by Tracy Brogan
He’d never heard her defend him. Not once. Not in the counselor’s office or even when it was just the two of them together. Her support meant as much to Tom as if she’d promised to come home with him that very minute.
George glowered at his granddaughter. “Accidents happen when people are careless, Rachel. And I’m not so careless that I’d let you live where no one can look out for you.”
“I’m not a little girl, Grandpa. I’m nearly sixteen years old, and being stuck in the middle of this feud between you and my dad is exhausting. If I decide to move, you have to let me.” Her cheeks turned bright pink, and her voice rose an octave.
“George,” Tom said, “I understand your determination to protect Rachel. But mine is equal to that. I’m ready and absolutely capable of taking care of her. I know you doubt that. But I don’t.”
Tom’s lungs burned from the effort of keeping his breath steady, but he’d say what he needed to.
The moment hung suspended. It was Anne who spoke up first. “Rachel, darling. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, or move when you’re ready. I support your decision.”
“Now wait a minute,” George finally sputtered. “This isn’t some lark, Anne. We’re talking about her safety and her future.”
“Yes, George. I know that.” Anne stared back at her husband, her spine ramrod straight, until he grumbled and stood up. He walked over to the window, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets.
Anne reached out to Rachel. “Maybe we should let your father have a minute with Grandpa.”
Rachel glanced at Tom. He nodded, pleased she’d looked to him for guidance. Once she and Anne had left the room, he joined George at the window. It was dark out now. No sign of that encouraging little beam of sunlight. These next words were harder than the others but needed saying even more.
“George, until recently I never fully appreciated how it must have felt to you, knowing Connie was sneaking out to be with me. Or what you must have thought when she got pregnant. Now that Rachel is nearly that age, it makes me a little crazy thinking she might do the same thing. And I’d hate that kid just as much as you hate me.”
Tom took a breath, searching for the best words. “None of us expected things to play out the way they have. God knows I regret my mistakes. Every single one of them. But demanding Rachel live here doesn’t fix what you’ve already lost. It just puts her in the middle. Let my daughter come home with a clear conscience. Don’t guilt her into staying just because you want to punish me.”
George turned hostile eyes Tom’s way. Tension coiled taut inside the quiet of his voice. “My daughter was a good, respectable girl until you came along. You didn’t deserve her then, and you don’t deserve Rachel now. You’ve been nothing but bad luck since the first time you walked in that door. Now I want you to leave my house and never come back.”
The sides of Tom’s heart twisted against each other. “Don’t leave it this way, George. Don’t force her to choose between us.”
“Or what? Is that a threat?” George’s voice lowered into a growl. “I could take you to court, you know.”
“For what? Custody? You’d lose. Are you so selfish you’d put her through that?”
Perspiration trickled from George’s temple. “You’re nothing but a punk, Tom Murphy. You might try to pretend otherwise, but you and I both know, you’re still a punk.”
Tom felt like one for the blink of an eye. George could make him feel that way. But it wasn’t true. Tom was through with being defined by his past mistakes.
“What I know, George, is that in spite of how we started off, Connie and I were happy. I was a good husband. And I’m a good father, too. Now I’m going to go in the kitchen and talk to my daughter. You can stand out here and call me names if you want, but it doesn’t change anything. My daughter is coming home as soon as she chooses.”
He turned and walked away, leaving George by the window. Tom’s limbs quaked. David facing Goliath.
But the victory was hollow, because deep down he was a father, and he understood George was just a man trying to hold on to something he loved.
Tom found Rachel and Anne sitting at a table in the kitchen sipping tea from china cups. He didn’t have any china at his house. If Rachel liked that sort of thing, he’d have to buy some. And he’d have to get a room ready for her. Right now it was nothing but bare walls and a bed.
“Well, how did it go?” Rachel asked quietly. She pulled out a chair for him, and he sat down.
Tom crossed his arms and leaned back. He looked into Rachel’s hopeful eyes. She wanted them all to be happy. She wanted to come home but keep her grandfather’s love, too. No one should be put in that situation.
“He wants what’s best for you, Rachel. His heart is in the right place.”
“Hogwash,” said Anne. “I know him better than that. He’s stubborn and narrow-minded. I love him, but I still know this about him. So Rachel, if and when you decide you want to move home, you tell me, and we’ll make it happen. And if your grandfather tries to cause a ruckus? Well, I’ll handle that on my own.”
She lifted her teacup and took a sip, calm as if they’d just arranged a lunch date at the club.
Rachel gave her a tremulous smile. “Thanks, Grandma.”
Rachel turned back to Tom. “I do appreciate you letting me choose. And I kind of hate to bring this up, but I promised Jake I’d ask one more time. Can I go skiing with them on Monday? Grandma said she’d give me the money if you said yes.”
Tom looked over at his mother-in-law. Sweet, quiet little Anne must be drinking straight whiskey from that little tiny teacup of hers tonight to make such an offer. George always had been a pompous prick. He probably always would be. But Anne was kind, and Tom saw an ally to his cause.
“Have you met this Jake kid?” he asked Anne.
Anne nodded. “He’s a very nice young man, and his family goes to our church.”
“Dad, I told you, you can trust me,” Rachel said.
It would be so easy to give in, to let her have this and be the good guy for a change. And what she’d said before made sense. She was far less apt to find an opportunity in a condo full of brothers and their parents than she was on any given evening after dark, a thought that both mollified and terrified him.
He looked at her face, her eyes shining with expectation.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay? Okay as in yes I can go?”
He nodded and was instantly smothered by her arms hugging him around the neck. His heart went boom like a cannon inside his chest, and he heard Rachel’s squeak of delight.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I’ll be super-careful, Dad. Oh, my God, I have to go call Jake.”
She kissed Tom on the cheek and was gone, a flurry of rushing legs and giggles.
Stunned, he paused to wonder: When was the last time his daughter had kissed his cheek? Or hugged him? The morning before the accident. That had to be the last time. He gazed over at Anne and found her smiling back.
CHAPTER twenty-two
“Why, Beverly, this stuffing looks delicious,” said Nana. “I’m sure all it needs is a little touch of sage. What do you think, Libby?”
She held out a fork with a bite of stuffing, and Libby dutifully ate it. It tasted just right to her, but then again, she was no judge. She liked the dry stuff right from the box.
“It doesn’t need more sage, Nana. Leave my stuffing alone.” Libby’s mother opened the oven to baste the Thanksgiving Day turkey.
Nana took a quick peek over one shoulder, and as soon as Libby’s mother was distracted, she sprinkled in more sage. Libby shook a silent, reprimanding finger at her.
Marti wandered into the kitchen from the family room. “Ginny won’t let me hold the baby until I wash my hands. She’s going to give that kid a phobia if she doesn’t stop making such a fuss about germs. Mom, where’s a screwdriver?”
“In the same spot it’s been for twenty years. Why?” Beverl
y pointed to the drawer on her left.
“Daddy and Dante are trying to put together the bassinet, but they’re as clueless as Ben. Hey, Libby, when is Tom getting here? They could use some of his handymanliness.”
Libby glanced at the wood-framed clock on the kitchen wall.
He was late. Not by much but enough to make her wonder if he was having second thoughts. Rachel was off on an impromptu ski trip, so he wasn’t delayed by her. But he’d expressed some valid reservations about coming here. She’d been a little surprised when he’d said yes.
“He should be along any time,” Libby answered. “And don’t forget, you guys, please do not badger him with a bunch of tacky, invasive questions, okay? That goes double for you, Nana.” She shook a finger at her again.
“I am the soul of discretion, Liberty. If you want to give away the milk for free it’s none of my business,” Nana answered.
“See? That’s exactly the kind of comment I’m talking about. Tom is kind of shy, and if you say stuff like that, you’ll embarrass him. So don’t.” She turned around and pointed at Marti. “And you either. I like him, so please don’t scare him away.”
Marti held her hands up. “Hey, I’m not looking for trouble. I’m just looking for a screwdriver.”
“It’s right here.” Libby’s mother tugged open the drawer with her oven mitt and pulled it out, handing it to Marti. “And maybe you could take Nana out into the other room to see the baby.”
“Oh, I can’t leave you in here all alone to fix this meal yourself, Beverly,” Nana answered.
Libby’s mother took Nana by the shoulders and steered her toward the door. “Yes, really, you can. Put your feet up and relax and let me get the rest of dinner taken care of.”
Marti took the hint and scooped Nana’s narrow shoulders away from her mother. “Come on, Nana. I think Ginny would really like some advice on how to make baby Teddy sleep through the night. What was that you said the other day about giving him a dropper full of whiskey?”
“That’s for teething,” Nana answered, her voice fading as they moved from the kitchen to the living room.
Libby’s mother let loose an exaggerated sigh and wiped the back of her hand across her brow. “That woman, God bless her, is an enormous pain in the ass.”
“I think she means well,” Libby said, but her laughter negated her statement.
“Well, I’m not sure that’s true, but either way we’re stuck with her. And with your father around, it’s like having puppies. Two demanding, opinionated puppies.” Beverly smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “But it’s Thanksgiving Day and I’m supposed to count my blessings, aren’t I?”
Libby nodded and plucked an olive off the relish tray on the counter. “I believe that is the custom, yes.” She popped the olive into her mouth.
“Well, in that case, I sure am grateful that your father is all right. He’s going to give me a heart attack one of these days, but I sure do love that man. It’s the only thing that stops me from killing him. And I’m also very grateful that you’re home.”
Libby looked up, surprised as her typically nondemonstrative mother came around the corner of the kitchen island and hugged her.
She leaned back and looked Libby in the eye, smiling.
“I’m so grateful you’ve decided to stay in Monroe. It’s what I’ve wanted all along, but I didn’t want to be too pushy. You have to follow your own path. I’m just happy it’s led you back home. You’ve been so magnificent at helping your father. He never could have managed that ice-cream parlor without you, even with Tom’s help. Oh, and speaking of Tom, there he is.”
Her mother stepped back and gestured to the window. Libby watched Tom’s truck pull into the driveway.
She opened the kitchen door and waved as he climbed down from the cab. It was cold and windy, with a misty rain in the air, but to her it felt ridiculously like tropical sunshine.
Libby had it bad for Tom Murphy.
The carve your initials in a tree, doodle his name, can hardly breathe without him kind of bad.
It was scary. In a good way.
But scary in a scary way, too.
Libby had all this emotion, wound up so tight inside of her, it was bound to pop out at the worst possible moment. She’d promised Tom to take things day by day. That was the practical, logical, mature thing to do, after all.
But here he was, about to have Thanksgiving dinner with her family. That was pretty bold on his part, all things considered. Even if it was her mother who’d invited him.
“Hey,” he said, coming up the two steps into the kitchen. His smile was crooked and earnest, his gaze a little sheepish as he moved closer.
She didn’t kiss him. She wanted to, but he glanced over her shoulder at her mother instead. “Hello, Beverly.”
Libby moved over so he could come inside.
“Hello, Tom. How nice to see you. I’m so glad you decided to join us. Libby, take Tom’s coat.”
Libby blinked up at him and smiled. “Can I take your coat?”
He shrugged out of it and handed it over. “Thanks. Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem. Everything okay?”
He nodded. “Yep. You?”
She nodded back. She loved these little chats. “Can I get you a drink?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He turned to her mother. “Everything smells delicious, Beverly.”
She smiled and retied her apron strings. “Thank you. I’m sure Nana will claim all the credit.”
Tom chuckled, and Libby tugged on his sleeve. “Come on. Everybody is in the living room.” She hung up his coat on a hook near the kitchen door.
Tom hesitated, taking in a big, deep breath and exhaling slowly.
Libby smiled. “Don’t be nervous. Just ask my dad a question, and you won’t have to talk for the rest of the day.”
Dinner was served an hour late, which was technically a family tradition since Nana and her mother got into some sort of snarl each year. Today was about how much sage was in the stuffing. Libby was Switzerland on that one. She knew better than to get between her mom, Nana, and sharp kitchen knives.
“We’re actually right on schedule,” Libby said to Tom as they finally gathered around the table and took their seats. “Last year the fight was about yams.”
Marti leaned forward from the other side of Tom. “No, it was about the green bean casserole. The yam fight was two years ago.”
“They remember I don’t eat turkey, right?” Dante murmured to Marti, who nodded in response.
“I thought last year it was about the butter in the mashed potatoes,” Ben said.
“Stop that, all of you, or this year will be remembered as the time I threw the turkey in the trash.” Beverly smiled a big, fake smile and held up her wineglass. “Now sit down.”
She might have been kidding, but no one could be certain, so they shut up and settled into their chairs instead. Libby’s parents sat at either end. Nana, Ben, and Ginny with baby Teddy in her arms were on one side, with Libby, Tom, Dante, and Marti on the other. The checked tablecloth was covered with platters of food, enough to feed twice as many people, while the walls of the dining room could barely contain them all.
Libby glanced at Tom. He seemed to be holding up remarkably well, and so far no one in her family had asked an out-of-bounds question. She had Dante to thank for that, because once he’d mentioned how a cow lets off hundreds of liters of methane gas each day, and that veganism could end global warming, her dad was off and running. No one had to participate in the conversation much after that.
“Are you going to hold that baby all through dinner?” Nana asked Ginny. “You should put him down once in a while or you’ll spoil him.” She spread a green napkin across her lap.
“He’s six weeks old, Nana. You can’t spoil a six-week-old baby,” Ginny replied.
“Of course you can. He’s smart. He’ll figure out you pick him up every time he cries, and then he’ll just cry more.”
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br /> “The first Teddy Roosevelt had a photographic memory. Did anyone know that?” Libby’s father said to no one in particular.
“I bet his mother didn’t carry him around all day,” Nana muttered.
“She can hold him if she wants to, Nana. Peter, would you please say grace so we can get this meal started?” Beverly’s cheeks were flushed a bright, splotchy red. It might have been from the heat in the kitchen. Or her annoyance with Nana. She gulped down half the glass of Pinot Grigio.
Or it might have been from that.
Libby bowed her head along with the rest of them, and stole a peek at Tom. He had his eyes closed and his hands folded reverently in his lap, but a smirk played around his mouth. He tapped his leg against hers. She tapped back.
At the head of the table, Libby’s father cleared his throat. “Look out, teeth, look out, gums—”
“No, Peter. Not that one. It’s Thanksgiving.” Libby looked up to see her mother take another swallow of wine.
Her dad looked only slightly chagrined by her scolding and lifted his glass, clinking his fork against it. “How about a toast, instead? Forgive me for not standing.” He cleared his throat again. “This year, as in so many years past, I am grateful for the love, and tolerance, of my family.” He tipped his head at Libby’s mother, who arched a single brow in response.
He continued, “I’m grateful for the arrival of my most perfect grandson, and his good health. I’m grateful for the new friends we have at our table this year.” He smiled at Tom.
“And me, too, right, Dad Hamilton?” Dante leaned forward and put his tattooed arm out to clasp her father’s wrist. “You’re thankful for me, aren’t you? A little bit?” His smile was broad, his teasing apparent.
Dante and her father had come to discover quite a lot in common, and Libby suspected her father didn’t mind him nearly so much as he had that first night they met.
Her father nodded. “Dante, in the spirit of the holiday, I say yes. I am grateful for you in much the same way that the Native Americans were grateful for the warm, woolen blankets given to them by the first Europeans.”