by Rachel Hauck
The music of children—laughter blended with screams and shouts—filled his car, his head, his chest.
He must be a part of their lives. Must prove to Trudy he’d changed. Yet the only way to remove the restraining order was through the courts.
He was the hamster on the wheel. Running and getting nowhere. The ex never answered his calls or texts.
He was about to fire up his Honda Pilot and get back to work when a shrill, desperate cry broke through the playground din. Chuck scrambled from the driver’s side as he watched his son tip backward off the monkey bars and smack his head on the steel ladder.
“Jakey!” He fired across the street, slamming into the chain link fence. “Jakey, are you all right?” Where were the teachers? His kid could be bleeding to death.
The boy sat up, blinking, one hand pressed to the back of his head. The other kids had hightailed it, leaving him alone.
“You all right?”
“Daddy?” Jakey crawled to his feet.
“It’s me.” Chuck smiled. Darn tears flashed across his eyes again. “Way to take a dive, son.” Sound chipper. Don’t scare him. Let him know he’s a tough kid.
“Daddy!” Jakey flew at the wire diamond fence.
Chuck dropped to one knee and wrapped his hand around his boy’s. “How you doing buddy? I miss you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Wanted to see you, why else? You were working those monkey bars just like me when I was a kid.”
“Where you been? Mommy said you were too busy to see us.”
“No, no, of course I want to see you.” Trudy, the freaking liar. Threading his hand through the chains, Chuck cupped his son’s head and brought him forward for a kiss. “I love you. Very much. Mommy and me are just working some things out, okay?”
“Can you come to my birthday party?” He held up four fingers. “In four weeks. I’m having a magic show, a race-car game, a cake that looks like space Legos, and lots of presents.”
“Lots of presents? What about your sister? It’s her birthday too.”
Look at what he was missing. The twins’ childhood. They’d be grown and gone before he’d be allowed back into their lives. By then, they’d hate him.
His jaw tightened at the notion. No. Things had to change. He’d find a way.
Jakey scrunched up his face. “She’s having a princess party the next day with just girls. Blech.”
Chuck laughed and tousled his son’s hair. “In a few years, you’ll be dying to crash that party.”
Jake’s eyes widened in utter disbelief. “My party is just for boys.” His little chest puffed out. “So can you come? Please?” His blue eyes pierced Chuck to the heart.
“Tell you what, I’ll see what I can do.” He tapped his son’s freckled nose. “For now, why don’t we keep this little meeting our secret.”
“Why?”
“Remember, I told you Mommy and I are working some things out?” Jakey nodded. “Best let me talk to her about the party. And why don’t we surprise Riley too?”
A somber-looking Jakey mimicked Chuck’s pressed finger to his lips and nodded. “Our secret, Daddy.”
“Here,” Chuck said with a wink, peeling off a five-dollar bill. “From the tooth fairy for all those teeth you’re missing. Have you been in a prize fight, son?”
“Five dollars?” Wonder and surprise flared his sweet expression. “The tooth fairy only gave me a dollar.”
“Well, daddies are better and more generous than the tooth fairy.” The stupid hedge fund manager could only peel a dollar off his large bankroll? “Tuck the money in your pocket and don’t go showing it to your friends. When you get home, put it in your piggy bank.”
He and Trudy bought the twins giant pink pigs when they learned there were two babies instead of one. And every night they had deposited their pocket change in each kid’s bank.
Chuck kept the routine even now, dumping his change into two large jars at home. One day he’d hand them to his kids.
In the distance the bell rang, calling an end to this father-son tête-à-tête.
“Better go. Have a good afternoon. Study hard.”
Jakey thrust his arms through the fence, hugging Chuck as tight as he could. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, buddy.” He choked and cleared his throat, clinging to this rare moment. But he’d already risked too much. “I’ll see you later.”
Back at his car, his tears fell against the ache in his chest. He’d give anything to undo his outburst.
As much as he despised Trudy, he had to give her one kudo. His kids didn’t hate him. Jakey wasn’t afraid.
Turning on his Uber app, Chuck drove away from the school zone and accepted his first fare as the last rays of the summer sun burned hot against his windshield.
Yet it was the sweet touch of his little boy’s hands that warmed him through.
He had four weeks to find a way into the kids’ birthday parties. Getting past Trudy would be tough.
So far the only way she wanted the kids to see him again was stiff and cold, sleeping in a casket, about to be buried six feet under.
* * *
Ed
The calendar had flipped to fall but the temperatures remained warm, good for a dip in the pool.
Sitting on the deck with Holly—who wore dark sunglasses so big they swallowed her face—Ed sipped on the root beer float Hope insisted on making.
A little sweet for his taste but made with love, so he worked on it slowly, laughing as the kids and their friends played Marco Polo.
“Drake, you can’t jump in without looking,” Holly called, leaning forward. “You nearly landed on Hope’s head.”
“Here, Dad, maybe you’d like this beer better.” Brant set a dripping cold one in front of him, then sat next to Holly. “Drake, did you hear your mother? Be careful.”
Between the shouts and laughter, and Brant talking to Holly about an engagement on their calendar, Ed drifted into the background, observing, listening.
“Marco!”
“Polo!”
He felt odd in these homey, cozy family scenes. An interloper. Yet strangely comforted by memories of a similar life he knew long ago.
The smell of grilling meat and fresh-cut grass reminded him of his childhood days at his grandparents’ farm upstate.
He’d wanted all of this for Holly, but it wasn’t meant to be. They were city dwellers. Then Esmerelda was called away from this world. Too soon. Far too soon.
Holly’s soft laugh drew his attention. He caught her smooching with Brant, so he looked away.
“I’m checking on the burgers.” Brant tapped Ed’s shoulder. “Still medium-rare?”
“If you would be so kind.”
Holly reached over and squeezed his arm. “Aren’t you glad you came out?”
“I am.” He swigged his beer and gazed over the pastoral scene.
They’d shown him a corner of the yard he could till for a garden. Then toured the father-in-law suite connected by a breezeway on the other side of the garage.
“We can update it to your liking, Dad. Paint, new floors.”
“Can you make it look fifty years old and add stacks of books and papers?”
Holly kissed his cheek and laughed. “Time to downsize. Out with the old, in with the new.”
He liked his old, thank you very much. He grumbled and swigged his beer.
“Have you written any more on your story, Dad?” Holly said.
“Been busy.”
She smiled at him though her eyes were toward the pool. “Hope, throw the ball for Stella. She’s dying to swim.” The large golden retriever circled the water, barking and nipping at heels.
“You’ve done well, Holly. I’m proud of you.”
She focused on Ed again and squeezed his hand. “I had a good teacher.”
He drowned the rise of emotion with another gulp from the cold bottle. “I like my place. Think I want to stay there as long as I can.”
<
br /> Holly sighed. “I don’t know why you won’t move out here. You can go into the city anytime you want to see your friends or go to that society meeting. You’ll have room out here. We’re gone all day, so it’s not like I’ll be knocking on your door.”
“When you’re my age, do you want Hope or Drake coming around insinuating you’re too feeble to live alone? I’m only seventy-eight, girl.”
“I never said feeble.”
“You implied it.”
“Just know I’ve got my eye on you.” Her smile made him think all those thousands of dollars for braces were worth it.
Holly jumped up with a shout as a wet Stella dropped a tennis ball at her feet and shook pool water from her coat. She kicked the ball into the water, and the retriever splashed in for the rescue.
“It’s just . . . I like our place, Holly. It has warm memories for me.”
“Me too. Remember the time I tried to cut your hair?”
His eyes filled even though he laughed. “I was bald on one side. And the other . . . I don’t know what I looked like. The barber had to shave it all to get me even.”
“I mostly remember every Friday night. Pizza with brownies and ice cream.” She rested her hand on his arm. “I’d love for you to spend more time with the kids. They need to know what a great man you are, Dad.”
“All right, I’ll visit more.”
“Every Friday night?”
“Every? You’ll be sick of me.” And really, isn’t that what he feared? Just like . . . Well, never mind. “I’ll come more often. If you want me.”
The kids ran around the deck, shooting each other with water guns. Hope ducked behind Ed’s chair.
“Hide me, Grandpa.” Then she rose up to shoot her brother’s friend. Ed couldn’t remember his name. “You can’t shoot me if I’m behind Grandpa. He’s the safe place.”
Holly’s grip tightened around his arm. That’s what he aimed to be for her. Always. A safe place. And if she ever got sick of him, he’d shrivel up and die.
“Burgers are up. Let’s eat.”
The kids dropped their weapons and ran to the table as Ed shoved up from his chair.
“The burger with the toothpick is yours, Dad.” Brant handed Ed another beer. “Holly says you’re writing a book.”
“Tinkering.” Ed took up a plate and reached for the buns, layering his with lettuce, tomato, pickles, and onion before topping it off with a medium-rare patty.
“What’s your idea? Your family history working for the press plant?”
“Hadn’t really thought of that, Brant. I’m writing more on my musings of life.”
“You could write how you raised Holly as a single father. That’d be a unique story.”
“Maybe.”
“I have a friend in publishing. I’ll ask what he thinks. Holly, can you pass the ketchup? Drake, I left the chips in the kitchen. Run get them.”
The tall and broad-shouldered boy dripped past Ed, popping him gently on the arm, flashing a grin that was sure to weaken the ladies.
“Good-looking kid, that Drake,” Ed said to Brant as he sat at the head of the table.
“A little girl-crazy right now but he’s keeping straight.” Brant clapped the tall neck of his beer bottle to Ed’s. “To family.”
“To family.”
Holly joined them, her burger covered with vegetables and no bun.
“Your dad and I were talking about his book,” Brant said. “How he could write about raising you alone.”
“He wasn’t entirely alone. He had Aunt Faye and Granny.” Holly turned to him. “I could help. Maybe add sections from my perspective.”
“Let’s just see what I decide. I’m not sure I really have the energy or talent for writing.”
All this book talk was weakening his will. He wanted his love story with Esmerelda to be a surprise, and he’d almost blurted it out to see if they approved.
“Give it some thought. And Dad, if you can get me an interview with Coral Winthrop—”
“Stop.” He raised his hand. “Forget it.”
“But Dad—”
“Don’t ask me again, Holly.” His voice rose with a rare, stern tone. But he would not betray that sweet Coral. By the dull sorrow in her eyes, she’d been through enough.
He’d deal with being told where he needed to live, or what he needed to write, if he wrote anything at all, but not his Coral. Not his society.
And if he were honest, he planned to die a happy man in his Eighty-Ninth Street apartment, bent over his Underwood, dreaming about Esmerelda.
Chapter 14
Jett
September became October with a fury of cold, rainy days, then a blaze as the fall colors crowned the city in golds and reds.
The deadline for his dissertation created a constant pressure. Not because he had much more work to do but because it came with so much money. Because it came with a caveat.
Was Gordon Phipps Roth who he claimed to be? The question plagued him. But why? He didn’t believe for a moment GPR employed a ghost.
Jett pushed away from the desk in his English department office, where he’d been reading through his dissertation.
Yes, of course the man was who he claimed to be. Surely if he was not his detractors would’ve discovered his scheme when he was alive. And Daniel Barclay, his publisher, was known for his integrity and ethical character. He often took the hard line on slipping social morals and suffered for it.
Why was Jett allowing one book, An October Wedding, written by a dead woman and posthumously published, stir such doubt?
Because Tenley Roth had brought the project to light. If only she’d respond to his requests for an interview.
The book by Birdie Ainsworth had hit the New York Times bestseller list and fallen off two weeks later. And that brief success came from Tenley’s rigorous promotion. Otherwise it was hardly a blip on the timeline of classic literature. She was no GPR.
Clearly Jett was bothered by nothing. A rumor. Speculation. No one in the literary community doubted GPR’s oeuvre.
Jett poured a cup of coffee from the old machine tucked in the corner on an old table and returned to his reading.
“He wrote more about nineteenth- and twentieth-century life than any author alive or dead. His insights into the human condition, especially women, was unparalleled. Sigmund Freud wrote, ‘I feel I must consult Mr. Phipps Roth when considering and analyzing the female mind.’”
The chapter went on to cite other researchers and authors, quotes from colleagues and academics.
There was no doubt in Jett’s mind Gordon Phipps Roth was one of the greatest American authors, if not the greatest. His stories intuitively showcased deep human emotion.
Jett often longed for the world GPR depicted on the page. One of struggle, to be sure, but also one of love and faith, failure and triumph. Whether a man was high or low born, GPR ascribed to him respect, a sense of common decency, and charity.
What Jett didn’t include in his dissertation, or this final prep for publication, was his personal journey into the lively, vibrant world of GPR.
Beginning with The Girl in the Carriage, Jett escaped the pain and trauma of his teen years through Gordon’s stories of goodness, faith, and love.
Jett was a romantic at heart.
Gordon became more than a literary hero. He and the characters he drew on the page were his mentors, his counselors, his best friends when his parents were absent in mind if not body.
The man deserved justice. His reputation, defended.
“Knock, knock.” Renée leaned around the door. “How’s it going?”
Jett rocked back in his eighties desk chair. “Renée, what do you think if I add a personal introduction? Not what GPR means to American Lit, but what he meant to me?”
“I think that would endear us to the Roth Foundation forever. Do it.”
Jett nodded. “I’ll think on it.”
“Think?”
“Yeah, think.” Because if he wro
te his story, he’d write the whole truth. And he’d wised up enough in his meager thirty years to consider the reputation and feelings of others. Like his parents.
“I stopped by to tell you Harper Franks is ready to roll with the book as soon as you hand it over,” Renée said. “I’ve decided to get an additional peer review for appearances’ sake. We’ll add Dr. Levi from Harvard to the reviews you already have. You’re not making that many changes are you? He’ll take a quick look. He’s an old friend of mine. We’ll just make the reception deadline.”
“Dr. Levi’s work was a great help to me writing the dissertation.”
“Yes, and he loves you for referencing him so much. He’s with you, by the way. GRP was a genius, and Dr. Levi finds it implausible he’d have hired an ink slinger. His words, not mine.”
He heard the subtle whisper beneath her words. Get it done. We need this. “I’ll have it to you by the fifteenth like you asked.”
“I appreciate your attention to this, Jett. I know the college is putting a lot of pressure on you. You still have your class load plus faculty responsibilities, but welcome to the big leagues. Ten million dollars to our school because you timed your dissertation publication perfectly.”
“I’m not a fortune teller. If Storm hadn’t died, I’d have published a year and a half ago.”
“Yes, well, for that I am sorry.” Renée turned to go then stepped back. “How’s it going with Lexa?”
Jett shrugged. “Well enough.”
Renée arched her brow. “Is that good? I’d never live with my ex. Not that I’ve been married but—”
“I should get back to work.” Jett raised his mug for a sip of hot brew, and Renée moved on.
Lexa was still a quagmire to him. For the past two weeks, they’d lived in harmony. He helped her eat, brush her teeth and hair, even dress when she needed it—though she was guarded. He was guarded. She made him close his eyes when he helped her dress.
Every night he wrapped her arm for her bath, and once he’d washed her hair in the kitchen.
She bent over the sink with her left hand braced against the counter, her posture and attitude stiff, flinching when Jett moved his shampoo-filled hands through her hair.
