by Cecy Robson
“Not yet,” I answer over Clifton’s explanation that we’re not married.
My reply gives Clifton pause, though it doesn’t last. “I figured you guys were serious.”
I’m mad about her, if I’m being honest. Not that I tell him.
“I’m glad you came, Evan,” he says. “Do you want a beer?”
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, reaching for the gift Wren left behind.
He leads me into a living room, decorated with paper streamers and a hand painted sign that says, “Happy Birthday, Gavin.”
I follow him into a kitchen just large enough for a table and chairs and place the gift on the counter. The house is exceptionally small, one small room appearing to lead into another. Clifton is paid well. I question why he wouldn’t purchase a larger home with an open floor plan to better fit his son’s needs.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“Not at all,” I reply. I take the beer he hands me, glancing around. “You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you.” He pops open the beer he takes for himself. “I’d like something bigger, but Gavin has a rare genetic condition. It affects his muscles and his lungs. He, uh, requires a lot of care that extends past what our insurance offers—not that you don’t offer good insurance,” he adds quickly. “It’s one of the many reasons I work for iCronos.”
I watch him take a pull of his beer. “Is your salary enough to cover his needs?”
“You pay me well, Evan,” he replies, choosing his words carefully. “Gavin just has a lot of issues.”
Which is why Clifton’s suits are so outdated and his house is so small. Everything he makes goes to his son’s care.
With the exception of Wren’s voice in the background, and the laughter that comes from Susanna and Gavin as Wren finishes her story, there’s no other sound.
“Is Gavin’s condition treatable?”
I don’t know why I ask. I suspect it’s because neither Clifton nor Susanna have anyone to tell.
The shimmer in Clifton’s eyes reflects his grief as well as his love. “No. Everything we do only prolongs his life a little longer.” He laughs without humor. “The doctors originally told us he wouldn’t make it to see his second birthday. But because of the treatment he’s received here, he gets to turn four.”
My vocal cords constrict as I force the words out. “How long do the doctors say he has now?”
Clifton tips back his beer, taking several swallows before answering. “Not as long he deserves,” he says, pain and bitterness shadowing his features. “I’m going to outlive my son by decades, Evan. But because of your company, and everything it’s allowed me to give him, maybe I’ll get to see him attend his prom.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, never meaning those two words more. “Perhaps with medical knowledge and treatment advancing as it is, that will change.”
“That’s what we’re counting on,” he says, his resolve evident in his tone.
I lift the bottle to my lips when the quiet envelops us. In the next room, Wren asks Gavin what his favorite toy is. His mother answers for him when he appears to struggle to form his words. That doesn’t stop Wren from asking him more questions, her animated voice absent of the sadness I suspect is there.
How can it not be?
Any other day or situation, I’d find comfort in hearing her voice, and in a way I still do, although this time the effect is muted. I want to gift that small amount of comfort to Clifton and assure him everything will work out. But I don’t know that, and you can’t comfort a man who knows that each day that passes is one day closer to losing his child.
“We should head into family room,” he says. “Susanna bought crafts for kids to work on and I’m not sure if she put enough paint out.”
“It’s not much, a few birdhouses,” he adds when I finally take my first sip of beer. “But the kids will like it and the therapist says painting helps Gavin’s fine motor skills.”
“I’m sure they’ll enjoy it.” It’s all I manage to say. Because what the fuck else am I going to say? Life goes on, whether you want it to or not.
A few more people arrive, but not many children. The few who show glance around the living room as their parents urge them forward, evidently unfamiliar with their surroundings. Anne strolls in carrying a diaper bag behind a woman cuddling a small infant. She pauses when she sees me, waving madly.
The man who trails her almost runs into her when he sees me, as does the woman looking for a place to hang her coat. I recognize the man as Clifton’s apprentice and the woman as his intern. It’s safe to assume those who’ve gathered are the families from Clifton’s department.
I nod in their direction as Wren takes a seat beside me on the couch. The woman smiles nervously. The man offers a rather awkward tilt of his chin.
“Hey, Roberto,” Wren calls to him. “How’d you make out at the chiropractor?”
“Hey, Wren—I mean, Miss O’Brien,” he adds quickly after another glance my way. “It was a great experience. Real great. The best.”
He’s an articulate man from what I’ve seen through my brief interactions with him, but he trips over his words and finds elsewhere to look when I place my arm around Wren. It’s a natural response when she’s near me, and one I imagined would help him to relax. Instead, he moves further away, appearing to find an excuse to speak to his wife.
Wren places her hand on my knee, unaffected. “Told you I knew a guy.”
“What?” I ask.
She leans into me. “I referred Roberto to the chiropractor I’ve been bugging you to see. The poor bastard could barely turn his head before he saw Dr. Kapowski. Now, look at him. Good as the day he popped out of his mother’s lady parts.”
I chuckle, whispering in her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me we were coming here?”
She lifts her chin, speaking so low I strain to hear. “Because you would have found some new technology to research, a report to read, or an email to write. You wouldn’t have come, and you needed to.”
The way she regards me demonstrates nothing but warmth. Her intent isn’t to insult me. She’s simply stating a fact I can’t deny.
“Oh, by the way. We’re going to Anne and Stefana’s wedding in two weeks,” she adds. “The Justice of the Peace is coming to their house, and the reception will be in their backyard. It should be pretty with the flowers and trees blooming like they are.”
I smirk. “Anything else I should know?” I ask, watching as Susanna explains the art project as Clifton lays out more newspaper.
“Yeah, you’re giving Anne away.”
“I beg your pardon?” I ask, certain I misheard.
“You were the only viable choice,” she explains. “Her dad died a few years back and her brother doesn’t approve.” Her fingertips circle my knee. “You should have seen Anne’s face when I told her you’d be thrilled to pieces to do it. I already ordered your tux—Oh, and guess what? I get to carry Ilona down the aisle.” She motions to the baby Anne is holding. “Anne ordered the sweetest little flower girl’s dress for her, but she’s still not walking so I get to carry her. Don’t worry, we’re going to match.”
“Heaven forbid we clash,” I add, causing her to laugh.
Clifton kneels beside his son, helping him when he appears to struggle to hold the paintbrush. Susanna sits on the couch beside Wren, looking weary.
“Hey, Susanna, where does Gavin go to school?” Wren asks.
She smiles although it seems to take a lot out of her. “We home school. He has so many appointments, it’s hard to find a preschool that will work with his schedule.”
“Does he belong to a play group?” Wren asks, turning to face her.
She shakes her head. “Late afternoon and evenings are the only free time, but by then, most places are closed.”
“So you and him don’t get out at all?”
“We do. Every Friday I try to take him to the park,” Susanna replies, her voice quieting.
She appears unco
mfortable and is likely growing defensive. I only see the back of Wren’s long dark hair, but I know she’s smiling. “My Aunt Colleen started a play and parents group about twenty years ago after my cousin Marky was born,” Wren tells her. “Marky’s autistic, and back then services were limited and expensive, not something she and my Uncle Albus could afford since he worked at the docks and she stayed home to take care of Marky.”
“A playgroup?” Susanna asks, slowly. “For autistic children?”
“No, for kids with special needs,” Wren explains. She crosses her legs, adjusting the cuff of her suede leather boots. “It was hard for her, being stuck at home with a kid no one wanted to play with. Marky didn’t mind, my aunt and uncle were his world. But she did. She knew what he could have and wanted him to have it, too. She started it with some church funding and eventually got private grants. It became bigger than she intended, but it helped her connect with other parents going through what she and my uncle were experiencing. They have a mom’s group that meets every Wednesday night with drop-in play care. Moms leave their kids and carpool to a local diner or catch a movie. In the summer they do miniature golf, things like that. Every other Friday is date night for parents with play care provided.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s because it’s private and out of her home. She never expected it to take off like it did, and didn’t want it to become so big that she couldn’t run it.”
“Is there a waiting list?” Susanna asks.
“Oh, yeah, but I can get you in if you want,” Wren offers.
“Are you sure?” Susanna asks.
“Of course. Not to brag, but I’m her favorite niece, I used to help out during the summers for free.” She reaches for her purse and digs out her phone. Susanna simply blinks at her as she scrolls through her contact list, just as I do every time Wren does something I can hardly believe.
As always, she doesn’t disappoint.
“Hey, Aunt Colleen,” she says when the line picks up. “It’s your favorite niece.”
“Which one?” Aunt Colleen replies, her voice loud and clear.
“The one who helped your soda-bread-loving derriere three summers in a row instead of heading down to the shore with her friends.”
The woman on the other end laughs with her whole heart, very much like her favorite niece. “Oh, that one. Well you can thank me later when you don’t end up with skin cancer and moles with hairs shooting out of them like tentacles. What’s up, Wren? And when are you coming for supper? Your Ma told me you’re seeing some stud with a real job. Bout’ damn time you stopped dating losers.”
She rolls her eyes, ignoring Susanna and I when we laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure Ma told you all about him. Listen, I have a friend with a four-year-old son who could really benefit from play care.”
Aunt Colleen pauses. “You need him in?”
“I do,” Wren replies, the shift in tone between the two women speaking volumes.
“You got it,” Colleen says. “Just so you know, I’m expecting you for supper next Sunday. Bring your man.”
“Okay, Aunt Colleen. Hold on, Susanna, his mom, is right here. I’ll put her on.”
Wren passes the phone to Susanna. “Hello?” she says, lifting it to her ear. “This is Susanna, Gavin’s mother.” She stands, hurrying into the kitchen when Aunt Colleen asks her if she has a paper and pen.
I turn to Wren, smiling. She shrugs. “I told you. I know people.”
“The right people,” I agree.
She settles against me, watching the children work on their projects. Snacks follow, along with cake, the afternoon slipping quickly by.
I take the time to speak to each of the people in attendance, and while I enjoy my time with them, it’s the way Wren interacts with the children that stays with me. I’ve seen her around her young niece and cousins. Today is another indication of what a wonderful mother she’ll make.
I open the door to my Explorer just as the sun begins to set, allowing Wren to enter. I walk around to the driver’s side, taking my time to slip inside and start the engine.
“Alfred, home,” I say.
“Directions initiated,” Alfred responds.
The screen lights up, Alfred advising me to head west, although I can’t bring myself to pull away from the curb.
“Did you know about Gavin’s condition?” I ask.
“No,” she replies, adjusting the strap to her seatbelt. “I’d seen pictures of Susanna and Gavin on Clifton’s desk, and had an idea his son had issues, but I never knew it was this bad.” She releases the strap and meets my eyes. “He doesn’t have a lot of time, does he?”
“No.”
We fall into a sad silence. I glance back at the house when the door opens and Roberto and his family step out. His daughter chatters away, carefully carrying the little birdhouse she painted.
“How much do you think it will cost to alter our insurance so it covers more, if not all of Gavin’s care?”
The sadness Wren kept well hidden in Susanna’s presence reflects in her gaze, yet it doesn’t stop her small smile from forming. “A lot,” she admits.
“Make it happen,” I tell her. “Whatever it takes, make sure Clifton and my families have everything they need.”
CHAPTER 19
Wren
The phone rings as I finish sending my email to the tech department, letting them know that Evan will be by at three. I reach for the receiver. “Evan Jonah’s office. This is Wren.”
There’s no one on the other line, but it’s not exactly dead. “Hello?” I ask.
Whoever called, disconnects. This is the third time this week this has happened, and from the digital display on the phone screen, it looks like it was transferred from the reception desk.
I house the receiver, my hand slowly slipping away from the slick plastic. Staying with Evan turned into living with him, although most of my things are still at the house I share with Finn. But since I moved in and we began commuting to work, Bryant seems to have disappeared. That doesn’t mean I think he’s done messing with me.
My stare falls to the finance report I was reading. It’s not even eight and I’ve already been kicking ass for two hours. I flip through it, trying to shove thoughts of Bryant away.
I read through the last page as I walk into Evan’s office, not bothering to knock.
If I didn’t know Evan’s office was soundproofed before, I’d know it now, as the quiet from my office is replaced by my little brother’s booming voice. “Jab, jab, hook, roundhouse, roundhouse, jab. Uppercut, uppercut. Dig deep, Evan. Dig deep.”
“He’s going to have to dig deep later, Finnie,” I tell him, glancing from the report to the digital wall clock over the flat-screens. “He has a meeting in ten.”
My voice cuts off as I see Evan nailing the heavy bag Finn set up. When Finn first took over as Evan’s personal trainer, his objective was strength training and conditioning to help him power through the day and release some stress. But after attending Finn’s last title defense, he asked Finn to train him in MMA.
I’ll be honest, mixed martial arts is a brutal sport. I never expected Evan to love it. We’ve caught the last few pay-per-view fights on T.V. and have already booked our hotel room for Finn’s next fight in Vegas. Like me, Evan seems in it for the long haul.
I smile, watching his gloved hands connect in rapid fire, a fresh coat of sweat dripping lines down his bare chest. Oh, but my man doesn’t stop with the sexy there. The skin-tight MMA shorts he’s wearing show off the “V” at his waist and a very yummy and pronounced set of abs.
I close in, only because I need to talk to him and not just to take in the eye candy. But now that I’m here, it’s my obligation to all the heterosexual women out there to take another visual lick.
His breath comes fast as he pummels the bag and wraps up the workout. Between the grunts and the way his chest rises and falls with each hard intake, I’m reminded of our very enthusiastic “good morni
ng” sometime before dawn. With Finn here, I’ll keep my hands to myself. Can’t say I’ll do the same once he leaves.
He gives me a wink as he rips off his gloves. “How was that?”
“Bad-ass, bossman,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Thank you, but I was speaking to your brother.”
“Your kicks need work,” Finn tells him, nudging my shoulder affectionately. “But I’ll admit, you’re a fucking natural when it comes to throwing a swing.”
“My prior boxing experience helps. I took it for years as my physical education elective.”
“Yeah?” Finn asks.
“That’s right. It was that or ballroom dancing and cricket.”
Horror finds its way into Finn’s voice. “You poor bastard.”
I reach for the towel placed on the chair and pass it to Evan as Finn carries the heavy bag to the large closet where he stores the training equipment.
Evan swipes his face and gives me a quick kiss. “How are we looking?” he asks, motioning to the report.
“Not bad,” I say.
He straightens, knowing what I mean. The good faith deposits barely keep us afloat. Eventually, the sales made will net billions, but for now we need revenue.
Out of respect for Evan, I don’t mention anything in front of Finn. But for all Finn says things he shouldn’t, he’s not dumb. He lifts a hand as he heads out the door. “Later,” he says.
Evan thanks him over my goodbye. The door shuts, the abrupt silence thickening along with the tension. I force a smile. “You have ten minutes before your meeting. I have a fresh suit hanging for you in your bathroom.”
“Thank you.” He swipes the towel over his chest. “I was expecting better news.”
“Me, too,” I agree, speaking softly. Neither of us move away. It’s like magnets appear at once, keeping us locked together.
“I have to pick up the food for the meeting,” I say, knowing we can’t just stand there. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Can’t someone else do it?”
“With the new launch of Mechanicus?” I shake my head. “Everyone already has too much on their plates, babe, including the administrative staff.” I push the extra mile for Evan, so do his employees. But they’re close to their breaking points. I’m not asking anyone for more than I have to.
