Her mouth felt suddenly way too dry. She swallowed. “I...um. Happy Birthday. Father.”
He grunted. “I’m right. She’s got you up to something.”
Mclinda had planned to make small talk for a few minutes at least, to build up to the big question gradually. But looking into those guarded eyes, she knew that small talk wouldn’t get her anywhere at all.
She attempted to edge up on the invitation. “Annie and I went shopping yesterday.”
“I know that. Cole came in to check on me about ten—when he should have been out workin’. I asked him what was goin’ on. And he said you two had taken off for Fredericksburg. I told him it was pure foolishness, leavin’ him here in the middle of the workday to deal with a cryin’ baby and a sick old man while you two went out and had yourselves some fun.”
She remained resolutely cheerful. “You know, Father. I don’t believe you’re as sick—or as old as you seem to want us to think you are.”
“Humph. So you went shopping. What’s that got to do with anything I need to know?”
“Well, we bought you a few presents and all the necessary ingredients to fix your favorite foods—you know, the ones you’re not supposed to have?”
He harrumphed some more. “Get to the point.”
“We baked your favorite cake. There are crepe paper streamers all over the dining room ceiling and—”
“No.”
She dragged in a breath, released it with care—and spoke with great patience. “I haven’t even told you what I’m after yet.”
“You’ve told me. I know what you all are up to now. And I’m not goin’ along with it.” He actually stuck out his lower lip, like some overgrown child.
Frustration bubbled inside her. She tried to ignore it, to stay pleasant and firm. “Father. Please. Come out and sit at the table for your birthday party.”
“No. It’s not my idea of a celebration, to look a f-fool in front of my family.”
“You will not look like a fool.”
He made a harsh, impatient noise. “Little you know.”
“Come to your birthday party.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
She wanted to give up then. She truly did. But she could not face the prospect of going back to the kitchen and telling Annie she might as well take all the crepe paper down. Blowing out another weary breath, she marched over to the bed and dropped to the edge of it.
The chair hummed again, as Preston gave it a quarter-turn in her direction. She didn’t look at him. She stared at the walker.
“Don’t you keep at me now,” he growled. “I’ve told you. I’m not ready to—”
She cut him off. “You were practicing with that walker, weren’t you? Before I came in?”
He snorted and huffed. “So what if I was?”
“You can probably get around this room with that walker if you want to.”
“St-st-stagger’s more like it.”
“But you can do it.”
“Yeah. That’s right. I can.”
“Just like you can feed yourself. Maybe not gracefully yet. But you get the job done.”
“What are you getting at?”
“You could come to the table and eat the dinner we’re going to cook. It’s not an impossible thing we’re asking of you.”
“I’m not doin’ it. And that’s that.”
“You will break Annie’s heart if you don’t come.”
“That’s a pure exaggeration, and we both know it, too.”
“It is not. Your family needs you. They need to see you improving. They need you to come out of this room and be with them again.”
He turned his head, looked at her obliquely. “Aren’t you part of this family, too?”
She coughed. “Of course I am. We. All right? We need to give you this party. We need to have you at the table with us. If you spill cheese sauce on yourself, and fumble with your presents, we’re not going to care.”
“I’ll care.”
“Well, get over it. You’ve been in your room long enough, Father. It’s time you poked your head out, time you started learning to let people see you as you are now. Time you got on with your life—and let us get on with ours.” The words had more meaning than she’d meant to give them. She thought of Cole, last night, whispering in her ear.
I could get too used to this....
So could she, she realized. Oh, so could she. Every day this deception continued, it got harder to imagine what her life would be when it ended.
“Melinda?” Worry had crept into the gruff voice. “Melinda. Daughter. Are you all right?”
She swiped at the foolish tear that had dared to dribble down her cheek. “I am just fine. And you are coming to your birthday party.”
He gave her a long, hard stare, then growled, “I warned you about tryin’ to make me do things I don’t want to do.”
“I don’t care about your warnings. If you want to treat me as harshly as you treat Annie, as cruelly as you treated that poor Mrs. Finster, that’s fine.”
“There is nothin’ poor about Gerda Finster. That woman is a pistol and she can hold her own. So can Annie.”
“Oh, all the more reason you should torture them then, right?”
“I don’t go torturin’ women.”
“You are coming to your birthday party.”
His right hand was twitching. He put his left hand over it, rubbed it a little and the twitching stopped. He tipped his head sideways, slid her a look. “That would be red velvet ice cream cake you baked?”
“That’s exactly what it would be.”
“And that cheese sauce you mentioned, would it have broccoli under it?”
“It would.”
“Fried chicken? Mashed potatoes?”
“Molded raspberry salad, too. But you’ll never get any—unless you come to the table.”
He groused, “You make Gerda Finster look like an a-a-amateur.”
Relief swept through her, followed swiftly by a deep sadness. Tomorrow. Annie had promised to tell Preston the truth then. Tomorrow, the truth would come out. And Melinda would be getting on with her life. She spoke briskly. “So. You’ll come?”
“Don’t make that sound like a question. You know blessed well I never had a choice.”
It was a lovely little party.
Brady lay in his playpen in the corner of the room, gurgling and cooing contentedly, waving his plump arms and stubby feet at the mobile of stars and moons that Melinda had found in Fredericksburg the day before and hooked to the rim of the playpen that morning. Annie had been careful to see that he was well fed before they went and told Preston it was time to emerge from his room.
Preston took the place of honor at the head of the big cherry-wood table. He said a simple grace before they shared the meal.
“Our Father, we pray that we may have patience with our own failings—and that those we love will have patience with us. We thank you for bringin’ our Annie on home to us. And for giving us a new daughter and a fine, strong grandson as well. Bless this food to our bodies’ use and ourselves to thy service. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.”
As the Amens echoed down the table, Melinda opened her eyes. Cole was smiling at her from the other side of the centerpiece of candles and crape myrtle blooms that she and Annie had created. It was a good moment, a moment that somehow made the lie of their pretend marriage seem like the deepest, most basic of truths.
They began to pass the food. Preston ate slowly, masking his awkwardness by taking great care with each bite. Yes, he spilled a drop or two of cheese sauce onto his shirt and dribbled water down his chin. Once, he looked up and caught Melinda’s eye as he was surreptitiously dabbing his shirtfront with the corner of his napkin.
“I warned you,” he grumbled.
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
He grunted—a sound that actually resembled a ch
uckle. Then he picked up a chicken leg and bit into it.
After the meal, they cleared the table and gave Preston his presents. He opened them slowly, by necessity, but no one minded. It seemed quite appropriate that he should savor his gifts. He admired the shirts and the boots and the belt, declaring that each of them was just what he needed. And he even let out a rusty laugh at the small statuette of a cowboy and a kicking donkey that Annie had found in a novelty shop.
At last, it was time for the cake. Melinda brought the plates and coffee cups to the table as Annie put the candles on; they had settled on twenty-four, because that was how many there were in the box.
Annie held the cake high. “What do you think?”
“I think it looks terrific.” Melinda grabbed the cake knife and the glass of warm water that would make cutting easier. “And we’d better get it to the table before we burn the house down.”
They entered the dining room singing, and Cole’s voice joined with theirs. Annie carried the cake right to Preston and set it down before him. The light from the candles cast his craggy face in warm, sharp relief. The birthday song ended.
“Make your wish, and make it quick,” Annie instructed. “The wax will start drippin’ and mess up the frosting.”
“You think I got the wind to blow out all these candles?”
“If you don’t, I will help you.”
Preston looked up at his daughter, a tender smile softening the gaunt hollows of his face. “I guess I know that, Annie girl.”
She bent and kissed his forehead. “Go on. Hurry. Blow.”
“I think I’ll need more help than you alone can give me.”
Annie signaled energetically to Cole and Melinda. “Come on. Stand close.”
They gathered in a knot around Preston’s wheelchair. “Okay, now, ready?” They all four sucked in air. “Blow.”
The twenty-four candle flames flickered, rose up, sheered flat to the side—and then went out.
They all applauded, even Preston, who managed the feat by holding his weak hand still and slapping the good one against it. From his playpen, Brady let out a sound that resembled a happy laugh.
And the doorbell rang.
Annie gasped. Melinda sucked in more air, which smelled sharply of candle smoke. Cole glanced across the table, through the arch to the living room and the door that stood open onto the front hall.
“Well?” said Preston.
Nobody moved. They were all thinking that this could be it. What would they say to whoever had come calling, when Preston proudly introduced his new daughter-in-law and his grandson, Cole’s child?
Preston spoke again, with some humor. “I do believe there’s someone at the door.”
The bell rang again.
“Yeah.” Preston nodded. “That’s what that bell means. Someone at the door.”
Cole started to move. Annie, standing next to him reached out and grabbed his arm. “No. Wait...”
Preston’s lined forehead crumpled down into a frown. “Annie? What’s the matter?”
“I just...well, this is our party. We don’t need anyone interruptin’ us right now.”
Preston’s frown deepened. “It could be something important. Someone with a dyin’ animal or—”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing like that. I’m sure it’s just—”
Preston didn’t let her finish. “It is not our way to ignore a knock at the door. You know that, Annie.” He looked at his son. “Go see who it is. We have a fine cake to share.”
Cole looked down at Annie’s hand, which still clutched his arm. With a small, unhappy moan, she released him.
He started to walk around Preston’s chair—and stopped when they all heard the creak of the front door. Whoever it was had decided not to wait to be invited in.
“Who’s there?” Preston called.
They heard the door close. Footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. And then a young man appeared in the living room doorway. He wore battered jeans and a frayed darkcolored T-shirt. Even from across the room, Melinda could see that his boots were down at the heels. His hair and eyes were midnight black.
Annie let out a sharp cry. “Jimmy! Oh, Jimmy... You’ve come home!”
Chapter Sixteen
Annie flew across the room, chanting her husband’s name like a one-word prayer as she ran. She fell against him, throwing her arms around his neck. His face contorted as her body touched his. Melinda saw fierce joy, and guilt and something else—something desperate and needful.
He said her name only once. “Annie.” That word had everything in it, all the emotions the world could hold, including a deep, abiding love.
Annie went on praying his name. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy...”
His strong, tanned arms banded around her. His head went down as hers came up.
Melinda glanced away. It seemed too personal a thing to witness, the heated kiss of reunion the two shared then.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have, but she turned to Cole—and found his eyes waiting. As she looked at him, a thousand disparate images flashed and tumbled through her mind. She saw the dark beauty of their forbidden nights together. She remembered his face across the bed as Annie labored bearing Brady, recalled his cruelty during the weeks in L.A.—and his kindness ever since. It was all there—all that they had been to each other in a brief span of weeks.
And more than just the two of them.
His father was in that look, as well. His father, here at the table, joining the family again at last. And Annie, here at home where she belonged, though both of them had doubted she would ever come.
And Jimmy Logan. In Cole’s eyes, she saw acceptance of the younger man. Cole must have understood the look on Jimmy’s face, too.
Right then, across the room, Jimmy spoke again. He said two words. “The baby?” He held his wife by the upper arms and stared down at her with fearsome intensity.
Before she could answer him, Brady cried—a small, fitful sound, as if to say, “I’m over here...”
Jimmy’s dark head lifted, his black eyes sought and found the playpen in the corner.
“He’s fine,” Annie whispered. “He is just fine.”
Jimmy had already stepped around her. In four long strides he reached the playpen. Annie followed right after. They stood together, looking down at their son.
“You should hate me,” Jimmy said softly to his wife.
“Never,” she replied without pause. Then she pushed the mobile to the side and bent to pick up the child. She held him out shyly. Carefully Jimmy took him.
The baby looked up solemnly into his father’s eyes.
Annie took Jimmy’s arm. “Did you... get the letter I left with Mrs. Lucas?”
Jimmy nodded, not glancing up.
“Then you know we call him Brady.”
“Brady,” Jimmy repeated.
That was when Preston spoke. “Is anyone going to have the c-c-courtesy to tell me what is going on around here?”
A terrible silence followed. Annie clung to her husband’s arm. Jimmy did look up then. He frowned at Preston, obviously in the dark.
Finally Preston growled, “Well?”
And Cole gave him his answer. “Annie and Jimmy are married. And Brady is their baby, not mine and Melinda’s.”
Preston said nothing for a moment. He looked at his cake, with the blown-out candles still stuck in the butter cream frosting. At last, he let out a pent-up breath. “Well,” he said. “Happy birthday to me.”
Cole tried to explain further. “Dad, we—”
But Preston waved a silencing hand. He turned to Jimmy. “Come over here, young man.”
Jimmy Logan stiffened. He held his son tighter, drawing back from the command in the older man’s voice. But Annie gently took the baby from him, looking into his eyes as she did.
Jimmy stepped forward.
Preston said, “You took my Annie away too young.”
Jimmy started to speak.
Preston waved him to silence.
“You took my Annie away too young. And then you...what?”
Jimmy flinched, then drew himself tall. “I...I walked out on her in L.A. She had my baby alone.”
“No, I wasn’t alone!” Annie cried then. “Cole and Melinda—”
Preston cut her off. “Let the man speak for himself, Annie. You never have learned to keep silent when you should.”
Annie pressed her lips together and looked down at her son.
Jimmy said it again. “I left her. She had my baby alone.”
Preston studied the younger man. “I have hated you, did you know that?”
Jimmy’s Adam’s apple bounced up and then down as he swallowed. “I know it.”
“But...” Preston’s right arm twitched. He rubbed it thoughtfully until it stilled. Then he continued, “I am learnin’. Even an old man can learn. I am learnin’ a truth I should have already known. That hate is a killin’ thing.” A pained smile twisted across his lips. “It almost got me. But not quite.”
He rubbed his right arm some more. The baby cooed. Preston went on, “The good Lord teaches us that we cannot relive the past. I will ask you two questions. Are you ready to be a father to my grandson now? And a husband to my daughter?”
“I reckon I am.” Annie stepped forward then and. stood close to Jimmy. He put his arm around her, encompassing both her and their child. “Though I can’t see any reason why you should believe me. I’ve come back with nothin’.”
Preston looked at his daughter, and then back at the sonin-law he’d just discovered he had. “Without my hate to blind me, I can see now that you have love. Love is always a start. You might have to take help, you might have to s-s-swallow your pride. It has a bitter taste, pride, but a man can learn to push it down and get on with things. Do you think you can do that?”
Jimmy’s Adam’s apple bounced again. “I can. I will.”
“Are you through runnin’?”
“I am.”
Preston nodded. “So be it. Have you had your supper?”
Jimmy blinked at that question. It was probably too mundane by half, considering the tough ones he’d just had to answer. He muttered, “I ate.”
Married by Accident Page 20