Kayla's Daddy

by Laura Bradford

  Phoebe could only hope that was true. Her day was in desperate need of a few more smiles and a lot less drama.

  A featherlight kiss on her jawbone brought her back to the moment, visions of hostile neighbors and cranky architects disappearing in a poof. She glanced down at Kayla and grinned. “Thank you, sweetie. That makes Mommy happiest of all.” And it was true. As hard as it was to be a single mother with limited backup support, it was all worth it to have Kayla in her world. Aside from the happy smiles and sweet kisses, her daughter had taught her so much about life.

  And about herself.

  It was okay to have dreams. To believe in your ability to reach them. And to know that there could never be a monetary amount that would make her give them up. Ever.

  Phoebe donned her best conspiratorial tone and widened her eyes as she looked at Kayla. “Are you ready to deliver our letter?”

  “Da.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  At the end of the first hallway they turned right, finding a massive dining room visible through the first doorway. A dozen or so circular tables were scattered throughout the space, each one covered with a white linen tablecloth and a miniature wicker wheelbarrow filled with the colors of summer. The bright yellow daisies, purple and pink lilacs, and white daylilies looked fresh from the garden, waiting to be admired by the dinner crowd.

  The second door opened to a small beauty parlor, both chairs occupied by white-haired women getting dolled up. One of the women was passing a photograph to her stylist while proudly announcing she was a grandmother for the tenth time.

  Phoebe cuddled Kayla closer and forced herself to focus on the wall-mounted flag at the end of the hall. The last thing she needed to do was show up at Bart Williams’s door with tears running down her face. But oh, what she wouldn’t give to see her grandmother one more time. To hold her hand. To hug her. To watch the joy in her eyes as she held her only great-grandchild for the very first time….

  “Oh, Tate, you’ve got to find a way to make things right with your dad.” Her whispered words made Kayla peer up at her and happily wave the green visitor card in the air.

  “You’re right, sweetie. We’re here to deliver a letter, not to play mediator in a dispute we know nothing about. And besides, I’ve had my share of unyielding men to last a lifetime.” But even as Phoebe said the words, she knew better. Knew herself well enough to know she simply couldn’t help trying to fix relationships even if much of that work was done from behind the curtain. Ironic, considering she couldn’t find a way—short of selling her soul—to keep the one man she’d ever really loved.

  Though, lately, she’d come to wonder whether she’d truly loved Doug. Sure, they’d had fun dating in college, but they’d been so busy after graduation that she’d actually entertained the idea of seeing other people. But when her grandmother died she’d sought comfort in the only other pair of arms she knew.

  Doug’s.

  Yet in all the years they’d been together, he’d never evoked the kind of head-spinning passion she’d experienced for the few moments she’d been in Tate’s arms. How much of that was genuine and how much was deprivation was anyone’s guess.

  Though she wouldn’t mind an encore to find out…

  “Ugh.” Shaking all thoughts of Tate Williams from her mind, Phoebe stopped outside Bart Williams’s room and took a deep breath, her hand moving from Kayla’s back long enough to reach inside her purse and touch the letter that had brought them there in the first place.

  This visit was about Bart and his letter. Nothing more and nothing less. And once she’d made her delivery, there’d be no reason ever to see him or his son again.

  Squaring her shoulders, Phoebe pressed the tip of Kayla’s nose gently then knocked on the white, six-panel door. Around them doors opened and faces popped out, only to disappear when their owners realized her knock wasn’t for them. She tried again, this time a little bit louder.

  “Who’s there?” The words were muffled, yet firm, reminding Phoebe of a bark rather than a greeting.

  “Mr. Williams? My name is Phoebe Jennings and I live in your old home on Quinton Lane. A letter arrived in my mailbox for you a few days ago and I—I wanted to make sure you got it.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth before the interior lock was disengaged and the door pulled open. Phoebe stepped back and hoisted Kayla farther up her hip, her eyes drawn to the man who looked out at them with a mixture of curiosity and pleasure.

  She’d have known he was Bart Williams with or without the thin rectangular nameplate on the wall. The above-average height, the proud posture, the soft brown eyes and full head of thick hair were all features she’d seen just hours earlier on Bart’s son.

  Even the twinkle in the elderly man’s eyes was reminiscent of Tate. Especially the way it seemed to appear just before the endearing smile that lit his face from within.

  “A warm welcome to you.” The man’s eyes drifted from Phoebe’s face to her arms. “And to you, too, young lady.”

  He reached a bent finger in Kayla’s direction and tickled her stomach. The baby’s ensuing giggle widened his smile even more.

  “And to think I thought today would be like every other day. Slow and boring.” Bart Williams stepped backward and motioned to his sparsely decorated studio apartment. “Please, please come in. I know the place is nothing to look at, but it suits my basic needs.”

  Phoebe walked inside and looked around, her gaze skimming across the alcove that housed a mini refrigerator, tabletop microwave and freestanding oak cabinet. A table for two had been pushed against the wall, making it more what it truly was—a table for one.

  The spot where the white-and-tan linoleum stopped and the beige carpet began denoted the sitting room. This section was furnished with a teal-blue recliner, matching love seat and an old-fashioned tube television. The only attempt at decorating was on the room’s lone end table—providing the one real glimpse into the man who lived within the apartment’s four walls. It was there she finally spied a few personal mementos—two homemade 4 x 6 picture frames with snapshots she couldn’t identify from where she stood, and what appeared to be a sketch, visible beneath the table’s circular glass top.

  She felt Tate’s father studying her and turned to meet his inspection head-on. “How long have you been here?”

  His shoulders drooped a hairbreadth before he recovered enough to point to the love seat. “Too long. But that doesn’t matter today. Today I have company, so won’t you please sit and stay a while?”

  Although she’d only been in his presence for five minutes, it was hard for Phoebe to imagine what could possibly keep Tate from this man. What kind of disagreement was worth letting their time together as father and son disappear through their fingers?

  Not your business, Phoebe. Stay out of it.

  Training her focus on the reason for her visit, Phoebe perched on the edge of the love seat, lowering Kayla to the floor as Bart Williams claimed the well-worn recliner to her right. The baby sat for a moment, her eyes as big as saucers as she took in the new setting.

  “What’s her name?” Bart asked, his words directed at Phoebe while his eyes sparkled at the baby.

  “Her name is Kayla. She’s eleven months old and has shown no real interest in walking yet. She prefers to get where she’s going as quickly as possible. And for now, her chosen method is crawling.”

  Bart nodded. “My son was like that. Didn’t walk until he was almost fifteen months. But when he did…look out.”

  For some odd reason Phoebe suddenly felt uneasy. As if hearing things about Tate’s childhood, without his consent, was underhanded in some way. Silly, perhaps. But the guilt remained.

  “I…I have your letter.” Phoebe reached into her purse and extracted the envelope from the center section. “I’ve been looking forward to getting this to you since—”

  Bart waved his hand dismissively. “So, you live on Quinton Lane now, do you?”

  She smiled and nodded a
s he settled back in his chair, a look of contentment on his face as he continued talking. “I miss that place. Home has never felt quite like it did there.”

  “I know what you mean. Mrs. Applewhite, and Ms. Weatherby, and Mr. Borden, and the Haskells and, well, everyone on that street has welcomed Kayla and me with open arms. Something we desperately needed.”

  The man nodded in turn and his gaze seemed to drift off to a place and conversation far away. “I could have lived my whole life there. If things had been different at the end.” His voice dipped suddenly as his focus reconnected with the here and now. “Uh, don’t mind me. I’m just an old man suffering from nostalgia for people and places that are no longer.”

  There was something about his words and the way he said them that made Phoebe wonder if his son was included in that statement. But if he was, Bart wasn’t sharing. And she wasn’t about to pry.

  “I plan on raising Kayla there. I have no interest or desire to live anywhere else. Ever.”

  His hands gently gripped the armrests of his chair as he leaned forward long enough to wiggle his fingers at Kayla before responding in a voice that seemed deliberately void of emotion. “Well, young lady, I hope nothing ever changes your mind the way it did for—” He stopped and reached for the envelope, turning it over and over in his hands. “Doesn’t look like a bill, so I guess it can’t be too bad.”

  Phoebe pointed at the faded red circle on the front of the envelope. “Did you see the date on the postmark? That’s one very old letter you have in your hands, Mr. Williams.”

  She watched as he held the yellowed envelope upward, tipping it back and forth. “I lost my glasses somewhere and can’t read anything that’s not in big block letters. How old is this thing anyway?”

  “Almost forty years.”

  “Fort—did you just say forty years?” He raised the letter close to his face, his eyes squinting as he examined it.

  “That’s right. Forty years.” Phoebe handed her key ring down to Kayla, then looked back at Bart. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “How? I didn’t live on Quinton Lane forty years ago.”

  “Apparently my house is the last known address they had for you.”

  The man nodded momentarily before asking yet another question, the disbelief in his voice offset by a twinge of curiosity. “Okay. But why now? Where’s it been all this time?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I remember reading once about a letter falling behind a table at a post office, only to be discovered ten years later. Maybe it was something like that. The apology note never said.” She pushed a strand of hair from her forehead and inhaled slowly. “When I saw the name, Tate Williams, on the front, I—”

  “It’s addressed to Tate?” The letter began to shake, along with Bart Williams’s hand.

  “Yes, but it’s okay. With the date of that postmark it can only be yours…” Her voice trailed off as the color began to drain from the elderly man’s face. The cheeks that had been tinged pink with pleasure at their arrival were growing paler with each passing second. She pushed herself off the love seat and bridged the gap between them in seconds. Crouching beside the recliner, Phoebe touched his hand. “Mr. Williams, are you all right?”

  His silence was punctuated only by the slow nod of his head.

  “Should I get someone for you?” Phoebe glanced to the left long enough to establish a visual on Kayla before looking back at Bart.

  He met her concern with a soft pat on her forearm and words so raspy she could barely make them out. “What’s the original address on the letter?”

  Without looking down, she recited the address scrawled across the center of the envelope. The man’s eyes slowly closed as she did so.

  “Would you read it to me, please?”

  “You want me to read your letter?”

  He nodded once more as a lone tear escaped from his closed eyes.

  Phoebe took the envelope from his hand and slowly slid her finger underneath the seal. The letter itself was written on real stationary, something she hadn’t seen since her grandmother was alive. Phoebe carefully unfolded the letter and smoothed it against her leg, her gaze lingering on the pair of soft pink hearts tied together with a lace-trimmed ribbon at the top. Below the design was the same flowery handwriting she’d been staring at all week.

  Reclaiming her spot on the sofa, she cleared her throat and began to read.

  My dearest Tate,

  I received your letter just a few hours ago and have spent the time since pinching myself.

  The thought of becoming your wife is the most wonderful thing I could ever imagine. I have loved you from the first moment I saw you and have missed you every single second since you’ve been gone.

  Phoebe peered up at the man in the recliner as her voice wavered. His eyes remained closed despite the addition of more tears on his cheeks. Swallowing over the sudden tightness in her throat, she looked back down and continued reading.

  The second I read your letter I wanted to respond, but I did as you asked and handed the smaller envelope to my father. I am thrilled to announce that we have my parents’ blessing!

  But I’m even more excited to tell you that I want nothing more in this life than to be your wife. So my answer is “yes” a hundred times over.

  All my love,

  Your Lorraine

  The final line was met with quiet sobbing, a heartbroken sound that tugged at Phoebe’s heart. Not knowing what to say, she returned to his side, bending down low enough to embrace him, the shoulder of her shirt absorbing the tears that fell so freely. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Williams. If I’d known it was going to cause you so much pain I never would have given it to you.”

  She felt his head move against her skin as he pulled away.

  “No. You did the right thing.” Bart Williams pulled a tissue from his shirt pocket and blew his nose quietly. “Not receiving this letter caused far more hurt. At least now I know.”

  As darts of pain radiated up her thighs from her awkward position, Phoebe stood and managed a smile in Kayla’s direction. The baby dropped the keys and crawled over, stopping at Phoebe’s feet to raise her arms upward.

  “May I?” Bart asked quietly. “Hold her, I mean?”

  “Sure.” Phoebe plucked Kayla from the ground and sat her on the elderly man’s lap before fishing a small canister of Cheerios from her purse. “She’d love it if you’d hold this while she eats.”

  He took the cup and popped the lid open, shaking it just enough to claim Kayla’s attention. The eager smile he received in return brightened his face immeasurably, though his eyes didn’t lose their sadness.

  Phoebe sat quietly, not wanting to interrupt any good that was coming from Kayla’s innocent joy, yet sensing a distinct change in the man’s demeanor since she’d read the letter aloud. But just as she began to think there would be no more conversation, Bart finally reestablished eye contact.

  “Do you…” He stopped, then started again, his voice cautious and unsteady. “Do you think a broken heart can change a person so much it ruins their heart for someone else? Even when that someone else was every bit as wonderful?”

  Phoebe couldn’t have been more ill prepared for a question if she tried. As a result, she simply sat there, alternating between clasping her hands and picking at imaginary lint on her legs.

  “I, uh—”

  He held up his hand, palm outward, a hint of color finally returning to his face. “Phoebe, I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. I didn’t mean to ask it in a prying way. It’s just…well, it’s just—” With a shrug, he stopped talking and looked back down at Kayla. “She sure is a happy little girl.”

  Phoebe wanted to say something, to let him know the question was okay, yet she didn’t know how to answer it. Mostly because it was something she herself wondered about. Often.

  “It’s not that the question was out of line,” she finally said, her mind whirling, “it’s just that I’m not sure how to answer it. I, too, had my heart broke
n on a large scale, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to give it so completely again.”

  She felt Bart’s eyes studying her, but it didn’t matter. Whatever had happened in his past, whatever went wrong between him and Tate, one thing was certain—he knew about hurt, and that alone put Phoebe and him on common ground.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He inhaled deeply, jutting his chin in Kayla’s direction. “She’s drifting off.”

  At Phoebe’s agreement, the man pulled the baby closer, cuddling her into the crook of his arm. As Kayla’s eyelids continued to droop, he grinned.

  “That kind of innocence is something we just don’t enjoy as adults.” He paused for a moment, then leaned his head back against the recliner, his voice taking on a faraway quality. “I met Lorraine about six months before I left for a twelve-month deployment overseas. Although I miraculously escaped an assignment in Vietnam, my contact with home was still limited. Except for letters. And boy, did Lorraine and I write letters to each other. Daily. Sometimes two and three times a day.

  “Those letters brought us closer on a level I think few achieve even when they’re together day after day. She mailed me things she’d knitted—a scarf, a hat, a sweater. I’d mail her little trinkets from overseas—a postcard, pictures we had taken on days off. We fell madly in love with one another. Or…” He stopped, looked at the letter Phoebe had placed on his armrest and sighed. “Or at least I knew I was in love.”

  She pulled her legs onto the couch and settled back in turn. “You proposed in a letter?”

  He nodded. “I did. I couldn’t wait another moment. I had four more months left of my deployment and I wanted to become her husband as soon as I returned.”

  Phoebe nibbled her lower lip as she focused on Bart’s story. From time to time she’d stop to ask a question, but for the most part she simply listened as the words poured from the elderly man’s lips.

  “But weeks turned into months and I never heard from her again. No reply to my proposal. At all. I figured she’d found someone else. It happened all the time to guys I was stationed with.”