I look at Izzy, who shrugs and smiles. “Is her birthday coming up?” I ask him.
“Not for another two months,” he says.
Then Desi, perfect hostess that she is, drums up a party hat that Sylvie happily dons, the elastic band disappearing into the wrinkles under her chin. Then Desi has Erika wrap up some gifts: a lone teacup she found at a yard sale, some hair ribbons, and a sweater that I suspect Desi bought for herself and kindly offered up as a sacrifice.
We let Sylvie unwrap them, and she’s as giddy as a schoolgirl with each one, profusely thanking everyone, and then declaring herself ready for cake and ice cream.
At one point during the festivities, I watch my father playing with both Juliana and Matthew. Despite the fact that my father is a huge, dark bear of a man—or perhaps because of it—the kids are drawn to him. They climb on his lap, laugh at his antics, and when he tries to go off and get some more food, they follow him like rats after the Pied Piper. He’s a natural with kids, I realize, and I feel a stab of loss over all the years I missed with him during my childhood. How different might my life have been if he had been there?
Hurley, as the true guest of honor, is kept busy throughout the party, visiting with guests, opening presents, and participating in the ritual bemoaning over the passing of years. The gifts are mostly small items: a bottle of his favorite wine, a six-pack of his favorite beer, and a collection of humorous mugs, books, and other items with witticisms about getting old. I bought him a few small things, too: a mug printed with World’s Best Dad, some air fresheners for his truck, and a Whitman’s Sampler, one of his favorites. I have a bigger gift for him, but I’m saving it for when we get home.
The snow starts to fall around three-thirty, and within an hour, it has already added another inch to the existing ground cover. It’s a signal for everyone to leave so they can go home, get cozied up for the night, and then start anew in the morning, tackling Mother Nature’s latest fury.
We are the last to leave, and while Hurley and my father wrestle with getting Matthew dressed for the excursion home, I hug my sister and thank her profusely for all her hard work.
“It was my pleasure,” she says with a smile, and if it weren’t for the fact that I know she means it, I might feel guilty. “I take it you never came up with that big gift idea you were so worried about,” she adds.
“Actually, I did,” I say with a smile. “But it’s something I want to give him in private.” After looking around us to make sure no one is within earshot, I tell her about the gift.
My sister’s eyes grow huge, and then she leaps at me, hugging me like I’m a life preserver and we just jumped off the Titanic. “It’s perfect!” she says.
Our ride home is in separate vehicles, since I had arrived at my sister’s house earlier in the day, but we stay together on the roads, driving slow as the wind hurls a tunnel of snow at us. My hearse, once again cleaned by Not a Trace, the staff of which now eyes me with wary concern, smells clean and fresh. I heard a rumor that the owner of the company has fled our chilly climes for the Caribbean, using my payments to fund the vacation.
Emily, who came with her father, rides home with me, while Matthew gets to ride in “Daddy’s bwue twuck.”
I tell Emily about her father’s final birthday gift from me, gauging her take on it. “So what do you think?” I ask her when I’m done.
“I think he’ll be over the moon with it,” she says. “It’s the best gift he’ll ever get.”
When we arrive at the house, I fix dinner, managing to broil steaks for Emily, Hurley, and me, and serving them up with the inevitable “mackachee” for Matthew. It takes forever to get Matthew, who is still revved up on a sugar rush, ready for bed and tucked in for the night. He finally crashes around eight o’clock, falling into a sugar coma, and Emily retreats to her room.
Hurley and I settle in on the couch in the living room in front of the fireplace, cuddling as we bask in the glow of the flames.
“Did you have a nice birthday?” I ask him as he plays with the hair on the nape of my neck.
“I did,” he says, kissing me on my head.
“I have one more gift for you.”
“Hmm,” Hurley says with a hint of salacious interest. “I was hoping you might.”
I pull a card out of my pocket and give it to him, and I can’t help but smile when he says, “Oh,” in a slightly disappointed tone.
I ease up from where I was nestled in the crook of his shoulder and turn to face him on the couch. “I thought long and hard to try and come up with the perfect gift for you. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” he says, tearing open the envelope. He reads the card aloud, a mushy, romantic thing. Then he reads what I wrote.
“‘Our journey of life has been wonderful, though the ride has been wooly and wild. I can’t wait to start our next adventure, the making of another . . .’” He pauses, swallows, and looks at me before uttering the last word. “‘. . . child.’ ”
I smile at him, and kiss him on his cheek.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly. I see the glistening wetness in his eyes and answer without hesitation.
“Absolutely.”
He pulls me into him, and holds me so close that it feels as if we are one person. I relish the solid warmth of him, feeling happier than I can ever remember being.
“What made you decide?” he asks after a while.
Reluctantly I separate myself from him, sitting back and looking deep into his eyes. “Fathers,” I say. “Watching my own father come to grips with the losses he endured, the tough decisions he had to make, and how much being a father meant to him. And then there’s Mr. Paulsen, all the agony and joy he’s been through. It’s made me realize how important it is to be a father, what it means. And I can’t think of a better way to express the love I feel for you than to make another human being who will get to know the love and wonder that is you.”
“God, you’re an amazing woman, Squatch,” he says, taking my hand and kissing the back of it. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
As we gaze into one another’s eyes, the warmth of our love heats up as the fireplace cools down. “I think it’s time to start practicing,” I say in a sultry voice.
“Happy birthday to me,” Hurley says with a scandalous grin. And then he takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs.
Dead of Winter Page 33
