Captain Dreamboat

by Tawna Fenske

  It was to Blanka. And if this sister who’s known me two months can see it, maybe it’s true.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot,” she insists. “You’re smart and kind and funny and generous, and you don’t know when enough is enough when it comes to self-sacrifice. So I’m telling you now—it’s enough. You’re enough.”

  You’re enough.

  How many times did I wish I could hear my father say that to me?

  How many times did Chuck actually say it?

  Dozens. Hundreds.

  I just wasn’t listening. “My stepfather,” I murmur. “He’s a good man. And he raised me to be like him.” Tried to, anyway.

  Izzy levels me with a look so fierce my heart actually stops. “You are a good man without needing to throw yourself on the fire to prove it,” she says. “Don’t you see that?”

  I’m starting to, maybe a little.

  I owe that to Blanka. Christ, I owe so much to her.

  “I need to find Blanka.” I push off the wall, brain reeling with the need to make this right. To get us back on the same page and facing the same direction, which I realize is a seriously messed up metaphor. “I need to tell her how I feel.”

  To find out how she feels. Both of those things are vital. Without two sets of dreams laid out on the table, we can’t begin to braid them together.

  Izzy steps aside as I reach for the door handle. I yank it open and nearly collide with a woman waiting on the other side. I push past and watch her blanch as Izzy emerges behind me.

  “It’s okay,” I call as I start for the dining room. “She’s my sister.”

  Which probably makes it worse, but I don’t have time to elaborate. I race though the dining room toward our table where Blanka’s dad is still engrossed in his phone call.

  “Right, yes,” he’s saying. “No, I can cut this trip short if I need to and get to Dovlano at once. My family will understand.”

  I’m not sure they will. Blanka’s mother sits stoically at the other end of the table, hands folded in her lap. Chuck is deep in conversation with Libby, teaching her sailor’s knots with a long piece of twine from one of the centerpieces. He used to do that with me, exhausted from work, when I’d beg him to teach me just one more knot.

  He’s a good man.

  But being a good man isn’t enough. Not if you’re turning your back on the people you love most.

  Galyna’s face is a mask of perfect fortitude. I look behind her to see Iz returning to her seat at the next table.

  “Izzy,” I say. “Isabella.”

  She turns with a quizzical look. “Yes?”

  “Do you have any of those paperbacks?” I ask. “The ones Blanka loaned you?”

  Her brow furrows. “The romance novels?” She shoves a hand in her purse and comes up with a tattered paperback copy of a Rachel Grant novel. “I just finished this one.”

  “May I borrow it?”

  Iz nods and hands it over without comment.

  I turn back to Blanka’s mother and hand her the book. “Here,” I tell her. “This should keep you from getting bored.”

  It should also give her some ideas of the sort of happily-ever-after that’s possible, but I don’t mention that. Galyna stares at me a moment, then takes the book. The tiniest smile tugs the corners of her mouth. “Ty naykrashhyy muzhcyna.”

  I blink at her, dumbstruck. I know those words. I’ve googled those words, though the fact that I can’t spell them made them impossible to find. “Did you just talk dirty to me?”

  It’s Galyna’s turn to look confused. “What?” Her brow furrows. “I told you that you are the best man.”

  I swallow hard, watching her face. “What about Ty moe povitria.” I pray I’m saying it right. “I tried googling, but the alphabet’s different and I can’t figure it out phonetically—”

  “Ty moe povitria,” she repeats, smiling. “You are my air.”

  God, I’m an idiot.

  All along, this is what she’s been telling me. I’m the one she’s chosen. I’m the one who matters to her. She’s been saying the words, even if she couldn’t speak them in a language we both know.

  Even if she couldn’t admit them to herself.

  I glance at Izzy, who’s watching the exchange with a bemused expression. I open my mouth to ask for a pen, but the kidney telepathy is working in full force. Izzy whips a notepad out of her purse and hands it to Galyna with a pen tucked inside.

  “Could you write that down for him?” Izzy asks. “Please?”

  Galyna nods and flips the pad open. She scrawls the words in Ukranian, then phonetically in English.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “I promise I will treat your daughter well. That I’ll be the kind of man she deserves.”

  She nods approvingly. “Good.”

  Chuck’s wrapping up his knot tying lesson with Libby and glances at me with a questioning look. “What’s going on?”

  I clear my throat. “Just getting some help pulling my head out of my—”

  “Backside,” Libby finishes for me. “You’re not supposed to say ass.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chuck folds his hands on the table. “How’d you do that?”

  I swallow hard, braced to say the hardest words I’ve ever uttered. “I can’t do it anymore.” I rake my hand through my hair, braced for his disappointment. “I can’t spend my life running around saving the world when the person who matters most in my world is here.”

  Chuck stares at me. Just stares for a long, long time. “Christ, boy. You think you need my permission for that?”

  I shake my head, forcing the words up past the lump in my throat. “I—I don’t know. I want your respect. I want to be the kind of man you taught me to be.”

  “Son.” He shakes his head, watching me sadly. “You already are. You’re the best man I know. Shit, you’re—”

  “Shoot,” Libby corrects, hands folded on the table. “Go on.”

  “Shoot,” Chuck continues, smiling a little. “The fact that you figured all this out at your age when I’m over here with twice the years under my belt…” He trails off there, shaking his head. “That says something, Sea Dog. It takes a big man to change course when the wind’s not blowing him the right direction anymore.”

  My chest swells with pride. And relief, to be honest. “So you’re okay with this?”

  “Okay?” Chuck stands up. “Hell, I’m coming with you.”

  “Heck,” Libby puts in, helping herself to the unclaimed piece of pie in front of Blanka’s father. “You’re not supposed to say hell.”

  Chuck nods. “Thank you. Both of you. For helping me figure out what should have been obvious.”

  “You’re welcome.” Libby grabs Thomas’s pie fork and digs in as Chuck and I turn and bolt for the door.

  We get halfway across the dining room when I’m struck by an idea. I reroute to the kitchen, crossing my fingers Sean has what I need.

  “I have to grab something,” I tell Chuck.

  “Will it fix things with Blanka and your mom?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Good,” Chuck says. “Grab one for me, too.”

  Chapter 14

  Blanka

  I scoop a hand under Sinbad, gently cradling him against my chest for a few seconds before handing the fuzzy bundle to Jon’s mother. “This is the first day we’re allowed to handle them,” I explain as Wendy coos over the tiny creature. “Our vet said it’s best to wait and be sure their mother bonds with them.”

  “They’re precious.”

  “They are.” And they might be the closest thing I get to having babies anytime soon.

  I glance at Jessica to be sure she’s handling this okay. She doesn’t appear to be on the brink of ripping our faces off, but it’s tough to tell sometimes.

  “Brrrrow.” Jessica closes her eyes and rolls over, forcing the other kittens to release their fierce grip on her swollen mammaries.

  “Looks like mom�
�s ready for a break,” I say.

  “I can relate, girl.” Wendy tucks Sinbad up against her chest, cupping him with her left hand while stroking her other down Jessica’s sleek body. “I remember this stage well.”

  I bite my lip, avoiding Wendy’s eyes as I reach down to scoop up another kitten. Raisin comes willingly, wriggly body curling into my hand.

  “Was Jonathan a cute baby?” I ask.

  I know the answer without asking, but I want to hear her say it.

  “The cutest,” Wendy says. “I’d never say that to the girls, but Jon was beautiful the instant he came out. The others took a few days to stop looking like rashy coneheads, but Jon sprang perfectly formed from the womb.”

  “Of course he did.” It shouldn’t surprise me that Jon was perfect from the start. He was probably planning fundraisers from his crib and organizing other babies to call their congressmen. “He really is a great guy.”

  Wendy doesn’t respond right away. Just strokes a hand down Jessica’s side, watching me in silence. “Does he know how you feel?”

  I nod slowly. “Of course. We’ve said I love you, talked about a relationship.”

  “Right, but what kind of relationship?” She frowns, and I can see she’s choosing her words carefully. “The kind of arrangement Chuck and I had isn’t for everyone. Neither is your parents’ marriage.”

  I snuggle the kitten under my chin, closing my eyes to sink into its velvety purr. “You and Chuck are perfect together,” I say. “I can’t imagine having something like that.”

  “We’re far from perfect,” she says. “And you can imagine it, sweetheart. I saw you imagining it over dinner. The first time I met you, I could see you mapping out a whole life together with my son. You may not have wanted to admit it, but it was plain as day on your face.”

  My breath catches in my throat. I can’t meet Wendy’s eyes, so I concentrate on smoothing back the fur behind Jessica’s ear. “It was that obvious?”

  “It was,” Wendy confirms. I glance up to see her shifting the kitten to the other side of her chest, soothing him with soft, motherly strokes of her palm. “Maybe not to you. Not to Jon, either. But mothers see things their children miss.”

  I remember my mother’s knowing look at the dinner table. Is that what she means?

  “I never thought I wanted those things,” I tell her. “I mean, yes, I admired babies. But I never really thought about wanting the husband and family and white picket fence.”

  “But now you want it.”

  I hesitate. It seems wrong to admit it to Wendy when I’ve barely admitted it to myself. And I certainly never told Jon.

  “It’s okay,” she says, reading my thoughts. “You have time to figure it out.”

  “Maybe not,” I admit. “Not if he’s leaving the country.”

  “Ask him to stay.”

  “I can’t do that.” I bite my lip and stroke a finger under a kitten’s downy chin. “I can’t ask him to give up his dreams for me.”

  “But you can give him a chance to make the choice for himself,” she says. “By letting him know what your dreams are.”

  Could it really be that simple?

  As I think it through, I realize I’ve never tried to tell Jon what I want. Oh, sure, I’ve said what I don’t want. The overbearing husband, the sort of marriage that holds me back instead of allowing me to flourish and thrive.

  But have I ever made it clear what I do want?

  I haven’t. Because I’ve been too damned scared to admit it to myself.

  “I’m afraid,” I confess softly, closing my eyes so I don’t see her pity. “What if I put it all out there, and he doesn’t want the same thing?”

  “Would it really hurt less than not trying?”

  I laugh and open my eyes again, blinking hard so she won’t see the threat of tears. “How do mothers know the exact right thing to say?”

  “It’s in the manual,” she says. “They hand it to you in the delivery room, along with a fifth of vodka and a pair of earplugs.”

  I laugh and set the kitten back in the box and start to reach for another one. Eloise, or maybe it’s Zinnia.

  That’s when I hear footsteps on the front porch, then the bang of the front door.

  “Honey, I’m home!”

  I blink, turning to Wendy. “What on earth?”

  But she’s as surprised as I am. We place our kittens back in the box as footsteps thunder down the hall. I turn to the doorway as Jon marches in, a look of determination on his face. He’s gripping a handful of bedraggled zinnias, dirt cascading off the roots like confetti. And in the other hand—

  “Why are you carrying a loaf of bread?” I ask.

  “It’s cinnamon raisin.” He thrusts it at me like an offering, and I take it because I’m not sure what else to do.

  His green eyes are wild, and he’s breathing like he just sprinted across the resort. “Blanka, the life I described that day in the hospital—the kids and the garden and the happy home where we fall asleep together every night and wake up together in the morning—that’s what I want.” His throat moves as he swallows. “I want that with you.”

  Tears flood my eyes, but I blink them back. “I thought you were going to Dovlano.”

  He shakes his head and drops to his knees on the floor beside me. “I got stars in my eyes when your dad started talking,” he says. “The stuff about organ failure and the seagoing aspect—it all seemed like fate. But so does this.”

  He gestures with the zinnias, scattering dirt on the floor. I laugh and sweep a patch of it off my knee as a tear slips down my face. “I want the same thing,” I tell him, looking down at the bread in my arms. “Even the cinnamon raisin.”

  “You don’t have to bake bread or grow zinnias or do anything else that doesn’t feel like the kind of arrangement you want.” He takes the bread from my hands and sets it on the desk beside us, along with the zinnias. “You and me, we’ll figure it out together. What we do and don’t want. What we’re willing to give up to be together, and what we’re not willing to sacrifice. I love you, Blanka. The only thing that matters is that we’re together.”

  I’m crying in earnest now, big, sloppy wet tears. Wendy fishes in her purse for a tissue and hands it to me, then gets up and steps discreetly to the door. From the corner of my eye, I see Chuck slip an arm around her and hand her a loaf of bread. Wendy takes it with a bemused look and snuggles closer. They don’t say a word. They don’t have to.

  But Jon and me, we’re still new at this. And forcing the words out is more important than I realized.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say to Jonathan. “I never told you what I wanted because I was scared to admit it. But I want the same thing you do—to be together no matter what.” This next part is hard, but I make myself say it anyway. “I want to be chosen. I want to matter to someone.”

  “God, Blanka.” He takes both my hands in his and squeezes, and I swear I see tears in his eyes. “You matter more than anything in the world to me. I will always choose you, no matter what. Always.”

  Doubt creeps back in, despite my best intentions. “But your mission—”

  “Doesn’t matter if I’m not with you,” he says. “Look, I know our parents made it through long separations, and that worked for them. And there’s a part of me that will always be devoted to making the world a better place. But meeting you, that’s when I realized how much better my own world could be. Maybe it’s selfish, but I’m not giving that up. I’m not letting you go.”

  These are the exact words I’ve wanted to hear. For so long, even if I couldn’t bear to voice that wish out loud. “I should have told you,” I say. “From the very start, I should have said what I wanted.”

  “Marriage?”

  I nod slowly, hoping that’s not the wrong answer.

  But it’s the right answer for me, and it’s time I started putting that out there. “Yes,” I say softly. “Eventually, yes. I want that.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’m already on
my knees, so—”

  “Wait, no.” I laugh and put a hand on his chest. “Not yet, not here. We can take our time.”

  He grins and lifts my hand from his chest, planting a kiss across my knuckles. “What about children?”

  I nod quicker this time, no longer caring if that’s the right answer. If it’s the safe answer. “At least two, maybe three.”

  “Excellent,” he says. “I’ll knock you up as soon as you say so.”

  Chuck clears his throat. “Uh, maybe you could wait ‘til we’re out the door?” He grins and turns toward his wife. “Let’s go, baby. We should start packing.”

  Wendy blinks. “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere—Paris, Greece, Buenos Aires—anywhere you want to go, that’s where I want to be, too.”

  Tears fill her eyes as he slips his arm around her and leads her from the room. Chuck pauses in the doorway, turning back to wink at Jon.

  “You’ve got this, Sea Dog.” Then he turns and walks out the door.

  From the rumble of their voices fading down the hallway, I hear Chuck issuing apologies of his own. “…got so focused on feeling useful that I forgot my most important job is being your husband.”

  I can’t hear what comes after that, but there’s no need. I only have eyes for Jonathan.

  He smiles and holds out his hand. “Smart guy, Chuck.”

  “He is.” I slip my hand in his and let him pull me to my feet.

  “Everything he just said—I can promise you I’ve downloaded it into my brain bank. I’m never going to forget you’re the most important thing. Not now, not thirty years from now, not a hundred. Not ever.”

  “Same,” I tell him, gripping his fingers with mine. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

  “Nah,” he says, pulling me into his arms. “I’m like sea lice. Very hard to get rid of.”

  I laugh and step up on tiptoes to kiss him. “You’re such a romantic.”

  “You’re not with me for the romance.”

  “True,” I acknowledge, kissing one corner of his mouth. “I’m with you for the bread and the balloon animal blowjobs.”