“I’m back,” she announced, shrugging out of her jacket.
To his credit, Phil began saying good night and soon came out to the kitchen. He picked up his coat and pulled it on. “How was your walk? Your cheeks are sure red.”
“My cheeks were red when I left, Phil. Probably because I’m so mad at you I could just scream.”
He stared at her with a blank expression. “For interrupting your date, right? I’m sorry about that Molly. He really didn’t have to go—”
“It wasn’t a date. It’s not about that at all. You are so dense sometimes, it’s just amazing.”
She glanced in the direction of the girls’ bedroom, deciding that they needed some privacy.
“Come out in the hallway. I need to talk to you.” Without waiting for his reply, she walked ahead and opened the door. He followed, looking curiously at her.
“Okay. What’s on your mind?” he asked politely.
“Plenty. For starters, you can’t just drop in here anytime you like. You don’t live here anymore.”
“I know.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I should have called. I won’t forget next time.”
His mild, nonchalant attitude annoyed her even more.
“You can’t just drop out of the sky and decide you want to be a father again. You can’t make up for all the time you missed in just a week or with a few trips to the mall.”
Phil’s mild expression hardened, like molten sugar cooling on a plate. “That’s not what I’m trying to do and you know it, Molly. I think you’re just peeved because I broke up your little coffee klatch with the doctor. Why are you hanging around in the kitchen? Why doesn’t he take you someplace nice?”
Molly was so angry, she felt her head spin. “How dare you say that to me! I know what you’re doing. You’re just trying to distract me and it’s not going to work. And that is not why I’m so angry.” Molly took a long, ragged breath, her hands balled into fists at her side.
“What is it then? I just dropped in for five minutes to say hello to the girls. Now I’m leaving, just like you asked. I don’t get it.”
“Of course you don’t get it. You have no idea, not the foggiest notion, of what it is to be a parent. A real parent. I’ve been taking care of your daughters on my own for a long time and doing a pretty good job of it. I don’t need you to sweep in here, playing Santa Claus in July, and spoiling them rotten and screwing everything up. Maybe you can make them forget how you’ve ignored them all these years. But you can’t make me forget, Phil. I’m a grown-up. I’m not fooled that easily.”
Phil’s eyes narrowed. He flinched for a moment, as if he had been slapped across the face. “Of course you won’t forget, Molly, or forgive me. Not if we live to be a hundred and three. I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re just jealous.”
Molly gasped. “Jealous? That’s insane! What would I be jealous of?”
“Jealous of me. Jealous because the girls do love me and want to give me another chance. You can’t stand it. It’s driving you up the wall. Go ahead, admit it. Be honest at least.”
“You are crazy.” Molly shook her head, feeling incredulous. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“You’re an open book to me, Molly. You always were and always will be. You’ve had those girls to yourself for years, and you don’t like sharing them. It’s as simple as that. You don’t like them looking up to somebody else now or seeing that they can love somebody else as much as they love you. Even if it’s their own father.”
His tone was low and grating, like an annoying appliance grinding away at her nerves. She felt raw and ragged, ready to lash out at him. Yet for some reason, she could hardly speak.
“That’s a horrible thing to say to me. It’s totally hateful. All the years that you ignored them, I’ve felt so awful that the girls never had a real father.”
He didn’t reply. His cold blue stare stated flatly that he stood by his accusation.
He’s wrong, she told herself, yet deep inside, his words had struck home. She did feel jealous sometimes when she watched the girls with Phil. Pushed aside and displaced after all the years she had devoted to their needs and care.
She could be rational about it, of course. All this fuss over Phil didn’t mean that they didn’t love her anymore. Phil had appeared in a puff of smoke: Santa Claus, the Good Humor Man, and Dream Dad all rolled into one. How could they resist?
But in her heart it had all been very jarring. His reappearance had rocked her world. The deck was still rolling, and Molly felt as if she might be swept overboard.
“I’m here now, Molly. I’m here to stay, and you just have to accept it.” Phil’s tone was hard edged and maddeningly confident.
“Not so fast, pal. You want to be their dad again? Yippee. But that doesn’t mean you can drop in here anytime the mood strikes. From now on, I’m in charge of the visiting schedule. One night a week. You can pick them up after school and have them home by seven—”
“That’s impossible with my job!” Phil cut in. “You know that, Molly.”
“As for the weekends, every other Saturday from noon to six P.M.,” she continued, talking over his objections.
Phil’s face turned an angry, mottled shade of red. “I’m their father. I have some rights.”
“You gave up those rights when you walked out on us, Phil. If you don’t like my schedule, take me to court. Let a judge hear what a model dad you’ve been all these years. Let him decide about your rights.”
Would she really go to court over this? Probably not, but she could see her threat was working. Phil knew if they ever did go head-to-head in front of a family court judge, his track record would look awful. He had a better chance working things out with her—and that wasn’t saying much.
Phil let out a long breath and stepped back, his hands on his hips. Molly watched him, feeling exhausted, as if she’d just run a marathon. She waited to see what he would say, sensing she had won this round.
“I know what you said is true. I know it better than anybody, believe me,” he stated slowly. “I’ve been a washout as a father so far. Which is probably why I’m overdoing it a little now.”
“A little? Try a lot, Phil. You’re overdoing it a lot. . . .”
His sharp look silenced her. “I’m ashamed of myself. Is that what you need to hear? Okay. There, I said it.” He leaned back against the wall, looking sad and angry and suddenly as drained as she felt. “I’m trying to do better. I’m trying to be a better man. Can’t you see that? Can’t you cut me a little slack here?”
To her surprise his honest admission of failure touched her. She would never have guessed he was capable of that kind of soul-baring confession. Still, she kept her arms crossed over her chest, not wanting him to sense her softening.
“Give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking for. And how about I see the girls every weekend? Every other is a little harsh, don’t you think?”
His persuasive salesman tone was back, a quick recovery, like one of those toy figures with the round bottoms. You push them down and they spring right up again.
“All right, every weekend,” she consented, knowing that the girls would object to the limited schedule as well. “So, the ground rules are understood? Do you have any questions?”
Phil looked as if he were about to reply with some cutting remark, but he pursed his lips closed and shook his head. “No questions. I’ll be back on Saturday, I guess.”
“Yes, I guess so. Good night.”
She turned and went back inside her apartment, shutting the door and leaning back against it for a moment. She wondered if the girls had been standing in this same spot, eavesdropping, moments before. She was sure that they must have been curious about what was going on out in the hallway between her and Phil. They wouldn’t be happy to hear they’d be seeing Phil less. But she would deal with that problem when the time came, Molly decided. They couldn’t go out with him so many nights of the week and get home late. It jus
t wasn’t practical. They were both falling behind in their schoolwork, and Lauren had barely touched the piano since Phil appeared on the scene. She would have to explain it to them and hope they understood. But of course, once again, she would be the one playing the villain in this domestic soap opera.
Might as well get myself a stovepipe hat and fake mustache, Molly thought wearily as she finally locked the door and turned off the lights.
CHAPTER NINE
CARL LEFT THE HOUSE AND CLOSED THE DOOR, THEN REALIZED HE didn’t have a key to lock up. He looked under the mat, ran his hand on the ledge above the door, and even checked around the hedges for one of those fake rocks that people think are so clever for hiding spare keys. He was about to give up when his gaze happened upon a white flowerpot filled with yellow straw flowers on the top step. He picked it up and shook it. Just as he had suspected, the loose key in the bottom rattled noisily.
He tipped the pot, locked the door, and replaced the key, chuckling to himself. A flower pot, for pity’s sake. A policeman ought to think of a better spot than that. Originality was never Tucker’s strong suit, that was for sure.
He wondered what Tucker or Fran would think if one of them stopped home today for lunch and found the house empty. Fran would probably assume he was gone for good and start cleaning his room, as if he’d had bubonic plague. Then she would celebrate. He wasn’t so sure about Tucker, though, and brushed the question from his mind.
It would be a while before he could leave for good. Though the swelling was down on his leg, he still needed something to help him walk. He hated using the crutches. It made him feel like a broken old man, but he knew he wouldn’t make it too far without them. And he needed to get out. He was going stir-crazy in that flowered little tissue box of a room.
Hobbling along at a fairly quick pace, Carl reached the end of Tucker’s street and turned onto Emerson. He paused and caught his breath. It was a fairly mild day, the sky clear and the air cool but humid with a hint of the spring weather soon to come. He wasn’t having as much trouble breathing as he had expected, but he wondered if it was wiser to just take himself around the block a time or two and call it a day.
Then looking down to the end of the street, he decided what the heck, might as well try to make it all the way to town. It wasn’t so far. Worse comes to worst, he would collapse on the sidewalk and someone would call Tucker.
He hadn’t gotten a good look at the village that first night he landed here. Wasn’t in much shape for sightseeing, he recalled. Now he was curious to see what the place had turned into. Tucker claimed it was almost the same as when he left years ago, but Carl had his doubts. Nothing stays the same. He didn’t know much, but he sure knew that well enough by now.
He limped along, resting every few minutes to catch his breath. He had borrowed one of Tucker’s jackets and a baseball cap and thought he looked fairly respectable, though he hadn’t shaved for a few days.
He rounded the corner and found himself on Main Street. He stopped and stared down the street, feeling as if he had just walked onto a movie set. Everything looked so nice here, so pretty and clean. Like a picture postcard. The kind of town he could never afford to live in. He had never noticed that as a kid or even a young man. He’d just taken it all for granted.
He limped past a Victorian that held an antique shop. The Bramble, the sign read. He remembered that place. It was called something else in his time. An old man sat in a rocker on the porch, whittling a piece of wood. A yellow Labrador lay at his feet, as calm as a statue.
The old man stopped carving for a moment and met his eye, peering out from under the edge of his cap. Carl paused, leaning on his crutches. Digger Hegman, that was his name. An old fisherman, famous for clamming and predicting the weather. Carl was surprised to see the old geezer still alive.
“Hey, there,” Digger called out to him. “Do I know you?”
Carl hesitated, not knowing how to reply. “I doubt it, mister. I’m a stranger here. Just visiting.”
Digger kept staring at him, appearing unsatisfied with the reply. Finally, though, he returned to his carving.
Carl turned away and continued down the street. A short time later he spotted the Clam Box. He stopped, his body rigid as he recalled so many memories. After all these years, just looking at that sign still brought a sour feeling to the pit of his stomach. He remembered when old Otto Bates accused him of robbing the place. Though he certainly hadn’t been any choirboy, he hadn’t stolen so much as a teaspoon from that place. Didn’t matter to Otto though. His mind had been made up, and he managed to convince half the town that he was right, too, no matter that the police said differently. Carl took a deep breath. Otto had barred him from going in there for years, as if Carl were carrying some contagious disease.
Some small voice still told him not to cross the street. But something else goaded him on. Old Otto is dead and buried, and besides that, nobody would even recognize me now. Except maybe Charlie. Charlie had never liked Carl, and the feeling had been mutual. Tucker and Charlie were still friends, Carl gathered from his brother’s conversations. Though from Tucker’s tone, it sounded like the magic was gone from that romance.
Carl wasn’t sure what was pushing him to go in there; it certainly wasn’t fond memories. But he was tired and wanted some coffee before he headed back to Tucker’s. He pushed off on his crutches and hobbled across the street. He hadn’t come this far to be scared off by the memory of old Otto Bates. No sir, he thought with a small smile, as he slowly opened the door. Going in here after all this time, all things considered, might even be fun.
It was midmorning and the place looked almost empty. A bell above the door jangled when he opened it, but no one paid him any mind. There were only two or three customers.
A waitress glanced up from behind the counter and smiled. “Take a seat anywhere. I’ll be right with you.”
He made his way to a booth by the window, slipped into the seat, and set the crutches on the seat opposite. There was a mimeographed menu in a plastic holder propped up between the salt and pepper shakers. It looked just the same as it always had. The same typos, too. “Fred Chicken in a Basket” was his favorite. Poor old Fred, he thought. We’re in the same boat now, pal.
“So, what can I get you?” The waitress’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at her under the brim of his hat, afraid she was someone he used to know.
“Just coffee, thanks,” he mumbled. She jotted down the order, and he watched her walk back to the counter.
He did know her. Lucy Dooley. She had been a pretty one. Still had her looks, too. She would be Lucy Bates now, he suddenly remembered. She could have done better, that was for sure. Some women didn’t have much sense when it came to picking men. A few had even latched onto him when he was younger.
A few minutes later Lucy returned with the coffee. He turned away, acting suddenly interested in the view out the window.
“Here you are, sir.” She set down the coffee mug, a teaspoon, and a pitcher of milk with practiced efficiency. “Anything else?”
“Uh . . . no, thanks. That’s okay for now.” He coughed into his hand, and he sensed her looking at him. He looked away again, but couldn’t help coughing.
She leaned over and gently touched his shoulder. “How about some water?” Not waiting for his reply, she went off to get it.
She soon returned and set the glass down in front of him. He thought she would leave again, but she stood there waiting for him to drink. He picked it up, his hand shaking a bit, and took a long swallow.
She was still there when he was done. There was a soft look in her eyes. He knew that look. She pitied him. He felt sure now that she recognized him but was too nice to say so.
“Thank you for the water, Lucy,” he said slowly. Her eyes widened with surprise, but he smiled a little and pointed to the tag on her uniform. “That’s your name, right?”
She smiled back. “Sure, that’s me. Let me know if you need anything else, sir.”
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She walked away, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had thought he was ready to face these people. Well, it appeared he wasn’t up to it. Not today anyway, he realized.
A few minutes later, almost done with his coffee, Carl glanced around to ask for the check. The bell above the door jangled, and Charlie Bates stalked in, carrying a carton that appeared to be filled with cans.
He walked to the counter and dropped his load, then he turned and glanced at Carl. His gaze didn’t linger, Carl noticed with relief. But then Charlie turned his head again and pinned Carl with a stare. Carl looked down at his coffee cup, burrowing into his coat and tugging the brim of his hat over his eyes.
Too late. Charlie started toward him with determined steps.
He stood at Carl’s table, fists on his hips. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here. Didn’t your brother warn you not to come in here?”
All heads turned in their direction. The other customers stopped talking and eating. Carl slowly lifted his head and met Charlie’s angry stare.
“Tucker never said a word to me about you. What are you talking about?”
“He didn’t, huh? Well, how about I don’t believe you? I told him I didn’t want to see you in here. Now I’m telling you.”
Charlie leaned over, his angry face filling Carl’s field of vision. “You know why, too,” he added bitterly. “Don’t play dumb with me, Carl. I’m not like Tucker. I see right through you. Now get out.”
Carl didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even breathe. He felt a surge of anger simmering up inside. Then he sat back and laughed like a crazy man until tears came into his eyes.
“You getting tough with me, Bates? That’s a laugh. Places I’ve been, you couldn’t scare a cockroach back into his hole.” He shook his head, wheezing harshly between words.
“Why you—get up!” Charlie pushed Carl’s shoulder.
Staring back defiantly, Carl barely budged.
Lucy rushed over and tugged on her husband’s arm. “He’s a customer, Charlie. Have you lost your mind?”
A New Leaf Page 19
