Daddy Next Door - The Complete Series Box Set (A Single Dad Navy SEAL Romance)

by Claire Adams

  “Why do people keep all of this stuff?” she asked. “I mean, have you ever seen the show “Hoarders?” It’s like museums are the organized version of all that crap!”

  “You’ve got a point,” I laughed, as I thought about how a historian would respond to her observation. “However, it’s not like museums just take everything that’s offered. They curate the collections so that only the most relevant pieces are on display. They try to tell a story with the items.”

  “Huh, a story?” she said, looking around.

  “Yes, for example, if you look at the section over here on Frances Cabot Lowell, you can see the letters he wrote to his family while traveling in England,” I pointed out the case that contained the letters and waited as Nina skimmed them.

  “He said something about looms,” she said.

  “Indeed he did,” I nodded. “Do you know what he is famous for?”

  “Not a clue,” she shrugged.

  “Based on what he learned during his travels, he established a water-powered cotton mill that allowed him to complete all the steps needed to manufacture fabric under one roof,” I said, showing her paintings of Lowell’s factory, which would become Boston Manufacturing Company. “By 1815, the cloth that was made in Waltham was on sale in Boston. Do you know what that was the start of?”

  “Um, the fashion industry?” Nina guessed.

  “No, but that’s a good guess,” I chuckled. “It was the beginning of the industrial revolution, which changed everything in this country.”

  “Wait, making cloth changed everything in this country?” she asked.

  “No, the creation of the water-powered mill did,” I said, smiling as a look of wonder spread across her face. “It allowed manufacturers to use power rather than humans to do the work of manufacturing. It led to the creation of many other forms of early technology, and led to the expansion of mills in Waltham and the surrounding areas.”

  “That’s pretty amazing,” she said, as she bent over a case that contained pieces of the water-powered loom and studied them. I waited to see if she had more questions, but after a few minutes, I moved away and let her move through the exhibit at her own pace while I explored the new section on immigrant labor in Waltham during the second half of the 19th century.

  “There’s so much I didn’t know about this city,” Nina said, as she stepped up next to me and looked at the map that was highlighted to show where the immigrant workers came from during the Industrial Revolution. “It’s incredible to see the way that people migrated for jobs back then, too.”

  “A lot of people think that immigration is a new issue, but it’s really something that this country has been figuring out how to deal with since its inception,” I said, as I thought about the ways in which French, Canadians, and Italians were the groups that were looked down upon back then.

  “Did the people who lived in Waltham dislike the immigrants back then?” she asked.

  “Oh goodness, the Irish were seen as the blight on Boston and the surrounding cities when they began arriving in large numbers during the Potato Famine,” I said, thinking about how different groups had become the scapegoats for national fear and loathing. “There were signs that said ‘No Irish Need Apply’ in windows all over Boston because the ‘true’ Americans believed that the Irish, and the Catholics, were drunken criminals, and local workers were angry because the Irish were desperate for jobs and would undercut the American workers when it came to wages.”

  “But weren’t they just trying to survive?” Nina asked, as she looked at the pictures of the Irish workers gathered around a mill wheel.

  “Yes, that’s pretty much what all immigrants try to do,” I nodded. “It’s just that it takes time for those on the inside to adjust to outsiders. Part of it is that they compete for jobs, and part of it is that they have different customs and traditions that don’t always match up with the way people are used to living.”

  “They’re scared of new things,” she murmured. “It’s always fear that makes people enemies, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, not knowing what else to say to her since she’d hit the nail on the head. Nina silently moved away as she looked at more pictures and examined the artifacts connected to the mills.

  “Ms. Fowler!” Nina called from the other side of the room. “Did you know they had classes designed to Americanize the immigrants? They had to attend the during their lunch hour!”

  “Yes, indeed,” I said, smiling to myself because I could hear the excitement in her voice as she discovered something new that related to things she could see were still going on in the world around her.

  “How can companies do that to people?” she asked. “How can they expect them to spend their own time becoming something they’re not?”

  “I don’t think the companies saw it that way,” I said, as I looked at the various flyers that announced classes on how to properly cook American food or raise children the American way. “I think they viewed it as helping their workers adjust to the new world they were living in.”

  “But it assumes that the American way is the only way to live!” she cried. “Like one way is the right way!”

  “Yes, that’s a problem, isn’t it?” I said.

  “A huge problem,” she muttered, as she returned to the display. She was quiet for a long time, and I’d made it through most of the rest of the room taking notes on what they had and thinking about how I could weave this into my future history lessons. When I looked up again, I saw Nina staring up at a photo of a group of women who were standing in front of loom inside the BMC.

  “I wonder where they came from and what happened to them,” Nina said softly. “I wonder what their hopes and dreams were.”

  “I think you’ve just gotten to the heart of what’s behind museums, Nina,” I said, resting my hand on her shoulder. “They’re here to make us remember, and to wonder about who came before us and how they lived their lives.”

  “It’s pretty amazing when you look at it that way, isn’t it?” she said, turning to look at me.

  “It’s exactly why I wanted to teach History,” I nodded.

  “I can totally see why you would want to do that,” she said, looking back up at the picture. “People’s lives need to matter, but man, these clothes are a trip!”

  I laughed as I nodded in agreement and then watched as Nina studied the pictures carefully. I didn’t know what she was thinking exactly, but I could guess that there were a lot of things going through her mind, so I left her with them as I explored a section of the collection that laid out the history of the Boston Manufacturing Company and explained how it had expanded over the years to include textiles, paper, and a range of technological developments. Before I knew it, the shadows grew longer and dusk set in.

  Burt returned just as we were getting ready to call it a day, and asked if we’d seen everything we needed to see.

  “We’ve seen more than what we needed to see,” Nina said. “Thank you for showing me the history of this city.”

  “I’m glad you got to see it,” Burt smiled, as he ushered us out of the gallery. “It’ll be opening next month, and you’re welcome to come back anytime and visit!”

  Nina and I shook his hand and walked out of the museum and back to my car. I stopped and picked up dinner for us at a local deli, and then drove back to the house. Nina didn’t say much on the drive home or over dinner, and I was starting to worry about whether I’d done the right thing taking her to the museum.

  “Ms. Fowler,” she said.

  “How about you call me Emily when we’re not in school?” I suggested. “Otherwise it’s going to get a little weird.”

  “Okay, Emily, how did you know you wanted to be a History major?” she asked, as she picked at the coleslaw on her plate. “Are your parents historians?”

  “Oh goodness, no,” I said, caught off guard by Nina’s question. “My parents are definitely not academics, well, not the way your grandparents are. They’re smart people, but they d
on’t completely understand why I do what I do.”

  “You mean they disapprove?” Nina asked.

  “Yes, but they act as if they don’t,” I said, trying to think of a way to escape having to explain my family to her. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to get into the truth. “They’re very wrapped up in the way they see the world, and it doesn’t leave a lot of room for anything that is different.”

  “Yeah, like my mom,” Nina said glumly. “She wants me to do what she wants me to do, and when I don’t, she gets mad.”

  “Like what?” I asked warily. I didn’t know Remy at all, and since I spent my work days surrounded by teenagers, I knew that sometimes their views on parental behavior were shaped by faulty logic and teenage angst.

  “Like she wants me to wear designer dresses and apply to Ivy League colleges,” Nina sighed.

  “And you don’t want to do either?”

  “I don’t mind dresses, but I like the ones I can find at the thrift stores, you know?” she said, looking at me expectantly. When I nodded, she continued, “It’s like when she and my dad split up, she became a totally different person, and now she wants me to be a totally different daughter, too.”

  “It’s hard for parents to adjust to their kids growing up,” I said, with as much neutrality as I could muster. “Your mom just wants what’s best for you.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to live her life,” Nina muttered. “I want to live my own life. I want to do things my way, and follow my own dreams.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard for parents to see that,” I agreed, thinking of my own parents. “I guess the best path is to be kind and try to understand what they’re feeling and then move forward on your own path.”

  Nina took a bite of her sandwich and chewed as she thought about what I’d said. I didn’t want to encourage her to do anything rash, but I also knew the weight of parental expectations could feel crushing, and if you gave into it, it could be devastating.

  “Think of it this way,” I said. “Parents were teenagers once, too. So, they are only doing what it is they learned how to do. Sometimes that’s a good thing, like with your dad, I think, and sometimes that’s a little harder, like with your mom. The best bet is to try to talk to her and explain how you’re feeling without being angry or defensive. Who knows, she might understand!”

  “I doubt it,” Nina said glumly. “She doesn’t understand anything about me.”

  “Give it time,” I said, reaching out and patting her arm. “Sometimes they take a little longer to come around.”

  “I guess,” Nina shrugged, then changed the topic completely asking, “Wanna watch a movie tonight? I mean, if you don’t have somewhere else to go.”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking about KO’s empty house and how, aside from Howard, I had no one to go home to. “What do you want to watch?”

  “I was thinking a rom-com,” she said. “Dad bought me a bunch of them for Christmas, and I haven’t watched any of them yet.”

  “Sounds like a plan!” I agreed. I cleaned up the dinner dishes while Nina set up the movie in the living room. She’d chosen an oldie but a goodie, and we settled in to watch Hugh Grant charm the heck out of his secretary as the Prime Minister of England while the rest of the stories wove their way around his. Nina laughed in all the right places, and halfway through, we paused the movie to make popcorn.

  “That was such a lovely ending,” she sighed, as Hugh and Natalie kissed in front of the audience of parents and kids. “I wish I could find someone like that.”

  “In high school?” I laughed. “Good luck with that one!”

  “Yeah, true,” she nodded, as she fished around the bowl for the last popped kernels. “Want to watch another one?”

  “Sure, why not?” I agreed, as she fished out another oldie and we began watching Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal annoy each other as they drove across the country together.

  The couch was warm and comfortable. I pulled a quilt off the back of it and wrapped myself in it, and before I knew it, I was sound asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Blake

  After a quiet night at the station, Tony and I were ready to head out. He was moaning about not getting enough sex again, and I had grown weary of his complaints.

  “Tony, my friend, have you ever considered that maybe your wife is overworked and underappreciated?” I asked, as he prepared to launch into a soliloquy about the meaning of marriage.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he shot back. “She’s completely appreciated! I take care of the cars and the house, I shovel the walk, I work a good job and pay the bills, and I make sure that she has a pretty piece of jewelry for every possible occasion. How on earth could she not feel appreciated?”

  “Sometimes you’re such an ass,” I said, shaking my head.

  “What? What did I do now?” he asked, throwing his hands up.

  “Tony, women need more than to have their maintenance needs met,” I said, trying to explain for the thousandth time. “If upkeep on the house was all she needed, she could hire someone to do that. What she needs from you is to share the damn load, you idiot.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Tony said angrily.

  “I’m talking about asking her how her day went and then actually listening to what she says,” I said, knowing that much of what I was about to say was going to go straight over his head. Tony was a traditional kind of guy, and he didn’t understand that to get what he wanted, he was going to have to put out something. “I’m talking about fixing dinner on the nights she works late or about buying flowers for no reason and packing her a lunch to take to work with her.”

  “That’s some fucked up shit you're talking about, B,” Tony said, shaking his head. “My Pops never did that shit for my Ma, and they’re still married.”

  “Yeah, but is he getting laid?” I grinned.

  “Dude, shut the fuck up; that’s my Ma,” he said, punching me in the shoulder. “Don’t talk about my parents’ sex life; it makes my nuts shrivel up.”

  “Fine, don’t listen to me,” I shrugged. “But I’m getting laid, and you are not, my friend. Tell me who has the correct answers here.”

  “Fuck off, Gaston,” Tony grinned, as he yanked open the door to his Camero and climbed in. He revved the engine and then flipped me off before shifting into reverse and pulling out of the parking lot at well over the speed limit.

  I shrugged and climbed up into the truck. Tony always asked for advice, but he rarely took it. Part of me wondered if things between him and Anita weren’t better than he let on, and that maybe he did take my advice, but didn’t want to let me know that he had. Whatever the case, I was looking forward to heading home and calling Emily to see if she was free tonight.

  When I walked in the front door, I was surprised to see Nina in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She put a finger up to her lips and signaled for me to be quiet as she pointed to the living room couch. I looked down and saw Emily still asleep under the Red Sox quilt my grandmother had made for me when I was in college. I smiled, nodded at Nina, and then retreated to my bedroom to shower and change clothes.

  When I emerged, Emily was sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee and rubbing her eyes.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” I said, smiling warmly. “You girls had a sleepover, eh?”

  “We watched rom-coms until Emily fell asleep,” Nina said, slipping a spatula under a pancake and expertly flipping it over on the griddle. She poured me a cup of coffee and handed it to me as she slid a package of sausages into the frying pan and let them sizzle.

  “I guess one and a half movies is my limit,” Emily smiled sleepily. “How was your night?”

  “Just the way I like it: uneventful,” I said, as I sipped from my mug. “So, what’s on the agenda for today, ladies?”

  “I’m going to make you both breakfast, and then I’m going to go take care of some of the assignments I have to turn in next week,” Nina said, as s
he moved the sausages around in the pan. “I don’t want to let things get too out of hand while I’m on vacation.”

  I shot Emily a questioning look, but she only shrugged and smiled as she watched me start to set the table. I avoided talking about anything school-related as Nina set breakfast down on the table and we began to eat. She chattered about what her friends were doing for New Year’s Eve and made a point of telling me she had no plans.

  “Well, ladies,” I began, “tonight there is a big cookout at the station, and I’d love it if you’d both accompany me to the festivities.”

  “Are you serious, Dad?” Nina asked, through a mouthful of sausage and pancakes.

  “Dead, and close your mouth; it’s gross,” I said, as I shifted my gaze over to Emily, who sat across the table smiling at me.

  “I’d love to,” she said.

  “No, I’m serious, Dad,” Nina cut in. “You want to take your teenage daughter on a New Year’s Eve date? That’s just weird.”

  “Yes, I’d like to take you both to the station to celebrate the new year,” I repeated.

  “Fine, I’ll go, but, again, I tell you that this is just weird,” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly.

  “Then invite a friend and make it not so weird,” I offered, looking at Emily for help. She avoided my eyes and focused on her breakfast.

  “Forget it,” Nina sighed. “I’ll come with you, but there had better be other people I can talk to there. Otherwise, this is going to be miserable for all of us.”

  “Where in the hell did all of this psychobabble about weirdness come from?” I asked in exasperation, as I studied my daughter.

  “Dad, Dad, Dad,” Nina said with a sad smile. “Let it go; you’re out of your element.”

  “No, you’re out of your element!” I shouted with a grin as we both yelled, “Shut the fuck up, Donny!”

  “You two are very, very strange,” Emily said, looking back and forth as we began trading lines from our favorite movie.