Most Wanted Dad

by Arlene James

  “Just a headache?” she exclaimed. “That’s what Mark kept saying! ‘Just a headache! Just a cold! Just a bug! It’ll go away! I’m fine!’ But it didn’t, and he wasn’t! Oh, God, how can you do this to me?”

  “No one’s doing anything to you,” he said placatingly. “I just picked up a virus that’s going around work. Calm down, or you’re going to be sicker than I am.”

  “Calm down?” she echoed bitterly. “I can’t calm down! Don’t you see? I can’t do this again. I can’t bear to even think…”

  “Amy!” he scolded, shooting up to his feet. Wrong move. A hammer descended, nearly knocking him to his knees. He moaned and swayed, eyes gone glassy. “Amy!” he gasped, but when he reached for her, she jerked away. In a moment of clarity, he saw the unreasoning terror in her eyes, the heartbreaking fear of loss, the helpless love. Despite the physical misery, he felt a moment of such relief and joy that he nearly laughed, but then Amy turned and fled, slamming out of the house and, he had no doubt, out of his life. If he let her get away with it, that is, which he had no intention whatsoever of doing. He’d had enough.

  “Enough what?” Mattie asked, a box of tissue in one hand, perplexity on her face.

  “Enough…of everything!” he shouted at her, ignoring the fresh pain in his head. “Enough wanting and not having! Enough loving in silence! Enough sleeping alone! Enough…of enough!” He snatched a handful of tissues from the box and swiped them at his nose before stuffing them, balled, into his pocket and stomping out of the house.

  The brittle autumn grass pricked the soles of his feet as he stomped across it in his socks. He paid it no more mind than the scent of burning leaves in the crisp air or the waning throb in his head. He had come to the end, the utter edge, of his patience. He pounded up the steps and across Amy’s porch, wrenched the door open and strode inside, totally unaware of the absurd picture he made, his unshaved jaw clenched stubbornly, his dark hair tousled and spiked, his hooded fleece jacket—its pocket bulging with tissues—doing nothing to hide the rumpled T-shirt and shorts beneath it, his stockinged feet bare of shoes and dirty, flecked with tiny, strawlike pieces of grass. A casual observer would have labeled him a madman, a madman with a case of the sniffles, perhaps, but a madman, nonetheless.

  He walked purposefully through the house, looking for her first in the living room, then the kitchen, bath and finally the bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of her bed in jeans and a sweater, holding a framed photograph in both hands, tears running down her face. A drawer was open on the bureau next to the bed. Evans’s anger drained away, but the determination stayed. He walked softly to her side and glanced down at the photo of her late husband, then he took it from her hands, placed it face-down in the drawer and slid the drawer shut. She covered her face with her hands and wept. Gently he drew her up to her feet and pulled her against him, his arms crossed in the small of her back.

  “Look at me, Amy,” he said. His tone, while soft, brooked no argument.

  Sniffing, she dropped her hands to his shoulders and turned her face up. “I’m sorry,” she began tearfully, “but I just can’t—”

  He tightened his hold on her, cutting off whatever inane words she’d been about to say. He didn’t mean to hear them. He would not hear them. This time Amy was going to hear him, really hear him.

  “I love you,” he told her flatly. “I’m tired of loving you and wanting you and never quite having you, Amy.”

  “Oh, Evans.” She started to weep, crumpling against him.

  He used one hand to force her chin up and make her straighten enough to look up at him. “I’m not doing this anymore,” he said. “I’m not indulging your fears or chasing any more ghosts. From this moment on, Amy Slater, you’re mine. Get used to it.”

  He recognized the struggle taking place behind those bright blue eyes, brash-new desire battling old fears. It was a battle he meant to see go his way, and he lifted a brow intimidatingly, falling into the role of enforcer with the ease of long practice. To his surprise and everlasting relief, Amy’s mouth quirked up into a smile.

  “Are you going to handcuff me, Officer?”

  He fought a smile of his own and gave her a stiff nod. “If I have to.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” she said, her teasing tone heavily laced with concern. “You’re sick, after all.”

  “I have a cold,” he said, dropping his gaze to her mouth warningly, “and I’m just about to give it to you.”

  “Oh?” She slid her arms around his waist.

  “Umm-hmm. We’ll be sick together,” he promised, bringing his mouth within a breath of hers, “and then we’ll be well together.”

  She stared up into his eyes for what seemed an eternity, but then she whispered, “As long as we’re together,” and lifted her chin.

  He made that kiss a seal, knowing that the final battle had at last been fought and the war had been won. It was the first time in his life that he’d ever thanked God for a cold, but he would never sneeze again without thinking how a common virus had laid bare Amy’s final fear so love could build the bridge that brought their two hearts together.

  Amy rubbed her nose with a tissue that felt like a wad of sandpaper and groaned, “I feel awful. Do you feel this awful?”

  “Nope. I feel fine.”

  “Liar.”

  He bent and kissed her firmly on the mouth, then shoved a mug of steaming brown liquid at her and said, “Quit complaining and drink your tea.”

  She snuggled into the corner of the sofa, smiling despite the third day of misery. In truth, he was all but well. He could have gone to work if he’d wanted to, but he’d preferred to stay home and play nursemaid one more day. She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder when he sat down next to her. He gave her knee a squeeze, reached for the notebook at his side, and propped his feet on her coffee table. “Now then where were we?”

  Amy rolled her eyes and sipped her tea. “I have to think about this, Evans. These aren’t simple decisions.”

  “Seems simple enough to me,” he said. “I love you. You love me. Now what day do you want to get married?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “As soon as I’m well.”

  “That’s no answer, Amy,” he exclaimed, laying aside the notebook once more.

  “Oh? And I suppose you can do better?”

  “I certainly can.”

  She ignored that, saying, “If you’d just be reasonable and give me a month or so, I could plan a small, wonderful wedding for us.”

  He turned slightly on the couch, facing her. “Do you want to sleep alone for the next month?” Her mouth curled up on one end, and she shook her head, her eyes going all dreamy. He sat back and pulled her head down onto his shoulder once more. “Good. Neither do I. Now sip your tea and let me handle this.”

  “Yes, sir, Officer, sir,” she quipped, not believing for a moment that he could do it.

  He proved once again that she had underestimated him. Picking up the receiver of the telephone that sat on the table next to his feet, he punched in a number and waited. “Hello,” he said after a moment, “I’d like to speak to the Reverend Charles, please. Evans Kincaid. Thank you.” He dropped a kiss on the crown of Amy’s head and quickly spoke into the telephone. “Bolton? How are you?” He chuckled. “Yeah, I hear it’s going around. Well, listen, think you’ll be over it by a week from today?”

  “A week?” Amy squeaked. He hushed her with a finger laid across her lips.

  “Oh, nothing much,” he said in reply to something the minister had asked, “just thought you might like to perform a simple wedding…Yeah, mine.” He laughed again. “Who else? Kind of adds new meaning to the idea of loving your neighbor, doesn’t it?”

  Amy cradled her cup against her drawn-up knees and slipped an arm about his shoulders. A week! She wondered if she’d be up to shopping tomorrow.

  “Sure thing,” Evans was saying. “Well, we’ll want our families there, of course, Mattie and the Shaws and Amy’s pare
nts. I was thinking that Danna would make a pretty flower girl, and Mattie would love playing bridesmaid. Might as well let Joan and Griff do the honors.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at Amy, who smiled and nodded happily. A week wasn’t too soon. A November wedding. Well. She’d call the bakery right away and her parents immediately afterward. Oh, boy, were they going to be surprised! She wasn’t worried, though. She knew they’d love Evans and Mattie both.

  Evans put his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver and said to her, “Bolton thinks he knows where you can buy some real nice ready-made silk flower arrangements, some bridal shop near downtown. Interested?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He picked up the notebook and plucked a pencil from behind his ear, saying into the telephone, “Shoot.” He scribbled down the name and address, then passed the book to Amy. She recognized the name of a prominent member of the church and knew immediately which shop was hers. She should have thought of it sooner.

  “Music?” Evans said, looking to her. She shrugged. “Hmm, we’ll have to get back to you on that one,” he told Bolton. “Better give me the name of the organist, though. Maybe she can suggest something.” He grabbed the notebook back and scribbled another note, then said, “Oh, and I suppose the boys at work will want to make up some kind of honor guard.” He talked a moment longer and hung up. “See, there, that wasn’t hard at all.”

  “Honor guard!” Amy exclaimed. “Evans, what am I going to wear to a wedding formal enough to have an honor guard?”

  He shrugged negligently. “I don’t care. Wear your running shorts, if you want. I like the way you look in them. Of course, I’ll be wearing full dress uniform, but don’t let that bother you.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Evans! You don’t expect much, do you? Just a full-blown wedding in a week!”

  “It doesn’t have to be all that much,” he said, taking her hand in his, “but I want it to be all it can be. I know it won’t be the grand ceremony you probably had with Mark, but I’m just not willing to wait for that.”

  She smiled and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. “No,” she said, “it won’t be the grand ceremony I had with Mark. It’ll be the grand ceremony I’ll have with you. I can’t ask for more than that.”

  He kissed her, sliding his arms around her. When it was over, she leaned into him, her head on his chest. For a long while, he stroked her hair while she made mental lists of everything that would have to be done. Then suddenly he asked, “Do you think he would approve of this? Us, I mean.”

  She lifted her head. “Who?”

  “Mark.”

  She thought a long time before answering him. “Yes, I think he would, because he did love me. Not the way you do, I don’t think, but in his own way and as much as he was able.” She looked at Evans, her heart in her eyes. “And I loved him,” she said simply, “not as much, perhaps, as I meant to, but enough that some part of me will go on loving him always, not so much, though, that I can’t love you with my whole heart.”

  He nodded. “I understand perfectly. It was the same way with Andie and me. We loved each other as much as we possibly could then, knowing what we knew then, being who we were. Yet, somehow, Amy, I can love you more now because of her, because of what she and I had together. Do you know what I mean?”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she would not allow them to fall. Happy tears didn’t have to fall. She smiled, completely forgetting how awful she felt and how little time she had before the wedding. “Yes,” she said, “I know exactly what you mean, now.”

  He swept a lock of hair off her forehead, skimmed the line of her nose with his fingertip, tapped her lower lip gently. She knew just what he was thinking, and no, a week wasn’t too soon. He smiled as if reading her thoughts, then settled down into place once more.

  “Drink your tea,” he said. Then, just as she lifted the cooling brew to her lips for a good slurp, “I laced it with whiskey and mint…” She spluttered and almost choked as he added, “Just in case I had to get you drunk to make you agree!” Her mouth dropped open. “Well, I didn’t want to wait more than a week,” he said defensively. “Besides, the stuff is good for you. I think. I’ve never been able to get much of it down myself to find out.” His grin was just apologetic enough to be believable.

  Amy put her head back and laughed. It was a sound she was going to be making a lot from then on. She knew it…in her heart. Where it counted most.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-4755-4

  MOST WANTED DAD

  Copyright © 1996 by Deborah A. Rather

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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