by Porter, Jane
She couldn’t give it to him. They’d only just met. And she didn’t understand how he could want so much from her. It didn’t help that he was staring at her so intently. “This is just our first date, Michael.”
“But I feel such a connection with you.”
“You’re married.”
“Not for much longer.”
“But as long as you’re married, we’re just friends.”
“No more dates?”
“No.”
His lips curled. “You’re that good?”
“It’s not about being good. It’s my faith.”
“Your faith rules your life?”
The knot of tension in her shoulders eased. She breathed a little deeper, growing more comfortable. When it came to her faith, Kit knew who she was, knew what she believed, and finally felt as if she was standing on solid ground again. “I wouldn’t say rules, but my faith shapes it. Faith is a huge part of my life. I grew up attending parochial school. Teach in a Catholic school. I still go to Mass every Sunday.”
“By choice?”
She laughed, amused. “Of course. I take it you don’t go to church.”
“Not recently. I used to. I was raised in the Church. My mom was very religious. A little too religious, if you ask me.” He studied her for a long moment, his blue gaze assessing. “You like teaching?”
“I love teaching…most of the time.”
“What would you do if you didn’t teach?”
Kit considered the possibilities. At twenty, the world had been full of so many possibilities. At forty, there seemed fewer opportunities. “I used to think I’d enjoy being a librarian, but now it’s all about technology and I’d hate that. So I don’t know.”
“Jon’s ex teaches at the same school you do?”
“Jon?”
“Coleman. He’s my neighbor. I was out with him that night at Z’s.”
That’s right. Jon, Polly’s schmuck boyfriend who took credit for Polly’s success and stole her biggest account from her all while sleeping with her. Nice. It was all Kit could do not to roll her eyes. “Yes,” she said instead. “Polly and I teach together at Memorial.”
“Why teach?” Michael persisted.
Kit shrugged. “Why not change the world?”
They dropped the discussion of marriage, divorce, and faith there, but later, while they were finishing dinner, Kit couldn’t stifle her curiosity. “Do you still love her?” she asked. “Your wife?”
Michael looked at her blankly a moment. “My wife? What about her?”
“Do you love her?”
“You’re like a dog with a bone,” he retorted, smiling tightly.
“Sorry…I was just wondering what she was like.”
His fingers tapped against his water glass, making it ping. “She’s sweet.”
“Why didn’t the marriage work?”
He didn’t answer right away and she got the sense that he didn’t like the questions. Didn’t like talking about his marriage. She couldn’t blame him. She knew she was being nosy. She was asking personal questions, but wanted to understand Michael, wanted to know why this good-looking man with broad shoulders and clear blue eyes was about to be single again.
“It’s complicated,” he said roughly.
She nodded, waited.
“She was married before,” he added. “Has a teenage daughter. Missy has custody of Dee, so it’s not easy. Teenage girls aren’t always easy.” He looked up into her eyes and smiled wryly. “But then, I’m sure you understand this better than me. You’re a teacher. You’re with kids all day long.”
“You don’t get along with Dee?”
“I used to. When she was younger.”
Kit heard the wistful note in his voice. “How old is she?”
“Fifteen.”
Her eyebrows lifted. That explained a lot of things. “That’s a tough age,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve always said my sophomores were the hardest group to teach. As freshmen, the kids are still relatively cute and eager to please, but they come back the next year and think they know everything.”
“Exactly. She’s so mouthy.”
“Mouthy or withdrawn. I have students who don’t talk at all. And if they do, they act like they’re doing me a big favor.”
He fell back in his chair, stunned. “You know.”
She smiled sympathetically. “So you see, it’s not you. And I know it doesn’t help, but this isn’t about you. She’s a teenager and full of hormones and hopes and dreams.”
“She needs to learn it’s not all about her.”
“She will eventually. It won’t always be this way.”
“That’s what Missy says.”
“I have a friend who married a man with three children, two of whom are teenagers, and they’re giving her a really hard time.”
“So what is your friend going to do?”
“Try to be patient. Keep talking through things. Hang on to that sense of humor.”
He made a rough sound. “You’re suggesting I get back with my wife?”
“I just think if you still love her, don’t give up on your marriage.”
“And if I don’t?”
“That’s easy.” Kit shrugged. “Don’t do anything and your divorce will be final in a couple weeks.”
After dessert and coffee, Michael walked her to her car. “I really enjoyed tonight, Kit. Thank you for staying with me and having dinner.”
She fished in her purse for her car keys. “I’m glad I stayed, too.”
“Even though I’m an evil, married man?”
She knew he was teasing her but she got that uneasy feeling in her gut again. “I never called you evil.”
“You made me feel like I was evil.”
“I never meant to do that.”
“Well, I forgive you.”
“Thank you.”
“So does that mean we can get together again soon?” he asked.
Kit frowned and looked up at him, seeing how the streetlight illuminated his straight nose and high brow. He was athletic and handsome and attractive, but he left her cold. He was too confident. Arrogant. “You’re married, Michael.”
“Not for long.”
“You’re still in love with your wife. Work it out with her.”
“You’re rejecting me?”
“I’m telling you to focus on your family.”
He took a step closer to her. His head dropped, and the corner of his mouth curled. “Maybe I want to focus on you.”
He was really tall and he was now standing so close that she felt crowded. Kit took a step back, bumped into her car. “Good night, Michael.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
He reached out to touch her arm. “I give you permission to go out with me again.”
Kit arched an eyebrow. “Now, that’s strange.”
“Come on. You know you women never make a decision without consulting a half-dozen girlfriends. You’ve got to get everybody’s opinion, need everybody to weigh in. I’m just saving you time and energy.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“I am a very thoughtful person.”
He was smiling at her in a way that said he liked her, that he found her desirable, but underneath the playful banter she sensed that he was serious. He’d like to make decisions for her. He probably liked to make decisions for everyone. “I have to go.”
“So next Saturday?”
“No.”
“You want to.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Michael.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Michael.”
“I’ll call you,” he repeated, and then winked. “And then we’ll make plans for Saturday.”
In the car, Kit clutched the steering wheel, feeling more than a little dazed and confused as she drove to her parents’ house.
What had jus
t happened?
What a strange night, and an even stranger date. The evening had been uncomfortable at times, and mildly enjoyable at others, but it was by no means a great evening. She certainly didn’t feel compelled to see Michael ever again. But Michael certainly seemed compelled to prove her wrong.
Weird.
Arriving at her parents’ home, she discovered the house was dark. Kit quietly let herself in through the front door with her key, but once inside, found her dad in the den watching TV. “Hey, honey,” he said, rising from his big leather La-Z-Boy chair when she entered the room.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Mom sleeping?” she asked.
“She went to bed a couple hours ago.”
“She okay?”
“She’s fine. She just doesn’t have a lot of energy.”
“Is this cruise a good idea?”
“It’s what she wants.”
“I worry that it’ll be too much for her.”
“Where did you go for dinner?” he asked, sitting back down, changing the topic. Dad didn’t talk about things he didn’t want to discuss. He never had. He never would.
“Millennium. On Geary.”
“They used to be in a different location, didn’t they?”
“Apparently.”
“Good food?”
“Very good.”
She sat down on the couch, curled her legs under her, and watched her dad watch TV. He appeared engrossed in the show and she wondered if this was how it’d be later, when Mom was gone. If he’d sit here every night and watch TV, allowing himself to be absorbed in whatever was on so he didn’t have to think about being alone. And maybe he’d be fine. Maybe he’d do better than any of them.
She watched him for another moment and then rose. “I’m going to go to bed.”
“Tired?”
“I am. Nine-thirty Mass?”
“And then we’ll go to brunch after.”
“I was going to make breakfast.”
“Let’s see what the weather’s like. If it’s nice, I think your mom would enjoy getting out. She’s feeling a little cooped up lately.”
“Just let me know in the morning. I can always grab some groceries on the way home from church.” She kissed the top of his head, grabbed her overnight bag from the hall, and headed upstairs to her childhood bedroom, a bedroom that somehow managed to make her feel like that little girl who preferred fairy tales and happily-ever-after endings far more than reality.
Kit slept so deeply that she overslept the next morning, and it had been a rush getting out of the house to make it to Mass on time. But now she was at St. Cecilia, seated between her parents in the pew.
St. Anne was closer to their house, but St. Cecilia had been her father’s parish church when he was a boy and he’d wanted to raise his children there, too. Even today the church retained much of its Irish flavor, despite its Spanish Colonial design with the stenciled oak-beamed ceiling and rich red stucco walls.
With the hectic rush to church behind them, Kit exhaled, at peace. She knew the service forward and backward—every word, each pause, every prayer and response. And because she’d just attended Mass on Friday with her students, she didn’t feel guilty allowing her thoughts to wander, and wander they did, jumping from Mass to Michael and then, suddenly, the biker from Capitola popped into her mind.
Jude. Just Jude. No last name.
She almost smiled remembering, and she could see him sitting on his big burnt-orange bike with the massive handlebars, picture clearly his firm mouth and chin, his worn denim jeans, and the scuffed toe of his black boots. He was definitely sexy in a disreputable sort of way, and not the sort of man she’d date, but she had found him intriguing. Appealing. He was different. She liked that.
But Jude wasn’t someone she could ever bring home. No one in her family would approve. Well, Brianna might, but that’s only because Bree loved being contrary.
No, her family would definitely choose Michael over Jude for her. They’d like Michael’s clean-cut, all-American-boy good looks, his successful corporate career, his love of sports, and she doubted he would have any problem winning them over. Provided he didn’t talk about his ex-wife or divorce. Dad and Mom didn’t believe in divorce. Kit didn’t either, but it was hard, if not impossible, to meet a man in his late thirties or forties who hadn’t been married before.
But she’d felt no chemistry with Michael, not that chemistry was everything…
With the reading finished, the congregation sat for the sermon. Dad smiled at her and she smiled back, and Kit tuned in to the sermon for the first few minutes before letting her thoughts drift again.
She hadn’t been to this church since Christmas morning when the entire family had gone to Mass together. They’d filled two pews—Mom, Dad, Meg and Jack, Tommy and Cass, Sarah and Boone, Kit and all the children. The only one missing was Brianna, as, at the last minute, she couldn’t find a replacement for her at the hospital and couldn’t fly home.
The rest of them were together, though, and it’d been a beautiful service, poignant, but heavy with meaning. During the service, Kit, Meg, and Sarah had caught one another’s gaze time and again. Each knew what the other was thinking. No one needed to say aloud what the other was feeling. It was their last Christmas as a whole family. The last Christmas with Mom.
After the service, they’d returned home and opened packages and had their traditional Christmas-morning brunch. Later Dad’s brothers had arrived—Uncle Joe and Aunt Megan, and Uncle Pat, who’d never married but had been with his girlfriend Rosie for almost twenty years—and Mom’s only living brother, Uncle John, and his wife, Linda. There’d been more packages and more food, phone calls from Dad’s three sisters, who lived in other parts of the country, and then carols and games, and they’d stayed together in the living room until late, not wanting the day to end.
But of course it finally did end with Mom reaching for Dad’s hand at ten, quietly telling him she was tired, and she hated to break up such a wonderful evening but she really needed to go lie down. She’d been so apologetic at breaking up the party and it’d almost broken Kit’s heart. Mom was so strong, with such a beautiful, fierce spirit.
Kit turned her head to look at her mother now. It’d been only three and a half weeks since Christmas but Mom was already smaller and frailer, her brown eyes too big above cheekbones that had become too prominent. Kit’s breath caught in her throat. Mom was disappearing before her eyes and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing she could do but love Mom till the very end.
Kit’s throat ached, and her eyes stung, and she had to look away, to the tall windows with the sunlight pouring through the stained glass to hold the tears back.
How could Mom be defeated by cancer? How could there be no cure?
Suddenly Mom’s hand covered hers and held tight. Kit’s heart squished in her chest. Her mother’s hand felt cool and frail, her skin delicate and thin, and yet her grip remained tight. But wasn’t that Mom?
Her mother was both angel and warrior; she’d lived her life with dignity and grace, and now she was dying the same way. It would be hard, if not impossible, to let her go at the end, but at the same time Kit knew she’d been blessed.
Gently, she squeezed her mom’s hand, letting her know how much she loved her, even though she couldn’t look at her, not now, not when tears made it impossible to see, and so she did the one thing she’d done her whole life when overwhelmed. She prayed. God is good. God is great.
Mass over, they escaped the parishioners still milling in the courtyard and on the front steps and went to brunch. Kit had wanted to cook, but it was such a beautiful morning, the kind of morning that made San Francisco utterly unforgettable with its deep blue sky, cloudless except where the blood-orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge jutted against the blue, that Dad insisted they go to the Cliff House.
The Cliff House, perched high on the bluff overlooking both the bay and the Pacific Ocean, was one of San F
rancisco’s crown jewels and famous for its elegant Sunday brunch. And because Dad was also Firefighter Brennan, he knew everyone, literally everyone, and was able to book a last-second reservation for eleven-thirty.
Seeing as it was a last-minute reservation, Kit had expected a table in a corner, or hidden behind a massive palm, but they were seated at a spacious table in a prime location at one of the big windows with a stunning, unobstructed view of the sea and rocks.
“How nice to be Firefighter Brennan,” Kit teased her dad as the waiter poured them champagne while they perused the menu.
“I’m retired now.”
“But look at this table. They still remember you.”
“It’s the Brennan name. They remember my dad, Thomas. And your great-uncle Pat, the one your uncle Patrick was named for.”
“Not your uncle Liam?”
He folded his arms across his big chest, leaned back, getting comfortable. “If they remember Liam, it was for the wrong reasons.”
“But wasn’t he a fireman, too?”
“That doesn’t make you a saint, Kit, just means you’re strong and you don’t mind when things get hot.”
“Tell me about him,” she said, encouraging him to talk, knowing he loved telling stories, especially if they had to do with his firefighting days or his family.
“He was a hothead. Drank a lot. Took offense at everything. And nearly destroyed this place one weekend after someone made the mistake of chatting up his girl.”
“I can see why he didn’t like that.”
“Only she didn’t know she was his girl. He’d only just met her himself, and from what we learned later after getting ahold of the police report, the girl preferred the other fellow.”
Kit leaned forward. Her favorite stories seemed to revolve around Uncle Liam. “Did Liam know she liked the other guy?”
“My uncle Liam wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t play by any rules but his own. He did what he wanted and the rest be damned.”
“Sounds like Brianna.” Kit laughed.
Dad grinned. “I’ve told your mother that many a time. When Brianna was a toddler and she’d have one of her tantrums—and no one had tantrums like your sister’s; they lasted for hours—I’d look at your mom and say, ‘We’ve got a little Liam here.’”