The only light in the room was from the table lamp, which reflected down one side of her face and onto the pages of the book. Only she wasn’t reading for herself. She was reading nursery rhymes to their ten-day-old son. Sitting there like that, in that soft light and in that get-up, looking so intent, she could have easily passed for a teenage babysitter. She looked so earnest and so very young—not even close to her thirty years.
Resting his shoulder against the doorway, he folded his arms and watched her, another piece falling into place. It was clear from the way she was reading that she didn’t know any of the children’s poems by heart. He wondered what kind of home she’d grown up in, that she hadn’t learned those old familiar verses. She’d been very closemouthed about her family when they’d been going out. And he’d never pressed. He figured that if she didn’t want to tell him, that was her business. Now he wondered.
He continued to watch her, trying to batten down the empty feeling that kept climbing up his chest Sometimes he wished he’d never laid eyes on her. But watching her now, he knew that was a lie. Not wanting to let his thoughts sink any deeper than they already were, he spoke, his voice a little gruff. “Have you ever wondered how come kids’ nursery rhymes have such gruesome things in them?”
Her head came up like a shot, a startled look in her eyes, and almost immediately a hint of pink started creeping up her cheeks. Which was good. She’d been so pale lately, she could certainly use the color. His arms folded across his chest, Murphy continued to watch her, caught off guard by her reaction. It was as if he’d caught her cheating. No. It was something else. Narrowing his eyes, he contemplated her a second longer. It was almost as if she was embarrassed that he’d caught her reading nursery rhymes.
He never gave her time to go underground on him. “So why do you think that is?”
She closed the book and leaned over, setting it on the end table. That prissy-accountant’s look camouflaged her face, as if she had pulled back behind her defenses. “Some were political commentary.”
Not liking that she’d reverted to that old form, he went over to the table and picked up the book, then opened it. “Well, whatever it is, it worked on him. I’ll have to give it a try later.” He gave her a semicross look. “But no way am I reading him that rock-a-bye-baby stuff. It used to scare the hell out of me when I was little.”
A sparkle appeared in her eyes, and the prim look disappeared. “Yes,” she said, her tone dry “I can tell it did.”
Sprawling on the floor, he rested his back against the sofa and laced his hands behind his head, then crossed his ankles. He nodded toward his bright-eyed son. “Was it my imagination, or was he less fussy today?”
Her expression softening into a tender maternal look, she gently rubbed the crown of her son’s head. “He was a very good boy today.”
Holding back a smile and, for some reason, needing to tease her, Murphy lifted his chin toward his son. “He’s making those guppy faces again.”
She bent over and kissed the top of the baby’s head. “Not guppy faces. Baby faces.” Leaning back in the chair, she began rocking again. She gave him a small, sheepish smile, something almost conspiratorial in her expression. “But he is pretty cute, isn’t he?”
Murphy restrained a twist of amusement. “Right now he is.”
Hunching her shoulders forward, she encompassed their baby in an enveloping embrace, a glow on her face that Murphy had never seen before as she kissed their son’s crown again. And that expression—the expression that changed her into something almost surreal—was all about unconditional love.
Murphy’s expression tightened. At one point in his life, he would have killed to have her look at him that way. Anger building up inside him, he got up and headed toward the nursery. He needed his gym bag and truck keys, then he was going to get the hell out of there. At least until he had a chance to cool off. But maybe anger was a whole lot safer than acknowledging that he wasn’t quite as disconnected as he liked to think.
Turning to his own personal release valve, Murphy headed for the gym. But when he pulled up outside, the thought of going in there held about the same appeal as a root canal. He thought about his own house—the one he was renovating in an older, established area. But it was too big, too empty, too quiet. And then he thought of his mother’s English country garden, with the fish pond and trickling water, the bird baths and quaint willow lawn chairs under the spreading ornamental cherry tree.
He picked up his cell phone from the top of the gym bag, flipped it open and punched in the familiar number with his thumb. He listened to two rings, then the pickup. Staring out the open window of his vehicle, he moved the mouthpiece closer to his mouth. “Hi. I thought I’d stop by if you weren’t busy.”
His mother was delighted with the suggestion, and when he arrived, Murphy found his mother sitting under the cherry tree, the heavy twilight from the long days of summer creating dense shadows. On the wicker table there was a pair of garden gloves, a tall glass of iced tea, a bottle of chilled cider with condensation running down it and a pastrami sandwich made with fresh homemade bread.
Her graying blond hair was pulled up in some sort of topknot, she had on shorts and an old blouse and there was dirt on her knees. She was sixty-two, looked fifty-two and seemed a hell of a lot younger than that. She smiled at him as he crossed the yard. “Hello, stranger. We were beginning to think you’d gone intergalactic.”
Tossing his cell phone on the table, he sprawled in the chair opposite her. “Yeah. Well, I feel like I’ve been in outer space.” He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, then laced his hands behind his head. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s off playing poker with his buddies.”
Feeling the tranquillity of the huge yard seep into him, Murphy picked up the bottle of cider and raised it to his mouth.
“So,” she said, flicking a glob of mud off her shorts, “when are you going to tell us about this new grandchild of ours?”
Choking on the cider, he shot up, coughing and sputtering. Finally able to speak, he gave her an annoyed look. “Good grief, Ma, it’s not even due yet.”
She gave him a benign smile. “Shame on you, Murphy. Keeping secrets.”
Resigned to facing the music, he let go a long sigh. “Just tell me one thing. How did you find out?”
Picking up her own glass, she pursed her lips in a restrained smile. “Murphy. I’m your mother. I know all sorts of things.”
He refused to go after that piece of bait. Wedging the bottle between his thighs, he picked up the plate with the sandwich on it, figuring two could play this game. But he’d forgotten that nobody could play like his mother.
Having wolfed down half the sandwich with her sitting there smiling that all-knowing smile, he expelled another long sigh and gave up. “Okay. How did you figure it out?”
She took a long sip, then actually smirked. “Marco.”
“What do you mean, Marco?”
“Well,” she said, turning the glass in her hand, “I didn’t think it was right that the rest of the family didn’t know. So I told them you had a baby on the way.”
He inhaled a whole chunk of bread with that bombshell, and it took five minutes of coughing to dislodge it. His eyes watering, he stared at her. “What?” he choked out. “You told them?”
“Of course, dear.”
Knowing he’d been totally outmaneuvered, he rested his head against the chair back and simply stared at her.
“So when Marco phoned to say you’d showed up at work looking like something the cat dragged in—and telling him you were taking some time off—well,” she said, grinning at him, “we can all add, Mokey.”
He rolled his eyes, mostly because he knew she was using that old nickname, the one that had been hung on him by younger, speech-deficient siblings, just to rattle his chain. His mother wasn’t really an ordinary mother.
Resting her arms on the wide arms of the wicker willow chair, she gazed at him, her expression turning s
erious. Even in the fading light, her concern was visible. “So how are you doing?”
He held her gaze for a second, then took another long swig of cider. Needing to get his thoughts sorted out, he stared at the bottle for a long moment before he answered. “Well, for starters, you have a beautiful grandson, Ma.”
She abruptly pressed her hand to her chest, and almost immediately, he could see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. His mother was the softest touch on earth about kids—her own, her kids’ kids, any kids. And she was one hell of a grandma. Unfortunately, it had taken him to adulthood before he truly appreciated his parents. A huge surge of emotion nailed him square in the chest. He wondered if his son would ever feel the same way.
“I think maybe you need to do some talking,” she said, her tone quiet, kind, full of concern.
Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his thighs, lacing both hands around the amber bottle. “Hell, Ma. I don’t know what to say. She had the baby while I was in Toronto, and I got back, and there he was.” He rubbed his thumb against the label on the bottle, his throat tight. “He’s beautiful. He weighed seven pounds and two ounces, and he’s got this head of thick black hair. And he has colic—there’s no way that Jordan can manage on her own. So I’ve been staying over there.” He took another swig, hoping it would make the knot in his throat go away. Finally getting the knot under control, he lowered the bottle. “His name is James Jeffery Munroe—” His throat cramped up again, and he had to stop.
She read him dead-on. “You can only make the best of what you have,” she said in the same quiet tone. “Nothing can be gained by playing the ‘if only’ game, Murphy. She’s made her decision, and you’re just going to have to live with it. Just be grateful you’ve got the chance to be involved in his life.”
Releasing a long, slow breath, he looked up, his own expression somber. “I know all that, Ma.”
She gave his hand a little squeeze. “Then let’s concentrate on celebrating this newest little Munroe.” She leaned back, a look of pure avarice in her eyes. “So. Did you bring me pictures?”
As lousy as he was feeling, Murphy couldn’t help but grin. “Jeez, Mother. Give me a break, will you?”
“Well, did you?”
He shook his head. “They’re in for developing.”
Ellen Munroe had the gift for distraction. And after half an hour with her, Murphy felt almost back to normal.
All the light had faded from the sky and it was going on eleven when she stood and picked up the dishes and empty cider bottle. “Come in the house. The mosquitoes are eating me alive, and you look as if you could do with a coffee.” She tucked the bottle under her arm and gathered up her garden gloves. “And we have a few things to send home for James Jeffery.”
Chapter 4
With the gifts packed in a cardboard box, Murphy drove back to the condo, considering what Jordan’s reaction would be. She had never met any of his family—in fact, she had gone out of her way to avoid it. He wasn’t sure why, and he wasn’t going to start digging around in all that old garbage now. There was no point. They were parents together, and that was it. But he didn’t like the hollow feeling that piece of reality left in his gut. Not wanting to get into those emotions right now, he glanced at the box sitting on the passenger’s seat, considering the packages his mother had carefully arranged inside.
The gifts were all wrapped in bright baby paper and colorful bows, all addressed to Baby Munroe. The writing on one parcel was his grandmother’s, and he had a pretty good idea what Baba’s gift was. There were three more packages addressed to Baby Munroe—one in his father’s handwriting, two in his mother’s. But besides the gifts, he had come away with a kind of mental reinforcement. His mother was right. He could only work with what he had. He wasn’t happy about it, but that was the hand he’d been dealt. He either played it, or got out of the game.
Feeling as if he had just excavated a huge hole in the middle of his chest, but oddly awake, Murphy parked the truck on the side street and locked it, then started toward the front entrance. He wondered how much longer he could keep this up without losing his mind. Well, maybe a kid with colic was a good thing. Since J.J. had arrived, he’d been suffering from such a chronic case of sleep deprivation that everything was blurred and out of focus. And maybe that was the trick—to stay out of focus.
The box tucked under one arm, he separated the key for the condo from the others on his key chain, hoping that both parties were asleep upstairs. He felt as if he didn’t have a speck of energy left to give to anybody right then.
His wish was half-filled.
When he unlocked the door and opened it, the apartment was absolutely still, not a sound of a baby anywhere. Then Jordan appeared in the foyer, her face so pale that her eyes looked the size of saucers and almost black. Folding her arms tightly in front of her, she managed an uncertain smile. “Hi,” she said, her voice as uneven as her smile.
Murphy looked at her, then turned and closed the door, setting the dead bolt. The box still under his arm, he turned to face her, wishing he didn’t have to deal with this now. He scolded her. “You should be in bed.”
She tried to smile again and made a nervous little gesture with one hand. “I—well. I didn’t know if you had your keys or not.”
Dropping his keys in the pewter bowl on the vestibule table, Murphy tried to keep his face expressionless. Her being up had nothing to do with keys; it had to do with the fact that she didn’t know if he was coming back or not.
Lifting his head, he looked at her, his gaze level. And he called it for what it was. “I’m not going to walk out on you and our son when he’s like this,” he said, his tone even. “I’m not that big of a louse.”
Tightening her arms, she abruptly looked down and straightened the fringe on the hall runner with her toe. Murphy knew he had scored a direct hit, and he immediately felt like the louse he’d just said he wasn’t.
Knowing there was really nowhere to go with this conversation, he brushed past her. His tone was softer when he spoke. “Come on. My mother sent some things over for the little monster.”
He set the box down in front of the sofa, then went to the fridge and got a beer, knowing he was going to pay big time for having it if the tadpole gave him another run for his money tonight.
When he entered the living room, he caught her poking around in the box. As soon as she heard him, she immediately sat back and clamped her hands between her legs. Catching her doing something so unlike her accountant’s persona made his mood lift a little, and he tapped the back of her head as he walked by. “Caughtcha.”
Rounding the end of the sofa, he glanced down at her and had to smile when he saw that she was blushing. He settled himself comfortably on the other end of the deep, comfortable couch and raised the bottle to his mouth. So, Ms. Kennedy got all curious and snoopy over presents....
Resting the bottle on his chest, he watched her, amusement surfacing. “You don’t have to wait, Jordan. You can open them now.”
She shot him a glance, then she gave a guilty little fidget. “Aren’t they from your family?”
Slouching down so he could rest his head back against the cushions, he nodded. “From my family.”
Jordan looked down at the gifts, then back at him. “What are they?”
He held back a smile. “I guess you’re going to have to open them to find out.”
Rolling the hem of her T-shirt, she gave an uncertain little shrug. “Shouldn’t you open them?”
“Nope. Dads watch. Mothers open.”
Jordan stared at him a moment—hesitant, as if uncertain of these parental rules, and for the very first time, Murphy got a glimpse of her as a child. And he experienced a funny clutch around his heart.
Watching her open the first gift was an education all by itself. When he had given her the pearl earrings for her birthday, she had opened the parcel the same way. Slowly, careful not to tear the paper. Back then, he thought it was because she was like that, but now
he realized he was wrong. This carefulness was about taking her time, about making the moment last, about savoring every second of the experience. She unstuck all the tape closures, then she lifted off the card and opened it. Murphy watched her, realizing she was simply prolonging the anticipation. She read the card, then flashed him a look of total surprise. “It’s from your father.”
More intent on watching her than anything else, he answered. “Really?”
Ever so carefully, she unwrapped the gift, fold by fold, not making a single tear in the bright paper. Peeling back the final wrap, she made a delighted sound, then laughed and held the box up for him to see.
Murphy grinned. He should have known—it was a junior fishing rod. Nestling his beer in the crook of his folded arms, he met her gaze. “My father is nuts about fishing, and he likes to drag his grandkids along. When Grandpa goes fishing, it’s a very big deal.” He indicated the boxed fishing rod. “So that’s J.J.’s ticket to the show.”
The look on her face was amazing. It was as if someone had just handed her kid the entire world. “That is so wonderful.”
Murphy grinned. “We didn’t used to think so. We used to whine and carry on, trying to wheedle our way out of it. The grandkids think it’s a pretty big deal, though.”
The next gift was Murphy’s silver baby mug, all freshly polished. A note addressed to the baby said that he was to bring it with him the first time he came to visit, and Grandma would get his birth date and name engraved on it. Jordan lingered over that for several moments, turning it over and over in her hands, caressing the polished surface, tracing the engraving already there, the oddest expression on her face. And for a moment, he thought she was going to cry. But she finally carefully set it aside and picked up the next parcel.
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