“I thought you were going to wait for me at the front desk,” she said, crossing the classroom to him.
“The secretary was busy, so...” He shrugged. He didn’t trust his voice not to blurt out how much he longed for Emmie. He didn’t trust his arms not to reach out to her, to haul her to himself and devour her with a kiss. “Is that kid okay?” he asked, motioning toward the hall, where the boy had vanished. If he talked about Emmie’s student, he might be able to control the troublesome yearning that kept threatening to overtake him.
“He’s lazy,” she said, returning to her desk and packing a folder of papers into her tote. “He’s fallen behind in his work. He’s a bright boy, but he needs self-discipline.”
“The way you were talking to him-it didn’t look as if you were chewing him out for being lazy.”
“Well, I don’t want to scare him off or make him angry. I just want him to do the work he needs to do.” She pulled a key ring from the top drawer of her desk, locked the desk and joined Michael at the door. “Let’s go see my buddy at the bank,” she said, preceding him out of the room.
He thought about what she’d said. She made taking responsibility sound so easy: just do what you need to do. If Michael did what he needed to do, if he taught Jeffrey how to throw a ball and how to catch it in the pocket of his glove, if he made taking ownership of their Wilborough home economically feasible, would that be enough? Would Emmie stop trying to scare him off, stop resorting to anger and see him for the man he was?
He could think of one way to find out: do the work he needed to do.
HER MEETING WITH Ronald Petit at County Savings and Trust went better today. She had been to the realty office during her lunch hour and had the sales contract for the house written up. Mr. Arnett Senior was thrilled she would be able to buy his house-she had no idea what his son thought about it, and she didn’t care. The real-estate agent was delighted, too. She would be getting her commission without having done more than hammer a For Sale sign into Emmie’s front lawn.
Armed with the sales contract and backed by Michael and his money, Emmie glided through the mortgage application process with minimal effort. Obviously it was a lot easier to get money out of a bank if you began the process with an adequate supply of funds in hand. The irony didn’t escape her, but Ronald Petit was so happy she could now qualify for the mortgage that she kept her observations to herself.
By four o’clock, she and Michael were outside, strolling across the parking lot to their cars. The bright sunlight contrasted with the deep black of his hair, and his expression was inscrutable as he strolled beside her.
As she had when he’d shown up at her house the other night, she acknowledged how handsome he was. She had forced herself to forget a long time ago, because remembering anything good about him had hurt too much. But more than just his generosity that afternoon in the bank softened her opinion of him. She was aware of the easy grace of his gait, the swing of his arms, the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer physical beauty of him.
In truth, she had never really forgotten how attractive he was, even when she’d tried. The difference was that now she was letting his striking appearance stir something inside her, something deep, something she had buried the day he’d abandoned her.
Their cars were parked in adjacent parking spots. They halted in the narrow space between the two vehicles. She wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next: he’d just promised her a huge chunk of money, so anything she suggested—that he join her and Jeffrey for dinner or that he leave them alone-would be tainted by that. Not having enough money was a disaster, but having a lot of money complicated matters, too.
“Thank you,” she finally said.
A playful breeze deposited a strand of her hair onto her face. Michael lifted it away, his thumb brushing her cheek. He focused his gaze on her, his eyes so dark they seemed bottomless. “Does that mean I’m being dismissed?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure what it meant, other than thank you. And she wasn’t sure she was dismissing him, either. She ought to, in view of how her cheek burned in the wake of his light touch.
But he’d given her money. To acknowledge that she welcomed his touch would imply that he’d somehow purchased the right to touch her. And she didn’t really feel affectionate, she assured herself. She felt grateful and friendlier than before, and...warm. Inexplicably warm.
“I have to go pick up Jeffrey at his preschool,” she said, wondering if Michael could hear the odd thickness in her voice.
“I’d like to see where he goes to preschool, if that’s all right with you.”
She shook off the wistful mood that threatened to overtake her. Michael’s wanting to see Jeffrey’s school so soon after he’d helped her buy her house carried a threat- He had bought access, after all. He’d bought a home not for her but for his son, and now he wanted to forge deeper into Jeffrey’s life.
She had known this might happen, yet she’d accepted his money anyway. Now she was going to have to accept the rest of it—and maybe convince herself that bringing Michael and Jeffrey together wasn’t the worst thing in the world. But still... “Jeffrey doesn’t know,” she warned.
“About me being his father?”
She nodded. “I’m not ready to tell him.”
He digested this. Even though there was hardly any room to move between the two cars, he put a bit of distance between them. “When will you be ready?”
His impatience rankled. “This isn’t something I’m going to rush into,” she retorted. “As far as I know, you might disappear on me again. You might hand me a check and then go back to California. And then what would I tell him? ‘Oh, by the way, Jeffrey, that guy who blew through our lives last spring was your father.’”
He didn’t smile. “I’m not going to blow through your lives. He’s my son.”
“I tried to tell you last night-you have no idea what that means.”
“I want to learn.”
She sighed. It would be good for him to learn, and good for Jeffrey. But the more Michael became a father, the less Jeffrey would belong to her.
He was still a child, though, who needed both parents. If Michael was seriously willing to accept his son, she owed it to Jeffrey not to deprive him of his father.
“All right,” she muttered, swallowing the dread that formed a knot in her throat. “If you want to see his preschool, follow me.”
During the drive, she labored to keep her eyes on the road ahead of her instead of on her rearview mirror, which was filled with the reflection of Michael’s rental car as it tailed her through town. She repeated to herself, over and over, that Jeffrey deserved to have a father, and if that father turned out to be his actual genetic father, it wasn’t the end of the world. She told herself that what had happened five years ago was history, that Michael had had a good reason for what he’d done, that as violent and frightening as it was, she could accept his need to kill that man—at least, she could intellectually. Emotionally, it was still hard, but she was trying to be fair.
And even if he hadn’t shown up in Wilborough a few days ago, she knew Jeffrey wasn’t really hers. Children were merely on loan to their parents. They grew up and grew away. Sooner or later Jeffrey would bond with other adults, find other role models, idolize both men and women. Whether or not Emmie let Michael back into her life, Jeffrey would grow up.
Michael stuck close to her when they emerged from their cars outside the preschool. He looked apprehensive but determined as she led the way into the building. He flinched at the swell of noise from the big playroom, where Jeffrey was sure to be. Young children didn’t have volume controls on their voice boxes; whether they were excited, happy, miserable, full of energy or tired, they tended to shriek.
She was used to the din. Michael clearly wasn’t. Well, he’d better get used to it if he wanted to be Jeffrey’s dad, she thought with a superior smile.
After he recovered from the shock of the noise, he followed her into the big playroom. Wh
at might appear like bedlam to the uninitiated was actually a fairly organized playtime, but Michael’s lips thinned and his brow furrowed as he sidestepped a few tots, halted to avoid colliding with a three-year-old darting across the room wielding a toy rocket ship and winced at an off-key chorus of the alphabet song being performed by a small circle of girls in one corner. Tuning out the commotion, Emmie scanned the room, then zeroed in on Jeffrey crashing toy cars with Adam and Todd, as usual. At her wave, he smiled and carried his car to the shelf where it was stored. Then he scampered over to her.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, beaming up at Michael. “That’s your friend.”
“Yes. He’s still here,” Emmie said, wondering if she sounded irritated or relieved. She felt a little of both, actually.
It took Jeffrey a few minutes to gather his lunch box and an art project that involved a paper plate, feathers, construction paper and scraps of cloth. Emmie sought his teacher for a quick conference on how his day had gone, and then she and Jeffrey left, Michael at their heels as if he couldn’t wait to clear out.
“Can I play pirate?” Jeffrey asked, modulating his voice. He knew shrieking wasn’t effective with his mother.
“I don’t know,” Emmie hedged, then made up her mind. “Okay.” She didn’t want to invite Michael back to her house, but she wasn’t ready to send him on his way, either. “He plays a pirate game at a town park,” she explained as the three of them crossed the parking lot. “If you want to follow us there...”
“Sure.” He seemed a bit more certain now that they were outdoors. “I’d like that.” He glanced at Jeffrey, who charged ahead to Emmie’s car, too excited about a trip to the community center to wait for the adults. What was Michael looking for when he stared at Jeffrey? Emmie wondered. Recognition? Love?
Whatever it was, he’d better not pressure Jeffrey into giving something he wasn’t prepared to give. She might be reluctantly willing to let Michael get to know Jeffrey, but she was a mother, protective and prepared to fend off anything and anyone who posed a danger to her child.
They drove the short distance to the park, Michael’s car once again filling her rearview mirror. She’d barely applied the parking brake when Jeffrey tugged at the belt on his booster seat, eager to race to the jungle gym and become a marauding pirate. He was already charging across the grass when she locked her car and turned to search for Michael.
He had parked a few spaces away, and he, too, was locking his car. He held a bag that appeared to contain a lumpy object. “What’s that?” she asked, joining him at his car.
Michael smiled hesitantly. “It’s something for Jeffrey.”
“What?” she demanded, once again the protective mother. Did he think he could bribe her son? Bad enough he’d secured her tolerance with the down-payment money; he’d better not be planning to buy Jeffrey’s affection.
“A baseball glove.” He pulled it out to show her. “A child’s size. I hope it’s small enough.”
“A baseball glove?” She experienced a surge of conflicting emotions-and anger and resentment weren’t among them. The gift was so kind, so generous. So appropriate. Yet it reminded her of her limitations. She should have gotten her son a baseball glove. All little boys had them, didn’t they? It had just never occurred to her-because she was a mother. Baseball gloves were the sort of thing fathers took care of.
She wanted to cry again-for Michael’s thoughtfulness and her shortcomings—but she’d done enough crying last night. With a few discreet blinks, she cleared the tears from her eyes and turned to the playground. Jeffrey had scaled the jungle gym to a high platform, where he waved his hand and shouted, “Ahoy! Prepare to board!” He didn’t exactly know what that meant, but he’d seen a cartoon about pirates once, and the characters in the show had spoken those lines.
She turned back to discover that Michael had left her side and was jogging across the grass to the jungle gym. He might have needed her support at the preschool, but apparently he didn’t need it now.
She crossed the grass but kept her distance, once again buffeted by contradictory emotions. She wanted Jeffrey to be happy with the glove, but she didn’t want fatherhood to come too quickly to Michael. She knew from personal experience how easy it was to fall in love with Michael, but it wouldn’t be fair if Jeffrey fell in love with him after just one game of catch.
Yet if Jeffrey rejected Michael’s gift, Michael would feel terrible, and she didn’t want that, either. She didn’t want him hurt.
That realization took her aback. He’d hurt her, hadn’t he? He’d abandoned her and her son, and she’d spent five years healing. And now she was feeling as protective of him as she was of her son. She didn’t want Michael hurt.
It was absurd. She loved Jeffrey—of course she wanted to protect him. But Michael?
She’d loved him once. And he was trying, putting his ego on the line, making himself vulnerable, taking a chance with Jeffrey. If it worked out, if they hit it off...Jeffrey wouldn’t love or need her less. He’d still be her beloved son. But he would have something he deserved: his father. And Michael would have something he would have had long ago if his life had taken a different turn: his son.
He stood at the bottom of the jungle gym and called up to Jeffrey, his words lost in the distance between the playground and the spot where Emmie stood. Jeffrey looked down. Michael extended the glove up to Jeffrey. Jeffrey reached for it, and Michael shook his head. They talked a bit more, and Jeffrey climbed down. Only when he was on the ground did Michael hand him the glove.
Michael knelt down next to Jeffrey. She watched as he eased the glove onto Jeffrey’s left hand. She wanted to move closer so she could hear what they were saying to each other, but she didn’t dare. This was Michael’s first real foray into the world of fatherhood ; if she got too close, she might distract Jeffrey or wind up as an intermediary between them. If they were going to do this, they’d have to do it without her.
Michael stepped back from Jeffrey, who gazed at the huge leather mitt on his hand. She could tell by the way he angled his head that he was giggling—she could conjure the sound in her mind, even if she couldn’t hear it. She guessed he was also perplexed, unsure of what to do with the glove now that he was wearing it. He swung his arm back and forth, held up his hand in front of his face and giggled some more.
Michael dug into his bag and pulled out a can of tennis balls. He snapped the can open, took out a ball and tossed it to Jeffrey. It bounced off the glove’s fingertips and dropped to the grass.
Michael picked up the ball and threw it again. This time it glanced off the thumb part of the glove and fell.
She moved to a bench and sat, her attention never straying from Michael and Jeffrey. She watched as Michael rotated Jeffrey’s left hand so it was palm up and dropped the ball into the pocket of the glove. He squeezed the glove around the ball, then took the ball and stood behind Jeffrey, reaching around him so he could cup his left hand under Jeffrey’s. He dropped the ball into the glove again, squeezing Jeffrey’s hand around it.
Jeffrey gazed up over his shoulder at Michael. He looked puzzled but intrigued-and utterly fearless. This man he had only met a day ago was practically hugging him, and Jeffrey trusted him enough not to recoil.
“Go ahead,” Emmie whispered, knowing Michael wouldn’t hear her. “You can put your arms around him. You’re his dad.”
Last night, she wouldn’t have said that. Last night, she’d been terrified by Michael’s invasion into the snug little world she’d created for Jeffrey and her. But watching him today, observing how patient he was as he tossed the ball to Jeffrey and Jeffrey dropped it and Michael tossed it again, she admitted that maybe he did have what it took to be a father: the willingness to keep trying, to keep teaching, to build a connection, one toss of the ball at a time.
This was good. She wouldn’t fight it. She would let Michael be Jeffrey’s father.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHE MADE A GRILLED CHICKEN for dinner, with saffron rice and a fres
h salad. A real meal, not fast food, nothing that came in soggy cardboard or paper wrappers with a cheap toy prize tossed in.
Jeffrey didn’t complain. He was too busy chatting man-to-man with Michael about baseball. “Who do you think is the greatest player that ever lived?” he asked Michael between mouthfuls of drumstick. “My friend Adam says it’s Mo Vaughn, cuz he’s nice to kids. He does all kinds of neat stuff with them, like take them places and stuff.”
“That would put him pretty high on the list,” Michael conceded, then took a sip of wine.
Emmie wished she had a better vintage to reflect the celebratory aspect of the evening. Maybe the night called for champagne—if only she had a bottle of bubbly lying around. Jeffrey certainly seemed to consider this dinner a festive occasion. He was essentially unaware of the housing crisis that had just been averted. To him, what made the day miraculous was that he now owned a baseball glove.
“I think maybe Babe Ruth,” Jeffrey continued. “’Cept Babe is a silly name for a guy.”
“I agree.”
“Did you ever go to a real game? I mean at Fenway Park,” he clarified, naming the ball field where the Boston Red Sox played.
“I’ve never been to Fenway Park,” Michael told him, “but I’ve seen some Dodgers games in Los Angeles.”
“I don’t know about the Dodgers,” Jeffrey said. “I know about the Red Sox.”
Found: One Son Page 18
