Daniel's Gift

by Barbara Freethy

  "I can't choose. I want them both. Are you saying I have to make a choice?"

  * * *

  Choices. Stay here or go home to his wife. Not much of a choice. Richard set his glass of Chardonnay down on the kitchen counter and picked up a piece of cold, soggy pizza. The spicy pepperoni was the only good thing about it. But he was hungry, and it was food, nothing like the dinner Merrilee probably had waiting at home for him. Thank God! He'd come to associate her dinners with migraine headaches.

  Everything was too perfect -- the china, the glassware, the presentation of food, even the conversation. The kids suffered in silence while Merrilee pretended they were as happy as a sitcom family on television.

  Come to think of it, not even a sitcom family was as "happy" as they were.

  Enough was enough. For seventeen years, he had tried to make it work. Merrilee didn't help. She refused to admit they had problems, so how the hell could they solve them? Now, he just wanted out. Out of the marriage, out of the pressure of being the perfect husband to go with his perfect wife.

  He was forty-three years old, for God's sake, and he had been in marriage hell for most of that time. The first year, before Merrilee's mother died, had been good. She had been a sweet young girl who adored him. Then she had taken over raising her brother and sister, not to mention her own kids. The sweet girl had vanished. Merrilee had become a demanding control freak.

  Everything was a responsibility to her, even making love. No spontaneity. No humor. It had gotten so bad, Richard was afraid to make a move for fear he was going out of order. First he had to touch her breasts, five minutes or more, then use his mouth, then work his hands between her thighs. It had become a fucking bore -- literally.

  Richard smiled, not only at his thoughts, but at the pair of hands sliding under his shirt from behind, wrapping around his waist, teasingly threatening to open the snap on his pants. He grew hard at the motion.

  Richard closed his eyes, and for a moment, he pretended the woman was Merrilee, that she was his fantasy lover, not his rigid, demanding wife. His pants slid down over his hips. He could feel her body moving around his, her breath against his bare stomach, her tongue against his navel, sliding lower and lower.

  He groaned as she moved her mouth over him. It was exquisite, excruciating pleasure. He began to move restlessly, pumping his hips, letting himself come, screaming out her name -- Merrilee.

  The silence afterward was deafening. He looked down. She looked up.

  "I'm sorry."

  "So am I."

  * * *

  Merrilee opened the door Sunday evening to find her father on the step. John St. Claire looked every bit of his sixty-seven years. His hair was a coarse gray, his skin pale, his eyes wrinkled, not from laughing, but from frowning at a world that never quite measured up to his standards.

  John had spent twenty-seven years driving a truck for the Peninsula Newspaper Agency. He was a Teamster, a union man, and a hard man. Never missed work, never let himself be sick, and never forgave anybody for anything. He had been forced to retire two years earlier, and since then his mood had gotten worse. He didn't seem to know how to talk to any of them anymore.

  "Dad," she said faintly, "What a pleasant surprise."

  "Where's that foolish sister of yours?"

  Jenny. It always came down to Jenny. Merrilee couldn't remember a time when she had come first in her father's thoughts. And she had tried so hard, especially after her mother died.

  Her father brushed past her without waiting for an answer. He bypassed the living room and headed for the kitchen, helping himself to a beer in the refrigerator. John knew the beer was there, because Merrilee kept a supply just for him. Not even Richard was allowed to touch her father's beer.

  "Would you like a mug?" she asked.

  He shook his head and popped the top. "She still at the hospital?"

  "Yes. She practically lives there."

  "And the boy?"

  "Danny is the same, critical," Merrilee replied, deliberately using his name.

  "What the hell was Jenny thinking -- letting her son take a bus over the hill?"

  "Danny went without her permission."

  "Of course, because she's too damn lenient."

  "Yes, she is," Merrilee agreed. "Are you going to see her?"

  "Hate hospitals. Always have." John took a long draft of his beer. "Haven't been in one since ... well, since you know."

  Since Mom died. "I know," Merrilee replied. "But I think Jenny would like to see you." Actually Jenny would probably rather have a root canal than see her father, but it was the right thing to say at this moment, and Merrilee prided herself on saying the right thing.

  Her father tipped his head, considering. "Maybe tomorrow."

  "Dad." Merrilee wanted to tell him he had to reconsider, that he owed it to Jenny to support her. She was his daughter, dammit. But when John looked at her through hard, unforgiving eyes she knew her pleas would only alienate him, not bring about a change. "Would you like to stay for dinner?" she asked.

  "What are you having?"

  Merrilee silently counted to ten. "Ham, green beans, and au gratin potatoes."

  "I suppose. Where's your husband?"

  "He had to go into the office for a while."

  John looked at the clock over her head. "Ifs seven o'clock on a Sunday night."

  "He's very dedicated."

  "You're lucky you found such a good man," John said. "Richard will always take care of you. You'll never end up like your sister, all alone and trying to raise a kid without a father."

  "You're right about that," Merrilee said tightly. "Speaking of children, William is upstairs working on the computer. Why don't you go up and say hello?"

  John nodded and shuffled off. John liked William, thought he was a good kid, mainly because William was too scared of his grandfather to argue with him. Constance and Danny were another story.

  Danny. Merrilee sighed as she wiped off the kitchen counter. She supposed she should go to the hospital after dinner, at least try and talk Jenny into spending the night at her house. It was her duty as the older sister to take care of things.

  The front door opened and closed. Her emotions went from relieved to angry in thirty seconds, the time it took Richard to walk to the kitchen.

  When he arrived, she had her head in the refrigerator. She heard him reach for a glass and run water out of the tap. He didn't say anything. Neither did she.

  Finally, she straightened up and shut the door. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

  Richard shook his head. "No, I ate earlier."

  "I see. My father's upstairs."

  "Oh, great." Richard sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the newspaper.

  "He's worried about Danny."

  "I think you're giving him too much credit." Richard looked at her. "Why do you expect so much from people? Why can't you just let them be who they are -- whether it's good or bad?"

  Merrilee stared into his eyes, knowing that he was asking her something far more serious than his words implied. But she didn't want to read into his statement, get into a discussion of anything remotely connected to their marriage. Whatever was going on with Richard would pass -- if she left it alone, if she stuck by him, the way a wife should.

  "I'll get dinner on the table. The kids are probably starving," she muttered, setting to work.

  "How's Danny, any change?"

  "The same. I thought you might have gone to the hospital."

  "I ran out of time. I'll go by tomorrow before work."

  "I'm sure Jenny would appreciate that."

  Richard leafed through the newspaper while Merrilee set dinner on the table. It should have been a cozy, companionable time. They should have been talking to each other, but there were so many subjects Merrilee didn't want to discuss that it was difficult to think of anything to say. Finally, Constance danced into the room, headphones on her head and the sound of rap music spilling out of her Walkman.

  "Who's
the man ... I say who's the man ..." she rapped out. Her eyes lit up as she saw her father at the table. "Daddy." She ran over and gave him a big hug.

  Merrilee felt a sharp pain cut across her stomach. It hurt to see Constance so enthralled with her father when the man barely made an appearance in his daughter's life. She, on the other hand, did everything for Constance and got nothing but negative comments and nasty looks in return.

  "Hi, doll face," Richard said, affectionately running a hand through her hair. "How are you?"

  "Fine. Can I go to Cindy's? We need to finish a project for school tomorrow."

  "It's okay by me."

  Merrilee stiffened. "Absolutely not, Constance. You haven't had dinner and tomorrow is a school day. You still need a shower and -- "

  "Mother, I am not seven years old. I can figure out when I need to take a shower."

  "You're still not going. I would think you'd feel guilty having a good time when your cousin is fighting for his life. You should have more respect."

  "How can my staying home help Danny? Ever since he got hit by the car, you've been watching me like a hawk." Constance argued. "I need to finish my project. Daddy, please say I can go."

  "Mm-mm," Richard muttered as he read the paper.

  "Thanks." Constance tossed her mother a triumphant look and ran from the room.

  "You better be going to Cindy's and not out with that boy," Merrilee shouted after her, but the only reply was the slamming of the front door. Merrilee turned to her husband in frustration. "Richard, what are you doing? You knew I didn't want Constance to go to Cindy's and you overruled me."

  Richard looked up. "What's the big deal?"

  "You're impossible. You're never here, and when you are here, you ..." She searched for the appropriate word but was afraid to use it.

  "I'm what?" Richard asked quietly. "Am I failing again in some new area that you've just discovered?"

  "Forget it. I don't want to argue with you."

  Richard slammed his fist down on the table. "Well, I want to argue with you, dammit."

  "Richard, please, my father is upstairs. I don't want him to hear us fighting."

  "Why not? Afraid he'll think you don't have a successful marriage?"

  "I do have a good marriage. And a wonderful husband," she said, hoping to soothe his ego and protect herself from getting into an argument in front of her father.

  Richard stood up and walked over to her. "I'm not perfect, Merrilee. Don't you think it's about time you admitted it -- if not to me, then at least to yourself?"

  "Richard, I love you," Merrilee said, reaching into her arsenal for some weapon of defense.

  Richard hesitated. Merrilee stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, the first time she had taken the initiative to touch him in a long time. She prolonged the kiss, running her hands up his chest and around his neck.

  When she broke away, Richard looked at her with a glitter of desire in his eyes, so intense she dropped her gaze. It landed on a smear of red by Richard's collar. She pulled his coat away from the edge of his shirt. Lipstick. And not her color.

  "Aren't you going to ask me how it got there, Merrilee? Don't you want to know?"

  Every nerve ending in her body screamed no. She didn't want to know. She never wanted to know.

  "It's time for dinner." She walked into the hall, hoping he wouldn't follow. He didn't. When she returned to the kitchen with her father and William, Richard was gone. She looked out the window just in time to see the taillights on his car disappear down the driveway.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "I'm sorry, Jenny," Richard said twenty minutes later as he enfolded his sister-in-law in his arms. It was the third time that day he'd held a woman close, and the first time it actually felt good, not because he had any desire for Jenny, but because he genuinely liked her. She was one of the few people with whom he felt he could be himself.

  "Thanks for coming. You didn't bring Merrilee with you?"

  "I thought you could use a break from her."

  "She tries."

  Richard moved closer to the bed so he could see Danny. The boy was lying on his back, the head of the bed slightly raised. There were tubes coming out of his nose and arm.

  "He's not breathing on his own, is he?" he asked.

  Jenny shook her head. "Not yet."

  "Any word on who did this to him?"

  "Alan is looking into it. Part of me doesn't care, because it won't change anything. Another part of me is filled with rage that someone could do this to a child and walk away." She leaned over and ran her hand along Danny's cheek. "Hi, baby. Uncle Richard is here to see you."

  "Yeah," Richard said gruffly, clearing his throat. "And Connie and William send you their love. They want you to get better soon -- real soon." Richard looked over at Jenny. "Can he hear me?"

  "I'd like to think he can. The doctor said I should talk to him as much as possible, try to stimulate him in some way to bring him out of this coma."

  Richard nodded. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

  "Just Danny."

  "He'll make it. He's tough, a lot like his mother."

  "Me?" Jenny uttered a shaky laugh. "Hardly."

  "You just don't see yourself the way you really are."

  "That's because I don't like to look too closely."

  "I've been having that problem myself."

  Jenny put a hand on his arm. "Let me walk you to the elevator."

  The corridor was nearly empty. Visiting hours were ending. They paused by the elevator, but neither one pushed the button.

  "Is everything okay with you and Merrilee?" Jenny asked.

  Richard shook his head. "No."

  "Does Merrilee know that?"

  "She won't admit it."

  "She loves you, Richard."

  "I can think of a dozen reasons why she shouldn't." He punched the button for the elevator.

  "Do you want her to catch you, Richard? Is that why you're making it so obvious?" Jenny asked.

  He stiffened at her comment, caught off guard by the honesty of it. But then, Jenny had always been absolutely and utterly truthful. "Merrilee doesn't care enough to want to catch me."

  "That isn't true. She does care. She just doesn't know how to show it."

  "I hope she learns -- before it's too late."

  The elevator opened, and Richard stepped inside. Jenny held the door open with her hand. "Don't give up on her, Richard. Especially now, when we can see how fleeting life can be. Don't waste a second of it. Make it work."

  "You can't make love work, Jenny. You can't fit a round screw into a square peg. I would think you, of all people, would know that."

  She looked away. "If you're talking about Alan and me, I know we're different, but he's a good man, and Danny needs a father. Besides, I know that Alan will never hurt me."

  Richard shook his head, hating to see her settle for less than she deserved. "He can't hurt you, because you don't love him enough."

  "That's not true."

  "I remember you and Luke. I remember that summer you were together. There was so much electricity between the two of you, I thought you'd set our house on fire. I've never seen you look at Alan the way you looked at Luke. Have you even slept with him yet?"

  "Richard!" Jenny looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening to their conversation.

  "We're both adults, Jenny. You used to have so much passion."

  "Yes, and look where that got me. I'm not eighteen years old anymore. I don't look at any man the way I looked at Luke. But Luke is only around now because he found out about Danny. There's nothing between us, and there won't be ever again."

  The elevator beeped in protest at being stalled too long.

  "I never realized that you are just like Merrilee, not until this very moment," Richard said.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "She only sees what she wants to see -- and so do you."

  The elevator doors closed, and Jenny was left staring
at her own reflection. Richard's words ran through her mind, taunting her, tormenting her. Not that he was right. He was absolutely wrong. She would never be with Luke again. She would never open herself up to that kind of pain.

  But what about Alan? Was she being fair to him?

  They hadn't made love yet. They had come close a few times, but something had always held her back -- a late night, an early morning work schedule, Danny ...

  It wasn't that she didn't desire Alan. She just didn't feel that desperate, reckless passion of her youth that had made her put sex above the mundane chores of life. Since Danny's birth, she could count on one hand the number of men she had made love with. She could barely remember their faces.

  The elevator opened in front of her, empty and waiting. Subconsciously, she had pushed the button. Jenny looked back over her shoulder, down the hall toward Danny's room, then back at the elevator. She needed to take a break, and after a moment's thought she knew just where to go.

  The babies were settling down for the night, tucked into their blankets so tightly they could barely move. Jenny leaned against the nursery window and looked at each and every one. The Jefferson baby was big and bald. The Lucchesi baby was skinny with a pink rash on his face. The Peschi baby sucked avidly on a pacifier, and the Sterling baby screamed continuously.

  A nurse picked up the crying baby and pushed a bottle of sugar water into his mouth. The baby looked startled, then began to suck, his tiny hands flailing against the bottle, as if he wanted to pour it down his throat.

  "Which one looks like Danny?"

  Jenny didn't have to turn around to know that Luke was behind her. "None of them. That one eats like him though."

  "I wish I could have seen him when he was a baby."

  Jenny tensed. "You made your choice."

  "How big was he?"

  "Eight pounds, two ounces."

  "Any hair?"

  "Not a strand."

  "I was bald, too."

  "Danny looks like you. He always has." Jenny glanced at Luke. "It used to make me mad. I was the one who had him, who got up in the middle of the night and changed his diapers -- but he had to look like you."

  "What did you tell him about me?"