The Man Who Would Be Daddy

by Marie Ferrarella

  Christa glanced at the sign prohibiting her entry as she followed him to the lift. “You could also give me a ride, since you’ve got all four of my tires off the van.”

  That situation would be easily remedied. “I’ll be finished working on the brakes tonight.”

  Was he saying he wasn’t going? “Does that mean you won’t give me a ride? I think he’s counting on us arriving together.”

  He knew the way Wally operated. The man wasn’t satisfied until he had everything his way. But not this time. That included going in with the Old Man on the school. All Malcolm wanted was to be left alone.

  “He’s counting on a lot of things, but he doesn’t always have to have his way.”

  “Who is he?”

  He supposed there was no harm in telling her. It was a matter of record.

  He got into the car and turned on the engine. It hummed. “Someone who taught me everything I know about racing. Jock’s father.” He nodded at the gangly youth.

  Christa leaned into the car window. “He seemed nice.” She curbed the urge to smooth her fingers over his frown. Curbed the urge to touch his face just to feel his skin. He would only misconstrue it.

  Or construe it correctly, she amended ruefully.

  “So,” she said, clearing her throat, taking a step back as he got out again. “Are we going to his dinner party?”

  In his mind, he’d already turned down the invitation for both of them. The look on her face had him rethinking his decision. “You don’t mind going?”

  “Mind?” Her face lit up. “I think it would be fun.”

  He remembered the old days and parties that went on until dawn and longer. Gloria had never liked them. She’d opted for a quiet life. A little quieter than he’d liked. “I wouldn’t go that far—the Old Man can get a little rowdy at times.”

  Christa laughed. Was that all that was stopping him from taking her? “I grew up with a father and two older brothers. Rowdy doesn’t scare me.”

  There was something about the way she said it thai caught his attention. The question seemed to come on its own. “What does scare you, Christa?”

  That was easy. “Being shut out.”

  The moment, and the meaning, hung between them, isolating them from everything around them.

  He looked away first. “Yeah, well, sometimes that can’t be helped.”

  She refused to believe that. “Yes, it can. It can always be helped.”

  The look in his eyes was flinty. “Maybe the hinges on the door are rusted shut.”

  “They can always be oiled. WD-40 does wonders. All you’ve got to do is want it to work.” Walking around him so that she could face him, she met his eyes. “Ways can be found.”

  For a single moment, he felt the urge to take her into his arms, to kiss her so that both their heads spun. So that there wasn’t a trace of oxygen left between them. But that was purely irrational, and he wasn’t irrational. Just irritated. And tired.

  “Did you walk here again?”

  He was changing the subject on her, but she was growing accustomed to that.

  “No, my dad dropped me off. He and Robin are in the florist shop—buying flowers.”

  He went to the workbench and wrote something down on the last work order. “Seems like the thing to do in a florist shop.” Hanging the paper up on a nail, he slipped the key ring over it.

  The man was impossible. “Don’t you want to know why?”

  Malcolm took down another order and looked it over quickly. “I figure you’ll tell me if you want me to know.”

  She sighed. There probably wasn’t a curious bone in his body. “It’s for June, the woman he went out with the day you rescued Robin,” she explained quickly. She followed him out to the lot, where the next car was parked. “I think they’ve got a thing going.” Christa grinned, pleased.

  Malcolm stopped and turned to her. Her initial phrase rang in his ears. “Are you going to continue to mark time that way, relating it to the day I ‘rescued Robin’?”

  She saw that it irritated him and had no idea why.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that was the day my life started again.” In more ways that one, she thought. “Anyway, I thought I’d just stop and say hi before I did some shopping.” She nodded at the stationery store that was next to the doughnut shop.

  A brow quirked. “More shopping?”

  Christa laughed at his expression. “Just for decorations. Robin’s party’s Saturday,” she reminded him.

  He knew she was waiting for him to say that he’d be there, but he didn’t know if he would be. Common sense told him not to go. His emotions were saying something else. He’d have to thrash it out later.

  “Yeah, I know. Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll see you later.” With that, he got into the black sedan and started it up.

  She was being dismissed, Christa thought, watching Malcolm drive the car onto the lift. With a wave of her hand, she walked toward the stationery store.

  One step at a time, she told herself. She couldn’t hurry him any more than that. Only one step at a time.

  She just really wished the steps were a little bigger than they were.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up.”

  Christa opened the door farther, stepping back to admit Malcolm. She’d been holding her breath ever since he’d told her last night that he’d be by today at six to pick her up for Wally’s dinner party.

  He hadn’t been sure he’d show up, either. He’d wavered back and forth half a dozen times, telling himself he was only getting in deeper where he shouldn’t be.

  Someplace he couldn’t seem to help himself being.

  Malcolm shrugged as Christa closed the door behind him. “I had no choice. You don’t know the Old Man. If we don’t show up, he’ll continue calling me every day until I finally turn up at his dinner table. Once he’s made up his mind about something, that’s it. I thought I’d save myself a headache.”

  He looked around. She’d done something different to the room, he mused. Then he realized what it was. The listing coffee table had been replaced by one that looked sturdier. She was settling in.

  Turning, he looked at Christa. She was wearing her hair up in a twist, but a few curls had worked their way loose. He felt the urge to pull the pins out and watch it all tumble down her back. To bury his face in it.

  He stepped back, from her and his thoughts. “I didn’t see the Jaguar when I pulled up.”

  “My father’s not here yet. You’re early.” That had surprised her. But then, everything about the man surprised her. Suddenly feeling fidgety, she gestured toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine.” He glanced down. She was barefoot. He guessed that she wasn’t planning to spend the evening that way. “Why don’t you finish getting ready?”

  Feeling some definitely schoolgirl sensations sliding through her, she nodded and withdrew. It was silly, after having associated with the man on a daily basis, to suddenly feel like this just because they were officially going out. It wasn’t as if this was a date. It was an evening out. There was a world of difference between an evening out and a date.

  No, there wasn’t.

  She grinned at him. They were actually, finally, going out on a date. “I’ll be just a minute longer.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him sit down on one of the lawn chairs. Those would be replaced next, she vowed. Something wide and accommodating, where he could feel comfortable. Right now, he was sitting on the edge of the chair as if he expected to shoot out of the room at a moment’s notice.

  When was he going to feel at ease? she wondered. Maybe being around his friend would help. She could only hope.

  Clutching a fistful of crayons and what looked to be a much-dragged-about coloring book, Robin made her entrance from the dining alcove and presented herself to Malcolm.

  Warmth spread throug
h him instantly. “Hi, Robin. Found any more fountains to fall into?”

  She gave him an uncomprehending, blank stare, blinked her huge blue eyes and then thrust the book and crayons at him. “Ka-lor.”

  As lost as she had been when he’d asked her about the fountain, Malcolm looked at the crayons. She was obviously waiting for a response from him. “Yes, they certainly are.”

  Impatience puckered the small oval face, and she frowned. Once again, Robin pushed the crayons at him. He had to move back to avoid being indelibly marked. At least by the crayons. He had a feeling that it might be too late to avoid it in the absolute sense.

  “Ka-lor,” Robin insisted again.

  What was she saying to him? He glanced at the cover of the coloring book, hoping to get a clue. The drawing of a storybook didn’t help.

  Malcolm shook his head, helpless. “I don’t—”

  “Ka-lor,” she announced a third time. She waved her crayons for emphasis. Then stuck out her lower lip and added, “Peas?”

  “Peas? Oh, you mean ‘please,’ don’t you?” he corrected absently. What was she saying? “It’s like trying to communicate with an alien. A very pretty alien, mind you.” He slid his finger down the tip of her nose, and Robin giggled. “But an alien nonetheless. Bet your mother can’t wait until you can really talk.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the hall where Christa had disappeared. “Then the rest of the world won’t be able to get in a word edgewise, except maybe for the Old Man.”

  “Ka-lor?” This time, the word was uttered mournfully.

  Since she was butting the crayons against his chest, ‘Malcolm took them from her. As frustrated as she was, Malcolm played the single word over and over again in his head.

  And then it dawned on him. It was clear as a bell, now that he realized what she was saying. “You want me to color, don’t you?’

  As triumphant as if she’d just scaled a tall peak, the silky head bobbed up and down with abandoned glee.

  “Ka-lor!” she squealed, pointing to the coloring book, which was now on the floor.

  “I’m not much good at this,” he warned her. Glancing at the opened page, he saw the scribbled blue lines that crisscrossed all over Miss Muffett’s face, trapping her, as well as the spider, in a blue web. “Apparently, neither are you.”

  She was standing there, watching him with those blue eyes of hers, looking as if she was absorbing every word he said.

  “Good trick,” he commented. “Cultivate it. Men love it when you listen to them. They don’t have to know you don’t understand a word they’re saying.”

  “Ka-lor?”

  He laughed. “Two years old and a one-track mind already. You’re going to go far, Robin.” He surrendered. “All right, ‘color.’“ Malcolm looked around for someplace to lean on. He decided not to test the integrity of the coffee table, just in case. “I’ve got an idea,” he told Robin. “Why don’t we try doing this together?”

  Which was the way Christa found them.

  Malcolm was sitting on the floor with Robin propped up between his legs. He was holding her hand in his and guiding the stubby fingers along the picture of a school house.

  “There, there you go. See, you’re getting the hang of it,” he encouraged. “If you learn how to stay within the lines, you’re going to wow them in preschool.”

  Touched beyond words, Christa covered her mouth with her hands and blinked back a tear that suddenly, insistently, had materialized.

  She would have been content just to stand there, watching them, for the rest of the evening. But the doorbell cut the scene short for her.

  Malcolm looked up when he heard the bell. Chagrined, he realized that Christa had been watching them. He felt uncomfortable again, as if he’d been caught slipping into a role he had no business playing.

  “What?”

  Why didn’t he want her to see this softer side of him? She’d already suspected as much after he’d changed Robin at the mall.

  Christa smiled at him. “You look so natural.”

  He shrugged off her words as if they were an annoying drizzle. Gathering Robin to him, he moved her and her crayons aside, then rose to his feet. The doorbell rang again. “Don’t you think you’d better answer that?”

  Coming to, Christa flushed. “Right.”

  When she opened the door, Jonas stood there, carefully surveying the scene.

  “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” Jonas nodded a greeting at Malcolm, then turned his attention to Robin. “So, how’s my favorite girl?” Squatting, he opened his arms to her.

  There was a moment’s hesitation as Robin looked first at her grandfather, then Malcolm, before flying into the old man’s outstretched arms.

  “I’m raising a femme fatale,” Christa murmured with a shake of her head.

  Without cracking a smile, Malcolm responded, “Everyone’s got to be something.” But he could feel a smile in his soul as he placed a hand on Christa’s arm and guided her out the door.

  He could damn well feel one, he thought. And that was both good and bad.

  Malcolm had obeyed the summons, coming to Wally’s home out of a sense of obligation. Also a sense of survival. What he’d told Christa earlier was true. Once he’d made up his mind to see Malcolm sitting at his table, Wally would go on calling and nudging until he made it happen.

  It was because of Wally that Malcolm had discovered and moved to Bedford to begin with. Wally had settled in the then-just-forming college town twenty-five years ago. When Malcolm had begun looking around for a place to relocate his family, Wally had touted Bedford as the “best little city in the country.” At forty-five thousand, it wasn’t all that little anymore, but it was still a good place to raise a family, Malcolm mused.

  If a man had a family to raise.

  Malcolm had a better time at dinner than he had thought possible, given his frame of mind. Wally’s sister Velma was the perfect hostess. Malcolm had met her several times at the track and had taken an immediate liking to her. Like her brother, she was a comfortable person to talk to. She made people feel instantly at home, no matter what the circumstances.

  And there was just enough nostalgia at the table to make him smile and not enough to make him ache.

  That came about because of Christa.

  Wally regaled Christa with story after story about Malcolm’s racing career. The spotlight widened every so often to include him, as well. Unlike his son and nephew, who had heard it all countless times, Christa was a fresh audience and Wally loved it.

  So did she.

  “You’re indulging an old man,” he told her, laughing after he’d finished one long story he was particularly fond of.

  His eyes certainly didn’t sparkle like an old man’s, Christa thought. She would be willing to bet that there was a great deal of life left in Wally Peritoni.

  “No, I love it, really. I love hearing all about your career.”

  She was unaware that the glance she gave Malcolm had love written all over it. But Wally was quick to pick it up.

  ‘Bout time, he thought.

  Christa smiled ruefully but she made no apologies. “I guess I never outgrew my need for stories.”

  Laughing again, Wally rubbed his hands together. “Well then, darlin’, I could keep you glued to your seat until the rooster crows in the morning.” His smile was wide as he looked at Malcolm. “Knew I liked this little lady right from the start.”

  The hour was late. They’d already stayed far longer than Malcolm had initially anticipated. “Some roosters have to get up early in the morning.” He rose.

  Squinty gray eyes shifted to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost eleven. “Sorry, forgot about the time.” He unfolded his lanky body from the recliner and rose to join them. “Not like the old days, eh? When there weren’t any watches except the ones they clocked us with at the track.”

  Malcolm’s lips curved slightly. He remembered. Those were the wilder days, the days where the only restrictions
on him were the ones he’d imposed of his own free will. Not the ones that shackled him now.

  He paused, taking a long hard look at Wally. The Old Man represented the best of his times. But all that was neatly packed away now.

  “We’d better be leaving,” Christa agreed. Her father had to be getting tired by now. “Much as I hate to.”

  “Then you’ll be sure to come back now, hear?” Wally drawled the instruction. He hated giving up his audience.

  “I’d like that,” Christa told him. She stole a glance at Malcolm, but his face was unreadable.

  They said their goodbyes to Jock, Billy and Velma. Wally walked them to the door. “You been thinking about what I said?” he asked Malcolm.

  Malcolm had wondered when he’d get around to that. He had been trying not to think of what Wally had said. “Yes.”

  Wally eyed him, trying to mentally force him to agree. “And?”

  Malcolm took Christa’s arm, urging her outside. “And I’m still thinking.”

  It wasn’t good enough for Wally. Knowing he needed help, he enlisted reinforcements and shifted his line of attack to Christa.

  “You get him to agree, little darlin’. It’d be the best thing in the world for him.”

  Knowing she wasn’t going to get any information out of Malcolm, she looked at Wally. “Agree to what?”

  “Never mind,” Malcolm said tersely.

  Wally disregarded the warning. He took hold of Christa’s other arm, detaining her. “Opening up a defensive-driving school with me. He’d be doing people a service, teaching them to drive like him.”

  Christa felt like a wishbone, being pulled between the two men.

  Malcolm’s expression darkened so that she hardly recognized him. “Yeah, a real service,” he said.

  “Can’t you get it through your damn-fool head once and for all that it wasn’t your fault?” Wally demanded.

  Malcolm didn’t answer. Instead, he commandeered Christa and began walking to his car. “Good night, Old Man. Thanks for the hospitality.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Wally insisted, calling after Malcolm’s retreating back.

  Christa waited until she was in the car before she asked,