by Loree Lough
“I’ve never felt anything but loved by Daddy,” Ciara had admitted.
It had been the wrong thing to say to her mother.
Following a disgusted snort, she’d said, “Kids are adaptable. Besides, how would you know a good father from a bad one? You have nothing to compare him to.”
“My friends’ fathers spent as much time at work as Daddy did when he was a cop,” she’d said, more than a little riled that her own mother had put her in the position of defending her father, “and they weren’t policemen.”
“Kids are adaptable,” she’d repeated, “and they’re good at justifying what’s wrong in their lives, too. Well, I’m not so good at those things.” She’d jammed a handful of silverware into the cup in the corner of the dish drainer. “Now you know why you’re an only child.”
“Why are you so angry with Dad?”
Her mother had stared out the window above the sink for a long moment, as if the answer to Ciara’s question hung on a shrub or a tree limb. “I’m angry because I asked him to give it up, to do something safer—for my sake—and he refused.”
“But he did give it up.”
“I asked him to quit long before he was shot, Ciara. You weren’t even born yet when I told him how hard it was for me, worrying every minute he was on the job, scared out of my mind if he was five minutes late, imagining all the terrible things that might have happened to keep him from coming home on time.” She hesitated. “I found a solution to my worrying.”
“What?”
“I taught myself not to care.”
Now it all made sense. She’d been eleven when her father had been wounded in the line of duty. The injury to his hip would heal, the doctors had said, but he’d walk with a permanent limp…and because that would put him in harm’s way on the job, he was forced to retire.
Strange, Ciara had often thought, that though he worked fewer hours at a far less stressful job, teaching at the university seemed to tire him like police work never had. Stranger still, before the second anniversary of his retirement, his dark hair had gone completely gray and his clear blue eyes had lost their youthful spark. And in addition to the gunshot-induced limp, he began to walk slightly bent at the waist, as though the burden of being unable to make his wife happy was a weight too crushing to bear, even for one with shoulders as broad as his.
One line from a poem she’d read in her English Literature class popped into her mind, “Joy is the ingredient that puts life into a man’s soul, just as sadness causes its death.” Her father, though the doctors claimed his vital organs were strong and healthy, was dying of unhappiness.
In the kitchen making her lunch, Mitch finished singing one Beatles tune and immediately launched into another, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. From her place on the sofa bed, Ciara smiled. He sounded happy, despite their predicament, and she wanted him to stay happy. The only way she knew to accomplish that goal was to set her own needs aside and let him continue the dangerous undercover work he seemed to love so much.
Could she do that? Should she, now that there was a baby to consider?
“I hope you’re hungry,” he called to her, “’cause I’ve made enough food for two Boy Scout troops and their leaders.”
She closed her eyes. Oh, how I love him! she admitted silently.
But she couldn’t allow love to blind her, not when the baby’s future, as well as her own, was at stake. She wouldn’t spend decades chained to a loveless marriage, as her mother had done. Had her parents stayed together, simply because of the vows they’d exchanged? Ciara and Mitch had spoken those same words. “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” the preacher had said.
Ciara closed her eyes. “Lord Jesus,” she whispered, “I want to do Your Will, but You’ll have to show me the way.”
“Ciara, sweetie,” Mitch said, poking his head into the family room, “you can finish your nap later.” He popped back into the kitchen. “Make a space on your lap for the breakfast tray.” His face reappeared in the doorway, a confused frown furrowing his brow. “Ah, do we have a breakfast tray?”
“Yes,” she answered, giggling softly. “It was a wedding gift from your Aunt Leila, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Right,” he said, nodding before he disappeared for the second time. In seconds he was back again. “Um…where do we keep the breakfast tray?”
She was reminded of an episode of “I Love Lucy,” when Ricky insisted on making breakfast so his pregnant wife could sleep in…but continued to call Lucy into the kitchen to find this and that. Grinning, Ciara mimicked Lucille Ball. “Oh, Ricky, it’s in the cabinet under the wall oven, standing with the cookie sheets and pizza pans.”
“What?”
And after a terrible clatter, she heard him say, “Bingo!”
Yes, Mitch seemed happy. But was she wife enough to keep him that way? Was her faith strong enough to stick with it and to find out?
Chapter Seven
He hadn’t been deliberately eavesdropping later that day, but the kitchen and the family room shared a common wall with an open vent. He made a little more noise with the ice cubes and lemonade, hoping to drown out Ciara’s mother’s nagging voice:
“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have married someone like that nice Chet Bradley. He’s always so—”
“Mom, please,” came Ciara’s harsh whisper. “Mitch is right in the next room. You want to hurt his feelings?”
Kathryn laughed. “Feelings? Please. He’s a cop, and as we both know, cops don’t have any feelings.”
A moment of silence, then, “He left you alone for seven months, Ciara. Alone and carrying your first child. And a difficult pregnancy to boot!”
“It wasn’t his fault,” countered his wife. “He was just following orders.”
“That’s not what Chet said….”
He heard the rustle of sheets. “What are you talking about, Mom?”
“Did you know that Chet is single?”
Ciara had told Mitch that her mother was English, through and through. There must be a wee bit o’ the Irish in ’er, he thought, ’cause she’s answerin’ a question with a question….
“Not single, divorced,” her daughter corrected. “There’s a difference…not that it matters. I’m a married woman, and pretty soon now, I’ll be a mommy, too.”
His motherin-law’s bitter sigh floated to him. “Don’t remind me.” She clucked her tongue. “I just hope you’re happy, young lady, because now you’re stuck in the same leaky boat I was in for two solid decades.”
Kathryn had never made a secret of her feelings for Mitch, insulting him at every turn, trying to make him feel small and insignificant every chance she got. Obviously, he thought, my little “vacation” hasn’t improved her opinion of me.
“If you had listened to me and married a man like Chet, you wouldn’t be in this predicament now. At least he has some breeding, unlike certain Gaelic immigrants.” She snorted disdainfully. “Chet wouldn’t have left you high and dry. He—”
“He’s a cop, too, don’t forget.”
“True. But his job doesn’t put him on the front lines. His ego isn’t all wrapped up in how much attention the ‘big cases’ give him.”
“Lieutenant Bradley is Mitch’s superior officer. He’s the guy who made Mitch go away.”
“That’s not the way he tells it.”
“You skirted this question earlier, and if you don’t mind, I’d like a straight answer to it now. What do you mean, ‘That’s not the way he tells it’?”
If he stood just to the right of the stove and crouched slightly, Mitch could see their reflections in the oven window. He saw Kathryn narrow her eyes and incline her head. “Where was Mitch all those months, anyway? I distinctly got the impression from Chet that—”
“That doesn’t answer my question. And besides, when have you had an opportunity to discuss Mitch with him?” Ciara asked, sitting up straighter.
Kathryn waved a hand in front of her f
ace, as though Ciara’s question were a housefly or a pesky mosquito. “Last time I stopped by, he was here when I arrived, remember?” She tucked a flyaway strand of dark blond hair behind one ear, inspected her manicured fingernails. “That was the time he brought you roses, to cheer you up.” She smiled brightly. “Such a caring, thoughtful, young man!” She straightened the hem of her skirt and added, “We were in the kitchen, fixing coffee, remember? I didn’t see any harm in asking him a few questions. You’re my daughter, after all. If I don’t have a right to know the details about something that affects you so directly, who does?”
Roses? He brought roses…to cheer Ciara up? Mitch ground his molars together. It was understandable that his wife would be down in the dumps, considering the way they’d parted and all, but… How often had good old Chet been in his house, anyway? Often enough to feel comfortable upstairs…in the master bathroom?
Ciara’s voice interrupted his self-interrogation. “What did he tell you?”
He knew Ciara well enough to recognize annoyance in her voice when he heard it. She was annoyed now.
Kathryn huffed. “All right, Ciara. I guess a child is never too old to be reminded to mind their manners. I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re talking to me, young lady. You may be a married woman now, but I’m still your mother!”
“I’m sorry if I sounded disrespectful, Mom. Blame it on cabin fever.”
She has been in the house an awful lot these past months, Mitch thought. And she always loved to take long walks…must be hard, being cooped up this way….
“You should try your hand at writing mysteries,” Ciara added, giggling, “because you’re a master at dropping hints and clues. I admit it, you’ve hooked me. Now please tell me what Chet said about Mitch!”
Kathryn joined in on what she believed to be her daughter’s merriment. Mitch knew better. Shouldn’t a mother be able to recognize when her daughter is getting angry? He’d only known her a few months before leaving for Philly, and even he recognized that Ciara’s laughter was rooted in frustration.
“Well,” Kathryn said, a hand on Ciara’s knee, “it was like this…. It seems Mitch came to Chet late one night with this ego-maniacal idea for capturing a man on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Notorious criminal, Chet said. Mitch had it all worked out, right down to the kind of clothes he would wear. He’d pretend to be a CPA to trick the man.
“Chet didn’t want to let him go, once he found out that you two had just been married, but Mitch insisted.” Kathryn sighed. “Chet tried and tried to talk him out of it, but in the end, he had no choice but to admit that Mitch had come up with a good plan….”
“Interesting,” Ciara said.
And Mitch could tell by the way her fingers were steadily tapping against her tummy that she was chomping at the bit to hear the rest of the story. Frankly, I’d like to hear it, too, he admitted.
“Chet didn’t hear from Mitch the whole time he was undercover. Did you know that? It’s his duty to report to his commanding officer, and he didn’t phone in once! If he’s that irresponsible about his job, think what a wonderful father he’ll be.”
Her voice dripped with sarcasm and bitterness. I love you, too, Kathryn, was his snide thought.
“I’ve told you and told you,” Ciara said, “Mitch couldn’t call. They were watching him night and day. One false move, and he might have been—”
Kathryn patted her daughter’s hand, turned to face the kitchen. “Mitch! What’s keeping you?” she called. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Send him to the kitchen for lemonade, and he’s gone a half hour. Send him on a week-long assignment, and he’s gone seven months.”
That low-down lout, Mitch thought. What was he doing telling her the details of a case that hadn’t even gone to court yet?
Kathryn snickered behind her hand. “Being elusive must be part of his nature. Now, if you had married a man like Chet…”
He’d heard about all of that he could handle. Straightening from his position in front of the oven window, Mitch left the glasses of lemonade on the kitchen counter and barged into the family room. “I don’t mean to be rude, Kathryn, but Ciara looks awfully tired.”
Ciara shot him a grateful look.
“I promised her doctor that at the first signs of fatigue, I’d make her take a nap.” Gently he grabbed Kathryn’s elbow and helped her up. “Why don’t you come back in a day or so and bring Joe next time. I haven’t seen him in—”
“In over seven months!” his motherin-law finished, jerking free of his grasp.
Mitch handed her her purse and walked toward the front door. One hand on the knob, he smiled politely. “Why don’t we make it Sunday afternoon. I’ll fix a nice dinner. I’m sure Ciara will be rested up by then. Won’t you, sweetie?”
Her blue eyes were twinkling when their eyes met, but when her mother faced her, she slumped weakly against her pillow. “I don’t know…maybe you’d better call first, Mom, just to make sure I’m up to having company….”
Kathryn laid a hand on her chest, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Company! Your father and I aren’t ‘company,’ we’re family!”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Mitch said, opening the door. “As always, it’s been…an experience.”
“’Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?’” Kathryn quoted, snatching her purse from his hands. “You’d better not let anything happen to my daughter,” she snapped, shaking a finger under his nose. “I intend to hold you personally responsible for—”
“Kathryn,” he said, calmly, quietly, “you have my word that I won’t let anything happen to your daughter. She happens to be the most important person in my life.”
She huffed her disapproval. “You sure have a funny way of showing how you feel.”
Smiling thinly, Mitch said, “You know, you’re right about that.” He opened the door and with a great sweep of his arm, invited her to step through it. “See you Sunday?” he asked once she was on the porch. “How does two o’clock sound?”
“I’ll…”
“Drive safely now,” he added as the door swung shut, “and be sure to give Joe my best.”
Whatever Kathryn said in response was muffled by the closed door.
“Is she gone?” Ciara whispered when he came back into the family room.
Nodding, he sat on the edge of the sofa bed.
“Thank goodness. I love her, but she doesn’t make it easy sometimes.”
Mitch flexed a thick-muscled biceps. “You want her to stay out, it’ll be my pleasure. Trust me.”
Ciara giggled. “I couldn’t keep her away. She means well, it’s just that she has—”
“The personality of vinegar?”
She pursed her lips. “Well, lemons, maybe….”
He stood, picked up the empty cookie plate he’d brought out when her mother had arrived. “I’m going to throw a load of sheets into the washer,” he said, bending down to kiss her forehead. “How ‘bout catching a catnap while I’m gone. You look like you could use it.”
Yawning and stretching, she smiled. “I might just do that.”
He started to walk away.
“Mitch?”
He stopped.
“What are we going to do? After the baby is born, I mean?”
Mitch held his breath. His heartbeat doubled, and his pulse pounded in his ears. She’d turned onto her side, making it impossible for him to read her expression. Was the question a throwback to her suggestion that he pack up and leave?
“You’re taking such good care of me…of everything…that I’m going to be spoiled rotten by the time this baby gets here.”
Relieved, he exhaled. “You’ve done more than your share, turning this house into a home all by yourself. You deserve to be spoiled rotten.”
She lifted her head and grinned.
“At least until the baby is born,” he finished, winking.
She snuggled into her pillow and in moments was fast asleep.
&n
bsp; I didn’t tell you the whole truth, he admitted to his peacefully sleeping wife. I have no intention of spoiling you rotten just till the baby comes. I’m going to treat you like a queen for the rest of your life.
The next few days passed quietly and without incident. The lines of communication between them were beginning to open, as he took her temperature, brought her her vitamins, saw to it she drank plenty of water….
Ciara admired him, for although he had a different way of doing things, he accomplished every task with productive efficiency.
He had a plan for everything—usually written out on a five-by-seven tablet—and made so many checklists, Ciara believed all the ballpoint pens in the house would run out of ink before he had accomplished every task.
Mitch had written up his first list the night before he brought her home from the hospital. Once he helped her get settled the next morning, he whipped out a little notebook and sat on the edge of the sofa bed. “Breakfast at nine, lunch at one, supper at seven, a light snack at ten, lights out by eleven. You can read or watch TV in between, but I want all the power off a couple of hours in the morning, again in the afternoon, so you can catch some shut-eye. What do you think?”
The dog sidled up to him and nudged Mitch’s hand with his nose, as if to say Where do I fit into the plan?
“Don’t worry, boy, I won’t neglect you.” Mitch flipped to the second page in his tablet. “See,” he said, as if Chester could read what he’d printed in bold black letters, “you’ll get yard time while your mommy, here, takes her naps.” Patting the top of the dog’s head, he’d added, “I’m afraid long walks around the block are going to have to wait till she’s up and at ’em, ’cause we can’t leave her alone.”
Chester’s silent bark seemed all the approval Mitch needed. “It’s settled, then.” To Ciara he added, “I’ve already put clean sheets on our bed, so…”
“I don’t really have to go to bed at eleven,” she said, hoping he’d agree because she’d said it so matter-of-factly.
