by Gina Holmes
“That’s her word for Grandma—” I cleared my throat—“and Grandpa.”
My grandmother shook her head, eyeing my daughter. “Call me Mama Peg. Understand?”
Without responding, Isabella made her way toward the stone fireplace, enthralled with the portrait hanging above it. A woman with long chestnut curls flowing about her narrow waist sat sidesaddle on a white horse. My mother’s painted gaze followed me. Her sad little smile made me long to comfort her.
Isabella moved as close to it as she could without stepping onto the hearth. “It’s you, Mommy.”
Mama Peg grabbed the black handle of her oxygen canister and rolled it to where my daughter stood. “That’s your mama’s mama. They look a lot alike, don’t you think?”
Isabella nodded.
“She died before you were born.”
A familiar ache settled within me as memories of my mother’s last days forced their way into my mind, elbowing away more pleasant memories.
Isabella picked at the glitter on her T-shirt. “Where do you go when you die?”
I flashed my grandmother a warning look. “Never mind.” I had no desire to explain death to her at that moment. “Where’s Dad?” I asked.
Mama Peg’s shoulders sank. “Upstairs being him.”
“What did he say when you told him I was coming?” I held my breath and fingered my thick braid.
“You know him. He . . .” Without finishing the thought, she made her way to the kitchen and we followed. The hard rubber heels of her shoes scraped against the tile floor as she shuffled to the back door. She pulled the lace curtain to the side and looked out the window at the pond out back.
Isabella lifted the top from a white candle in the table’s center, releasing a waft of vanilla.
I wrinkled my nose at the sickeningly sweet smell, took the lid from her, and replaced it. “You didn’t tell him everything, did you?”
“I told him he had a granddaughter.”
“That’s all?”
Her voice began to break up. “Of course. A mother should never have to tell her son—”
“Bella?” I interrupted before Mama Peg could say more in front of my child than I was prepared to answer for.
Isabella’s gaze ping-ponged between us.
“See if you can find Sweet Pea.” The thought occurred to me that there I was, trying to avoid the subject of death, and the cat might be long gone. I lowered my voice, though Isabella stood no farther away than Mama Peg. “He is still—?”
“Alive?” With a chortle, she let the curtain drop back into place and turned to face me. “His Royal Stubbornness refuses to cash in his ninth life. You really must want to change the subject badly to send your sweet girl searching for that homicidal monster.”
Isabella’s expression filled with alarm.
“Not a monster.” I tousled her soft curls. “Just a kitty.”
Mama Peg hacked, her skin taking on a grayish hue. I rubbed her back, hating the plastic feel of her polyester top. When her cough subsided, she plucked a napkin from a pile on the table and wiped her mouth. “That furry devil will scratch her bloody.”
“She’ll never catch him.”
“You forget, six years have passed. He’s old and slow now.”
Considering what the tabby might do to Isabella if she tried to pet him gave me pause. I took her hands in mine and squatted to eye level. “Look for him, Bella, but don’t get too close. He’s got a bad temper and sharp claws that will give you boo-boos.”
She promised obedience, then raced off for the hunt.
Mama Peg turned to me. “She’s braver than you were at her age.”
“Who isn’t?” I had never been the fearless child Isabella was. She saw everything as a ray of sunshine living just to warm her. No matter how many times I counseled her that not everyone had her best interests at heart, she refused to believe it. After all, she loved everything and everyone, so why wouldn’t they love her back?
Mama Peg adjusted the tubing threaded over her ears. “When are you going to tell your father?”
I walked to the stove and picked up the teakettle. Finding it heavy, I set it back down and turned on the burner. A snap preceded a flame.
“I want to see how he treats her first.”
“Of course he’ll love her. She’s part of you. Part of your mother.”
An old, familiar dagger lunged into my chest and I hated that even now it could penetrate me. “He hasn’t loved anything since Mom passed.”
“That’s not true,” she whispered, as if saying it softly could somehow breathe truth into the falsehood. She pulled two ceramic mugs from the cupboard. “He’s a good man, Jenny.”
I felt a sudden heaviness about me as I pulled a chair away from the table to sit. “A good man with a hardened heart.”
She dropped a square of tea into each mug. “Having someone you love taken from you has a way of changing a person.”
I crossed my arms.
She averted her gaze. “Stupid thing to say to you, I guess.”
“I guess.”
“So what if you don’t like the way he is with her? Then what will you do?”
It was the question that had kept me awake for the past two weeks. The most important question in my world.
“I’m not her only parent.”
“I guess now would be the time to tell me who her father is.” She raised my chin, forcing me to look at her. After several seconds of reading me, she withdrew her hand. “As if I don’t already know.”
My face burned and I opened my mouth to say his name, but it stuck in my throat—a dam holding back half a decade’s worth of tears. “I never told him.”
Mama Peg’s face drained of what little color it held. I could almost feel her heart splinter. “Oh, Jenny.”
I deserved her scorn. But she wrapped her sagging arms around my shoulders, smothering me in her generous bosom, flowery perfume, and acceptance. Relief overwhelmed me.
“I found him! I found him!” The pattering of feet accompanied my daughter’s shriek.
Mama Peg released me, and we turned to the doorway in anticipation of Isabella’s excited return. She appeared, dragging my father by the hand.
His short, wavy hair was more gray now than brown. He wore his polo shirt tucked neatly into creased pants and a leather belt fastened around his trim belly. I’d have better luck trying to read Chinese than gauge his emotions by his stoic expression.
My fingernails dug into my palms and I felt the need to sit before registering that I was already seated. When his gaze met mine, he gave me a quick once-over. I studied the lines around his eyes. Was he fighting a smile? If so, was it due to smugness that I’d come crawling home or joy at seeing me after so long? Or was I imagining it all?
Without a word, he walked to the kitchen window, held his hand over his eyes, and panned the side yard.
Mama Peg threw me an annoyed glance. “What the dickens is he doing?”
He turned around, this time donning a sly grin. “I’m looking for the airborne swine.”
The dumb look on his face told me he expected laughter, but I just sat there slack-jawed.
“As I recall, you said you’d come home when pigs fly.”
Though I promised myself I would curb my usual retorts, my mouth opened before I could will it not to. “Yeah, I get it. I’m smarter than I look.”
He surprised me by waving his hand in dismissal. “So after six years of nothing, you’ve finally decided to let me meet my granddaughter. How very humane of you. I assume you’re here because you’re broke?”
My thoughts flashed back to the phone call home I’d made after leaving. I’d tearfully told my father I was pregnant. Five minutes into a lecture on the sins and consequences of fornication, I hung up without a word and never called again.
Every day for two weeks after that, his number showed on my caller ID. Not wanting further berating, I never answered or called him back. After several months of silence, the num
ber flashed again. This time I picked up, but it was my grandmother on the other line, not my father. Never again my father.
“Assumptions have always been your specialty.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted them back. Why was I waving a red cape before this bull instead of the white flag I’d intended?
The teakettle’s high-pitched scream pierced the uncomfortable silence. Mama Peg hurried to the stove and jerked the vessel to a cool burner.
My father squatted before Isabella. “Do you know who I am, young lady?”
Considering the question, she looked to the left. “My daddy?”
I cringed at her unexpected response and my gaze flew to meet my father’s eyes. The icy glare he sent my way could have frozen an ocean.
“That’s your grandpa,” I managed.
She looked up at him with adoring eyes, then flung her pudgy arms around his shoulders.
I exhaled in relief when he reciprocated. After the hug, he stood. His expression once again bore the emotional void I’d come to expect since Mom died.
Clearing his throat, he straightened an already-even belt buckle. “I think I saw Sweet Pea run by.”
Isabella jerked her head left, then right. My father pointed to the living room and off she went, oblivious to the manipulation.
“She doesn’t know who her father is?” He glared at me as I fought back tears of frustration. I didn’t trust myself to speak, and he probably felt the same. After a few long seconds, he snatched a set of keys from the wall hook, glowered at me one last time, and slammed the door shut behind him.
Chapter Two
Though I lay in bed for nearly two hours, sleep never came. I counted the wobbly rotations of the ceiling fan, wondering how I could tell David he had a five-year-old daughter. As impossible as it had seemed at the time to say the words I’m pregnant, how much worse it was now that he’d missed Isabella’s first smile, first step, first word. Would he hate me? I certainly deserved it.
I flipped onto my stomach, leaned on my elbows, and gazed up at the framed artwork that had long ago replaced my rock posters. Along sun-painted sand, a young couple strolled pinkie in pinkie. I cursed their bliss and rolled back over.
Twisting the corner of the pillow, I mentally rehearsed excuses. . . .
Remember that night in the car, David? I started to tell you, but you broke up with me first. You said things could never work for us. You told me our fathers would never get along. You told me you didn’t share my desire for having a family. How could I tell you you were going to be a father right after you said you never wanted children?
When she was born, I called you from the hospital as I held her in my arms. I couldn’t wait to show you what we’d created, but your answering machine picked up and I heard, “David and Lindsey Preston aren’t here to take your call. . . .” I didn’t know you’d gotten married. It had been less than a year since we broke up. You wouldn’t believe the shock I felt, the betrayal, the pain. . . . I didn’t want to cause trouble for you. . . . I couldn’t . . .
Giving up on both a nap and an acceptable defense, I forced myself out of bed.
* * *
Despite the magnitude of my worries, I found myself relaxing as the scent of fried chicken and baking rolls made promises to my stomach that I knew my grandmother’s cooking would make good on.
Moving around the dining room table, I laid a plate in front of each chair. A hand touched my shoulder and I nearly jumped out of my skin, dropping the last two dishes. They clanked together, making my ears ring. My gaze jetted to the plates—both intact—then to the blond frowning at me.
“Sorry, Jenny. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He looked familiar and had the kind of good looks a girl wouldn’t normally forget, but I couldn’t quite place him.
“You startled me,” I said as I picked up the dishes.
“Wow, you look exactly the same.”
The same as what? I frantically searched my mind for memories of him. Tall, narrow, about my age . . .
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Sorry,” I said, feeling sorry indeed.
He took the plates from my hand and moved around the table, laying them down. “We went to Hargrove together. Same graduating class.”
I searched my mind for any recollection.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember me.” He said it with a glint of humor I didn’t comprehend. “How about now?” He puffed his cheeks out like he had a mouthful of water, then expelled the air.
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable in his presence, I stepped back. He might have just walked in off the street for all I knew. Maybe I wasn’t the one who was confused.
His eyebrows knit together, and he reached his hand out as though to keep me from running. “It’s me, Craig Allen.”
My gaze flew over him. It was clear, even through his blue Tar Heels T-shirt, that he was well-defined. The only Craig Allen I knew was a doughy sort of boy, shy and pimply. This couldn’t be him. Searching his eyes, I found they were the same stormy hazel they had been back when they were peeking out from under layers of fat.
“You’ve lost weight,” I managed.
He snickered. “Ya think?”
My cheeks blazed. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“You do?”
“I rent the loft.”
“Loft?”
“The apartment above the saddle barn.”
“There’s an apartment above the saddle barn?”
“You really need to keep in touch with your family.”
I supposed by his grin that he meant his words as a joke, but the painful truth they conveyed struck me as more rude than amusing.
“Thanks for the advice, Craig. Good to see you again.”
“Thank you for setting the table. That’s usually my job.”
Though I knew it was irrational, I felt the prick of jealousy. Here was this man my age, living at my father’s home, eating with my family, setting my table. It was as if he’d taken my place. I knew, of course, that I didn’t need to be present for life to go on, but the truth of it was too much at that moment. I clamped my mouth against a sudden and overwhelming desire to scream. To hit Craig. To break something.
* * *
We sat across from each other, Craig and I, with Mama Peg on one end of the rectangular table and my father on the other. Isabella inched her chair so close to his that he’d been forced to eat in the awkward position of keeping his right elbow pinned to his side.
Ice cubes clinked together as I took a sip of sweet tea. “Bella, give your grandpa some room.”
She responded by sending me the evil eye. I pushed myself up from the table, but Mama Peg grabbed my arm. “She’s not bothering him. Is she, Jack?”
My father stared at her, lips pressed tight. “No, she’s fine.”
Isabella smirked a so there. The dim light from the pewter chandelier cast an odd shadow over her features, making her look like a different child.
With my fork, I arranged the peas on my plate into a frown.
The clatter of silverware and an occasional cough from Mama Peg were the only sounds as we ate. Craig snuck curious glances at Isabella while I snuck glances at him. A shroud of gloomy silence continued to hang over the room until I couldn’t stand it a second longer. I pushed my uneaten dinner to the side.
“So, Craig, what have you been up to?”
With a heap of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, he paused, meeting my gaze. He set the spoon down on his plate. “Been great. I’ve got my own business now. Landscaping.”
“Like mowing lawns and that sort of thing?”
He furrowed his brow. “Um, no, I have guys who do that. I’m more of an artist.”
“Like sculpting bushes into shapes of animals? I love . . .”
Mama Peg and my father exchanged glances. Craig looked at me as though trying to gauge whether I was joking or just plain stupid. His tone and the fresh splotche
s of red on his neck told me I’d missed the mark. “Not quite. I’m a landscape designer.”
The fact that I had offended him offended me, but for the sake of peace, I apologized.
The room fell silent again until Isabella asked to be excused. She’d eaten most of her dinner, leaving only an untouched roll and some scattered peas.
Her child-size suitcase leaned against the maple hutch. She grabbed it by the handle and dragged it across the rug, upside down, its small black wheels pointing uselessly toward the ceiling. I opened my mouth to correct her but changed my mind.
The sound of her unloading toys took the edge off the silence. Mama Peg reached for the glass pitcher of tea and Craig cleared his throat in disapproval. They locked eyes. She huffed and set the pitcher back down. Tea splashed around in it, a trickle escaping down the side.
I grabbed the pitcher and poured her another glass, glaring at Craig as I set it in front of her. If my grandmother wanted another drink, what was it to him?
Mama Peg reached for the glass and brought it slowly to her lips. Her hand quivered as she tilted the glass to drink.
Craig crossed his arms and stared hard at her. “Enjoy your last glass of the real stuff, Peggy. From now on it’s decaf.”
When did he become my grandmother’s keeper? I slapped down my linen napkin. “She’s a grown woman. If she wants to drink the whole pitcher, what’s it—”
“Jenny,” Mama Peg began.
“Jenny, nothing. Who does he think he is?”
She set the glass down, looking guilty. “He’s just doing what I asked him to.”
Anger melted into confusion. “What?”
“My doctor said one glass a day because of my palpitations.”
I turned to Craig. “Palpitations?”
“Your grandmother’s medications make her jittery, and when she has too much caffeine, it makes her heart race. The doctor said, unless she wants to end up with a pacemaker, one glass a day. She asked me to keep her accountable.”
My stomach got that queasy elevator feeling as I realized I was being the biggest jerk in the world.
My throat constricted and everything I’d been through in the past six years suddenly weighed on me until I could barely breathe. Traitorous tears blurred my vision. When I opened my mouth, intending to blame my volatile emotions on exhaustion, pathetic sobs busted out instead of words.