Lovechild

by Metsy Hingle

  Her stomach did a nervous little jig as she thought about his reaction to discovering he was a father. But before she could dwell on it further Jacques stormed his way across the snow-covered lawn to her side. “All right, Liza. I am here. Now what kind of game is it you are playing?”

  A gust of wind sent flakes of snow scurrying across the yard and Liza’s hair dancing into her eyes. She brushed the strands away from her face and dug out her key. “It’s no game, Jacques.” She shoved the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

  Jacques followed her inside. “No?” He caught her arm and turned her to face him as soon as the door closed. “You wanted to make me jealous, didn’t you? Well, you have succeeded,” he spat out before she could tell him he was wrong. “And if you wanted to find out if I wanted you enough to fight for you, then the answer is ‘Yes, I do.’ You are mine, Liza. And I will fight your Jack or anyone else I have to.”

  Liza caught his hand, pressed his fingers to her lips. There was anger in this man she’d lost her heart to and there was violence. She could feel it radiating through him like waves. But there was also fear in him. It was the fear that tore at her heartstrings. “I’m not a prize up for grabs, Jacques. I don’t want you to fight for me. You don’t have to. I love you. I always have. And I want to be with you.”

  “And I want you, chérie.” He started to pull her into his arms. I—”

  Not love, want. Beating back her disappointment, Liza stepped out of his embrace and lifted her gaze to meet his. “The question is will you still want me after I tell you the real reason I left you three years ago.”

  “Mommy!”

  Liza spun around at the sound of her son’s voice. She smiled and dropped to her knees in time to catch the blond-haired bundle of energy hurling himself toward her on little legs. “Hi, baby.” She kissed his head and hugged him close, breathing in the scent of baby, crayons and chocolate chip cookies. When he began squirming in her arms, she reluctantly released him and stood.

  “Who him?” Jack asked, looking up at Jacques out of curious gold eyes.

  Bracing herself, Liza turned towards Jacques. Her heart stopped, or at least it seemed to. She rubbed the spot on her chest to assure herself her heart still worked. It did. And any minute now she was sure it would break into tiny pieces.

  Jacques’s face had turned the color of chalk. His body could have been made of stone it was so still—except for his eyes. They moved from Jack to her and back again, blazing with emotion, reminding her of the white-hot gold of flames.

  “Who him, Mommy?” Jack persisted.

  Pulling herself together, Liza took her son’s hand. “This is...” She swallowed. “This is Mr. Gaston. He’s a...a friend of Mommy’s. Jacques, this is Jack. My son.”

  “I make cookies,” Jack told him, holding up the halfeaten chocolate chip in his hand. He took a step toward Jacques. “Taste?”

  For long seconds Jacques didn’t move, didn’t say anything, and when he stooped down to take a bite, the knot in Liza’s stomach twisted a little tighter.

  “Jack, you little rascal, where are you?”

  At the sound of Mrs. Murphy’s voice, Liza released a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

  “I here.” Jack turned and ran laughing into the arms of his sitter.

  The apple-cheeked woman gathered him into her arms and hugged him to her with affectionate ease. “I thought I heard you come in, Liza, but I had to get that batch of gingerbread men out of the oven.” Releasing Jack she wiped her hands on her apron.

  “No problem. Mrs. Murphy, this is Mr. Gaston. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “How do you do?” the other woman said, nodding. From the way she eyed him and little Jack, Liza suspected she recognized the resemblance and the connection. “And you, you little scamp,” she told Jack. “You swiped another cookie, didn’t you?”

  “For him.” Jack pointed to Jacques.

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Murphy asked. She arched her brow and looked over at Jacques who had yet to move from inside the doorway.

  Jack nodded. “Him wanted,” Jack insisted, then ran over to Jacques and grabbed him around the legs. “Him wanted.”

  Liza’s heart seemed to lodge itself in her throat at the sight of her son, clinging to his father’s legs. And from his utterly stunned expression and the stiffness of his body, Jacques had no idea what to do with the child. “Jack, let Mr. Gaston go and come to Mommy, sweetheart.”

  “No,” her son said and clung tighter to Jacques.

  “Jack,” Liza admonished and made a move to retrieve her son.

  “It’s all right, Liza,” Jacques said, surprising her. His fingers lightly brushed her son’s head. “The cookie was very good, Mrs. Murphy. I’ve never tasted better.”

  The elderly woman flushed under his praise. “Well, there’s plenty more in the kitchen if you’d like to have some. I’ll put on a pot of coffee for you and your guest,” she told Liza. “Come on, Jack. You can help me.”

  But instead of going to Mrs. Murphy as he usually would, Jack stretched his arms up to Jacques. “Up,” he demanded.

  Liza’s hands clenched into tight fists at her sides as she noted Jacques’s hesitation. If he rejected her son, she would die, she thought—right after she murdered Jacques.

  “Up,” Jack insisted, tugging on Jacques’s pants leg with chocolate fingers and holding out his arms again.

  “Let me take off my coat first, okay?”

  “’Kay.”

  Liza breathed a sigh of relief. “I know we have to talk, Jacques. I’m sure you have some questions,” she said, taking his coat from him.

  He leveled her with a look that was filled with frustration, anger, fear. But before he could say anything, Jack was tugging at his pants leg again.

  This was Jack? This was the Jack he’d been hating, wanting to tear limb from limb? Jacques looked down at the boy, noting the pale blond hair so like Liza’s. The mouth, the cheekbones and the nose were similar, smaller versions of his own. But it was the eyes—his eyes—that stared up at him.

  “Up,” Jack demanded again.

  Reaching down, Jacques lifted him into his arms. The little arms circled his neck. A sharp ache sliced through his chest. A son. He had a son.

  “The kitchen’s this way,” Liza said.

  Jacques followed her through the house, vaguely aware of his surroundings, far too conscious of the tiny being he held in his arms.

  “Mrs. Murphy, will you join us for some coffee?” Liza asked.

  “Thank you, dear. But I need to be getting home.”

  “What about your cookies?” Liza asked.

  “Oh, they’re for you and Jack. But you’ll have to frost that last batch yourself. I didn’t realize how late it was. My daughter, Millie, and her children are coming to pick me up this evening, and I still need to pack. I’ll be spending the holiday with them.”

  “Then you won’t be here for Christmas.”

  “No. But I’ll be back after the New Year.”

  “Well, thank you for taking care of Jack. I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Murphy assured her. “He’s a charmer that one.”

  Liza slanted him a glance. “Jack, come give Mrs. Murphy a goodbye kiss.”

  “Leave him be. He’s quite happy where he is.” The other woman waved her away. She walked over and kissed Jack’s cheek. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gaston.”

  “My pleasure,” Jacques replied. He didn’t miss the way Mrs. Murphy’s brown eyes moved from Jack to him.

  “I’ll walk you out. I have a little something under the tree for you,” Liza said.

  Fighting through the swirl of emotions going through him, Jacques stood in the middle of the kitchen. His artist’s eye swept over the room. It was small compared to the one in the Gallaghers’ apartment, but it was welcoming and reflected Liza’s good taste. The walls were covered in a leaf green and lemon print. The scent of chocolate chip cookies and ginger
and spice filled every corner. But it was the mixture of winter sunshine, baby powder and crayons that registered.

  He looked at the boy he held in his arms, noted the crayons poking out of the pocket of his navy corduroys. Jacques grinned as he glanced at the refrigerator, the white surface was barely visible beneath the slew of magnets holding up a child’s drawings. Another artist, he thought bemused, then stopped with a jolt. Not just any artist, his son.

  A lump rose in Jacques’s throat. He swallowed. These were not just any child’s drawings, they were his son’s drawings. His son had made the scribblings displayed as refrigerator art. Jacques’s chest swelled with a sense of wonder and pride. He had a son. He and Liza had created this beautiful little boy.

  And by creating a son, the legacy of Gaston would live on. Panic whipped through him again as he stared at the child. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the boy wasn’t his.

  “Want cookie,” Jack informed him and pointed to a rack of gingerbread men cooling on a Formica countertop next to the oven. Colored sprinkles and bowls of red and green frosting sat a few feet away. A Santa cookie jar and two heaping plates of cookies cluttered the adjacent counter.

  Jacques walked over to the plates of iced gingerbread men and chocolate chips, with Jack in his arms. “Which one?” he asked.

  The boy looked at him, his green eyes twinkled. “Want bofe.” Before Jack could stop him, he reached out with both hands and snagged one of each. He smiled at Jacques and bit off the gingerbread man’s head.

  Jacques couldn’t help himself, he laughed. “Good?”

  He nodded and held the decapitated cookie up for Jacques to take a bite. He bit off a piece and laughed again. “You are right. It is good.”

  “How would you like some coffee to go with that?” Liza asked from the doorway. She directed him to the table and chairs positioned in front of the expanse of windows that dominated the room. White gauzy curtains pulled back with lemon-colored sashes allowed sunshine to gleam through the window. Jacques glanced out at the snow-covered backyard, noting the jungle gym and child’s swing.

  “Have a seat, Jacques,” Liza said as she placed a plate of cookies on the table. She held out her arms. “Come to Mommy, sweetheart. You can sit in your chair, and I’ll get you some milk.”

  Jack licked the last of the icing off the gingerbread man, ending up with more on his face and shirt than his mouth. He reached over to snag another one from the plate.

  Liza grabbed his hand. “Oh no you don’t, young man. Finish your milk. It’s almost time for your nap.”

  “Please, Mommy. One more cookie?” he asked.

  Jacques’s stomach did a nosedive as he watched the boy flash his mother a grin—a grin that he recognized as a version of his own.

  “All right. One more cookie and then it’s time for your nap.”

  One cookie and thirty minutes later, Jacques paced the living room while he waited for Liza to finish putting Jack down for his nap. He looked at the Christmas tree, covered in white lights and shiny ornaments, its tip crowned with a bright red star that bent slightly at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted back to that Christmas three years ago. He had revealed so much of himself to her back then. He’d trusted her, had told her about his father and the darkness he carried inside him. There was never supposed to be a child. He’d sworn he would not sire another Gaston to carry on that seed of darkness. But Liza had betrayed him. Because of her, he had broken his own vow and his father had won.

  Angry, Jacques whipped around and spotted her standing in the doorway watching him. “I do not suppose that there is a chance he is not mine?” he asked, making no attempt to mask the anger or coldness inside him.

  He caught the slight wince before she could stop it. “He’s yours, Jacques. If you choose not to believe me, then that’s your decision.”

  “There is always a paternity test.”

  She hiked up her chin in that way that only she could pull off and walked regally over to the fireplace. She picked up the poker to shift a log. “I don’t need a paternity test, Jacques. In the four years since my divorce, I’ve only slept with one person. And that person was you.”

  Her words cut him and made him even angrier. “Unlike me. Is that what you are saying? That I have slept with many women? Used them?”

  “Only you can answer that,” she said coolly.

  It was the coolness that ate at him, fed his anger. Because there had been other women since she’d left him, although not nearly as many as she might think, and he realized he had used them all in his attempt to forget her. Only he hadn’t forgotten her, would never forget her. “Why did you not tell me?” he demanded, bitter when he thought of all those weeks, months, years he had spent hating her, wanting her. And heaven help him, even now, knowing what she had done, he still wanted her. “Why did you not tell me?” he repeated, grabbing her arm and causing the poker to fall from her fingers to the hearth.

  “I tried to tell you. That last night we were together, I planned to. But when I brought up the subject of children, you told me you didn’t want any. That you never planned to marry or have a family.”

  “And I told you the reason why,” he reminded her. “I told you about the vow I made to myself to never father a child. I thought you understood. You said you accepted it.”

  “What choice did I have?”

  “You could have made sure you did not get pregnant or had me use protection.”

  “It was too late. I was already pregnant,” she argued.

  “If you had told me the truth that night, we could have taken care of it.”

  “No,” Liza said, her voice a horrified whisper, her face as white as a sheet. When she started to pull away, he tightened his grip on her wrist and forced her to look at him.

  “I trusted you.” He spit out the words, anger ripping him apart inside. “I trusted you when you told me you were protected, but you lied to me, Liza. And you lied to me again by not telling me you were pregnant.”

  “Jacques, you’re hurting me.”

  He saw fear flicker in her eyes, heard it in her voice. It only inflamed him more. “Hurt? You do not know the meaning of hurt. I hurt, Liza. I hurt because you made me love you three years ago and left me. I hurt because you gave me a son I never wanted. I hurt because you made me love you again now, when I know I can never have you.”

  “Jacques, please. Let me go.”

  She had given him a taste, a glimpse of everything he wanted but could never have. And he hated her for letting him know all that he would be missing.

  “Jacques, please. You’re hurting me.”

  Slowly Liza’s words penetrated through the fog of his anger. He saw the fear in her eyes and stared down at her wrist clutched tightly in his fist. Then he saw the red marks on her pale skin as she struggled to break free.

  Appalled, he released her at once and looked at his hands. Big hands. Strong hands, he thought. Hands like his father’s. And he’d used them to hurt Liza. Horrified by his actions, that he had used his strength to hurt her, Jacques jerked away from her. He sank down in a chair, buried his head in his hands. He felt ill. Worse, he realized his father’s prophecy had come true. He was just like his father. The darkness was there inside him just as the old man had said, just as he had always feared. And he’d used that darkness against Liza.

  “Jacques.” Liza knelt beside him, pulled his hands away from his face. “Please, look at me. I didn’t lie to you. I swear I didn’t. I didn’t think I could get pregnant. I—I’d tried for years during my marriage and couldn’t. I had this thing they call endometriosis. I’d already lost one ovary and been told that the other one was infected. I thought I was going to have to have a hysterectomy.”

  Tears streamed down her face as she continued, but all Jacques could do was look at the red marks on her wrist. “When I found out I was pregnant, it...it was a miracle. I tried to tell you...that last night we were together. But then you told me about your father.”

  Jacques looked at her
then, her eyes bright and pleading, her beautiful face stained with tears. Tears that he had caused. A chill settled over him. “Did I tell you what a cruel, ill-tempered man Etienne Gaston was, Liza? He was, you know. He had a vicious temper. And big fists. Big fists like these.” He held up his own fists to show her. “And did I tell you about the darkness in him that had him use those fists on my mother? On me? But he was good-looking and charming. The ladies loved him. My mother loved him so much that she refused to leave him. No matter what he did to her, no matter how many times he was unfaithful to her or cruel to her or to me. She stayed with him until living with him killed her.”

  “You’re not your father, Jacques.”

  “I am my father’s son. I have his face. His hands. Hands that hurt you just now. That might hurt you again. I am Etienne Gaston’s son. I carry his seed of darkness in me.”

  “There is no darkness in you, Jacques,” she insisted. “You’re not cruel like your father. You would never deliberately hurt anyone.”

  “No?” He looked at her. “I was ready to kill Jack when I thought he was another man.” He took her wrist, rubbed his fingers across the red marks, knowing tomorrow there would be bruises. It sickened him that he had been the instrument of such pain. “And what do you call this? I hurt you. I wanted to hurt you. Do not tell me there is no darkness in me. It is there, Liza. I feel it inside me. I see it, even if you do not.”

  Liza grabbed his hands, gathered them to her. “Listen to me, Jacques. There is no such thing as a bad seed. And even if there was, even if you did get a...a bad temper from your father, what about the things you got from your mother? You told me she was kind and gentle. You said she was an artist. Isn’t she the one you credit for your talent?”

  Jacques stared at their joined hands and looked into her eyes, shimmering with tears, as she continued. “You... me, everyone is more than our genetic makeup. We’re more than the composite of whose blood runs through our veins. Each of us is responsible for what we make of ourselves, for what we feel in our hearts. So are you, Jacques. So are you.”