Nell and Vern were speechless. Tommy had stopped squirming in his daddy’s arms to gape at her.
“Let’s table this discussion until we’ve all calmed down.” Gently, Edmond drew her toward the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Grant, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
They nodded without a word.
Outside, the evening air cooled Melissa’s skin. As they walked to the car, every twinge from her stretched abdomen reminded her of what she was enduring and risking for the sake of her daughters. How dare the Grants presume to attend her doctor visits and supervise her diet!
“I’ve never seen you like this,” Edmond said as he held the car door for her.
“Neither have I.” Once he was behind the wheel, she added, “I was fighting for my children.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I’m impressed.”
“Did I make things worse?” She recalled the outrage on the Grants’ faces when she’d accused them of manipulation.
“Doubtful,” Edmond said. “You stuck to the point and didn’t throw in random accusations.”
“The way Vern did in my office?” As they drove to her house, she reflected how sad it was that the Grants’ contentions had destroyed her old sense of comfort around them. “What happens next?”
“Let’s see how they react when I call,” Edmond said. “Maybe they’ll change their minds after hearing your side of the story.”
Melissa shuddered. “They’ll probably hire a lawyer, and the next thing we hear he’ll be in Mark Rayburn’s office demanding my dismissal.” Much as she hated dwelling on the negative, she had to prepare for that possibility.
“In my opinion, that would be a serious miscalculation on their part.” He kept his attention on the spottily illuminated road. “They’d have more leverage by merely threatening to hire an attorney. Once they do, the hospital will be reluctant to admit any wrongdoing.”
“Oh, that makes me a whole lot happier,” she muttered.
“Sorry.” With the car halted at a red light, Edmond turned his gaze on her. “Honey, the law’s on your side. You’re the girls’ mother. I haven’t reviewed the contract you and the Grants signed, but I’m assuming Tony drew it up, and he’s damn smart.”
She waited, hoping for more—a declaration that they’d get through this together, that he’d begun to feel something for the babies. Tell me you’ve started to care about them.
When he didn’t, Melissa asked, “What if the law isn’t enough? The Grants might not be able to take the babies, but they can ruin my career.”
Edmond shrugged. “Worst case scenario, you might have to decide whether you’d rather lose the career you’ve worked for so hard, or relinquish the babies.”
How could he placidly propose the devastation of her dreams? “I guess I should have expected that from you,” Melissa snapped.
“I beg your pardon?” His mouth tightened.
“I must have been out of my mind, to imagine you and I could ever truly be close again.” Anguish combined with her fury at the Grants, and she unleashed it all on this man for whom she’d risked her heart. “You still resent my request that we consider having children.”
“Okay, I resented it,” Edmond replied. “That doesn’t mean I’m trying to punish you. One of us has to view things logically.”
“That’s right, I’m completely irrational.” If he’d deliberately set out to infuriate her, he couldn’t have done a better job. “The worst part is that you’re lying to yourself. Anyone watching you with Dawn can tell you were meant to be a father.”
“Now I’m the one who’s irrational?” he asked grimly. “Despite everything I’ve experienced in my life, everything I’ve learned about myself, I’m clueless. Only you can show me the truth.”
“That’s about the size of it.” Melissa clamped down on her impulse to shoot more barbs at him. Until tonight, she’d never imagined that she could speak to Edmond, or anyone, this way.
Now she’d destroyed whatever might have existed between them. But hadn’t it only been a mirage, anyway?
Edmond remained silent, too, until they reached her driveway. “I’ll call the Grants tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” She made her way into the house, declining his offer of help.
* * *
THAT NIGHT, AFTER Edmond read a story to Dawn and tucked her into bed, Melissa’s tirade still twisted and burned inside him. She was more than a lover and more than a friend, she was the only person he’d ever truly opened up to and depended on. Now she’d rejected the person he knew himself to be.
He didn’t deserve the anger she’d hurled at him, but he supposed she’d been holding some of that inside since he first informed her about the vasectomy. Had she lashed out then, would it have made any difference?
Instead, she’d sat frozen in shock. He’d probed for a reaction and tried to reassure her that he loved her. When she didn’t respond, he’d hoped his words would gradually sink in.
The next day, he’d arrived home from work to find that she’d moved out. From then on, she’d coolly handled the details of their divorce, avoiding any discussion of what had set it off. After a few attempts to persuade her into counseling, he’d accepted that their differences were irreconcilable.
In all honesty, even if she’d roared at him, Edmond doubted he’d have reversed the vasectomy. Despite his willingness to serve as Dawn’s guardian and his desire to help Melissa through her pregnancy, he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. In bed, he tossed and turned until he finally fell into a troubled sleep.
On Saturday morning, Dawn grew overexcited with eagerness to join her new friends, asking every five minutes if they could leave yet. At nine o’clock, when they arrived at the Oahu Lane Shelter in a light industrial complex near the freeway, Edmond had to catch her arm to prevent her from dashing across the parking lot.
“Always look both ways,” he warned. “Drivers can’t see you.”
“There they are!” Waving, she tugged against his grasp. “Tiffany! Amber!”
Beaming, the red-haired girls waved back. Their mother, a slender woman with auburn hair, nodded a greeting to Edmond, who had been introduced to her at the wedding. In her late thirties, Portia Adams wore a hot-pink designer jogging suit. Faded jeans might be more appropriate for today’s outing, but Vince Adams’s wife could afford to discard an expensive outfit if it got stained.
When they reached the rambling one-story building, a young woman in a blue blazer checked their names off a list. “Ilsa will be right with you,” she said.
“Ilsa?” Portia asked.
“That’s the shelter’s director, Ilsa Ivy.” Edmond had noticed the name on the website.
“She provides the orientation for new volunteers,” the blazer-clad woman said. “How many shifts a week do you plan to sign up for?”
It hadn’t occurred to Edmond that they’d be expected to volunteer on a regular basis. “We’re exploring our options.”
“Can we come every Saturday, please, please?” Dawn peered into the hallway as if expecting little animals to trot into view. Judging by the chorus of yips and meows from within, there were quite a few on hand.
“I’ll consider it,” he told her. A regular volunteer shift might bring them closer, and the cause was worthwhile. However, once Barbara received her prison assignment, they’d have to take some Saturdays to visit her.
“I wish we could. But with school starting, we have to go back to San Diego.” Amber made a face.
“We’ll visit our grandma, though.” Tiffany took Dawn’s hand. “Like we did last night.”
Portia gritted her teeth just as the shelter’s director, a tall woman with thick gray hair, arrived to escort them and a handful of fellow newcomers through the building. She pointed out recent improvements.
“We now perform spay and neuter operati
ons here on the premises, instead of transporting the animals to another location,” she announced. “We’re very grateful to have received a large donation.”
Beside Edmond, Portia murmured, “I suppose we’ll have to contribute something to keep the girls happy.”
Politely, he said, “That’s generous of you.”
For the girls’ sake and because she and her husband were important to Safe Harbor Medical, Edmond wished he could like this woman. That hope faded as the morning passed, however. She wrinkled her nose at the odors from the cages, although Edmond considered the shelter well maintained, and yawned openly while Ilsa explained the need for volunteers to foster animals.
“I wish we could adopt a kitten,” Amber said wistfully as they viewed a newly rescued litter. “We have room, Mommy.”
“Please don’t mention that idea to your father,” Portia warned, nostrils flaring. “He hates cats.”
“I heard you have a new house,” Tiffany commented to Edmond. “You could get a pet.”
“We’re renting so we’d need the landlord’s approval.” He glanced at Dawn. Eventually, adopting an animal might be feasible, but not yet.
To his relief, she shook her head firmly. “We can’t. I’ll be too busy helping my aunt with the babies.”
“You will?” Tiffany exchanged a look with her sister. Now, what was that about?
Ilsa paused at the end of the corridor. “We don’t normally put volunteers to work without training, but we just received a large load of newspapers that have to be folded to fit inside cages.”
Portia’s expression grew pinched. “Does she seriously expect us to sit around folding newspapers all morning?”
“I’ll talk to her.” Portia’s attitude irked him, but he had been the one to suggest they meet here.
As their group dispersed, Edmond took the director aside to apologize for bringing a guest who didn’t understand what they’d be asked to do. When he mentioned that his companion was Mrs. Vince Adams, Ilsa gave a start of recognition.
“Actually, we could use her advice,” she said, “We’re planning a charity ball next Christmas and I’m sure she’d have great ideas.”
Edmond thanked her. “I’m happy to fold newspapers.”
“We’d appreciate it.” The older woman smiled in approval. “As for the girls, they can play with some kittens who’re ready for adoption.”
Portia showed a spark of interest at Ilsa’s request, especially when she learned that social leaders from Irvine and Newport Beach were expected to attend. By the time a teenage volunteer returned the girls an hour later with cat fur on their clothes, Portia had provided contact information and permission to use her and Vince’s names as supporters of the shelter.
“Naturally, we’ll send a donation,” she informed Ilsa.
“That would be most appreciated.”
As for Edmond, he didn’t mind a few paper cuts and ink-smudged hands. After washing up, he shepherded the group out.
The girls hugged each other goodbye in the parking lot. Tiff and Amber were kind little souls, very different from their parents. Edmond credited their grandmother and Rod’s influence during their early years.
Not being related genetically to his daughters obviously didn’t matter to Rod. And the way Melissa had fought for her children last night showed as tight a bond as any mother had with an infant. He realized now that implying she might give them up had been ill advised, but he’d been thinking in terms of best and worst case scenarios.
Meeting the Grants—despite the unpleasant circumstances—along with their little boy had provided Edmond with a sharper picture of the tiny girls within Melissa. A scene flashed into his mind: his house filled with playpens and toys and three adorable girls rolling and crawling and clamoring for attention. How exhausting. But strangely appealing, too.
He gave a start. Had Melissa sensed that would be his reaction even before he did? Edmond respected her intuition in most instances. But then his mind conjured another image, of his sister, alone and scared in a prison cell. And his idle fantasy about babies fell apart in the face of his complete lack of understanding of where he’d gone wrong with Barbara.
He and Dawn were almost home before he noticed how quiet she’d grown. “Did you have fun with your friends? It’s obvious they care about you.”
Staring out the window, Dawn shrugged.
Something had upset her, and he had no idea what. Grasping for straws, he asked, “Are you worried about the kittens finding homes? This is a no-kill shelter. They’ll all be placed eventually.”
Another shrug.
At their driveway, Edmond pressed the garage opener. “Honey, I can’t read your mind. Can you say what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her tearful tone belied the response.
“Obviously, something is.” In his pocket, his phone sounded. What rotten timing! He couldn’t ignore it, though, in case it was the Grants. Glancing at the readout once they were inside the garage, he saw his stepmother’s name and grew concerned. Normally she only emailed about routine matters. “Isabel? What’s up?”
Dawn opened the passenger door. Holding the phone, Edmond exited, too.
“Your father met with the specialist yesterday,” Isabel said.
Damn! Events had pushed Mort’s appointment from his mind. “What did you find out?” he asked as he let his niece into the house.
“There’s good news, mostly.”
“What do you mean, mostly?”
“Mort doesn’t have dementia,” Isabel said evenly.
“That’s fantastic.” A weight lifted from Edmond. Despite his preoccupation with more immediate issues, the prospect of his father’s long-term decline had troubled him deeply. “Dad’s okay, then?”
“Medically speaking, yes.”
“What do you mean?” Peripherally, Edmond noticed Dawn disappearing toward her bedroom, head down. Well, one crisis at a time.
There was a noise on the other hand, and his father’s gruff voice spoke into his ear. “I’d better explain this myself, son.”
Chapter Eighteen
Perplexed, Edmond paced through the front room. “What’s this about, Dad?”
“Something I should have admitted years ago.” His father sucked in a raspy breath. “I’ve let you carry too much of my burden.”
Was he feeling guilty because he’d been away so much driving a truck? “You had to earn a living.” Edmond pictured Mort’s strong face with the etched lines of a smoker.
“I don’t mean that,” his father growled. “My diagnosis isn’t dementia, it’s something called pseudodementia. That means I act like I’m nuts, but I’m not.”
“You don’t act nuts.” Realizing he should simply listen, Edmond said, “Go on.”
“The specialist they sent me to was a shrink.” His father pronounced the last word with disdain. Although he’d accepted Dawn’s therapy, it wasn’t the sort of thing Mort would have undergone himself. Until now. “He says I’m suffering from depression.”
That was understandable. “It’s been a rough year.”
“Not the normal down-in-the-dumps kind,” Mort said bitterly. “The kind that’s been eating at me for years. The kind I deserve.”
“You need to get something off your chest?”
“That’s right. This was hard enough for me to tell the shrink and I’m only saying it to you once. So listen hard.”
“I’m listening.” Edmond wandered into the kitchen.
Gruffly, Mort described his sense of losing control with Barbara, then sixteen, after Edmond married and moved out. Although he’d switched jobs to be closer to home, Barb had acted like a stranger, plus he’d been dealing with his wife’s cancer.
“Made me damn furious when your sister ran around, drinking and cutting sc
hool,” he said. “I figured she was old enough to be a decent human being while her mother was sick.” Their arguments had escalated, with commands and reproaches on Mort’s side and defiance on Barbara’s.
One afternoon after taking his wife to chemotherapy, Mort had driven home to pick up a book she’d forgotten and interrupted Barbara nearly naked on the front couch with her new boyfriend. The sight of Simon—covered with tattoos and obviously much older than her—had been the last straw.
Furious, he’d sent Simon away with threats to call the police. Then Mort had forbidden Barbara to see him again and grounded her for a month. She’d responded with a rude gesture and told him with a four-letter-word what he could do to himself.
“I lost it.” Mort’s voice tightened. “Took off my belt and lit into her.”
“You didn’t.” Horrified, Edmond had an image of his outraged, hulking father beating his half-dressed sister.
“I stopped when I realized I’d raised welts on her back,” his father said shakily. “She grabbed her clothes and ran to her room.” Mort was breathing hard now. “I had to return to your mom at the infusion center. By the time we got home, Barbara had packed a suitcase and gone.”
“That’s why she left.” Edmond had believed he was to blame for being selfishly wrapped up in his happy marriage. But why hadn’t his sister confided in him? He’d tried to call her after she left, only to receive the cold-shoulder treatment.
“Simon took pictures of her welts and she threatened to report me to the police if I interfered again,” Mort said angrily.
“No wonder you refused to act against Simon.” On further reflection, Edmond supposed Barbara might have feared that if he learned the truth, he would report both Mort and Simon’s misdeeds to the police. Well, I might have. And if I had, maybe she wouldn’t be in prison now.
“She never felt she could return home, no matter how bad things got,” Mort said unhappily. “Rotten as Simon was, I don’t believe he ever beat her.”
Edmond recalled Dawn saying her father had yelled at them, but nothing more. “I don’t think so, either.”
The Surprise Triplets Page 18
