Angel of the Morning

by Judith Arnold

  Gwen wandered around the kitchen, angling her head to scrutinize the sink, craning her neck to inspect the vent above the stove. “This is the biggest kitchen in the world,” Annie announced as she pranced through the doorway. “It’s bigger than the kitchen in a castle. It’s giant.”

  “I don’t think it’s the biggest kitchen in the world,” Gwen told her.

  “It’s bigger than our kitchen.”

  “By a bit,” Gwen agreed.

  “By a lot. It’s so big, you could have a party here. The biggest party in the world.”

  Dylan appreciated her enthusiasm. “Come on, Annie—I’ll show you upstairs.” He took Annie’s hand and ushered her past the pantry to the back stairs. Behind him, he heard Andrea say, “Dylan has discussed some of his ideas for renovating this kitchen, but I’m sure you’ll want some input, too.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Gwen responded. “It’s his kitchen.” He imagined that must have bemused Andrea even more.

  He should have U-turned, stomped back down to the kitchen and told Gwen this kitchen could be hers if she wanted it. The whole house could be hers. She could made the decorating decisions. She could choose the furniture, the fixtures. She could dress up the place with objects from her store. A framed mirror in the foyer. A pewter vase on the dining room table. A captain’s clock on the fireplace mantel. A colorful silk scarf looped over a door knob. “Squeeze Pleeze” bottles on the kitchen counter. He still had the set he’d bought in his room at the Ocean Bluff Inn, but he would display them prominently on the kitchen counter.

  Whatever Gwen wanted. Blank check, carte blanche. His only goal was for her to feel comfortable about this house. And about him.

  But Annie had already raced to the top of the stairs and swept into one of the bedrooms. “This is the biggest bedroom!” she shouted. “I can see the ocean!”

  That can be your bedroom, Annie, he thought as he chased after her.

  *

  What struck Gwen most forcefully about the house was not its size or its location but the fact that Dylan was sharing it with her.

  She had tried all week to maintain a dignified distance from him—and she thought she’d been reasonably successful. He’d been doing everything right: playing with Annie, talking with her, forging a relationship with her, and all the while respecting the boundaries Gwen had established. He didn’t try to spoil Annie, or to undermine Gwen’s discipline. He questioned Annie about school and looked as if he actually cared about her answers. Gwen still couldn’t quite believe he wanted to settle in this quaint New England town and be a quaint New England dad, attending soccer games and volunteering for carpools, debating lawn care products with the neighbors and sitting through town meeting every spring.

  She sensed that sharing his house with her was his way of convincing her that, yes, he was ready to be a typical suburban father. Not that there was anything typical about Dylan... But it was clear that Gwen’s opinion of the house mattered to him.

  The real estate agent’s chatter implied that she saw things that way. “I know of some terrific contractors who could redo the cabinets here,” she said, gesturing around the kitchen. “New countertops, new appliances—this could be a true chef’s kitchen.”

  “I wonder if Dylan could be a true chef,” Gwen said, not adding that Annie was the Parker female aiming toward true chef-dom, along with all her other career aspirations.

  The agent faltered for a moment. “Well, I suppose men enjoy cooking as much as women do,” she said, a feeble nod toward sexual equality. “Would you like to see the master bedroom?”

  Gwen would like to see the bedroom Annie was screeching about, a bedroom apparently large enough to hold Red Sox games inside. But unfortunately, she also wanted to see the master bedroom. She wanted to see the room where Dylan would sleep at night. The room where his long, strong body would sprawl across a big, comfortable bed. A room where a woman could find herself sprawled out beside him, his arms wrapped possessively around her.

  Much as she’d hoped to resist him, Gwen was falling hard for Dylan. He was everything he was supposed to be, everything she could ask for. A father for Annie. A partner for her. Quiet and low-key, yet endowed with a firm will and a determination to get what he was after, to accomplish his goals. To win.

  He was smart. He was successful. He was gorgeous.

  He wanted her. He probably knew she wanted him, too, but he didn’t push or pressure her—which only made her want him more.

  A week wasn’t long enough for her to know what to do about him. It wasn’t long enough to know what she felt about him. But her feelings didn’t wear a watch. They were divorced from time. And they told her that having Dylan in her life—and Annie’s—would be a lot nicer than shutting him out.

  The master bedroom was lovely, just as Gwen had expected it would be. It had broad windows along one wall that offered a glorious view of the grassy slope that descended from the house’s patio to a stretch of sand and the ocean beyond. She imagined waking up early and pulling back the curtains to watch the sun rise out of the sea.

  She imagined waking up early and finding Dylan beside her.

  Dylan was certain he and she could make this thing work. Bit by bit, his certainty was rubbing off on her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  That evening, Gwen suggested that they spend a quiet night at her house. Over a dinner of take-out Chinese, they discussed Dylan’s house. Not surprisingly, Annie was full of suggestions. She believed the back yard needed a swing set, and the den should have lots of built-in book cases and also an easel so she could paint there. When Gwen proposed that the finished rec room in the basement might be a better place for her to do her painting, Annie argued that once Dylan installed a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, and an electric train set in the rec room, there would be no space for an easel.

  After dinner, Dylan sat at the kitchen table with Annie, teaching her the finer points of gin rummy while Gwen packed up the leftovers and wedged them into the refrigerator. Then she joined the game, everyone playing with their cards spread face-up so Dylan could give Annie guidance. “You don’t want to discard your five of hearts,” he explained. “You’ve got the six of hearts. You might draw the four or the seven and have a meld. Which card do you think you should get rid of?”

  “The queen?”

  “Right. She’s no use to you.”

  “But she’s a queen!”

  “So’s your mother. You’ve already got a queen,” Dylan said, shooting Gwen an adorable smile.

  “That means I’m a princess,” Annie said, plucking the queen from her arrayed cards and putting it on the discard pile. “When I grow up, I want to be a queen. And a dentist,” she added, nodding to Gwen.

  “And an artist and a chef?” Gwen asked.

  “Not a chef. I decided. Queens don’t cook. They have people cook for them.”

  “You got that right,” Dylan said, as Gwen simultaneously groaned, “Uh-oh.”

  They played cards until it was time for Annie’s bath. As Gwen shuttled in and out of the bathroom, checking on Annie as the little girl sailed an armada of toys through the bath water, she felt a shimmering sense of wellbeing settle over her. She’d been resisting Dylan because she’d doubted his commitment to creating a family with her and Annie, but her doubt was gradually being washed away like beach sand carried off by the tides. Any man gentle enough to teach a five-year-old the finer points of gin rummy deserved to be a part of that five-year-old’s life.

  Why resist? Everything would be so much better if she let Dylan be a real father to Annie.

  Once bath time had ended and Annie had donned her nightgown and brushed her teeth, Gwen tucked her into bed. She read a Curious George book, then kissed her daughter’s forehead, turned out the light, and closed the door.

  Dylan was seated in the living room, reading something on his cell phone. He glanced up when Gwen entered the room. “Anything important?” she asked with a nod toward the phone.

 
; “Nah. Just Brian, asking on the status of the house.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you liked it,” Dylan said, measuring Gwen’s reaction with his gaze. “I hope you don’t make a liar out of me.”

  “I liked it,” she assured him with a smile. “It’s very big.”

  “Big enough for three.”

  “Big enough for a visiting army,” she joked, crossing to the credenza and opening a cabinet. He hadn’t come right out and said he wanted her and Annie living in the house with him, and she wouldn’t make that assumption. She would wait until he asked. “Would you like to watch a movie?”

  “Sure.” He tossed his phone onto the end table and settled back on the sofa cushions.

  She pulled her DVD of Sea Glass from the rack and inserted it into the DVD player. Then she joined him on the sofa, dimming the lamp to make the screen images clearer.

  As soon as Dylan recognized the movie, he swore. She hit pause and looked at him. “Do you not want to watch this?”

  “No, I do. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it.” He considered, then corrected himself. “More than a while.”

  “Then why did you curse?”

  “I love this movie.” He sighed and stared at Gwen. “I loved the script. I loved making it. Obviously, I loved filming here in Brogan’s Point. I loved everything about it.” He took her hand. “I loved that night we spent together.”

  “And viewing the movie makes you want to curse?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Seeing the movie reminds me of how much I want to be making movies like that. Not Galaxy Force movies. I want to make quiet movies, movies with realistic characters and human stories. And I can’t do that anymore.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “No. I can’t.” He dropped his gaze to their hands and traced his thumb back and forth over her palm as he spoke. “I wanted to be in an artistic, small-scale movie named The Angel that’s in pre-production now. I read the script and loved it. I loved the main character in it. He’s a guy who was always perfectly well-behaved in life, practically a saint. And he dies, and he becomes an angel, and God says, ‘Now that you’re an angel, what is your wish?’ And his wish is to be bad. He just wants to cut loose a little. So he gets the chance to go back to earth and be a son of a bitch for a little while.”

  “It sounds kind of funny,” Gwen said.

  “It is. It’s a comedy, but poignant. No slapstick. No big visual gags. It’s a thought-provoking story about whether we get more satisfaction by being good than by being bad. But it’s got some laughs in it, too.”

  He sandwiched her hand between both of his. The warmth of his touch spread through her, soothing and arousing her at the same time. She treasured not just their physical nearness but his words, his voice, the information he was imparting to her.

  “Anyway, I told Brian I wanted the part. He talked to the producers. They said, ‘What are you, crazy? He’s Captain Steele.’”

  “You should have fought for the part.”

  “Oh, I did. I fought. Brian fought. I practically memorized the script, and Brian got me an audition. And I blew them away.”

  Gwen smiled, then let her smile wane when she realized he wasn’t smiling with her. “So what went wrong?”

  “I auditioned three times,” he said. “The producers loved me. They said I was amazing. But I was Captain Steele, and there was no way they were going to cast Captain Steele in this sensitive part.”

  “Type-casting,” Gwen murmured.

  “Yeah.” He sighed again. “I’m tired of that crap, Gwen. I want to make movies like The Angel and Sea Glass. I know I can do it. But no one will give me the opportunity. To them, I’m just this cartoon character who shoots high-tech weapons and fights with CGI monsters.”

  “But...you said you blew them away at your audition.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I blew them away, and they all gushed about how perfect I’d be in the role, but the audience would never buy it. In the eyes of the world, I’m Captain Steele. I’ll never be anything else.”

  She processed what he’d just revealed. “What if you stopped making Galaxy Force movies?”

  “I’m under contract for the next three films in the series. And—I mean, they pay me well. They treat me well. I feel like a whining bastard, complaining about my career when I’m a freaking movie star. But...” He shrugged. “I’m a little bitter.”

  “So you decided to leave Hollywood and move to Brogan’s Point.”

  “I wish I could say I came here to be closer to Annie—and to you,” he said. “But I didn’t even know about Annie. So yeah, I came here because I wanted to get away from all the Hollywood bullshit. I wanted to remember who I was—not Captain Steele but Dylan Scott. Not a star but an actor.” He turned toward the TV. “The person I was when I made Sea Glass—and when I met you.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “We can watch something else if you’d like.”

  “No. I want to watch this. With you,” he added. “Someone who liked me when I was just a guy.”

  “You’re still just a guy,” she said. “And I still like you.”

  He leaned over and kissed the crown of her head. “You’re an amazing woman.” She turned her face up to his and he touched her lips lightly with his. “Let’s watch the movie, amazing woman.”

  *

  “Did you have a sleepover?” Annie asked him the next morning.

  He was a little taken aback. When Gwen had invited him to spend the night with her, he couldn’t have said no even if he’d wanted to—and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to. In her snug double bed beneath the sloping eaves, they’d made love just as he’d fantasized it, sharing in murmurs what they couldn’t shout, in silence what they couldn’t murmur. He’d awakened in the early morning, when the sky was pearly with pre-dawn light, and wondered if he should leave before he encountered Annie. But Gwen was asleep, and he couldn’t bring himself to wake her up. She worked so hard. She needed her rest.

  He’d tiptoed out of the bedroom to take a leak, and when he’d emerged from the bathroom, Annie was waiting for him, dressed in a frill-trimmed flannel nightgown, her hair askew but her eyes wide awake.

  “A sleepover?”

  “A party where you sleep over. Mike had a sleepover once.”

  “Did he.” Dylan experienced a sharp, unwarranted pang of jealousy.

  “He was okay. He never taught me how to play cards, but Mommy said we needed something in our life. I don’t remember what it was, but it sounded like something on a farm.”

  “Pigs?” Dylan guessed.

  Annie giggled. “No, silly!: “Something to do with horses. What’s that building horses live in?”

  “A stable?”

  “That’s it. Mommy wanted a stable in our life.”

  “Stability,” Dylan guessed.

  “Yeah. I don’t know why she thought having a sleepover party with Mike would give us a stable.”

  “Did it bother you that I had a sleepover?” Dylan asked Annie.

  She shook her head, “You’re nicer than Mike. He never gave me a book. He said he didn’t like Legos. He said he stepped on them and they hurt his feet. Will you make me waffles? I like the round kind.”

  Dylan was momentarily stumped, but then he figured Annie was so smart and so bossy, she’d be able to help him make the waffles. He’d tie her little apron on around her nightie, and they’d be fine.

  He followed Annie downstairs to the kitchen, where she showed him the package of waffles in the freezer. Thank goodness he didn’t have to make them from scratch. He wondered if Gwen owned a waffle iron.

  If she didn’t, he’d buy one for his kitchen. If he could have “Squeeze-Pleeze” bottles, he could have a waffle iron.

  “Did you like my house?” he asked Annie, once the waffles were in the toaster. He located the cupboard that held the plates and pulled one from the shelf.

  “It needs furniture,” Annie pointed out. “But it’s
big.”

  “How would you feel about living there?”

  Seated at the table, Annie kicked her bare legs back and forth while she thought. “Could you put a swing set in the back yard?”

  “We could look into it,” Dylan said. “The patio takes up a lot of space, but maybe we could find room for a swing set.”

  “I like the beach,” Annie said. “I take swimming lessons.”

  “It’s important for people to know how to swim.” The toaster chimed, and he slid two waffles onto a plate for Annie. He recalled having to cut his niece’s food for her when she was five, and he cut the waffles into bite-size pieces for Annie. Then he dribbled syrup onto them—not too much, just enough to add flavor. He hoped Gwen would be impressed by his effort. “I have to ask your mother about whether you and she could live in the house. It’s up to her.”

  “She’s the mommy,” Annie noted, sounding wise beyond her years.

  *

  The mommy said maybe. She’d looked deeply concerned when she joined Dylan and Annie in the kitchen a few minutes later, her hair mussed and her slender body wrapped in a faded bathrobe held shut by a sash around her waist. The memory of her body was still too fresh in his mind—her taut breasts, the firm curve of her belly, her sleek thighs. He wanted to yank the sash open and haul her into his lap, legs spread wide to welcome him the way she had last night.

  Instead, he swallowed a few times, tamping down his lust, and said, “I hope you don’t mind. Annie wanted waffles.”

  “Annie loves waffles,” Gwen confirmed, eyeing her daughter cautiously.

  “You had a sleepover,” Annie said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I call Dylan Daddy?”

  “If he wants you to.”

  Annie turned to Dylan. “Can I call you Daddy?”

  He smiled. He still wanted Gwen, wanted her naked in his arms, pressed against his body. But he realized he’d wanted this at least as much. “Yes,” he said. “I’d love for you to call me Daddy.”

  Chapter Nineteen