by Mara Wells
“It’s not a monster!” Oliver pointed at a red bundle huddled in the far corner. A thermos poked out of the unzipped front pouch. “It’s my backpack!”
Lance crossed the room and picked it up. “First, do you really think Beckham would let a monster into your room?” Beckham picked up his head and panted at the sound of his name.
Oliver petted the dog’s neck. “No way!”
“That’s right. If Beckham’s not worried, you shouldn’t be, either.” Lance raised the backpack off the floor. “Where is this supposed to be?”
“In my closet!”
Predictably, Carrie’d set up the closet so that everything had a place. Each nook had a laminated label with a picture of what went inside. Large black letters spelled out the objects’ names under each photo. He smiled, visualizing Carrie taking the time to so painstakingly set up a system that Oliver could both understand and grow into. Although Lance had gotten in trouble plenty of times for his messy room, he couldn’t recall his mother ever taking the time to show him how to put his things away properly. He still tended toward chaos when left on his own except for the whirlwind of stuffing things in closets before his monthly cleaning service arrived. His son might choose messiness someday, but it wouldn’t be because he didn’t know better.
Lance tucked the bag into the appropriately labeled cubby and rolled the door shut. “Anything else you need to check out?”
Oliver hopped out of bed, bare feet slapping the floor. “Can I have a glass of water?”
Lance was pretty sure that in the extremely long text Carrie sent about the bedtime routine, late-night drinks and snacks were prohibited. But Oliver had been crying. Clearly, he should rehydrate.
Lance held out his hand. Oliver grabbed it and pulled him toward the kitchen. Beckham danced behind them, also clearly aware this was a forbidden activity and, in true dog fashion, enjoying the novelty.
A glass of water for Oliver, half a dog treat for Beckham, and they were just getting into a bag of tortilla chips when the sound of the front door froze the three of them in place. Very, very carefully, Lance did his best to silently feed one chip to Oli and one to the dog. With equal stealth, he rolled the top of the bag and resealed it with the monkey-face chip clip.
“What’s going on in here?” Carrie leaned against the kitchen entrance, arms folded over her chest. Her bare feet crossed at the ankles, showcasing a mighty fine calf under the hem of her black dress.
Oliver opened his mouth, and a crumb fell onto the floor. Beckham snarfed it up. “Mama!” Oli lunged and wrapped his arms around her legs. “You’re home!”
“And you’re not in bed.” She rumpled his hair until it stood out in all directions. “Bad dream?”
Oli shook his head against her thigh. “I saw a monster. It was my book bag.”
“It certainly is scary when we don’t put our things away, isn’t it?” She patted his head, restyling the crazy strands into place, and Lance bit back a smile. Leave it to Carrie to use monsters as a motivation for organization. “Let’s get you back to bed, shall we?”
“Lance will do it.” He turned his sharp face up at her, for all the world like a puppy begging for a treat.
“Okay. Sure.” Carrie raised a palm at Lance like, Would you mind? He placed the chip bag on the counter and spread his arms like, At your service.
“Come on, kiddo.” He rounded up boy and dog and herded them to Oli’s small room. Beckham jumped on the bed, twirling in circles until he found the right spot at the foot of the bed. Oli climbed in slowly and pulled the pale-blue sheet to his chin.
“What if I get scared in the dark again?” Oliver’s lower lip wobbled.
Lance tucked the covers around Oli’s slim shoulders. “You call for me.”
“But you don’t live here.”
Lance knew Oliver hadn’t really stabbed him in the chest; it just felt that way. Carrie’s gasp indicated she’d felt the knife, too. His eyes crashed into hers, observing them from the doorway. Could she see how much he wanted to be here every night, reassuring his son that he was safe? How much he wanted the click-clack of Beckham’s nails on the floorboards behind him as he locked the door and checked that all the windows were closed? How much he wanted to slip into bed beside a sleeping Carrie, knowing he was right where he belonged—with his family? If she did, she didn’t let on, staring at him with unblinking eyes, irises wide in the low light.
“I’ll get you a flashlight.” Lance retucked Oliver’s covers and stayed by his side, the light rasp of Oli’s breath as he drew close to sleep the sweetest music Lance ever heard. At the foot of the bed, Beckham snored, snout resting on his outstretched front paws.
Lance felt the push of tears in his eyes, but he was a big boy. He blinked them back. He’d told Carrie he loved her, but she didn’t feel the same. That was what divorce meant. They weren’t a family. He thought he’d dealt with all those emotions, back when he was with Rachelle. But he hadn’t known about Oliver then. Who was he kidding? Even if she had told him about the pregnancy, he would’ve been angry. They’d agreed: no kids. He would’ve accused her of manipulating him.
As much as it hurt to admit, he was starting to think things really did work out the way they were supposed to. At least this way, he’d never been a dick to her and his unborn child. At least this way, he was getting to know his son. If this was the best he could ask for, he’d take it. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from wanting more.
“Nice night?” He shut Oliver’s door gently behind him, knowing his son was almost asleep and not wanting to startle him into full wakefulness.
“Still no score for the zing-a-meter.” Carrie sighed. “Probably my fault. I thought I was feeling fine, but sometime after that first glass of wine, it hit me. All I wanted was a slug of Nyquil and my bed.”
Lance shouldn’t be glad. He should want Carrie to find happiness. “Too bad.”
“Yeah.”
They stood in the hallway, facing each other. The overhead bulb wasn’t kind to Carrie, showing the smudge of mascara under her eyes, the tiredness in the way she held her shoulders. She was still beautiful.
Lance reached out a knuckle and stroked her cheek. “Is this how it is then? I babysit while you go out hunting for Oliver’s stepdad?”
Carrie inhaled quickly, and she closed her eyes. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” Lance forced himself to walk away before he did something stupid like kiss her again. He paused at the front door, one hand flat on the wood. He didn’t turn to face her, but he knew she’d hear every word, could feel her warm presence at his back. “If you don’t tell Oliver who I am, I will.”
“Not tonight.” Her words were soft and resigned.
“Soon.” He opened the door, but her next words stopped him in his tracks.
“Fine. If he’s awake, let’s do it together.”
He tripped over his own big feet, spinning so quickly in place. “You’re serious.”
Her eyes were wide and wet, and her voice shook as it carried through the condo. “Oli? You still awake?”
“What, Mama?” Oli appeared, rubbing his eyes with one hand and Beckham’s ears with the other.
“Come here.” She perched on the edge of the couch, patting the cushion next to her. Beckham took the invitation first, lying out along the length of her thigh. Lance positioned himself in front of the TV, legs spread wide like he was expecting a blow. “We have something to tell you.”
Oli launched himself onto the couch, crawling over the dog to snuggle into his mother’s lap. “Am I getting a little brother? Because that’s what I want for my birthday, okay?”
Carrie’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. Her eyes flew to Lance’s, and it was all he could do to keep the smile off his face. That kid, never a dull moment.
Carrie took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around Ol
i’s waist. “We’re not talking about your birthday, but this is about family. You know how I told you I was divorced, and that’s why your daddy wasn’t here?”
Oli bounced in her lap. “But if he knew me, he would love me because I’m a special guy.”
Lance covered his laugh with a cough. He could tell Carrie wasn’t fooled. She glared at him. “It turns out he does know you. Lance is my ex-husband. And your father.”
Oli’s mouth dropped open as dramatically as a shocked cartoon character. “For real?” His head swung from his mother to Lance and back again. “For reals, real?”
“For reals real. Right, Lance?”
Sure, he’d been amused at Carrie fumbling through the conversation, but now that she shifted the burden of coming up with words to him, he found himself at a loss. What did you say to a son you didn’t know for all two years and eleven months he’d been alive and then babysat a handful of times without telling him the truth? Would Oliver forgive him for not being around? For not telling him the truth as soon as he found out? Would he think they’d lied to him all these weeks?
“Uh.” Lance wet his lips and tried again. “It is true.”
Oliver streaked from Carrie’s lap and threw himself at Lance. Lance saw him coming and scooped him up so he sat on his hip. Oli held Lance’s face between his palms. “You have blue eyes like me.”
It was the other way around, but Lance didn’t correct him. “True.”
“Will I be as tall as you?”
“Uh.” Of all the questions Oli could ask, Lance wasn’t prepared for a genetics lesson. “Maybe?”
“If you eat healthy, you’ll be as tall as you’re meant to be.” Carrie’s answer was clearly more practiced.
Oli nodded happily. “I’m going to call you Lance-Daddy. Because first you were Lance, and then Daddy.”
Again, slightly backward. Or was it? Lance’s head spun. He’d wanted Oliver to know, but the kid seemed to be handling it a lot better than either him or Carrie. “Okay.”
“Lance is enough.” Carrie’s voice sounded as mommish as he’d ever heard.
“Or Dad,” he found himself saying, maybe to spite her. Maybe because it’s a word he’d like to hear coming out of his son’s mouth.
“Silly Lance-Daddy.” Oliver patted his cheeks. “You already have a name.”
“Guess that settles it then, Oliver-Son.” Lance exchanged a look with Carrie. She seemed amused; the corner of her mouth twitched like she was holding back a smile.
Oliver squealed. “I already have a name!”
Lance was learning a lot about toddler logic quickly, so he didn’t point out that he’d already had a name, too. Instead, he nodded solemnly and said, “Oliver, isn’t it long past your bedtime?”
Oliver looked at his mom, then leaned in to whisper in Lance’s ear, except his whisper was as loud as his regular voice, so Lance was sure Carrie heard every word. “You can tuck me in, okay? Not her. She makes the covers too tight.”
“What?” Carrie sputtered.
Lance shook his head and carried his son to bed. They repeated the bedtime ritual they’d already been through once tonight—one reading of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom that still left Lance puzzled as to why all the letters wanted to be in one small palm tree, good-night pets for Beckham, and firm, but not too firm, tucking of the covers around Oli’s shoulders.
“Good night, Oliver.” Lance kissed his son’s forehead.
Oliver smiled with closed eyes. “Good night, Lance-Daddy. Will you make me pancakes in the morning?”
“He won’t be here in the morning.” Carrie spoke from the doorway, her words strangely husky.
“Silly Mama.” Oliver rolled onto his side. “Daddies live with their families. That’s how it works.”
Carrie choked, and Lance moved to her side, ready to slap her back if needed. She held up a hand. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay, Oli?”
He didn’t answer because he was already asleep. Carrie closed the door and leaned against it, facing Lance in the hallway.
“That went well.” Lance smiled cautiously.
Carrie thumped her head against the door. “I suppose.”
He was close enough that when she exhaled, he could smell the pink wine she must’ve had with her dinner. Her tastes were sophisticated in so many ways, but man did she love her pink wine. The scent took him back to their first kiss, the way she’d looked up at him, eyes shining with a joy he’d found contagious.
Like that first night, she raised a hand to his chest. His heart stuttered at the touch. He felt pulled toward her, lowering his head the smallest fraction of an inch. She strained toward him, and their lips brushed for the briefest moment.
The hand on his chest pushed, and he immediately stepped back.
“We can’t do this.” She whispered the words, but he heard her loud and clear. He didn’t wait around for an explanation. He slammed out of the condo. Furious at his seesawing emotions. If he’d finally gotten what he wanted, why did he feel so crappy?
Chapter 30
Carrie gave the reupholstered couch cushion a final pat and stepped back to admire her work. The palm-leaf pattern, so big it was almost abstract, was in keeping with her early-midcentury, Hollywood Regency vibe. The rattan looked better than new with its black lacquer finish, and a bit of work with nails and screws ensured a safe seat for all who plopped down on the firm cushions. The restored rattan set was the design centerpiece of the Dorothy’s new lobby, and Carrie had to admit that replacing the old 1970s mailboxes with a more period-appropriate style made the room more dignified. Add in the fresh, crisp paint, and Carrie was quite pleased with the overall result. Welcoming, with a bit of flash in the gold accents, the lobby captured the spirit of the Dorothy’s early days while still feeling fresh and modern.
Monday evening’s date with Adam might not have been a romantic success, but she’d at least persuaded him to let her have a go at the lobby without his interference. He’d liked her drawings, he’d said, but she knew it was more about not wanting to be at odds with her. Whatever it took, she thought with a shrug. She’d spent a full three days restoring the furniture set, and Mendo made sure the rest of the lobby work got done. Next week was Thanksgiving, and Carrie really wanted to have the place finished before the holiday.
She repositioned the lobby furniture layout so that while sitting on the sofa, residents had a nice view of the front garden, or rather, temporary Fur Haven dog park. Fur Haven wouldn’t always be a chain-link-fenced lawn, separated in two by the front walkway. Small dogs to the right, big dogs to the left. Caleb had made quick work of moving the benches, agility equipment, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a few of the trees over. Even now, two Labs enjoyed the large-dog side, rolling in the fresh plugs of grass, feet comically batting the air.
“A facelift was absolutely what she needed.” Grams glided off the elevator, taking in all the details with a long, studied gaze.
Carrie beamed. “I’m glad you’re pleased. Your pictures helped tremendously. I felt like I really got to know the Dorothy.”
“It’s good to see the old girl shine again. If only all the other renovations were as quick as yours.” Grams tested out the recovered rattan chair, bouncing a bit like a kid on a new mattress.
“The lobby was structurally sound. Once we enhanced the architectural features”—Carrie pointed out the fine details over the front door and hallway entrances that she’d highlighted in a subtle gold—“the rest was cosmetic. Of course, we have to wait to restore the terrazzo floor until after the rest of the reconstruction is done. I don’t want workers tracking who knows what all over my diamond-polish finish.”
“I do love cosmetics, and I can’t wait to see this old floor restored to its former shine.” Grams winked at Carrie. “I’ve been thinking of the old days ever since you came by. I believe it’s time to have a party.”
&
nbsp; “Riley’s planning something once the reno is complete, I’m sure.” Carrie’s open-toed heels were starting to pinch at the back. She relaxed onto the love seat, stretching her arm out over the back. Very nice, if she did say so herself. It’d been worth it, pushing so hard to get it done by the weekend.
Grams huffed. “I don’t want to wait that long. It could be months. You know what’s not months away? Thanksgiving.” A loud ring, like an old-fashioned car horn, blared from Grams’ purse. She pulled out her phone and stabbed at some buttons. “Wouldn’t it be something to have Thanksgiving right here in the lobby? What a treat!”
Carrie could easily see it. Grams’ photo albums had been filled with pictures taken during various lobby parties. Carrie hadn’t changed much about the layout, just the location of the mailboxes to a more convenient spot at the back, so there was still plenty of open space for tables and chairs. Perhaps that was why she’d been in such a rush to finish before the holiday; the Dorothy wanted a party. “That would be something.”
A small, apricot poodle jumped onto the love seat. “Hey, LouLou.” Carrie petted her head. “Did you run away again?”
“Again? What do you mean again?” Riley arrived, slightly out of breath, her ever-present ponytail in disarray. Caleb and Lance trailed after her, apparently deep in conversation, but Lance must’ve caught the gist of Riley’s inquiry. He sent Carrie a pleading look.
“She loves to run. That’s all.” Carrie wasn’t going to tattle on Lance. “I’ve been bringing my Jack Russell to the dog park sometimes. The two of them tear it up out there.”
Riley laughed. “Sounds like my LouLou alright. So what’s this emergency, Grams?”
“Thanksgiving. Here.” Grams swept her arms wide. “The whole family. Everyone from the Dorothy. Invite your dog park friends.”
Riley looked around the lobby as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh wow, Carrie, it looks fantastic.”
“Thanks.” It was nice to be appreciated, and if she wished Lance would do a bit of that appreciating, well, he didn’t need to know.