It must have been the toughest decision he’d ever faced. And he’d decided on her, on Max, on discarding everything he’d believed about his needs and the life he’d planned for himself.
Her headache vanished. The room suddenly seemed lighter, brighter—just as disastrously messy, but she didn’t care. She rose and crossed the room to him, not caring if she stepped in fallen chunks of cake. “Put down the broom,” she whispered, looping her arms around him, savoring the solid warmth of him, filling her lungs with his clean, male wonderfully familiar scent.
He smiled. “The place needs to be cleaned.”
“I need to be kissed,” she said, aware that a kiss was infinitely more imperative than a tidy kitchen.
Brett complied, letting the broom fall to the floor with a loud clatter. He kissed her, a hard, deep, possessive kiss. He’d obviously needed it as much as she did.
In the distance, she heard the wail of the toy fire engine’s siren and the delighted laughter of her son. Happy birthday, Max, she thought. Happy day for us all.
Epilogue
“I can’t see!” Max complained. “Daddy, I can’t see!”
Sharon was amazed at how easily Max had taken to calling Brett “Daddy.” She was even more amazed at how readily Brett accepted his new title.
They stood, the three of them, on the sidewalk just outside the YMCA, watching a parade. Max wore the Red Sox cap Brett had bought for him to protect his face from the bright September sun. He’d changed so much in the past year, his face slimming, his body stretching, his vocabulary expanding almost weekly.
But he wasn’t too big to sit on Brett’s shoulders—and he wasn’t too old to roar with delight when Brett swung him up onto those shoulders. Broad, strong shoulders, the sort of shoulders that symbolized everything a father ought to be.
Sharon wished she could climb onto Brett’s shoulders, too. She could see well enough through the three-deep crowd that lined the sidewalk, cheering and waving tiny American flags as the parade moved past them. A fife-and-drum corps clad in Colonial regalia strode by, drumming in crisp tempo while performing “Yankee Doodle” and other traditional marching songs. They were followed by a stage coach pulled by a team of high-stepping horses—Max squealed with excitement when he saw the animals—which was in turn followed by a caravan of classic antique cars, and then by the high school marching band, which blasted onlookers with a slightly out-of-tune rendition of a Sousa march. After the band came the mayor, seated in an open convertible so he could wave to all his constituents. And then came the floats, representing just about every major retailer and social organization in Arlington.
They’d clearly all tried to outdo each other. The Garden Club’s float was festooned in colorful spring blossoms. The Preservation Society’s float featured a reconstruction of the Old Town Hall, looking almost as rickety as the real thing. Holly’s Department Store had a float featuring a rainbow theme, with a huge vat of chocolate coins covered in gold foil representing the pot of gold. Sales clerks on the float tossed coins to the crowds. Brett was able to snag a couple for Max.
“There’s Evan’s float,” Brett murmured, pointing out the float sponsored by Champion Sports. The owner of the sporting-goods chain was one of Brett’s poker buddies. Sharon had gotten to know him and his wife after meeting them at the wedding party she and Brett had hosted at Reynaud, the restaurant where they’d spent their first evening together, dancing and talking and beginning their long, inexorable tumble into love.
“Baseball!” Max hollered, pointing to the float, which had been done up in a baseball theme. A mannequin in a Boston Red Sox uniform stood with a bat poised above his shoulder while a mannequin in a New York Yankees uniform was arranged in a wind-up position, prepared to pitch. The depiction of baseball’s fiercest rivalry, one whose fault line ran through Arlington, prompted cheers and jeers and good-natured heckling and bragging from the crowds at the corner of Hauser Boulevard and Dudley Road.
If Sharon could have climbed atop Brett’s shoulders, she’d have a better vantage for taking photos. She supposed she could climb up onto the roof of the YMCA building—they might have a staircase leading up to the top—and shoot photos from there. But she didn’t want to leave Brett and Max. And Brett would no doubt give her hell for standing on a roof.
She’d gotten a few good photos by darting among the throngs, breaking through to the curb for a moment and catching an image, a float, a smiling child or an elderly couple in folding lawn chairs, appealingly serene as they observed the parade. Those photos were for personal use, to preserve Max’s memories of the parade. She didn’t need to take photos of Arlington for any other purpose right now.
The commemorative books were everywhere. At least half the people crowding the sidewalk seemed to have one tucked under an arm or poking out of a tote bag. The vendors wheeling carts of souvenirs on the outer edges of the parade were hawking copies of the book along with pennants, miniature models of the Old Town Hall, and other memorabilia. The cover of the commemorative book featured a photo she’d taken of the Old Town Hall at sunrise, when the pillared façade was glazed with the golden light of a new day.
She almost hadn’t gotten the commission. A staff photographer from the Arlington Gazette had also been under serious consideration for the job, but the committee had ultimately chosen Sharon. She should have been thrilled, but instead she’d been suspicious. “Did you pull strings for me?” she’d accused Brett.
“I swear, I didn’t.”
“But you knew people on the committee. That friend of yours, Gail Murphy—”
“She wasn’t the only person on the committee,” he’d pointed out.
“But you knew her. You twisted her arm, didn’t you?”
He’d lifted the phone, punched in a number and handed it to her. “Ask her yourself,” he’d challenged.
Stunned, Sharon had stammered when a child had answered. “I’m—I’d like to speak to Gail Murphy, please.” She’d glowered at Brett while the child hollered for his mother to pick up the phone, and he’d shrugged innocently and wandered out of the kitchen, leaving her to confront Gail alone.
Gail had reassured her that her talent, and not Brett’s connections, had decided the committee. “Well, that’s not exactly true,” Gail had elaborated. “The guy from the Gazette was very talented, too. It was a tough call. But then someone brought in a copy of Arlington Financial’s annual report. It contained the best photo of Brett any of us had ever seen. We figured that if you could make Brett look that comfortable in front of a camera, you must be some kind of genius.”
The photo he’d chosen for his firm’s annual report had been a good one, but not the best. The best she kept framed and displayed on her desk at the studio. It was the final photo she’d taken of him that first day, the candid one in which she’d captured a piece of his soul on film.
“That’s about it, Max,” Brett said, bending over so Max could slide off his shoulders and onto the sidewalk. The last of the floats had rolled past them, heading down Dudley. Max seemed generally satisfied with the pageantry—and with his loot: two foil-covered chocolate coins, a plastic whistle, a colorful Arlington pennant and an “Arlington-300” button, which Brett had pinned to his baseball cap.
“That was a good parade,” Max said solemnly.
“I thought it was pretty good, too,” Brett agreed, holding Max’s hand tightly as the crowd began to disperse.
“And now we’re going to the carnival.”
“The carnival is later this afternoon,” Brett reminded him. “Right now, I think we need to get your mother a seat in the shade.”
Sharon dismissed his concern with a shake of her head. “I’m fine, Brett.”
“And my goal is to keep you that way. Why don’t we go get something to drink?”
“McDonald’s?” Max asked. He pronounced it so clearly now.
Brett wrinkled his nose. No matter how well Max pronounced it, Brett still didn’t appreciate the noise level inside t
he eatery. “Why don’t we stop in at my office?” he suggested, instead. Arlington Financial’s headquarters were just a block away. The building would be locked on a weekend, but as the owner of one of the companies it housed, Brett had a key.
Max let out a cheer. “I love your office!”
Brett and Sharon both laughed. She couldn’t understand what Max found so exciting about Brett’s office. Sure, he had lots of computers, and a very impressive printer. The carpets were soft, the ventilation system silent, and spinning around in Brett’s swivel chair seemed to bring Max close to nirvana. But she suspected the office’s strongest appeal, as far as Max was concerned, was its impeccable neatness. Nothing was ever out of place. No clutter obstructed the floors and tabletops. The place was more orderly than any room at home. When Brett had opened his house to Sharon and Max, he’d begrudgingly opened it to all Max’s toys, too. Max had exuberantly taken over the place, depositing his playthings throughout the house as if he were marking his territory.
Brett complained about the mess sometimes, and yelled at Max to clean up after himself. Max pouted but obeyed. “I am not going to do everything for him,” Brett had explained to Sharon one time as they stood watching Max gather his stray toys from the den and lug them to his bedroom. “And I’m not going to let him turn the house into a place I don’t feel at home in. I can be his father without giving up my own needs. I love him, but I’m not going to let him take over.”
He loved her son. Their son. And he was holding his own with Max. He’d learned that being a father didn’t mean losing himself.
Max skipped ahead of them down the sidewalk, then waited at the building doorway until they reached it. Brett unlocked the glass door and handed his key ring to Max, who liked to shake it and make the keys on it jingle. He handed the key ring back to Brett once they were inside, because a greater temptation—the elevator button—awaited him there.
Once they arrived at Arlington Financial’s empty suite of offices upstairs, Sharon sank onto the sofa in the waiting area. She was tired, and the summery heat, though not extreme, had gotten to her. “Put your feet up,” Brett urged, pushing the coffee table closer to the sofa.
“My feet are fine,” she assured him.
“Your feet are walking for two.” He grinned when he said it, a light-hearted, almost boyish grin.
“What does that mean?” Max asked, sending Brett a challenging stare. Sharon found it fascinating that, although she saw a lot of Steve in Max, she was beginning to see Brett in him, too. He’d picked up some of Brett’s attitudes, his gestures, his stances. Whenever Max said something Brett had trouble believing, Brett stared at Max exactly the way Max was staring at him now.
“You know what it means,” Brett said, vanishing into the small kitchenette. “It means your mom is going to have a baby.”
“Not for another four months,” she warned Max. She didn’t want him to pester her constantly about when the new baby was going to arrive. Four months probably meant little to Max, though. He knew he was going to be getting a new sister any day now.
“Is the baby inside your feet?” he asked.
“No,” she said, sliding off her sandals and lifting her feet onto the table. “The baby is in here.” She patted her swollen abdomen. In response, the fetus gave a little flutter.
“So what did Daddy mean?”
“He was just making a joke.”
Max pondered this. Evidently he didn’t consider the joke funny. “Can I feel the baby?”
“Sure. It’s moving around right now.” She took Max’s hand and pressed his palm gently to the taut swell under her blouse. His eyes grew round and his mouth spread in a smile as the fetus fluttered again.
“I’m going to be a brother,” he said. “I’ll be the big boy. I’ll take good care of the baby.”
She almost argued that he would not take care of the baby at all. She would never turn her son into a baby-sitter, a surrogate father for his sister. She wouldn’t dump responsibilities on him the way Brett’s mother had. It was only when she’d assured Brett of this that he’d agreed, with some trepidation, to have a baby with her. She hadn’t expected to conceive so fast, but she was thrilled that she had.
Surprisingly, so was Brett.
He emerged from the kitchenette carrying a fruit juice box for Max and bottles of water for Sharon and himself. When he saw her lounging on the couch, with Max’s hand still pressed against her, holding the baby inside her, he smiled. Not a huge smile. Not a teary-eyed smile. Just a Brett smile—a contented smile, a smile that told her he was ready to love another child.
He settled on the sofa so that Max was trapped between them. Max hoisted himself onto the sofa, slid his hand from Sharon’s belly and grabbed his juice box. “What do you say?” Brett hinted.
“Thank you.”
Brett nodded. “I heard you telling Mommy you’re going to take good care of the baby when she comes.”
“Yup.” Max pulled the straw off his juice box and nodded earnestly at Brett.
“You don’t have to do that, you know. It’s my job and Mommy’s to take care of your sister.”
“Okay.” Max sipped a bit of juice, then settled back into the cushions between his parents and shrugged, another gesture he’d picked up from watching Brett. “You and Mommy can take care of her, and I’ll take care of you.”
“You’ve already done that,” Brett murmured, his eyes meeting Sharon’s above Max’s head. She saw no humor in his face, no irony. He’d meant every word. Max had taken care of him. He’d taught Brett more about growth and faith than she ever could teach him. Brett had known all his life how to be a daddy. But Max had taught him how to love being a daddy.
He’d taken very good care of Brett, indeed.
* * * * * *
Read more about the Daddy School books FATHER FOUND and FATHER OF TWO at http://www.juditharnold.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/fatherfound.png
Falling For You
Julie Ortolon
Chapter One
The sun was shining off Galveston Bay, the wind held the warmth of spring, and Rory was happy. But then Rory was always happy when she was headed for Pearl Island.
She grabbed the awning support as the pontoon tour boat hit another wave. The white shirt of her uniform fluttered against her chest as she brought the microphone to her mouth. “In a moment, folks, we’ll come to the most exciting part of your Galveston Bay boat tour, the haunted house on Pearl Island.”
Interest showed on the passengers’ faces as they glanced toward shore. In truth, a mere hundred yards separated Pearl Island from the main island of Galveston and a private causeway spanned even that small gap. But, in other ways, the island was a world unto itself, filled with intrigue, romance, and rumors of ghosts.
As the boat pounded through the waves toward the cove, Rory loosened her knees to keep her balance. A long corkscrew curl of golden-red hair whipped across her face. She released her hold on the awning to fight the waist-length mass and pitched sideways into the boat’s owner.
“Hang on there, darling,” Captain Bob said as she braced herself against his muscular shoulder. His shirt matched hers in style, with navy blue epaulets and gold buttons, but the rolled-up sleeves stretched taut around his massive biceps. “I know I’m irresistible, but not in front of the passengers, please.” He nodded toward the rows of cushioned seats that held a mishmash of tourists with the usual cameras, souvenir T-shirts, and sunburns.
“I’ll try to contain myself,” Rory teased back.
“Just don’t try too hard, beautiful.” His teeth flashed white against stubble-darkened cheeks as he tugged on the bill of his captain’s cap.
Outboard motor exhaust rolled over them as they swung into the protective cove and Captain Bob pulled back on the throttle. Shielded from the wind by the island, the boat settled into a gentle rocking motion as they began a slow circle.
Rory glanced toward the mansion. Pink granite walls rose above a stand of palm trees in majestic
defiance to the acts of God and man and even time that had battered it for a hundred and fifty years. Along the edge of the steep, gabled roof—barely visible from such a distance—winged gargoyles snarled down at all who dared to approach.
Bringing the mike back to her mouth, Rory began the story that gave her goose bumps even though she’d told it a hundred times. “Of the historic sights in Galveston, this house has one of the more colorful pasts. It was built by the notorious Henri LeRoche, a ‘businessman’ from New Orleans who moved to Galveston in the mid-1800s—some say to escape prosecution for his questionable shipping activities. The house was a wedding present for his bride, Marguerite, an opera singer known as ‘the Pearl of New Orleans.’”
With the microphone in hand, Rory walked down the center of the aisle toward the bow. “Because of her scandalous past, Marguerite was never quite accepted by Galveston’s budding society. And the fairy-tale marriage she expected turned into a nightmare when Henri became brutally possessive. After years of being a virtual prisoner in her own house, Marguerite met and fell in love with one of Henri’s sea captains, the dashing young Jack Kingsley, who was a blockade runner during the Civil War.”
Rory turned to face her audience, enjoying her role as storyteller. “Henri found out she had a lover and went insane with jealousy. He locked Marguerite and their daughter upstairs, swearing she’d never leave the house alive.
“Afraid for her life, Marguerite sent a message to Captain Kingsley, begging him to rescue her.” Rory lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “On the night he came for her on the pretext of delivering a shipment of arms to Henri, he sailed his ship into this very cove. Marguerite and her daughter escaped from her room with the aid of a servant. But Henri stopped her on the grand staircase. The two fought, and she fell down the stairs to her death.
“Enraged with grief, Henri rushed to the balcony, there, off the third floor, and fired a cannon.” Rory shielded her eyes against the sun as she pictured the scene. In her mind, she conjured a stormy night filled with violence, passion, and death. She could see Henri LeRoche on the balcony, hurling curses at his rival as he lit the fuse.
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