3. Tessa
Tessa stepped over the gap where the floorboards used to be and briefly considered if delayed renovation, exposed wood, the occasional nail, and the lack of a stair rail were grounds for divorce from the man she’d married yesterday.
Nah. She’d keep Dusty Mathers. Heck, she’d already married him twice—once in a civil ceremony and yesterday, in a dream beach wedding.
Still smiling at the memory of the festivities, she made her way past the stairwell construction. The setbacks to the project to connect her upstairs unit and his downstairs unit and turn this beach house into a family home were not his fault.
He’d sworn on their shiny new wedding rings when they’d happily fallen into bed last night that the railing was in the garage and the boards would be delivered today. The project would be finished…just in time for a hurricane.
No, no. She wasn’t going to worry about the storm today. She had bigger problems—one just thirty pounds and sound asleep upstairs, taking her morning nap.
Not that Olive was a problem—au contraire! The tiny two-year-old with flaxen curls and heartbreaking blue eyes was, along with Dusty, the greatest joy Tessa had ever known.
She gave a grunt and stared at the refrigerator shelf.
That great joy was also a small blueberry addict and there wasn’t one in the house. Would it be considered “spoiling” little Olive Oyl if Tessa begged Dusty to make a blueberry run to Publix? Or was that an act of selfless love?
Parenting didn’t come that naturally, did it? Loving did, but parenting? Maybe fifty was too old to become a mom. Maybe this was a challenge that Tessa would—
“Tess?” Dusty called from his office, her ears detecting the tiniest note of strain.
Okay, no Publix, no blueberries, and maybe no stairs. Not with that “a patient needs me” voice. She understood. He was a grief therapist, so when those calls came, he made room in his schedule—one of the many things she loved about Dusty.
Before she could respond, he came down the hall, a look of true concern behind his black-rimmed glasses. His graying dark hair, cut neatly for their wedding yesterday, looked as if he’d run his hands through it a few times.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing is wrong. Something is very right.” He held up his phone. “Lynda Roberts.”
“Yes?” She knew who Lynda was—the person who held their fate in her hands. “The social worker handling the adoption,” she said. “The lady who works for Sunshine State Family Connections.”
Tessa had studied the adoption process with the same intensity she gave to a new client for her event planning business.
She understood that a licensed child-placing agency, working under the Florida Department of Children and Families, would manage the adoption.
With a living mother voluntarily putting Olive up for adoption due to her inability to raise a child, theirs was an unusual case. But certainly not an impossible one.
“Yes, that Lynda,” he confirmed. “She’s on her way over.”
Tessa stared at him, feeling her jaw drop as her mind whirred. “On her way here?”
“She should be here in forty minutes.”
Blinking, Tessa put a hand on her chest and croaked, “What?”
“Tess. Honey. Take a breath. It’s fine. It’s the next step. It’s all good.”
Good? Had he looked around lately? “Our living room has no floor.”
“It has a floor, just not a pretty finished hardwood floor. It will.”
“Not in forty minutes.”
“Well, I’m good, but not that good.”
She shook her head, finding no humor in this situation. “Dusty, there is no handrail on the stairs.”
“We’ll explain the renovation and that we’re using outside stairs. There’s a monitor right there that allows us to see and hear Olive in her room. She’ll understand.”
“But…but…” She looked around, disbelief sliding into…frantic. “There is drywall dust on every horizontal surface in this house. We have a toddler. A toddler that the State of Florida does not technically know is sleeping upstairs.”
“They know,” he assured her. “Lynda and I just talked about it. She signed the paperwork that approved this arrangement while Morgan completes her residential program and the legal documents are filed. Lynda just wants to see the home environment, which is part of the process. This won’t be the last home visit. ”
“October,” she said. “You told me they’d come in October. Is it even September yet?”
“Just about.” He took a few steps closer and put a calming hand on her shoulder. “I said by October, babe. This is how it works. They do drop-ins. She does not call ahead and give people three days to vacuum or build stairs. She wants the real version of our lives, not the staged one.”
“The real version,” Tessa said, “has a missing floor.”
“The real version has me, you, and a sweet angel who calls you Tess-Tess and reaches for you across the room. Lynda knows what she’s walking into.”
Tessa took another breath. This one helped. A little. Dusty leaned over and kissed her, very lightly on the mouth. That helped a lot.
She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest against his shoulder.
“Forty minutes,” she muttered, “is not enough time.”
“Is more than enough time.” He stepped back. “You get some dust rags. I’ll get the tools out of the front room and throw a sheet over the worst of it. We are not going to pretend the renovation isn’t happening. We are going to acknowledge it and tell her exactly what we’re doing.”
“With no handrail.”
“We’re not using the stairs—they’re gated top and bottom.” He gestured to the safety gate next to him. “Safer than if we even had a handrail.”
“It just looks bad.”
“Come on.” He gave her a nudge. “Let’s do what we can while Olive’s still asleep. Trust me.”
She did trust him, of course. She had married him twice.
Lynda Roberts arrived in thirty-eight minutes, not forty.
Tessa watched her get out of a silver Kia from the front window. The pretty Black woman was tall, crisply dressed in a blue blazer and cream slacks, which looked warm but professional. She carried a leather folio under one arm and a sharp handbag on her shoulder.
She walked to the front door without looking at the landscaping, the paint, or even the Gulf view over her shoulder. She didn’t look like she held Tessa’s happiness in her hands—yet she did.
Tessa opened the door before she rang.
“Hello, Lynda.” She extended her hand. “I’m Tessa Wyl—Mathers.” Good heavens, she didn’t remember her own name. Well, her new name. But still.
Lynda’s smile was instant and warm. “Hello, Tessa. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
They shook hands and Tessa ushered her in. “And on such short notice,” she joked.
Lynda acknowledged that with a tilt of her head. “That’s how we roll in child services,” she said, giving a level look that managed to be kind and direct. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m sure you understand.”
“Totally,” Tessa assured her, turning as Dusty walked toward them.
As they greeted each other, Tessa looked around to see Dusty had thrown a clean drop cloth over the worst of the construction zone and rolled up the extension cords and gathered the loose tools into one neat pile by the office door.
He had also, she noticed with a private little surge of love, put on a fresh pot of coffee, and picked up the toys and books from the kitchen table while she’d gone upstairs to check on sleeping Olive.
Lynda accepted his offer of coffee and sat in the living room armchair, leaving the sofa for Tessa and Dusty. As they settled in, Tessa took a deep breath and took the hand Dusty offered her, loving him for the solidarity and comfort.
Lynda placed the leather folio on the coffee table and looked from one to the other. “As you know, this is a slightly unusual situation.”
Why was that, Tessa wondered. Her age? The fact that Morgan was alive and surrendered Olive for adoption? That they lived on the beach, had just married, or that neither of them had ever raised a child?
What made it unusual?
“And I’d rather we address the toughest aspect of this adoption now, and not in front of a judge.”
“Which is…” Tessa asked with a tight voice.
Dusty leaned forward, somehow communicating that he knew exactly what it was. “The fact that I was Morgan’s therapist for several months,” he answered. “Still am, if we’re being accurate and honest.”
Lynda gave him the smallest smile. “I appreciate that you recognize that.”
Tessa frowned, shaking her head. “Why is that a problem? Is that a conflict of interest? I thought we—”
Lynda held out a hand, her fingers long and tipped with the prettiest pink polish that Olive would love.
“It’s not a deal-breaker,” she said calmly. “But it is something that everyone has to consider, because the court will want to determine with hearings and signed affidavits that you did not encourage Morgan to make this decision.”
“Of course I didn’t,” he assured her. “Taking her in for a month while Morgan was in rehabilitation and intense counseling was Tessa’s idea.”
Lynda nodded. “It’s something we need to address and prepare for when Olive wants to know.”
Tessa’s heart did a small twist in her chest. What would Olive ask…someday?
For a fleeting second, she let herself imagine a grown-up version of Olive who would want to know how she came to be theirs. All Tessa could think was…I can’t wait for her to be my best friend.
“In our world, we call it a dual relationship. Therapist becomes friend and friend becomes family,” Lynda explained.
“It’s not unethical or illegal at all, but there are reasons we get cautious about it.
The therapy room is supposed to be the one place a person can fall apart safely, and that only works if the person across the room has no other stake in their life. ”
Tessa glanced at Dusty, listening intently.
“Clearly, you will always know private and personal things about Morgan’s struggles.”
He nodded. “They will stay private and personal,” he promised. “Even Tessa has no idea why she’s made this decision or why she’s in rehabilitation.”