Lesson Learned

by Peri Elizabeth Scott

  “Your daddy lived far away, but he’s here now, and you’ll learn all about him.”

  “Daddy likes trucks.” He struggled along with her to get his arm through his sleeve.

  “I’m sure he does. And … and books, and—”

  “And flying kites, running in the park, building sand castles.” Adrian spoke over her, and she and Michael started, turning in sync to see him in the doorway. “I just put the toast in.”

  “Cassells,” Michael tried.

  “At the beach.”

  Her little boy trotted toward his father, and Jessie’s heart squeezed, making it miss a beat. She’d never thought he’d meet Adrian and could confess to a certain desperation that they wouldn’t be able to keep their civility in place. She’d deal with it if that were the case, but it felt overwhelming.

  She hurriedly followed the pair, Michael jabbering a mile a minute about everything he crammed into his waking hours with Adrian slowing his pace, dark head bent to listen. His curls were ruthlessly trimmed into submission.

  As she watched, he lifted his son and carefully tucked him into his highchair, something Michael was resisting of late. Her son didn’t demur, instead watching his father grab the toast as it conveniently popped, efficiently remove the crusts, lightly butter it, and then top it with peanut butter. He’d obviously found everything in her kitchen, eggs steaming in the pan on the stove, and a quart of milk reposing on the counter.

  She intervened to tie on a bib, her boy tipping his head forward to accommodate the bow, as Adrian served out the eggs. The platter of food he set before Michael was somewhat large, but her son grabbed his fork.

  “Slow down, sweetie. Let it cool.” She separated the mound of eggs into manageable sizes and tactfully set a spoon beside the plate. “Do you want juice or milk?”

  “Choclit milk.”

  “Milk or juice.” She waited patiently, prepared to do so until the cows came home, and well they might with Michael’s occasional stubbornness.

  She heard Adrian’s intake of breath, but to his credit, he didn’t interfere. Finally, Michael said, “Milk.”

  She poured him a sippy cupful and then took her own seat at the counter. Adrian had prepared her the same breakfast—the toast retaining its crusts and minus the peanut butter that she abhorred—and the breath caught in her throat. He’d remembered. “Thank you.”

  Michael echoed, “Tank you.”

  “I’ve eaten.” Adrian hunched over another cup of coffee and watched his son with avid eyes.

  Michael hadn’t mastered the art of tidy eating, of course, but she left him to his independence. They rarely ate elsewhere, and he was figuring it out. He focused on it like most things he did.

  “He’s … wonderful.” Adrian’s tone held wistfulness and admiration.

  A shard of guilt pierced her belly. She hadn’t known she was pregnant when he’d shown her the door, and afterward, hadn’t been able to see past the hurt and betrayal, the rejection, to consider sharing the fact. And who knew what he’d do?

  There had been more than a few times since when she questioned her decision, particularly as Michael grew from an infant into a toddler. She talked herself out of it with the reminder of how he had treated her in addition to the fear of the unknown while admitting it was unfair to both child and father. The days had gone so quickly…

  “He is wonderful.”

  “You’ve done a remarkable job.” His praise felt grudging, and she stared at him.

  Shrugging, he returned it. “I had hoped to find reason to prove you unfit.”

  “What?” She threw a look toward Michael, who had taken his attention from his toast to glance her way. “The peanut butter is on the bottom, sweetie.”

  “Bottom.”

  “Yes. It tastes better on top.” Despite her shock at Adrian’s comment, she wanted to smile when Michael carefully reversed the bread and took a contemplative bite.

  “Better?”

  “Yeth.”

  She pushed her own plate, her appetite gone. “Save those comments for when we’re alone.”

  Adrian had the grace to flush, the color darkening his bronzed skin. “Right.”

  She kept her tone light and modulated. “I suppose you had someone checking. If so, you’ll find this little person has been my world.”

  He nodded. “True.”

  “Proper medical care, housing, sustenance. Every ounce of love I could muster, balanced with discipline.” A touch of sarcasm crept in, and she forced a smile. She knew she was a good mother, and he wasn’t undermining that belief.

  Returning his gaze to Michael, he said, “You don’t lack an income.”

  No doubt he’d found out about that too, probably piqued because she hadn’t acquired her money in nefarious ways. Like embezzlement or spying. “I don’t.”

  “You’ve been home with our son. I noted you didn’t finish your Ph.D.”

  He’d been checking on her even before? Or was that the result of the current investigation? She quashed a weird frisson of hope. “He comes first, and I was fortunate enough to be able to afford it.”

  Afford the apartment, bequeathed to her by her godmother along with a substantial trust fund. A surprise, a bitter one for that woman’s only son who made a stab at challenging the will and fortunately hadn’t succeeded.

  “Fortuitous.”

  “Indeed.” She was still furious at him for thinking to prove her unfit. “And not without other resources.” She smiled sweetly.

  Michael chose that moment to grasp his cup, greasy fingers slipping, and she reached to steady it, Adrian’s hand arriving at the same time. Their son paused in his efforts and looked between them. They both froze, and then she carefully withdrew to allow Adrian to help. It felt like she’d acceded something important, but she had to let his father participate. And she was not going to let their boy become some kind of negotiating tool.

  “Done,” Michael said after a swig of milk.

  She went for a cloth and relinquished it to Adrian when he wordlessly asked. With his increasing independence, Michael resisted the cleanup with words and action. Somewhat to her chagrin, Adrian coped easily, and she busied herself with taking the dishes away. So much for her high-minded thoughts.

  “I’d like to be included in today’s activities,” Adrian said behind her.

  “Uh…” She wasn’t sure she could manage an entire day, not with many unspoken words looming between them. But then, the acrimony kept her from feeling anything softer for him. Right?

  “Is that a problem? Do you have something to do that I won’t be welcome accompanying you?”

  Was he hinting about other men? She turned to face him. He was setting Michael on the floor, and their son had taken hold of one of his father’s fingers. It was another body blow to withstand, but she knew it was the right thing.

  “We have story time at the library, lunch in the park, a nap—if my little tyrant requires one after sleeping so late—and then grocery shopping. Does any of that interest you?”

  “Everything.” He sounded … thrilled.

  “Libwary.” Michael posited, stomping a foot in emphasis. “The park.”

  Shoot, she’d set herself up with too many options for a toddler. “Library first.”

  “Park. See my trucks.” He tugged at Adrian, little feet skidding on the tiles.

  “He can show you his trucks while I clean up.” She breathed a sigh of relief when the pair went down the hall and out of sight.

  Chapter Three

  His world had narrowed down to the scope of this remarkable little child. His son. Despite a different and separate reaction—reactions—to seeing Jessie—in the flesh—again. Adrian marveled instead at the strong grip Michael had on his middle finger and paced his gait to match the boy’s.

  They entered what was clearly a child’s room—a male child’s—with a bed shaped like a car, covered with a cartoon duvet. Age-appropriate pictures hung on the walls and below were shelves filled with toys.
Trucks, trains, cars, planes, and blocks met his stare. And dolls?

  Michael dashed over to choose some vehicles, assessing them as methodically and carefully as Adrian would have been himself. He wondered if the child put his toys away so orderly. Surely not. He was only just over two years old.

  He’d looked up milestones and developmental stages last night, poring over each section and already concluded his son was in the high percentile. It wouldn’t have mattered either way. He was intrigued—and in love. His heart actually hurt, it was so full. And he’d thought the image yesterday had been significant.

  “Pway wit trucks.” Michael thrust a tow truck at him, and he obligingly sank down upon the area carpet that was woven with the outline of roads and buildings.

  He had no idea what to say. He’d noted that Jessie had things well in hand. She didn’t talk down to the boy, gave him choices instead of ultimatums, but didn’t back down either. Firm. He’d bet she rarely raised her voice and would never raise her hand. She hadn’t changed from the forthright, yet loving and compassionate young woman he remembered—aside from that other part of her, the one she’d hidden.

  Without really thinking on it, he pointed out colors and traced the truck along the carpet, sharing whatever entered his head. “This is a red truck with yellow letters. A tow truck to help cars that can’t go.”

  Michael copied him and made his own observations. Was this parallel play or something more? He needed to read further.

  Anger flared in his belly when he considered how much he’d missed in being a father. In learning how to be a father, on-the-job training. Two years not seeing his son first smile, cut a tooth, learn to crawl and then walk. Never seeing him nurse—Jessie doubtless nursed him if she’d been able. A vision of her feeding their son catapulted into his brain.

  From the reports, he knew there had been no other man in her life, although a spurt of ridiculous jealousy had surfaced earlier when she’d hesitated in inviting him to share in the day with Michael. Why had his thoughts jumped there?

  He made himself think about her mothering. She’d done the day shift and the night shift with Michael, walking him when he cried, soothing him when he was ill. He scrutinized his son. Aside from the occasional sniffle, he seemed to be holding his own against the cold Jessie had referenced.

  His anger flared again when he considered her assured response earlier to his repeated accusations. Her denial. He remembered sending her away as if it had happened yesterday. Her denials had been the same, if impassioned. Had she known about Michael then?

  His breath stuttered. Who had taken care of her during her pregnancy? The woman who’d bequeathed her this home and the means to support herself? Or had she done so on her own before that? He should have been there—

  A tiny roaring sound pulled him back to the play, his son mimicking the noise of a souped-up motor as he backed the tiny vehicle up to Adrian’s tow truck. He focused on the task, relegating the softening of his attitude toward the woman who’d kept this child from him to a figurative trash can in his head. He’d treat her politely for their son’s sake, but he’d never forgive her. And if she put a foot wrong…

  With a grunt of satisfaction, Michael scrambled to his feet with that curious ease toddlers possessed once they’d learned to walk. Rather like folding upright. He tugged one of the dolls from the shelf and set it against his shoulder, patting its back.

  “Crying,” he informed Adrian. “Baby sad.”

  Had his muddled emotions transmitted to his son? Children were sensitive, though empathy tended to develop considerably later, according to the literature. Awkwardly, he reached out and patted the doll. He was much better with trucks.

  “Need potty.”

  Definitely better with trucks. “Okay. Show me.”

  He followed his son to the bathroom where a miniature toilet reposed and assisted as the child would allow, thinking about all the diaper changes he’d missed and would willingly repeat if he could but turn back time. Maybe.

  Jessie appeared as he was holding Michael up so he could wash his own hands, soap, and water flying everywhere. “I’ll get a fresh hand towel. Keep cold germs contained.”

  She passed one over, and little Mr. Independent blotted his hands, then squirmed. “Down, Daddy.”

  He froze in place for an instant and then did as he was bid, seeing Jessie’s face full of shock and something else. He knew his own reaction mirrored hers.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “So, how do we get to the library?”

  “We walk.”

  “Okay.” He fished his phone out and pressed an icon. It was answered almost instantly. He said, “I’ll call you when I need you.”

  Jessie blinked, and her face paled. “Who was that?”

  Who did she think it was? “My driver.”

  “He’s been waiting all this time?”

  He shrugged. “It’s what I pay him for.”

  “I’m careful with that kind of … largesse around our little person.”

  “He won’t want for anything, Jessie.”

  “He doesn’t now, Adrian. And I want to raise a child who doesn’t feel entitled.”

  He bit back what he wanted to say, which was what, exactly? He couldn’t really argue with the mother of his child when she was right. He was still feeling his way, finding his place in Michael’s world, and at some point, there would be a hill he’d be prepared to die on, he was sure. “Understood.”

  She nodded and held out her hand to their son. “C’mon, buddy. Shoes and jacket.”

  Michael reached for her eagerly and then paused and offered his other hand to him. Adrian wondered if his heart would withstand those moments.

  Jessie efficiently dressed the boy while accommodating his own efforts to dress himself, and Adrian worked hard at not noticing her. Other than as a mother. Of his child. He refused to be drawn to her again, her looks and physique notwithstanding. The chemistry that snapped between them was simply the result of damped anger—on both sides. His libido be damned.

  The day flew by, filled with events and situations Adrian would never have imagined. The storytelling hour at the library involved over a dozen children ensconced at the feet of a woman who animatedly read a book to them.

  With the attention span of gnats, most of the toddlers disengaged within moments and went to roam the library, their caregiver in hot pursuit. He found it interesting to see several dads—with no mothers along—also involved and tried not to puff out his chest when Michael hung in to listen to the story for longer than most.

  The park burned off energy he couldn’t believe a child that age could possess, and he saw Jessie hiding a smile as he hared off again and again after Michael to deter him from leaping into the duck pond or chasing a squirrel into bushes that certainly harbored poison ivy.

  His thoughts darkened from time to time when he considered she did this each and every day—he could have aided her if only she’d reached out. But Michael’s antics kept him focused, and for the most part, he could ignore his displeasure—and Jessie.

  She sprawled on a blanket in the sun, her hair catching the light, particularly where it escaped from the casual twist she’d put it in. Her long legs, encased in tight jeans, went on forever, and he was glad she was sitting on that glorious ass he remembered even over such a span of time. Not to mention the way the silky stuff of her shirt pulled against the mounds of her breasts as she rested her weight on her hands, set behind her. They were bigger, those breasts, he noticed, trying to dismiss his awareness as cataloging the enemy.

  Michael ate a snack provided by his mother—while mostly on the run—and Adrian purchased two coffees from a vendor for him and Jessie, midmorning. When his son later announced he was hungry, he was relieved at the thought of slowing down, and asked, “Is there somewhere he prefers for lunch?”

  “I don’t generally take him to restaurants. And today, well, it’s been pretty full already. We can eat at home and then he can nap.”

  �
��No nap.” Michael shook his head, and his bottom lip trembled.

  “Time to head off a meltdown,” Jessie murmured and eased to her feet in a movement that he tracked with his eyes. In a louder voice, she said, “I think macaroni and cheese for lunch. Do you think Daddy will like that?”

  Daddy couldn’t remember eating such a thing, but he pasted on a smile and nodded. Their efforts weren’t enough. Michael dissolved into tears and curled onto the blanket, pounding a little fist in abject despair.

  Adrian was stymied. His immediate instinct was to chide the boy and encourage him to dispense with the waterworks and actually found himself scanning the area to determine if others were watching—and judging.

  “Just pick him up, if you would. Or I will, and you can tend to the blanket and the rest. He might settle for me easier, but at some point, you’ll be faced with this. Alone.” Her voice trembled, and his alarm increased exponentially. Was she going to cry as well?

  Sweeping Michael into his arms, he was rewarded with an instant cessation of the tears and wails—for a moment. Then his once-happy little boy stiffened and struggled. “Mommy!”

  “Mommy’s right here. Daddy will carry you.” Tears stood in Jessie’s eyes as she stayed within range of Michael’s stare, folding the blanket and tucking other items into her large purse.

  Adrian wrestled with his son, and he and Jessie fell into step. He tucked Michael against his shoulder, an arm pinning his stiff body against his chest, one hand patting his back. He heard himself muttering fragments of words that popped up from somewhere, and Michael began to relax. His outburst quieted to the occasional sob.

  “You’d trust him with me. Alone.”

  “I think you planned that, initially.” She didn’t look at him, but her profile was taut.

  “I was … I was a lot of things when I found out. But seeing you together, I’d never consider it.” At that moment, he meant it and struggled not to soften any further. She wasn’t to be trusted.