Most Wanted Dad

by Arlene James

  So he didn’t go over immediately after Mattie explained, her tongue in her cheek, that Amy hadn’t been feeling well but that she was now feeling more the thing. Instead of going over to her, he chose to pace the floor and tried to dream up scenarios that would have her falling into his arms the moment he did appear. Only after he’d exhausted those fanciful possibilities did he get down to the more serious—and seemingly impossible—task of trying to figure out what he was going to say to her when he did go over. In the end he decided to pick up where he’d left off several weeks before, and that was how he wound up standing on Amy’s porch in his running gear at dawn.

  He thought she would never answer the door, and when she finally did, her hair was all mussed and her eyes were only half-open. She was wearing lilac cotton pajamas tailored man-style, and one side of the collar was turned haphazardly. She looked utterly adorable, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her into his arms and kissing her silly. Instead he chucked her under the chin, put his face close to her so he could be sure that she recognized him, and said, “How about it, neighbor? You up for a brisk morning run?”

  She grumbled something about insanity, but the next moment she was looking at him with clear if ambiguous eyes. He heard himself saying, “I’ve missed you,” and the next instant she was hurrying down the hall, calling over her shoulder that she wouldn’t be a minute.

  They ran to the park and back without stopping. Afterward they both were panting too hard to talk, gasping out goodbyes and see-you-laters as they parted company. Evans wanted to stay, catch his breath, and make her talk to him, but a glance at his wristwatch told him it would have to wait, and he supposed that was best, after all.

  Ruth was at Amy’s when he got in from work, but he stopped by for a quick hello, anyway, under the guise of asking if the shop had delivered her car okay, though it was sitting in the drive in plain sight. She insisted brightly that the old tin can was rattling like new, and when she ran for her checkbook, he ducked out, saying he had to start dinner, only to find Mattie at home with Kate Novak, the pair of them cooking up an experimental recipe. Evans sat down and ate the results, liked it well enough to lie about liking it better, and then learned that he’d get to eat it again on Sunday at the Youth Day Potluck Family Dinner at the church. Oh, yea. His enthusiasm for the notion perked up once he realized that it was the perfect excuse to pressure Amy to join them for dinner on Sunday. Mattie would undoubtedly be crushed if they didn’t both praise her culinary efforts to the skies. If he worked it right, he might even get her to sit next to him in church, one small step for him that would undoubtedly go unnoticed by the rest of humankind.

  He broached the subject of the Youth Day Potluck Family Dinner at the beginning of their run the next morning and received a shrug and a “sure” in response. Emboldened by such ease in attaining his first goal, he took the opportunity of pausing at the street corner to let a car go by to say, oh so nonchalantly, “You know, Amy, it’s time you started babying that old car of yours. Maybe you ought to let her rest in and ride to church with us on Sundays.” He didn’t bother to tell her that more often than not, Mattie was with friends these days.

  She rewarded him with a startled glance, which she followed with a smile. “Okay,” she said.

  He was so floored that she was halfway down the street before he caught up with her again. After that he decided not to press his luck, but on Sunday, when they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder during the service, he went so far as to lift his arm and drape it casually along the back of the pew, curving it ever so slightly around her. Later, when they were sitting at the table in the fellowship hall with half a dozen other bemused adults trying to figure out exactly what they had on their plates, he patted her knee bracingly and left his hand there until she got up to go speak to her sister. He didn’t have the nerve to try that again when she came back to her seat, but when they walked out to the truck later, he let his hand rest in the small of her back, and she made no objection. In fact, it seemed to him that she moved closer to his side, but when he squeezed her hand as he helped her up into the passenger seat of the truck, she studiously avoided his eyes, squelching his moment of hope.

  He kept thinking about what she’d said that day the car had broken down for the second time. “I’ve finally gotten the message. We are just neighbors. That’s all we will ever be.”Just neighbors. They hadn’t been just neighbors from the moment he’d answered her first disturbance call. Didn’t she know that? Not if she was as confused about his feelings as he was about hers. All right, he thought, time to start clearing those muddied waters. But what if what she saw was not to her liking? What if what he saw was not to his liking? Yet, how long could they go on in this manner?

  By the time he slid beneath the steering wheel of the truck, he had decided to go slow, to take small steps toward his goal. If the pace was maddening, at least the risk was small. With that in mind, he closed the door, then reached across the seat to take her hand in his. She looked up in surprise, then dropped her gaze almost shyly. He gathered the words and dispensed them smoothly. “You know, Amy, it was never my intent to limit this relationship.”

  “No?” she said, her gaze lifting to meet his.

  He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, smiling. “No.”

  Her gaze skittered away, her teeth coming down on her bottom lip, as she softly breathed, “Oh.”

  He didn’t quite know what to make of that, but at least she hadn’t leapt out onto the tarmac and strode away. He started the truck and took them home in silence. When the truck rolled to a stop in front of the detached garage beside his house, he expected her to fairly leap from the cab, but instead she turned slightly in her seat, her gaze level and intense. “We are more than just neighbors, aren’t we?” she asked softly.

  He smiled and leaned close, his arm sliding along the back of her seat. “Yes, we are.” He curled a finger beneath her chin and lifted it. “At least I hope we are.” With that he brushed his lips across hers. When she did not immediately jerk away, he went back for more, but no sooner had his mouth settled over hers than her door swung open, her seat belt retracted, and she slipped out of his embrace to the ground. He viewed her through the opened door with a mixture of satisfaction and exasperation as he took in the glow of her face, the warmth of those magnificent eyes, the gentle curving of that luscious mouth, and the nervous, almost desperate, flutter of her hands as she waved goodbye and turned away.

  Evans bowed his head, chuckling softly. One small step at a time, one small step after another.

  The following days were among the happiest and most frightening of her life. They were more than friends. He had kissed her again. She was elated. She was terrified. She wanted time to stand still. She wanted to feel the exhilaration of standing on the precipice of love without experiencing the horror of plummeting over the edge. She wanted the thrill without the free-fall, the hope without the certainty. She wanted to see the desire in his eyes, feel him reaching out for her—and dance away before he could pull her in too close. It was perverse; she knew it was perverse, but in her giddiness she couldn’t seem to find the strength to take the plunge.

  She could feel his exasperation and his excitement. He called to invite her to dinner. She accepted happily, then schemed to include Mattie in the equation, or Griff and Joan, even Ruthie. Once she even sprang Stuart on him, but thankfully Stuart had the good sense to leave early, saying that he never quite found enough time to sleep on these sales trips and that “the little wife” would be expecting his call soon. Evans had gritted his teeth and managed to be civil. The next morning Stuart had called to chat before leaving town—and to tell her that the “overbearing cop next door” seemed to be controlling her life and exhibiting dangerous signs of jealousy. She had giggled and said, “I know,” then had answered in the negative when Stuart asked if she and “the cop” had an understanding.

  Stuart wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand what was going on. Amy didn
’t really understand herself. She loved Evans. She trusted him. She wanted him in her life. So why was she so afraid to take that next step? It wasn’t a matter of veering between one emotion and another. Every moment of every day she both loved and feared loving Evans Kincaid. So he reached out with increasing exasperation, and she danced away, reveling in the brief contact and constantly eluding it. Yet, sometimes, despite her fears, she cut it too fine, like the morning of Evans’s day off.

  It was his habit on his day off to come over about a half hour later than on a work day for their morning run. That extra thirty minutes gave him the illusion of sleeping in without costing him his morning, he said, and on those days their runs were always lazier and more playful. It was just so on that particular morning. The weather was crisp, but Amy had warmed up enough to shed the fleece sweatpants she’d put on over her spandex biking shorts. She answered the door in battered shoes and white socks with the tops neatly folded down, black biking shorts and a roomy pink, long-sleeved sweatshirt worn over a little black latex top that took the place of a bra and did dual duty as an undershirt. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail and held the shorter curls back from her face with a thick black headband. Evans lifted both brows in appreciation and bowed her out the door, smiling.

  She didn’t even give him time to finish his warm-up, just trotted down the steps and took off. He caught up and passed her, then turned and jogged backward for a few paces, grinning and saying, “Good morning, good-looking.”

  She laughed and picked up the pace, leaving him behind easily. He turned on a little speed and caught up. She turned on more, and they ran so for some time, until they reached a small, open field just short of the park. There the exhilaration got the better of her. “You’re losing it, Kincaid,” she called over her shoulder. “I can’t believe it! I’ve finally outpaced you!”

  He was beside her in a flash. “You’re dreaming, sweetheart.” To prove it, he sprinted ahead, slowing only when he turned around, jogging backward.

  “Oh, yeah?” she teased, catching up with him in a burst of speed. He was breathing hard enough to boost her confidence. “I suppose,” she said panting, “you let me run ahead of you.”

  He flashed her a grin. “Darn right I did.”

  “Oh?” She backed off a little, pacing herself. “Why…would you…do that?”

  “For the view, of course.”

  She stumbled, elation shooting through the core of her. He caught her and they fumbled to a stop. “Not,” he said between gasps, “that the view from the front isn’t as appealing. I just can’t outpace you very long backward.” She put her head back and laughed in delight. His grin froze, his gaze going to her mouth. Anticipation shivered up her spine, but when his head began to lower, she laughed again and shoved him, sprinting past as he went down.

  “Hey!” He was up and after her almost instantly. Catching her with ridiculous ease, he scooped her off her feet and whirled her around. She screamed in delight, her arms clutching him about the neck, and then he stopped and dropped her against him, his arms holding her loosely as her body slid along his toward the ground. Her sweatshirt rucked up. Her heart pounded with more than mere exertion as she looked up into his face. “Amy,” he whispered, and then his mouth was on hers, quickly growing fierce as his arms tightened about her.

  A honking car had them leaping apart. Evans caught her hand, shooting an irritated look at the laughing occupants of the passing car while color bloomed in her cheeks. He was smiling when he looked down at her again, though. “I don’t care,” he said softly. “Do you?”

  She didn’t know how to answer him. It was such a loaded question, perhaps more so than he knew. She reverted to the steps of the dance she’d invented for them. Flashing him a mischievous smile, she shook free of his grasp and sprinted ahead toward the park. But he didn’t immediately join in this time. Instead, he stopped where he was and brought his hands to his hips, head bowed, one knee cocked. A wave of alarm shivered Amy, but she just tugged at the bottom of her sweatshirt and kept running.

  Eventually he caught up to her, but not before she’d reached the park and slowed to a walk. He smiled at her, but the smile was wan and introspective as he turned at once for home. Disappointment came. She had had visions of lingering in the park to tease and dance, but maybe it was best this way, after all. She couldn’t help noticing that some of the sparkle had gone out of the morning, and in its place a new fear had come to hover near the back of her mind. How long, it whispered, before he tired of the game, before she danced alone?

  Evans groaned as the aspirin slid down and he straightened up his head. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before, and his body ached with the flush of fever. He could feel the congestion building behind his nose and below his eyes again. It would be hours yet before he could take another dose of the decongestant. The annual office cold, the guys on the force had called it. He called it misery, sheer misery. With a sigh, he dropped into the chair beside his bed and began unlacing the shoes he had just tied. No run for him this morning, no matter how much he wanted to see Amy. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Twenty-five minutes late already. She’d be worried, and if she knew that he was feeling ill, she’d be doubly so. What to do?

  After sitting with his head in his hands for several minutes, he got up and padded in his stockinged feet to Mattie’s door. He knocked, turned the knob and stuck his head inside. Mattie rolled over and pushed her hair out of her eyes, peering at him sleepily. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  “I’ve got the crud,” he said, wincing at the nasal sound of his voice. “I feel awful, and I need you to call Amy for me.”

  “Why not call her yourself?” she asked around a yawn, sitting up.

  He grimaced. “I don’t want her to know I’m ill. She’ll just worry.”

  “You want me to lie to her?” Mattie asked in surprise.

  He shook his head, groaning with the pain of the motion. “No, no,” he gasped. “Just tell her I can’t run this morning, say I got up late. That much is absolutely true. Just don’t mention that I’m going back to bed with a splitting headache and a stuffed-up nose. Okay?”

  “If you say so,” Mattie replied doubtfully, “but what about tomorrow?”

  “Just do it, baby,” Evans said. “I’ll sleep this thing off today and be up for the run tomorrow as usual.”

  “I think you’re kidding yourself,” Mattie said, throwing back the covers, “but it’s your head.”

  “My splitting head,” he murmured, shuffling back down the hall to collapse upon his bed. He lay there in a stupor of misery until Mattie came to tell him that Amy had sounded disappointed but understanding on the phone.

  “I’m betting she’ll be over as soon as you supposedly get home from work,” she told him.

  He said his thanks into his pillow, then forced himself some minutes later to sit up long enough to phone his boss. Mattie brought him a glass of warm milk and whiskey laced with honey and mint from the years-old bottle of her mother’s favorite remedy. He drank the milk and left the whiskey on the night stand. He was asleep when Mattie came to whisper goodbye as she left for school.

  He woke hours later, swallowed more aspirin and decongestant, and after moaning in bed for a while, realized he was feeling better and got up. He threw a hooded fleece jacket on over his running shorts and T-shirt and padded into the kitchen to make himself a cup of hot coffee and a mug of chicken noodle soup. Thus fortified, he adjourned to the living room to lounge and sip and flip through the channels on TV. He was considering a hot soak in the tub when Mattie came in.

  She hung her sweater on a hook inside the coat closet door, deposited her school books on the top shelf and came into the living room to kiss his forehead. “Hi, Dad. Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  “You don’t have a fever.”

  “Good. Now if I could just shake this blasted headache…”

  “Give it time. Have you taken anything?”

  �
�Umm-hmm, but it’s time to take it again, I think.”

  “Tell me where it is, and I’ll get it.”

  “On my bedside table.”

  “Be back in a flash.” She was good as her word. Unfortunately, by the time she got there, he was sneezing his head off. “Try to swallow these while I get some tissue,” she said, dumping the pills into his hand.

  He threw his head back and popped the pills into his mouth, while she hurried into the other room in search of facial tissue. She was barely out of sight when the doorbell rang. He groaned and tried to decide which would hurt worse, calling Mattie back to answer the door or answering it himself. Before he could decide, however, the door opened and Amy walked in, calling, “Mattie?”

  Evans groaned, knowing he was in for it now. Amy spun around in the entryway, peering into the living room. “Evans?”

  He closed his eyes, sighing. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you at work?” she demanded, coming into the room.

  “Oh, rot,” he muttered. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “Know?” she echoed, stepping closer.

  “It’s just a headache,” he said, hoping to downplay what was turning into a tiger of a cold, and for emphasis, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back onto the chair.

  He knew it was a mistake the instant he heard her gasp, and in an effort to allay her fears, he sat forward too quickly, pain slicing through his head. She did not miss his wince nor the significance of it.

  “My God!” she gasped. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Not long,” he said, trying to sound unconcerned and sounding weak instead.

  “Have you been to a doctor?” she demanded.

  “No,” he admitted. “There’s no point—”

  “You need a doctor!” she cried. “You can’t ignore this kind of thing!”

  “It’s just a headache,” he insisted, adding sheepishly, “maybe a cold.”