Discovered: Daddy

by Marilyn Pappano

  Faith held the sleeping baby in her arms, gently stroking his soft black hair, his thin, rounded arm, his tiny, perfectly shaped hand. “I was so sure,” she whispered. “I knew in my heart that it was a girl.”

  Nick shifted her more comfortably across his lap, then watched as she shifted the baby more comfortably across her lap. “Are you disappointed?” he asked hesitantly. All those baby clothes, that pretty little green dress, the name, the plans....

  The look she gave him was filled with astonishment. “I have a sweet, beautiful, perfect little boy who will grow up as handsome and charming as his father. How could I possibly be disappointed?”

  “You wanted a daughter.”

  She smiled the sweetest, freshest, most innocently womanly smile he’d ever seen, and it hit him with all the breath-stealing impact of a knee in the groin. For that smile he would do anything. For that smile he would have tumbled head over heels in love with her last February...which he’d started to do anyway, he suspected. It had been a long, slow tumble, but he was there now. Head over heels.

  “I wanted a baby,” she corrected him. “A daughter would have been wonderful, but so will a son. I’m going to love having a son.”

  Reaching past her, he touched his fingertip to the baby’s cheek. Immediately, even in sleep, he turned his head toward the finger and worked his mouth a time or two before snoozing on. “Did you give any consideration to boys’ names before you settled on Amelia Rose?”

  She was quiet for so long that he tilted her head back so he could see her eyes. There was a hint of embarrassment and a whole lot of shyness there. “I’m disgustingly traditional, you know,” she admitted.

  “Nick is a fine name,” he gently teased. “I’ve always liked it—especially the way you say it. But you don’t want two Nicks in the same house, and Nicky is cute now, but he’d resent it when he’s sixteen. What name would you use with it?”

  “I thought—” She lifted the baby’s fingers, tenderly curling her finger underneath them, ever so lightly rubbing them. “I thought we could name him Nicholas Anthony and call him Tony,” she said in a rush: “That is, if you don’t mind. If your father wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’m sure he would feel as honored as I do.” After a quiet moment to deal with the lump in his throat, he went on. “Speaking of my father, I’d better call him.” It took a little maneuvering, but he managed to reach the telephone on the bedside table and punch in the restaurant number. His father answered on the third ring, and, without any other greeting, Nick said, “Seventeen grandsons, Pop, and not one of them named Tony. That’s kind of sad. Fortunately for you, Faith had—literally had — a solution.”

  He kept the call short, then pushed the phone away and gathered Faith and Tony closer. “He was speechless,” he said before she could ask the inevitable what-did-he-say? “And, darlin’, leaving Antonio Russo speechless is a big accomplishment.”

  “He’s happy?”

  “Proud to bursting. He and Mom will be by first thing in the morning to tell you so themselves.”

  “And are you happy?”

  He leaned back against the pillows. Happy? He was lying in a hospital bed with Faith in his arms and their son—their beautiful, tiny, sweet, looks-just-like-a-Russo son—in her arms. He was getting married—not tomorrow, he acknowledged, but very, very soon. He was in love and she loved him, too. Happy?

  Holding his family close — his family, an awed little voice inside echoed—he answered in a lazy, satisfied, forever-and-always drawl. “Darlin’, I’m proud to bursting.”

  On the other side of town, Antonio Russo arrived home four hours earlier than his wife expected him. Bearing a bottle of the finest champagne the restaurant stocked, he surprised her in the kitchen, gathered her into his arms and danced her around the room.

  Laughing, she stopped his exuberant dance, but she didn’t pull away from his embrace. “And what occasion are we celebrating this evening?”

  “Luisa, my dear, the great love of my life, have I got news for you...”

  Epilogue

  Faith stopped in the doorway and surveyed the scene in the parlor with a smile and the sort of warm contentment that she’d been searching for all her life—the contentment she’d found six weeks ago and would never live without again. The drapes at the windows were open, letting light spill out into the snow-covered backyard, and a blaze popped and crackled in the fireplace. On the rug in front of the hearth, five-year-old Dusty Donovan was patiently explaining the mechanics of the quick draw to Jake Spencer, his toy gun clearing its holster in the blink of an eye. Priss, looking happier than Faith had ever seen her, sat nearby, her hands folded across her swollen stomach. With a spring baby on the way and a handsome husband like Jake, Priss’s life, Faith imagined, just couldn’t get any better.

  On the couch the Kincaid twins, Traci and Brooke, crawled over, onto and around anything that got in their way, including their adopted mother, Valerie, and Wendy. After losing their own baby only hours after her birth last February, Valerie and Lucas had found the twins to be a real life-saver—and marriage-saver. They’d made peace with themselves and with each other over Kelly’s death, and their marriage was all the stronger for it.

  Life had changed for the better for Wendy, too. The great husband hunt had ended with her Christmas wedding to Travis Donovan, and she couldn’t have been more pleased. She doted on Dusty and had since he was a toddler, and she couldn’t possibly love Travis more. They were perfect for each other.

  Jenny and Mitch McCord shared the big old armchair, Mitch sitting on the cushion with his bright-eyed daughter Mary on his lap and Jenny perched on the arm, listening to the conversation between her husband, Lucas and Travis but watching Mary with a smile that any mother’s heart could recognize. It was the same way Wendy smiled at Dusty and Valerie at the twins, the same way Priss would undoubtedly smile at her baby.

  It was the same way Faith smiled at Tony every morning, every night, every time he caught her attention. He’d brought all the things to her life that she had expected—love, happiness, security, the knowledge that she was needed—and so much more. He’d brought her a family, not just the two of them, as she had feared, but a real family—loud, loving, boisterous, thrilled by their newest baby, just as Nick had promised, and even a little bit thrilled with her. No one had cared that she wasn’t Catholic, that she’d provided food for gossip all her life, that she’d created a minor scandal with her pregnancy, that she’d presented them with the first illegitimate grandchild in the family’s history or that she’d hidden the impending birth of that grandchild from them all. They had simply listened when Nick had said, “This is the woman I love,” and they had accepted her.

  It had been so simple. She still marveled over the ease with which they had taken her in. One word from Nick, and she’d had family. Parents to call Mom and Pop, grandparents, sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law, and nieces and nephews by the dozen. So simple and so precious.

  Finally she let her gaze settle on Nick, seated in her favorite rocker, Tony in his arms. That big old chair was one of the best investments she’d ever made. It was part of their evening ritual: every night before bedtime, they sat together in the chair, Faith in Nick’s lap, Tony in hers. Sometimes they talked, and soon they would start reading to their son, but mostly they just rocked in silence, savoring the moment.

  With a soft sigh, she turned away from the door and went into the kitchen. A moment later Wendy joined her there. “Whenever you’re ready for us to leave, just say the word.”

  Faith glanced up from the pastries she was arranging on a tray. Nick had brought them home with him after work, fresh from Antonio’s, so she wouldn’t have to worry about fixing anything special for tonight’s get-together — and he’d done it without being asked. He was thoughtful that way. He was thoughtful in every way. “Why would I be anxious for you to leave?”

  Her friend’s grin extended from ear to ear. “Don’t play innocent, Faith. You’ve been with Nick t
oo long to manage. What is today?”

  “Friday.”

  “Friday what?”

  “January fifteenth.”

  “And what’s significant about that date?”

  Her cheeks turning pink, Faith tried to bluff her way through. “I don’t know.”

  “How old is Tony?”

  “Six—six weeks yesterday.” Now her face was hot. “All right,” she admitted. “Yes, tonight is the night.” The night. The night she’d been waiting for practically all her life. The night that she and Nick got to forget about doctors’ warnings and advice and finally do something in their bed besides sleep. Not that they hadn’t jumped the gun a little. They hadn’t gone too far, but they’d made a good start.

  Tonight they got to finish.

  “Are you nervous?”

  Priss wandered into the kitchen in time to catch the gist of the conversation. “Why should she be nervous? It’s not like it’s their first time,” she said. “Nick’s out there holding proof of that.”

  “But it’s only their second time,” Wendy said. “I was nervous my second time, and it was only a few hours after the first. Faith’s had to wait ten and a half months—and an awful lot has happened in those months.”

  Faith smiled as she turned to empty some of the glasses on the counter. It was rather like their first time, but, of course, her friends didn’t know that. She’d kept one secret from them—that Nick remembered nothing about the first time. For him, this would be his first time with her. It would be the first time they were both stone-cold sober, both one hundred percent aware of what they were doing. It would be the first time when they were both weak-in-the-knees in love.

  And, yes, she was nervous. Anxious, really, more than nervous. Eager. Excited. Impatient. As a matter of fact, instead of serving these pastries, maybe she should simply wrap them up in pretty napkins and hand them out as she ushered everyone out the door.

  Then, looking through the open doorway as she turned around again, she saw Nick talking to Tony, making the baby smile and wave his fists in the air, and she knew she could wait.

  After all, she’d already waited a lifetime. What were a few hours more?

  Nick had never known one evening could last so long, but finally everyone was gone. The house was quiet except for the usual old-house noises that were comfortingly familiar. He locked the door, turned off the porch light, then turned into the formal living room. Before the Donovans had left, he’d shown Travis this room and the study across the hall. Neither room had been changed—not even the furniture or carpet, he would bet—since the house was built about a hundred years ago. Both rooms were grim and bleak—though not as bleak as Lydia’s room upstairs—and he and Faith had talked about doing something with them. With his background in construction, Travis had offered some good advice.

  Now Nick switched off the lights he’d left burning, did the same across the hall, then started back toward the parlor. He would like to think that Faith was anticipating tonight even half as much as he was, that while he’d said good-night to their guests, she had hurried upstairs, tucked Tony into bed and was now waiting in their own bed. But he knew better.

  Only one light still burned in the parlor, supplemented by the warm golden light from the fireplace. Just as he’d known she would be, she was sitting in the rocker, cradling their son, singing softly to him. As Nick moved closer, he recognized the song, a lullaby that his mother had sung to him, that her mother had sung to her, complete with lyrics in Italian.

  She stood up, made room for him, then let him pull her into his lap, all without breaking the sweet, soft flow of song. “I didn’t know you’d learned any Italian,” he said when it ended.

  “Your mother taught me.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “Like his mother.”

  “He doesn’t look a thing like me.”

  She was right. As he had warned her, all Russos looked alike. There might be a slight variation in hair color or eye color, one might be darker or fairer, and, of course, they came in all sizes and shapes, but they all looked alike. “Maybe Amelia Rose will look more like you. She’ll be delicate like you. She’ll have your eyes.”

  She gave him a long, steady look. They hadn’t mentioned that name much since Tony’s birth. They had both been so pleased with the son they’d been given that they had more or less forgotten about the daughter they had expected. No, not forgotten. He still thought about her, about a sweet little girl with her mother’s eyes, tiny and fragile and in need of a father‘s—and a brother’s—protection. He had just preferred to concentrate more on the son in their present than the daughter in their future.

  “You have nice friends,” he remarked, rocking slowly back and forth.

  “Yes, I do. We do.”

  A long moment passed in silence before he spoke again. “Sweetheart, I think Tony’s ready for bed.”

  “He’s been asleep right here for the last thirty minutes.”

  “All right. I think Tony’s pop is ready for bed.”

  “Pop.” She made the p’s do just that — make a soft explosive sound. “Papa. Daddy.” Smiling lazily, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his throat. “Want to carry us upstairs?”

  His laughter was unrestrained. “Right, darlin’. Would you prefer that I carry you to bed or conserve my energy so I can make mad, passionate love to you all night?”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve lost every pound—well, almost every pound—well, more than half of all those pounds—I gained while pregnant.”

  Her pouty look made him grin. He’d watched her discard outfit after prepregnancy outfit, complaining all the while that those last fifteen pounds were never going to budge. Personally, he hoped they never went away. She must have been almost girlishly thin before, because now she was curvy, shapely, womanly. Now she was perfect.

  Sliding to her feet, she started away, shifting Tony to her shoulder. At the door she looked back to where he still sat in the rocker. “Aren’t you coming?”

  He’d been admiring the view—the way her jeans fit snugly over her bottom, the way her hips swayed seductively—but now impatience pulled him to his feet. “I’ll take care of the fire.” That task took only a moment, then he took the stairs two at a time. He joined his family in the nursery, gave his son a good-night kiss, then followed his wife across the hall to their own room. As she stopped at the makeup table to remove her jewelry, he grinned once more. He would follow her anywhere.

  Catching his grin, she feigned a chastising look. “Do I amuse you?”

  “You arouse me, amaze me, astonish and astound me—and, yes, sweetheart, you do amuse me. You do everything for me. You make my life complete.”

  Her jewelry tucked away in its proper cases, she clasped her hands together and uncertainty—shyness—edged into her manner. “Are you nervous?” she asked curiously.

  He approached her slowly, wanting to touch her, needing to hold her. “I’ve seen you naked. I’ve held you, touched you, kissed you. I’ve slept beside you every night for the last six weeks.” Then he chuckled. “Hell, yes, I’m nervous. This is like our wedding night.”

  Their actual wedding night had been spent right in this room, with Faith just out of the hospital, sore and achy, and Tony waking up every two or three hours for food, a dry diaper or just a little reassurance. Nick hadn’t minded, but he’d been disappointed for Faith’s sake. She’d had dreams of falling in love and getting married, and he’d been pretty sure they hadn’t involved a priest, a hurriedly thrown-together ceremony, a green maternity dress and a cranky newborn who had no doubt missed the quiet, warm security of his mother’s womb. She had envisioned a romantic honeymoon someplace far from the ordinariness of home, a lovely, private week or two spent making love, indulging desires, sharing intimacies—not caring for a baby, dealing with visitors and new family by the dozen and trying in vain to find some bearable way to sit while her body healed, with making love strictly forbidden and virtuall
y impossible.

  He brushed her hair back, letting it fall over his fingers. “Someday I’ll make it up to you.”

  “What?”

  “Our wedding. Our wedding night. Our poor excuse for a honeymoon.”

  She looked amazed, as utterly astonished as she had the night he had reluctantly asked her if she was disappointed in getting a Nicholas Anthony instead of an Amelia Rose, and the need inside him burned a little hotter. “Our wedding was wonderful. Our wedding night was sweet, and as for our honeymoon... We had a whole week with nowhere to go and nothing to do but get to know our son and each other. It was perfect. It was exactly what I wanted, exactly what I needed.” She brought her hands to his face, and he pressed a damp kiss to one palm. “Were you disappointed?”

  “No. It was exactly what I wanted, too...but I’m easy to please. All I wanted — all I’ll ever want—is you.” He moved closer, slid his arms around her, bent to kiss her cheek. “And Tony.” His next kiss brushed her jaw. “And Amelia Rose. And Beatrice, Carlotta, Daniel, Ernest, Frederick...”

  “Now wait a minute.” She was laughing as she twined her arms around his neck. “Just how many babies do you plan on having?”

  “At least eight. You see, there’s this old Italian tradition that the eldest son should have at least as many children as his parents did.”

  “Uh-huh. And no one in your family thought to tell me about it, even though your father did take me aside on our wedding day and announce that he wouldn’t mind an attempt for another granddaughter right away.”

  “He did, huh? And what did you tell him?”

  She rose onto her toes to catch his ear between her teeth for a kiss that made him shudder, then murmured, “Six weeks. I told him that we’d start in six weeks. That’s tonight, sweetheart.”