He followed the cheerful sound of competing voices into the family room, where the TV was off and Filomena was seated on the floor, a deck of cards spread before her. Billy sat facing her, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms as he observed her hands moving over the cards. “She’s reading Billy’s fortune, Daddy!” Gracie announced, jumping to her feet and then settling back on the floor next to Filomena.
Filomena sent him a hopeful look. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Only if you tell him he’s doomed to a life of pain and misery,” Evan said, moving toward the couch uncertainly. Was he supposed to eavesdrop? Did he want to? Did he want Filomena brainwashing his kids with New Age mumbo jumbo?
“Don’t worry,” Filomena said, turning from him. She studied the cards. “His future looks very promising.”
“Am I gonna play for the Giants or the Patriots?” Billy asked her.
Recalling that she’d never heard of Tank Moody, Evan enlightened her. “Those are football teams.”
“I know,” she said, a smile flickering about her mouth. “Billy, the cards can’t tell anything as specific as that. The question is, do you have the discipline and the focus to make your dreams come true? That’s what we’re searching for here.”
“I’ve got lots of discipline,” Billy said. “Daddy disciplines me all the time.”
Evan rolled his eyes. Filomena laughed.
He settled onto the couch and watched as she worked her magic with the children. Whether or not the magic was in the cards he didn’t know, and after a while he didn’t care. What was magic, as far as he was concerned, was that she’d gotten them so interested in what she was doing that they’d turned off the television, and she had them both sitting quietly and calmly with her, listening to everything she said, answering her quiet questions earnestly. When she pointed out to Billy that a certain card combination indicated that he could be impetuous and he needed to develop the habit of thinking before he acted, Evan grinned. He’d bet the cards indicated no such thing. She was just playing a little head game with Billy, giving him useful advice while pretending everything she said was actually coming from the cards.
His smile deepened. She was good. She wasn’t just beautiful, she wasn’t just intelligent, she wasn’t just the right person at the right time. Cards or no, she was magic. A witch, a ghost, a spirit. A woman.
She was magic.
CHAPTER SIX
“EVAN, I’D LIKE YOU to meet Tank Moody,” Heather announced as she led a giant hulk of a man into Evan’s office. Evan stood six feet tall in his socks, but Tank dwarfed him by at least six inches and outweighed him by at least eighty pounds of granite-hard muscle. As he rose to shake hands with the linebacker—whose beefy grip swallowed Evan’s hand the way Evan’s swallowed Gracie’s—he realized that if Tank was this intimidating in a stylishly tailored suit, he’d be even more daunting in his uniform, with all those pads adding bulk to his massive frame.
His size might have been scary, but his face wasn’t. A boyish grin displayed even white teeth—a nice advertisement for the effectiveness of mouth guards, Evan thought—and his cheeks were prepubescent smooth. He was, in fact, only a few years younger than Evan. Obviously, running around a football field and ramming into colossal opponents didn’t age a man as much as running a business and butting heads with a couple of kids did.
Then again, maybe getting paid a few million dollars a year plus bonuses was what kept Tank youthful.
“It’s a pleasure,” Evan said, managing not to wince as Tank’s fingers pulverized his. In truth, having the bones in his hand mangled was arguably the highlight of his day so far.
When he’d dropped Gracie off at the Children’s Garden that morning, he’d spent several minutes at the front desk with Molly, explaining his new child-care arrangements. He’d thought she would praise him for his initiative, for having acted responsibly and gotten the help he needed—and for having the foresight to prepare written documentation identifying Filomena as the person who would be picking Gracie up each day.
But rather than praise him, Molly had surprised him by saying, “I think you would benefit from some Daddy School classes.”
“What?” He’d had no idea what Daddy School classes were, but the suggestion had insulted him.
“Daddy School. You seem a little overwhelmed these days, Evan, and—”
“I’m not overwhelmed. I hired this woman, Filomena Albright—” he jabbed a finger at the letter he’d written for the school’s files “—to pick up Gracie at five.” If he was overwhelmed, it would have been Filomena, not his children, who overwhelmed him. All night long, after she’d read both Billy’s and Gracie’s cards and then taken her leave, he’d been overwhelmed by thoughts of her long hair, her fortune-telling, her educational pursuits—a Ph.D. in talking animals?—her wide mouth and arching cheekbones and her dark, dark eyes. Having Filomena in his life for the next few weeks was going to tax him in all sorts of ways. The least he’d expected was Molly’s approval of what he’d done for his children.
Instead, Molly had told him he needed to take lessons in how to be a father. “I’m not teaching a session this fall—with the new baby, it’s a bit too much for me,” she’d explained, gesturing lovingly at her infant asleep in a stroller in one corner of her office. “But my colleague Allison Winslow is teaching a class. I think you’d find it useful.”
“I don’t need classes in fathering,” he’d said indignantly.
“Everyone can improve at anything with a few classes. You might pick up some pointers.”
“I don’t need pointers.”
“Yesterday, Gracie shared with all of us how she and her brother climbed out a second-floor window of your house and snuck through the woods at night. Now, I know you’re doing a good job, Evan, but…” Molly had peered up at him, her smile so warm and sympathetic he’d wanted to kick something. “Everyone could use a few pointers sometimes.”
“I don’t need classes,” he’d argued stubbornly.
“Talk to Dennis Murphy. You play poker with him, don’t you?”
One of those small-world things. Arlington was a city, but it was close-knit and intimate, filled with intersecting circles. About a year after Murphy, the lawyer who took care of Champion Sports’s and Evan’s legal business, had invited Evan to join his regular poker game, Evan had learned that Murphy was also the brother-in-law of the director of Gracie’s preschool. “What should I talk to Murphy about?” Evan had asked.
“The Daddy School. He’s taken a few classes.”
“He has?” His children are wilder than mine, Evan had wanted to add. He couldn’t have learned that much.
“You’ll find it fun. And useful. And now that you’ve got some child care lined up, you could sneak out for an hour on Monday evenings. That’s when Allison’s teaching them—Mondays at seven-thirty, at the YMCA.”
“Thanks,” he’d muttered. He’d left Molly with the letter about Filomena and departed from the school, grumbling. He didn’t need parental training. He was a great father. Outstanding. Top of the class—if he were in a class, which he wasn’t.
Anything he needed to learn about child care that he didn’t already know, he’d learn from Filomena. He was paying her sixty bucks a week, wasn’t he? And she was a regular Dr. Doolittle when it came to children’s literature. He didn’t need any Daddy School classes.
Heather’s voice dragged him back to the present, to his office, to the towering football player facing him across his desk. “So he’s scheduled to appear at the New Haven store from eleven to one,” she was saying. “You should be leaving here by ten to give yourselves plenty of time to get a bite to eat and all.”
“Mmm,” Tank said, eyeing Heather up and down. “I wouldn’t mind biting into something tasty right about now.”
Evan gritted his teeth and prepared to defend Heather’s honor. Heather ignored Tank’s insinuation, however, and continued addressing Evan about his day. “Jennifer won’t be
able to meet you there. She’s teleconferencing with the Rhode Island stores about carrying Pep Insoles.”
“I told her we weren’t going to deal with Pep Insoles until the new year.”
“She’s gotten inquiries from the athletic departments at a couple of the colleges in Providence. She wants our stores to have the product in stock.”
“Fine.” Evan didn’t want to quarrel with Jennifer about insoles. He didn’t even want to think about them. He had all of ten minutes to clear his desk of messages before he was going to have to escort Tank Moody to New Haven.
If he’d been in a saner state of mind, he would have arranged for someone else to drive Tank to the New Haven store. But the whole promotion had him on edge because of what had happened last time. It wouldn’t happen again—it couldn’t—but he wanted to stay on top of it, to monitor every detail, to make sure there were no surprises, no mistakes, no oversights, nothing that could trip him up and leave him bruised.
Tank was still beaming at him, as if waiting to be entertained. Evan considered warning the guy that his mood resembled a cross between a Mobius strip and a cross-hitch knot—twisted and tangled and generally unfathomable. But he thought better of it. Get through the promotion, he lectured himself. Forget about that Daddy School nonsense. And for God’s sake, forget about how magnificent Filomena Albright is.
He asked Heather to take Tank around the offices and introduce him to everyone. As soon as they were gone, he tackled the pile of notes demanding his attention. Heather would bring Tank back when they had to leave for New Haven. She was better at keeping track of time than he was. And meanwhile, her beauty would probably so dazzle Tank that he’d be half gaga and easy to manage once they got back to Evan’s office.
He paced himself well, and was hanging up the phone from the last call he had to make just as Heather returned with Tank. Donning his jacket and straightening his tie, he sent Tank the warmest smile he could manage, then pocketed his keys and nodded toward the door. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Sure,” Tank drawled. “I’ve got my driver downstairs.”
“Your driver?” Why hadn’t he been told about this?
“Is that a problem?”
“No. Not at all.” At least, Evan hoped it wasn’t a problem. If Tank’s driver was some brawny sidekick, a hanger-on or bodyguard of some sort, well, Evan supposed professional athletes were entitled to spend their millions however they wanted. He only hoped the fellow knew how to drive.
They took the elevator downstairs, Evan wedging himself into one corner to make the majority of the space available to Tank, who needed it. He searched his mind for small talk—if he wasn’t going to be driving, he’d probably be expected to engage Tank in friendly chitchat during the forty-minute drive down to New Haven. What could they talk about? The current football season? Tank’s team didn’t have a spectacular record this year, so that might not be a good subject. The sights? Once they left Arlington, there wouldn’t be much to comment on, just small towns and stretches of forest lining the roads.
The holidays. That would be a safe topic. Evan would ask Tank how he planned to spend Christmas, what he hoped Santa would bring him, that kind of thing. They could talk a bit about Champion Sports, too. He could find out what kind of equipment professional athletes respected most, which brands of cleats they preferred when they weren’t being paid to endorse one particular brand, which pads protected them best. Evan was pretty sure he’d survive the trip with Tank.
His certainty flagged slightly when they emerged from the building. There, waiting at the curb in front of the store’s main entry, was a shiny black stretch limo. “That’s yours?” Evan asked.
“I’m a big man,” Tank pointed out unnecessarily. “I like my comfort.”
“Okay.” Evan had been in a stretch limo only once before—on his wedding day. Not what he wanted to think about while cruising through Connecticut with Tank.
The driver, in a dapper black suit that, combined with the limo, made Evan think of funerals, emerged from behind the wheel to open the door for them. Tank climbed in first, limber despite his bulk, and Evan followed him into the spacious passenger area. It featured wall-to-wall red carpeting, paneled walls, a small TV and a cooler chest filled with sports drinks. Evan was relieved that it wasn’t stocked with liquor.
He took the backward-facing seat, leaving the forward-facing one for Tank to sprawl out on. The driver closed the door with an expensive-sounding click, then returned to the driver’s seat and started the engine. It hummed, a murmur as quiet and gentle as Gracie’s breath when she was asleep.
“It’s nice traveling in style,” Evan commented.
“It’s nice being so effin’ rich,” Tank responded.
Well, yes, there was that. “I assume you won’t be using that kind of language around the customers at the store,” Evan said hopefully.
Tank laughed. “Relax, Evan. I’m cool.”
“Okay.” He gazed at the splendor surrounding him—the chrome fittings, the elaborate console that controlled the stereo and television. “The driver knows where we’re going?”
“He knows everything.”
“He must be handy to have around.”
“So what all do you expect is going to go wrong?” Tank asked, his dark eyes zeroing in on Evan.
“Nothing,” Evan insisted, sitting straighter. “Nothing at all. Why do you think I think something is going to go wrong?”
“You’re wrapped tighter than an Ace bandage on a sprain. Seems to me you’ve got something on your mind.”
Evan sighed. He wasn’t going to tell Tank about the last time he’d done a promotion with a pro athlete—a baseball player that time. He wasn’t going to discuss how Debbie had insisted on meeting the guy, inviting him to their house, attending his appearances at the stores and then running off with him, leaving behind a note explaining that she wanted glamour and excitement and a life in the major leagues. When she and Evan had dated in college, he’d played varsity soccer and baseball, but he’d never planned to play sports professionally. He played because he was good, the games were fun and the college was giving him much-needed scholarship money. He’d enjoyed Debbie’s enthusiasm for his games, her groupie devotion to his teams, but he’d been clear with her from the start that the life of a professional athlete didn’t interest him. He didn’t want all the traveling, all the stress, all the worry about how long his body would hold up. He’d been good enough to play at the college level, but he never would have been a big success as a pro, and he’d had no regrets about putting his jock days behind him and growing up.
Debbie had said she’d understood—and maybe she’d even meant it at the time. They’d been young, infatuated with each other. They’d laughed at the same jokes, enjoyed the same movies, had phenomenal sex. Evan had truly believed he’d found his life partner.
But she’d grown restless in their marriage. He’d assumed that was because Billy had arrived in their lives less than two years after they’d tied the knot. Evan had tried his best to shoulder his share of the parenting chores. He’d changed diapers, taken Billy for walks, sung lullabies off-key, but Billy hadn’t complained. Evan had loved being a father, and he would have gladly spent even more time with Billy if he could have. But he’d been putting in long hours trying to build Champion Sports into the regional powerhouse it now was.
He’d thought Debbie would snap out of her doldrums. Instead, she’d had Gracie and sunk even deeper into the blahs. Evan had tried surprising her, coming home with a baby-sitter and sweeping her out for dinner at Reynaud, the classiest restaurant in town. On their fifth anniversary he’d bought her a diamond pendant. Diamonds were glamorous, weren’t they?
Evidently, she’d preferred baseball diamonds to the kind you could wear on a gold chain around your neck. So when she’d seen an opportunity, she’d grabbed it and ran.
Tank was right. Evan was wrapped as tight as an Ace bandage right now. Debbie was gone, but he couldn’t control his refle
xes. He couldn’t control the dread that gnawed at him, the memories of how a professional athlete could destroy his world simply by being rich and cool and glamorous enough to ride around town in a stretch limo piloted by a driver who knew everything.
And if that wasn’t enough, he had other things on his mind. He was coming off a sleepless night—a night during which his mind had churned with inappropriate ideas about Filomena Albright—and a morning during which Molly Saunders-Russo had more or less told him she thought he was an inadequate father. “Do you have any children?” he asked Tank.
Tank chuckled. “None that I know of.” He leaned back against the leather upholstery, obviously quite at home in the limo. “I suppose if I had a child, his mother would be sure to keep me in the loop, given my deep pockets and all.”
“I suppose.”
“So, you got kids?”
“Two. A son and a daughter.” If Tank hadn’t asked, Evan would have moved on to other things—the weather, Christmas, athletic equipment. But Tank had asked, and since the subject was bugging Evan, he figured he might as well beat it into submission. “My daughter’s preschool teacher told me I need to take classes in how to be a father.”
“Oh, man. That sounds bad.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” Evan grinned, pleased by how easy Tank was to talk to. “The thing is, I’m a fantastic father. I’m raising the kids myself, and they’re terrific. Not perfect, but pretty damned close.”
“Never get into trouble, do they?”
“Oh, they get into trouble, but…” He sighed again. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s right. Maybe if I love them as much as I think I do, I’d be willing to take these classes and become a better father.”
“What does their mother say?”
“She’s gone,” Evan said tersely.
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