurred, but there was no doubt of the actual words.

"I realize that. Perhaps I should have reworded the question for the chronologically impaired. Do you wear your swimsuit as a thong? I know it can be done. I sometimes shoot model portfolios, as you'll remember when you wake up."

I didn't know girls could smirk while yawning until that moment.

"Yeah. Why?"

I took one last look. "Then I'm not the only one who needs to shave." While she tried to wrap her brain around that one I turned away. Time to search the pantry. I couldn't remember if we were out of hoohragahkha.

We were, so I fixed her favorite instead: French toast with homemade vanilla sugar syrup and sausage links. I was buttering and stacking it on her plate when I heard her behind me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She was rubbing her fingertips on her cheeks below eyes that were intermittently pulled wide enough to show color.

"Breakfast is ready. You're checking for an answer at the wrong end." I pointed at her chest with the spatula. "And you might want to put that back before you drip syrup on it."