Suddenly Daddy and Suddenly Mommy

by Loree Lough

  He’d assured her he wasn’t, and promised to be clean shaven when he came to pick her up, first thing in the morning. Smiling now, Mitch opened his eyes and glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. Two-thirty-five. And he still hadn’t done anything to prepare for her homecoming….

  Mitch dropped the recliner’s footrest and got to his feet. Was the linen closet in the upstairs hall? Or was it the extra door in the main bathroom? He didn’t have a clue, because they’d spent the first two weeks of their marriage traipsing back and forth between his condo in the city and her apartment in the suburbs as they’d waited for the former owners of the house to move out. And even after settlement, they’d spent alternate nights in his place or hers, too exhausted after putting in a full day at work, then packing all evening, to make the trip to their new home in Ellicott City.

  They’d only been in the house, full-time, a few days when Mitch had left on assignment. And what with pictures leaning against every wall waiting to be hung, and stacks of books cluttering the floors, he’d spent most of that time picking his way through the mess.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he went in search of linens for Ciara’s daytime bed.

  The extra door in the bathroom, as it turned out, was where Ciara stored bathroom linens. Beneath neatly folded towels and washcloths, the shelves had been lined with muted green and blue plaid paper that matched the shower curtain. There had been a hideous black and silver wallpaper in here when they’d bought the place, and a putrid gray rug on the floor. Now, the walls were seafoam green, the door and window frames dusty blue. Like the family room, she’d chosen patterns and colors that were neither overly feminine nor masculine. “A man’s home is his castle,” she’d said when they’d discussed the changes they would make in the house. “When he comes home from a hard day’s work, a man shouldn’t be made to feel like he’s about to be smothered by ruffles and chintz.”

  Mitch grinned and headed for the hall. He was beginning to understand why she’d been able to sweep him off his feet…. The things she’d said during their three-month courtship had dazzled him. No woman he’d known had ever talked of being there for him, of doing for him, of taking care of him. As he looked around at square-edged shams that topped off tailored comforters, at fabrics and carpeting and bold-framed prints—each that had been carefully selected and positioned—he realized Ciara had meant every word.

  A pang of regret clutched his heart. You could have been enjoying this all these months. And where were you instead? Playing cops and robbers.

  He opened the linen closet door, where sheets and pillowcases, blankets and comforters had been tidily folded and stacked. He’d seen department store displays that didn’t look half as orderly. On a high shelf he saw that she’d stowed away a delicate-looking pink-and-lavender-flowered sheet set. Beside it, a set with a bright blue background and big bold sunflowers. She’d put a lot of thought into making this house a home he’d be comfortable in. The least he could do was give equal care to which sheets he’d put on the bed where she’d be spending endless hours. The soft-toned floral pattern reminded him of Ciara…feminine, dainty, utterly womanly. But the sunflowers were like her, too, in that they were spritely, happy, youthful.

  You could play it safe…put plain white sheets on the bed…. He bounced the idea around in his mind for a moment. In college, he’d learned a thing or two about the psychology of color. White symbolized purity, cleanliness, and often served as a pallet, an enhancer for other colors. It enlivened, energized, expanded spaces. Shades of purple offered comfort and assurance, while yellow created an atmosphere of energy and cheerfulness….

  He grabbed the sunflowers and headed downstairs.

  During his three-year stint in the navy, he’d learned a thing or two about making up a bed. Those lessons were for naught, since the sofa bed’s mattress was too thin to turn sharp hospital corners, or tuck the ends under, ensuring a snug, smooth fit. But it would do for resting during the day.

  During the drive home, he’d worked it all out in his head: at bedtime, he’d carry her upstairs and tuck her into bed, and in the morning, he’d carry her back down to the sofa bed. Because if he’d been the one who’d been confined to quarters for an entire month, he would go stir-crazy, alone in an upstairs room. Besides, she’d spent enough time all by herself already, thanks to him.

  Mitch turned back the bedcovers in a triangle, as the maids on the cruise ship had done, smoothed them flat, then stood back to admire his handiwork. Nodding with approval, he headed for the kitchen. As he filled a tumbler with the lemonade she’d made that morning, Mitch noticed a red circle around today’s date. It’s three-fifteen in the morning; yesterday’s date, he corrected, yawning, that’s yesterday’s date…. He squinted, read the reminder she’d printed in the date box. “Pick up Chester at Dr. Kingsley’s.”

  He hadn’t given a thought to the dog, and wondered what malady had put the retriever into the vet’s office. Fleas? Ingrown toenails? Mange? He’d never been overly fond of canines, and Chester could be a miserable pest, sitting beside the bed at five in the morning, whining until Mitch or Ciara got up to let him out. Just one more of the compromises he’d made in order to get Ciara to agree to marry him.

  She hated big-city life, so he’d sold his condo in the singles building near Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and agreed to live in the suburbs. He didn’t want a dog, but she’d had Chester for five years and couldn’t part with him. He’d wanted to honeymoon in a johnboat on the Patapsco River, where he could spend a lazy week casting for trout; she’d wanted to luxuriate in the islands, where they’d met. And so they’d gone to Martha’s Vineyard, spent two days fishing and two days walking on the windy beaches. Mitch had a feeling that in the weeks to come, he would experience compromise on an entirely new level.

  He swallowed the last of his lemonade and headed upstairs, set the alarm for seven. Four hours’ sleep would do; he’d gotten by, plenty of times, on less. After a quick shower and shave, he would look up Kingsley’s address in Ciara’s personal phone book. Wouldn’t she be surprised when she got into the car, to find her shaggy pup hanging over the front seat to greet her!

  Mitch stepped into the closet with the intention of grabbing the jeans and a short-sleeved pullover to wear the next day. But when he flipped on the light, he could only stare in wonderment at Ciara’s handiwork. She’d given him the entire left side of the walk-in, and had hung his suits and sports coats on the rack above his shirts and jeans. Casual and dress shirts had been grouped by color and sleeve length. His neatly folded jeans had been stacked on an eye-level shelf, sweaters on the next, shoes in a precise row on the bottom. Ties and belts had been given their own sliding racks, to make one-at-a-time choosing easier.

  How long ago had she organized this? he wondered, moving to the dresser in search of socks and briefs. There, too, her homemaking skills were evidenced by the systematic placement of tennis shorts, Tshirts and pajamas. She couldn’t have been serious when she’d said he should pack up and leave. If she had been, would she have aligned his possessions in such a creative way?

  Mitch didn’t think so. She loves you—whether you deserve it or not—and the proof is all over this house! Sighing, he dropped the clothes he’d been wearing into the clothes hamper, pulled back the dark green quilt and maroon blanket and climbed between crisp white sheets. The minute his head hit the pillow, the scent of her—baby-powder light, yet utterly womanly—wafted into his nostrils. He fell asleep, a half grin slanting his mouth, hugging that pillow tight.

  “Me and you, and you and me, no matter how they tossed the dice, it had to be,” the Turtles crooned, “happy together, so happy together….” Mitch slapped the alarm’s Off button and, rolling onto his back, yawned heartily. After a moment of noisy stretching, he climbed out of bed and padded into the bathroom to adjust the spray for his morning shower, humming the melody of the oldies but goodies song that had awakened him. “…and you’re the only one for me,” he sang off-key. If you’v
e got to have a song stuck in your head, at least this one is appropriate, he told himself, belting it out, then grinning as the sound of his own voice echoed in the master bathroom’s tiled stall.

  Here, too, Ciara had seen to it there would never be a doubt whose house this was. The walls were white and the trim the same dusty blue she’d used in the hall bath. Like a professional interior designer, she’d carried the color scheme throughout the house, creating a feeling of organized unity that was both warm and welcoming. How’d you get a woman like that? he wondered as he toweled off.

  Bradley had paid him a similar compliment that night in his office when Mitch had been given the undercover assignment. The lieutenant had taken one look at the picture of Ciara on his desk and said, “How’d you get a beauty like that?”

  Mitch felt his blood boil just thinking about Bradley.

  One thing was certain, Mitch knew, as he swiped steam from the mirror, not even nepotism was going to net Bradley the job they’d both been drooling over for over a year. The lieutenant’s uncle may have wielded enough power to garner him a grade hike in the past, may have packed enough punch, even, to get him the job that put him in charge of a dozen field agents, but—

  “Enjoy it while it lasts, Chet,” Mitch said, smiling to himself, “’cause when the director hears what you did to me, you’ll be history.”

  It had been Bradley’s job…no…his duty to act as the go-between for husbands under his command and the wives they’d left behind. He had lied, repeatedly and deliberately, about the letters that should have gone from Mitch to Ciara and back again, and he’d done it to set Mitch up.

  At first Mitch blamed the chill snaking up his back on cold air from the floor vent. But he knew better. The creepy “somebody’s watching” feeling had nothing to do with air-conditioning. Bradley hated him…enough to see him dead. That’s what caused the sensation.

  He was hoping that not hearing from Ciara would screw up my head, distract me, make me mess up. Didn’t much matter whether those mistakes would cost the government its case…or Mitch his life. Either way, Bradley’s competition for that job…and any other down the road…would be forever eliminated.

  If he could do it to Mitch, Bradley was just as capable of putting other agents in harm’s way…if he saw them as a threat of any kind. Mitch owed it to the agency to see to it Bradley never got the chance to repeat his crime. He was aching to get the old ball rolling…right over Bradley, if possible. But filing reports, verbalizing complaints, setting things in motion would take countless hours down at headquarters. And his place was beside Ciara now, not avenging a wrong.

  There’ll be plenty of time to see that Bradley pays, Mitch thought, opening the medicine cabinet. “Good gravy,” he said aloud, “she’s alphabetized this, too.” Grinning, he recalled the pantry, where canned goods and cracker boxes had been lined up in A, B, C order. Same for the spices. “So my Escada would be…” His forefinger drew a spiral in the air as he tried to guess which of the bottles held his favorite aftershave.

  The first, Armando, then Comandante, and beside it, a travel-size flask of Homme Jusqu’au Dernier. “What’s this?” he asked aloud. “Hamma Jooo Aw…?” But try as he might, Mitch could not pronounce the fancy French name. “So, Mrs. Mahoney,” he said, rearranging the bottles, “you’re not perfect after all…E comes before H….”

  Curiosity compelled him to unscrew the foreign bottle’s cap and take a whiff of the cologne she’d added to his regular stock. “Bleh-yuck,” he complained, coughing as he peered into the tiny opening.

  Half-empty? That’s odd….

  Even if Ciara had bought it the day after he left, it wouldn’t have evaporated this much in seven months. Eyes and lips narrowing, he asked himself why the aroma seemed so familiar. The rage began slowly, then escalated, like an introductory drumroll: It was that no-good Bradley’s brand. What’s his aftershave doing in my—

  With trembling hands, Mitch recapped the container and pitched it into the wicker wastebasket beside the vanity. Heart pounding and pulse racing, his mouth went dry, and despite many gulps of water, it stayed that way. He had a hard time swallowing, because his throat and tongue seemed to have swelled to three times their normal size. A vein began throbbing in his temple, and his ears were ringing. His hands became suddenly clumsy, knocking over the toothbrush holder and the soap dish as he attempted to hold a paper cup under running water.

  Unable to stand still, he began pacing in the small space, his big feet tangling in the scatter rug on the floor. Mitch steadied himself, one hand on the counter, the other pressed tight to the wall. “What’s Bradley’s aftershave doing in my medicine cabinet?” he demanded, his hoarse whisper bouncing off all four walls.

  Ciara’s face came to mind, all sweet and smiling and big-eyed innocence. She’d been a devout Christian girl when he’d left her. Had loneliness and despair driven her into another man’s arms? Had she turned to Bradley for comfort, and—

  “No!” he bellowed, bringing his fist down hard on the sink. “That’s my kid she’s carrying, not Bradley’s!” The mere thought of her in another man’s arms started his stomach turning. Because she’d asked him to pack his things and leave, even after he explained everything….

  But it had been his hand she’d reached for in the emergency room, and his gaze she’d locked on to for encouragement and support. He thought of their goodbye kiss in her hospital room the night before and the way she’d so tenderly touched his cheek, looking into his eyes as if she believed he’d hung the moon.

  She had believed that once, before he’d gone to Philadelphia. Did she believe it still? Or had her love for him been strangled by the choking loneliness of endless days and nights without a word from him?

  No…she’d genuinely seemed to need him, there at the hospital. But then, she’d been scared to death, for herself and the baby. If Bradley had been there instead, would she have clung to his hand? Would she have looking lovingly into his eyes?

  Everything around him, every towel and curtain, every knickknack and picture, every stick of furniture, screamed out that she loved him. What more proof did he need than the way she’d turned this place into a haven for him in his absence?

  He ran both hands through his damp hair, held them there. A strange grating sound caught his attention, and he attuned his ears, trying to identify it. He exhaled a great huff of air when he determined that what he’d heard had been the rasps of his own ragged breathing.

  He remembered that moment in the foyer, when she’d announced in her calm, matter-of-fact way that she’d been carrying his baby on the night he left. His baby. Of course it was his baby! She’d been so proud to be his wife that in those first weeks of their marriage he’d found things all over the house—envelopes, lunch bags, the TV listings—covered with her fanciful script: “Mrs. Mitchell Riley Mahoney. Ciara Neila Mahoney. Ciara Mahoney. Mrs. Ciara Mahoney.”

  And what about the way she’d trembled virginally in his arms on their wedding night, when he’d made her his wife in every sense of the word? It had taken time, but his soft-spoken words and gentle touches and tender kisses soothed her fears. “I’ll never hurt you,” he’d vowed. “Trust me, sweetie….”

  Their eyes had met—hers glistening with unshed tears of hope and joy and anticipation, his blazing with intensity—and she’d sent him a trembly little smile.

  He’d absorbed the tremors of fear that had pulsed from her, returned them to her as soothing waves of love and comfort. “It’s all right, sweetie,” he’d crooned, stroking her back. “We’ll take our time….”

  He’d kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her throat, his fingers combing through her lovely silken hair. “I love you, Mitch,” she’d breathed. “I love you so much!”

  And then her touches, her kisses, her words of love rained upon him, as if she sought a way to show him that she’d meant it when she’d said that she trusted him, that she loved him with all her heart.

  And for the first time in his life, Mit
ch understood why God had decreed that marriage was a sacred and blessed thing. The Lord intended this kind of loving warmth as a gift…a physical illustration of His own intense love for His children.

  In the morning, he had awakened first, rolled onto his side to watch his sleeping bride. Her cheeks were still rosy from the night’s ardor, and he’d reached out to draw a finger lightly down the bridge of her lightly-freckled nose. Her long-lashed eyes had fluttered, opened. “I love you, Mitchell Riley Mahoney,” she’d whispered. Then she’d snuggled close.

  Later, as she lay cuddled against him, Ciara had said, “Remember what you said last night…?”

  He’d met her eyes. “You mean that verse from Ecclesiastes, ‘Enjoy life with the wife whom you love.’”

  “Yes,” she’d whispered. “Marriage to you is going to be very romantic, I think….”

  Now, in the distance Mitch heard the dim notes of the carriage clock on the family-room mantel and counted eight chimes. He couldn’t have stood there, lost in memories, for nearly an hour! But he hadn’t dawdled when the alarm sounded at seven; he’d leaped out of bed and stepped straight into the shower.

  Taking a deep breath, he faced the sink. “She loves you. Of course she loves you,” he told the wild-eyed man in the mirror. Either that, or she’s the best actress ever born.

  One bottle of aftershave was no proof of any wrongdoing. It might not even be Bradley’s…perhaps her father had spent a night or two in the house, to help out, keep an eye on his daughter’s failing health. Maybe—

  Lord Jesus, he prayed, I don’t want to believe the worst, but— “You’re a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said to himself, squirting an egg-sized dollop of shaving cream into the palm of his left hand. With the right, he painted it over the lower half of his face. “If you can’t get to the bottom of this,” he added, touching the razor to his cheek, “you don’t deserve to carry the badge.”