Pretending I don’t notice how pretty she is. Doris Day. Grace Kelly. She’s like an old-fashioned movie star, and I half expect her to dance and sing.
Was Bryce referring to her? She blushed at that. She liked to think it was her, but truthfully, it could be anyone. Maybe he’d seen a woman in the street who inspired that.
Pretending I don’t smell that diaper. Wow—that’s pungent!
That was most definitely Emily. She smiled at that.
Pretending I’m comfortable holding the baby. I’m not good at this. Keep pretending it’s no big deal.
Actually, he didn’t convince her that holding Emily was no big deal—at least he hadn’t until recently. For the first few days he turned stiff as wood every time she passed him the baby to hold. It was endearing that he thought he’d hidden that, though.
Pretending I fit in here.
Pretending I have something important to do while I drive around these silent streets.
Pretending I’m not being disciplined for something so stupid.
She turned the page, and the handwriting continued.
Pretending I care about lawn fertilizer. I don’t. I really, really don’t.
She chuckled at that one, and her eyes went down to the bottom of the opposite page.
Sitting with Piglet in my arms, pretending I could do this—be a dad one day. I can’t, though. This one only hurts me.
Lily shut the book and placed it on the bedside table, her heart pounding. He was wrong there—that one didn’t only hurt him. Of course, she had told herself not to expect more, not to hope for more, but reading his own script in the confession that he could never be a father—that had unexpectedly stabbed her. Had she really been hoping that Bryce would be a part of this picture with her?
She didn’t have a right to read those pages. She knew that, and she felt a pang of guilt for having read as much as she had. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it off the bed, then stripped the sheets and tossed them with more force than necessary into a pile by the door.
Clean sheets. She’d vowed that every night her guests would sleep on clean sheets—no matter how long their stay with her.
After her stepfather died, Lily remembered one weekend morning when they were stripping the sheets off all the beds to do laundry. Her mother looked wan and worried. The landlord had been by to collect the rent again. Except they didn’t have the rent to give, and he’d blustered and shamed them a little before stomping off again, and Iris had said, “Let’s go change the sheets.”
It had seemed like such a strange reaction to the landlord’s threats of eviction and eventual homelessness, but Lily had done what her mother had asked, and they went about stripping the beds and remaking them with fresh, clean-smelling sheets.
“Mom, the sheets don’t matter!” Lily had finally wailed. “He’s going to kick us out!”
“The sheets do matter,” her mother said, holding back tears. “Our life might be falling apart, but that’s no excuse to look shabby. We are not shabby.”
Shaking out the fresh bottom sheet over the mattress, Lily couldn’t help but remember her mother’s stubborn persistence when it came to appearances. A fresh bed mattered. A clean floor, a wiped counter—they mattered deeply, because to her mother they reflected on more than circumstances; they announced who they were. And the Ellisons were not shabby people.
She tucked the sheet in snugly, then flapped out the top sheet. Making a bed was something she enjoyed because she could make something comfortable and attractive so easily. Fresh, crisp sheets felt wonderful when a tired body slipped between them at night, and all those difficult years when she was growing up, she’d always crawled between smooth, sweet-smelling sheets each night.
“You are worth clean sheets, Lily,” her mother had told her. “Don’t let those things slip, because it’s too easy to forget that you matter if you let your home become sloppy.”
This had been her mother’s way of showing them that they were more than their financial situation—more than the stigma that dogged them in this town. And no matter what she was struggling with, Lily had always found comfort in a well-made bed.
She placed the chocolate on the pillow when she was finished, and then brought the fresh vase of flowers to the bedside table. The little book lay where she’d left it, and she looked at it for a minute or two, staring down at the closed cover.
It was a book of confessions, the truth beneath the veneer. She could fall in love with this flawed man so very easily, but she could not change him. He didn’t want to be a father—he couldn’t find that piece inside of himself that would make it possible—and that wouldn’t change just because she hoped things could be different.
I still want Emily, she prayed silently. I know I’d raise her alone, Lord, and I know I’ve been picturing Bryce as part of all of this, but I still want to raise her.
She shouldn’t have read his private book, but perhaps it was better to have seen the truth. It was silly to hope for something that wouldn’t happen, even if that hope was in a very illogical, fantasy-based place in her heart where she’d stowed away the princess castles and knights on chargers. She knew better than this. Life had taught her better than this.
She picked up the baby monitor, then bent and gathered up the sheets to take down to the laundry. Life had a way of teaching all sorts of painful and difficult lessons, like to be skeptical of any story that began with Once upon a time...
But God had also taught her lessons over the years, like to hold on when it looked as though your family was about to be homeless, because He’d provide a wealthy family in the church to slip an envelope of money to her mother one Sunday, enough to pay all the rent owed. He’d taught her that comfort could be found in the least expected places, like in the arms of an elderly woman she hardly knew who hugged her at her stepfather’s funeral and whispered, “I lost my daddy, too, when I was your age. Things will get better...” God had taught her to hold on and to hope, and in her devotions when she read the old stories of Isaac and Rebecca, Boaz and Ruth, Joseph and Mary, He’d reminded her with every beat of her heart that stories didn’t have to begin with Once upon a time in order to have a soul mate at the end.
But sometimes, the man who inexplicably filled your mind wasn’t the one God had in His.
Chapter Thirteen
Bryce didn’t go back to Lily’s house after his shift. Instead, he went out to eat at a little diner along the highway where he had a rather tough steak with a side of mashed potatoes and he stared down into his coffee mug for a long time thinking about his discussion with the chief that morning.
A lot of what he’d said hit home. Bryce was who he was. He could pretend that he didn’t come from such demoralizing pedigree, but there was no use in that. As long as he tried to hide who he was, the more power he gave to guys like Leroy Higgins.
I’m a good cop.
So far, it was the only thing he was really good at, and if he could follow the chief’s advice and embrace who he was, maybe he could avoid some of his father’s career pitfalls, too.
He’d stayed away from Lily today purposely because he knew that when he got around her, he started thinking about things he couldn’t have. He was falling for her, against all his better judgment, and that would only set him back. It wasn’t wise to wish for things you’d never have—he’d learned that growing up without a dad. His father would make his annual Christmas guilt offering—generally toys that were too young for him—and then disappear again. Wishing that his dad would come back didn’t make it happen, and he’d steeled himself early to the things he knew better than to pine for.
And that was his plan for his feelings for Lily. He knew how to shut himself down. He knew how to turn off his feelings when he needed to, so why wasn’t it working when he thought about her?
Lord, just turn off thes
e feelings, he prayed. I know I can’t have this life—I have nothing to offer a woman like her. So please, just shut it down for me. I can’t seem to do it on my own this time.
After his dinner, he went back to the Loser Cruiser and sat staring at his father’s email on his cell phone. This whole mess had been surrounding his old man, and he wondered if it was time to have another talk with his dad—an adult one.
He wasn’t going to be free of this until he did—he knew that much. He closed his eyes for a moment, saying a silent prayer for whatever was about to happen, and dialed the number. It rang four times before his father picked up.
“Yeah?” He sounded like he’d been sleeping.
“Hi. It’s Bryce.”
“Oh...” Some rustling, a cleared throat. “Hey, Bryce. You got my email, then?”
“Yeah, I got it.” Bryce leaned his head back against the headrest. “Did I wake you up or something?”
“Sort of. Don’t worry about it. So how are things in sensitivity training?”
“Not too bad,” Bryce said.
“I know the guy running it,” his father said. “Back when I did my bouts of sensitivity training, it was all book work in the basement of the Fort Collins station. Looks like you’re getting the royal treatment.”
“He said you were partners back in the day,” Bryce said, then cleared his throat. “So why did you email?”
“You’re my kid.”
He was his kid... Not that it seemed to matter all those years when he was actually a child.
“It’s been a long time,” Bryce said, his words loaded with meaning.
“I know. I thought you could use some moral support about now.”
“I could have used it on my birthdays, too,” Bryce countered. “I could have used it at my high school graduation.”
“Hey, I showed up when it mattered.” Anger edged his father’s tone. “I pulled you out of trouble. So don’t go saying I didn’t do anything for you—”
That was the pattern, though—his father showed up to rescue him when Bryce had gotten into trouble. Not beforehand, and not in time to avoid it...just in time to try to pick up the pieces with him.
“But why now?” Bryce pressed. “Why not at any other time, Dad?”
“Because you needed me this time.” His father heaved a sigh. “Bryce, your mom is a good woman, and she could handle all the other stuff. She did birthdays and homework and kept on top of you with your grades...but this is the stuff she wouldn’t understand. This my arena.”
“The mess-ups,” Bryce clarified.
“The tough stuff.” There was silence for several beats. “Look, I’ve been there. I’ve gotten in trouble and been embarrassed. I’ve gotten mixed up in stuff that got away from me. I understand this part, and I’m pretty sure you need someone who does.”
And as bitter as that was, his dad had a point. If anyone knew what it was like to hit rock bottom, it was his old man. He hadn’t talked any of this through with his mother because his dad was right—she wasn’t the one to understand what he was going through.
“So what’s your advice?” Bryce asked.
“Not sure,” his father replied. “Just keep it under control. Don’t let your temper get the better of you.”
Sage words. Bryce pulled his hand through his hair. “Great. Got it.”
“Look,” his father said. “I know it’s been hard for you since I left the force, and all that. I’m just sorry that it had to be that way. It wasn’t my plan. Just wanted you to know that.”
Of course it hadn’t been his father’s plan to end up in disgrace, but the apology was nice, regardless.
“Yeah, I know...”
“You didn’t mean to end up in Comfort Creek, either,” his father went on. “These things happen. I get it.”
“No.” Bryce shook his head, the old anger bubbling up once more. “These things don’t just happen, Dad. I didn’t just accidentally punch another officer.”
“So what happened?” his father asked.
“I was defending you!” His voice broke as the words came out. It was like he’d been a kid on the playground all over again, defending a father who was never around. He does too love me! He’s just super busy, so shut up already!
“You just couldn’t do it,” Bryce went on. “You told me that a few times—you just couldn’t be the husband and father we needed. I actually get that now that I’m an adult—except I was already there, Dad! This wasn’t about you choosing to have kids or not. You had one.”
“I know,” his father said. “What do you want from me? To say I’m sorry again?”
What did he want? Bryce didn’t even know. He wanted to rewind the last twenty-odd years and actually have a relationship with his father. He wanted his school yard tales about his dad to be true, not made-up stories that gave him a perverse sort of comfort. He wanted the words “You’re just like your dad” to be a compliment, not ominous foreshadowing of his future.
“I want to get together once a month for a meal,” Bryce said after a moment.
“What?” His father sounded hesitant, nervous.
“You asked what I wanted,” Bryce said. “I want to get together at a greasy spoon burger joint, eat our body weight in beef, and talk. That’s what I want.”
“Okay.”
It was Bryce’s turn to hesitate. “You’ve promised stuff before, Dad. You’ve said you’d be there for how many baseball games, how many class plays? You said you’d do a lot, but I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m not asking for you to just say something nice to make me go away. If you probably won’t do this, then tell me now.”
“No, no... I could do that. Once a month, you say?”
“Once a month. We don’t have to talk about anything deep, but I want some kind of relationship, because what we’ve got right now doesn’t count for much.”
“I can do that,” his dad replied. “I like burgers, too.”
It was a deal. Sort of. Bryce would have to see what came of it, because he’d had an entire life of disappointments where his dad was concerned. But maybe, if they could start sitting down together and talking about sports and the weather during the good times, they could actually develop some sort of relationship. Maybe he could be one of those men who said things like, “Sorry, can’t make it. I’m getting together with my dad this weekend. Maybe next time.” Simple things like bailing on plans with buddies for his dad—funny how small his fantasy life was.
“Okay, well...” Bryce cleared his throat. “I’ll give you a call when I’m done here in Comfort Creek, and we can set something up.”
After an awkward goodbye, Bryce hung up and stared at his phone in his hand. He was afraid to hope, but hope had sparked up inside him anyway.
God...
He had no idea what to pray for—for his father to pick up the phone when he called next, or for Bryce to tamp out the hope now—but the connection to his heavenly father helped, because his earthly dad was a piece of work.
When he pulled into the drive at the house and turned off the engine, he could hear Piglet’s cry before he even got to the door. The sun had set already, and the sky was that mauve color, just between daylight and night darkness, a couple of the brightest stars piercing through. The baby’s cry was long and pitiful—not a wail of rage. It was strange that he could tell that from the front step, but he could. He looked back toward the quiet road behind him, and he briefly considering getting back into his truck—that’s what the old Bryce would have done—but he couldn’t quite make himself do it.
Maybe he could calm the kid down. She liked him, after all. When he opened the door, he looked cautiously around. Lily stood in the middle of the sitting room. She was surrounded by baby paraphernalia—bottles, pacifiers, blankets, rags, even an open bottle of some sort of diaper cream—a
nd her face looked pale and tired.
“Hi,” she said, raising her voice above the baby’s cry. Piglet was in her arms, her little face red with the exertion of her cries. “How was your day?”
It was almost a ridiculous question, because looking at Lily, she probably didn’t care a whole lot how his day had gone. Nor should it matter. It had all fallen apart here, apparently.
Bryce chuckled. “Want me to try?”
Lily gratefully handed Piglet over. The baby didn’t go smoothly, and she writhed and stretched. He managed to get her positioned against his chest, and he patted her back gently and looked into her tiny face.
“Hey, there, kiddo,” he said softly. “What’s all this about?”
Piglet paused in her cries for a moment at the sound of his voice, teary eyes blinking tiredly, then she picked up again with new fervor. It looked like he’d lost the touch, which was just as well. Maybe Piglet was getting better taste in men already.
“I have an idea,” Lily said, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment, and then returning with the car seat. “I’m taking her for a drive. It worked wonders with my little brothers when they got worked up like this. If you’d just hold her for a minute, I can get this set up—”
“Let me.” Bryce’s bravado had less to do with a desire to manhandle a car seat than it was a very strong wish to hand the wailing baby back to Lily. In a way, it felt good to be reassured that his stretch of baby whispering seemed to be finished. It was better this way—clearer.
He marched out and opened the back door of his truck. He knew how to put these in from safety days put on by the station in Fort Collins where officers helped parents get their children’s car seats installed properly, and it didn’t take him long.
“Let’s go!” he called, and Lily came out with a diaper bag in one hand and the wailing Piglet up on her shoulder. Lily had slipped some flip-flops on her feet, and she was the least put together he’d seen her yet, but she still managed to look endearing.
Deputy Daddy Page 15
