Perfect in My Sight Read Free Page B

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     a father, he was a bit overprotective.
    “If you wish,” he relented.
    Christopher beamed. “Where may I sit, Daddy?”
    “How about in my lap?”
    “No!” Christopher declared at once, and halted in his step. He crossed his arms with
     stubborn little- boy pride, and exclaimed, “They’ll think I’m a baby.”
    Peter chuckled at his son’s alarmed expression. “Impossible, sport. You forgot to
     be a baby altogether. Everyone knows that.”
    And it was true.
    His son was brilliant, his mind unparalleled in its thirst for knowledge. Peter had
     rarely seen such a grasp of the English language in a child so young, nor had he ever
     witnessed such a profound sense of logic. Were Christopher not blind, Peter would
     have labeled his mind photographic. Even from as early as the age of three, Christopher
     had been able to recite a tale, word for word, after the first time it was read to
     him. Christopher had graduated from his crib to a mountaintop, from his baby squeals
     to the gentle words of a sage. Peter had no reason to believe he should wait before
     introducing him to Braille.
    “How about you sit at my desk,” Peter suggested, “and I’ll sit upon the divan?”
    Apparently that satisfied him, because Christopher came forward once more and Peter
     opened his arms to embrace his son. “I think I’ll just sneak myself a hug,” he said
     playfully, and Christopher squealed with embarrassed delight as Peter lifted him onto
     his lap.
    “Who’s coming today?” his son demanded to know.
    “Someone better than yesterday, I hope.”
    Yesterday’s applicant had come near to leaving with a bloodied nose when he’d dared
     suggest that Christopher wear dark spectacles in his presence always. The man was
     uncomfortable with the stare. Without warning, Peter had launched from his seat and
     the man had leapt from his own, taking his leave at once. He’d been quite fortunate.
     Had Peter set hands upon him, he might not have walked out the door at all.
    The day before that he’d interviewed an older woman who had never had the first contact
     with Braille but had cared for her blind mother until her death. The poor woman seemed
     to have missed the point entirely. If he’d wished to hire an escort for Christopher,
     he’d have done so long ago. Christopher didn’t need a bloody chaperon. He had Peter
     and he had his aunt for that. What he needed was to begin to learn to manage his own
     affairs—and the first step toward that end was to instill in him a sense of confidence
     that he could accomplish anything he set out to do. Matters of intellect did not seem
     to intimidate his son, so the next order of business was to empower Christopher with
     the tools he would need to achieve his goals.
    Blindness was a disadvantage certainly, but not an insurmountable obstacle. Peter
     refused to see it as such.
    His son would succeed despite it. Peter intended to make certain.
    “What’s his name, Daddy?”
    “Not him, son. Her.” He lifted his brows, though not for Christopher’s sake. It was
     something he had great reservations about, to be quite honest. He hadn’t wished to
     grant yesterday’s interview with the old woman either, but he never left a stone unturned—not
     that he was opposed to hiring a woman, but most were simply not so well lettered.
     “Her name is Sarah...” He leaned forward to peer over his son’s shoulder at the file
     upon his desk. “Sarah Hopkins. But you should call her Miss Hopkins.”
    “All right,” his son replied.
    The tinny sound of a distant bell rang, and the echo of footsteps pursued it into
     the foyer, heavy but distinct footfalls upon solid wood. A knock upon the door at
     the far end of the hall followed and then the door was opened, the caller greeted.
    Because their visitor had been expected, Gunther escorted their guest in without announcement.
    Peter stood, with his son in his arms, and peered down the hall to find not one, but
     two women being