Father Christmas

by Judith Arnold

  John glimpsed her righting chairs in the kitchen area. The fluorescent ceiling fixture caused her hair to shimmer, as if someone had threaded filaments of pure light through the dense brown locks. Her cheeks were pink, not the vivid shade he’d seen when she’d been outdoors in the wintry air, but a tawny pink, the color of health and high spirits. The color a woman might blush during a peak moment of sex.

  Shoving aside that notion, he scooped up the assorted balls and tossed them into a tall mesh-sided bin. Then he helped Molly put the rest of the furniture back in order. Once that was done, they lent their efforts to Mike, gathering up the last of the tattered foam and returning it to the foam pits. While John worked, a million thoughts crowded his mind, things he’d like to say to her, things that couldn’t be said. Things about her eyes and her smile and the magic she seemed able to work on his son. Things about control, about the lack of it. Things about how smart she was, scary-smart, smart enough to make him feel like an idiot when it came to Mike.

  “Oh, gee, it’s late,” she said, checking the wall clock, which indicated it was twelve thirty. “I shouldn’t have kept you. I appreciate the help.”

  “No problem.” He plucked a few stray shreds of foam from the floor and handed them to Mike, who dashed over to the foam pit and hurled them in.

  “Michael must be starving. You’d better go get him some lunch.”

  “How about you?” John asked, deciding he was in a brave—or maybe a foolish—mood. “Do you want to join us for lunch?”

  She opened her mouth and then shut it, obviously taken aback. Okay, so he was a fool. He’d overstepped. She was going to say no.

  “Actually, I brought some cheese, crackers and fruit to eat here,” she explained. “I was going to give the kids a snack, but I got so caught up in the class, I forgot. I don’t feel like taking all that food home. We could have a picnic here, if you’d like.”

  As soon as she spoke, she looked apprehensive. In fact, she looked pretty much the way he felt—as if she feared her question marked her as a fool.

  They could be fools together, and then their foolishness wouldn’t matter. “Hey, Mike,” he called to his son, who was wiggling between the ropes to climb into the foam pit. “You want to have a picnic here with Ms. Saunders?”

  “A picnic!” Mike climbed out of the pit and raced over to where Molly and John were standing. “A picnic! I want a picnic!”

  “I guess the answer is yes,” he said, turning back to Molly.

  She smiled up at him. Her smile convinced him that saying yes might not have been such a foolish move, after all. Something about the warmth of her smile, the generous curve of her mouth and the mesmerizing glow in her eyes made it impossible for him not to smile back.

  Chapter Seven

  MOLLY WASN’T SURPRISED when Michael fell asleep. Afternoon naps were a typical part of a two-year-old’s daily routine—and even if they weren’t, she knew Michael would have run out of steam sooner or later, given that he’d been functioning at turbo-speed for so long. His idea of cleaning up the play area had entailed a great deal of running in circles, jumping up and down, throwing foam scraps around the room and bellowing gleefully. When Molly had unpacked the food she’d brought, he’d been too keyed up to sit still while he ate. He would gobble some cheese, squirm in his chair, eat a bit more and charge around the room, shrieking and giggling. To have the entire second floor of the Children’s Garden practically to himself—without having to share anything with any other children—was too exciting to accept calmly.

  But eventually he’d tired himself out. He’d been explaining, in adorably garbled English, how cheese came from cheese cows who made it in their bellies and it came out instead of milk, when all of a sudden, in mid-sentence, he’d curled up on the floor with his little butt in the air and his thumb in his mouth, let out a weary sigh and closed his eyes. And that was that.

  While he’d been awake, Molly and John hadn’t eaten much. They’d been too distracted by the child, and too busy trying to get him to settle down and have his lunch. But once he’d come to an abrupt halt, and John had carried the sleeping boy to a carpeted area out of the bright light for his nap, the adults could relax.

  Relaxing obviously wasn’t something that came naturally to John Russo. He arranged his lanky body on the floor in the kitchen play area, propping his back against the toy refrigerator and extending his long legs under the table. Molly brought the tray of cheese, the bowl of green apple wedges and the box of wheat crackers down onto the floor and sat facing him, cross-legged, with the food between them. “There,” she said with a smile. “Now it’s a real picnic.”

  He almost smiled back. “What do you do during the week when a kid crashes like Mike just did?”

  “We have nap time worked into the schedule,” she said. “In his group, everyone sleeps. In the Pre-K group, some of the kids have outgrown the need for a nap, but they still have a rest time. Kids need their rest.”

  She bit into a wedge of apple and inched closer to John. She told herself she wanted to reduce the distance between him and herself so they could keep their voices down and avoid waking Michael. But the way Michael was sleeping, they probably could have screamed louder than cheerleaders after a touchdown without disturbing the child.

  The truth was, she wanted to be closer to John. She wanted to have less air between them, less of a buffer, even though that buffer might be the only thing saving her from her wayward desire.

  It wasn’t fair that John should be so handsome. Feature for feature, he wasn’t exactly a hunk. His face was narrow, his chin too angular, his nose too long. And his eyes—too guarded, too inscrutable. He wasn’t bulked up like a body-builder. His hair was too short to make a statement but too long to represent a style. And in his flannel shirt, black denim jeans and boring leather chukka boots, he wasn’t going to be mistaken for a fashion trendsetter.

  Yet when had Molly ever given a damn about style? She had no time for fashion trends. She couldn’t care less if buff bodies were considered hot. John was lanky and loose-limbed, and he was plenty hot enough, as far as she was concerned. If a magazine hired him to pose for a centerfold, she would be the first in line to buy a copy.

  She mustn’t allow herself to think of him in centerfold-terms. Even without Gail’s frantic warnings about cops in general and John’s cold, precise testimony in particular, Molly knew better than to nurture a crush on the father of a student at her school. She had no business wanting to sit closer to him, tucked into the cozy kitchen play area with him, munching on cheese and apple wedges and contemplating the power of his gaze, the soul-deep force of his rare smile. She had no business trying to picture him sprawled out naked in the pages of a beefcake magazine. Even if the vision her mind conjured was phenomenal.

  That they were surrounded by miniature chairs, a make-believe sink, a pink toy vacuum cleaner, plastic cups, pots and pans, and empty egg cartons and oatmeal cylinders helped her to regain her perspective. What with the bright lighting and the high ceiling, the ambiance was about as unromantic as Molly could imagine.

  Just as well. She shouldn’t be thinking about ambiance—or about romance. Right now she had an opportunity to learn more about the Russo family. The more she knew, the more she could help Michael. She ought to put this time to good use.

  If only John wasn’t looking at her that way, with his head back and his lids lowered. If only his legs weren’t so long, his shoulders so broad. If only he didn’t have the sexiest damned mouth she’d ever seen.

  “Did you find the Daddy School class helpful?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Well, there was a real conversational gambit. He nibbled on a handful of crackers and continued to gaze at her, saying nothing.

  “Michael hasn’t had any more outbursts this week,” she reported. “Amy says he’s really working hard to keep himself together.”

  John pressed his lips into a grim line. “I wish he didn’t have to work hard at it.”

&nbs
p; “All young children do,” she reassured him. “Even children who haven’t been through everything Michael’s been through.” Some adults have to work at it, too, she almost added. Just because John had figured out a way to lock everything tight inside him didn’t mean such self-containment was normal or particularly healthy. If he and Michael could figure out a way to average each other out, they’d both be a lot better off.

  John regarded her curiously. “Is he the most screwed up kid here?”

  “Oh, no. Not by a long shot.” She grinned. “Which isn’t to say he’s the most well-adjusted kid, either. But at least he knows where his home is, and he knows his dad is going to be there for him every day. We’ve got all sorts of unusual family situations represented in the school. We’ve got a sister and brother who are being raised by their grandparents because their parents are in jail. One of Michael’s friends is being raised by his gay father and his partner. We’ve got a little girl whose parents are in a vicious custody battle. The mother has custody, and the father keeps threatening to snatch the girl and run. Compared to that, Michael’s family life is pretty stable.”

  “But that girl...both her parents want her,” John pointed out.

  The amazing thing about him was that the harder he tried to rid his voice of emotion, the more emotion she felt churning just below his cool surface. His tone was level, his words laconic—but his eyes radiated a pain so fierce she could almost feel it inside her.

  Did he still love his ex-wife? she wondered. Or did he despise the woman who had thrown his son’s life into turmoil? Was there anyone else in the picture? Another woman poised to take his wife’s place? Someone who might love Michael as much as John did?

  She dried her fingers on a napkin and propped her chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her knees. “You know,” she said gently, “the more you tell me about what’s going on with him, the more we’ll be able to do for him here at school.”

  John’s eyes flashed with suspicion, which was slowly replaced by acceptance. He nudged the plate of cheese away, bent one leg and rested his arm across his knee. “What do you need to know?”

  She scrambled for a reply. She hadn’t expected him to capitulate so easily. “Whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”

  A curt laugh escaped him. “I don’t feel comfortable telling you anything,” he conceded.

  “Well—”

  “But for Mike’s sake...” He raked his hand through his hair, his vision focused on some distant point as he collected his thoughts. “I married his mother because she was pregnant. It was the right thing to do, and I thought we could make it work. But she wasn’t happy.”

  Molly waited for more. Apparently, John believed he’d told her everything she needed to know. When his silence extended beyond a full minute, she said, “So your wife just walked out?”

  “She found someone else.”

  Now it was Molly’s turn to collect her thoughts. She could sort of imagine walking out on a man like John Russo, a man so taciturn, so self-protective, a man who carried a gun. But she couldn’t imagine leaving him for someone more intriguing or attractive. She couldn’t imagine that a more intriguing, attractive man existed.

  Maybe John’s ex-wife had found someone easier. That was an explanation Molly could believe. John was not an easy man.

  “Nowadays,” she remarked, observing the shadows shifting in his eyes and the hint of tension in his jaw, “when a woman gets pregnant by accident, the guy is as likely to run away as to marry her.”

  “Or the woman gets an abortion,” he said. She was surprised; she’d thought it but chose not to raise such a controversial subject. “That wasn’t right for us, so we got married.” He shrugged.

  “You strike me as a very responsible man,” she murmured, hoping she didn’t sound pompous or patronizing.

  He chuckled, a low, husky sound in his throat. “Responsible. That’s me.”

  She smiled uncertainly. “Share the joke?”

  He studied her, his eyes dark enough to contain a world full of night. “I’ve got six brothers and sisters,” he told her. “Some pull more weight than others. One of my brothers is disabled. One had a drug problem for a while. A couple of them were on their way to big things and couldn’t take care of the small stuff.” He shrugged again. “I was one of the responsible ones.”

  “Michael is lucky you’re his father.”

  “I’m responsible for him, too.” He half-smiled, signaling that he meant the statement in more than one way.

  She was dying to ask him more about his family, about how a clan with so many children moving in so many directions could produce a man as solid and focused as John. But her curiosity troubled her. She deliberately shut it down, retreating to safer ground. “My sister said you testified against a client of hers on Tuesday.”

  “Was that your sister?” He nodded. “I wondered.”

  “That’s my sister. She’s an attorney in the Public Defender’s office.”

  He nodded again.

  “She said you were Mr. Cool on the stand.”

  He grinned. “Her guy is guilty.”

  “She thinks otherwise.”

  “She’s wrong.”

  He was as opinionated as Gail. Molly wasn’t about to recite her sister’s arguments about how the police were always overstepping their bounds, trampling all over the Constitution to make an arrest.

  She was tempted to ask more about his job, but that would only remind her of Gail’s view of cops. Molly would think about his gun, and she’d think about the good he did—in catching pick-pockets—and the violence, however legitimate, he’d employed to catch that pick-pocket.

  Nor did she want to discuss Michael with him, even though Michael was allegedly the reason she was asking all these nosy questions. Her true interest was John. The kind of father he was, the kind of man.

  “So, you’re responsible on the stand, and you’re responsible with your son, and you’re responsible with your brothers and sisters,” she summed up. “What do you do when you’re not being responsible?”

  The question seemed to stump him. “If you’re asking whether I grab my revolver and shoot out street lights, no, I don’t,” he said.

  She wished he hadn’t mentioned his gun. But now that he had, it reminded her of how tightly strung he was. No one should have to be that responsible all the time. “I meant,” she said, smiling in spite of his stern expression, “what do you do to unwind? What do you do when you want to let go?”

  He contemplated the question for a long moment. “I don’t.”

  “You don’t let go?”

  “I’ve got a kid. I’ve got a job.”

  “You’ve got responsibilities, I know. But you need to let go sometimes, John, or you’ll burn out.”

  His frown told her he wasn’t thrilled with her advice. He glanced away, studying the music area across the room from the play-kitchen. His brow creased and his mouth twisted in a scowl. He wrestled with his thoughts until his temper subsided; when he looked back at her, he appeared to be in complete control, which was really rather unfortunate. He needed to lose control, not cling to it so vehemently.

  “What do you suggest?” he asked, his voice taut and hard, as if the words hurt him coming out.

  “How about the foam pit?” she asked, angling her head toward the end of the room where the pit stood.

  His frown returned, this time not angry as much as bewildered. “What?”

  “The foam pit. Dive in and jump around. It’ll do wonders for you.”

  “I don’t want wonders,” he muttered.

  But she was already on her feet, beckoning for him to join her. If she could convince him to remove his shoes and flail around in the pit, he would realize its therapeutic value. Maybe he’d feel so much better afterward, he would have to admit the value of cutting loose, and he’d find some more appropriate way to blow off his tension.

  He stood slowly, watching her with obvious skepticism. Feeling his gaze on her, she str
olled to the foam pit, yanked off her sneakers, shoved down the rope-mesh fence and climbed in. Her feet sank into the loose flooring of foam. Arms akimbo, she grinned, daring him to join her.

  He stared at her. Obviously, the mere idea of entering the foam pit unnerved him.

  Molly took a shaky step, her feet sinking deeper into the foam rubber. It was like walking on a trampoline, her legs wobbly. She dropped to her knees and sighed with pleasure. The cushioning softness of the foam seemed to cradle her.

  Peering up, she saw John take a hesitant step toward the pit, another step—and then he halted. His mouth shaped a taut, dubious frown.

  “Are you scared?” she challenged him. Short of dragging him into the pit—a physical impossibility, given how much bigger than her he was—she figured the only way she could get him in was to goad him.

  Without a word, he bent over and tugged the leather laces of his boots. Once they were untied, he wrenched them off his feet and straightened up. His eyes remained hauntingly dark, so dark Molly could practically believe he was scared. Not scared of being swallowed by the pit but scared of letting loose and having fun.

  Grimly, as if braced for the most unpleasant experience of his life, he swung one leg over the top of the mesh, and then the other. He stood towering over her, glowering down at her. “Now what?”

  “Now have fun,” she suggested bluntly, swallowing her amusement at his dour expression.

  He was clearly at a loss. Having fun did not come naturally to him. He needed help.

  She filled her hands with bits of foam rubber and flung them up at his nose. Most of them missed his face, but they struck the real target she was aiming at: his composure.

  His frown intensified even more, cutting a sharp crease across the bridge of his nose and tightening the corners of his mouth. But Molly sensed laughter behind his harsh demeanor, laughter that needed only the slightest bit of coaxing to come out.