Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1)

by Jennifer Millikin

  “I’m ecstatic.” He looks at the person waiting for him to order. “I'll pass. I think my friend here will be needing some help with hers.”

  I make a face. “Who said I'm sharing?”

  “Sharing is caring, Mommy.” Claire's eyebrows draw together as she gives me her serious look.

  “You're right. I'll share.”

  “You don't want a time-out, do you?” She wags her pointer finger at me. Isaac laughs so hard he has to turn away.

  “Nope, I don't. No time-outs for this mommy.” I pick up Claire so she can see them making our order. Isaac goes to the register to pay.

  “Thanks,” I say when we're settled at a table outside. Soon it will be too hot to eat outdoors, but right now it’s perfect.

  “You’re welcome. I owed you some ice cream.” He winks at me and takes a big bite.

  My cheeks heat like someone just lit them on fire. And Isaac doesn't miss it. His eyes tell me everything his mouth doesn't say.

  As hard as it is, I tear my eyes from his. “Claire, what was your favorite part of today?”

  “When the orangutan tried to kiss Mommy.” She giggles, pink streaks of ice cream on either side of her mouth.

  “What was that about?” Isaac asks. “In a past life, were you queen of the primates?”

  I shake my head, confounded, and swallow the massive amount of sugar in my mouth. “He walked up to where I was standing, put his hands on the glass, and blew me a kiss.” I laugh, remembering the big puckered lips. “It was shocking. To say the least.”

  “It was hilarious. I wish I’d been faster with my phone. Your face was priceless.”

  “I wish I’d thought to return the kiss.” I pretend to blow a kiss at Claire.

  “Ewww, Mommy. You can't kiss a monkey.”

  I shrug and take another bite of ice cream.

  “What are your plans this week?” Isaac asks me.

  “Typical week. Work. Claire will go to school. You?”

  “Appointments. Surgeries. Typical week.” He looks so nonchalant when he says it. Like surgery is no big deal. “I was wondering if I can tag along some time when you take Claire to school.” He leans back in his seat and smiles at Claire.

  “Yeah yeah yeah! Daddy can take me to school.”

  Claire's spoon goes right back into her bowl as if she hadn’t said what she just said.

  My mouth drops open. Isaac stares at Claire, dazed.

  “Daddy?” His whisper is so low I barely hear him.

  My loaded spoon drops back into the bowl. I’ve lost my desire for it. “She called you Daddy this morning too. Right before we left to meet you.”

  His eyes are shiny. “You guys have to move in with me. I need to be a dad, full-time.” He swallows hard. “I can't be a part-time dad. I just can’t.”

  “Isaac, it's too soon.”

  “Please think about it.” He's looking at Claire, but his words are for me.

  I nod. “I will.”

  Isaac is quiet while Claire finishes. I don't try to talk to him. Maybe he needs to think.

  When she's done, he walks us to my car.

  “Monday morning,” he says, opening up the back door and swinging Claire into the air. She squeals. He sets her in her car seat and, after a few seconds studying the straps, buckles her in. I'm impressed. Five-point harnesses baffle most people.

  “You want to come to school with us Monday morning?” I ask after he says goodbye to Claire and closes her door.

  “Is that OK? I don't have patients until nine.”

  “I drop her off at 8:30. I have to be at work by nine too.”

  A small, ironic smile slips out the side of his mouth.

  “What's so funny?”

  “I still find it funny you’re an underwriter.”

  I roll my eyes. “It's not exactly what I went to college for.” I glance at Claire. She's paging through a book. “It was a desperate time, and I graduated college with an infant. I started as an assistant. Then I took my Series 7 and 63, and here I am.” I put my hands in the air, palms up.

  Isaac steps closer. The heat I felt when I went to his apartment starts up, like a push-to-start burner. “I love how you handled everything. How you took care of our girl. How you worked so hard.”

  I don't know how to work in any way but hard. I'm not a soft person. I don't wallow. Shit got tough, but I handled it. I hardly think that makes me special.

  “It's what a decent human being would do. It's what we're hard-wired to do—care for our young. Most of us, anyway.”

  Isaac catches my hand and squeezes. “Most of us.” He steps back, and my hand falls from his grip. “See you Monday morning. At your dad's house. Eight-fifteen.”

  “Eight-fifteen,” I echo, watching him walk away.

  “Mommy, let’s go.” Claire's impatient voice sounds from the backseat.

  I climb in and drive home, my mind full.

  How can I possibly say yes to Isaac? What about my dad? We have a rhythm. A routine. On Friday nights, I make tacos and he cleans up the kitchen. I fold all his laundry. He reads extra bedtime stories to Claire. He's not just my dad anymore. He's my friend.

  Isaac's invitation plagues me all night, gnawing at my stomach and stealing my appetite. At dinner I attempt to eat but end up pushing the food around on my plate. My dad asks about our zoo trip, I give a perfunctory answer, and he scrutinizes me but stays quiet. By the time I lay down to sleep, my brain is exhausted.

  I haven't decided one way or the other. All I know is that I have to do what's right for Claire. I'm just not sure what that is.

  She called me Daddy.

  Daddy.

  My little girl called me Daddy.

  Her tiny voice, thrilled at the idea of having me take her to school, so excited she called me Daddy. A second time, according to Aubrey. I knew right then they should come live with me. Screw the timing.

  We barely know each other. Aubrey’s right. Maybe we'll drive each other crazy. Maybe Aubrey is a slob. Maybe she leaves dishes on the counter. Maybe I leave dishes on the counter. Maybe all three of us will leave our damn dishes on the damn counter. Whatever. None of that matters.

  Aubrey just needs time. She's a rational person, a person who evaluates risk for a living. She didn't understand why I was amused yesterday. How could something like that not be funny? Safety First Aubrey literally determines the riskiness of a business for a living. It's the perfect job for her.

  I'm so stoked to take Claire to school that I woke up at five a.m., eyes popping wide open. Energy flowed through me like a river. I went to the gym and punched a bag until my arms burned. Unless there's an emergency, which could easily happen, I don't have a scheduled surgery for two more days. Enough time for me to eat some bananas and keep my arms from getting too sore.

  It's only seven, but I'm dressed and ready. I wonder what Aubrey's doing right now?What’s the morning routine? Claire's an independent child—I recognized that right away. So much like her mother. But with her broken arm, she needs help.

  I look around at my place, picturing Claire here, needing me to make breakfast, tie her shoes, get her to pre-school.

  I grab my bag, pat my pockets to check for my wallet and phone, and leave. I don't think Aubrey will mind if I'm early. Extra hands, right?

  Aubrey minds. She's trying not to look annoyed, but her eyebrows keep pulling together. She answered the door with wet hair, one of those towels that looks like a turban in her hand. She's wearing light gray pajamas pants and a white tank top.

  “You're early,” she says tightly, smoothing back her hair with her free hand. The moisture makes it glisten. It has that messy look, the fresh from the shower tangles.

  I clear my throat. It's hard to collect my wandering thoughts, but I do. “I thought maybe you'd like help getting Claire ready for school.”

  She opens her mouth, pauses, then closes it. I can guess what she was going to say. Something like I've been doing it on my own and I can keep doing it on my own. A comm
ent like that would be part of Aubrey's armor.

  “Sure.” She walks ahead of me, using the small towel in her hand to squeeze water from her hair and catching it with the other end. “Claire’s eating her breakfast.” We walk into the kitchen, where Claire sits in a chair that dwarfs her. When she sees me, she hops down, nearly falls, rights herself, and runs to me.

  “Daddy's here!” she yells, hugging my knees. Through the thin fabric of my scrubs I feel her cast digging into the back of my leg.

  “Hey, little lady.” I swoop her up into my arms and brush back a curtain of long brown hair that has fallen into her face. “How are you this morning?” Sparing a quick glance at her mother tell’s me Aubrey’s still not used to Claire calling me Daddy. Honestly, neither am I, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love it.

  “Mommy made me pancakes this morning. With jelly. Strawberry jelly. Because I don't like syrup.” She sticks out her tongue for effect.

  It makes me laugh, and she bounces with the movement of my chest. I put her down and direct her back to her breakfast.

  “Here,” Aubrey hands me a cup of coffee. “Can you hang out with her? I need to blow-dry my hair.”

  “Definitely.” I wink at Claire and she beams. Aubrey leaves us, a coffee cup in her hand also, and I take the seat across from Claire.

  “Are you excited for school today?” I'm not sure what to ask her, but this seems like a good start.

  “No. I saw mommy put broccoli in my lunch box. And I do not like broccoli.” She shakes her head defiantly and stuffs two pieces of pancake in her mouth.

  To keep from laughing, I take a sip of coffee. “What do you like?”

  “Pancakes. And carrots, the purple ones with the yellow center. And grandpa's lasagna. And ice cream. And…” She goes on and on, using the same five fingers of her right hand over and over.

  “Wow. You like a lot of things.”

  She pushes back her plate. “I’m done. Can you help me wash my hand?”

  I stand quickly. I want to be put to use. Care for this child somehow. Together we walk to the kitchen sink and I lift her, holding her around the middle with one arm and washing her hand gently with soap from the dispenser next to the sink.

  “Thanks,” she says brightly when I've set her down and dried her hand. “Want to play LEGOs?”

  “Um.” I look toward the hall, knowing Aubrey is somewhere down there. The blow dryer turned off a few minutes ago. “Are you all ready for school?”

  She nods.

  “OK, then. Lead the way.” I hold out my hand.

  Claire takes me down the hall, to the very place I was afraid to venture. She pulls me into her room, where the LEGO dragon sits on her white dresser.

  We're sitting on the floor, one of the Elves preparing to board the flying dragon, when Aubrey walks in. She's dressed in black slacks and a black and white polka dot button up shirt. It has fabric bunched at the the collar, a lanky bow falling into the valley her breasts create.

  “Claire, you need to brush your teeth, baby. I put the toothpaste on the brush for you.” Aubrey leans against the door frame.

  Claire sighs in protest, but with my help she stands. When the sound of her electric toothbrush starts, Aubrey says, “I’m sorry I was short with you when you showed up. I was surprised you were here and a little embarrassed.”

  I get to my feet. With her heels on she’s only a couple inches shorter than me.

  “Embarrassed of what?”

  She runs her fingers through her hair, eyes flicking off to the side. “I didn't want you to see me all wet-dog like that.”

  Wet-dog? That's the last thing I would've called her. Gorgeous, definitely. Tempting, absolutely. Maybe I can ask if we can screw all this nonsense and give in again? The words pile up inside me, heavy, but they stay there, an anvil on my chest.

  “I wouldn't describe you as wet-dog,” I mutter. It's the best I can do right now without terrifying her.

  “And when...if you move in with me, you're going to have to get used to having wet hair in front of me. Among other things.”

  Aubrey shifts uncomfortably, her eyes guarded. We say nothing, then suddenly she straightens, like a puppet whose string was pulled. She looks back over her shoulder, to the bathroom across the hall. “Ready, love?” She throws her question across the few feet of space.

  I don't hear Claire's answer, but I guess it was affirmative because Aubrey steps away. Claire walks out, a swipe of frothy toothpaste on her chin. With one thumb I wipe it off, realize I don’t have easy access to a towel, and rub it into my scrubs. That’s what I’ve seen parents in my office do, but it’s not usually toothpaste. It’s most often snot, followed by food crumbs. I thought it was gross, but now I get it. Although maybe I’ll make it a point to buy more tissues. Snot might be a little too far for me.

  I follow them to the living room, where Claire's backpack, lunchbox, and water bottle sit on the end of the couch.

  Aubrey looks through her purse while I gather Claire's things. The family photo on the end table catches my eyes and makes me realize John hasn't made an appearance this morning.

  “Where's your dad?” I ask on our way out the door.

  “Hunting,” Aubrey bites her bottom lip after she says it. Worry clouds her eyes for a brief moment.

  “Is he retired?” I lay Claire's things next to her car seat while Aubrey straps her in. She leans over Claire, her hair swirling around her head.

  “He's a journeyman. He worked this weekend, so he's off today and tomorrow. I think he left sometime around three this morning.” She clicks the buckles into place and closes the door. I do the same, looking at her over the roof of her car.

  “So your dad plays with electricity for a living and goes hunting? Is there anything else that could make him more of a badass?”

  Aubrey smirks. “He was a Marine.”

  My hands fly into the air. “Of course he was. He probably thinks I'm some weakling trying to come in here and steal his family.”

  Aubrey snorts. “Hardly.”

  “He doesn’t?” I raise my eyebrows, prodding.

  “No.”

  “What is it he thinks, then?” I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me, but this is something I need to know. John has more influence over Aubrey than anybody. Knowing his thoughts might help me.

  Aubrey stares at me. The rest of her face is still, no emotion expressed, but I know there’s a tornado smashing its way through her insides. Aubrey may be a statue sometimes, but she’s not stone.

  She breaks. Sighing, she mutters, “He supports your idea of us moving in. He thinks it would be best for Claire.”

  “Really?” I'm grinning. “And what do you think?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.” She peers into the window at Claire, then glances at the gold watch on her left arm. “We need to get going. Follow me?”

  “See you there.” I walk to my truck, resisting the urge to skip or dance or do something ridiculous to let out this excitement.

  John supports me. That's huge.

  Now all I have to do is make Aubrey see that Claire needs both her parents under the same roof.

  When my phone rings at nine o’clock the next night, it startles me. After a morning full of patients, an emergency surgery, and dinner out with my office staff, I’m beat. The words in the book I’m reading were swimming together, and my head was growing heavy. Until my phone rang, anyway.

  Now I’m awake. I splashed cold water on my face and changed my clothes. I’ll be at Aubrey’s house in a few minutes.

  I don’t live far, which is a good thing. As I drive, I think of what Aubrey said when I answered the phone.

  “Claire is asking for you.” Aubrey hesitated over her words. “I’ve tried putting her off, but she’s in meltdown mode, and I really think she needs you.” Even through the phone I felt how much Aubrey hated admitting it.

  I arrive in record time, thanks to the late hour. Aubrey rises from the porch swing as I hurry up the path. />
  Disappointment falls over me. “Did she cry herself to sleep?” I wanted this moment. I want to be Claire’s knight in shining armor.

  Aubrey looks at the house as if she can see through the walls and straight to Claire’s room. “No. She agreed to calm down when I told her you were coming. I needed a break from the wailing.”

  I try not to show my relief. “Can I go in?”

  “Sure. I’ll just wait out here.” She sits back down and peers out into the darkness.

  Quietly I slip through the house until I get to Claire’s room.

  “Claire,” I whisper, tapping with two fingers on the partially open door.

  “Daddy,” she stage-whispers.

  I push through and find her sitting up on her bed, smiling. She looks adorable in her yellow nightgown, her hair messy around her face.

  “Your mom said you needed me,” I say as I sit beside her on the bed.

  “I needed to say good-night.”

  “Was that it?”

  She gives me an offended look. “Yes.”

  “Your mom said you were really upset.” I was expecting to walk into a tantrum like ones I’ve seen in public before, the kind where the parents look like they wish a sinkhole would suddenly open up below them.

  She crosses her arms, as best she can, anyway. It’s more of an awkward ‘x’ in front of her. “I told Mommy I wanted you to come here and say good-night, and she said we didn’t need to. She said you were probably asleep.”

  “I see.” I nod.

  “Mommy said I could call you, but I said no way, Jose.” Her little head shakes, and I catch my laugh in my throat, where I keep it firmly in place.

  “Well, I’m here now. What can I do for you?”

  “I want you to do that thing you said your mom did when you were a little boy. When she called you a bug.”

  Ohhh. While Aubrey ordered Claire’s lunch at the zoo I’d told Claire a story about how my mom put me to sleep at night. I never imagined it would lead us here, to a late night meltdown.

  “OK, hop into bed.” I hold back the covers far enough for her to slip inside. She wiggles down into them, and I pull them up to her chin. “You have a broken arm, so we’re going to do a modified version. Your right arm can go under the blanket, but your left arm sticks out. Deal?”